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“Wicked
Baby” by Tara Hanks
Prologue:
1959
My name is Christine. I live in Wraysbury, a
village near Staines. I was born in a caravan,
made from a railway carriage by my father. It
was the only caravan in a village of bungalows.
Wraysbury was a dreary hole the rain had got
into. Other girls were jealous of me right from
the start. They came from the town. They hid in
bushes and shouted insults as I walked downhill
to school.
Even as a child I preferred the company of boys.
I spent afternoons climbing trees and playing
chess. Out in the woods where we lived, there
were only boys.
Dad left early. Mum found another man, and he
became my stepdad. The caravan grew, and our
family with it. We were joined by half-brothers,
aunts barely out of school, grandparents and
pets. I never thought too much about anything. I
looked out of the window and listened to the
churchbells ringing.
I was clever at first. I liked arithmetic, but
loathed algebra. It was too slow and tricky for
me. My stepdad taught me to drive and shoot, and
I ran faster than any girl in my year. There was
talk of putting me in races against other
schools. But mum told me girls don't compete. I
lost interest in school after that.
We never missed a thing, so close together. Not
a clip round the ear or a hurtful remark missed
its target. Knowing about each other didn't help
us to understand one another. But we were in it
together.
♦
I started a paper round on a bike with no
brakes. Riding home one night, a man stopped me
in an alley. He squeezed my arm and breathed in
my ear. His breath stank of homebrew.
"I've been watching you, Christine." I
wondered how he knew my name. Perhaps he drank
with my stepdad, on Saturdays in the Lion’s
Den. "Have you ever seen one of these
before?" He got his willy out. It was tiny,
shrivelled and purple.
"No" I lied, but I had seen willies in
all shapes and sizes. There was no false modesty
in our caravan. I knew that willies were there
to make babies, but I'd never been asked to do
that.
"Touch it." Stupidly I obeyed, and
stroked it gingerly. In my heart I knew this was
wrong.
He groaned, almost inaudibly.
"Kiss it."
"What did you say?" My ears popped.
"What do you mean?" I'd never heard of
such a thing.
"Cheeky bloody bitch!" He slapped my
face, and dragged me down to his cock.
"Kiss it, you little slag!" I pecked
at him as if he were a stern, distant uncle. He
prised my mouth open and stuffed himself into
me. "Now suck."
I knelt awkwardly while his willy got bigger. He
pushed further down to the tip of my tonsil,
moaning louder all the time. I washed his willy
with my tears. It went stiff. He spurted hotly
down my throat . I swallowed it, and he pulled
out of me.
"You can go now" he muttered.
I hurried home, looking back only once. No one
was there. I sat quietly in the gloom, feeling
hungover although I'd never been drunk. I didn't
sleep a wink that night. My dreams weren't my
own anymore.
♦
In the changing rooms at school, after games,
boys stared at my tits. Boys held no mystery,
and tits got in the way. It was older men who
made the rules, men who held the key to life. I
envied the freedom they had. The men I grew up
with were shell-shocked from the war. I was
underage, and they were just beyond my grasp.
But their mystery was also mine.
I left school as soon as it was legal. Mum
signed me up to an employment agency. I worked
in a factory, stencilling pictures of glamour
girls onto ties; and in an office, taking
dictation. I liked being out in the world. Most
of all I liked the long, lingering looks men
gave me. The attention made me happy, more
acceptable to myself. I was photographed in a
bikini and appeared in the Christmas issue of
Titbits.
I started going out at night, and as my stepdad
locked the caravan by ten, I came back less and
less. I went to a pub called the Angel, where
GIs came to drink. The American soldiers liked
me. I drove in a limousine to parties at Langley
airbase. I lost my virginity in the backroom of
a bookshop in Staines. I survived unscathed, and
was sorely disappointed.
Next time it was better. I stayed all night with
a GI named Jim. He was hardfaced but sad (his
wife didn't understand him). I smoked my first
joint, and rested in my lover's strong arms. I
soon woke up. The Yankees went home, and I
realised that Jim had left me pregnant.
♦
Sixteen, and I wished I were far away. If only I
could escape. Life was different then. I
couldn't withstand the shame of a bastard. My
family would disown me and I would be ruined. I
couldn't support a child. My child would live in
an orphanage, watched over by nuns. I wished it
dead.
I tried everything. Castor oil, gin and whiskey,
until I blacked out or vomited. I hid in the
woods or by the stream, confiding in no one. But
it just grew bigger and kicked, a bump for
people to talk about.
I had to get rid of it, but I wanted it too. I
pushed in a knitting needle, fumbling inside
until my waters broke. I wept quietly, without
hope.
The baby moved. It started pushing. Nine months,
the nurse said. But only six months had passed.
"Nine months, just give me nine months. I'm
not ready for this yet."
Nobody heard. I couldn't cry; someone might hear
me. Dull, heavy backache turned into a sharp,
searing pain that came and went. The afternoon
sun gave way to storms, beating down on our
roof.
"Mum!" I cried.
An angry baby's howl drowned out my screams. He
was hunched up and soaked in my blood. I grabbed
hold of him as he reached out, fighting for air.
Mum ran in, shrieked "What have you done?
Why didn't you tell me?" She got on the
bike with no brakes and fetched the doctor. He
took me away and put me to bed.
My son died in hospital. I named him James Peter
Keeler. And still I didn't sleep.
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