When Daddy Comes Home (6 page)

A
ntoinette tried to ignore him, but she was aware that her father’s eyes followed her every movement. Whatever she was doing – tidying her room, making the tea, watching television, going out to work – he was watching her.

When she was in the house, Joe expected his daughter to wait on him like an obedient little servant. Outwardly compliant, Antoinette was continually counting the hours until she could leave the house.

Meanwhile, her mother continued with the game of ‘Daddy’s been working away’. She acted as though he’d only been gone a week. The reality of what had led up to her husband’s absence was a closed book. Ruth was determined that not only would there be no mention of the truth, but that the past was completely rewritten and her part in it whitewashed out. She had never stood by, wilfully blind and silent, as her husband abused their daughter over a period of years. It simply hadn’t happened.

For Antoinette it seemed that the last two and a half years had vanished. Once again she had become a girl with very limited control over her life. Now that her parents were reunited as a couple, they had become powerful again while
she was locked outside their magic circle, floundering on her own and completely at their mercy.

The lodge no longer felt like the home that Antoinette and her mother had created. Joe’s presence had invaded it: overflowing ashtrays were left by the side of the wing armchair for his daughter to empty; newspapers, open on the sport pages, were tossed to one side while his cup stained with the residue of his numerous cups of tea, made for him by either Antoinette or her mother, sat on the coffee table. There was now a shaving mug in the kitchen and a grubby towel that Antoinette could not bear to touch lay on the draining board.

Just as two and a half years ago Ruth’s happiness had been dictated by her husband’s moods, so it was now. Her happy smile gradually faded, to be replaced by either frowns of discontent or the expression of the long-time sufferer that Ruth believed herself to be. Antoinette hardly ever heard her humming the tunes of her favourite songs now. Why couldn’t her mother see it, she wondered. Had she forgotten the simple pleasures of the quiet, harmonious life that they had shared before
he
had come back? Why would she wish to be back in his control, the whole house governed by his moods and the aura of grim power that surrounded him? It seemed impossible to Antoinette that anyone would want to choose this existence over the one that they had enjoyed together before her father’s release.

It wasn’t as though there had been any material gain, either. Although her husband got a job as a civilian mechanic working for the army, and was given hours of overtime, somehow his contribution to the housekeeping did not appear to make Ruth’s finances easier. In fact, with one more mouth to feed
and the forty-cigarettes-a-day habit that Joe had, money seemed even scarcer.

Four weeks after he returned home, he announced that he had to work at the weekend. ‘Leave early and back late,’ he had said with his jovial smile.

‘Oh Paddy,’ she had protested, using her nickname for him, ‘not on a Saturday. You know I’ve the weekend free.’

The coffee shop where Ruth was the manageress catered to the professionals who worked a five-day week and without their custom the owner had decided to close after lunchtime on Saturdays, a decision popular with both Ruth and her daughter.

Seeing the suspicious look that his wife was giving him, Joe’s good-humoured expression changed to one of irritation.

‘Well, we need the money, don’t we? Sure, and aren’t you the one who’s always saying you want to move into a larger house in Belfast?’

Antoinette saw her mother’s face take on the resigned expression that had become familiar over the last few weeks as she replied, ‘Yes, dear.’

‘Well, then, what’re you complaining for? It’s time and a half at the weekend. Maybe if that big daughter of yours contributed more instead of spending it all on those clothes and that damn stuff she puts on her face, I wouldn’t need to work so hard.’

Antoinette waited for her mother to contradict his accusation. She had contributed to the running of the house ever since she had been able to. But Ruth said nothing.

Although she knew that Ruth had always yearned for a house similar to the one she had grown up in, a gracious Georgian three-storey building, it was the first time Antoinette had heard that plan voiced. It seemed to her that her father wanted to control everything, even where they lived.

The gate house was comfortable enough for us before he turned up, she thought resentfully. Working overtime is just another excuse to keep his wife quiet.

She mistrusted his story and, as she saw the triumphant look on his face as he won the short argument, she believed it even less. Knowing that her mother only pretended to accept his reasoning fuelled her resentment even more.

‘Going to the greyhound races more like it,’ she muttered under her breath.

Seeing the expression which had crossed his daughter’s face and reading it correctly, Joe glared at her as he snapped, ‘What are you doing standing there? Help your mother while I’m out – make yourself useful for once.’

With that parting shot, he left. The noise of the door slamming behind him vibrated in the now-silent room.

Ruth and her daughter glanced at each other and Antoinette could see the unhappiness on her mother’s face. She hardened her heart to it, for she felt past trying to cheer her mother up. Just for once Ruth could have stood up for her daughter and pointed out that she contributed more than her fair share. She felt the injustice of his remarks and hurt by the usual lack of support from her mother. If she wouldn’t stand up for her, who would?

Antoinette went to her room hoping that her father would win enough from the dog races to keep him away from the house until she had left for the evening. She knew that she had contributed as much to the housekeeping as he had. With her tips, she earned as much as he did – a fact that fuelled his simmering anger towards her.

She thought of how he commandeered the television she had bought and sat watching the sports programmes that she detested; how her mother cooked his favourite food, never
asking Antoinette what she wished for; how, when her daughter had offered to cook an evening meal, he had jeered at her efforts calling it ‘that dammed fancy muck of yours’. Since his return, except for that one unsuccessful attempt, she was reduced to doing the more menial task of washing up.

Antoinette had no wish to meet her father when she was dressed for her night out. She knew he would mock her attempts to look nice and knock her fragile self-confidence even further. If he was in a bad mood, she would be his target, a mental punch bag for him to unleash his anger on, anger that now always seemed to simmer close to the surface. Nor did she want to see the sadness on Ruth’s face, though she could not help feeling that her mother had brought her misery upon herself. Antoinette could see no point in having someone in the house who created such a feeling of discord, and she could not understand why her mother had allowed him to return to his old ways in such a short space of time. She heard Joe’s evasions, saw his smugness and watched her mother pandering to his wishes. She felt an increasing contempt for her parents as she saw his dominance and Ruth’s acquiescence.

When her father was out, her mother would seek her out, keen for company and an ear she could complain into, but this time Antoinette was determined she would not relent and give in to her. Instead she spent the afternoon in her room deciding on which outfit she was going to wear for her night out and finally made her selection. She neatly laid out on the bed a pale yellow dress with a low-cut neck and a straight skirt that had a small back pleat which enabled her to walk freely while emphasizing her slim legs. The broad belt that she had chosen was covered with a darker fabric, which would encircle her waist tightly and make it look slimmer.

It’s ever so sophisticated, she thought, satisfied with her choice.

She had bought it in one of the new boutiques that were opening everywhere, full of fashion for teenagers. This place was one of a chain brought over from England that had recently opened in the centre of Belfast. Middle-aged shop assistants had now been replaced with tall, slim model types who wore the fashions so beautifully that all the girls, whatever their size and shape, wanted to copy them.

She knew the other girls in her group would also have treated themselves to new outfits, for tonight was going to be a special event. There was a new band with a lead clarinet player called Acker Bilk appearing for the first time in Belfast. All the girls had talked excitedly about them. The band’s first record had hit the charts and that alone had put them into a different league than the usual groups who had regularly performed in Northern Ireland.

Antoinette had arranged to meet her friends at seven thirty in their usual haunt, the coffee shop where only a few weeks ago she had met her father, though she tried not to think about that. It was an occasion that made her grimace with distaste every time she remembered it.

She was contentedly listening to the latest record by Elvis Presley, a new one she had bought. With a glass of vodka in one hand and a forbidden cigarette in the other, she squinted against the plume of smoke, she moved in time to the music. In her imagination she was already on the dance floor, receiving admiring looks as she put into practice the new steps she had learnt.

Judy, knowing that Antoinette’s preparations were a prelude to leaving, eyed her dolefully from the nest she had made on the bed.

Antoinette checked the mirror again to see if her carefully applied make-up needed any finishing touches.

‘Just some lipstick,’ she said to herself, and then decided to wait until her drink was finished and the last drag of the cigarette taken. She wanted to savour these few moments. She felt relaxed and almost happy, for it seemed her wish had been granted and her father was not going to return until after her departure.

The volume of the music drowned out the sound of the front door slamming. Her short-lived peace was abruptly shattered by an angry roar and she knew at once, with a feeling of dread, that her father’s afternoon drinking must have followed losses at the race track. He would only have come back early if he’d run out of money and the anger in Joe’s voice as it carried up the stairs and invaded her room proclaimed that the day had not gone his way. Somehow that would be someone else’s fault. It always was. Antoinette would, she knew, become the target of his unpredictable temper. Unable to ignore the fierce shout, she opened her bedroom door with trepidation.

‘Antoinette, get yourself down here and turn that blasted music off, do you hear me?’

Reluctantly she shot back into her room, removed the record from the turntable and went downstairs. Her father stood at the bottom step, his face puce with alcohol-induced rage. Behind him she saw her mother, her face wearing its usual impassive expression, her mouth fixed in a small tight smile, as she sat in her chair watching her daughter and her husband.

Antoinette understood that as usual, there would be no help from that quarter and stood silently waiting to hear what her father wanted. Marring her pleasure in going out with her
friends would be top of his list, for if he had not enjoyed his day, the thought of her enjoying her evening would be insufferable.

‘Where do you think you’re going with all that muck on your face, my girl?’

‘Just to the local dance with my friends.’ She hid her agitation and replied in a calm voice, hoping to placate his ill temper.

‘Well, you look a sight. You’re not leaving my house looking like that.’

He reached his arm out and pulled her roughly towards him. Gripping her chin and lifting her face, he studied it contemptuously.

Antoinette recoiled at the smell of his breath, and he felt her flinch but knew she was too scared to protest. Joe sneered while his fingers dug in to the sensitive flesh of her cheeks even harder. ‘Go to the sink and wipe some of that damn make-up off,’ he instructed.

She walked into the kitchen and did as she had been told, blinking away treacherous tears that threatened to slide down her cheeks. She quickly wiped some of her pan stick off, feeling his eyes following her. She looked at her face in the small mirror above the sink and watched the pretty girl she so longed to be disappear with each stroke of the damp flannel. She patted her face dry slowly, wanting to put off turning around to face her father; she knew that he had not finished tormenting her.

‘Is that better?’ she asked, as she swallowed her pride.

All she wanted to do was to appease him sufficiently to be able to leave the house without a full-scale row erupting. She knew that nothing would give him more pleasure than to find an excuse to ban her from leaving and send her to her bedroom.

‘You still look a mess. You’re getting fat as well.’

That dreaded word, feared by every fashion-conscious teenager, flew like a dart and landed with deadly accuracy in the centre of her confidence. She winced and Joe knew his barb had deflated her self-esteem. He gave her a contemptuous look and snorted.

‘Don’t you be coming home late, my girl. I want you back by eleven and not a minute later, do you understand?’

All signs of the self-assured teenager that had been reflected in her bedroom mirror only a few minutes ago had disappeared, leaving in her place an awkward nervous girl. Antoinette wanted to open her mouth and protest but she knew what the result would be if she did. She lowered her head instead and studied the carpet, not wanting to meet his eyes. She felt the heaviness of the silent pressure from both of her parents to answer.

‘Yes, Daddy,’ she replied in what she hoped were conciliatory tones.

Antoinette knew better than to argue that the dance did not finish until eleven or to protest that she would then have to queue for her coat and walk to the bus stop. She would just have to leave early and come home alone. The last part of the evening was to be denied her; the companionship of the other girls as they caught the last bus, laughing, chattering and reminiscing over the night’s events.