Chapter 1
Take the boyfriend, the Erturk, who pretended to work so hard. He kissed and nearly bedded and then charged. My passport in my hand, my head confused. He wanted £70, but we kissed. Part of the service. What was he James Bond that he charged with his smelly breath and laundry so dirty it made me sick?
I paid such a service to his ego. He was amused as he got the money counted out note by note. He ate his supper as I had cooked and whistling left. I was enraged. I was so humiliated and gobsmacked.
He charged. His garlicky breath whistled in a tuneful manner. You know, that irritated me even more. I will never mate with someone like that, in fact, if a man charges again, I will take his bullocks off.
I went to bed in a very bad mood. After giving him advice on his laundry and his house and he was so silent. I thought he liked my advice his friend said she’ll do it.
She married a man she did not love, and he was so obliging I thought he probably married her for her passport. This Erturk was the real guy in her life. Her father took him to court. He was arrested, and the husband could now divorce, and that was that.
I sat up in bed, unable to sleep. It was such a putdown to be asked to pay for services rendered. He a prostitute, was he? He serviced everyone as he had me. Did he charge all the girls? I think not. He has an over-inflated ego, you know. I did not enjoy it, which made it worse.
Put me aside and stepped on it.
He is in his fifties, and me 19. It would never work with him. I probably end up poisoning myself or him. It would be an ordeal to cook and clean in that house. Oh no, I would never settle and probably have affairs with youths.
I wonder what it would be like to have affairs with youths. I probably get caught; I always do. And probably end outside in the streets because mum and dad said they would never have me back if I married him.
The strain inside told on me.
I wonder what it would be like to have a husband one did not love. It might be awful like Mr. Collins. He would be put away in the back room out of sight with the furniture. Never read me the rites again.
Even Mrs. Collins is pregnant so at night, he was dusted and, in the morning, put into orbit to be the snob he was. I would not have minded being Mrs. Collins as she had to have the house.
Hate brews. As I read the well-ordered lives. They appeal to my young life then I walk into the asylum road.
Stateroom or master bedroom or the wardrobe or the dustpan. Economies and waste all the waste in the world would not do at such a respectable match, and when one makes these matches, what does one do afterward?
Sit and look outside and wonder what would have happened if luck had not smiled.
I try not to think about the castle I’ve messed up.
It is a fitting end to not end in the castle or mansion. I would not have minded going on a visit to see what it felt like.
Cowed into submission, I could not move.
But he, the penultimate one, would not let me. He said I would burn it down or it would not fit. I smiled to myself. He wanted all I had and would not even let me go on a visit.
Although I did say I would burn it down, maybe he fears me more than he lets on. He wanted me to go to Buckingham palace.
I never visit royalty. I would lose myself. I thought it was as if these people always wanted something but never returned anything.
They take for granted that their charm is always to hand and their breeding does not interfere with their pleasures, but snobs are hell to live with.
I know snobbery is a science that a snob is considered to be well-bred. Not necessarily being a snob is when one sees only their cast.
My good nature is considered to be foolish. I wish it were not so. I always endeavor to be good-natured; it is best to be so because being a snob is harmful to the environment.
The people you despise are the people, in the end, you come to depend on. That is what happened to dad, and that is what happened to me and the penultimate one. I started as strong-willed better than my parents, and ended up working to keep them.
They made me eat the words they did. They made me rue the day I had ever said I wanted a better life, for I was to be the worker. Do the call girls have to pay for their phones?
Of course, it comes out of the business."
To work all day without a book to my name so they could relax and enjoy themselves. It seemed an odd place to be in. After all my dreaming and dreams were laid to rest in a wardrobe like a petal, I fell apart.
Police were called again more abuse with the mother yelling for this and that.
My sister said she did not want that council flat. It was beneath her.
"You lot are sad," I said.
“So now what? Now you are destitute, come pleading to us to house and feed you? “Their cruel mouths working in the joke of the situation.
“I did not mean it!”
“You meant it, alright. You now do as we say. No more the holy one, no more the girl. You are no longer beautiful and untouched. You are marked by something. Your life is now in our control. You have got to do as we say. We took you out of the street, took you in.”
“Yes, you took me in.”
“So we did. We’ve saved your life.”
“I wish you hadn’t.”
“You got a nerve to quarrel with us.”
“I wish never to have been born to such a family.”
“Prove it to us that you are a good girl, and we’ll help you to enjoy your stay.”
“How?”
“Work. Your sisters are good girls. They would never run off.”
“What do they do?”
“They are family. They are going to be ladies. They are being trained to marry men who are worthy and good. While you will marry no one, no one will have you. Because you smell of the streets.”
I smell the streets.
“Yes, I smell of the streets. I will always smell the streets to you.
“Don’t say that my name is good. I’ll prove it."
Laughs out loud.
“You are amusing. Look, you smell. Let me put rose water on you.”
“Why this cruelty?"
Laughs again.
“To work in this cesspit, you mean? The sink is blocked. Get it fixed. The potatoes need peeling. Get it done, "
“I can’t do it. I have a good name.”
“You have a good name?”
“Are you questioning my good name
"No."
And they are young. I mean, youth should be tolerant. “Me not enough to do? You mad?”
I get glimpses of it. It is all confusion. You know when is
“Then stop it.”
"No one knows me or wants to know me."
"Why?"
"I have someone against me. It is I."
In reasoning me out of this fear, reason deserted me. There is something dodging my footsteps as if life is becoming extinct.
There must be logic to all this. Why is life being taken from me? I’m I being driven to suicide? Or into madness. In and of a stigma, there is nobody that knows me who wants to know me. I am a mere no one. Fear me now; I am open to all suggestions.
