Helpless by Marianne Marsh Read Free Book Online Page A

clear to me I had been told never to talk to strangers.
    ‘Just do as I say and don’t ask so many questions,’ my mother had snapped when I had asked her why.
    But this was a voice I recognized: it was the man from next door.
    ‘Come on, jump in.’ And needing no persuasion to get out of the rain I swiftly obeyed.
    A small towel appeared; my hair was quickly rubbed and gently tousled back into place. My hands, reddened by cold, were taken in his larger warm ones. ‘Soon have you warm as toast,’ he said, blowing on them before gently rubbing my fingers.
    Opening his glove compartment, he reached in and drew out a yellow tube of sherbet with its black liquorice stick. ‘Here, this is for you. A little bird told me you liked them as well as those dolly mixtures,’ he said with a wink.
    Licking my sherbet delight I sank back contently on the leather seat. This time when I arrived home the journey had been too quick.
    The following day when black clouds promised more rain he was waiting by the school gates.
    I saw the other children look at his car and suddenly felt my chest swell with pride. Not only had someone met me, but someone with a big black car.
    ‘Can’t have her getting her death of cold,’ he said to my mother as he walked me into the house.
    ‘That’s kind of you,’ she said, before turning to me. ‘Say thank you, Marianne,’ and I did.
    Now every day I wanted it to rain because if it did I was sure he would be waiting.

Chapter Eleven
     
     
    B y the time I reached seven I knew that it was not nice to be dirty. At school I was told to wash my neck, remove the dirt out from under my nails and brush my hair. I tried to scrub myself clean but the mirror that my father used for shaving was too high for me to see into. I knew my clothes were not washed often enough and that my hair was greasy. It was Dora who helped me then.
    ‘Your mother’s so busy with the little ones,’ was all she said when I complained that the tin bath rarely made an appearance and I was getting into trouble at school. ‘You can bath here.’
    And once a week that is what I did. She gave me nice-smelling soap and talcum powder, and when I told her I hated changing for PE because my knickers were so grey she bought me new underwear.
    ‘It’s just a present,’ she told my mother when she protested. ‘She’s so good at helping with the children that I owe her something.’
    I loved the feeling of being clean all over and liked the fact that my skin smelt of flowers. Dora showed me how to put my hair into rags.’ Just brush it out in the morning,’ she told me, ‘and you will look a different little girl.’
    So each morning after that I went to school with curly hair, a face scrubbed clean and a hopeful smile that someone there would like me now. The teachers stopped complaining about my grubby appearance, but the children still saw my faded second-hand clothes and Wellington boots; they continued to ignore me.
    The Easter holidays came and my sister was born, and once again I saw my parents showering another member of the family with love. This time my mother’s energy seemed sapped by the demands of a new baby. It seemed that nearly every time she spoke to me it was to ask me to do something for her.
    There were rare occasions treasured by me when my mother seemed less tired, and then she would smile and run her fingers through my hair. ‘You’re a good girl, Marianne, aren’t you?’ and just that tiny slice of praise was enough to put a smile on my face.
    But mostly after I helped as much as I could she barely paused in what she was doing to mutter thanks.
    More and more it fell onto me to baby-sit my brother who had reached the age when fingers went in electrical sockets and the contents of unlocked cupboards were scattered onto the floor and put into his waiting mouth.
    ‘Bring him round to play with mine,’ Dora told me when she saw me watching the pram.
    ‘You’re such a little mother,’ Dora would tell