Dirty Old Man (A True Story) (3 page)

In an hour or so, I’d be on a different journey, I’d already lived an awkward, short lifetime of hell, which I contemplated on the journey home to give strength and further reason to my cause.

It was the first time I wished the bus didn’t stop right outside my house. I knew they’d all be rubber-necking at the window; anticipating my return.

     It was as though I’d walked into a stand-off as I crept through the front door. My mum and dad were waiting for me; they’d probably been thinking up things to say all day; running their scripts past each other and changing tactics. I had no comeback to whatever they’d throw at me. All I had was backbone and an iron will.

     “So what’s it going to be?” asked Dad with a smug expression, “we’ve taken the liberty of packing your things already.” He gestured to a pile of bin-liners that sat under the stairs, and I didn’t doubt for a second that my entire life could be squeezed into four bin-liners, and that they’d still contain as much air as they did. At least I knew their strategy; it was ‘call my bluff’, fortunately I had a plan of my own that they’d soon know about.

I told myself to stand my ground, to speak my purpose, that it would soon be over, but I was frozen on the spot with my back against the front door for support.

I didn’t say a word. It was a survival technique I’d learned living with that man, all he could do was shout at me and lose control of his own emotions. I was nothing like him.

Even in the midst of this very serious situation, he’d continue to play mind games with me. My mind was made up, and there would be nothing more they could say to convince me otherwise.

I’d picture perfected my new home with a tree in the garden, my new life without these games.

My silence had bought me a little time; I looked through the kitchen at the clock; John’s mum should be arriving anytime, she did say ‘around four o’ clock’. Then the doubt kicked in, what if she didn’t turn up? What if Bernie changed his mind? What if the only knock that would come would be that of the police? I started to panic inside.

I was about ready to drop the bombshell on them when my dad grasped my wrist and manhandled me into the kitchen. He pushed me into the worktop, and I hit my head on the cupboard above.

I panicked, what was I to do? Stand and fight back? They were my parents; I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t give him the raise he was obviously looking for.

He pushed me hard into the cooker, and I could feel the bruising coming out already. An area of my lower back felt cold, as if there were blood, but there was nothing else to convince me.

He told me he was going to, ‘knock my fucking lights out’ and my mum stood behind him spectating.

     “I’d slap you right around the face but you’d call social services wouldn’t you?  Because you’re a spiteful little bitch.” She said
.

I wasn’t sure whether she was actually asking for my permission to slap me, so I nodded my head.

     “Yes, I’d call them straight out.” I said.

I’d suddenly found my voice after sixteen years and it felt good. These people, who had been given authority, responsibility and rights over me since the day I was born, were just people to me now; and I no longer wanted to take their crap.

I opened my mouth to inform them of my intentions but somebody knocked at the door.

I’m not religious in any respects, but I prayed and prayed harder that it would be John’s mum. The timing would be perfect.
For once, please just let it go my way.
I prayed. The tension inside was unbearable; I was ready to snap in half.

They put on their happy masks, but not before my dad warned me that he was far from finished with me yet. It was John. 
             

My mum answered the door and it was John who stood on the doorstep. He looked terrified but it was evident whose corner he was fighting.

     “Are you ready Moll?” He asked me as I lingered in the kitchen doorway.

My parents were speechless.

I moved carefully around them, conscious they could pounce on me like a pack of wild dogs any moment. I had a witness this time. John would get the police if they attacked me. This gave me a little confidence.

We took two bin-liners each, and John carried them to the car. I turned to my parents as I prepared to see them for the last time.

     “I’m going now, I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” I tightened my lips as they quivered; I was not going to cry.

     “Don’t bother,” said Dad, “you’ve done enough damage to this family.” He couldn’t look me in the face. I didn’t even look at my mum; I couldn’t bear to see that look of disappointment again. I didn’t want to remember her like that.

     I felt the heat on my face as it escaped the house, and I felt empowered
to stand on the other side of the threshold. I was standing outside with no curfew; I was free.

They were going to let me leave, just like that. No, ‘I love you’, absolutely nothing.

I looked my dad square in the face, and for a moment; I became the perfect mirror of his personality. I don’t know where it came from but it had been trapped inside me for years.

     “Not king of the fucking castle anymore are you?” I sneered, as I screwed up my nose and glared at him.

I took my bags and walked over to the car where John’s mum was patiently waiting, seemingly oblivious to what was going on. My dad called out softly after me.

     “We’ll always be here if you need us.”

I shook my head, just another mind game I told myself as I climbed into the back of the car. I didn’t look back as we pulled off. I hated them because they evoked such hate in me.

     Bernie was supposed to be picking me up at half past four; I had all my hopes pinned on it.  It was a cold October’s evening, and the dark would soon be drawing in as I stood out in John’s front garden waiting.

His mum popped her head out now and again to see how I was getting on, she looked a little concerned and said they had a spare bedroom if I needed it; that I could stay for as long as I liked.

I wouldn’t consider it at all; I’d committed my mind to moving to Peterborough. A change of strategy would have been too much to deal with and I’d likely have a breakdown, I’d pushed my emotional strength to the extreme already; and I pushed my doubts to the back of my mind.

A friend of mine who lived a couple of doors down walked across, I was a little overwhelmed at the sense of freedom I had. Normally, being stood about at this time of night with friends never happened without extreme consequences. The concern that my parents would soon be out looking for me was still there in the back of my mind because old habits die hard.

She offered me a room at her house for the night, her parents were foster carers. I remember being very short with her and explained that Bernie was just running late. I couldn’t tell her much else.

It unnerved me that everybody had given up hope; it was a time when mobile phones weren’t as popular so I couldn’t ring him to find out where he was.

     I could barely feel my hands in the autumn freeze as Bernie’s car rolled up at half past eight. I wanted to be angry, to shout and ask him where the hell he’d been; but I was in a very delicate situation. If I made him angry, (which I’d never seen before) he might well drive off, leaving me in a real predicament. Feelings of relief took over instead and I almost sobbed.

He seemed distracted and hurried me along.

     “We’d better not hang about,” he said as he looked over his shoulder, “it’d be just like your parents to call the police.”

     “They don’t know where I am and they don’t know the address in Peterborough either.” I said, as though I had it all figured out.

     “Well let’s not take that risk anyway,” he said, as he roughly bundled my bin liners into the boot.

I thanked John and his mum profusely as Bernie waited impatiently in the car. They wished me all the best with my new life.

I got into Bernie’s new Rover 214 and we headed towards the A47, leaving Leicestershire behind.

We didn’t speak much during the drive, but as I looked out the window at the stars in the dark sky; Savage Gard
en began to play on the radio. ‘To the Moon and Back’ It seemed quite fitting at the time.

The most painful, heartfelt tears are the ones that run down the cheek when nobody is looking; I noticed them as I caught my reflection in the window.

Thoughts of my family lingered on my conscience. I pictured my siblings sat up in their rooms while my parents agonised downstairs, shouting and throwing things about the house, blaming each other; blaming me. Maybe they did care in their own way; still they hadn’t tried to stop me leaving. Even the rose tinted lenses couldn’t fool my screaming heart.

We drove past Perkins Engines as we came into Peterborough, I noticed how every building was an industrial sort until we drove a little further to somewhere that looked almost residential.

We passed a hotel, a shop and a phone box until we came onto a road called ‘Fengate’. There was a petrol station and a mobile home park.

We turned into that mobile home park and took the first left, until we came to a communal parking area.

     “This is it,” smiled Bernie, “this is our home.” He studied my face for a reaction, he must have witnessed the exact moment my heart sank because it was too obvious to go unnoticed. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful so I got out of the vehicle.

     “There’s the tree I told you about,” he said, pointing to something scrawny sticking out of the ground. It wasn’t even a garden really; just rented earth between caravans, and the tree was just an attempt to spruce up the shabby trailer park.

All of my life, I had been making fun of people that lived in caravans; now I’d be one of them - talk about karma.

As I walked up the broken steps, my second disappointment would be the front door that looked unsecure; after a quick rattle we were in.

Bernie turned on the lights and led me into a small sitting room; there were two dirty white plastic garden chairs, which looked as though they’d been taken from the patio set outside. There was no television, only Bernie’s computer, electric guitar and a stereo that sat in the corner.

The carpet was sodden and smelled as though it was rotten right through, the walls were mouldy and painted an off-yellow colour. Suddenly I felt very foolish and I was sure I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

     “Come through and have a look at the kitchen,” Bernie beamed, as he danced on the spot.

I took one step to the right and I was in the kitchen. It was equally as hideous as the living room, and I feared the mouldy theme would continue throughout the hell hole. Somehow, somebody had managed to squeeze a tiny table with two chairs into a space below the plastic window. The greasy brown cooker looked decades older than me, and there was no fridge.

     “I’ve been using the cupboard under the sink to store milk, its cold enough,” said Bernie, “you’ll have to do the washing in the bath because we haven’t got room for a washing machine. I’ve got a spinner for drying though, and there’s a line out the back. You’re a woman, I’m sure you’ll be able to work out which washing powder you’ll need to buy for hand washing.”

I tried to pass it off as a minor inconvenience; I was sure I’d work it out eventually.

The bathroom was next on the left, painted a dull brown colour with a matching brown suite. The mouldy roller blind turned my stomach and I felt unclean just being in there.

The final blow came in the form of a double bedroom; this was when I understood the true nature of our relationship.

     I’d always been confused as to what the relationship really was. On the one hand, Bernie had treated me like a daughter and I saw him as a father, on the other hand; there had been sexual contact for a couple of years that I’d just gone along with it; not wanting to lose the one person in m
y life I felt I could rely upon; the one person who made me feel good about myself.

     The double bedroom, to me; was a room of expectations, things I knew hardly anything about; things I’d not experienced until I met Bernie.

The bed was covered half with a dusky pink sheet, the other half with a picnic blanket and a folded sleeping bag at the bottom.

I was distracted by a sound from one of the cupboards that were built into the wardrobe.

     “What’s this?” I asked as the buzzing got louder.

     “It’s an electric meter, coin operated. You put a pound in, you get electric. I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

There was a small pile of coins inside the cupboard, I didn’t know the value of money at all but guessed I’d be handling a lot more of it now.

Bernie showed me the last room in the caravan, a small porch that contained his filing cabinet and the spinner dryer. I hadn’t seen anything like it before, there was a spout on the front that I imagined the water would drain out of; the old thing looked ancient and haunted.

You could fit one person in that room; two at a push.