Street Kid: One Child’s Desperate Fight for Survival. Judy Westwater

still missed my sisters terribly and thought of them a lot, especially before I went to sleep at night. I lay on an old settee in the box room upstairs, wondering if they were thinking about me too, and whether Mary wanted to put her arms around me as much as I longed for her to hold me safe and warm.

      After the first couple of weeks, once Freda had got the hang of things, Uncle George and Auntie Gertie hardly came round any more. When their dog, Jessie, died they were completely heartbroken and, without the excuse of a walk, didn’t leave their house much. When George and Gertie were around, Freda minded her behaviour and acted the dutiful wife and mother. But now she had the place to herself, things really began to change.

      My dad soon got a job in a linen factory, where they made handkerchiefs and eiderdowns. He worked nights as a security guard and slept during the day. I don’t think I ever saw him, unless it was a Sunday. Freda shut me out in the yard as soon as the papers were delivered to the shop in the morning, so I never saw my father come in. And because he was never around, Freda could be as vicious to me as she liked.

      In the box room where I slept, there were stacks of boxes all round, making it difficult to get undressed. I didn’t have pyjamas or a nightdress, so I wore my vest in bed and covered myself with a blanket to keep warm. In the morning, as soon as I heard Freda coming out of her room, I would get up and put on my dress and cardigan and go downstairs.

      One morning, I came down to find Freda waiting for me. The paperboy had just arrived and she grabbed my arm impatiently and took me to the back door.

      Pushing me roughly outside she said, ‘Sit there. I don’t want you moving.’ She pointed to a spot on the paving in the middle of the yard, gave me a vicious little nudge so that I almost fell down the steps, then went back inside.

      I walked over to the spot she’d pointed at and sat down. There was nothing to be seen but enclosing grey walls, and a bucket standing against the door of the outdoor toilet. I sat on the cold paving stones wondering when Freda was going to let me in. I remained there for an hour or so, scared to move in case I’d be punished. I remember putting my finger in a crack between the paving stones and moving it along the tiny strip of sand. Then I traced the outline of one of the stones, then another beside it. It wasn’t a very interesting game, but I made it last for a long time.

      I’d been told to stay put, but, as I wasn’t wearing any tights or socks, the cold began to get to me. I needed to move about to keep warm, so I stood up and went over to the steps, looking nervously at the back door. I was curious to see what was over the dividing wall, so I climbed up the steps to look into the next yard. I saw it was almost the same as ours, except for a few plants.

      I then tried jumping down the steps, one at a time, then climbing up again. I did this at least twenty times, then got bored of it and sat down and looked at the sky. I watched it for ages. I saw the smoke coming out of the chimneys and the patterns it made, and the pigeons on the roofs, hopping about and sitting hunched up in pairs by the chimney pots.

      It was several cold hours before Freda opened the back door.

      ‘Get in,’ she said.

      She didn’t even look at me. It was as if she was letting in the dog.

      ‘Have your tea, then get out of my sight.’ She pushed a cheese triangle across the table at me.

      Afterwards, I went and sat under the table, which was where I always hid when Freda was around. It had a long cloth, so no one could see I was there. I stayed quiet as a mouse until it was time to go up to bed.

      After that, Freda shut me outside in the yard every day. The first time it rained, I ran to the back door and tried to get in, but it was locked. I hadn’t known until then that Freda actually locked the door. By the time I’d made it to the privy I was soaked through. I had to shelter in the toilet most of the afternoon, which smelt damp and mouldy, like the cupboard under the sink, and I felt I’d never get warm again.

      One day, when it was just starting to spit with rain, our neighbour, Mrs Craddock came out of her house and looked over the wall.

      ‘All by yourself, chicken?’ She tutted and cooed, coaxing me over. I approached her cautiously. Mrs Craddock had rollers in her hair and was wearing a flowery pink overall, stretched tight across her enormous bosom.

      ‘Come inside and keep warm.’ She scooped me up, lifted me over the dividing wall and put me down in her yard. I saw she was wearing brown tweed slippers with pompoms on them.

      ‘Let’s get you warmed up then.’

      She took me by the hand, led me indoors, and sat me down on the sofa by a big fireguard that had washing hanging over it. I was very frightened. I’d been told to stay in the yard.

      Mrs Craddock stood at the window watching for Freda, hands on hips, and as soon as she saw her get off the bus she opened the front door. I tried to slip past her but she pushed me back, tucking me behind her, protectively.

      I was panicking badly now. I’m going to be in big trouble. Freda’s going to go mad.

      But Mrs Craddock was puffed up with rage and nothing was going to stop her now. She didn’t pause to think that I’d be the one getting hurt at the end of it.

      ‘Oi Freda! What do you bloody think you’re doing leaving this child in the yard? It was raining for Christ’s sake!’

      ‘What the hell’s she doing there? Give her back here! And you can take your fat nose out of my bloody business.’ Freda’s face looked sharp and pointy as a knife and I thought she was going to go for Mrs Craddock.

      ‘You stupid cow! I don’t know how you can stand there. People like you should never be allowed to have kids!’

      They went at it hammer and tongs, watched by some of the women from neighbouring houses. Finally, Freda grabbed me and took me with her, slamming the door behind her. She dragged me through the shop and down the steps into the room at the back. I thought she’d beat me senseless, but instead she gave me a couple of slaps and sent me to bed. I think the row with Mrs Craddock had exhausted her. Mrs Craddock never took me in again. But from then on, other people began looking out for me, and occasionally they threw toys over the wall.

      One day, there was a thunderstorm and I was feeling frightened. A girl came running over to me. She wasn’t wearing a coat and was getting drenched. She looked about eight or nine and had ringlets, which the rain had plastered against her head.

      ‘My mum said to come and fetch you.’

      She lifted me over the wall and we ran, hand in hand, through the sheets of rain to her house. Her mum was waiting at the door.

      ‘You poor little thing. You come in and get dry.’ She led me into the kitchen and dried me with a towel, fussing over me as she did so.

      ‘I’ll make you a cup of cocoa. That’ll warm you up. What’s your name, poppet?’ She was talking to me soothingly as she put some milk and water on the hob.

      ‘Judy,’ I whispered.

      ‘And how old are you?’

      ‘Three and a half.’

      ‘Now poppet, I think you’ll get warmer if you come into the living room and sit by the fire.’ She led the way to the other room, where her two daughters and husband were sitting.

      ‘Tony, this is Judy. She got all wet in the storm,’ she said.

      ‘Hello young lady. How would you like to come sit by the fire with me and help me win the pools?’ With that, he scooped me onto his knee and let me help him pick out the winning teams with a pin on his football coupon.

      It was the first time I’d ever got a glimpse of what family life could be. I bathed in the warmth of it.

       Chapter Two

      Freda