Real Life to Fiction - Hilary

Real Life to Fiction event.

My parents separated  when I was 12 in 1963(very unusual in those days), and I remember the panic and surprise I felt at the time when I was told.

Novel re-work

Ellen kneeled quietly on the dark blue sofa, her small six year old fingers fiddling impatiently with the moquette fabric. 

“ I don’t understand why he’s not here yet” she whispered to Grace, her key worker whose head had popped round the door.

The sofa sat in the bay window giving Ellen a clear view up and down the road. She had been kneeling with her back to the room, waiting for her Father’s bright yellow Hillman with the black roof to appear.

“ Ellen, sweetheart, come here. It’s no good waiting – he’s not coming today, or any other day soon.” grace was fiddling around in her skirt pocket looking for a cigarette.

Ellen turned to look at Grace. Her face exhibited a look of absolute dismay. “ What? “ she said

“ Why not? He always comes to see me on Fridays. He always brings me a new book!”

“ Well he ain’t coming this week sweetie. Your Dad’s been sent down! He’s been a naughty man and he’s paying for it now.” She breathed in the smoke deeply before blowing it towards Ellen.

Ellen could feel a strange fluttering in her stomach. Her Dad’s visits were the only thing that she had to look forward to in this awful place. Since her Mum had been taken away she had felt so completely abandoned. Then at last, her Father had managed to track her down through Social Services to Maidshulme Children’s Home.

Those first visits had been so beautiful. He had brought photographs of the days when they were all together. She had received, for the first time in her short life, presents addressed ‘To my wonderful daughter’. Each week, at the end of the timed visits, she would look lovingly at her father and succumb being swept up in his strong arms to enjoy the hugs and kisses before he left again.

The fluttering had turned to a worse feeling of rising panic. She felt sick. She turned and ran out of the room, up the stairs and into the small cupboard where she always hid when she felt sad or vulnerable. It was about 6 feet square, more like a small room. The walls were bright blue.

Ellen locked the door behind her and as her eyes filled with tears, she looked up at the ceiling. It was amateurishly painted dark blue with white splodges fashioned with the end of the paintbrush, to look like stars in an inky sky. She wanted, she so wanted to be up there with them.

Note: My father wasn’t in prison and I wasn’t brought up in a children’s home either! Happy home life, but a very upsetting time when I was 12 which is why I remember it vividlyJ