She is special. He knows it from
the first moment of their meeting … special because he knows her need, the emptiness he can fill. As she enters his class, he begins grooming her for what is
to come.
She’s a good girl, used to obedience and rules.
An empty desk in front of his own, his eyes
watch her fumble for the right books, pressing his lips
together, nodding approval. He sits beside her, placing a guiding
hand over hers, gliding it slowly down her knee. It remains there … skin on bare
skin. It’s wrong. He
shouldn’t do this. But she's sitting at the front of a class. How can she do
anything without it causing a scene?
As if she's passed the first test, he offers
a reassuring pat and moves away.
Moments later he stands behind, hands hovering across her shoulders,
protective, possessive even, parenting the child.
‘Any time you want to use this room,
that’s fine. You have my permission. Lock the door behind you to ensure
privacy. Break times and lunch you can come here and practice. No-one will
interfere. And I hear you’re not taking part in PE, swimming or Games … would
you like me to put a word, allow you to use the room during those
times too?’
He wasn’t so much asking as clarifying the
way it would be. In turn, she learns what pleases him, earns words of praise, depending on his approval as an addict does
a fix.
Sixteen days after her first day at the
school he talks with her parents:
‘I’d like to offer your daughter private music lessons at my home ...’
No choice. No discussion. A faite accompli …
It’s a trap … a trap which snaps shut … becomes everyday routine.
Up the hill, crossing the
road at the corner, walking to the gate, the couple of steps up to the green
enamelled front door with the polished knocker. Why does it have to be green? What’s
that about? Why the gnawing dread in the pit of her stomach kicking in? She doesn't remember, and it settles like a hard lump of iron, putting her on edge. It is the kind of area that feels safe. Detached houses. Suburbia at its best. Yet behind the door of number 6 is a secret
no-one knows or could even imagine.
‘Come in. You know the way
...’
She gazes at the little girl
clutching her mother’s skirts … his daughter, his wife … and she wonders … Usually there is silence. Sometimes a
piano plays. Finally, a young girl with plaits slides out, a shadow joining the
night. They catch one another’s eye as she turns at the front door to gaze with a
tear stained face behind her.
A hand beckons. His figure stands
in the doorway. Hands hover around my shoulders, holding, pressing her to him,
slowly drawing off her coat. Hot breath
on her neck. Hands fondle, stroking hair. An urgency, a need
emanates from him. His tweed jacket tickles her nose as he pushes her face into
it just after she sees familiar beads of sweat break out above his upper lip. She's seen them before, in the classroom, not knowing what it means. But
always, fondling, handling, touching follows after.
The cushioned seat in front of the piano
is long enough to sit three or four bottoms never mind one. Or is that the idea? She plays practised
pieces. Scales follow. He sits beside her, strokes an arm, pats a knee, guiding fingers across the keys. Then
abruptly, he stands, moving behind to massage shoulders, moulding, making her his own.
A knock at the door. His wife and little girl, hands clutching mother’s skirts. No word spoken.
A tray pushes onto the low coffee table in front of the sofa … and she is
gone.
Fingers trace flower shapes on the
sofa, just as a child she traced tiles in the bathroom in the house
on the hill not knowing if they were going to hospital or school. He is sitting
watching … unnerving. He reaches for a hand. Nervously, she goes for the
teapot, begins to pour. It’s surreal. A Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. When tea fills small china cups, too hot to drink, again, he takes a hand, holding it,
pushing it across his lap to unzip his trousers.
He pushes her head roughly into his tweed
jacket, smothering, choking, sickening, so she cannot see where he guides her hand ... please God, let me go. Please God, let me
die ... But God isn’t ready to
take her just yet.
Only once did she ever jerk free:
“Can’t we just do the scales? Can’t I just play this piece … and go home?”
The plaintive pleas of a
frightened child release into the silence. He lets her go. With a deep frown
creasing his forehead, he opens the door to her cage, setting her free to go
home.
Next day at school his door is locked. School bullies do their worst. She sits in lesson time in the toilet,
taking off tights, throwing them over the rail, standing on a stool, tying one leg around her throat ... so deeply traumatised and unhappy, so unhinged by everything that happens she still can't quite grasp or understand.
For three years I endured in silence the
music teacher’s humiliating games both at home and at school.
(Extract from my book BETRAYED, published by FeedARead.com, 2012)
