The Little Prisoner_ A Memoir - Jane Elliott [27]
One day Mum went up to the loft herself when Richard was out mini-cabbing and she needed some clothes. I begged her not to, but couldn’t give her any good reason why not. I stood helplessly on the landing as she fetched a chair and hoisted herself up. I could see through the hatch that she was rooting around in the area where he kept the magazines. As she came back down onto the chair she had them in her hand. She asked me what they were doing up there and I could feel myself turning bright red with shame.
‘I don’t know,’ I muttered guiltily.
What made her think that I knew anything about them? Why would she imagine that a little girl would be storing pornography in the loft, unless she suspected the truth?
When Richard got home she showed him the magazines. ‘Look what that dirty bastard left in the loft when he moved out,’ she said, referring to the previous owner of the house. ‘I knew there was something dodgy about him.’
‘Disgusting,’ Richard agreed. ‘I wouldn’t want anything to do with filth like that.’
I have no idea if Mum believed him or not, but it certainly wouldn’t have been a good idea for her to express any doubts if she had them.
Life continued as if nothing had happened.
Chapter Four
I always wanted to believe that Mum knew nothing about what was going on. No child wants to believe that their mother knows they are suffering and chooses to do nothing about it. Because I knew how much she suffered at Richard’s hands as well, I put her on a pedestal and was always determined to protect her if ever I could. I believed that if I let her know what was going on, I would be putting both our lives in danger. I would never forget the feel of that carving knife on my throat and I never doubted for a moment that Richard was capable of carrying out his threat to murder her if I said anything.
When I got older Mum and I used to go out shopping together, giggling all the time, and she liked to believe that people were looking at us and thinking we were sisters. Although she let me down a lot by not protecting me from Richard when she could have done, I still thought the world of her. One of the bonds between us was woven from my knowledge of what he did to her.
Once, when I was about ten, Mum’s screams woke me up in the middle of the night. I knew that meant Richard was hitting her as usual, but this time the noises coming from the bedroom next door sounded especially loud. I was shaking and telling myself to just stay calm and it would soon all be over, it always was. I knew that if I went in he would turn his fury onto me for interfering and it wouldn’t make anything better for her. Now he was shouting at the top of his voice and there was a repeated banging noise, which sounded like her head being smashed against the adjoining wall. I was terrified that this time he really would kill her and then I would be left alone with him. As I lay there, praying she wouldn’t die, the screams stopped but the banging continued. I could hear the boys crying in their beds, too frightened to move. Mum was making a groaning noise, ‘Huh, huh.’
Fear giving me courage, I climbed out of bed and ran out onto the landing, pushing open their bedroom door. The light from the hallway illuminated the sight of my mother on all fours, wearing nothing but her knickers, while Richard stood astride her, pulling her head back by the hair, his other hand under her chin, about to smash her head against the wall again. They both froze and looked at me.
‘Leave her alone!’ I screamed.
‘Go back to bed,’ Mum whispered.
Richard looked at me for a second longer, then let my mother’s limp body drop onto the floor and started running out after me. I managed to get into my room and slam my door, but by the time I reached my bed he’d burst through and caught up with me and shouting, punching and throwing me around. It was one of the worst beatings I’d ever endured.
Then I heard Mum’s voice coming from behind him. ‘Get off her,’ she said, and it sounded as though she meant it.
I looked up and saw her standing behind him, holding