Punished: A mother’s cruelty. A daughter’s survival. A secret that couldn’t be told. Read Online Free

I got scared and called Mum. ‘Mummy, Nigel’s hurt!’
    She came running out of the kitchen and when she saw Nigel, she exclaimed, ‘Oh my God, not again!’ She picked him up and carried him indoors to the sitting room.
    I followed, very alarmed. ‘Is he all right? What’s the matter?’
    She ignored me, kneeling on the floor beside him and doing something funny to his mouth.
    ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ I persisted.
    ‘Just shut up and go back out to the garden,’ she snapped. I obeyed, scared enough of her by now that Ididn’t take any risks when she used that sharp tone of voice.
    A few hours later, Nigel seemed better again, though he was pale and tired.
    When I next saw Daddy, I told him what I’d witnessed and he listened gravely, then explained to me: ‘Your brother has an illness called epilepsy. Sometimes it makes him get funny turns called fits that make him roll around on the ground like you saw. If that ever happens again, you just have to run and get Mummy or me or any other grown-up so they can look after him.’
    ‘Will he get better?’ I asked.
    He looked sad. ‘The doctors are trying to find some medicine that will help him. It’s nothing for you to worry about.’
    I was still three and Nigel was four when his diagnosis was confirmed, and the fits started happening quite frequently. It must have been a huge strain on Mum, who had to make sure his airway was clear, that he wasn’t choking on his tongue, and that there was nothing nearby he could hurt himself on as he flailed around. It always made her very grumpy with me when he had a fit, and more than once she told me it was my fault, that I had made him ill. I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong, but I felt guilty all the same.
    * * *
    On top of looking after us and keeping up with the housework, Mum had started dress-making for private clients. She worked on a treadle-operated Singer sewing machine in the corner of the family room, sitting there for hourson end with her foot pumping up and down as she guided fabric smoothly under the needle. I would have loved to watch as she hand-sewed tiny pearls on elaborate wedding dresses or ran contrasting piping round the lapels of jackets, but it seemed to irritate her if I hung around nearby and she’d jab me with the pins or needles she was holding.
    She made many of her own clothes and ours as well. I had exquisite, hand-smocked dresses and little matching coats, but I didn’t feel any excitement when Mum announced she was making a new garment for me because while she did the fitting, she would tie my legs to the metal supports around the machine table, next to the treadle, and she’d jab me like a pincushion as she turned up the hem or adjusted the armpit darts.
    ‘See what it’s like when a pin goes into you?’ she’d say. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it? That’s what your life is going to be like – full of hurt and pain. It hurts me just to look at you.’
    Sore as the pin-pricks were, her words were more devastating to me. I adored her and yearned desperately for her to love me and not be angry. She just seemed to get more and more irritated with me, especially after Nigel’s illness was diagnosed. He couldn’t be punished any more for fear of bringing on a fit, so I bore the brunt of her frustration.
    * * *
    One day we were having breakfast when Mum spotted a solitary cornflake on the kitchen floor. In a terrifying voice, she demanded, ‘Who dropped that? Own up right now!’
    Nigel and I looked at each other. We genuinely didn’t know which of us was responsible. What three-and four-year-olds would?
    ‘Tell me or it will be worse for you,’ she shouted, making us gulp with fear. We said nothing, but bowed our heads. ‘All right,’ she snapped, grabbing me by the arm and wrenching me to my feet. ‘I want you to stand right here.’ She grabbed Nigel and lined him up beside me. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’
    She reached round and got her Mrs Beeton cookery book from the shelf