Smile

After Mum died I could have carried on living at home but there was an empty flat above Dad's studio-shop, previously used for storage. It wasn't too far from the museum and he offered it to me at a peppercorn rent knowing I'd appreciate my independence.

To supplement my income I taught some history at adult evening classes, not to academic standard but just for those mostly middle-aged and elderly people looking for a general interest hobby. There were several small meeting rooms in the museum and these were often used as overflow classrooms for the local adult education college, my subject being among them. This was convenient as I was able to allow my students access to primary source materials which were not on public display but stored in a number of basement rooms.

One evening I went down to the basement to replace some of the artefacts I'd been showing. There were several ill-lit corridors and a couple of times I thought I heard noises behind me but when I turned to look I could see nothing. I reached a particular store and carefully replaced the items in their cupboards and drawers. I heard noises again and I turned to see that I wasn't alone.

There were three of them. They loomed out of the semi-darkness near the store-room's entrance to surround me, three large thuggish-looking teenagers with obvious mischief on their tiny minds. My hand went into my jeans pocket where I kept my keys and I slipped my finger through the ring, holding them so that a Yale key protruded between my first and second fingers.

"Well, what we got 'ere?" one said, "I think it's a pretty lady." As they drew near I could smell their beer breath.

"Hello, pretty lady," said another, "No need to be scared of us. We just want to be friendly, tha's all. Ain't that right, lads?"

The first speaker sniggered but the third yob said nothing, just reached out and squeezed one of my breasts. I pulled out the keys and raked the Yale hard across the back of his hand.

"Fuckin' hell! The bitch scratched me!" He held up his hand which was oozing blood. "Look at that! The bitch scratched me! Right, hold her you two, I'm going to show her what's what!"

"No you're not," said a quiet voice. I looked towards the doorway to see Irene from the Guys & Dolls club. Her eyes were cold as she gazed at the trio. "Only three of you to handle one woman? That must takes a lot of guts."

"Oh shit!" a kid moaned, "Now we've got trouble!"

The one I'd scratched stared hard at Irene, trying to intimidate. "Piss off, cow, unless you want to be hurt as well!"

"Shut up, Baz!" hissed one of his companions, "She's the one who put Lofty Martin and his brother in hospital."

"What, her?" Baz laughed, "She must've snuck up behind them in the dark."

"Leave it, Baz! Let's just fuck off!"

Irene had come all the way into the room, apparently ignoring Baz. "I know you little shits," she said to the others. 'Little!' Each one was twice her size but they cowered back. "I'm giving you a chance to get out—now!"

Baz looked at his companions with contempt. "Okay, let's see how tough you are, bitch."

"Don't," said Irene.

"Ooooh! Don't!" he mocked, "She said 'Don't'. Runnin' scared, are we darlin'? Please don't hurt me, you mean? Not so hard after all!" Baz reached out and grabbed Irene's arm. And then he was face down on the ground, his straightened arm held rigid in a tight lock and Irene's foot on the back of his neck.

She lifted her foot and released his arm. "Stay down," she warned.

Baz scrambled to his fee. "You're fuckin' dead, cunt!" He threw a punch.

Irene hardly seemed to look at him but blocked the punch, lashing sideways with a foot and hitting the teenager just below a knee-cap. As his leg gave way, Irene applied a different kind of arm-lock to bend him backwards, at the same time bringing the heel of a hand down onto the bridge of his nose. There was a nasty crunching noise, blood spurted and Baz was on the ground again, clutching his face and whimpering.

"Stay down," Irene repeated. She turned to the other two. "Your friend seems to be a bit stupid," she observed, her voice conversational as if nothing had happened, "Doesn't recognise good advice when he hears it. I've warned you two off before when you've tried to get into the club. You're on your final warning now. Stay out of this area because if I see you again, you'll get hurt. Now, first of all you apologise to this lady, then you pick your stupid friend up and take him away. When he stops moaning, tell him that if he lays a finger on me again he'll never get to be a father. Oh, and clean up that blood on the floor before you go."

The two scurried to obey and when they'd made their escape I said: "I hope this doesn't cause you trouble, you know—like being charged with assault."

Irene shrugged. "You don't think yobs like those would admit to being duffed up by a woman my size, do you? They'll probably say he got pissed, fell over and hurt himself. Anyway, it was self-defence... and rescuing a lady in distress. How about you, you okay?"

I nodded. "Yes, thanks to you. I might have a bruised boob where one of them squeezed me but I left my mark on him."

"What did you do?"

I showed Irene the key clenched in my fist.

"Good improvised weapon," she said, "Take a tip, though. Don't put your finger through the ring, it could be used to break the finger."

"What brought you down here, anyway?" I asked.

"I was just coming out of a class—I'm studying human biology here. I saw you heading for the basement steps and those three following a couple of minutes later. Reckon with all the classes coming out, they thought they wouldn't be noticed in the crowd. Knowing two of them, I guessed they were up to no good. Next time you come down here at night, bring a security man with you."

"I will Irene, thanks."

Irene peered at me closely when I addressed her by name. "Do I know you?"

"You've probably seen me at Guys & Dolls. I'm Annie Truscott."

She nodded. "That's it. You come in sometimes with Maggie... Farrel...Farmer..."

"Farnol," I said.

"Yeah, Farnol. Right. I'm Irene Wetherill. You and Maggie partners?"

"No, just friends."

She nodded and said: "You live locally?" I told Irene where my flat was and she added: "I'll walk you there just in case those yobs got their courage back and hung around. Don't think they will but I'll see you're home safe."

"Thanks, appreciate it. But then who's going to walk you home safely..." The absurdity of what I'd just said hit me and I started giggling. And I think Irene's mouth twitched.

* * * * *

Whenever I saw Irene at the club after that I made a point of greeting her. She always gave me a slight nod of acknowledgement, not exactly an effusive welcome but for her quite a step forward. It was certainly more than most other members got—for them it was just the customary scowl. "What's your secret?" somebody asked me once, "A magic potion?"

Malcolm came up to me once when Irene had the evening off. He sat down by me and said: "Are you making friends with Irene?"

"I'm trying. Haven't got that far yet," I replied, "I'd like to. Strikes me she could use a friend and I'd be happy to be one but it's not easy getting through to her."

"Tell me about it," Malcolm said, "I've been trying for several years and haven't made much of an impression. It's as if she wears friend-repulsing armour—seems like she can't bring herself to trust people. I think that deep down she's got a load of not-very-nice baggage to get rid of. Keep working on her, Annie—I know it's not much so far but you seem to have got further with her than anyone else. I reckon she's worth more than being a bouncer for the rest of her life."

There had been a chilly autumn mist hanging over the city for several days when I next saw Irene outside of the club. I'd been working late at the museum, helping to prepare for an exhibition we were putting on, and by the time I left the mist had thickened considerably, wrapping the buildings closely while guttering dripped, making the pavements greasy and slippery. I was a couple of streets away from my flat when I saw two figures several hundred yards ahead, one sitting in what seemed to be a mobility scooter, the other, a small person, standing.

It looked as if something—a little package perhaps—was handed over by the smaller person then the one in the scooter turned and came haring down the pavement at a dangerous speed. I had to leap into the gutter to avoid being run down.

"Out of my way, you stupid bitch!" the invalid yelled as he narrowly missed me. It was a man's voice. I was near a lamppost and I caught a glimpse of a thin, mean-looking face with a silly little moustache, a fleeting glimpse but sufficient to know that I'd recognise him if I saw him again.

"Excuse me for breathing!" I shouted after him as he disappeared round the next corner. The small person was still standing there, apparently gazing after the scooter. I drew closer and saw that it was Irene.

"Who's that unpleasant swine?" I asked.

"My father," she said.

"Oh... sorry if I was rude."

"Be as rude as you like, you won't offend me." Her voice was bitter. "He is an unpleasant swine. In fact, he's every kind of swine you can think of."

Then I noticed the silent tears running down her face. Crying? This little toughie whose cold stare reduced strong men to wrecks? "Irene, what's the matter?"

She just shook her head so I added: "Come with me, there's a great little coffee shop on the next street and he stays open late. You look like you could do with a hot drink." I took her arm. Irene resisted for a moment and then gave in and allowed me to guide her along.

Some people might call Charlie's Café a greasy spoon, based solely on the fact that it's small and tucked away in a back street. They'd be wrong. Charlie kept the place immaculate and he served some of the best coffee and hot meals in the city. And you didn't need a mortgage to eat there. Charlie himself was an old retired seaman, kindly-natured and benevolent. With his abundant white beard and ingrained laughter-lines he resembled Santa Claus in a clean apron.

"Hi, Annie. Cappuccino?" He turned an enquiring look on Irene.

I nodded and said: "This is Irene. How do you like your coffee, Irene?"

"I don't much like coffee," she said, then lowered her voice. "Do you think maybe I could have... a hot chocolate...?" There was something touching, almost childlike, in the way she asked, like a small girl hoping for a treat she knew was forbidden. Irene was one hell of an enigma.

"Of course you can, lovey," said Charlie, "Sit down, girls, and I'll bring your drinks over." He winked at Irene and added: "Once you've tasted my hot chocolate you won't want anyone else's."

When we were settled in a booth with our drinks in front of us I said: "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head briefly then reconsidered and shrugged. "Why not? You saw my father in a mobility scooter and he's got a pair of crutches in the rack. It's my fault he's like that. I crippled him."

"How the hell did you do that?" I said, not quite believing what I was hearing.

"It's some years ago now..."

Irene -- 12 to 16

Irene was twelve when Great-aunt Rose showed her the small box. "It's your mother's jewellery," her aunt explained, "Some of it belonged to your grandmother and several of the pieces, including a couple of engagement rings, are worth a fair bit of money. Your mum gave it to me to hold when she had her first heart attack so that your father couldn't get his hands on it. As it was, the miserable sod took her wedding ring within minutes of her death and sold it in the nearest jeweller's shop. Frank's asked me several times over the years if I knew where this lot was and I've always denied it. He's never pushed me too hard because he knows I'd have the law on him as soon as look at him. Never was any love lost between us—I could see right through the little creep.

"I'm offering this to you now, Irene, because I'm getting on in years. I'll not be around for ever and I want to make sure you know about it. I can hang on to it or you can take it but if you do, you'll have to find one hell of a good hiding place. Oh, and here's a letter from your mother saying that the jewellery is yours and not his."

"I've got just the place to hide it," said Irene, "and Dad will never find it."

Irene's divan bed reached almost to the floor, leaving only an inch or so gap. One day several years previously, when her father was out of the house, she had pulled the bed out and loosened a floor-board so that she could hide what few little treasures she had. Her relationship with her father was an abusive one, not physical at the time but emotional and verbal. For instance, he had a vindictive habit of confiscating and destroying her favourite things when the mood was on him. He didn't need a reason or excuse, it was pure spite. Irene was sure he'd never find her hidey-hole—for a start he was too idle to even think of moving the bed.

Lana Wetherill had a serious heart defect and her second or third heart attack killed her. Irene was about four at the time and Lana's Aunt Rose offered to take the child. Frank Wetherill declined saying that as Irene's father, she was his responsibility. "Call me a silly old woman," Rose said to her friend Nellie, "but I reckon all he's interested in is the child benefit."

Which was probably true. Irene could only remember a lousy childhood, her sole relief being visits to Aunt Rose who lived a couple of bus rides away. Irene usually had to walk there, her father begrudging even the children's half-fare. It was worth it, it was the one place where she got affection.

There was never any praise or encouragement from Frank Wetherill. Once Irene told her father she would like to be a nurse. "You?" he'd scoffed, "You'd never make a nurse, you pathetic midget, you're too small and too stupid."

On one very rare occasion he took her into a cheap café and Irene asked if she could have a hot chocolate. "No you can't, you greedy little bitch," he'd hissed, "You'll have water and like it!" Irene had to sit sipping her water and watch her father having his coffee and cake. That evening at home, he'd ripped one of her favourite books to pieces, just to teach her not to make unreasonable requests.

* * * * *

"Hi, I'm Moya, haven't seen you around before." The speaker was tall, slim, dark-haired, probably three to four years older than Irene who had recently turned sixteen.

"I'm Irene, just started here today." She accepted Moya's outstretched hand and felt a little thrill as their palms met.

"Bet they've put you on shelf-stacking, they do that to all the new staff. I'm a cashier. You'll get there in time. Mind if I join you?" Moya sat on another chair at the canteen table. "Thought you looked a bit lonely here by yourself. I know it's strange at first, this place is so big with so many staff. You with us full time?"

Irene shook her head. "Part-time for the moment." She hesitated and added: "I've left school and my father thought I should get a job." She didn't mention that he'd ordered her to leave school and start working. This part-time work was all she'd been able to get at short notice and she knew that most of her wages were likely to be snatched by her father.

The relationship with Moya started out as friendship but over a matter of months developed into something more. Moya had been upfront with Irene. "I don't want to spoil our friendship, Irene, but there's something you'd better know about me. I'm gay—you know what that is, don't you?"

"Yes," Irene acknowledged, "I think I might be too." Irene had known for some time that she was either lesbian or bi-sexual, most likely the former because she had never seen a boy or young man who attracted her. Quite the reverse, men just revolted her. She was honest enough to admit to herself that her antipathy to men could have been triggered by her father but she was unable to get rid of these irrational dislikes. Her feelings towards Moya had been growing stronger and she was overjoyed when the older girl admitted to her sexuality.

There was no physical contact between them other than holding hands or hugging when they went to the cinema or for a walk together. "I'm very fond of you, Irene," Moya said, "but you're young yet and I want you to be sure of yourself before we get in too deep."

Then came the first overwhelming kiss on the doorstep of Irene's home. It was a warm and gentle kiss, so wonderful, and Moya felt so delightful in Irene's arms.

And it was the last kiss. As it deepened and the two girls huddled together more closely, the front door was snatched open and a hand grasped Irene's coat collar, dragging her backwards into the house, smashing her hard against the hall wall. Frank Wetherill thrust his face at Moya and jabbed an angry finger, spraying spittle as he shouted. "Get out of here, you bloody slag, before I kick you down the street!" He slammed the door on her and rounded on Irene.

"A dyke! My daughter's a filthy little dyke! We'll soon knock that out of you, you disgusting little bitch or I'm not your father!"

"Call yourself a father?" Irene spat, "The only reason you keep me around is because it pays you!"

That was when he hit her, a hard open-handed slap that rocked her head back against the wall. "Don't you dare answer me back!" he screamed, seizing her collar. He hit her again. "You." (Slap!) Filthy. (Slap!) Little. (Slap!) Dyke. (Slap!)

Irene squirmed out of his grip, pushed her way past and staggered up the stairs towards her bedroom, his voice shouting after her. "You'd better sort yourself out by tomorrow or you'll get another good belting! You'll get a bleeding good belting each day until you come to your senses. Understand? And you're not going back to that job if they're employing bleeding perverts!"

Irene stumbled into her room, grabbed her bedside chair and pushed it under the door-handle to block any attempted entry. She couldn't hear any noises to suggest her father was pursuing her and hoped that for the moment she'd be safe. Her mirror showed massive bruising on her cheeks and her lips were badly swollen with a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. As quietly as possible she stuffed as much of her clothing as she needed into her backpack and at five in the morning crept from the house. Not wishing to make a noise by moving the bed , she had left her mother's jewellery in its hiding place, fairly certain that her father wouldn't find it. She'd work out how to retrieve it at some future time.

* * * * *

"Right!" Aunt Rose snapped, "I'm calling the police, get that bloody animal locked away!" She packed the muslin bag with ice from her freezer and held it against Irene's swollen mouth as gently as she could.

"No, please don't!" Irene begged, "Aunt Rose, he did this because he found out I'm a lesbian. I don't want everyone knowing about this."

Rose looked doubtful but after some argument conceded with reluctance. "Okay, now the question is what to do with you. You can't stay here, that's for sure." Seeing the stricken look on Irene's face she hastened to add: "I'm sorry, sweetheart, that wasn't meant the way it sounded, I'd love to have you here. It's just that this is the first place that slimy little bugger's likely to come looking for you. But I've got an idea..."

Rose's good friend Nellie was the caretaker for a community hall on the outskirts of Langton Heights, one of the city's better areas. It was quite a few miles away, certainly far enough for safety. The hall had its own kitchen and there was a small studio flat, one room with a camp bed and a tiny shower and toilet. Nellie spoke to the committee's chairman and it was agreed that Irene could stay there in exchange for helping with the hall's maintenance. "It won't occur to your father that you might be this far out," said Rose, "And before I go home—" she handed Irene a bank-book with bank-card "—this should be useful. It's not a lot but it'll help you keep going until you can get a decent job. I've been saving up for you since your mother died. I knew you'd need it some time."