Don’t Tell Mummy (16 page)

E
aster had arrived, bringing an early summer that cast both a golden glow over the landscape and a feeling of optimism in our home. For several weeks my father’s temper had remained in check and the jovial man whom his friends and family always saw seemed a constant presence. My mother, made happier by his good mood, was kinder and warmer to me. After all I must be doing something right, for it was always my behaviour that provoked his rages; although she never explained exactly what it was that I did wrong.

Just before the holidays my parents had moved into a home of their own. They had finally found a small house within their price range on the outskirts of Coleraine. My mother now had a job she liked and my father had finally bought his dream car – a second-hand Jaguar that he lovingly polished before driving round to his family to show it off. The stir it made in my grandparents’ street brought a flush of pleasure to his face, which the admiration he for ever sought always did.

My mother’s contentment reflected in her constant humming of the Glenn Miller melodies made famous in her youth. Since optimism is contagious, I had gone out in
search of a job myself that I could take during the three-week holiday. I’d found one at a local bakery. I wanted independence and I wanted my own money.

I felt so proud of myself when my first week’s salary was handed to me in a brown envelope and on my day off I bought a second-hand set of encyclopaedias and a pair of jeans. This was the beginning of the era of teenage fashion and I wanted to swap my school uniform for the youth culture one. Slip-on shoes came next and a white blouse followed.

When the Easter holidays came to an end the shop agreed to keep me on for Saturday work. With that promise I knew I could save enough for a bicycle. This time I was determined that my father would not borrow it. As he now had a car he loved so much, I didn’t think I had much need to be worried. My parents seemed pleased by my activity and although I constantly dreaded being asked to part with my hard-earned money they, in that period of contentment, never did ask. My mother even admired the clothes I’d bought.

The house felt happier than it had for a long time; I had made friends at school and on reflection I think my parents saw it was important that my life appeared that of a normal teenager. On the outside it was. But on the inside it was still far from normal. I had learnt to like whiskey; a drink that I found dulled pain and gave my spirits a lift. But it also caused a lack of energy. Lethargy disguised as ‘teenage moods’ and ‘that time of the month’ became my mother’s euphemisms for my increasingly frequent bouts of depression. It broke through the happiness I felt from having friends and the independence of work, making the days grey and the nights, with their recurring nightmares,
frightening. Terrifying dreams of being chased, of falling, of being helpless, forced me awake, and I would lie covered in sweat, not wanting to resume my sleep for fear of them returning.

My father’s frequent demands now had formed a pattern in my life; a repellent act which I tried to block out of my mind as I swallowed the drink that always followed it. It amused my father that while I wanted none of the first I would always ask for more of the second. It was a request that was usually denied, for he had control of the bottle and doled it out several times a week, allowing my liking for the taste to grow. I was still too young to buy my own supply; that took three years to come.

Sundays started being a ‘family outing day’. My father would load us into the car with Judy, now a middle-aged dog, in the back with me. The neighbours would see our happy family unit driving out of our road and turning towards the seaside town of Portstewart. My request to stay behind, only uttered once to my mother, had brought forth such wrath that I never repeated it.

‘When your father works so hard,’ she had exclaimed, ‘and on his one day off he wants to do something nice for us. You’re so ungrateful. I’ll never understand you, Antoinette.’

And that was most probably one of the truest things she ever said to me.

Once we reached Portstewart a picnic of tea, kept warm in a thermos, and greaseproof paper-wrapped sandwiches would be consumed. After a few minutes of letting the food digest, a bracing walk was taken. Judy, thinking she was still a puppy, ran free, yipping excitedly at every seagull she saw, while I chased after her and my parents slowly brought up the rear.

After every outing my mother would always utter the same command: ‘Have you thanked Daddy, dear?’ and I would mutter my thanks to the smiling man that I so detested and feared.

In those days, before television was in every house, visits to the cinema were commonplace as family entertainment, certainly they were in ours. I loved films. Every time my parents decided they were going to see the latest one I hoped that I would be invited. Very rarely did it happen.

At fourteen I was still not allowed to venture out in the evenings unless I was baby-sitting for one of our relatives. Sometimes I managed to sneak out to a matinee, under the guise of researching a subject in the library, and I would sit enthralled, treasuring the time stolen for myself.

The Easter holidays had drawn to a close once more when my mother surprised me with an invitation.

‘Antoinette, Daddy wants to take both of us out tonight so run up and change,’ was her opening remark to me as she returned from work with him at her side.

He had left their bed only an hour before, leaving me still in their room, to fetch her. The moment the front door closed behind him I had washed myself, scrubbing and scrubbing at my teeth and tongue to remove the smell of whiskey before straightening the bed and setting the tea tray. Then, dressed again in my school uniform, I awaited their return. My new clothes I kept for best and, as I had very few others, my uniform was what I wore around the house during term-time; I only changed when we went out.

That afternoon he had been careless with the amount of drink that had poured down my throat because he was in a good mood. He’d had a win on the horses and, as I was to
learn later, his burst of good temper had made him careless in more than one area.

Feeling sluggish and slightly sick I quickly changed out of my gym tunic and threw it on the bed; a bed I felt like crawling into and sleeping in. Even the idea of a trip to the cinema was of little interest to me.

The film, one of my father’s favourites, was a western, but I could hardly concentrate on the action. A headache that started as a pain behind my eyes had crept down into my neck, making me wince at the blast of the guns every time a fight erupted. I wanted to cover my ears when the volume of the music rose to announce suspense; every new noise felt like knives stabbing into my skull. It was with a sense of relief that I welcomed the lights coming on and the anthem being played. All I wanted was to escape into sleep.

But on our return home my escape was delayed, as I was sent to the kitchen to make tea for my parents. Over the whistle of the kettle I heard a noise that froze me to the spot with fear. It was a terrible roar of anger coming from my bedroom.

‘Antoinette, get yourself up here my girl,’ were the words, thickened with rage, that I heard bellowing down the stairs from my father’s mouth. Not knowing what I’d done wrong now, I went up, my head still pounding and a sick sensation crawling around the pit of my stomach.

He was standing at the foot of my bed pointing to the offending object, the gym tunic.

‘Do you think we’re made of money for you to throw good clothes down like that?’ he shouted and I saw his fist coming towards me.

Almost tripping in my haste I ducked, turned and ran down the stairs. Surely my mother would protect me this
time I hoped, for I knew this was not a normal outburst. The hatred in his eyes made them bulge. I knew his control had gone; he wanted to hurt me and hurt me badly. He came faster than I thought possible, slipping on the last stair, which intensified his anger. One more stride and his arm swung out and caught me. His fist seized my shoulder-length hair; my body went rigid with pain as he swung me in the air and I felt strands of hair loosen as they came out of my scalp. I screamed, and then felt my breath leave my body as he threw me face up on the floor. He was still shouting, flecks of spittle forming in the corners of his mouth and dropping onto my face. I saw red eyes, now glazed with fury, felt his hands go round my throat, and knew he wanted to squeeze the life out of me.

The weight of his knee pressed into my stomach, then one hand left my neck, while the other kept up the pressure, and came down time and again on my body. The punches rained down on my breasts and stomach while the words, ‘You need a lesson taught to you my girl,’ became a chant that he repeated time and time again.

Stars floated in front of my eyes, then I heard my mother’s voice raised in a mixture of fear and anger.

‘Paddy, get off her.’

The cloud lifted from his eyes and the pressure round my throat eased. Dazed and choking, I took in the scene; saw my mother white faced, her eyes dark with anger, holding the bread knife firmly in her hand. She pointed it at him and repeated her command until his eyes focused on the blade. For a moment he went completely still, allowing me a few seconds to crawl away.

Hope came fleetingly to me. Surely she would do what I had heard her threaten him with in their many rows – leave
him and take me with her? Or, even better, tell him to go. Then hope died once more. Instead of hearing what I hoped for I heard words I was too numb to comprehend.

‘Get out, Antoinette!’ she shouted.

Still I crouched, in the belief that if I didn’t move I would be invisible to them. Seeing me not moving, she dragged me by the arm with all the force she could muster, opened the door and with one push threw me out into the street.

‘Don’t come back tonight,’ were her final words before the door closed firmly in my face. I stood outside, my body aching from the force of his blows, shivering both from fear and the chill of the evening. Shock and fright paralysed me for a few seconds and I felt a helpless panic. Where was I to go? I knew better than to seek help from one of the family. If I did I would receive a worse punishment on my return. He was the son, the brother, the nephew, who could do no wrong and I would be seen as a liar, a troublemaker, who would not be believed. They would simply bring me back. This I knew as I paused for those few seconds until fear lent my feet wings and I took off into the night.

I went to the flat which Isabel, one of our teachers, shared with a friend. I told them through hiccups and tears that I had had a terrible row with my parents for leaving my bedroom untidy and I was scared to go home. They were sympathetic; they were only recently qualified teachers and knew how dictatorial Irish fathers could be. Their efforts of reassuring me that it would all blow over, and that really my parents must be worried about me, only brought on a fresh bout of tears. They phoned my mother to tell her where I was. She, they told me, was not angry,
just relieved that I was safe, but as it was so late she gave her permission for me to stay there. My father had gone to work, she told them, upset by both my behaviour and my disappearance. He thought I had gone to my grandparents’ house and would therefore be all right. I was at that age when I showed him no respect. I was to go straight home in the morning, when she would deal with me, and of course I would go to school as normal. She apologized for the inconvenience, telling them that I caused nothing but trouble at home, giving her constant worry and sleepless nights.

If they were surprised that a child known for her good behaviour during school hours could be so disruptive out of them, they passed no comment. A bed was made up for me on the settee and I quickly fell into a deep sleep. In the morning they lent me the bus fare for the return journey home. Remembering that they were responsible adults and I not much more than a child, instructions to behave followed me as, with a sinking feeling of dread, I left the safety of their flat and made my way to the bus stop.

My father had returned from his nightshift and was already in bed when I arrived home and knocked on the door. My mother silently let me in, a reproving look on her face, and then put my breakfast out. She told me she’d slept badly because of me; then asked me to make more of an effort to get on with my father.

‘I can’t take much more,’ she said. ‘I’m tired of you worrying me; tired of you doing things that upset him.’

Underneath the surface I thought I could sense her fear; my father had gone too far that night. It was only her intervention that had stopped a potential scandal even worse than what was to follow.

Although he had never in all the years he had beaten me laid a finger on her she must have finally become aware of what he was capable of. That was the only time she mentioned the events of that evening and in the afternoon I came home to find my father waiting for me.

‘I’m going to tell,’ I said weakly as I tried to stand up to him. ‘I’m going to tell if you hit me again.’

He laughed at me; a laugh that had no hint of fear in it, then very calmly replied, ‘Antoinette, nobody will believe you. You talk my girl and it’s you who’ll be sorry. Everyone will blame you. You’ve kept quiet, haven’t you? You’ve kept quiet for years.’

My silence was enough to allow him to continue with a note of triumph in his voice.

‘So, you’re just as guilty as me. Your family won’t love you anymore. If you bring disgrace to this house your mother won’t want you. You’ll be the one sent away, you’ll be put into a home and you’ll never see your mother again. You’ll go to strangers; strangers who’ll know how bad you are. Is that what you want? Is it?’

I saw in my mind’s eye a picture of angry people sneering at me, and felt the bleakness of an unfamiliar world without my mother.

‘No,’ I whispered, scared of the future he’d just shown me. I’d heard stories of how people were treated in the homes once their parents had handed them over. Knowing he’d won again, he smirked.

‘So, if you don’t want more of what you got last night you just behave. Now get out of my sight. Get upstairs till I’ve gone. I’ve done with you.’