‘Please stop him, Mummy, please,’ I sobbed.
She thrust her face into mine. ‘Shut up crying!’ she hissed. ‘What do you expect me to do? It’s not my fault.’
I thought I was going to pass out with fear. Holding me by the hair, Dad forced my nose down into the wet patch that Eddie and I had made and rubbed my nose back and forwards, calling me a ‘piss-arse’. The shame was worse than the pain and I was inconsolable afterwards when Cheryl gave me a hug in our bedroom and tried to cheer me up by singing me a song.
I continued wetting the bed every night, too. If I didn’t remember to draw back my sheets and blankets to dry off in the morning, I’d have to sleep with them wet the next night. Mummy had given up going to the launderette now, and the older girls were too busy trying to keep their own clothes clean without worrying about me. Soon I developed sores at the top of my legs where my thighs rubbed together and the urine burnt my skin. Sometimes Dad would see them as I sat cross-legged on the floor and he would tease me until I cried.
Early one morning I was lying in bed, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, when I felt a weight bearing down on top of me. I twisted and turned, trying to push it off because it was hurting. I could barely breathe, it was so heavy. I opened my eyes and squinted at a dark shape, relieved to realise it was only Eddie come to say good morning.
‘Hello, boy,’ I said, then I suddenly felt hot urine seeping through the covers onto me.
‘Urgh, Lisa, what’s that dog done?’ Cheryl asked, lifting her head from the pillow to peer over at me.
‘I think he’s just weed on me,’ I said, peeling off the covers. The frosty morning air made my wet pyjamas feel like ice.
‘For God’s sake! That’s because he can smell your piss and he thinks it’s where he’s supposed to go,’ she said.
I started to shiver, my teeth chattering, not knowing what to do next.
‘Go and stand under the shower,’ Cheryl instructed.
I stared at her blankly. I wet the bed every night and the most I did was wipe myself down with a wet flannel.
‘Dog piss is stronger than ours,’ she explained. ‘You’ll have to wash it off properly otherwise you’ll have all the bitches after you on the way to school.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant but I followed orders anyway. I picked my way down the dark passageway alert for any more of Eddie’s deposits. I hated going into the damp bathroom, which smelled like a mix of mould, soap and wet ashtrays. The blue vinyl shower curtain was torn and fringed with mildew. I tugged it aside and heard it ping from another of the holding rings, so now it was only half attached and hung limply as if at half mast. I pushed it further aside so that I could inspect the bath for spiders. My body was beginning to itch in a way it didn’t when I’d only slept in my own wet patch.
Cheryl appeared over my shoulder and turned on the tap for me. The rubber shower hose sprung into life, drenching the pair of us in freezing water.
‘I’m not doing it!’ I cried. ‘It’s freezing.’
‘You dirty cow,’ said Cheryl, disgusted. ‘Get in there now.’
We stood looking at one another as the pipes gurgled and the bedsprings began to squeak in Mummy’s bedroom opposite, then I gave in and let her lift me into the bath for a quick wash-down.
I usually got myself ready for school now, with a little help from Cheryl. Diane was usually staying with her boyfriend, Martin, so wasn’t around much, and Davie had enough to contend with just trying to find something to eat. Mummy had started to slip even further behind with the washing so every day before school I had to either pull on the same clothes as the day before or set about finding something else. I’d often have to resort to rummaging through the dirty washing in the hope of finding something that I’d once considered too dirty to wear but which now looked Daz-fresh compared to the alternatives. Occasionally, when I had no other option, I’d raid my sisters’ clothes but they were obviously too big and too grown-up with their scooped necklines. Somehow I always seemed to be wearing T-shirts in winter and itchy sweaters in summer, but some things were constant regardless of season, such as my smelly knickers and odd grey socks.
We did P.E. in our underwear and I used to watch all the other children. Compared to me they looked like catalogue models. Everything matched: bright white vest tucked into knickers I just knew were clean on that morning. I had reached the age where I was self-aware enough to feel embarrassed about my own underwear. Some of the other kids would snigger and whisper about me behind my back and my friend Claire would tell them to shut up. I knew they had all noticed I was wearing the same knickers as last week, and I felt the odd one out. School wasn’t as much fun as I’d thought it was going to be.
As I got a little older, I tried to help myself a bit more. I’d ask Mummy if she could give me some money so I could take my clothes to the launderette with Cheryl, but she would usually forget so I’d attempt to wash some things under the tap in the kitchen instead. If there was any washing-up liquid, I’d use a bit of that then spend ages trying to rinse the bubbles out. In the end, I’d give up and just squeeze the rest of the suds out before leaving the clothes in the airing cupboard. They’d dry stiff as a board and I’d have to crunch them up in my hand a few times before I could wear them.
Occasionally Nanny or Jenny would buy me some new clothes. For a few days I could pretend to be like one of the kids at school, with their coordinating outfits, but soon my lovely new blouse or trousers would be as grubby as everything else I owned.
I remember being particularly proud of a little woollen dress Jenny bought me from the market. It was pink with multicoloured flowers. After wearing it every day for a week, I reluctantly took it off. Every few days I’d ask Mummy if she’d washed it yet, and she would say ‘No, I bleedin’ well haven’t. Now bugger off out of it.’ I came across it a few weeks later still buried at the bottom of the laundry bag. It had been there so long that the pretty flowers were blackened with mould. Mummy did eventually wash it, but not only did the black mould not wash out, but it also shrank so much that only my favourite dolly, Jemima, could wear it.
Around this time Aunt Freda had a heart attack and died. Mummy didn’t bother to explain what had happened so it came as quite a shock to visit Nanny one day and find Aunt Freda’s armchair empty.
‘She’s with the angels, pet,’ said Nanny, dabbing her eyes with the edge of her apron.
Freda was the eldest of Nanny’s four girls, and losing her so suddenly hit her hard. ‘I can’t believe Donna didn’t even come to the funeral,’ I heard her say to Jenny. ‘How could she be so uncaring?’
‘It’s him, Mum,’ said Jenny, trying to console her.
‘I’m not sure it is,’ Nanny replied. ‘He’s scum, there’s no doubt about that, but Donna’s always been a cold fish. Look how she left the little ’un like that.’
My visits to Nanny and Jenny remained intermittent but during the periods I was allowed to visit them, I’d spend most weekends there. In contrast to our flat, their place was always clean and tidy. Carpets were hoovered, floors swept and every surface dusted. The kitchen was pristine, without so much as a speck of dirt. Every night after dinner Jenny wouldn’t sit down until every dish and pot was washed, dried and put away. I’d usually arrive on Friday evening in time for dinner. I especially loved Jenny’s spaghetti bolognaise, which tasted a thousand times better than the orange tinned stuff I had at home. I used to laugh as I watched her throw a strand of spaghetti at the wall to test if it was cooked. If it stuck, it was ready to drain.
After dinner, Jenny would run me a lovely warm bubble bath. The carpet was pink and so soft I could wiggle my toes into it, in contrast to the slimy ripped lino at home. Soft clean towels hung on the rail. The spare toilet roll was covered by a dolly with a long skirt, whose name was Amanda. Jenny offered to let me take her home once but I refused because I couldn’t bear to think of her sitting in our grimy toilet with the spiders.