What Daddy Did (7 page)

When he came home, I'd usually be in my bedroom, having been sent there at some point during the day. On some days I might have been in my bedroom for hours, alone and starving. On other occasions I was sent to my room just minutes before my Dad came in so he wouldn't see me standing in the bath, naked, freezing, facing the wall. Generally, I'd be sitting on my bed, having been crying my eyes out, and my Daddy would come in and stand over me. Over and over again he'd ask me: 'Why? Why? Why?'

How could I answer him?

I rarely knew what had brought about Helen's punishment in the first place, so how could I work out why I would deliberately choose to be bad? I didn't want to disappoint my Daddy though, so I always said that I'd be good, even if I didn't really know what I was agreeing to. I wanted to be. Whatever being good would involve, I wanted to be that way. I wanted to be good like my new brother; I wanted to be hugged and played with; I wanted to be brought home a toy car on a Friday night by my Daddy, just like little Gordon was. When I asked him through my tears why I was always getting rows and punishments, why I was always being sent to bed, he said he had to 'chastise' me because it would help me to be good. But the 'chastisement' increased. The smacking got harder and harder as my Dad got angrier and angrier – and, in time, he moved on to using his belt against me as well. I couldn't defend myself. I was tiny and any protests were ignored. Finally, I wasn't even allowed to voice any murmurs of dissent at all.

I don't ever remember him 'chastising' the children he had with Helen, although I do know that she encouraged him to hit my elder half-siblings too. Of course, I now realise that this violence was a direct reaction to what Helen told him every time: I had been bad all day; I had been horrible to her; I was a vile child; I hated my younger brother; I was the catalyst. It was all me, and his version of chastisement increasingly became a way of him venting his anger and frustration.

Looking back, I can only imagine how it must have been for this man. He must have hurt after my mother left him, and he must have been doing everything in his power to maintain his relationship with Helen. I was there putting a spoke in the big wheel with my badness, and he believed her – why wouldn't he? He didn't know me. On top of that, practically every day he had Helen in his face straight after work, telling him the stories she had made up about me. How ironic that it was actually Helen who had been up to all sorts, things he had absolutely no idea of – if she'd been having one of her parties, she'd be trying to hide the fact, or coping with being a bit drunk.

My Dad always worked long hours, leaving really early in the morning before we were even up, and not returning home until after 4pm. When he worked overtime, which was more often than not, he sometimes wouldn't return until about 10 o'clock at night. He hardly seemed to be home.

The times we saw most of him were during the summer holidays. He would usually take off the 'trades' fortnight', the first two weeks in July when, in those days, most of the factories and businesses in the city would close for two weeks. Everyone knew that during these two weeks you couldn't get a workman for love nor money, and it was the time when most families would leave for their annual trip to the seaside. In our case, we would go to Kinghorn in Fife, where we would stay in a wooden chalet and spend the days exploring the beaches and caves. These times were, on the whole, good but, as always, Helen had to retain control. Even on holiday she took a belt with her to use on me. I was forced to stand for hours in the bedroom with its two sets of bunk beds. The curtains would be closed and I could hear the sound of children whooping and laughing outside.

I have to ask myself what my Dad was doing on those days. He wasn't at work and he didn't have the excuse of not seeing how Helen operated. From what I can remember, he spent most of his holiday in the clubhouse. I can imagine it must have involved beer, dominoes, horse racing and being away from Helen and her moods. I have one good image of my Dad taking me fishing on one holiday. We caught sticklebacks that were too big for the little metal pail I had. They were catching their tails as they swam, turning round and round in circles, never getting anywhere. My Dad watched them for ages, mesmerised – maybe he saw his own existence within their futile endeavours. Thinking of him that way is nice as it was so normal, but I have far more memories of him coming back from the club smelling of beer, and arguing with Helen as soon as he returned, the sound echoing around the wooden walls. Even there, in that lovely place, there were always arguments. In fact, arguments seemed to be about all they had in common.

Occasionally, when Frances was still at home, my Dad and Helen would go off to the club together in the evening, leaving us all in bed with strict instructions not to move. Time out together was pretty rare for them – perhaps because Helen much preferred to party without the presence of her husband, as I would find out to my cost.

So, you see, I was never bad. I was just a child with basic needs that weren't being met. I was hungry. I was cold. I was battered. I was unloved. I tried to state my case but whenever I plucked up the courage to speak, I was accused of being cheeky, insolent, rude. I couldn't make sense of any of it, but even without that understanding, I soon learned how to deal with my daily abuse.

I learned not to talk.

I learned not to scream or cry when I was beaten.

I learned not to question any adult's actions towards me.

And now I can see that was exactly what Helen wanted.

I soon learned that, when any form of abuse came at me, I should just take it, with the knowledge that it would soon be over.

Wouldn't it?

As an adult, I can see now that Helen was grooming me. She was a good teacher – she taught me how to behave; she taught me that if I yelled or wept or questioned her, the punishment would be more severe. There was one occasion when she was beating me over and over again with the belt in the bathroom and I jumped away and fell. While I was crouching down by the toilet, she hit me with even more fury, belting and belting me over the head, back, shoulders – wherever she could – screaming at me the whole time for being disobedient. I couldn't get up. I had my arms crossed over my face as I was screaming: 'Don't, Mummy! Please don't, Mummy! I'll be good, I'll be good!' As she hit me, she screamed, 'I'm not your Mummy! I'm not your fucking Mummy and I never will be! Don't you dare call me that!' She kept going until she'd spent herself. She walked away and I was just left there, in a heap on the floor, shaking, until I was told to go to bed.

I SPENT MANY YEARS BLOCKING
out my past and these terrible times. When I was first asked to give a statement to the police about my stepmother, I was reluctant to go back there – because I was scared. Initially, I could only remember some fragmented things. However, once I started remembering – once I started digging – it was like opening the floodgates. One memory would trigger off another; even here, as I relate one story, another will soon come to me. When I first started remembering it was too painful to look at. It was horrible; it was like going back in there; the pain was excruciating. Now, although the memories still hurt, they are not quite as profound as they once were. I put that down to being able to tell my story, being able to get it all out.

Just as I've thought of the story of my time in the bathroom, being beaten by Helen, I've remembered another instance of being thrashed in there. The bathroom door was open and I could see Snooky, the dog, sitting in the hall. I never really got on with that dog because he was always treated better than I was. Whereas I got little or no food, he was always fed a full tin of dog meat every day plus biscuits; he even had his own chocolate drops which were kept in the cupboard under the sink beside the pots and pans. I ate some of these from time to time when I was doing the dishes and had to put the saucepans away. Snooky was allowed to lie on the rug in front of the fire, and he was petted and loved. He even got to go out. I envied that dog and the life he led.

Anyway, on this particular day I was bent over the bath in my underwear. Helen started beating me, telling me to say that I was sorry, that I was bad, that I deserved to be punished. I was trying my hardest to remain in the same position as Helen had demanded, but it was so sore that I eventually squirmed around as she hit me. At one particular whack, I let out a scream. Snooky leapt up and ran into the bathroom where he started barking and snapping at me. Helen continued to whack at my little body as the dog sank his teeth into my stomach. I couldn't make sense of it – I was about seven years old, how could I?

I don't want to make excuses for my father but neither do I want to criticise him unnecessarily. All I want to do here is understand him a bit more. He is no longer alive so I can't speak to him face to face about this multifaceted story which is so far from straightforward, but I do need to work through what I know. I have very few good memories of him, and these are mixed up with some memories where I feel sorry for him. I know how ineffective he was at seeing what Helen was putting me through, but, in my mind's eye, I also see how kind he could be at times.

He was forever helping people out. After Helen left we always had people staying over, people who had been chucked out of their homes, always men. I know that he just wanted to help these men, but most of them abused this kindness by abusing me. I recall people saying that he was such a good man for looking after all of us in the way he did. Most men, they said, would run a mile. This seeped into my subconscious and affected how I thought of him. For many years, I just couldn't see that my father was as responsible for my childhood treatment as Helen was. I suppose he was the better of the two in many ways, and he certainly never sexually abused me directly. However, by making the conscious decision to take me from Barnardo's to live with my stepmother and him, he was responsible to a large extent.

He was my father.

I was his little girl.

He should have protected me.