Unspoken - Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part I Read online

  Unspoken

  Kiss of the Wolf Spider

  -Part One-

  by

  Sharianne Bailey

  Regeneration Publishers

  New Zealand

  Copyright © 2013 by Sharianne Bailey. All rights reserved.

  Cover Art Copyright © by Regeneration Publishers Limited, 2013

  All rights owned by Regeneration Publishers, New Zealand.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  in any form without permission in writing from the publisher,

  except in the case of brief quotations

  in critical articles or reviews.

  All characters, personalities and names (relating to both

  characters and institutions) used in this book are products of the

  author’s imagination and any relation to names of real

  persons and organizations is purely coincidental.

  Where place names are used, they are used fictitiously.

  Published in New Zealand by Regeneration Publishers Ltd.

  Scripture quotations taken from the HOLY BIBLE,

  NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright 1973,

  1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by Permission

  Printed in USA

  ISBN: 9781 481080491

  Tribute of Thanks

  My beloved husband, David – for your constant support and help throughout this project. You are truly a man after God’s own heart.

  Howard Andrew – for helping me to craft a better finished product.

  My parents, Evor and Naomi – for reading, re-reading, listening, encouraging and unending support in everything I’ve ever done. You taught me to believe that nothing is too ambitious for me to try. What amazing people.

  Phyl Wessels – you were the first to read my manuscript and encouraged me to keep working on a very difficult topic. Thank you, Phyl. I’m glad you got to see the whole of the first draft! Fly, run, breathe well, dear friend.

  Nomathemba Pamela Biyela – your meals, cups of tea and valuable friendship kept me going all through the first difficult drafts. You listened to my ideas and you gave me precious time to write. Your loving support will always be appreciated.

  Tanya, Natalie & Claudia my girls! Also Rowan Phillips, my friends at COGS and ANLC – and all my other supporters along the way. Thanks for reading, criticising, correcting, encouraging and cheering me on. It has definitely taken a team to get this job done!

  Val Waldeck (Author of Faith Like Potatoes), Gavin Pryce-Lewis and the late Charles Gordon – your writing seminars gave me inspiration, direction and fortitude.

  Jane – Bless you, sweet girl. I pray that this book will help other girls like you find healing and restoration. Remember, no matter how imperfect we are, God loves each of us in our weakness and desperation and longs to make us whole.

  My Lord God – for setting this task before me with great clarity and direction.

  “There is no question of our being qualified in ourselves:

  We cannot claim anything as our own.

  The qualification we have comes from God…”

  2 Corinthians 3:5

  Dedication

  To all those

  who’ve

  Suffered in secret.

  May you cast off

  the shame

  and

  Dance

  for Joy!

  Prelude

  For now we see but a poor reflection

  as in a mirror;

  then we shall see face to face

  Now I know in part;

  then I shall know fully,

  even as I am fully known”

  1 Corinthians 13:12

  I write my story, not because misery loves company but because victory deserves to be shared. I don’t ask for your pity, but hope that when the truth is told, my story, our story, will free a multitude of prisoners from a shared consciousness of guilt and shame.

  When I was a young girl, I had a strange nightly routine. Standing in front of my dressing table, brushing my hair in the dim night light, I would stare into the mirror and let my eyes grow blurry. My imagination would stir. Slowly the scene on the other side of the glass would ripple and change.

  If I stared long enough a woman would appear. She had my dark colouring, my full lips, brown eyes and slim figure, but she was an adult. Occasionally, she stared back but often she wouldn’t see me. She tenderly cradled a baby in her arms. Then a handsome man would come in and lovingly caress them both. Sometimes he kissed her gently. So night after night, I’d wish that woman living safely behind the mirror was me. Instead, more often than not, my secret reverie would end with the dreaded sound of the door knob being turned.

  Diving under the bedclothes, I would lie as still as I could. “Please don’t come in. Please don’t ….” Perhaps tonight he would change his mind. Perhaps tonight he’d go away. But he never did.

  In no time his big, hairy hands would be sliding over my skinny ribs like a softly creeping spider and his warm breath would be in my face.

  I’d have to stay very quiet, so as not to waken my little brother. Head spinning, I’d close down my reality. I taught myself to divorce my adolescent body from my confused and fearful mind and so would begin my nightly retreats to a place of inner darkness.

  Often, when my tormentor had gone, I’d tiptoe to the bathroom. There, in the bright light of reality, I’d see another scene. An angry, young face glared back at me through a mop of dishevelled hair. I’d stare at her and at the small curves of newly forming breasts hiding under those blue pyjamas. Then she and I would both start screaming. Silently

  Chapter 1

  “Food gained by fraud tastes sweet to a man,

  but he ends up with a mouth full of gravel.”

  Proverbs 20:17

  My story began long before January, 1989 but that was the year I finally escaped from my prison.

  It was a Wednesday afternoon and the midlands were spitefully hot that year, the air thick with humidity. As Dad shifted down a gear and revved the old blue Mercedes up another incline, I opened the window of the stifling car. He yelled at me to close it. I could never understand him; after all, the air-conditioner was broken! But Dad always shouted and got what he wanted ... except for now. He had constantly said ‘no’ to boarding school but today I was on my way! I smiled inwardly, while staring out at thin tick-riddled cattle, mud huts and skinny African children waving and holding out their hands in the hope of a treat as we passed by.

  My two little sisters slept in their car chairs, red-faced and sweaty. Joanne, my stepmother, fanned herself with the road map and tidied her almost-immaculate hair for the third … or was it the tenth time? Cars flashed past in a blur.

  Eventually we turned off the main road and drew to a halt outside an austere face-brick building which looked rather like an ancient post office or police station. Dad said this was The School and so, with a mix of anticipation and terror, I stepped out of the car into the full force of the midday sun.

  I followed him up some stairs, onto the red-cement veranda, past a sign that read: ‘RECEPTION’. Dad pushed open the big French doors.

  A red-haired woman was tapping away proudly at her very modern electric typewriter. A large ‘St. Catherine’s High School’ crest hung importantly on the wall behind her. As we waited, a second woman, as thin as the other was buxom, her grey, wispy hair knotted in a bun, bustled into the room.

  “Welcome to St. Catherine’s. And you are…?”

  “The Farrells,” Dad answered with a smile, his blue eyes twinkling as he held out his hand to the woman. She shook it,
and then passed him a stack of forms to complete. While he took forever to finish the paperwork, I stared at a row of black and white photographs hanging on another wall. These were the previous principals, each one’s name prefaced by the title ‘Miss’. As their tight little buns pulled the skin on their foreheads up into greying hairlines, I sensed their corporate disapproving eyes staring … as though they knew something distasteful about me ... something I wanted to hide.

  A stern voice interrupted me. “Jane!”

  “Yes, Miss …?”

  “It is Mrs Petzer. I’m secretary to the Principal, Mrs Martingale.” She spoke abruptly. “Jane, you will be expected to wear your uniform smartly; do not be late for anything and most importantly, you must participate fully in all the activities we offer here. If you’ve any problems, you can talk to your teachers or Matron Ruth. Observe the rules, keep busy, and I’m sure you’ll have a happy stay here at St. Catherine’s.” She turned to Dad and continued, “Matron Ruth is expecting you down at the boarding establishment.”

  At that moment Joanne burst into the reception with the little ones in tow. Obviously hot and irate, she asked, “How long is this going to take? Susie needs the toilet and we’re sick of the hot car!”

  Mrs Petzer continued speaking in her best secretary’s voice, apparently choosing to ignore the intrusion. “Just follow the road round there, Mr Farrell, past the large pine trees. The boys’ hostel, St. Simeon’s is first. Go a little further on to St. Maria’s. There you can off-load Jane’s trunk and cases right outside the door.”

  She turned to Joanne with a condescending smile and waved her in the direction of the toilets.

  When Joanne returned we piled back into the car amidst loud protests from Susie, who didn’t want to be strapped into her seat again, and continued to St. Maria’s, another red-brick building with a massive staircase leading up to the vast red-floored outer veranda. Staring at the monumental building, my heart sank a bit further. So this was to be “home” for the next few years. Was there any chance it could be a little less intimidating on the inside?

  As I climbed the front stairs behind my dad, dragging my suitcase with difficulty, I noticed a couple more girls about my age, also hauling their heavy luggage up the steps.

  An elderly woman (I never did work out if she was blonde or grey) bounced over to greet everyone with a welcoming smile.

  “Hello, hello, hello! New girls over there; helpers go straight up to the dormitories. Go on, you all know where you belong,” she told some seniors as she waved them away.

  Stretching out her hand she said, “Welcome, I’m Matron Ruth Bennett. Are you the Jameses or the Farrells?”

  Dad said, “The Farrells. I’m Dirk Farrell. This is my wife Joanne. The little ones are Susie and Mickey. And this is my lovely daughter Janey.”

  “It’s Jane,” I said and tried to smile.

  The Matron shook my hand in a strong ‘don’t mess with me’ grip, but when she smiled, her eyes crinkled at the corners. I liked that.

  Two senior girls fetched my huge black trunk from the car and carried it upstairs, while a dark-haired prefect who was in dire need of a new hairdresser and an orthodontist, showed Joanne and Dad around.

  Later the other prefects told us that she was Marsha Brewster, the hostel Head Girl. “So we have to show her respect … or else!”

  I placed the suit-case on one of the faded bedspreads. The girls dumped the metal trunk on the floor and pushed it towards the bed, adding more scratches to the ancient vinyl.

  “Unpack and then take your trunk downstairs,” they ordered.

  As they left, my parents’ ‘tour’ brought them up to my room.

  “Hmm, this is more than adequate!” muttered Joanne, looking around. “We’re certainly paying enough for it! Well, at least she won’t have anything to complain about! Come on Dear, it’s not as if she needs help to unpack! Susie and Mickey are tired and we have a long drive home.” I hated the way Joanne talked about me as if I wasn’t there! I supposed she’d rather have me locked in a dungeon.

  Dad put his arm around me and pulled me close. “Well I hope Daddy’s little girl isn’t going to be too homesick! If you are, just phone me and I’ll come straight up to fetch you.”

  “No you will not!” interjected Joanne. “Babying children does nothing to help them grow up! And maybe while she’s here, she’ll learn to stop being such an attention seeker!”

  Dad looked hurt. “I only want to make sure she’s okay.”

  “I’ll be fine Dad,” I answered quietly, trying to avoid a scene. “I told you, I want to go to boarding school.”

  “It’s time to go, Honey! The kids are tired. And I’m sure Jane would like to settle herself in.” Joanne couldn’t wait to get rid of me.

  “Other kids’ parents are helping them unpack.…” Dad argued.

  “No, Dirk! That’s a mother’s job and Jane doesn’t have one here, does she? We’re leaving. Now!”

  My bossy stepmother gave me a cold peck on the cheek, reminding me of a chicken eating corn. “We’ll find the bathroom again and see you at the car!” she told Dad.

  As she walked out with Susie trailing behind and the baby in her arms, my father placed his hands firmly on both my shoulders and drew me close.

  I grew tense.

  “Don’t you love me? I just want to say goodbye!”

  “I do love you. You’re my dad. But I don’t want you to embarrass me.”

  He leaned in close to my ear. “Don’t forget to phone me. Every Thursday night, because that’s when I’m always in.”

  “You already told me that – twice!” I answered. He was annoying me now but his stern look reminded me that if I spoke in those tones he would get angry.

  “And remember ...” He whispered something in my ear, then added more loudly, “... or there’ll be big trouble.” I’d heard this line often, but whenever he said it, his glare made me afraid.

  “I already did promise,” I muttered through gritted teeth. I twisted out of his grip as the door crashed open and a dark-skinned, gangly girl with brown pigtails and an enormous suitcase fell through it. The case promptly burst open and spilt its contents across the floor.

  “Hi! I’m Tinkie! Sorry about the mess. I’ll get it cleared up in a moment ….” and with that, Tinkie’s mother followed dragging yet another suitcase, equally large and looking just as likely to explode.

  “Dad, you’d better go,” I muttered, offering my cheek as he kissed me.

  “Looks like you need some help,” I said. “My name’s Jane, by the way.” I knelt gratefully on the floor and began to gather up Tinkie’s things.

  “Come on Dirk,” Joanne whined as she poked her head around the door, “we’re tired of waiting….”

  Chapter 2

  “Do not give any of your children

  To be sacrificed to Molech …”

  Leviticus 18:21

  I needed to ask the Matron about phoning my dad on Thursdays; his instructions had been so severe. So later that first evening, I found my way to her flat which adjoined the hostel. I heard voices so, cautiously, I peeped through the crack of the partially open door. Matron Bennett was sitting on her large, lumpy settee, mug of coffee in hand, face ruddy from exertion.

  Mr Emerson, our tall, skinny, house-father and later my history teacher, propped his elbow on the mantel of the disused fire-place and pushed his glasses further up his nose.

  Matron Ruth had been reading through a pile of forms and I was about to tap on the door when I heard my name.

  “Ronald,” she said. “We’ll need to keep an eye on young Jane Farrell. She’s never been to boarding school before and she’s no visiting rights at all.” She turned the form over. “She’s specifically not allowed to go out with her mother or grandparents ….”

  “Well, perhaps the grandparents are drunks or something,” Mr Emerson said, trying to be helpful.

  Drunks! I hardly knew my grandparents but I didn’t think they were drunks! I w
as sure that Dad never let me see them because they were Mom’s family and she was ‘the enemy’. Even Dad hadn’t called them drunks!

  Mom and Dad’s war was so vicious that after Joanne and Dad married, Dad wanted Anthony and me to call his new wife ‘Mom’ and to call our own mother by her first name!

  Of course I refused on principle, and Joanne often threw that ‘rejection’ of her in my face. However, since I never saw my mother, the argument was purely academic.

  “Remind me again, which of the new girls is she,” he continued.

  The matron frowned. “Petite, almost frail looking kid with long, dark hair, sallow skin ... glamorous blonde step-mom….”

  “Okay, I’m with you now.”

  Matron paused a moment. “You know Ron,” she said, “though she’s a pretty little thing, those big, brown, doe-eyes trouble me. She’s unhappy.” I knew I was unhappy but no-one had ever said I was pretty … except Dad.

  “Oh for goodness’ sake Ruth! You just said it’s her first time in boarding school. Of course she’s unhappy,” said Mr Emerson, interrupting my thoughts.

  “No Ron. There’s no spark. She’s sullen … different.”

  He laughed and said, “I think we should change your name from Ruth Bennett to Ruth Rendell! You’re always looking for a mystery.” I remembered seeing one of those mystery stories on TV, so I hoped fervently that Matron Bennett wasn’t a good detective and that she wouldn’t find out my secret.

  A buzz in the distance changed the topic and I heard Matron say, “Well, that’s the bed-time bell. I guess I’d better do the final rounds and turn in early. I hope there aren’t too many midnight feasts tonight. Tomorrow will be busy. Goodnight, Ron.”

  As they walked towards the door, I turned and fled.