Sex stories, Brother and sister, incest, Brian impregnates his sister.. I know being a schoolgirl mother almost seems like the fashionable thing to do these days but when I had my first child, a son, at the age of fourteen it was almost unheard of and I was put through the mill by neighbours and society. But I had the support of my parents and a very helpful social worker. Clive, the father of my child, stuck around and gave me moral support and seemed genuinely interested in our son, Tom.
As soon as we were legally of age, we were married. Clive got a job as a sales assistant at one of those quaint drapers’ stores sometimes found in the little side streets but the times of such establishments were coming to an end. After a couple of years Barrie’s Drapery went the way of the rest of such small shops but Clive was taken on by one of the larger department chains and by the time we were 26 he was the Regional Manager with his own staff and a large company car.
We had a lovely big house in a leafy suburb and were raising Tom and his sister Melanie, three years younger. We had a happy, loving marriage; life was rosy and seemed destined to become rosier. Then, at one of the many parties we attended, Clive started down the road on heavy drugs. Don’t get me wrong, Clive and I often used to smoke a relaxing spliff or two when the kids were asleep and we’d cuddle up to watch a video but I wanted nothing to do with the harder stuff.
Things just started going downhill from there, at first it was the odd ‘sick’ day off from work which became more and more frequent. Head Office pulled him in and gave him a written warning and he tried to straighten himself out but within a couple of months he was back to his old ways. He was sacked, as you would expect, and it didn’t take him long to go through our savings and a very hefty second mortgage. Our cards were cancelled, we were broke and were forced into bankruptcy. We managed to get a council house in one of those post-war estates riddled with concrete cancer.
Long before that he had started pushing me about when he couldn’t get his way, then hitting me. The slaps soon turned to punches. Tom, then 13, tried to defend me but his father just shoved him out of the way and my son ended up trying to comfort Mel, just shy of 10, who was always frightened to see Daddy hitting Mummy. Over the next couple of years his violence got worse. I noticed that the kids were picking up bruises too, and becoming more and more morose but the crunch came one day when I had slipped out to draw my social and get some food for the kids before he stole it to buy more drugs with. I came in the back door into the kitchen to see Mel sobbing, her face battered and bruised. I could hear Tom screaming and kicking at the door to the tools closet under the stairs. I grabbed my heavy iron frying pan in both hands and smashed him full in the face with the edge. Leaving Clive on the floor unconscious with blood pouring from his nose and forehead, I grabbed Mel, released Tom and we all just ran to the police station three streets away.
I was hysterical and couldn’t get my tale out until a nice police woman took us to a private room, got me tea and drinks for the kids. I calmed down and told her what had happened. She excused herself and popped out the door for a few minutes then returned to me. A couple of minutes later I heard two sets of sirens on the road outside. That was three years ago.
Clive was arrested as soon as he came round from the surgery anaesthetics. He was eventually sent down for ten years, heavily scarred. I heard later that he had been disfigured even more when one of his fellow inmates threw a pan of boiling water into his face.
But I was left with heavy outstanding bills. I couldn’t make ends meet, even with my cash-in-hand job, and starved myself so the kids could eat. About two years after his father was arrested, Tom also began to worry me as he became involved in the fringes of the local gangs but there was little I could do to persuade him to take up a decent hobby or sport, anything to keep him off the streets.
Then one day I woke up in hospital with drips going into my arm. A passing nurse smiled when she saw I was awake, she turned to my bed and explained how I came to be there. It seems I had collapsed over my trolley in Tesco’s and they had called an ambulance. My next visitor, soon after, was the doctor. He gave me a severe lecture about starving myself to death. “And I do mean to death, Ms Jones,” he warned. “You have no reserves. If you go on like this you’ll kill yourself.” Giving me a sharp look, he left.
A young slip of a girl walked up. She showed me her ID and introduced herself as Louise, from Social Services. Tom and Melanie (now 17 and 14) were with some lovely foster parents, she told me, and they would be coming to see me this afternoon. She had been in touch with Brian, my brother and named next-of-kin, and he would be here tomorrow.
True to Louise’s word, a ‘motherly’ woman brought Tom and Mel to my bedside that afternoon and introduced herself when the kids had calmed down again. Pat seemed really nice and she assured me the children had not fretted too much. Pat and her husband had a big house in a village a few miles outside the city. She left me and the kids together for a while.
They both agreed that Pat was OK and her house had a lovely big garden and they had a dog called Lady who licked them all over and a pony called Cherry that lived in the field and some rabbits and they were OK there but when was I coming home?
“Soon,” I promised them. “I have to stay here for a few days but not for long.” For the next four days, Pat brought Tom and Mel to see me each afternoon and they seemed happy enough.
Brian arrived as promised and was shocked to see my emaciated appearance. As he and his wife, Trish, lived 300 miles away we hadn’t seen each other for two years and although we had kept in touch, I had not told him how bad life was for me. I was close to tears as he got me to tell him my problems. He sat on the bed and held me close as I sobbed my tale of woes into his shoulder.
Later, after I had got over the sobs, Louise joined us and told Brian about the temporary arrangements her department had made, making sure she and Brian swapped contact details. She didn’t stay too long but, shortly after she left, Brian asked for my house keys. He kissed me goodbye and promised to come back that afternoon when the kids were visiting.
Tom and Mel were delighted to see Uncle Brian and hugged him. Brian arranged with Pat to visit the children that evening so she invited him to have his evening meal with them.
When Pat took the kids back home Brian asked why I hadn’t come to him for help. He told me he had seen the pile of bills and final demands covering the coffee table at home. He had talked on the phone to Trish about my problems. She had agreed that he should settle all my outstanding bills so he had spent the morning writing cheques, and they both wanted us all to come and live with them. The basic idea was that they would employ me as their housekeeper – at a very generous salary – and it would be a permanent ‘live-in’ position for me and my family.
Let me tell you about my brother. Brian was five years my senior. He and his wife met at university and had built up a very successful IT systems design company. At first they did everything themselves, designing, installing and testing every system. It wasn’t long before pressure of work made it necessary for them to hire a couple of recent graduates whom they trained to their own exacting standards then assigned them together as a team.