The Bad Room

Mum then told me that Paul took and sold drugs. She explained that the sand I had seen was actually heroin and the spoons and foil were used to cook the drugs before they took them. It wasn’t the type of conversation a mum should be having with a four-year-old child, but she had no filter. At the time I didn’t fully understand what she was saying but I knew it was something I wasn’t to discuss with anyone else. At least Mum, to her credit, was very anti-drugs and most of their arguments were about whether he was still using.

I had always had the impression that Paul didn’t like me because I was James’s daughter, but after that incident he had a reason to dislike me even more. Even though he was cruel to me and he and Mum were constantly rowing, if anything, when he wasn’t around life was worse. Often he would leave, go AWOL, or Mum would throw him out. But then, whenever that happened, Mum missed him and cried a lot. It felt like she was angry all the time and took her fury out on me. She’d hit me for no reason, scream at me over the tiniest thing and I’d never know what would set her off next time.

It got so unbearable that I often begged Mum to take him back because the beatings and the shouting at me were horrible. Paul was always persistent and he would show up claiming to have cleaned up his act and promising to be better. Mum, because she loved him, took him back every time.

Whenever Paul moved back in life would be calm for a little while. We’d sit and watch television together like a normal family, have Sunday lunch. The only thing I noticed was that Grandma would never come round to the house while Paul was there. She didn’t like him at all. My dad didn’t like him either. I still saw Dad every week and on those days it was a welcome contrast to the chaos with my mum. He wasn’t happy leaving me at the mercy of Mum and her boyfriend but he was in a difficult situation, being in a new relationship and trying to keep contact with me.

Just when we were starting to think Paul had changed his ways, though, his old life came back with a vengeance.

Paul was in the house when there was a knock at the door down on the street below. We had a main door on ground level but all our rooms were up the stairs on the first floor. Mum looked out of the window.

A man called up: ‘Is Paul there?’

Mum looked to Paul, who shook his head.

‘He’s not here,’ Mum shouted down.

The man said something else but Mum couldn’t make out what. She went down to tell him she didn’t know when he’d be back. When she opened the door about twenty men carrying crowbars and other weapons barged past her. I was sitting at the top of the stairs and I screamed as they bulldozed their way up. They rushed into the flat and although Paul was hiding they found him instantly. From the noises coming from the bedroom they absolutely battered him. Mum ran up and I could hear her trying to pull them off her boyfriend, yelling at them to stop. I sat rooted to the spot, crying and shaking with fear, just wishing it would stop. Almost as fast as they arrived they were gone, piling down the stairs and into the street.

As the last man left, he turned to my mum, who was standing at the top of the stairs, and said: ‘Sorry, Mandy.’

Mum took Paul to hospital. He had wounds all over his body. I heard Mum say it was a drug gang, obviously unhappy at something he had done. They were here to teach him a lesson. Thankfully they didn’t hurt Mum. Paul’s injuries were so severe he was in hospital for days.

That incident seemed to be a wake-up call for Paul, because when he came home things calmed down for a bit. They had the occasional row but it wasn’t as bad as before. They actually seemed to be getting on, so much in fact that Mum told me that she and Paul were going to get married. Mum said it would be a chance for us to be a proper family. And as I was going to be her bridesmaid, it was an excuse to dress up. I could see in Mum’s face that she was really excited. She and my dad hadn’t married. She’d fallen pregnant after they’d been together for a year and having a baby had changed everything for them.

In the build-up to the big day, Mum showed me the pink dress she was going to wear. Despite all her problems, Mum was a beautiful woman, petite and curvy. She had dyed her natural fair hair black and styled it short and slick, like one of her idols, Lisa Stansfield. She even had the singer’s black beauty spot on her cheek. My dress was also pink and matched hers. Paul had a new suit for the occasion. It was funny seeing us all dressed up.

They tied the knot in the local registry office. My grandma wasn’t there, as she still couldn’t stand Paul, but Auntie Marie and Uncle William came, along with Paul’s brother and a couple of their friends.

It was all over quickly and when we came outside Marie threw confetti over us all. We went to a pub for a little celebration. It was a fun day. I don’t think I’d ever seen my mum look so happy. If this was a sign of things to come, I liked the fact they got married.

My name changed to Jade Harries. Maybe Mum was right. We could be a proper, normal family.

Mum shouted less and didn’t hit me as much and Paul didn’t feel the need to hurt me either. In quieter moments Mum showed me how to draw. She took her time to teach me how to draw eyes and explained the distance between them and the nose and mouth. For birthdays and Christmas all I wanted was art supplies. Dad used to take me to Woolworths and spend £30 on paper, pens, charcoal pencils and stationery, and I couldn’t wait to try them out. Mum could turn her hand to drawing anyone, like Elvis and Alanis Morissette, and her black-and-white sketches of the singers she really loved, like Madonna and Lisa Stansfield, were on display around the house. She loved listening to music and I got my taste from her. I was into Texas and Gabrielle and more mature artists rather than a lot of the young poppy stuff that most children of my age liked. For the first time it felt like we were forming a bond.

Paul even managed to get in Grandma’s good books. A film crew had turned up in our town to film an episode of A Touch of Frost, the drama series starring David Jason. They were looking for extras so Paul went along and landed a part as a policeman, ironically. When the episode aired we all sat down to watch it. It was funny seeing him on the small screen. Grandma was a huge fan of the programme so she was thrilled that she could go around telling people her son-in-law was in it. She was even happier when Paul used the money he got from it to paint her kitchen and kit it out with a new microwave and toaster. She softened her opinion of him, for a little while at least.

There were times when Paul did try to be a normal dad. He taught me to ride a bike that my real dad had got me. He also came home one day with a little Labrador puppy. Someone had rescued it and he thought I would like it. He was right. I loved it. We only had it for a week, though. I was out with it on my bike when it got caught under the wheels. It was yelping and although I tried to help it and it was okay, Mum wasn’t happy and took it as a sign we shouldn’t have a pet. We had to take it to the animal rescue centre. I was heartbroken. On the whole, though, we were getting on okay as a family.

But just when things were looking up, it all kicked off again – and this time it was worse than ever.

Chapter 3

‘Come on,’ Mum said. ‘Quickly, it’ll be fun. But you need to come now.’

Why was she whispering when we were the only people in the house? That’s what I didn’t understand. I followed her lead, though. She’d taken the quilt from my bed and laid it on the floor of the Wendy house in my room.

‘Come on. Now!’

I climbed in to find her curled on the floor. I lay down next to her and she wrapped an arm around me and pulled the quilt over.

‘Now stay quiet. Whatever happens. Not a sound, eh?’

I nodded and cuddled tightly into her. Although I was only four years old, it was so rare to have cuddle time with Mum I would gladly stay like this all night. Whatever game she was playing, it was a nice one.

Then I heard it. The noise from downstairs. Someone was entering the house. Mum moved her hand up to my mouth. I could feel my heart thumping as I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. They could only belong to one person.

Paul had gone back to his old ways and when Mum found out he was back on drugs, she told him to leave. He hadn’t taken it well. He kept trying to get back into the house to convince her to take him back – and worse, we suspected he was stealing things.

Obviously Mum didn’t want to talk to him and didn’t want him to know she was even in the house. Was she scared what he might do? I became scared too. Now I knew what was happening. He was coming for us. And Mum did not want him to find us.

He was taking his time, pausing every couple of steps. I concentrated really hard on not making a sound. But the more I concentrated the more scared I was that something would come out. Could he hear me breathing? Could he hear my heart beating? I could feel Mum’s heart pounding against my back. Her breathing was quick, and in my ear it sounded like the wind blowing. Was it so loud he could hear?

He was at the top of the stairs now and I heard the creak of the kitchen door. There were a few steps and then I heard him entering the living room. Then it was Mum’s room. It would be my room next.

Even though I was expecting it, my heart jumped when I realised he was in my room. I closed my eyes tight shut. Mum’s grip hardened around me.

Please don’t look inside, please don’t look inside.

He seemed to stand there for an age. Was he even there at all? Had I imagined the whole thing?

Then I heard a floorboard creak and I wanted to scream with fear. This was real, very real.

More footsteps. They were quicker this time – and louder. They were going down the stairs, with no attempt to be quiet. The door opened and shut. We were alone again. He hadn’t found what he was looking for.

I felt Mum’s embrace loosen. I tried to turn and was about to say something when she whispered: ‘Shhh! Not yet.’

We lay there for while longer. I was itching to get up. He was gone, surely we could move now? Mum wanted to make sure. For what seemed like twenty minutes we lay there before she climbed out of the Wendy house slowly and tiptoed to the door. I peeked out and saw her tentatively look out onto the landing. She held out a hand. Wait there. I heard her retrace the steps I’d just heard, flitting from room to room. Then she was back in the doorway.

‘You can come out now.’

We’d got away with it … but it was only temporary respite and it wasn’t long before Paul was back and causing more mayhem. Sometimes I witnessed the violence. All I could do was find somewhere to cower until it was over. There were other times when the only signs that trouble had started again were the repercussions and how they affected our lives.

The police had got involved and they believed Mum was in such danger from Paul they installed an alarm in the house. At night, when Mum set the alarm it meant no doors or windows could be opened. We just sat in the living room and had to be quiet. The TV was on mute with the subtitles on. One night Mum was too scared to go to bed so she said I could stay up late with her. At first it was exciting and it felt special to be getting quality time with my mum, but after a little while my eyes started to get heavy and all I wanted was my bed.

‘Not yet,’ Mum whispered. ‘Stay awake a little longer.’

I must have dozed off because it was 2 a.m. and we still hadn’t gone to bed. I was about to ask Mum again but suddenly there was a bang. Someone was trying to get in the kitchen window. A split second later the alarm went off. I jumped out of my skin. It was so loud I was sure it must have burst my eardrum.

Mum grabbed me and we ran down the stairs to the front door and straight out into the street. I was in my bare feet and Mum picked me up and started running. The screeching of the alarm rang in my ears. In the quiet of the night it seemed ten times louder than any car or house alarm. I was so scared I just clung on to her and she ran, heaving for breath. I knew something bad was going to happen if he caught us.

We must have run for about twenty minutes. Mum couldn’t carry me anymore so she put me down and I had to run with her. My feet hardly touched the ground as we raced through the streets. Eventually Mum saw a phone box and pushed me inside. She called the police and we waited there until they came to get us.

We didn’t speak much. Mum kept looking out the windows, on all sides. It was the first time I’d seen her scared. Paul must have threatened her and the threats must have been serious enough for the police to be involved. It was only then my feet started to hurt and I realised how cold I was. I was so grateful to see the police car. They told us they’d searched for Paul and had found him in a shed in a neighbouring back garden. As they had him in custody it was safe for us to go back to the house. There were people at their windows and out on the street to see what the fuss was about.

Given how scared my mum was that night she must have realised that their relationship was toxic but she just couldn’t help herself. There were times she wanted to be away from him and there were times she wanted him back.

When I next saw my dad I came back and told Mum I wanted to move in with him.

‘He has just got you to say that,’ she said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I just want to be with my dad.’ It was true. I liked being with him. It was a nicer experience, without the constant threat of violence or fear.

My mum was adamant I could not go to my dad. I had no choice. I had to live with her – whatever the consequences. And for me, those consequences were brutal. Not being with Paul brought out the worst in Mum.

Rarely did I know what would set her off. One minute she’d be okay and the next she was screaming. So even though Paul had hurt me and we’d had to hide and flee from the house to get away from him, I begged Mum to take him back. I clung to the memories of the times when things were calmer.

Before too long she did take him back and, just like before when they first got married, everything was rosy. Mum told me she was expecting a baby. We’d be a proper little family. In August 1993, nearly two months after my fifth birthday and shortly before I started school, she gave birth to a boy, Jack. It was exciting to have a baby brother. Everyone doted on him, including me. Mum encouraged me to call Paul ‘Dad’, so I did, but he would never replace my real dad.

In just a few short months, though, all thoughts that we could be a normal family went out the window. Mum and Paul started fighting again and now when they rowed it turned violent. When I heard them screaming at each other I went to my room and put my hands over my ears, but it was no use. I could still hear them. I crawled into my Wendy house, pulled my duvet in with me and curled up, wrapping the quilt over my head in a bid to block it out. Still I could hear them yelling. It was often like this. Mum would kick off about something and Paul would yell back at her. That was my cue to take myself off until it eventually calmed down.

I was getting good at spotting the signs that it was about to kick off. Maybe Paul hadn’t been home for a couple of days, or maybe when he did show up he looked and smelled funny. Mum would then accuse him of being up to his old tricks again.

When I felt the house shake I knew Paul had stormed out. I wouldn’t see him for a few weeks. It was obvious then that my mother had broken up with him. After a few weeks Paul would come around being all nice and winning over my mother. She was always glad to see him back. I could tell she loved him. Often when Paul returned he’d have a load of presents, like a new DVD player or a stereo or a bike for me. He’d make lots of promises about changing and how he meant it this time.

Sometimes I would be glad to see him back because although they shouted at each other a lot and threw things at each other, when he wasn’t here it was worse. Mum missed him and cried a lot. On top of that she was struggling with being a single parent and trying to raise two young children. She was angry all the time and took her fury out on me. She’d hit me for nothing, scream at me over the tiniest thing and I’d never know what would set her off next time.

We never seemed to have enough money for even the basics, like food, and everything was a struggle. So many times everything got too much for her and she would erupt.

One day she came at me, seemingly for no reason. Before I could react she grabbed me by the hair and yanked me across the floor. She lashed out, catching me on the eye. I screamed in pain and cried for her to stop. It was only then she calmed down and burst into tears.

Then one morning I woke up and went to go out of my bedroom. The door was locked from the outside. I banged the door to get out and called: ‘Mum!’

After a moment, Mum let me out. She didn’t say a word. I didn’t know what I had done to upset her but she seemed in a mood. I went into the living room and heard Mum going into the kitchen. The next thing she came into the room wielding a wooden mop handle and started hitting me with it. I screamed. She caught me on the shin and I’ve never felt pain like it. It felt like the bottom of my leg had been split open. I was bleeding and it was only then I saw there was a nail at the bottom of the handle. It had gone straight into my leg.

I was so shocked at the sudden violence, I could barely even cry. I was gulping a huge lungful of air with each breath. Only when Mum saw how badly she’d hurt me did she calm down and act all apologetic. She took me to hospital to get the wound seen to. I couldn’t believe she had come at me like that. It was like she was possessed.

Mum had been known to social services ever since she was younger and now they became involved. A social worker came round and spoke to her about her behaviour but, despite what she’d put me through, when they spoke to me I clammed up. Mum might have been horrible to me but I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted her to be happy.

Going to school should have been an exciting time for me, a chance to make new friends and leave the troubles of home behind for a few hours a day, but it just wasn’t like that at all. The school was very much involved with Mum and me and social services. From as far back as I can remember the teachers always wanted to know what was going on at home. I just wanted to fit in and not have anyone make a fuss, but they used to take me into a different room and question me. I wouldn’t speak because I knew what they were trying to do. There were so many questions: ‘Have you eaten today?’ ‘What’s your mum made you?’ ‘Is your dad at home just now?’

I knew not to speak to anyone because I thought it would get my mum into trouble. I just used to mumble some answers or try to tell them what I thought they wanted to hear. I had to protect my mum, everyone was questioning me and I was defensive all the time. Every time I was asked a question I thought, ‘What are you asking me that for?’ I was guarded and the teachers probably thought I was an angry little child.

When I got home Mum would hit me with even more questions: ‘What’s happened? What were they asking you? What did you tell them?’

Or she’d send me to school in the morning, saying, ‘Don’t tell them that Paul is here.’

I felt loyalty to my mum and I was desperate to please her so I did what she said. It was just very stressful. Everywhere I turned there were adults involved in my life. School wasn’t pleasurable. There were no fun times that I can remember.

I didn’t feel like a normal child. I looked at everyone else playing in the playground, looking as though they didn’t have a care in the world, and I wondered why I couldn’t be like that. Why did I have to be the one with the parents who fought all the time?

I was always aware that I couldn’t relax and just be a child. There was constant embarrassment as well. Children know when someone is being treated differently so they eyed me suspiciously. Parents gossip among themselves and to their children, and one or two kids said things about my mum. As a result I didn’t form the same friendships with other children that normal kids do. I just remember feeling embarrassment from a young age. I saw some classmates being friendly with the teacher but I never had a normal relationship with any of the adults. It was like everyone interrogated me. They all wanted to know something.

The only friend I had at school was a girl called Ellie. She was the daughter of one of Mum’s friends who lived nearby. We got up to mischief together. We found some black shoe polish and wrote our full names on the toilet door. The teachers called us out of class and asked why we’d done it. We swore blind it wasn’t us, even when they pointed out we’d written our own names. They made us wipe it off. We got into trouble but it was about the best fun I had at school.

I had a better time playing in the street near our house. I used to play with a boy called Luke, the son of another of Mum’s friends. We hung out in each other’s houses and watched Batman together. I was a tomboy and preferred hanging out with Luke to the girls that lived locally. I was obsessed with Bruce Lee as a child. I watched all his films and ran around doing his moves and fighting with the boys on the street. At five and six I never wanted to wear a top and preferred to run around like the boys. My mum was always telling me to put some clothes on. She tried to make me more demure by enrolling me in ballet lessons. I loved it, but after watching Dirty Dancing with my mum I was more interested in learning Latin dance. I was captivated by the close, sultry, provocative form of dancing in the movie, especially during the ‘Love Man’ scene, and I said to Mum, ‘I want to do that.’

She said, ‘Absolutely not.’

Aside from Bruce Lee and Batman, I also loved Knight Rider. That was a Sunday night thing in our house and one of my fondest memories – when they weren’t kicking off – was having Sunday dinner, which Mum would prepare, and then sitting down to watch it with Mum and Paul. These were rare moments of joy.

Largely, though, I just felt like I was treated differently at home, as well as at school. My brother had grown into boisterous toddler. He was hyperactive but he was a mummy’s boy. He’d get into trouble for being hyper but Mum never hit him like she hit me. She might tap his legs or lightly scold him if he misbehaved, the normal reprimanding of a child. It wasn’t over the top. She would sit him on the stairs until he calmed down.

With me, though, she continued to lash out. It wasn’t fair.

Our home situation became an even greater challenge for Mum when, out of the blue, in August 1995, when I was seven, she discovered she was pregnant again. She didn’t even know she was expecting. She hadn’t put on any weight and two weeks after Jack’s second birthday she ended up in hospital and gave birth to a little girl. It was a shock to everyone.

Mum said I could choose what to call her so I said I wanted to name her after my best friend Ellie.

‘How about we call her Ellen but you can call her Ellie if you like?’

That’s what happened. When Mum came home with her it was quickly apparent that she hadn’t bonded with Ellie in the same way she had with Jack or me. Not knowing she was pregnant meant she hadn’t had time to get used to the idea. Now Mum, who was still only 24 and hadn’t been coping for years, had three young children to look after.

Ellie was just a baby, so Mum wouldn’t take her anger out on her, but I could see there wasn’t much affection. I felt the need to mother Ellie myself, to make up for it. I knew I had to look out for my brother and sister. The trouble was, who was looking out for me?