Free I Did Tell, I Did by Cassie Harte

good at getting up in the morning and most days he would tell me that he was running a bit late, he’d just be a minute and could I run into the shop and start to mark up his papers for him? I fell for it every time. I would rush off and mark the papers with the addressesand I’d have everything ready by the time he finally strolled in.
    When we went out to do the paper round together, he would remain seated on his bike, roll up each paper then instruct me to deliver it to the appropriate house. My little legs would take me off as ordered, with Bobby running by my side, and I’d deliver the paper, then run back for the next one and the next and so on. At the end of the week, my brother would collect ten and sixpence from the newsagent and he’d give me the sixpence. Just sixpence, but that was OK. I didn’t mind because I loved Tom, although he was completely spoiled by Mum.
    Bobby provided me with a perfect excuse to leave the house when Mum’s nagging was getting too much for me: time for another walk. He was a loving, affectionate dog and I quickly grew to love him dearly. He was loyal to me, running to the door to greet me as soon as I got home from school and following me around the house as I did my chores. When I was sad, after Mum had been screaming abuse at me, or after a trip out somewhere with Uncle Bill, Bobby would look up at me with his big dark eyes and it was as if he knew, and was saying, ‘Don’t worry, I love you.’
    Times with Bobby were in-between times, good times, but there were bad things going on as well. Nasty things. Uncle Bill started coming to pick me up from school in his car on the days when he wasn’t working.
    ‘Isn’t that kind of him?’ Mum would coo. ‘Say thank you, Cassie.’
    On the way home, he’d always find some excuse to make a detour, then he’d park in the bluebell woods and make me do disgusting, awful things in the back of the car. And there was a horrible new development in his games. One time, after I had found the ‘love toy’ in his trousers, he told me I had to lick the foul thing until it was clean. When I said I couldn’t, he tried to push my head down into his lap and force it into my mouth. I started to sob hysterically, terrified that I would choke to death, and at last he stopped, muttering crossly that I would have to do it another time. The thought was petrifying to me. Did people really do these things? How did they breathe? How did they stop themselves from retching and throwing up?
    I was always looking for excuses to get out of accepting a lift with Uncle Bill: too much homework, chores to be done at home, Girls’ Brigade on Fridays and, of course, walking the dog. I found another refuge at the age of ten when Mum volunteered me to sing in the local church choir. The choir had a dwindling population and needed some new voices. Trying to impress the vicar, Mum offered him my services and so it was arranged that I would have to sing at church twice on Sundays, attend a choir practice on Wednesday evenings, and then I’d have to be there some Saturdays for weddings as well. I was over the moon at this! Four times a week when Bill couldn’t take me out and force me to do the things I hated with a passion. Four times a week when Mum couldn’t yell at me or order me around. The choir was a refuge where I could be me, rather than the object of her anger and ridicule. I’d felt sure I’d be safe there. Safe from the evil that was Bill.
    I had always enjoyed Sunday school back when I was younger, and I believed in the teachings of the church. Perhaps once I joined the choir, God would answer my prayers and keep me safe from now on. Perhaps God would protect me from Uncle Bill. That’s what I wished more than anything else in the world.
    I loved every aspect of being a member of the choir. The music was beautiful, the other singers were all very nice to me, and I liked the whole atmosphere of the church. I hadn’t been singing there for long when