I Remember, Daddy (18 page)

Nemesis has almost caught up with my father on a couple of occasions. But even fate doesn’t seem to be able to break through the protective barrier he’s constructed around himself so carefully over the years. Like almost all the men who enjoyed his parties and who had sex with me or with other young people, maintaining the myth of their good reputations is far more important to them than all the lives they’ve damaged and, in some cases, ruined completely. So my father knows he’s safe.

I’d like to think that he sometimes has anxious moments when he wonders whether I’ll ever decide to go back to the police and provide them with the evidence they need to take action against him, but I doubt if he loses much sleep over the thought. And he’d be right not to, because although I hate the idea that he’ll never have to answer for what he’s done, I know that I need to move on with my life, and to do that I have to turn my back on my father in every respect and look forward.

It seemed that the only person my father was ever afraid of was his mother, who, ironically, was also the only person I think he’s ever really loved. I asked him once why he was the way he was and he told me – in an uncharacteristically unguarded moment – that when he was a little boy, his mother used to make him wear a dress and everyone used to laugh at him. I think that when my father was born, his parents had just lost a little girl, who’d died from some illness, so I assume that had something to do with it. Whatever the reason, he says he swore that, one day when he grew up, he’d make everyone pay for having mocked him and he’d ensure that no one ever laughed at him again. ‘I was determined to get the last laugh,’ he told me. And I suppose he feels that he has.

If the story he told me is true, the damage his mother’s actions caused to his psychological development was inadvertent. Whereas he systematically and deliberately damaged many lives, including my mother’s and my own – which seems an unnecessarily vicious way of getting the last laugh.

My grandmother told me once that one summer, when she and my grandfather were staying in the house by the coast, there was a knock at the door in the middle of the night and she opened it to find my father standing there. He was drunk and wearing high-heeled shoes, a feather boa and make-up, and he was with a young woman in a very short skirt. My grandmother was furious with him and said, ‘What the hell are you doing? You look bloody ridiculous! Get out of here!’ So perhaps it was after that incident that he turned against her, and maybe it was because of her criticism of him that he later refused to help her when she didn’t have enough money to heat the miserable, damp flat she was living in all alone.

I know that my father was determined to shake off the memory of the boy from the poor council estate he used to be, and to become a wealthy, successful and respected businessman. It was an ambition in which he succeeded. But, despite outward appearances, it was as though there always remained something rotten inside him, something tainted that he could never quite shake off – although I’m not sure he ever tried. It was something that prevented him ever becoming a decent man and that attracted to him as friends other men who were psychologically unstable, for whatever reason.

There must be reasons why my father behaved in the way he did, why he despised women and was incapable of loving even the people who loved him. And I’ve often wondered what they are. But I don’t really care any more. He’s had his life and he’s made his choices; and at last, now that I’ve stepped out from under the shadow he cast on my life, I’m free to make my choices too.

When I was a child, he’d always get up early on weekdays and be dressed and out of the house before I was awake; and he’d often come home after I was in bed. At the weekends, he’d play tennis in the mornings and have lunch in the pub with friends before coming home to have a bath or a nap with me. Then he’d be off out again, often with my mother. So, when he was at home, he was either drunk or in bed; I don’t remember him ever being completely sober.

I can remember times when he was funny, though, and sometimes he could even be quite affectionate as he passed through one of the early stages of drunkenness. I have one enduring memory of a party when he danced with me and cuddled me, like a normal dad would do. But then he’d drink some more, and as soon as everyone else had left the house, his good humour would turn to spiteful aggression and he’d be transformed into an unsmiling, violent, frightening bully.

I heard recently that he’d given a talk to help raise money for a charity, and I laughed out loud. Because, as I think I’ve already mentioned, he hates people who need charity – and black people, Arabs (in fact, ‘foreigners’ of any sort), people who live in council houses, religion, particularly Catholicism …

I know that when he dies there’ll be a huge memorial service for him and everyone will say what a wonderful, charismatic, caring man he was. But there’ll be dozens – if not hundreds – of people who’ll know he wasn’t, and many of them will sigh with relief when he’s gone.

I don’t know how I’ll feel when that time comes. Perhaps there’s a part of me that will be sad; maybe I’ll mourn the loss of my father – although, in reality, I think I did that many years ago. The truth is that what he did to me ruined years of my life. I won’t ever forgive him for that, and I certainly won’t ever forget about it again. He controlled my past, but I refuse to allow him to control my future.

When the memories started to return, I didn’t want to remember. But I know now that if I hadn’t, I’d always have felt guilty without ever understanding why. I needed to be able to work through the problems my father created in my life, even though doing so caused me unspeakable anguish and distress and came close to destroying me. The road to recovery was long and I made slow, often painful, progress. There were many occasions when I thought I wasn’t going to make it to the end. But I did make it, and at last I can move on and use my experiences to try to help young people whose lives have been similarly damaged.

When I was a little girl, I used to lie in my bed every single night, waiting and wondering. Would my father come into my room and do things to me? Or would he come in and lift me out of my bed and carry me upstairs? And if he did take me upstairs, who would do the things to me then? Occasionally, he didn’t come, and I’d fall asleep, still waiting. I spent my childhood waiting, and it sometimes seemed to be the worst thing of all. In some ways, it was almost better to get a beating from my father, because once he was actually beating me, I knew it would soon be over and, for a while at least, I wouldn’t have to wait and wonder when it was going to happen.

It was as though there was always someone standing behind me, picking with their fingers at a balloon so that it made a horrible, tight, squeaky noise, while I waited fearfully for it to burst. And now, finally, all these years later, it feels as though I’ve swung round, snatched the balloon from their hands and burst it myself – and now the waiting is over.

People who know what my father did to me sometimes say, ‘Don’t worry. He’ll get his come-uppance.’ But I think he probably won’t. He always wanted to be someone – although I’m sure that no one would ever have set out to be the man he became – and now that he is someone, maybe he’ll get away with it all. I hope, though, that at least his dreams are haunted by the terrible things he’s done.

I used to wonder why he’d done those things to me, and for a long time – when I believed that bad things only happen to bad people – I accepted his assertion that they were somehow my fault. I realise now, though, that something very bad must have happened to him to make him the person he became, and part of me would like to be able to say I feel sorry for him. But that wouldn’t be true. I don’t feel sorry for him because, whatever happened to him, he had a choice, as we all do, and he chose to be a bad person – and that’s his fault.

Who knows what my father thinks when he stands alone and looks at his reflection in the mirror – although it doesn’t really matter, because this isn’t his story; it’s mine. The telling of it has sometimes been difficult, but if it gives hope to just one person who was abused as a child or who’s struggling to overcome their past for some other reason, then it has all been worthwhile.

Perhaps I had to hit rock bottom before I could really start to get better. I know that I’m lucky, because I’ve got friends I love and who really care about me, and I’ve got my son. Never a day passes when I don’t think about Sam and bless the day he was born. I still feel guilty about what he had to go through because of me. But I think, remarkably, he’s always understood that I was ill and that I’d have been there for him all the time if I’d had the choice. He knows my father abused me when I was a child, and he never asks about him or even mentions his name.

Perhaps one of the things I did get right, though, was choosing a good father for Sam, because he’s been very fortunate to have had Tom and his family to take care of him and to love him the way they’ve always done. I believe Sam has always known how much I love him too, and that he’s the most important thing in my life. He’s 20 now; he’s a really lovely young man and he has a good job that he enjoys and is making a success of – which, considering the fruit-cake his mother has been over the years, is quite an achievement.

As well as Sam, I’ve got Jenny to thank for the fact that I’m still here. We’ve known each other since we were 12 years old; she’s my rock and my dearest friend, and there have been many times when, quite literally, I couldn’t have coped without her. Now that I live so far away from her, I miss her and text her almost every day, and I do wish that she was here with me.

On the other side of the coin, however, is the fact that missing the people I love is a constant reminder to be proud of the way I’m coping and of how far I’ve come. I’m proud, too, of having achieved my ambition of working in childcare, which, although often distressing, has proved to be as rewarding and satisfying as I’d hoped it would be.

I’m contented now, and I didn’t think that was something I was ever going to be able to say. I’ve learned, at last, to stop looking over my shoulder at the past and instead to look forward to the future I know that I can create for myself. I’ve discovered that I’m stronger than I ever realised, and I’m determined that who I am and what I do with my life will not be defined in any negative way by what happened to me as a child. I’m immensely fortunate to have people who love me and who I can rely on and, finally, I’ve learned to accept and be grateful for their love without feeling guilty and undeserving of it.

I love my job, too, and I appreciate the satisfaction it gives me of feeling that I’m making a difference, however small. Most of the young people I work with have suffered abuse – physical, sexual, mental and/or emotional – often at the hands of one or both of their parents or another close family member; and when you understand how bewildered, hurt and angry they are, it’s hardly surprising that their behaviour is sometimes challenging. I know they’re not bad people, any of them, despite what they may believe about themselves; and they’re certainly not worthless or useless. By helping them to see that, and by being there if they need someone to talk to as they struggle to make sense of the chaos of their emotions, I feel as though something positive has evolved from what used to seem so irredeemably hopeless.

I’ve come a long way, and I’m proud to be moving forward in my life – against all the odds. If things sometimes go wrong for me in the future, I’ll know that it isn’t because of what happened to me in the past, or because I’m a bad person; it’s just that, sometimes, things happen to us all – good and bad. And I can deal with that.

Ultimately, remembering made me stronger and, most importantly of all, it made me realise that I don’t have to be afraid anymore.

Sam – the one thing I did right in my life was to have you. You are my reason for living and I love you very much. You have grown into a lovely young man and I am so proud of you. Even though there were times when I wasn’t well and I was unable to look after you, you were always in my thoughts and I am the luckiest mum alive to have you as my loving son.

Jenny – I don’t really need to say much because you know. Thank you for the last 32 years, and here’s to many more. I love you.

Megan – I hope that we have wine-o’clocks soon. I miss you.

Jack – you showed me how to love and how to be loved. Thank you for believing in me and for your wonderful sense of humour, which got me through many a dark day. For that alone I am eternally grateful.

To everyone who has been or is being abused – PLEASE tell someone. IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. I hope that reading this book might help you in some way. I wish you peace and happiness. Don’t be afraid to try to achieve your dreams – you can do it. You deserve the best, and you
are
worth it.

Lastly, to my father – this is closure for me. I cannot forgive you, but you no longer consume my life; you no longer scare me or have any hold over me. The unspeakable pain you caused me has made me stronger and I can honestly say now, ‘Enough. I am done.’

About the Author

Katie’s childhood had been hard. She had grown up in fear of her father and of the physical abuse he had mercilessly inflicted on her and She still felt a chill when she remembered those dark days.

But when she was admitted to a psychiatric hospital, apparently in the throes of devastating post-natal depression, terrible secrets were unlocked in her mind.

As well as the punches and kicks she would never forget, Katie began to recall the horrific things her father had done to her, why she’d learned to dread meeting his ‘friends’ and why she’d hated seeing the flash of a camera through her tightly closed eyelids...

I Remember, Daddy
is the harrowing but inspiring story of Katie’s journey as she learns to come to terms with her past and with the memories that were too painful to remember, but impossible to forget.

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