Toni Maguire - Silent Child

Also by Toni Maguire

Dont Tell Mummy

When Daddy Comes Home

Helpless

Nobody Came

Dont You Love Your Daddy?

Cant Anyone Help Me?

Pretty Maids All In A Row

They Stole My Innocence

Did You Ever Love Me?

Daddys Little Girl

Published by John Blake Publishing

An imprint of Bonnier Books UK

8081 Wimpole St, Marylebone, London W1G 9RE

www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

Paperback 978-1-789-463-05-7

eBook 978-1-789-463-06-4

Audiobook 978-1-786-069-93-1

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or circulated in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue of this book is available from the British Library.

Designed by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd

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Copyright Toni Maguire and Emily Smith, 2020

Toni Maguire and Emily Smith have asserted their moral right to be identified as the authors of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

This book is a work of non-fiction, based on the life, experiences and recollections of Emily Smith. Certain details in this story, including names and locations, have been changed to protect the identity and privacy of the author, her family and those mentioned.

John Blake Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

To my partner and my two amazing girls.

Contents

Most of us enjoy visiting the past. Sometimes old photo albums are taken out, their contents flicked through. Then, with fingers pointing to the pictures that have caught our attention, we reminisce and chuckle about the times in our lives that they depict. Other times, we catch the eye of a partner or an old friend when an image leaps out of our memory banks and we find ourselves almost saying in unison, Oh, do you remember when?

Unlike those happy people with their carefree previous lives, I had packed away my past nearly 15 years earlier. Oh, not into a memory box, more like an illusionary filing cabinet where each drawer is neatly labelled. There were the ones showing the happy times I had spent with my mothers family, labelled Look At, while others said Leave Well Alone. So, where are the ones of me before I met my partner, which should be stored safely away in albums? All too often the ones I have been asked to dig out.

Well, apart from a couple taken with my grandmother, which she slid into my hand the last time I visited, I never did have any photographs of those times. There are not in my possession any old albums full of square prints showing the various stages of my development from bouncing, gummy baby to self-conscious teenager.

They got lost when I moved, I announce breezily, though this is not true.

Those pictures were just never taken.

***

But, today, and no doubt again tomorrow, the wrong drawers of that cabinet will fly open, releasing images I do not wish to see. For they have been busy visiting me since they managed to escape. They float behind my closed eyes, sneak into my dreams, even interrupt the odd quiet moment I try and grab during the daytime. So, what has happened for them to be able to do that?

Well, a small person has managed, in no particular order, to open those drawers. The ones I had so firmly slammed shut when I escaped the place I had been forced to call home. How I wish, when they come into my mind, I could remain selective as to the ones I agree to look at. For I still want to hold on to those happy times spent with my mothers family right up until the age of five. But no, each time I try and look at them, the others push them aside triumphantly to show me their darkness. Oh, if only I could erase those sections of my past. But despite all my efforts, its something I have failed to do.

Another memory, one that is neutral a voice entered my head not so long ago. It came from a teacher who had given me a gold star for an essay. Its good, Emily, she was telling me with a warm smile, just be careful when you write a story to always start at the beginning. But then many books start at the end and travel back in time so Im not finding that to be a binding method.

Well, in my case, without the part of my story that is unfolding daily, I might well have succeeded in keeping all the drawers locked. And then there would be nothing to tell, would there? So, what caused those drawers to fly open, releasing all those images, you might ask. I mean, who was responsible for that?

Why, none other than my daughter, my mini-me.

***

Its now over 15 years since I spent Christmas in the House of Horrors, yet I still struggle at this time of the year. Im on edge the whole time something will go wrong, my partner will get mad at me, like he can when guests are expected those are my thoughts the whole time. And then comes the big clean-up before his dad gets here ... Hello, silent panic attacks, my old friend. Im messy, thats no big news, and the whole bathroom clean-up reminds me of my stepdads rages. Every slap, every pulling of the hair, name calling, every tear shed ... they all come back to haunt me like a slap in the face.

You know things were bad when youre not religious yet prayed to a god you didnt believe in to make it all stop. I tried one year as an 11-year-old to drink my pain away. Luckily enough, we didnt have much alcohol in the house so I picked a bottle of Bacardi. The smell alone made me almost throw up. More than likely, this saved me from alcoholism. That, and the constant fear he would know and beat me again.

Im back to today, this day I so desperately want to enjoy and be present for my daughters. But I cant silence the voice inside, saying Im messing the whole thing up.

The kids are mostly happy, I think at least, I hope so. Getting away from France and them is only the start. Quieting their voices, and not being the little girl with all her fears I once was, is the hardest part. You think once you leave, itll be OK. Now itll all be great, therell be no reason to feel afraid or depressed after all, you survived hell. What could be worse, right? But you can never escape the ghosts from the past, they live forever in your head.

On those rare occasions when two-year-old Isabelle is fast asleep and five-year-old Sonia plays contentedly with her toys, I sink gratefully into a chair, a cup of tea in hand.

Well, what mother doesnt seize every opportunity to do the same?

Thats not always to say that I find the time restful. All too often watching my daughter neatly line up each object in her toy box or rearrange her dolls to be in the exact position she wants takes me down the path leading to my own childhood. A path I have tried my hardest not to tread. I have come to understand why this happens: it is because she is just such a small version of me. At least, thats what her father said the first time he held her. One look at her tiny face, her long limbs and fuzz of dark blonde hair, and with a beam of absolute joy he said, Shes a tiny you, Emily. What I didnt know then was just how much of a version of me she was going to turn into. Not that I gave my partner Patricks remark much attention then, I was too focused on my new daughter. The moment I heard that cry as she took her first breath, a wave of intense, pure love washed over me. And when the nurse laid her on my breast, my arms rose instinctively to hold her.