Mummy Knew (4 page)

Mummy offered to make him an egg sandwich but he shouted ‘Stuff your fucking egg sandwich up your arse,’ and swept the remains of the meal onto the snowflake-patterned carpet. ‘Greedy bastards!’

We cowered in the face of his mood, scared of setting him off again, and slipped off to bed shortly afterwards leaving Mummy to try and appease him.

A couple of days later Dad bought Davie and me a comic each and we settled onto the sofa happily flicking through them, glad to be in his good books. Then we heard Mummy and him rowing in the kitchen. Davie and I looked at each other nervously. We couldn’t hear what they were arguing about but there was the crashing sound of cups breaking and then a yelp from our dog, Eddie. Dad stormed back into the room, snatched the comics from us, and ripped them to shreds. Only a few minutes before he had ruffled the hair on our heads; now we both got a whack round the ear because we were ‘ungrateful fuckers’.

I soon learned not to trust Dad’s moods. I knew that if I said or did anything he didn’t like, he could flip. Davie called him ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’–behind his back, of course–and that’s the way we all thought of him. He’d quite often be nice to me, playing at batting a balloon in the air or jiggling me on his knee, but the whole time I was bracing myself for a sudden change.

Mummy had never been much of a cook–she was always too busy–but on the rare occasions when she did have both
the time and the inclination to cook anything other than something on toast, the food was delicious, almost as good as Nanny’s. She would make Diane’s favourite cheese and potato pie, or another crowd pleaser like toad in the hole with onion gravy, or shepherd’s pie. But these times were few and far between, and we mostly ate simple food like eggs, beans, Heinz spaghetti and tomato soup. Even this level of choice ground to a halt after Dad’s arrival. The cupboards were bare most of the time, except for the stuff she bought especially for him. Dad was the only person Mummy cooked for now, and she’d spend money she could ill afford making him his favourite steak and chips.

On the nights we didn’t get any dinner, we’d either go without or Mummy would send us over to Nanny’s for a meal there. Nanny, Jenny and Freda made it clear they didn’t think much of Dad.

‘He’s a bad ’un,’ I heard Nanny muttering.

‘The sooner she gets rid of him, the better,’ Jenny agreed. ‘Says he’s a window cleaner but I bet he’s never done a day’s work in his life. He’s just sponging off her.’

Dad seemed to sense their opinion, or maybe someone had told him, because he decided to use me as an emotional pawn. ‘If that old Geordie bitch thinks she’s seeing her again,’ he said, nodding towards me, ‘she’s got another think coming.’

He knew how much it would upset Nanny to be denied access to me, and whenever he was upset with them or in a bad mood, I would be banned from going over the road. His temper wasn’t just taken out on Nanny, though. He’d punch walls, smash windows and rip cupboard doors off their hinges.
Then he moved on to precious family mementos like photographs, ornaments and our meagre record collection. He didn’t care who the things belonged to, or what heartbreak he would cause by destroying them. The day he smashed Davie’s ship in a bottle, Davie gave a heart-wrenching wail before running out of the flat and going to stay with Nanny for a few days.

‘Go on, fuck off over there, you fucking nancy boy,’ Dad shouted after him. ‘How old’s he meant to be? Eleven?’

Unbelievably, at times like this Mummy always sided with Dad. ‘He should put his stuff away. Stupid boy,’ she said, stooping down to pick up the thick shards of glass and the splintered wooden boat Davie had cherished for so long.

‘Cunt!’ said Dad, stalking back to his position on the sofa, a finger already poised to pull the ring on another can of extra-strength lager.

I couldn’t understand why Mummy would let him do all these things, but she was different when he was around: giggly, and smiling, and always trying to catch his eye or get his attention. She never seemed to look at us any more.

‘She’s in love,’ Cheryl told me, raising her eyebrows, and next time I saw Dad, I peered at him, trying to figure out what it was that Mummy loved. He was tall and slim, but had a pot belly which he seemed proud of–‘It takes ten pints a night to get a gut like this,’ he used to boast–and his eyes were small and puffy above a long, sharp nose. Cheryl said he was fourteen years younger than Mummy, but he didn’t look it.

‘She thinks she’s landed the jackpot, doesn’t she?’ she remarked to Diane. ‘She didn’t think she’d get anyone else, not with four kids in tow.’

‘All my friends think he’s quite dishy,’ said Diane, ‘but I can’t see it myself. Have you seen the way he keeps scratching his arse? No thanks.’

Within a few weeks of Dad’s arrival the flat’s assorted wounds were patched up with duct tape, unsanded mounds of polyfilla and pieces of corrugated cardboard in lieu of glass. The shelves were devoid of the photo frames and various knick-knacks that had previously made the flat home. Diane, Cheryl and Davie, being older than me, were able to spend more and more time out of the way–but as the youngest, I was trapped.

I’d grown used to hearing the loud grunts and groans that came from Mummy’s bedroom at all hours of the day and night, but now they were often joined by the sound of Mummy screaming in pain. I cowered under my bed or down in the dark corner beside the wardrobe, forming myself into the smallest ball I could, petrified that Dad would come for me next. I wrapped my arms around my knees, and tried to block out the sound of Mummy begging him to calm down. But on and on went the terrible crashes and thuds until I felt my heart would explode in my chest and ears.

Time and again the police were called by worried neighbours, but Mummy would simply go to the door, all indignant despite her battered face, and tell them to go away. ‘I told ’em to sling their bleedin’ hook. Interfering bastards.’

One day, after she had sent the police away yet again, she went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I watched her spoon the sugar into the cup and her hand was shaking so much that she was spilling as much on the counter as was
going into the tea. I stood next to her and laid my head against her hip as the kettle boiled.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped.

‘Are you alright, Mummy?’ I asked, tears trickling down my cheeks and soaking into her dressing gown. ‘Your eye looks sore.’

‘Just go to your room or something,’ she replied, pushing me away. ‘You’re always under my bloody feet.’

I knew by her reaction that she didn’t want me to mention what Dad had done to her. It was almost as if she was embarrassed and couldn’t meet my eye. So from then on whenever I saw her cut or bruised, or wearing her Polaroid sunglasses inside the house, I didn’t say anything. In fact none of us did. I always felt very scared when I saw her bruises though. I was scared that he would hurt her really badly one time, and even more scared that he would hurt me. If he so much as raised his voice, I would find urine trickling down my leg. The more violent and unpredictable he became, the more I would wet myself, then I would panic that he would notice I’d had an accident and punish me with a slap or a kick. I crept round the flat like a little mouse, doing my best not to draw attention to myself.

I wished I could go back and live with Nanny again. But somehow I knew without asking that Dad would never let me.

I
started school when I was five. The nursery I’d attended when I lived with Nanny was based in the same Victorian building, so I was quite familiar with it already. I was looking forward to playing in the big girl’s playground, where I could use the skipping ropes and hula hoops. Nanny knitted me a new hat and scarf, which I wore despite the late September heat, and Jenny and Freda bought me a pretty dress and long white socks from Woolworths. I felt really smart in my new outfit. Mummy couldn’t walk me to school herself as she was having a lie-in with Dad, so Diane took me on the first day. It was a ten-minute walk away.

‘I won’t be able to walk you every day,’ said Diane as she held my hand, ‘so make sure you remember the way, just in case Mummy doesn’t get up in time.’

‘I should have brought a bit of bread to crumble, like Hansel and Gretel,’ I said, and Diane laughed.

As we approached the gate, I was so nervous my insides were doing somersaults. But once I was inside I quickly settled in. The classrooms had proper desks with lids that lifted up and smashed back down on our fingers if we weren’t careful.
I sat next to a girl called Claire Sullivan, and when we had to line up in twos we giggled as we held hands. I liked it at school, at least at first.

Mummy spent most of her waking hours at Dad’s beck and call, catering to his every need, whether that meant running over the road to put his bets on, or spending hours in the bedroom with him whenever he announced ‘Feel that, Donna. I’ve got the right horn.’

Mummy had plenty of time for him because since he had moved in, Dad had insisted on a few changes. Firstly, he stopped Mummy working for Uncle Bob in the pub because Dad believed it was ‘whore’s work’ and besides, Uncle Bob was a ‘no-good cunt’. Mummy could forget ever working there again–and another thing, she had better get used to the fact that she wouldn’t be able to ‘flash her tits all over the shop’ any more.

‘You’re fucking everything that moves in that boozer,’ he spat. ‘What d’ya take me for, some kinda mug?’

‘Why would you say that, Frank? I never look at anyone but you.’

‘Cos you’re a slag, that’s why,’ he replied with a sneer.

While he was at it, Dad also banned her from contact with any member of her extended family, especially ‘the old bitch and two ugly sisters over the road’. Mummy accepted all this and even seemed pleased that he was so jealous and possessive of her, as if it was confirmation of his love.

‘You just want me all to yourself, don’t you?’ she laughed.

The only time I remember her crying about any of his rule changes was when he trashed her make-up collection. He held her face in one hand, distorting her mouth so she looked like
a fish, and then began to make her up like a clown with exaggerated red lips and large black crosses on her eyelids which smudged in her tears.

‘Look at the state of you,’ he said, roaring with laughter and twisting her face so she could look in the mirror. She began laughing then–laughing, coughing and crying all at the same time.

I was watching through a crack in the door, confused that Mummy could be happy and sad all at once.

With a clatter, Dad tipped Mummy’s make-up into the tin wastebasket in the corner. Her best rosy brown lipstick fell onto the carpet and he stamped on it with a crunch.

‘Could do with a new bit of carpet in here anyway,’ mumbled Mummy, cigarette clamped between her circus-painted lips.

Once she had stopped working at the pub, the lack of money gave Dad yet another reason to lose his temper. Ever since he had taken up with Mummy she had provided for his every need and now that money was sparse Dad found things difficult.

‘No booze, no fags, and I can’t even have a fucking bet.’

In desperation, Mummy would send Diane or Cheryl over the road to Nanny’s to ask if she could spare a few quid to tide us over. Since taking up with Dad she hadn’t spoken to her family directly but she wasn’t too proud to ask for cash. Nanny couldn’t bear to think of us children going without the basics so she would always put a little money in an envelope and send it back to Mummy with her love. Little did she know that instead of buying food, Mummy would give the
money straight to Dad who would quickly smoke, drink and gamble it away.

Sometimes I’d cry myself to sleep because I missed Nanny so much. I couldn’t understand why I was sometimes allowed to visit her and other times I couldn’t. I wanted to ask, but once I’d made the mistake of saying ‘Nanny’ in front of Dad and he’d smacked my bare legs so hard that I wore his red handprint for the rest of the day. It made me frightened to even think about her when Dad was around in case he could read my mind. If I saw Nanny and Freda sitting out on their balcony when I got home from school, they would wave and shout across the busy road, and even though I wanted to jump for joy and blow kisses, just as I used to in the old days when Nanny picked me up from nursery, I was worried that Dad might see me from our flat window, so I turned away and ran up the steps into our block as fast as I could.

Once Mummy whispered to me in the bathroom, warning me not to sneak over the road to see Nanny in case I got run over. She bent down until her frowning face was level with mine and her grip tightened painfully on my upper arms. I knew she wasn’t really worried about me crossing roads because I walked to school on my own every day now and I was allowed to play in all sorts of dangerous places, such as the canal where a boy had drowned once and derelict houses with floors missing. I knew it was just that she didn’t want me going over to Nanny’s because Dad didn’t want me to, and if he found out, he would be angry.

The thought of Dad’s anger flipped my stomach. He quite often smacked my bare bottom if I didn’t do what he asked
straight away–and sometimes I didn’t understand what it was he wanted me to do and got punished for it.

One day I was watching cartoons on TV when I heard him bellowing from the bedroom: ‘Lisa, come here a minute.’

I ran through as quickly as I could, and when I got there I was surprised to see that he was lying on his bed completely naked. He was rubbing his ding-a-ling up and down and looking at the pictures in a magazine. I could see a naked lady on the front. She had blonde pigtails like Claire at school and was sucking her finger.

‘Come and park your little arse over here,’ he said. ‘I want you to look at something.’ He laughed and took a swig of lager before letting out a loud belch.

I didn’t want to go over to him, but I was frightened not to. I climbed up onto the bed beside him, trying not to look at his ding-a-ling, which was sticking straight up in the air.

‘What do you reckon, Lisa? Who’s got the best tits out of these two–the blonde or the nig-nog?’ He flicked the magazine with his middle finger. ‘Get it right and it’s tickle time, get it wrong and I might just have to bend you over my knee.’