Chapter 7

At last, my prayers had been answered. Everything stopped. No more shouting, no more arguments, no more police and most of all, no more fear. But it came with a price. A very high price.

I didn’t see my Dad for a long time after that. It was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth. Where he had gone to I had no idea, how long it would be until I saw him again I didn’t know, but the thought plagued my mind. As always I lacked the understanding that I needed so badly.

Chris was living with us by now which made things even more difficult for me to deal with. We had moved house from the scummy terraced to one which seemed like a mansion compared to what we were used to. Laura and I had our own bedroom and this house had a proper back garden with grass to play on. We made friends with the two girls from next door; Terri and Natalie, who were around the same ages as us and it felt like I was living a completely different life. Nothing had been left the same as before.

Sounds great, huh? Fifty percent of the time it was.

We used to play out on the garden, zoom up and down the drive on our bikes or dance and sing in the kitchen to “Spice Girls�? We’d each pretend to be one of the singers and squawk their lines of the song at full volume. I was always “Sporty-Spice�?or “Baby Spice�?even though I looked and most certainly sounded nothing like either of them! It was all in good fun though and with any luck my Mum would get a free viewing of our performance whilst washing the pots. She was always very impressed too - but it was safe to say she knew none of us would grow up to be famous for our singing!

It wasn’t all great though and the other fifty percent of the time was nothing less than hell. I too began to do exactly as my Dad had done - take my hurt and anger out on everything else. Although I liked Chris and I knew he loved my Mum, I saw him as a threat because I also knew she loved him back�?He could steal her from us if he wanted to - he had taken my Dad’s place, pushed him away and made him leave. That’s why he wasn’t here anymore. That’s why he didn’t want me.

I felt so alone. All I wanted was my Dad; even after everything that had happened, I still wanted my Dad and I spent years believing that Chris was my enemy; he was the reason for my unhappiness, the reason why my family had been torn apart. I decided that if I could get him to hate me enough, he’d go away. Mum was mine and Laura’s now, no one else’s. I wasn’t prepared to share!

I remember walking in the dining room one day to see them kissing in front of the patio doors. I just stood there gob smacked for a moment, then rage kicked in so I clenched my fists, stiffened my back and let out the loudest scream. They stopped and looked at me only to carry on so I ran up to my Mum, smacked her round the thigh and ran out the room. This time she followed. I made it half way up the stairs before I felt her catch me round my right bum cheek.

“Don’t you EVER hit me again!�?/P>

I bawled. “You hurt me!�?/P>

“You don’t hit me!�?/P>

�?B>I’m telling on you!�?I snarled.

“Who you telling?�?/P>

“I’m gonna tell Child Line on you!�?I whinged with my bottom lip stuck out.

“You want the number?�?She said, before walking away.

I lost that battle, which resulted in me sitting on the edge of my bed trying to look for a handprint to use as “evidence�? But it wasn’t over.

I became really good at temper tantrums. If my shoes weren’t tied tight enough, I’d throw myself on the floor, yank them off and scream until my Mum did them again. If my hair wasn’t tied tight enough I’d pull on it and pull on it and scream until it was. I couldn’t have anything loose. Everything - even down to my socks had to be tight and I wouldn’t leave the house until I felt my head throb from the elastic band pulling on my hair, or the laces on my shoes cutting into my elasticated frilly socks, or “umbrella�?socks as we called them.

Sometimes when I used to go out with my Mum and Mamma we’d walk round Four Seasons Shopping Centre, a big place with a lot of shops - which was always quite busy on a Saturday and every time we went down town I’d ask for the same thing�?A bag of toffee from a small stall which used to stand right in the centre. Most of the time, if I had been good that morning and followed without complaining, Mum would let me have some, either there and then or on the way home. If she didn’t?�?There was trouble! I’d throw myself on the cold tile floor in all the crowds of people, yelling and bawling till I was blue in the face. Once more, I was like my Dad. I wanted it and I wanted it now!!

I’d look up to the people walking past as they glared down at me. Thinking back now I feel sorry for my Mum because it must have been so embarrassing to have your “little angel�?screaming in the middle of the floor! I know people thought I was spoilt back then and maybe in some ways I was, but that was also just another way of me getting rid of my pain. The only thing I really wanted was my Dad and because my Mum couldn’t give him to me, or provide an explanation as to why he wasn’t there, she became the one to blame.

She used to stand there for a while and just watch me like a passer-by, every now and again saying, “come on Emma, we need to go to such-and-such before it closes�?or “get up off the floor, you’ll dirty your trousers!�?but nothing worked. In the end she’d either walk off and tell me she was going and unless I wanted to be left I had to get up and follow, or she’d take my hand and drag me so that I had to walk. Either way, I was soon on their heels again. Now, with regards to my moods after periods like those, I could either sulk for the rest of the day and not say a word, be completely horrible, or I’d sit and chat and be the normal chirpy Emma, who’d act as though nothing had happened. Sometimes if was really daring, I’d even have the nerve to ask again for a bag of toffee on the way home!

I only wish I could tell you that was the worst of it, but it wasn’t even half. In fact, that was only scraping the surface.

I hated nighttimes most. I despised Mum and Chris being on their own. I can remember always sitting on the stairs and waiting to be told time and time again, “Emma, go to bed!�?from the living room…But I didn’t. Although I didn’t like to think that other people may see me as naughty, I loved to see how far I could push them, how long it would take for them to loose their rag with me, which would result in being picked up and put back in bed or chased up the stairs to my room.

Being chased up the stairs made my heart race, half with fear, half with excitement. I grew up with security though; that I knew my Mum would never hurt me and the most I would ever get was a smack round the legs or grounded. I’d scramble up each step, breathless, laughing, crying - because I couldn’t decide which to do and after diving through my bedroom door I’d hide beneath the covers on my bed.

This was such a regular occurrence and my Mum became more and more sick of it, to the point where some nights she’d try everything, reading stories, sitting with me on my bed, waiting outside my door till I fell asleep�?And after the fifth or sixth time of walking up and down the stairs, the “please go to sleep�?changed into “For God Sake Emma, go to sleep!�?which eventually I did, whether it be in my bed, on the floor, or on the landing I fell asleep and that’s all my Mum had wanted from me! Peace and quiet!

On the really bad nights I was like a demon child. I could say the most hurtful things you could imagine without even thinking twice about them spilling from my mouth. On countless occasions I made my Mum cry and she would be reduced to begging me to be a good girl. I told Chris that I hated him and he couldn’t tell me what to do because he wasn’t my Dad. I’d throw things, kick things, break things and then I’d reach that point of sheer desperation with all the emotions running through my head that I’d hurt myself. My Mum used to have to pad the walls of my bedroom because I’d fling myself at them, head-but anything in sight and generally do anything to get rid of what I felt.

I wrote to my Dad sometimes, when I had been really naughty or when I was lonely. I’d tell him how nasty my Mum was because she wouldn’t let me see him and how much I wanted to go and stay with him forever and ever. The letters would be decorated with pictures of a house and a squiggly path with spiky grass in the garden. There was just me and my Dad, no one else. We were both smiling and there was a bright yellow sun in the corner of my page. But I was never smiling when I wrote to him, always crying on my bedroom floor because I was a bad girl�?A little girl who wrote letter after letter, knowing that they’d never be read because I didn’t know where to post them to - not to mention the fact that I didn’t know where the nearest post box was either and I couldn’t afford to buy a stamp anyway!

I still didn’t understand and that was the main thing which gave me the ammunition to hate. If I didn’t understand anything then other people couldn’t understand how I felt, because I couldn’t explain why I felt the way I did, at least not properly. It was a vicious circle once again, that until I found the answers I was looking for, would never be broken. But how could I find those answers, if the one answer I wanted was not here? And how could I find that answer if I didn’t know where to look? I was trapped in my own bitterness that I only knew how to express in one way�?To punish those who did understand.

I wanted to make everyone pay - whether or not it was their fault. They deserved it just because I didn’t think I did. If I could share my heartache out between everyone, give each person an equal piece of it, then maybe I wouldn’t have any left. I wanted to run away sometimes; to a far away place where I could be on my own so that no one could hurt me. But then would I not be inflicting them with the same feelings? What if my Dad came looking for me? What if he came back and said he wanted me again? I wouldn’t be there to see it.

I often wondered whether or not I’d be able to find my Dad, somehow, then maybe, I thought, I could show him the letters, I could tell him how unhappy I was without him. It was a love-hate relationship in my own little head. I loved him because he was my Dad, but oh, how I hated him for leaving me. I remember on some occasions after one of my screaming frenzies or twisted tantrums I’d run upstairs to my room, grab any bag I could find, pack as much into it as I could (including the odd board game and a Barbie doll) and make my way back into whichever room my Mum was in to tell her I was going to go and live with my Dad because she didn’t love me anymore. No matter how spiteful I had been previously, no matter what sprang from my mouth as I stood at the front door, my Mum always said, “Emma, I will always love you�?but she usually told me to go just to test whether or not I would.

I went. I was going to find my Dad. Each time, I had no idea where to start looking. I’d try and imagine what the roads looked like leading to wherever he was. I’d try and figure out ways of finding out where he lived. I’d question how I was going to remember each place I passed�?And then, as always I’d realise that it just wasn’t possible. There was no way I could find my Dad; he could be anywhere and with no road sense or sense of direction, where was I supposed to start? Heartbreak doesn’t describe how that feels - to want something so badly and secretly know that it’s nothing but a dream.

The bush at the bottom of our drive became my hiding place. I’d stay there for a while, hoping that Mum and Chris were worried about me, looking for me. They never were though because little did I know, they knew I was there; hiding among the leaves, crying. All they had to do was wait - I’d be back, they were sure of it and in my heart of hearts, so was I.

Eventually I’d stumble back up the drive, red-faced and cold, rucksack over shoulder, eyes to the floor. There was always someone there to open the door because they heard me coming up the drive - we had a motion sensor - I guess that’s how they also knew I hadn’t gone anywhere because it happened to be stuck on the tree next to the bush I hid behind!

I remember being brave one day and venturing out past the gate post onto the street. We lived on yet another busy main road with plenty of cars, houses and a railway line at the bottom. Thankfully from our house you couldn’t hear the thudding of the trains as they went passed. I don’t know where I went after leaving our driveway, or how I got back to the house. All I remember is walking down the road, almost in a dream-like state because I was terrified and yet, utterly determined. My heart pounded so hard in my chest I thought it would eventually run out of steam and just stop. I was desperate to find my Dad and have a normal life. Was that really too much to ask?

Everything else about that day is a blur because like many other memories it’s just a snippet of a string of events, but I later discovered that Chris followed me down the road to check that I didn’t walk in front of a car and see how far I would go�?Obviously it wasn’t very far though because I’m still here and I never did find him on my own.