Tell Me You're Sorry, Daddy--Two Scared Little Girls. One Abusive Father. One Survived Against All Odds to Tell Their Story

by Caryn Walker

  After wandering around for a while, I went back to my room and prepared for another night of restlessness; but to my surprise, I woke ten hours later having had the best night’s sleep I could remember in years. It was a beautiful, sunny day and I spent a lot of it on the beach. A calmness always comes over me when I’m near the sea and I felt that I could start to think about things more clearly. Instead of thinking about my father, which was what I had expected to happen, it was Mum who came to my mind. I had often wondered to what extent she had known of the abuse, even whether she had colluded in it, and, on this day, flashes of too many things were coming into my head. Did she know what he was doing the whole time? I knew it would sound ludicrous to many people to even suggest that a mother could know of that kind of abuse of her child. But, after all, this was a woman who had never once hugged me, never willingly spent any time with me, never sang to me or told me stories or played with me. To her I was just an ugly, stupid, dilatory bitch.

  I spent the whole of that second day thinking about Mum and it did me no good. I slept badly that night, and even the heat and sunshine of the following day didn’t lift me from the terrible darkness that descended. I sat on the balcony and watched a man on the beach. He was carrying a little girl on his shoulders, and they were both laughing as he splashed in the sea. It was all innocent – but, to me, it was never that straightforward. Was he overstepping the mark? Should he be carrying her like that? What were his intentions? This was a battle that raged in my head so many times. I just automatically distrusted people, especially men, especially men when they were around children.

  For me, attention from a father was only negative. When I didn’t have it, I felt unloved and unwanted; when I did have it, I felt twisted and sick. To see a father have fun with his child, to love her naturally, was so alien to me that I couldn’t process it normally. I saw threats where none existed; which was ironic, given that the people in my childhood had seen nothing where plenty existed.

  That day, I was back to square one. I had felt some progress the day before, but now, all I could hear were the years of threats, the years of excuses, the constant stream of the same words he used to groom me and keep me in line. It was as if Dad was with me that day – his favourite phrases were ringing in my ears:

  You’re my princess.

  I love you.

  You’re my queen.

  If you were chocolate, I’d eat you.

  I loved you more than anybody.

  All dads and daughters do this.

  It’s normal, it’s right.

  Your mum’s sick.

  Do you want to break your mum’s heart?

  Your mum’s too poorly for me to do these things with her.

  Isn’t it better for me to do these things with you than go to another woman and break up the family?

  It’s only skin.

  It’s no different to touching your arm or your leg.

  There’s nothing for you to worry about, because I can’t get you pregnant.

  I’ve had a vasectomy so there’s nothing to be bothered with in that department.

  You’re not a virgin now and no one will think you are.

  You have to do this to be ready for boys.

  If your mum found out, it would kill her.

  I have to do this – I’m a man, men need this.

  If you don’t do this, I’ll be forced to cheat on your mum and it will kill her.

  From my suitcase, I pulled out a book I had brought with me – one that I had thought would help me make sense of a few things. It was the memoir of someone who had been abused as a child too. The abuser in this case had also been the father, and the mother had been psychologically damaging just like mine, but I thought the similarities ended there. The reason I thought this was that, to me, there was one huge difference, a difference that, the more I read, the more I realised didn’t exist. Until that point, until I read what that other woman went through, I had never thought of my dad as a paedophile. Everything fell away as the realisation hit. He had wanted a vulnerable child for his own sexual perversions – it was all about what he thought he was entitled to, and he was no different from all the others who had believed they could do this and get away with it. He was a monster who had preyed on an innocent little girl. When it started, I didn’t know it was wrong; I trusted him and I had no one else to turn to. The fact that he had left when I turned sixteen showed me that he had no interest in me as an adult – it was the child who excited him, who made him feel powerful.

  This was the truth and I was forty before it hit me. It had simply never occurred to me that he was a paedophile. I didn’t put a label on it, or give it a name, until I read that book; it was just something that had happened. As I read that poor child’s story, I recognised so much of it, but there was no denying what her father was. Finally, it all fell into place: that’s what my dad was too.

  My dad was a paedophile.

  I said it in my head over and over again, then, choking back the tears and the anger, I said it aloud, my voice getting louder and louder as I sat in my room.

  ‘He was a paedophile, he was a paedophile, he was a paedophile!’

  I finally felt the fury that I should have felt a long time ago. I thought about the times I had done the toilet in a plastic tub so he wouldn’t get me if I went to the loo.

  I thought about the times I had got into trouble for avoiding going upstairs to do my chores, and seeing him smirk at me as I left the room, knowing he would follow.

  I thought about discovering the peepholes he had made in my door, and how I covered them, fearing I would be the one who was punished for that while he got away with his actions.

  I thought about working out exactly which pieces of furniture fitted from the bed to the door to barricade it shut.

  I was sure that he didn’t care in the slightest about the fact that he had taken my life away. I was just there to be used for his gratification, and he seemed to have no conscience about what he did at all. The anger and the memories combined and I finally felt empowered. I wanted to keep that feeling but had no idea how I could make that happen. I wanted to face my anger, and this made me wonder whether I could even face him in court – could I do it without screens? Could I look him in the eye as I gave my testimony, force him to listen and see me as I described the lies, the terror, the existence of the child who had lived her life as it was a military operation? I had no idea, but the very fact that I was considering it was completely out of character.

  I splashed my face with cold water and wandered out. My head was buzzing with all of these thoughts and the realisation of what my father was. Suddenly, I felt dizzy and knew I needed to sit down before I fainted. I couldn’t remember eating anything that day, so I entered a café and ordered some food. I don’t know how much time passed – I just kept asking for more coffee so that I could sit there. A few people asked me if I was all right but they were all men, so I just nodded and tried to not attract any attention. After a little while longer, one man in his sixties pulled up a chair and sat beside me. He was English, as were most of the tourists there, and he started talking, chatting away although I was keeping as quiet as I could. I nodded every so often but I just wanted him to leave me alone.

  ‘If you’re here tomorrow, why don’t I take you somewhere nice?’ the man said to me.

  I just stared at him.

  The empowered feelings from earlier had all gone and I realised that I actually didn’t know how to say no. I had struggled with this all my life, not just in sexual situations, but when anyone asked me to do anything. I sometimes managed, but it was hard and I always felt wrong, a bad person, for turning any request down.

  ‘So …’ the man continued. ‘Will you be here tomorrow? Are you up for it?’

  Up for what? Even if he had been offering something as innocent as a walk, or another coffee, I would still have felt this panic that was rising in me. Dad had instilled in me a belief that a man has a right to sex, and I assumed that wa
s what was being asked of me here. He made me believe that sex was essential to men and that there were always bad consequences when a man didn’t get what he wanted in that department. It was ironic that I did feel this way given that, for me, as a child, the consequences were just as awful when he did get what he wanted.

  With the very few partners I’d had, there had always been a struggle if I wanted to refuse them. I thought it was wrong of me. I thought they had a right to my body. I knew I only valued myself as a physical being, and that was a low value anyway. What was inside was rotten and if people got too close, they would hate me once they saw what I truly was. There was, in my mind, nothing to like.

  That man in the café must have thought I was mad. I truly don’t know whether he was propositioning me or not, because my mind started racing and my body was flooded with panic. I mumbled some excuse, threw money on the table and ran out, rushing back to my room. For the rest of that day and night, I beat myself up terribly. How could I have been so deluded as to think that I had any power? How could I have thought I might be able to face Dad in court?

  Over the next day, my mind was filled by thoughts of the power of my dad’s conditioning. I don’t think he believed I would ever tell – maybe he just assumed he would be able to forget about it, write it off as something that happened a long time ago. It’s not like that for survivors; we can’t write it off or forget it. If he had any conscience, he wouldn’t have been putting me through the trial, he would have admitted everything. I was disgusted with myself in so many ways – and my behaviour in the café the day before hadn’t helped matters – but there was a little voice there saying, You have changed; you did report him, you did want him to be punished and that takes strength. Why was the time right now, I wondered?

  I don’t think to begin with that it was about making him accountable to me; I think it was all about whether he had access to any other children. It was only when someone else – Vicky – had said he needed to pay that I had even thought it could be done. I didn’t want to be scared for the rest of my life. Both of my parents stripped me bare; they took away my confidence, self-respect and even my body. They made me believe I was nothing, that I wasn’t worthy of anyone’s love, and I still thought that most of the time.

  I couldn’t bear to leave my room that day, but that night I wandered out to watch the sunset and hugged myself tightly. I was going back home to something I couldn’t even imagine. I’d never been in a court before, never given evidence, and I was paralysed with fear every time I thought of it. It was as if my head was full of the people saying, You can’t do this, you won’t win, historical abuse is almost impossible to prove, everyone will see you for the dirty little girl you are. I knew all of that; I knew it too well. The chances of securing a conviction were minuscule; but I owed it to myself and to any other children who might be protected if Dad was revealed as what he was.

  The following morning, I packed my bags and walked outside to sit down on a little stone bench to wait for the taxi to pick me up for the airport. I thought of Karen, the baby, the little girl, the teenager. All of those versions of me, all with the same scared, lost look. I mentally hugged her and made a commitment to who I had been and who I hoped to be. I told the child within me that she deserved to be free of all of this, that she was a good soul who should have a happy, peaceful life. I mentally held her hand and thought of Jenny. I wanted to make my dad accountable for what he had done.

  There’s only me – the little girl has gone. Jenny has gone. He made his choices – I had no choice then but I do now. I need the strength to do this; it matters more than anything.

  I finally cried. I cried for that little girl who’d had so much taken away from her, and for my sister.

  I got back after five days of being completely alone, no phone, no family, no problems or stress, nothing. Just me, to think and try to find strength. My mind must have been crying out for this, because I started to feel better immediately. The minute the plane took off my mind started to think, go back, accept, make sense. I tried to hold on to what I had achieved during the trip. I remembered that, by day three, I had almost sorted my mind out and, for the first time, it had occurred to me – he’s a paedophile who used his own little girl for his sexual pleasure; he had never loved or cared for me and never been remorseful. He’d had twenty-five years to apologise to me and he surely wouldn’t put me through this if he genuinely felt guilt.

  By day five, I had felt ready. I no longer wanted screens in court – why should I hide away? I wanted to look at him. I wanted him to know I was no longer afraid and I wanted to look at him when he gave his evidence. I shouldn’t have to hide behind a screen and then scurry away like the frightened little girl I used to be. I needed to face this, face him and hopefully move forward with my life. I came home feeling good – the confusion had gone and so had my shame (I hoped). I needed to hold on to this strength for three more weeks. I hoped I could. He wasn’t sorry; he wasn’t remorseful – he used a vulnerable child, took forty years from me and left a scared shell of a woman: but no more. It had to change now. I deserved that.

  As we moved into June, I still felt strong. My trip had been so important and needed – and Elroy had done absolutely the right thing in encouraging me to go. I needed all the strength I could muster, as I found out in this period that Kev did not want to give evidence; he said he didn’t need the hassle and wanted a quiet life. I wasn’t sure if he could choose – can they make him give evidence, I wondered? I guessed the main thing was that, yet again, he had hurt me deeply. He hadn’t been there for me, just like when he supported Dad over me, and when he retracted his claim that he too had been abused.

  I tried to stay positive, but it was starting to slip. I was falling back into fear and I didn’t want that to happen; I wanted to be strong again, I wanted to be that warrior. A court visit was planned for me so that I could see where everything would be and where things would happen. I really hoped this would help because I was starting to feel very wobbly, and I kept arguing with Elroy because the stress was so bad. I don’t think people on the outside realise that, when you start this whole process, you’re signing up to a sentence yourself as well as committing your loved ones to it. There was barely a moment when I didn’t think about what lay ahead – even when my head didn’t actively acknowledge it, my body did. My stomach churned, my head pounded – I wonder if the abusers, the rapists and the paedophiles feel the same? I would guess many of them don’t – they probably feel aggrieved, they probably think only of themselves as they always have.

  I think one of the reasons I have always wanted to document my whole journey is to show it warts and all, to show people that it isn’t a matter of just making the decision ‘to tell’ and then the court case with verdict happens. Life is in all the minutes that take place before and after that, the middle of the night when you wake up sweating and shaking from night terrors, the flashbacks that happen when you’re in the supermarket, the horror that hits you when you’ve been singing along to the car radio seconds before. It isn’t cut and dried, it isn’t black and white; it’s a mess of emotion, a mess of the past and present and future with no clear exit strategy.

  I was surprised by how small the court seemed to be – but it still had a huge effect on me. My grand heroic gesture of ‘I don’t need screens’ went out the window as soon as I saw it, and as soon as I saw how close Dad would be to me. He would only be sitting about twenty feet away. I couldn’t stop shaking and kept looking at the seat he would be in. I thought I would need the security of the screens after all. I also found out that I would be questioned by both sides, but only on my statement, no one else’s – they said I could see it any time to refresh my memory. I didn’t need to. I knew it and I didn’t need to look at it again. It was the truth and it wouldn’t change – as long as I stuck to the facts, I’d be true to myself and no one could trip me up on anything.

  After the court visit, the nightmares wouldn’t stop. I kept dreaming that
Dad had me trapped and all of the horrible stuff, all of the abuse, replayed time after time. Vicky supported me as ever, but the nights were mine and I had to battle those alone. In houses everywhere, in the dead of night, there are women, men, children, who will face their tormentors the next day or week or month, and we all dread when darkness comes and we know the faces will return to us from our past.

  I thought I would try to get away for a few days again to get my strength back, as that had worked last time. I wanted this to change my life. I wanted to fight for the little Karen, the tiny girl who broke my heart. I wanted to give her a big hug and make it all OK. I wanted a real life, to feel normal, to be normal for my son – everyone deserved it; they deserved a strong me. So I did – I went away for a few days; but when I got back from the airport the day before the trial was due to start, Elroy sat me down.

  ‘He’s admitted it,’ he told me. ‘Well, he’s admitted some of it.’

  I felt a wave of mixed emotions – anger that it was only ‘some’, but relief that he had admitted anything. The judge had asked the liaison team to come and tell me in person and I found out from them that he had admitted ten of the twenty-four counts. They were not what I had hoped for, to be honest. They were ‘only’ the ones relating to when I was over the age of eleven, and they were ‘indecent assault’ rather than sexual assault, things such as touching my chest. Tina and Tamsin from the liaison support group told me that, if I accepted this, if I agreed that he would be found guilty on these charges alone, it would be over.