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television was off and there was no camera equipment. My mouth tasted sour and felt sore, my head pounded and I wanted to be sick. My uncle handed me another drink but this time it was not so sweet. ‘This will make you feel better,’ he said, although I had not told him I felt ill.
    ‘Where are they?’ I mumbled.
    ‘Why, Jackie, you’ve been asleep all afternoon,’ my uncle told me, without answering my question. ‘You’ve been dreaming.’
    For a while, I believed him, believed that nothing had happened, and, like my nightmares, I pushed the events of that afternoon to the back of my mind. That belief lasted until he introduced me to another friend and then another.
    But that first time I still felt I could trust him. I picked up Paddington, who was now sitting beside me, walked on shaking legs out to the car and climbed in.

7
     
    The day I had been dreading was fast approaching. All week my mother had rushed me to shops to buy new clothes and shoes. ‘You’ll like school,’ she said, with an assurance I didn’t share. ‘You’ll make lots of little friends there.’
    School. Just the word made my stomach churn.
    I didn’t want to be with strangers, to have to talk to them or sit with them.
    Strangers frightened me now.
    The week before I was due to start, my sleep was constantly disturbed by nightmares. I dreamt of trying to escape from something I had no name for, of feeling pressure in my throat and of choking. When I woke it was to tears running down my face and the taste of something thick and sour in my mouth. Once I screamed so loudly that my father came running into my room.
    ‘What’s the matter, Jackie? Another bad dream?’ he asked, and put his arm around me.
    I stiffened and froze – the thought of moist lips touching my cheek repelled me. I managed to whisper, ‘Yes.’
    He pulled the duvet gently up around me, brushed my hair away from my face and I felt him standing beside my bed, watching me. He sighed deeply before he left me huddled under the bedclothes, pretending I had already slipped back into sleep. And when I did, other dreams slid into my subconscious, dreams that made me twist and turn. When the morning sounds of the household rescued me, the remnants of those nightmares still lingered. My head felt heavy, my stomach hollow, and a sinking feeling of dread ran through me.
    No matter how much I complained or how dark the shadows under my eyes from lack of sleep, nothing was going to stop my mother getting me ready that first morning.
    Unceremoniously she pulled the bedclothes off me when I tried to cling to them, jerking me on to the floor. I clutched at the door jamb, wailing that I didn’t want to go, but she took no notice of my distress and just prised my fingers away. ‘Jackie, you’re going to school whether you like it or not so stop your nonsense now,’ she shouted, in exasperation. I sobbed and told her I didn’t want to, but she just became angrier.
    My new clothes were pulled over my head, my hair was brushed roughly and plaited, a ribbon tied to the end, my shoes were forced on to my wriggling feet, and then downstairs I went, propelled by a firm hand.
    Breakfast was a meal I seldom ate with both parents. My father relished a peaceful breakfast when he was at home – he had told me so. ‘Sets me up for the day,’ he explained. ‘Bad start, bad day. Remember that, Jackie.’ He sat with a slice of toast or cup of tea in hand, the morning newspaper obscuring much of his face. Occasionally when a headline caught his attention he commented to my mother who, notepad in front of her, was writing one of her many lists of things to do.
    The start of my schooldays marked the end of the calm time my father had told me he needed. I did try, but my resolve didn’t last for long.
    My breakfast of a lightly boiled egg and a slice of brown toast was placed in front of me. I pushed it aside. There was something in my throat, something blocking it, and I knew that if I tried