I was six then. I know because of the photo. Ponytails and a purple polo-neck disguised how sick I was.

The school was only a short walk away. I was always safe. It was a small village and we all knew each other. It was okay that we were blow-ins. I crossed the road, looking each way, but didn’t see the man approaching.

He stopped near the stone wall. I had no need to see him, so I didn’t.

I didn’t see him as he moved in front of me. I didn’t see him until he stopped me.

“Little girl, do you want this twopence?” I said nothing.

I knew I should be afraid. I didn’t know why, but once you feel it, it’s there for life.

“Feel what I have in my trousers.”

A tear fell. I knew there was nowhere to go.

“Do it for the twopence, girl. Do it now.”

He unzipped his pants and drew me to the wall.

The wall was at the side of the school.

The school bell rang. I was late. Standing in class, I told the teacher. The man. The twopence.

The teacher was shouting, “How could you make up such lies? You should be quiet. Go to your seat.”

Quiet? Like I was with the man?

She adjusted her veil and went back to writing on the blackboard.

I had learnt my first lesson. To stay quiet. Silent, no matter what.

I was mute for a week. I was bad. I was afraid. Mum and Dad would see, and I would be different in their eyes.

Dad tried for a week. He took me in his arms and promised me I would be okay. I could tell the truth and he would listen.

The day I spoke again, I stood in the street and wet myself. Warm urine trickled down my leg and soaked my shoes.

The man, he was known. He was known to the guards. “Old and harmless,” they told Dad. But we were blow-ins.

And I had learnt I was to become one of them. An adult.