I Remember, Daddy (3 page)

My mother was startled by his silent, abrupt appearance and as she spun round to face him, one of the glasses tipped over, sending water cascading on to the sandwiches. She righted the glass and blinked rapidly as she pleaded with my father, ‘Please, Harry. They’re only children. They’ve got to eat. At least let them drink something. They can’t stay locked in here without food or water for two whole days.’

Suddenly, without any warning, my father lashed out and hit her across the face, and she dropped the tray at his feet.

‘Pick it up!’ he hissed at her.

He kicked her as she fell to her knees and began to scoop up soggy pieces of sandwich and the two empty glasses. Then she stumbled out of the room and my father followed her, locking the door behind him, while we sat and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading away along the corridor.

Over the next two days and three nights, my brother and I played games together, cried when the pain of hunger and thirst grew too urgent to ignore, and slept for increasingly long periods of time. My mother came to check on us at irregular intervals, looking anxiously at the cut on my brother’s head each time, before letting us out of the room to go to the toilet. Then she hugged us quickly, glancing over her shoulder with fearful eyes, and told us not to cry because it wouldn’t be long before we could have something to eat.

During that weekend, we learned the price to be paid for disobeying my father. It was a lesson I always remembered every time I noticed the scar on my brother’s head, although, in reality, it had been the cause of far worse scars for both of us that no one could see.

The kitchen in our house was overrun with mice, and as my father hated animals of all species, particularly anything small and scurrying, he used to make my brother or me go down to get ice-cream for him when he came home drunk at night or at the weekends. I’d have hated going down there in the dark even without the mice to contend with, but they terrified me.

I’d edge my way down the stairs and then grope frantically in the darkness for the switch that would light up the corridor leading to the kitchen. My heart would be thumping against my ribs and I’d have to cross my legs to stop the pee escaping as I forced myself to stand my ground and fumble for the light switch. Sometimes, I’d have to make several attempts, running back up the stairs and waiting in the light of the hallway each time while I summoned the courage to try again.

As I finally approached the kitchen door, I’d hear little feet scuttling on the flagstones and I’d stamp my own feet and bang my hands on the walls of the corridor. Then I’d stand still for a few moments to give the mice time to scamper back to their hiding places. But I didn’t dare delay too long, because I knew my father would be waiting with increasingly impatient irritation for his ice-cream, and I was even more afraid of my father than I was of the mice.

Eventually, with one final thump on the kitchen door, I’d push it open and shudder at the sight of the thin, hairless tails of the last few mice as they shot behind the dresser or through the ragged-edged holes in the skirting board. Then I’d open the door of the freezer compartment in the fridge and scoop ice-cream into a bowl, singing or talking loudly to myself all the time so that the watching, waiting mice wouldn’t think I’d gone and come darting back out again from their hiding places.

I dreaded those forays down to the kitchen, and I’ve been frightened of mice ever since. But I longed to have a hamster and, much to amazement, when I was five years old, my father agreed to let my mother buy one for me.

I adored Daisy from the moment I set eyes on her. She had to be kept in the laundry room next to the kitchen, although sometimes, when my father was at work, my brother and I would take her out of her little cage and carry her into the living room. We’d hold her and stroke her and let her run along the coffee table beside the couch and then I’d scoop her up again and try to kiss her pink, twitching, inquisitive little nose.

One day, when we’d taken Daisy into the living room, she escaped and, with our hearts racing, Ian and I were still searching for her when my father came home from work unexpectedly. As soon as we heard his tread on the stairs, we rushed to take our places on the sofa, and when the living-room door flew open, we were sitting the way our father always insisted we should sit – hands in our laps, backs ramrod straight. Except that, on this occasion, my hands were clasped together so tightly I could feel the blood pulsing painfully in my wrists.

I prayed a silent prayer, although I had little hope of it being heard by the unforgiving God whose terrible wrath my grandmother had described to me so often and in such frightening detail.

‘Please,’ I kept repeating over and over in my head. ‘Please don’t let Daddy see Daisy. Please keep her hidden, just till he’s left the room. I’ll be good for ever and ever. I promise.’

I knew we’d broken the rules by taking the hamster into the living room. But I’d felt sorry for her, all alone and cold in the laundry room, and I’d been certain we’d hear my father’s key turn in the lock of the front door and would have plenty of time to slip down the back stairs and return Daisy to her cage before he’d even crossed the hallway.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white as the hamster ran along the arm of the chair beside me. I glanced up quickly at my father, hoping he hadn’t noticed. But, although the expression on his face barely changed, I knew that he had.

I held my breath, closing my eyes and sending tears spilling out on to my cheeks as I waited for the outburst of anger I knew was coming. To my astonishment, however, my father remained silent, and after a few seconds I dared to look up at him again. He was standing with his back to the window, his mouth twisted into a tight line of distaste as he surveyed my brother and me coldly.

Then, spitting out the words with staccato finality, he spoke directly to me as he said, ‘Take that thing back to where it belongs.’

I scooped the warm, furry body into my hands and ran from the room before he had time to change his mind. I could hardly believe what had happened. Had we really escaped the agonising lashings that were our usual punishment for any act of disobedience or sign of inadequacy? As the evening wore on and my father stayed locked in his study, it seemed that we had.

The next morning, when I crept into the kitchen for breakfast, my father didn’t look up from his newspaper. I slid silently on to a chair, taking more than usual care to prevent it scraping noisily on the flagstone floor. Then I reached out my hand towards the silver toast rack – and screamed. Squashed into a milk bottle, just a few inches from my plate, was the twisted, suffocated little body of my hamster.

My father lowered his newspaper and leaned across the table towards me. His face was contorted into an ugly expression of vengeful satisfaction as he said, in a slow, even drawl, ‘And that’s what happens when you don’t do what you’re told.’

I was heartbroken. My whole body was shaking and I felt sick with shock and with the knowledge that the horrible death my little hamster had suffered had been my fault. If I hadn’t broken the rules, Daisy would still be scuttling around happily in her cage. And, in that moment, I knew that my father was right: I was worthless and bad, because by not doing what I’d been told, I’d killed her.

T
he first time I remember my father hitting me with his belt was when I was two years old. I soon learned that his word was law. If I didn’t do what he told me to do, it was as though something snapped inside him and, whatever his mood had been, it would change instantly to one of blind, raging fury. Nothing ever excuses hitting a child, and it’s beyond belief that anyone could bring themselves to thrash a two-year-old with a belt. But, as my father was only ever really physically violent towards me when I disobeyed him, I thought that his anger was my fault.

He didn’t need a reason to punch my mother, though, or to attack her viciously; he sometimes did it just to make it clear to her – and perhaps to my brother and me, too – that he was in charge. And there was certainly no doubt in any of our minds that he was in charge, totally and utterly. It seemed that he controlled every breath we took, and I learned always to think about whether something I was going to do might make him angry, which meant that I lived in a constant state of almost unbearable anxiety.

To my father, my brother and I were nuisances who had to be taught to respect and obey him, but could otherwise be ignored. I think his only reason for having children at all was because it fitted in, peripherally, to his idea of the life he aspired to as a successful businessman living in an expensive house in an affluent and prestigious neighbourhood, with an attractive wife from a good family, and children who could recite poems and fables in French to order before they were whisked away out of sight by their nanny.

Surprisingly, perhaps, of all the countless things that hurt and terrified me during my childhood, it was often my father’s violent bullying of my mother that was more frightening than anything else, and there were many occasions when I thought he was going to kill her.

One night, when I was five years old, I was woken up by the sound of someone sobbing. I lay on my back in my bed, listening, and after a few moments I realised that it was my mother. I released the breath I’d been holding – and, with it, a small, frightened whimper – and then I started to count. One, two, three … When I got to ten it would stop, and if it hadn’t … I paused in my counting and listened again.

Perhaps my parents were playing a game. I’d heard my mother shout out in the night before, and when I asked her about it the next morning, she told me that she and my father had just been ‘messing around’. So, maybe, if I listened for long enough, I’d hear her laugh and then I’d know that everything was all right.

But, in my fiercely thumping heart, I knew it wasn’t a game.

I heard my father shout something harsh and angry; then my mother cried out again, and this time there was no mistaking the terror in her voice. I pulled the bedcovers over my head, trying to block out the sound, and attempted to swallow the solid ball of fear that had lodged in my throat. I knew, though, that I couldn’t just abandon my mother when she might need help.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut for a moment and then, in one quick movement, sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Then I tiptoed out of my room and crept along the thickly carpeted landing, counting my footsteps silently in my head to try to focus on something other than my own fear.

Crouching at the top of the stairs, I pushed my head just far enough through the balusters to be able to see my parents, who were standing on the staircase between the ground and first floors. My father was wearing a suit, but the top button of his shirt was undone, his tie was loose and askew and there was something about the way he looked that made me realise he was well past all of the first stages of drunkenness.

My mother was standing a couple of steps above him, wearing only a nightdress, and the fingers of my father’s left hand seemed to be twisted in her hair. He was pulling her head backwards and punching her repeatedly on the side of her head, while she tried to cling on to the banister with one hand and protect herself against his blows with the other.

For a moment, I was transfixed by the sound of my father’s humourless laugh, the cruel, thin-lipped expression on his upturned face and the brutal force of his attack on my mother. Then I noticed a young woman standing at the foot of the stairs. She was dressed in a short black skirt and a low-cut, wine-redcoloured sequined top and she was looking up towards my parents with a small, vague smile.

I felt a wave of relief. Clearly, it was some sort of game after all, because I knew that no adult would simply stand and watch without intervening while my father beat up my mother.

Suddenly, my father ripped his fingers out of my mother’s hair, placed his hands against her shoulders, and gave her one hard push. As she fell backwards, her scream drowned out the sound of my own as I stumbled down the staircase towards her.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, my mother was lying motionless on the marble-tiled floor of the hall. I was certain she was dead. I threw myself on to my knees beside her, calling ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ and gripping her shoulders with my hands as I tried to shake life into her.

The young woman had taken a step backwards, away from the foot of the stairs, as my mother fell, and she was teetering unsteadily on her stiletto heels towards the living room when my mother moaned and moved her head. The woman stopped, swaying slightly as she turned to face us again, and at that moment my father took one bound down the stairs, grabbed my arm and pulled me roughly to my feet.

‘Get up! Get on your feet,’ he shouted at my mother. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you. And maybe next time you hear me come home with a guest, you’ll stay in bed and mind your own fucking business. I will decide who I entertain and who I bring into this house, and if you don’t like it, you can fuck off.’

He leaned down, grabbed my mother under her arms and lifted her into an almost-standing position. Then he half-carried, half-dragged her through the hall and propped her up against the wall beside the front door. She staggered and almost fell, and I ran to her side and tried to put my arm around her waist.

‘Go on, get out!’ my father shouted, flinging the door wide open. ‘Both of you!’

The snow that had started to fall before I went to bed that evening was still drifting silently and steadily from the sky. It had already covered the road and pavement outside the house with a layer of white that sparkled in the light from the open doorway. My mother looked at my father and I could tell that she was trying with all her might not to cry, because she knew her tears would only irritate him even more.

‘Please, Harry,’ she pleaded. ‘You can’t throw us out in the snow in just our nightdresses.’

‘I can do what I bloody want,’ my father shouted at her. ‘Perhaps you should have thought about the snow before you tried to interfere.’

He grasped my mother’s wrist as he spoke, put his other, open, hand on my back and shoved us out into the dark, freezing night. And as my bare feet touched the icy snow, I heard the front door slam and the key turn in the lock.

I was shaking uncontrollably and I felt my mother wince as I tightened my grip around her waist. But, despite the pain she must have been suffering as a result of her fall down the stairs, she raised her arm, placed it around my shoulders and held me tightly against her own shivering body.

We spent that night at a neighbour’s house and, as I fell asleep, I remember wondering if the soles of my feet would ever stop burning.

I didn’t know who the young woman was, whose company my father had chosen that night over my mother’s. I doubt whether he even knew himself, or cared. He’d picked her up in a bar somewhere in town and she was gone in the morning, by the time my father let my mother and me return to the house.

My mother had had a comfortable upbringing, protected from the harsher realities of some people’s lives. Her father had inherited a business that had been started by his grandfather and great-uncle, and she’d grown up leading the sort of life my father had been so determined to create for himself. However, her parents were sternly religious and firmly believed that children should learn to stand on their own two feet, which is why my mother had already been working when she met my father. I think she had little, if any, of her own money left by the time I was born; although she did still own a house near the coast, which we’d go to sometimes in the school holidays.

Years after it had happened, my mother told me about something my father had done one night when we were staying at that house. My parents left me and my brother with a babysitter and went out to a dinner-dance. It was an event that was linked in some way to my father’s business and he was fussing and shouting even before they left the house. Despite being bullied and constantly told to hurry up, my mother always looked beautiful when she was dressed up to go out in the evening, and I used to love the light, flowery smell of perfume that lingered in my bedroom for a while after she’d come in to say goodnight.

It was winter and snowing again, and on the way back from the dinner my father was driving slowly through the deserted, snow-covered lanes when he got angry about something and started to shout at my mother. Suddenly, he slammed on the brakes and told her to get out of the car. She was wearing high-heeled shoes made of embroidered satin, a full-length ball gown and a short fur jacket that was designed more for decorative than for practical purposes of providing warmth and protection from the elements.

‘Please, Harry,’ she begged. ‘We’re at least three miles from home. I’ll freeze to death, and I can’t walk in these shoes.’

‘Well, take them off then,’ my father bellowed, leaning across her to open the passenger door and pushing her out on to the snow at the side of the road.

It took my mother more than two hours to trudge, barefoot, along the pitch-black lanes, and she arrived back at the house with her skin red and numbed by the cold. The car was parked in the driveway, the babysitter had gone and my brother and I were asleep in our beds. But, although she searched for him, she could find no sign of my father.

With her teeth chattering and a million tiny needles piercing every inch of her skin, my mother stripped off her soaking wet clothes and wrapped herself in a towel. She knew that she should try to thaw her frozen limbs and raise her body temperature in a warm bath, but she was so miserable and exhausted she couldn’t even lift her arms to put on her nightdress. So she just crawled under the bedclothes, and fell instantly asleep.

Just a couple of minutes later, she woke with a start at the sound of the heavy mahogany door of her wardrobe crashing against the wall. Her eyes flew open, but the room was as black as the night and all she could make out was the dark figure of a man leaping out of the wardrobe with a blood-curdling cry. She was so startled and frightened she couldn’t breathe, and for a moment she thought she was having a heart attack. She lashed out with her arms and shouted as the man threw himself on top of her, and she continued to struggle with all her might as he pinned her down on the bed, ripped the towel from her shaking body and raped her. And that’s when she realised it was my father.

When I saw my mother the next morning, I knew immediately that something really bad had happened. The fact that I lived in constant, unremitting fear of what might be about to occur had made me always alert and watchful, and I could tell as soon as I walked into the kitchen that she was very upset. And, as my mother’s distress was only ever due to the things my father did, I knew that he must be in a rage about something and therefore that we were all in danger of feeling the heat of his anger.

Usually, by the time I woke up and went into the kitchen to have my breakfast, my mother was already dressed and carefully made up, her hair shining like the polished shell of a chestnut under the electric light. On that morning, though, she was edging slowly around the room in her dressing-gown and slippers. Her face was pale and her hair uncombed, and when I spoke to her she answered in a flat, dispirited tone and didn’t look at me.

I suppose I can understand why my mother fell for my father when they met: he was charismatic and could be affectionate when he wanted to be, and it was easy to imagine him sweeping her off her feet. What does seem extraordinary, though, is the fact that she still loved him – which she did. I don’t know if he’d ever loved her or whether, for him, it had been a marriage of convenience – her family and background affording him the veneer of respectability that was so important to him, as well as the possibility that she might provide him with access to considerable financial resources. In reality, however, I doubt whether he was capable of feeling genuine love for another person. What he was good at was gauging exactly the right moment to be nice to her again so that she was always striving to please him and to win his affection and approval. It was what I did too, as both a child and an adult, and even though there were countless occasions when my father frightened and bullied me, I still just wanted him to like me.