Ruined

I am eight when I discover that, despite being my mother’s only child, I am not her favourite. It is 1974. My school is closed due to a heating failure, and I am forced to accompany my mother to her teaching job amongst The Less Fortunate.

“Be on your best behaviour.” says my father, with an expression that suggests I will, inevitably, find a way to disappoint. My heart flutters with anxiety.

My mother and I get into the car, and she drives until familiar landmarks are replaced by rows of squashed together houses, paint peeling from their doors and window frames. Someone has emptied the contents of a bin onto the pavement. An empty beer can rolls into the gutter. The wind makes a parachute of a plastic bag. This must be where The Less Fortunates live.

During the journey, something happens to my mother. By the time we arrive, she has been transformed. Her walk is brisker and more purposeful, and I trot behind her, struggling to keep up. Her voice is different too. She sounds too loud and cheerful as she explains to a thin man in a suit that I have come to see how the other half lives. The man’s eyes travel from my shoes to the top of my head.

“So this is young Barbara.” he says. I stare at the floor. I am uncomfortable with new people. The man and my mother laugh.

A bell rings, and The Less Fortunates file into the classroom. One of them is wearing the same t-shirt as me, which confuses me. I had thought they would be more easily identifiable. My mother tells them they have a visitor and they stare. I feel my cheeks turning pink.

I sit quietly in the corner, reading my book and hoping to disappear. Long after the register has finished, and The Less Fortunates have started their work, a girl comes in wearing my cardigan. It’s the one my grandma knitted, with a row of little white rabbits round the edge. Only one of them still has its fluffy tail, and they’re not white now, they’re grey. My mother puts her hand on the girl’s shoulder and tells her to sit down quietly. She leans over her as she explains the work. The girl looks up at her, nodding and smiling.

I carry on watching, round the edge of my book. One of the cuffs of the cardigan has started to come unravelled, and the girl winds the wool round and round her thumb. Every few minutes she wipes her snotty nose on the sleeve. I want to cry for the poor rabbits. Lots of The Less Fortunates have my old things. I look around the classroom, wondering which one of them has my doll’s house now. I hope it’s not Cardigan Girl. She notices me staring and sticks out her tongue. I pretend to read my book.

At playtime, my mother is on duty. Two very small girls hold onto her at either side. I try to slip my hand into her coat pocket. She tells me to go and get to know my new friends. Cardigan girl, whose name is Sharon Tucker, is told to look after me. She takes my hand and drags me along. Her skin feels rough and unpleasant.

A curious crowd gathers round us. Sharon puts her face up close to mine, until our noses are almost touching. I can smell cheese and onion crisps, although I haven’t seen her eat any. She spits as she speaks.

“Where does your mum hit you?” she asks. The crowd draws closer. I swallow several times. No words will come out of my mouth.

“Does she hit you on your legs?” she says. I manage to shake my head.

“On your hand?” I shake again.

“On your bum?” The crowd titters at the rude word. I take a deep breath.

“Nowhere.” I manage to say. The word comes out too loud, but Sharon pretends not to hear. She leans even closer, putting her hand behind her ear.

“Where?” she shouts. I say my word again. My face is hot and my hand, which she is still clutching, is slippery with sweat. The crowd disperses to spread its new found knowledge. As Sharon parades me around, we are frequently accosted by children seeking confirmation. By the time the bell rings I have performed my word a dozen times. Each time, Sharon smirks, disbelieving.

Sharon Tucker turns out to be what my mother refers to as ‘a bright spark’. This is something I am definitely not. In fact, the most recent description that I have heard of myself is ‘a wet lettuce’. This, I know, is nowhere near as good. My mother stands in front of the board, chalk in hand. When she asks a question Sharon waves her arm in the air, holding her breath until her face turns red. Her bottom hovers several inches above her seat. When she gets the answer right my mother beams proudly and tells her what a good girl she is.

As everyone leaves the classroom at lunchtime, Sharon throws her arms round my mother’s waist, pressing her face into her jumper. My mother gently touches her hair before sending her away.

In the afternoon we do painting. Sharon takes off my cardigan and hangs it over the back of her chair. As she mixes her paint, whisking as though she is making a cake, pink speckles are sprayed onto the pale blue wool. Sharon doesn’t notice. After a while, the cardigan falls onto the floor, and someone stands on the last intact rabbit.

A boy knocks over a pot of paint. I watch in silence as a flood of colour drips off the table and onto my dress. Sharon stares.
“You’ll get battered now.” she says. She licks her lips hungrily and sets off towards my mother’s desk. Most of the class sets off in pursuit.

“Your Barbara’s got paint on her dress.” they chorus, stretching the words so that they seem to go on forever. There is a moment’s silence, as they eagerly anticipate my battering. I imagine myself in the chip shop, parcelled in newspaper. So sure are they of my impending doom that I am almost afraid.My mother laughs.

“It’ll wash” she says. She smiles over at me. I don’t smile back. Everyone shuffles away, disappointed that there is to be no entertainment. Sharon reluctantly resumes her painting, her grubby shoes planted on the cardigan.

At last, we reach the end of the day. Chairs are lifted onto tables in preparation for floor sweeping. Finally, Sharon notices the cardigan. She picks it up. Smiling suddenly, as though her mind has just given birth to a plan, she begins to swing it around her head, holding on to one cuff. She makes a strange noise as she does this; an animal-like howling that causes my mother to look over at us and raise her eyebrows. She says nothing.

It is all too much for me. I lunge and grab the cardigan in mid-flight. I am making a noise of my own, although I am not sure where it comes from. Sharon refuses to let go. With her free hand, she grabs my hair. Instinctively, I sink my teeth into her arm. My mother grasps our shoulders and jerks us apart. Her face is an unusual shade of purple.

Sharon starts to cry. She shows my mother her arm, resplendent with the imprints of my teeth. My mother takes my hand in hers, and without speaking, smacks it once, hard. Then she leads Sharon to the sink, bathes her wound, helps her on with the cardigan and sends her on her way with a hug. Sharon looks back at me and smiles victoriously.

We drive home in silence. My father arrives home from work and is informed of my disgrace. He comes to my room, where I am sitting in self-imposed exile. I have made a show of myself, he announces, his voice rising at the end of the sentence, as it always does when he is displeased with me. I say nothing. Half to himself, he mutters that I have too much. They have ruined me.

I lie on my bed, listening to the voices of children who never ask me to play. I go to the posh school, they say. They call me names when they see me in my school hat and blazer. As it begins to get dark, my mother comes in and sits on the bed. She sniffs and tells me she has been having a little weep. Weeping is a kind of crying that adults are allowed to do without being told not to be silly. My mother sighs and looks sadly around my room at my toys and games, which are stacked neatly on shelves, some of them still unopened. She looks at me.

“This room would be like Aladdin’s Cave to Sharon Tucker.” she says. I stare at the ceiling, thinking, but not saying, that Sharon Tucker will get my toys anyway, once my mother decides I have finished with them.

“I don’t think you realise how lucky you are.” I look at her, wondering why they let people as stupid as this be teachers. I see anger swelling inside her as I refuse to speak.

“Maybe you should change places with Sharon for a day; see how you like it.” she snarls. I wait for a moment, and then tell her I think I might like it very much. I don’t mean to hurt her, but seeing that I have, I am not sorry. Her voice wobbles.

“I’m not cross, but I am disappointed.” She gets up and moves towards the door.

“I don’t know where we’re going wrong.” is her parting shot.

“I’m ruined,” I say, but I don’t think she hears.