Over the course of a series of articles for the Huff Post, I am making public, for the first time my account of my abuse at the hands of a teacher at my secondary school fifteen years ago. In the last article, Mr 'D' had taken me to a desolate beauty spot, and confessed his feelings. I was 15 years old.
After work experience came to an end, my year group returned to school and started to wind down towards summer break. It was common knowledge by this point that Mr D was retiring at the end of the summer term - lots of jokes about his age ensued, whenever he covered one of our classes for our regular teacher.
I happened to mention to my mother one evening that Mr D was retiring at the end of term. My mother had a brilliant idea - why didn't we invite Mr D, to come to our house to have a
drink to celebrate his retirement? I tried to convince her that this wasn't really the done thing.
But my mother, since Mr D showed that he 'cared' by coming to pick me up that morning weeks ago, thought that he was practically a saint. She wouldn't accept my protestations, so I duly went to school, and when I next saw Mr D I made my mother's offer, and he accepted.
The day of the retirement, I hadn't been to school - though it wasn't a fake stomachache that kept me away. I rarely scored below 90% on most tests, and my contributions, especially in English, were always valued. But my attendance was terrible - especially around the end of summer term.
My mother was looking forward to Mr D's visit as something exciting and prepared accordingly - she laid out nibbles, and made sure we had enough in to drink.
After he arrived, we sat around talking about his retirement, his plans. Mother was a gracious host as always, but I tried not to make eye-contact with Mr D, who insisted, out of school, that we all call him Tony.
I didn't want to call him anything. I buried myself in my beer, and willed the rest of the evening to pass away as quickly as possible.
Needless to say, I made a pretty good job of burying myself in my beer, and by about
eight-thirty, I was tipsy and flushed. Mr D had also made a pretty good job of attacking the
stash of alcohol that my mother had bought, and she volunteered to go to the off licence
and buy more. I offered to go, but my mother insisted that I stay and keep Mr D company.
The door closed behind my mum, and I was alone with Mr D. I hadn't realised I had drunk so much - the room was spinning. It may have just been that I was drinking on an empty stomach, but I knew the best thing for me was to go to bed with an aspirin inside me. I wondered if I could make my excuses and leave.
Mr D got up from his seat, and came and sat down next to me. As I made to get up, Mr D unbuttoned the top fastenings on my cardigan, and reached down inside my top.
I felt sick. The room really was spinning. With his other arm, he held me tightly. I felt trapped. Then the kitchen door opened - but it was only my little brother, and Mr D, quickly removing his hand, made short shrift of sending him out of the room.
Once the door closed again, I made to get up out of the chair - I needed air. But that was the last thing on Mr D's mind. His gripped my side again, and without hesitation, he put his hand down the waistband of my trousers.
And then I heard the front door. Mr D heard it too and he reacted accordingly, removing his hand and flying back to his seat, just in time for the dining room door to open. My mother held up the supplies, and Mr D smiled his approval.
''I feel ill' I said, clambering out of my seat. Mother looked concerned.
''I tell you what', Mr D said 'I'll walk her around the block. I could do with some air myself.'
Mother nodded her approval.
As we left the house, and got a little way up the street, his proclamations started again.
Once the air hit me, it was if I found the fight in me. How dare he presume that this was
alright? How dare he assume that this was what I wanted. This was wrong, this was hideous.
'I hate you!' I screamed. It was the only thing I had.
'I know you don't mean it' he said 'You're drunk'
'I'm drunk, yes. But you're a pervert!' I screamed in his face.
'I'm real, not like your little fantasies. And I need you.' he screamed back.
'F*** off!' I didn't care who heard me 'You're not a bloody character in a Nabokov book!'
Mr D hustled me back into the house, and I caught a glance between him and my mother.
'Is she alright?' My mother asked.
'Yeah, she's fine. This is just what happens when people think they can handle their drink and can't' he said.
That was enough for me. I broke away, running through the back door, to the bottom of the garden, and vomited.
All names, apart from my own, have been changed
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