That Girl and her Fairy Godmother

"Pardon?"

"Did you want to have sex or were your forced into it?"

Her kindness was too much I finally burst into tears and the misery of the moment hit me square in the face. I just stared down into my lap in shame.

"I was at a party," I managed to burst out between sobs, "given spiked wine, passed out and three blokes shagged me..." I broke down again, "Pretty sure they didn't use condoms."

Conscious that I couldn't talk but the Facebook pages told everything I opened my phone and handed it to the nurse. The nurse's fingers flew across the screen and she looked cross and shook her head.

"Bastards..." she said, "Right Tracy, we don't know if they used condoms, so you'll need more than a morning after pill I'm afraid..."

The nurse took swabs, cleaned me up and another took a blood test. While I lay on the bed holding gauze to my arm another lady came in.

"Tracy, this is my very good friend Claire, she's from the Rape and Domestic Violence team, I'm just going to leave you with her for a few moments while I label up all of these swabs."

What I didn't know was that Claire wasn't a nurse, but a specially trained police officer and pretty soon she was taking screenshots of the gloating boys bragging about their sexual conquest over a comatose girl one of them had effectively drugged, then a 'report' from me.

Paul's writings were of particular interest to her, especially when he laid out his M.O. in writing, disguising the vodka in the wine bottle and his recipe. Then how he had encouraged his already vulnerable victim, me, to drink it while he just pretended to, he even complained about 'that fat bitch' having pulled my drunken form further up the garden and away from my snoring nasty boyfriend.

With well-off parents he was always well dressed, always quite well spoken and the hottest boy in the crew, all the Bitches fancied him. Paul had no previous - unlike most of his mates - and was only known to the Police because of what the people he hung around with had done rather than him, and was always stood at the back when the shit hit the fan. The police had him on file for his ability to suggest what his more inebriated friends should do rather than doing it himself. Paul was the boy the lit the firework then stood well back; very very VERY well back.

Not this time, he'd proudly told the world of Facebook his extreme cleverness tagging his best friends Danny and Micky and they too had joined in and boasted of it and it was such a great laugh. But by glorying in his brilliance then sleeping late Paul Younger had pretty much written his own page in the sex offenders register, with a page for his mates.

He didn't go in there of course and was released to the care of his parents in tears with a warning and told by the really pissed off Detective and furious Chief Inspector that if it wasn't for the subsequent withdrawal of my statement, his obvious premeditation would have gotten him into that life-restricting tome with a criminal record for rape along with his friends Danny and Micky C. His parents, who had always insisted what a good boy he was and argued with any policeman who suggested differently, were shown the screen shots and photos and were fuming at him and the shame he'd brought to them.

His Dad was the archetypal poor boy made good and ran his own building firm that Paul was being lined up to take over, but now the whole estate knew that his Gucci model citizen, golf-playing son was a scheming rapist and part of the hated Jackson's Park Boyz, and he worried about the effect this might have on his business, his golf club membership and whether he would still get into the freemasonry.

Even though I'd been the victim, I was the one castigated by the community. I had withdrawn my statement hours after I was told that the three had been arrested because I knew that the Boyz would have their revenge on me if I didn't.

Even my 'boyfriend' Tony joined in with the character assassination, angry that I'd 'allowed them other three toerags to fuck me when I woz pissed', which was the pot calling the kettle black. His anger at me was increased by the blame some of the older girls had thrown at him; if he hadn't been such a pissed lightweight none of this would have happened.

Probably.

This was then followed by the most shaming quote, the one that really let me know what people thought of me, "well everyone knows what Tracy Oliver is like..."

Next was 'Tracy Oliver, slut of the year' with a photo of Danny's arse as he shagged me, posted by Jodie my so-called best mate, which an hour later she tried to soften with an added 'LOL Bae' after I unfriended her. She was no stranger to recreational sex with occasional lovers herself but obviously saw a chance to throw stones in the glass house with minimal damage to herself.

The final straw was step-mum Steph laughing about it following Clarice's gleeful report of the overnight graffiti on the front garden wall saying 'T.O. is a grassin' slut', with large 'JPBz' tag to let the world know just who'd sprayed it there.

My Dad promised to paint it out; even he'd had a grin on his unshaven face. It was eventually painted out by a shamefaced Paul with his Dad stood over him a fortnight later.

My Mum rang me a couple of days after and shouted down the phone that I'd brought shame on her. Yeah right, she was an expert on sleeping around after all. At my lowest ebb, I went to the one place I knew I could get guilt-free solace and physical protection -- off of Jackson's Park Estate and straight to my Grandma's. She knew everything but said nothing, offering what I need most, a place to sleep and non-judgemental understanding. My had journey begun.

From Zero to Hero.

Unable to sleep, I was sat on Grandma's sofa and had been on my phone idly searching on the internet at something like three in the morning and followed the link to the place that she had gone with friends for a long weekend a few weeks before. As I flicked through with no real interest, the page changed and I saw that there were jobs for full-time seasonal staff at the centre, and because it was in the middle of nowhere had a small amount of on-site staff accommodation and I applied as the advert went live.

Six hours later I was interviewed over the phone and gave my experience in child care, even admitting it was because my parents hadn't been that good at it, and was told to present myself at the site that Sunday for a month-long trial period. The interviewer said that because I would be working with children they would need to do a DBS check, but I knew that while my name had been taken a few times I had no criminal record, the detective had told me that there was nothing on file about me not a week before. I gave references of my last ever schoolteacher Mrs Joseph who had been my tutor and had been there when I was looking after Mum's children and knew me well.

I told Dad what I was doing by text message and he replied with a smiley face, I knew that he would be impressed with one less mouth to feed and a spare bed, less impressed when I cancelled my standing order and stopped paying him for my bed and board. I didn't bother telling Mum, I doubted for a second she would even have replied.

I went home during the morning and luckily everyone was out, it was a school and work day; I packed all of my clothes and possessions into a huge 'Sports Direct' zipped bag I found under the stairs, I didn't have much but I knew anything I left would be nicked, given away or car-booted.

On that Sunday morning I started my journey by walking to the railway station with a packed lunch and a hug from Grandma, spending the last of my money on the ticket. I had nothing left but a tiny overdraft facility and hoped that the food and accommodation the job came with started that day.

With no money for a bus let alone a taxi I walked from the station along roads bounded by fields and trees (not something that Jackson's Park estate was big on) for almost two hours and using the satnav found the place, hoping desperately that my phone charge would last until I got there.

Fortunately it did -- just - and the duty manager was very pleased to meet me and impressed when I said that I'd actually walked from the station.

"That's four and half miles!" she said, taking my bag off me and taking me to the kitchen for a very welcome cup of tea. She showed me to my room, which although it was quite small it was just mine and for the first time in years I wouldn't have anyone walking in, or worse going to bed and finding someone there before me; AND it had a lock so none of my stuff would go missing.

I didn't unpack until the duty manager had left, and she promised that she'd come back after dinner and take me to get my ID badge arranged and sort out my uniform.

"Uniform?"

"Oh yeah," said the duty manager, "corporate clothing lovely," she brushed her hand down the very smart looking light green smock that looked just like the nurses wore in the clinic where I'd gone after that horror night.

I felt rather good about that. The only uniform I'd worn before had been from Burger King during the summer when I first left school, and this looked way smarter.

I went to the staff canteen at a little after seven thirty once the residents and their visitors had eaten. I sat down to eat with lots of other staff members all wearing the smart looking uniforms and they were all very welcoming. The food was great and properly prepared, and a thousand miles from the processed garbage I ate at home - there was even a pudding.

I headed to the office and the manager took my photograph and in moments it was printed onto a card, slid into a holder and attached to a lanyard and looped around my neck. Next it was into a large storeroom and she asked my size. I was chunky size 16, with a 38C bust and she handed me three smocks, three pairs of very smart trousers, one thermal waistcoat.

"I shouldn't do this yet Tracy but I've got a good feeling, here." She handed me a raincoat with a removable fleece liner, and finally shoes. This was the largest amount of new clothing I'd ever had.

She took me back to my room and showed me where the laundry was and the ironing board. I asked questions about detergents and tumble-drying and the manager grinned and said she was impressed that I knew such things as many of my contemporaries had to be shown. All of uniform needed to be ironed smartly and I was very pleased to report that being the eldest child I was very good with an iron. The now happy manager explained that while female staff were encouraged to wear make-up, it need to be smart and tasteful.

I didn't have a lot of make-up and wouldn't be buying any until after pay day and she said she was sure that would be fine and showing me back to my room wished me a good night. I plugged in and logged my phone into the staff Wi-Fi and almost looked at Facebook, but then remembered that I'd closed my account and removed that App from my phone two nights before, swearing that I was going to turn my life around and that Tracy Oliver would have a minimal presence on the internet.

I appeared for breakfast the next morning bright and earlier than needed feeling really smart in that first set of all new clothes, everyone around me was wearing the same or much like it and I'd gone with a light face powdering, eye make-up and lipstick.

When greeted by three of the other girls I was happy that my accent wasn't so far from theirs and felt that this might be OK.

I found that I was one of three new starters that day and we were all with the Duty Manager again and filling in more paperwork, undertaking some very basic training around food hygiene, essential first aid and the ethos of the company and the rather tortuous shift pattern.

I had a great first day, which became a great second day that stretched into a great first week of learning the ropes and the routines. I had my first day off the following Sunday and took the bus into the sleepy holiday town; it was at least seventy miles and one hundred years different to the war zone I'd come from. I even had some money in my pocket courtesy of some tips I'd received and with two of the girls wandered into the coffee shop and had my very first latte; I'd probably drunk more wine than both of them put together many times over mind you.

We sat there and just chatted, and I was amazed the discussion wasn't centred around who was sleeping with who, what parties were going on and long discussions about clothes that no one could afford, and no one offering anyone first dibs on some recently stolen property.

I'd gone with jeans and a T-shirt leaving my usual leggings and boob tube at the bottom of my wardrobe still in the 'Sports Direct' bag. The next week was more of the same and I found myself working with families with young children and virtually running the crèche, the other girls happy to let me.

I'd been looking after young children, even changing crappy nappies, for years so it came easily and I actually enjoyed it, saying a bit of a sad farewell each Friday afternoon to some of the kiddies I'd grown to really love working with.

The weeks flew by and I was called in to speak to the Human Resources manager without even realising it was the day I would be told how I'd got on and whether I still had a job.

"Tracy!" said the HR manager, "My name is Carol, how are you doing?"

"Really well thank you!" I replied, when it suddenly hit me what I was there for and it must have shown.

"I'll put you out of your misery Tracy," said the boss, "You've passed your probationary month with flying colours, Your manager told me two weeks ago that you are such a natural with the kiddies, here," said Carol handing over some printed sheets, "customer feedback..."

I read through each form, reading down each page until I reached the 'staff who have worked particularly well' section.

And there it was, 'Tracy', 'Tracy O', 'that really nice brown-haired girl with the big smile', then the final one 'Tracy the lifesaver'. Each of the fifteen or so pages listing how great I had been with their children, the last 'lifesaver' one explaining that in the two weeks that their son had been spending mornings or afternoons in the crèche, miracle worker Tracy had virtually potty-trained their previously wilful son who now only wore nappies to bed. I smiled when I read that one.

Little Jasper was quite a handful but then I guessed that I was the first person ever to say 'no' to the little fellow and set anything like ground rules. By the end of his first week he was saying 'please' and 'thank you' and the little lovely called me 'T'acey.

I'd learned from my growing up how to deal with difficult small children, and these little holidaying cuties weren't even close to the sunset-yellow-colouring, blue-smartie devouring, hyperactive, ADHD'd hooligans I'd looked after before.

Babysitting a bunch of reasonably good kids from nice families for eight hours a day was a walk in the fucking park; the fact I got housed, clothed and fed would almost have been enough, but the real icing on the cake was the I actually got paid for it.

Carol the HR Manager smiled at my slightly misty-eyed look and took the forms back sliding them into the file with my name on.

"We've paid your wages into your new bank account and here's your contract of employment, sign here."

I signed, looked at my payslip and saw for the first time just how much money I had in my account. After food and accommodation was taken out it was it was tiny, but to me it was a fortune, almost, plus I'd only spent the money I had from tips so far. Most importantly I'd made some good friends and while I had been waiting for the bitching, complaining and inevitable falling out that had been part and parcel of my previous friendships, that never happened here.

This job was worlds apart from my previous life and I revelled in it, spending the summer playing with and looking after really nice children that never swore at me or hit me, then in my downtime hanging out with nice people in the nicest way.

I worked my arse off all summer, with the inevitable turn around as the school holidays ended. To my delight I was asked if I wanted to stay on working at the centre throughout the winter and said that I certainly did. The only change would be that the age range would change and the crèche would close to be replaced by older people who all but took over in the winter months.

This was still no problem and while I missed my summer babies, toddlers and kiddies the options for tips were greater. I loved working with the pensioners just as much and they all seemed to treat me like I was a grandchild and tried to look after me!

After a few weeks working the autumn holiday park I was greeted at the staff room by Carol the HR manager again, this time looking flustered.

"Hi Tracy!" she said in her usual ebullient fashion, "tell me sweetheart, did you have the 'flu vaccination earlier this year?" The company had brought in a local pharmacist on a special rate and almost the entire staff stood in line for the injection.

"Yes," I said, wondering what that might have to do with anything.

"Sweetie, I have a real need for a staff member to go and work at our other centre a few miles away on the Sussex Coast. The 'flu has hit the place like a steam roller and I barely have enough staff to keep it operational, would you go there for me... PLEASE?!" Carol whined.

"Sure," I said. I'd quickly worked at that this management team really liked keen people that were willing to help out and my options to stay employed with the company wouldn't be damaged by my agreeing.

"Oh Sweetie thank you, go and pack a bag and I'll run you over there."

"A bag?"

"Yes," said Carol, "You'll have to stay there for at least a week."

"I'll pack my bag." I ran up to her room and took everything, and in less than an hour was being shown around the other centre by a girl a bit older than me with a red nose, and a throaty, croaky voice and only too happy to give me her bunch of keys and run to her bedroom and lay down and prepare for imminent death, or slow recovery. I was sat in front of a laptop and did a first aid on-line refresher.

I will confess that I threw myself into the work and pretty soon was being all things to all people at the centre. These ones were far from the week or fortnight package deal holidaymakers at the park, these were older, more genteel and semi-residential and in the ensuite, ala carte place for two or three months, sometimes longer, with a wing set aside for those recovering from injuries or surgery.

On my third day I'd started to flag from covering at least three jobs and found myself with a mug of tea sat in the cloisters, long passageways with seating against the huge windows looking out toward the coast with the dark blue of the channel beyond. The black clouds brooded across the skyline and the few trees already laid north-bound by the prevailing off-shore winds started to bounce around as the storm hit them. It was quiet behind the excellent double glazing though, the setting was really nice and I sipped my tea, happy to be inside on a day like this.

I was feeling a bit down and had arrived at absolutely the wrong time; this was the week that the last of the summer students that had arrived a few weeks after me were all going back to their Universities.

There was Greg the English literature student, the hot looking boy two years older than me with the sexy hair that looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, the sharp eyebrows he MUST have shaped and the peaky perky mouth in that almost-smile he habitually wore. We had been chatting quite nicely and not flirtatious in any way even though I had the most horrendous crush on him.

Since THAT party my self-confidence had taken the worst knock and even I wasn't sure how to talk to a guy as nice and as posh as him, well posher than any of my previous boyfriends had been at least; but there was always that thing in the back of my mind, my shame, that distrust of boys, that thought that anyone giving me a drink might end up...