Chapter Text
Dust falls onto my face from the "ceiling" of my cupboard as my pig of a cousin barrels up and down the stairs shouting at me. For as long as Dudley has been able to walk, I have been woken up this way. I suspect I must have had a different morning at one point, before he was fat enough to knock the dust loose, before I lived in the cupboard under the stairs. But I can't remember what that morning might have been. Maybe my parents picked me up from the crib and held me close. Maybe I had a nursery of my own with a mobile playing a lullaby. Maybe I had breakfast, as much as I wanted, waiting for me in a high chair.
Probably not though. Aunt Petunia says my parents were worthless drunks so they probably just left me crying in the crib—if I had one at all.
A small chip of paint falls onto my face along with more dust. I sigh. No more procrastinating. I have to begin my chores. It's the summer of what I'm assuming is my 10th year on this miserable planet. The forms for school say my birthday is July 31, 1980, so I probably turned 10 recently. I picked a night this week that I guessed was close enough to the 31st and wished myself a happy birthday. So, I'm 10.
All this means for me is that Petunia's chores and her expectations of "normal and ladylike" behaviour have risen even higher. Cook and clean with a smile on my face. Keep my hair clean and styled at all times. No dirt, anywhere—ever! No short shorts or skirts because it’s “provocative,” but clean-shaven legs are still essential. I learned that last one the hard way. I swear she is raising me like a messed up Victorian Cinderella to be married off to the highest-paying suitor. Most of the time she can’t decide between kicking me in the dirt and showing me off as her prized accomplishment of stereotypes and femininity.
There isn't much I can do about my situation right now though. So I try to shake myself out of imagining whatever depressing future Petunia has for me. Instead, I focus on the task at hand—leaving the dubious safety of the cupboard and getting ready for another day of waiting on my glutinous relatives.
Today is just like any other day this summer. I'm allowed just 15 minutes in the washroom to clean myself up to Petunia's standard of "proper." Then, I start on my chores. Make breakfast. Clean the kitchen. Vacuum, dust, sweep. Tend to the garden. Clean the bathroom.
And Aunt Petunia wants me doing the mending and embroidery that she will take credit for and present to her "perfectly normal" women's club full of PTA mothers and housewives who haven't caught on to the fact that it is no longer the 1950s. If she is feeling particularly snobbish, she might force me to play piano for them and coo about how, even though there is only so much she can do for a girl of my parentage, she has been raising me well with proper, traditional values. And if the other PTA church ladies are also feeling particularly snobbish, they will titter about how, of course, Petunia, it is an unfortunate situation. Only so much you can do for those people. But really isn’t it just a mark of the value of their community and values that I turned out so well, or as well as someone like me can be at least. And all through their gossip and patting themselves on the back, they will ignore the bruises peeking just through the neckline of my shirt, and the way all my clothes seem to swallow me up.
Despite how much I despise the women’s club, I do appreciate having to do “Petunia’s” embroidery. I use it as an opportunity to alter and mend any of my clothes that need it. It’s a risky move but it’s necessary. Petunia wants me to look clean and polished like a perfect little doll. She wants the neighbours to look at me and see what a wonderful job she did raising me. How quiet and demure and polite and obedient I am. But she still hates me and definitely doesn't want to spend money on me. So she buys me the minimum amount of clothing she can to continue to present her perfect image without actually caring for me. This means I have to make everything I have last because if something gets dirty or torn I'll just get a beating for making my Aunt have to spend money on a "freak" like me.
After I'm done with the sewing, I'll be sent out with some money to run a few errands and my receipts and change will be carefully scrutinised by my Uncle to make sure I haven't, god forbid, tried to feed my starving stomach. I’ll have to rush back home in time to make dinner and do the laundry. Then, I will be locked in my cupboard where I will attempt to complete as much of my summer work in the dark as possible. Technically, I'm not supposed to get better grades than Dudley, but it's not like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon care enough to go to any of my parent-teacher conferences or check my grades. I only learned the "don't be smarter than Dudley" rule when I tried 5 years ago to earn Vernon's affection by showing him my report card. The beating I received made it quite clear that I had done a bad "freakish" thing, and I stopped trying to get my "family" to love me after that.
Now I focus on survival. And survival means being sneaky.
I finish making breakfast for my relatives, and as I plate the food and set the table, I carefully sneak just a little from the pan, chewing it as fast as I can. Like the mending, this is risky but it is necessary. I've learned to take small enough pieces and be fast enough that I don't usually get caught. I don't want to think about when I have gotten caught. Aunt Petunia tells me to cut the crusts off her "little Dudders" toast, which I do. I am then allowed to eat just those scraps of crust as I stand to the side of the table waiting on my relatives like a maid. Pouring more orange juice, fetching seconds from the kitchen, and generally letting them pretend like they are wealthy or prestigious enough to have servants.
Once everyone is finished eating, I clear the table. Today, I am supposed to take any leftovers and pack them for Vernon and Dudley’s lunches. On other days, I’m supposed to just throw them out. Regardless of where the leftovers are supposed to go, as I clear the table, some of the food that can be tucked into my pockets, like fruit or bacon, is quickly squirrelled away. Stuff that cannot be easily kept on me is surreptitiously hidden in the fridge behind the week old celery or the cottage cheese and vegetable broth mix from Petunia’s latest diet that she ate exactly once. Then, the rest of the leftovers are dutifully added to the already overflowing lunch boxes of my relatives.
Now, each armed with more food than I eat in a month, Dudley goes off to some summer camp, and Vernon heads to work. Petunia leaves too. She has some charity event, for a cause she doesn't actually care about, at the church of a god she barely believes in. All of these activities are carefully chosen by Vernon and Petunia in an effort to appear like a perfect little family. I couldn't care less about their image but I am glad that I will be alone today as it will allow me a tiny bit of freedom to actually take care of myself.
I go through my list of chores quickly and efficiently. I eat the leftovers I hid earlier, and I also sneak a little bit of extra food from the back of the fridge, vegetables that no one will notice are missing, like the week old celery. Vernon and Dudley only touch the snack foods and Petunia only ever goes through whatever juice or concoction she's drinking for her latest diet. No one will notice a few pieces of celery missing. I then take my time to make myself a little more presentable than I could in my 15 minutes of scheduled washroom time. Petunia expects perfection and I can not achieve that in the time she allotts to me. But more than that, the cleaner, and more well-dressed I look, the less questions I have to deal with on my errands. When my clothes are well-mended and my hair clean and neatly plaited, I can say that my mum is doing some shopping at the store next door and no one bats an eye.
Sure, maybe, hypothetically, if I let my appearance more accurately reflect my “home life” a really kind-hearted, observant adult might notice and help. But the chances of that happening are slim. And the benefits of moving through the world, specifically stores, unquestioned is worth losing that chance. A young Indian girl unattended in a British store, already there’s suspicion. A young Indian girl who looks dirty and dishevelled unattended in a British store. Any hope of not being watched and followed—any hope of stealth—would be completely gone. And I need that stealth.
After cleaning myself up and finishing my chores, I head out to take care of whatever errands Petunia has left for me. Today’s errand is grocery shopping. I take the bus to the local grocery store, making sure to get on right after an adult that I can pretend is my guardian, sitting across the aisle from them. Then, I head into the actual grocery store armed with Petunia’s list. That list is my greatest tool. Whenever an adult in the store looks like they are getting suspicious, I pull out the list and start muttering to myself about how “mum said to get this kind of cereal,” or “maybe I can sneak some pudding into the cart without mum noticing,” or other phrases that suggest there is a responsible adult taking care of me. That, no, they did not just see a 10-year-old doing the shopping entirely by herself unaccompanied by an adult.
Even if Vernon carefully monitors my spending, even if maintaining stealth and avoiding suspicion is difficult, the freedom of being alone makes many schemes possible. The most obvious is just shoplifting some extra food to eat. Less obvious is how I can pilfer some of the money Vernon sends me off with for myself. Over the years, I have developed many strategies for getting money. Almost all of them involve stealing or shoplifting. But to escape my relatives I can't just survive; I also need an exit strategy. Sneaking food, mending my clothes, spending extra time to clean myself up—that’s all survival. But making good grades and saving money—that’s the Escape Plan.
To escape I have to be independent. Admittance to a good college, a good job, having money of my own—that’s how I get out.
College and jobs are still a ways off, but money is something I can work towards now. While I’m shoplifting food to eat, I grab two boxes of macaroni and cheese. One is put in my basket; the other is tucked into the waistband of my shorts and hidden under my shirt. When I go shopping, I always wear the shirt I got from Dudley after he grew too fat for it. It’s easier to hide my contraband in. After hiding my pilfered goods, I pay for everything in my basket. Then, I walk around the block and come back to the store to return the box I paid for. That leaves me with a few dollars in my pocket and a box of macaroni and cheese still hidden under my shirt. Then, when Vernon checks my receipt, I can give him the one from the original purchase, and the box that I stole will be in the pantry when he checks to make sure that everything is in order. And I will end up scott-free with the money I stole.
I return home and put all the groceries away, happy with a successful day of chores and scheming. My Aunt will be the first home out of all my relatives since her charity event doesn’t take that long. But I finished all my chores and errands fast enough that I still have a few hours before that happens. I will use the precious time that I am still unsupervised, to spend an hour, maybe more, at the local library. Normally, I wouldn't risk staying there for more than a half hour, lest my relatives catch on to my little detour, but today I can afford to stay a little longer.
Despite my current unfortunate circumstances, today has been a good day. I walk out the door with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. I have to restrain myself from skipping the whole way to the beautiful, magical, library.