I Won't Forgive What You Did (7 page)

She also, when my mother was in hospital giving birth to my sister, took it upon herself to ‘potty train’ me – though no potties, it appears, were involved. I was seventeen months old, and this fact came to light only many years later, via letters I found – Nan had presumably written to her in hospital. It certainly added substance to the terrifying early memories I had of wetting myself on the path in her garden, and her yanking me across the concrete, marching me angrily to the outside toilet, and then shutting me in behind what felt like the most enormous wooden door. My screams fell on deaf ears, I couldn’t reach the handle, and I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong. I just felt this terrible sense of not knowing how to be a good girl, and sobbed, confused and upset.

Despite her rigorous attention to the goings-on in our house, she seemed, at the same time, not to like us. She did give me some positive experiences and parenting, yet, as I grew older, it always felt more a point-scoring exercise – to show how much better than my mother she was at mothering – than out of any feelings of love.

Indeed, apart from my older sister, her first grandchild – and a girl – it seemed that none of us meant anything to her, and especially not me or my younger sister. Indeed, most of the time, she seemed to view us with distaste, as the urchins of the bastard son she’d conceived by accident with a feckless man, and – to make matters worse – who’d grown up to marry a woman she considered unfit to be a mother. No wonder she thought the family to be in need of her aggressive interventions.

My mother would happily, for the most part, accept these. Only occasionally would she show any spark of anger or rebellion, like the occasion when my nan, looking after me one time, decided to cut off all my hair. My mother was incensed – a rare moment of maternal anger – because she thought, and said angrily, Nan had done it out of spite, to try to make me look like a boy. Nan had always wanted a little girl of her own, and to my mother’s mind, she cut my hair because she was jealous of my mother having daughters.

I found this knowledge terribly upsetting. Nan would often come round and say to my mother, ‘I’ll take Faith home, out of your way’ I hated this feeling of being ‘in the way’ and didn’t know what I could do so I would not be. My mother certainly acted as if I was in the way most of the time, and I’d rush around trying to be as helpful as I could so that I wouldn’t be, and there’d be no reason for her to let Nan have me.

I’d often hide for ages when Nan came round, because I knew if she couldn’t find me she’d have to leave without me or she’d miss her bus. Sometimes, however, I didn’t have a choice, and would be packed off on the bus to stay with her.

Once there, the routine was always the same. I’d be run a warm bath with bubbles, to stop the bath getting dirty, and ordered to take off my clothes. These she’d kick into the corner of the bathroom, while she screwed up her face in revulsion. I hated that she kicked my clothes in the corner like that, treating them as if they were just filthy rubbish. She’d then scrub me and scrub me, all the time telling me how dirty I was. She’d do the same with my hair, shampooing it over and over, telling me again how filthy my hair was, how filthy my mother was, and how disgusting it was for her to have had so many children. She’d also pass comment on Grandpops’ home, and my other grandmother, who wasn’t even alive still. ‘Disgusting,’ she’d say. ‘Never seen anything like it. And to think your dad wanted to marry into that! He wasn’t brought up like that, we were different from that. I don’t know what was wrong with him.’ By the time I was allowed to climb out, I was clean on the outside, but felt dirty on the inside. Much dirtier and ashamed than when I’d climbed in.

After scrubbing the bath to ‘get rid of all the dirt’, Nan would don rubber gloves, pour disinfectant into the water and wash my clothes. Once again, she’d talk to me throughout the operation, commenting again on how filthy they were, and pointing out, once she’d scrubbed them, her nose wrinkled up, ‘No other washing can go in
that
water.’

But staying at Nan’s had its good aspects too. Bedtime was lovely – the direct opposite of home – because the bed had clean sheets, which were wonderful to sleep in, and I had a torch under the pillow so I could see in the dark. Breakfast, too, was like no breakfast I ever had at home. I’d sit and watch while she buttered the end of a whole loaf, then cut a thick slice to go with my boiled egg. Having breakfast made for me, served to me,
given
to me, was such a novel thing to happen.

Yet for all the concern she seemed to show for my well-being, Nan was really no different from either of my parents, in that she seemed to offer not the smallest shred of affection. No different from my parents in that she didn’t hug or cuddle me; no different from my parents in that she almost always made me feel unwanted and unloved. And no more so did she do this than at Christmas.

Despite the squalor and unhappiness around me, the Christmases of my childhood probably differed little, in many small ways, from the Christmases in most homes at that time. Though rooms were full to bursting with rubbish, we still had lots of pretty paper garlands and balloons. We also had a tree, and it was usually enormous, causing my father to swear and swear as he carried it in and set it up. None of us was allowed to help with the decorations – if we so much as touched a bauble we’d be angrily chastised. It was his job, and his alone, and we were only allowed to watch.

But Christmas Day was also the one day in the year when my mother would put out bowls of sweets and nuts and fruit, and let us help ourselves. The point would usually arrive when my father thought we were being greedy, and start swearing, but for a brief time we could behave the way other families did and feel Christmassy and jolly and have fun.

The night before Christmas, on every year I could remember, my father would take all the bulbs out of the upstairs lights, in order that we wouldn’t see Father Christmas arrive, or open our stockings (his old socks) until he said so. It was scary, but if we so much as squeaked, we were told, he’d fill up our stockings with coal.

As it was, come morning, I realized I’d obviously managed to drop off, because I could see he’d been and all would be well and we’d have a happy time on Christmas Day.

I’d open my stocking to find a great hoard: a packet of tissues, a toothbrush and some toothpaste – a truly wonderful treat – plus a pencil with a rubber on the end, a small diary, some chocolate coins, a satsuma and some nuts. My main present, when I was eight, I remember, was a blue toy typewriter, with its own ink and paper, which filled me with joy.

We were all so grateful for our presents, but just in case we weren’t, our parents told us straight away they’d all been bought ‘on tick’ and now they must start over again, borrowing for next year’s. As long as we looked grateful enough, my father wouldn’t swear, and we’d all sit down to Christmas lunch happy.

Grandpops would be there, drinking port and lemon with my parents and, as at every other time, finding opportunities to seek me out and ‘tickle’ me (and, I suspect, my sisters). But though he’d corner me upstairs when he went to the bathroom, at least for periods in the day, the presence of my father meant I had some time mostly unmolested.

There’d be turkey, and a pork joint, and boiled potatoes and Brussels sprouts, and for afters we’d have jelly and fruit – not Christmas pudding, as my father didn’t like it. I loved Christmas dinner, and looked forward to it greatly. I just wished we could all sit together round a table instead of having to eat it on our laps in different places, because every room and surface was so covered in junk – dirty clothes, ironing, knitting, ornaments, vases full of bits of paper, coins and smaller ornaments, stacked-up crockery, pictures, mirrors, newspapers, shoes, coats, toys and baby stuff.

After lunch, because this was the one day my father wasn’t at work, he’d wash up – us children would dry – while my mother and Pops went and sat in the sitting room. We’d then all sit quietly while the grown-ups listened to the Queen’s speech, and then Nan and Grandad would arrive, laden down with presents for us.

It was my father who, stationed on the floor, by the tree, always took charge of handing out presents. This, in itself, caused me anxiety. If you didn’t show enough gratitude, or opened it too fast, or, worst of all, made eye contact with him having committed either sin, he’d quickly fly into a rage.

On one particular Christmas, when I was around eight, the present he passed me from Nan was long and quite heavy, and I felt a big surge of anticipation. I wanted to rip off the paper as fast as I could, but, aware of the rules, I peeled it slowly and carefully, to eventually reveal a box covered in brightly coloured crêpe paper. I remember feeling pleased that Nan had gone to so much trouble to even paper the lid of the box. I also realized it was a shoebox, and my excitement began to mount, as I wondered what type of shoes she might have chosen. I opened it – now anxious to get them out and try them on – to find a wodge of pink tissue inside. I began to part it, now concerned that there seemed to be nothing in there, but then spied something in the corner and got my hand around it. And then I saw it. It was a small tin of prunes. I glanced at her then, and, as she caught my eye, she smiled. She said sweetly, ‘I thought you’d like those.’ Anxious not to cause a scene, and get into trouble, I began picking up bits of ripped wrapping paper, keeping my head down, to hide the tears that threatened. ‘Thank you,’ I said politely, as I knew I must. ‘I do like them.’ It was only later, when I felt it was safe to do so, that I left the room, to cry hot tears of distress.

Of all the things that have confused me, looking back on my young life, Nan’s treatment of me at Christmas remains inexplicable. None of my siblings received prunes from her at Christmas, and no one, certainly not Nan herself, or either of my parents, passed comment that I should be singled out like this. I had had prunes from her before
—
I don’t recall ever having had anything different
—
but, every year, probably up into my teens, I nursed the hope that this time it might be different. But, no
—
each year my tin of prunes came disguised as something else; apart from the odd occasion when a small tin of cream was given with them, it was only the boxes that varied. My nan gave me a tin of prunes for Christmas every single year, until her death in 1991.

By the time I was ten, so stark was the contrast between my home life and that of the outside world, I was increasingly terrified to leave it. I’d been attending speech therapy classes in school for some time, and though one of my school reports of that time reads something like ‘doing well, in spite of grave difficulties’, all I knew, having read it much later, was that I – and my parents, come to that – must have been doing a good job of keeping the true squalor and dysfunctional nature of our home life from the attention of the authorities.

I still spoke very little, and was missing school almost as much as I was going. In my third school term in 1960, for example, I had forty-two absences recorded on my school report. It’s still a wonder to me, looking back at my childhood, how no one noticed.

But not such a wonder, when I think about it. There were still only two people, in my young life, who really ‘noticed’ me. One was Pops, who continued to seek me out every weekend – sometimes also in the week – and whose ‘tickles’ continued to distress me so much, and the other was Daniel, whose visits, in contrast, I still longed for. And as I only saw him once every two months, when he
did
come it always began by feeling magical, despite the anxiety I couldn’t quite explain. Daniel didn’t just notice me, he actively adored me. He told me so, over and over.

At this time I had begun to feel more in control of my feelings around Daniel, so when he arrived one particular summer afternoon – his eyes already searching for me, seeking me out, even as he bent to peck my mother’s cheek – I realized I felt calmer about my anxiety than I had when I was younger. I knew Daniel loved me, and that he didn’t mean to frighten me. He cared for me, wanted to spend time with me alone, would give me the thrill of his undivided attention.

I was sitting on the corner of the sofa when he arrived, with my hand dangling down over the arm, half watching television and half watching him. I both dreaded and longed for his approach.

I didn’t need to wait long. I heard him coming, but pretended I didn’t know it was him and continued to stare at the TV As ever, I felt too anxious to look, feeling panicky as he sat down so close beside me that he squashed me right into the sofa arm.

He immediately started stroking my hair and leaned his face into mine. ‘Hello, little girl,’ he whispered, close into my ear. ‘What have you been up to? Aren’t you going to look at me?’

I could feel his breath in my ear now. It was hot. He laughed softly, and I felt something wet, like his tongue, touching my ear and my neck. It sent shivers up my back and instinctively I moved, though, pinned as I was, I wasn’t going anywhere. I tried to sit forwards, but as I did so he pulled me towards him, laughing again and kissing the side of my face. He picked up my hand then, and brushed it across his lips, before lifting me onto his lap and cradling me in his arms, as if I was a precious tiny baby.

‘Look at me,’ he urged, tickling my tummy ‘Come on,
look
at me, you little minx!’

As ever, I found it almost impossible to do this. ‘Tell you what,’ he said then. ‘Shall we go and see the cows?’

The cows lived in the field just up the lane, behind the barns, where we children often went to play when the farmer wasn’t around to tell us off. It had big bales of straw stacked in it, and in the middle of one of them was a big hole we’d created when jumping from stack to stack. I looked up at them now but didn’t tell Daniel about it, because I never told Daniel anything ever. I still felt way too self-conscious and awkward to speak to him, and though he talked to
me
, he never seemed to mind when I didn’t reply. He had his hand in mine, his fingers all laced through my own, which always made me feel funny inside.