Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [12]
‘It will be worth it,’ she kept promising, ‘you’ll see.’
‘I don’t know how. I hate it at nursery.’
Actually it wasn’t so bad. And then a funny thing happened. Things began to get better. In fact, I have to admit, it very nearly was ‘worth it’.
Once I settled into the routine of going to Rainbow, of course I loved it. I’d gone from having no toys to being surrounded by all manner of plastic, clockwork and metal treats. It was like being in Aladdin’s cave. There literally weren’t enough hours in the day for me to play with everything. I even loved story time, when our teachers read from some of their wonderful books. We didn’t have books at home. I suppose I thought that was natural – that all the other children hadn’t seen a book until they came to nursery as well. In truth, I didn’t think twice about it then. I just remember loving the exciting mysteries and adventures that these fantastic heroes were having.
And then there was the other advantage of Mum’s work – the very thing she’d taken the job for in the first place. Money.
I didn’t see it at the time, and she never discussed it, but her starting to wear a suit coincided with little treats cropping up in my life. The village hall near our flat used to put on film shows every Saturday which a lot of my little friends went to. It was only 10p, but Mum had never been able to spare it before. Now things were different. She would buy two tickets and we would sit back while the film of the week was projected onto a big screen at the front. We didn’t have a television then – and even Granny and Grandpa only had a black-and-white set – so it was amazing to see these incredible colours dancing around in front of my very eyes.
Trips to the café for my sausage sandwich became more regular as well. The only problem was cramming it all into a weekend. There was only so much we could do during the week, with Mum working an eight-hour day, so Saturdays and Sundays became sacrosanct. They were ‘our times’. That was when we’d go down to the seafront or the Brighton Lanes to shop. I remember winning a giant stuffed panda at an amusement arcade. I couldn’t have been happier as Mum and I lugged it back home. After a month or so, I had to admit that life was great.
The longer Mum worked, the more she was able to straighten herself out financially – I imagine there were various debts to be repaid, probably to Granny. At some point, though, my treats got better. King of them all came on the day she said, ‘Would you like your own bike?’
My own bike? I couldn’t believe it. All the kids on our street had started to ride and I’d had a go on their bikes, first with stabilizers and then – don’t ask me how! – riding solo on two wheels. I’d never really questioned why I didn’t have my own. That was normal. I didn’t have anything. But Mum must have seen me riding someone else’s and had the idea. The next weekend she had a surprise for me.
‘Close your eyes,’ she said, barely able to contain her own excitement.
I did as I was told and Mum led me into the bedroom we shared. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but Mum’s voice told me I was going to like it!
‘Okay,’ she said as we stopped. ‘Open your eyes now!’
I did. There before me, leaning against the bed, was a spangly new red bicycle. I gasped. It was amazing. So shiny, so new – and so mine!
Then I noticed the wheels. Kids are funny about details; they get things into their heads. For some reason this bike had a black tyre at the back and a white tyre at the front. I hated it. Looking back, I suppose the bike was second-hand and that’s how it had come. At the time I just thought, This is not right. Mum saw me falter.
‘Is everything okay?