Prologue 1

The five foot eight, green eyed beauty stood at the counter in her Father’s greengrocer’s shop, busying herself by cleaning the counter. It was early February and the weather seemed to be getting colder, penetrating her hands through her fingerless gloves. Despite the crispness of the air, she could see no blue sky, only a heavy grey one that threatened rain. Stretching her over worn, green, knitted cardigan around her she sat down on the small rickety stool and tried to shrink down behind the small, wooden counter. After five minutes her body temperature had started to rise, so she nearly cursed when the rickety wooden door opened and the familiar shopkeeper’s bell started to jingle, letting in a waft of cold, wet air. The eighteen year old, who had been voted ‘prettiest in the village’ for three years running lurched herself up and put on her best fake smile as she met the ‘rude’ customer’s gaze. Then, much to her surprise, the chill that had rippled down her spine only a few moments before, disappeared and she felt un-seasonally warm. The smartly dressed man that stood in front of her had dark brown eyes that matched his full head of chocolate hair and lean features, but only stood a few inches taller than her. Their eyes seemed to be locked on each other and for a moment, the pale skinned brunette forgot where she was, or what she was supposed to be doing. “… Apples please?” was all she caught of the suited man’s question as she came back down to earth, “Could I have two pounds of Golden Delicious apples please?” he repeated, obviously frustrated by the dumbstruck girl in front of him. Not wanting to seem rude she weighed out and brown bagged the yellow apples then gave the handsome man his change, watching his every move as he walked back through the second-hand door, this time completely un-affected by the gust of cold air that passed through her.

P 2

The handsome man walked through the small, depressing village of Wordsley with his mother’s apples and her words ringing in his ear, “you need to find yourself a woman, someone to cook and clean so you can concentrate on your career.” Despite his stubbornness he had to admit, she was right, it was time he settled down. He had just been passed over for a promotion because he wasn’t married and therefore considered irresponsible. The girl in the greengrocers had seemed nice, if a little floaty, maybe he should go back and ask her out. She was certainly pretty enough to have on his arm, he could show her the town where he lived. A little country girl like her was bound to be impressed by a busy town, after all he certainly wouldn’t be living here.

P 3

By late March the sky was crisp and clear, and the sound of church bells could be heard all through the village. Wordsley’s prettiest girl stood in her late mother’s bedroom precisely attaching her veil so it covered the bobble that was holding up the wispy bits of hair that normally fell down the side of her face. When she was finished she took a step back to admire herself. Never one for being overly dressy (they had never been able to afford it) she had made a simple wedding dress out of material a friend of her mother’s had given her, it was ivory satin with a round neck, thin straps, fitted top and A-line skirt. There were no sparkles or gems, just her mother’s old pearls around her neck that still smelt of the perfume she only wore on special occasions. The keen runner smiled at the framed picture of her mother that sat on her sparsely covered dressing table and wondered whether she would class this as a special enough occasion? Stifling tears, she took a deep breath, pulled herself together and went to join her father and two younger sisters downstairs.

Wrapped from the cold by the same shawl her dear mother had worn on her wedding day, and flanked by her family, all in their Sunday best, the striking girl headed out of their small cottage with its thatched roof and climbing pink roses, out through the small white gate and into a quiet, field edged street where only two similar cottages stood. The neighbours that had watched her grow up into the person she was today stood at their gates clapping and wishing her well as she ascended the street before turning the corner that lead to the village church. Once there, her sisters made their way inside giggling like the excited schoolgirls they were, while her younger brother, who was the only usher kissed her on the cheek and followed them in. As the organ began to play, her mother’s first born child squeezed her dad’s hand and began her slow walk towards her future.

P 4

June 1954

An unhappy woman sat in her bedroom looking at her reflection in the dressing table mirror, surrounded by expensive perfume bottles and piles of designer make-up. The bruises on her chest were getting harder to hide as summer approached; frilly blouses and V-neck tops were out of the question, so she had to resort to round necks with well-placed scarves. The beatings had started when their son had turned one, she hadn’t bought the right cake so that night he’d pinned her down on the bed and slapped her chest until she bled. Other times he would go for the legs, punching and slapping them until he got bored, then he would start ‘making love’ to her, the only way he knew how, hard and forceful until he finished. She wondered what had happened to the man she married, he had promised her a new life where she would feel at home, away from the confinements of the country, a place where she could grow and be herself. Instead she felt like an outsider, watching her own life from the shadows, allowing a cruel bitter man to control her every move.

Night after night she would lay in bed thinking about where it all went wrong, the way he didn’t come to the hospital when she went into labour, the fact it took the nurses five attempts to even get hold of him, and the way he only came when he knew it was a boy. From that moment on, he had looked at her differently, suddenly she stopped being his wife and started being nanny, her only job, to protect the boy. She dreamt of how wonderful it would have been to have had a girl, someone she could relate to, someone who would grow up loving her, someone who could have fulfilled her dreams for her.

Chapter 1

The summer of 1975 had started as quietly as any other. I had swapped the routine of going to school with the even more boring task of chores and monotonous trips to the local market with my Mother. I dreamt of walking those grey halls again where at least I had some rest bite from my condescending Father and snappy Mother. My friend Angela thought I was just moaning about my parents, like any other teenager, but she never understood what it felt like to be truly un-wanted. Some days I felt so bored and lonely that I would take any opportunity to leave the house. Going to the paper shop to pay the papers was a treat, it felt like a thrill to go alone. Everytime I turned the corner at the end of my street I felt the urge to start running and never look back, but fear stopped me everytime. I soon realised that the hope of one day doing it was what kept me going all those years.

Four weeks down and my Mother and I were taking the well walked route to Wolverhampton market. A morning of food shopping was the usual numbing experience during which Norma would tempt my seventeen year old self with trendy clothes and accessories only to leave me wanting at the end of every trip. At the start of the summer holidays it had annoyed me, but now I had come to expect nothing so it hurt less. We walked the thirteen minutes into town in relative silence, and then we began at the market. Brightly coloured vegetables and fruits tempted me at every turn, Spanish oranges, and lemons, golden delicious apples and a smorgasbord of British products such as strawberries and raspberries filled the air with a sweet and tempting aroma. This was the highlight of my week, for all of thirty seconds. As usual, my mother ignored the temptations and we headed inside the market, where the only aromas were those coming from the butcher’s blocks. Thick slices of chuck steak sat festering in their own blood, and un-lucky chickens sat side by side looking anaemic and soulless. My mother favoured tripe which looked more anaemic than the chickens. I hated it, huge clots of cow’s stomach hung over each other piece on top of piece like a mountain of rubbery guts. The worst thing about it was it looked the same when it was cooked. Years later I would be told that we eat with our eyes before we taste with our mouth, by that reasoning I don’t know why anyone would ever buy tripe. After a week’s worth of tripe had been purchased we exited the market.

The main shopping centre was only a few minutes’ walk away. We were soon in the grey, concrete building, and out from under the humid, overcast sky. The Mander centre was two levels of teenage female heaven. Everything from dark leather handbags, to sleek red flares to white patent stiletto shoes and pastel coloured short brimmed caps were lining the walkways, protected behind floor to ceiling windows. I stared intently through the windows, dreaming of how I would feel dressed up like one of the glamorous mannequins. Despite my thoughts, I would not think about it any longer, I did not want my mother to see me daydreaming, not after last time. Ten minutes later we were leaving the haberdashery area of Beatties department store, with more ribbons and buttons so that my Sunday church dress could be re-invented (again!). It was just then, that I nearly tripped over as I walked directly into a firm chest right in my eye line. After I’d pulled myself together, I looked up, only to see the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. His eyes were brown with flecks of gold, and even in the murky weather of Wolverhampton, his blonde hair was shining. As his eyes met mine, I opened my mouth to say ‘sorry’ but instead I ended up making a hissing sound that lasted a lot longer than necessary. Clearly quite puzzled by the petite, dark haired girl hissing at him, Mr Beautiful shot me a curious look, backed away and sidled his 6 foot self around me. I watched, dazed as the man of my dreams walked up the concrete steps into Beatties. Unfortunately I was still staring at him when he glanced back at me, so I diverted my gaze and was now looking longingly at the revolving doors. STUPID! STUPID! STUPID! My mother was already halfway down the street when I caught back up with her. “Are you done?” she asked in her condescending tone, I nodded and we continued the rest of the journey home in silence.

Back home I passed through our hallway with its green mat, dingy flock wallpaper and ancient sideboard that had been my Grandmother’s, into the kitchen at the end. It had mustard yellow walls, and new Formica units. The tiled splashback was patterned with the scenes out of a kaleidoscope and was the envy of all mother’s friends. I was unpacking the groceries when my mother walked in behind me “You may go to your room now Louise, I will call you when it’s time to eat.” I did as I was told. To be honest, I didn’t mind today, I wanted to spend a few carefree hours in a daydream.

I had the smallest bedroom in the house, right at the back overlooking the garden. The wallpaper was brown with dusky pink roses, and I had the dusky pink shag pile to match. All the furniture was circa 1935 and was the courtesy of my late grandmother. The only luxury we had in this house was that it was completely decorated every half decade. This year, 1975 was the year it all changed, hence the Formica and dusky pink. My mother liked us to be the family everyone talked about, for all the right reasons of course. I lay down on my dusky pink bedspread, I reached for the diary of Norma’s late mother that I had found hidden at the back of my wardrobe earlier in the summer.

September 1st 1932

Dear diary,

Again this morning I awoke to the sound of blue jays singing from their treetop hideaways, a sound so clear that I thought they were right outside my window instead of one thousand yards away in the forest that edged Marlborough. I love waking in the tranquillity of the country, but there are only a few more days left before we must return to Birmingham. I can’t believe that two months has gone so quickly, I can still remember arriving on July 1st. As we pulled up the long winding driveway, pink dahlias and blue hydrangeas peaked out from behind large conifer trees, and the scent of freshly mown grass filled the air, as our driver pulled the car to a stop outside Father’s imposing summer residence. I wish that I could re-live the last eight weeks over and over again so that I would never have to return to cold, damp Birmingham but Mother says it is time we went home and dealt with the business of my wedding.

The man I am apparently betrothed to, visited today and I had to show him around the grounds, all five foot four of him. I still can’t believe how ugly he is, I hate his ginger hair and glasses, but nothing is worse than his personality, he clicks at you when he wants you to be quiet, (right in your face normally) and he spits when he talks! How can I be expected to marry this man? He makes my skin crawl! I would much rather marry a man of my own choosing, not the one who owns the biggest estate.

Goodnight

As I read on and listened to the finally falling rain, my heavy eyes began to close and I pictured Mr Beautiful, standing in the long garden looking up at my window. Warm heavy raindrops were sleeking through his shining hair, down his face, finally resting on his firm, broad shoulders. Mr Beautiful’s black t-shirt glistened in the haze and squinting sunlight, revealing his beautifully sculptured body underneath. Then suddenly I was opposite him, warm rain dripping from my eyelashes as I looked into his golden eyes as he swept me up into his muscled arms, and pressed me against his broad chest. I imagined his heart beating through his chest and vibrating through my head, moving me up and down to his rhythm. As my eyes slowly opened, I could still picture the scene in my mind’s eye, but soon reality started to emerge all around me. Almost immediately, my head started to throb, and suddenly I felt the familiar claustrophobia all over again. My body began to feel hot and uncomfortable as I repressed the feeling of ‘flight’ that vibrated through me. I closed my eyes again but I couldn’t clear my head of his image. The more I tried, the more I shook, pressure built up inside me as if I was a balloon about to pop. My back arched and my feet dug into the small single bed as I tried to empty my mind of all this confusion.

“BANG BANG BANG!” I heard the noise and my head jumped off the pillow. “Louise, tea” my brother Phillip shouted at my bedroom door. I was out of breath as I answered him but I knew he was already gone. I felt my back go cold from sweat as I sat up on my bed. Still dazed, I struggled to my feet and limped to the door. I felt drunk as I steadied myself down the stairs and into the hallway. I was thankful that the door to the dining room was closed, as it gave me a minute to compose myself before I had to face the three people on the other side. It was times like this, I felt the flock wallpaper oddly comforting.

Chapter 2

My mother, father and brother were all gathered around the dark oak dining table in the deep red dining room. I sheepishly walked in, my father turned to me and pointed to the seat next to mother (the furthest from the head of the table) and I sat down quietly. Dinner was the time of day my father Michael, the owner of a car dealership enlightened us on the day’s business transactions. He did so with his usual vigour that made any error of judgement appear someone else’s fault, never his own. Today he regaled us with a ridiculous story about a young couple who wanted to buy a new car. He informed us that they wanted to buy a new convertible MGB, however they were advised against it, because my father wanted to sell them a family car, more appropriate (he said) if they had a son one day. My father’s view was that sports cars were for accomplished, single men who had earned the right to enjoy their lives, not young married couples who should be concentrating on building a home and family life. As whenever my father addresses the family, I nod and smile at the appropriate moments, as I quietly eat my dinner. My mother does the same. After my father has finished speaking, it is the turn of my brother. Phillip always spoke with the same mocking tone in which Michael did; today he talked of how he had taken his lady friend out for the day to Birmingham. They went for lunch and he bought her a new handbag, I couldn’t tell you the rest of the story because I drifted off around the time he said ‘Sharon had prawn cocktail to start’. He then did what he always did, and in his best mocking tone asked me if I had enjoyed the story; I nodded politely and went back to my anaemic tripe. After dinner had gone by, as un-eventfully as usual, mother and I cleared the plates while father and Phillip discussed my brother’s progress at the car dealership. I personally don’t know how he could make any progress, as he only worked part time; this was so he could have time to pursue his other interests. The only pleasure I took in this was that the other people who worked for my father hated him, as he was completely incompetent.

After dinner, Father and Phillip headed to the sitting room at the back of the house. The room was small and square with patio doors leading out onto the garden. My father sat in his favourite chair by the electric fire and beckoned to me for his nightly brandy. This had once been my mother’s task but since I had been strong enough to hold the bottle, it had become mine. The tray was already set up on the sideboard with two crystal brandy glasses and the new heavy bottle. I placed the heavy tray down on the small table next to my father and he snatched up his glass. The bottle of Hennessey was cumbersome and difficult to hold, so I steadied it with my other hand. It was as my brother started to taunt me that I lost my balance, “little girl can’t handle it, we need a real woman to pour our drinks, not a quivering child!” As Phillip laughed, I failed to steady the bottle and in slow motion, I watched as expensive brandy dropped into my Father’s lap. I didn’t know what to do, the room had gone eerily silent, even Mother had stopped washing up. Keeping my head down, I rescued what was left of the bottle and placed it on the side. I could feel my father’s small green retinas burning through me as if they were acid, he stood up and towered over me but I felt glued to the spot. He was 5 foot 10, broad and was still wearing his full three piece suit. He, as always, was judge, jury and executioner. My silence was not providing any reassurance to my father as he pulled me up by my arm and marched me up to my room. He threw me inside and I stumbled backwards onto my bed, lying there, I looked up and saw my imposing father leering over me, taunting me with silence while he raised his right hand and held it there until he put all his force behind it. The slap to my right cheek came hard and sharp, leaving my limp head hanging down as my father silently exited my room. The burning pain coming from my cheek was making it impossible for me to lift my head up, the feeling was familiar and I knew it would pass in a few minutes. The cool tears streaming down my face were automatic and uncontrollable; but also welcome as they stopped my body from shaking and my face from burning.

Chapter 3

I don’t know how long I’d been sleeping when my eyes finally opened, I couldn’t remember drifting off and I don’t remember dreaming., It was like I’d been in a lifeless coma until I lifted my head off the sweat drenched pillow. My face felt tight from the dried tears, and my eyes were sticky and sore. I think it was the next morning, but it must have been early as the house was in silence and I could see the mist lying over the back lawn, not even the birds were singing yet. I was still in my floral blouse and cord trousers from the day before and they made me feel sticky and itchy. I thought about running a bath but the last thing I wanted was to create a disturbance this morning. I always found that, after an incident like last night I should be a ghost for a few days. Not wanting to leave the comfort of my room I stripped off my disgusting outfit, tucked my naked self under the covers and forced myself back to sleep, hugging the cold wall for comfort.

When I awoke again, my father and brother had left for work, and my mother was out with her sister so I decided I could now leave the security of my room, I threw on my old paisley dressing gown and softly descended the stairs. Everywhere was quiet and clean so I crept around, making sure to not disturb anything. I had become very efficient at being a ghost; it just made my life simpler. I padded into the kitchen, made myself some toast, ate it, cleaned up and went upstairs to run my bath, leaving no evidence of my existence. The avocado bathroom suite, with its olive green and white tiles always felt cold despite the temperature of the water, I lowered myself in and sunk down letting the warm water surround me. My head tilted back and rested on the edge of the bath, almost as if on automatic. As my legs floated carelessly in the clear water, I began to feel the comforting weightlessness I had missed over the last few days. I allowed my heart rate to slow and steady, letting my eyes close, plunging me back into my daydream.

Mr Beautiful was kneeling at the side of the bath, his hands gently passing water over my body. He was half naked, and his skin had a golden glow in the haze of the steamy bathroom. I could feel the warm water caressing my skin, tickling the nape of my neck, down my spine as my back arched and under my buttocks, as they rose off the bottom of the bath. He swirled the water around my small navel, and teased his fingers over my flat stomach as the water playfully danced and shimmered in the twinkling light. My body began to tingle as the water moved around my legs, and I gasped for breath as my body tightened and my heart rate quickened. My body twitched to the beat of the moving water and my heartbeat echoed in my ears as I became a conductor for all the heat coming from the atmosphere. My eyes glazed over as he peered deep into them and all noises became distant and un-audible … I gasped for air again as my body lurched upwards, and tossed in the deep, hot liquid. My hands gripped the side as I lost control of all my senses, my head hitting the bath as my eyes flew open.

Mr Beautiful was gone and I was alone in the cold bathroom as tepid water dripped onto the lino covered floor. My head and body ached in unison and I was cold and tired, yearning desperately to be back in my daydream. I quickly washed my hair and body; lurched myself out of the bath, cleaned up, carried my aching body to bed and curled under the covers.

Chapter 4

Mr Beautiful stood in his mother’s kitchen trying to change the tube inside the strip light. He was having a bad day, his boss had made him work over, and now that he had finally come home he had to get his toolbox out again.

By the time he got into the small pink bath, it was 9o’clock and the day had taken its toll. As the bath water went grey from the grease that seeped out of his hands and arms he wondered how he would ever be clean again. Sometimes he felt sorry for the woman he was seeing because he can’t have smelt good, or looked good for that matter. Mr Beautiful couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed a bath, but it didn’t help that the pink bucket he was lying in was at least a foot too short. After washing himself the best he could in the tepid water, he rested his heavy head against the bath, and allowed his eyes to close. He had only been resting for a few moments when an unusual image popped into his head, the girl from the steps, what was she doing back in his mind? He had barely even looked at her, but she was pretty, not in a sexy sort of way, but there was definitely something about her. Suddenly realising he was pleased with what he saw, he carried on with his daydream.

Chapter 5

Angela was the closest thing I’d ever had to a best friend. She had always been a hit with the boys at school with her long red hair, even longer legs and curves in all the right places. I don’t know whether she felt sorry for me, or if she was genuinely friendly but she was a friend my parents approved of so I didn’t care. Over the summer she had invited me to tag along to lots of things like family barbecues and discos, but I’d had to turn her down every time. By the end of the summer, I thought she’d given up asking, until I had a phone call a week before we were due to start back to school. Angela was having a party at her house to celebrate the start of our last year at school. I wanted to go so badly as I needed to get out of the house, but I needed to convince my parents first. I wasn’t feeling hopeful as I’d been turned down on so many occasions but I needed to try.