My mother seemed unconcerned with my sudden withdrawal although I did catch her watching me surreptitiously several times. I found it difficult to believe that she wasn’t aware of what my father was doing to me.
On the Monday when I got home from school my father was waiting for me in the darkened lounge.
“You can have your lunch later.” he said. “I’m going to show you something very special today.”
I sat down on the couch next to my father and he began kissing me and fumbling with the buttons of my school blouse. Eventually he got them all undone and pulled off the garment. He began to fondle my breasts with his rough hands and then leant over and began kissing them and sucking my nipples, at the same time undoing the hook of my skirt.
“Stand up and take off your skirt and your panties and also your shoes and socks.” my father said, his voice hoarse with lust.
I stood up and took off my skirt and panties. As I bent over to remove my shoes and socks I felt my father slide his hand between my legs from behind and push his finger into me. I pulled away and then sat down beside him staring fixedly at the opposite wall of the room.
My father began sliding his hands over my body crooning softly. His breathing quickened and suddenly he stood up and took off his clothes. I couldn’t help staring at his huge rigid penis as he turned towards me.
“Now, I want you to lie down on your back on the couch, bend your knees and open your legs.” my father whispered. “What I’m going to do is fuck you. It may hurt a little in the beginning but you’ll soon come to love it. I’m going to lie on top of you and push my cock into you so just lie still and don’t do anything.”
I lay down on the couch, bent my legs and opened them. My father lowered himself onto me and I could feel his penis searching for my opening. Suddenly an excruciating pain filled my lower body as my father forced his penis deep inside me. I almost cried out with pain but I managed to restrain myself by biting my lip. I lay very still, my father’s hoarse breathing rasping in my ear. He began to move rhythmically inside me. I heard his gasp and I felt something hot burst deep inside me. My father stopped moving and lay on top of me as his breathing returned to normal. After a few minutes he lifted himself off me.
“So.” he said as he looked down at me. “You’ve just had your first fuck. Did you enjoy it?”
I nodded my head, not looking at him.
“Okay.” he said. “Take your clothes and go and have a bath. And remember; what we’re doing is our secret. If you mention what we’re doing to anyone I’ll put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life!”
My father continued to sexually abuse of me for the next six months but when the mine began to employ him on a full-time basis again, the molestation stopped. Although I could see that my father wanted to continue abusing me I never gave him the slightest opportunity, always making sure that I was never alone with him in the house.
Strangely, although the parents of many of my school friends worked at the same mine as my father, none of them ever mentioned any staff retrenchments or shorter working hours.
Although my helplessness angered me greatly and made me hate myself and my parents, I was determined not to let the abuse that I’d suffered ruin my life. I began to nurture a pride in myself and in the way I had endured my degradation. I worked hard at my schooling even though I knew that I had a rather limited academic ability. I also tried hard to avoid blaming other people for not helping me. But the deep hatred and anger within me couldn’t be ignored that easily.
I told myself that I only had one life and I shouldn’t allow anyone to destroy it. At the age of eleven these were huge obstacles to overcome and many times I came close to allowing my anger and hatred to take over my life. I persevered though.
CHAPTER 2
As I sat in the dock listening to my co-accused, Cindy Bedford, giving her evidence it struck me that none of my forefathers had been named Garth and I wondered why my parents had chosen that particular name for me. Unfortunately I would never know as they were both dead now.
Cindy finished giving her evidence and my attorney, Paul Greave, stood up and addressed Judge Warren Bester.
“Your Honour.” Paul said. “I would like to introduce my client and second defendant, Garth Gilmore at this stage of the proceedings.”
The judge nodded and, after I had been sworn in, my attorney spoke to me.
“Garth.” he said. “As you heard my learned colleague, James Foster, say, we want you to feel at ease in the court. We’re not here to attack you in any way. We’re here to try to determine what caused the events that brought you and Cindy Bedford here today. I would therefore like you to start your testimony by telling us about your earliest memories and then about your relationship with your parents, especially your father.”
I nodded and began to give my evidence.
***
Like Cindy, I had been born in Rosettenville, Johannesburg, the first and only child of Dennis and Janet Gilmore, but the grand event had taken place on the eighth of August, nineteen ninety at the Southern Nursing Home.
All my earliest memories featured both my father and my mother and were filled with visions of angry and hateful faces and emotions of fear, helplessness and bewilderment. I constantly associated my parents with pain as they assaulted me and shouted at me for reasons that I didn’t understand.
My father was a short, overweight man with longish untidy black hair, dark green eyes that bulged when he became angry, a large flat nose and fleshy untidy lips. Large pockmarks covered his clean-shaven face, the result of adolescent acne that had plagued and embarrassed him for all of his teenage years.
My mother was even shorter and more overweight than my father, with short, thin blonde hair, small dark brown eyes, a slim beaked nose and a thin grim mouth that gave her an almost vulture-like look. Her chin was small and receding.
I was my parent’s first and only child and we lived in one of five small corrugated iron mine houses at the edge of the barren buffer zone that separated the pristine white city of Johannesburg from the sprawling black eyesore of Soweto. The mine that had originally owned the five tiny houses had closed many years ago and my grandfather, who had worked for the mine as a blaster, had been able to purchase the structure at the insolvency auction. Upon my grandfather’s death in a mining accident a year before my birth and my grandmother’s death a year later, my father had inherited the house.
The whole of the house, including the roof, was painted a light grey and the gutters and window frames were white. Like most mine houses, a narrow passageway led from the front door straight through to the back door with the large main bedroom, the bathroom and the scullery on the right and the lounge, a smaller bedroom, the dining room and kitchen on the right. The floors were concrete covered with brown linoleum and the ceiling was made of pressed steel panels. A small covered porch had been added to the front of the house and a single rickety wooden garage, built onto the side of the house, housed my father’s nineteen fifty four-door Austin A40 Devon sedan.
When my father wasn’t working as a steam train shunter at the Kaserne Railway Goods Yard, he spent most of his time drinking brandy with his fellow workers at the railway’s employee bar or lounging on the front porch drinking beer. As a result he was almost always drunk when he returned from work and over the weekends when he stayed at home.
Because of my fear of my parents and the helplessness of my situation, I cried and screamed a great deal as a baby which only served to anger my parents even more, with the result that they inflicted even more unexplained pain on me. This misguided belief that inflicting more pain on me would stop me crying and screaming was typical of my parent’s level of intelligence. When I reached the age where minor injuries metered out to me could be safely healed at home the assaults became more subtle.
Although my father physically assaulted me far more than my mother did, the reasons for these attacks remained a terrifying mystery to me until I began to understand langua
ge and could comprehend why they were screaming and shouting at me.
One of my father’s favourite forms of hurting me was to burn me behind my ears with a cigarette. The pain was excruciating and I would howl and scream while my father laughed, knowing that it was highly unlikely that anyone would see the burn marks as they were very effectively hidden by my hair. My mother would do nothing to treat the burns unless they looked as if they might become infected, whereupon she would rub a little antiseptic ointment onto the wounds. It got to the stage where, as soon as I detected the smell of cigarette smoke, I would panic and start crying or run into the bathroom and hide behind the toilet bowl.
I remember one incident in particular when my father was sitting in the lounge and I was playing with my toys on the carpet. I saw my father deliberately light a cigarette while surreptitiously watching me. As soon as the smell of the burning tobacco reached me I began to panic. Very slowly, in the hope that my father wouldn’t notice, I stood up and walked out of the room. I hurried down the passageway, into the bathroom and hid behind the toilet bowl.
As I peered out at the doorway from my hiding place I heard my father approaching. He walked into the bathroom with the burning cigarette between his fingers. He smiled at me.
“Why are you hiding behind the toilet bowl, Garth?” he asked.
“I’m scared that you’re going to burn me with your cigarette.” I said, my voice trembling with fear.
“Burn you with my cigarette?” my father asked. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’ve done it lots of times before.” I said, my whole body beginning to shake with fright.
“But that was because you were naughty.” my father said. “Have you been naughty today?”
“No.” I said.
“But you must have been naughty or you wouldn’t be hiding from me now.” my father said still smiling.
“I really haven’t been naughty today, daddy.” I said as I began to cry.
“Well, if you haven’t been naughty today then there’s no need for you to hide from me. Isn’t that right?” my father said.
I was too frightened to answer.
“So, as you haven’t been naughty today you can come out from behind the toilet bowl.” my father said.
I felt utterly helpless as I crouched in my hiding place. Was my father trying to trick me or was he really being honest? I didn’t know what to do. I began crying in frustration.
“What are you waiting for, Garth?” my father asked. “You told me that you haven’t been naughty today and yet you won’t come out from behind the toilet bowl. Don’t you trust me?”
My helplessness overwhelmed me. I didn’t know what to do. My instincts told me that my father was trying to trick me and that as soon as I came out from behind the toilet bowl he would grab me and burn me behind my ears. But what if he wasn’t trying to trick me? He would know that I didn’t trust him and that would make him very angry and he would still burn me behind my ears.
I peered out from behind the toilet bowl hoping to get a clue as to what my father was going to do to me by the expression on his face. He smiled down at me.
“I’m beginning to think that you don’t trust me, Garth.” he said. “Am I right?”
I could sense the anger growing within my father, even though he was smiling, and instinctively I knew that regardless of what I did, I was going to get hurt. Resignedly, I crept out of my hiding place.
“That’s a good boy.” my father said. “Now come here and say you’re sorry for not trusting me.”
I walked slowly to where my father stood smiling down at me. Suddenly he bent down and grabbed me with his left hand behind my neck. I struggled to free myself but my father was much too strong for me. I began hyperventilating as panic set in.
“It’s disgraceful when a son doesn’t trust his own father.” my father said, still smiling at me. “And so, by not trusting me you’re being very naughty.”
Holding my neck tightly so that I couldn’t move my head, my father placed the burning tip of his cigarette against the back of my right ear. I screamed as the searing pain raced through me. I struggled with all my might but my efforts were futile.
My father moved the cigarette to another part of my ear. I screamed and begged my father to stop.
“I feel insulted that my own son doesn’t trust me.” my father said. “And as you don’t trust me you have to be punished.”
Altogether my father inflicted eight burns to the back of my ears. I screamed helplessly, the smell of my burning flesh making me gag and choke. Eventually my father released his grip in my neck and I collapsed onto the tiled floor, fighting for breath.
As I lay gasping on the floor I heard my father laugh.
“You stupid little bastard.” he said. “I hope that will teach you that you must always trust your father. The only time that I’ll ever hurt you is when you’re naughty and today you were very naughty.”
As I lay bawling on the floor I heard my father walk away along the passageway and into the lounge.
I quickly learnt not to trust my father and this distrust of him, and eventually all other people, stayed with me for the rest of my life.
Something else that I couldn’t understand was my mother’s reluctance to help me or stop my father from hurting me and my anger towards her for this failure grew with each assault that I suffered. My own helplessness angered me as well but my father was much too big and powerful for me to defend myself.
As the assaults on me continued I became more and more illusive and withdrawn. The constant criticism that I endured for failing to succeed in the things that I did because of ignorance damaged my self-esteem and self-confidence. Anger and hatred became emotions that never left me.
When I first began to wear lace-up shoes my mother ridiculed me my efforts to tie the laces myself and it was only with the help and guidance of one of my school friends that I finally achieved success. Of course, I was subjected to a great deal of derision by the other pupils for my ignorance and this added to the anger, rage and hatred of myself for my helplessness. The other pupils never understood that my ignorance was the result of never being shown how to do the many things that they did so easily.
Something that I desperately longed for but never found, was a sense of belonging. I so wanted to be accepted as part of my family and as part of the pupils in my class at school but this was destined never to happen. The more I was ignored the more I withdrew into myself which only served to exacerbate the situation.
I remember being taken to a local football game by my parents one Saturday afternoon. The moment that my mother told me about the intended outing I began to feel as if at last I was being recognised. I felt as if I was finally being brought into the family. I could hardly wait for the day to arrive.
My father supported the Germiston Callies Football Club so, naturally, did I. Their home was at Driehoek and they took pride in recruiting only local players and scorning the overseas players. This policy made it very difficult for the Club to prosper but there were few clubs in the country with more loyal supporters.
Football was my favourite sport and I knew all the names of the great players in countries like England and Brazil as well as all the players in the “Callies” team.
We drove to the Driehoek sports field in my father’s car and I found it impossible to contain my excitement. I sat in the back seat of the car asking my parents a multitude of questions, not even noticing that they were all ignored.
“Who are we playing against today, daddy?”
Silence.
“Will Ron Oxford be the goalie today, daddy?”
Silence.
“How many goals do you think Neville Pienaar will score today, daddy?”
Silence.
My parent’s disregard for me didn’t affect my enthusiasm though. To be going to a football game with my parents was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I felt like I was someone who meant something to others; not jus
t someone who had to be tolerated, beaten and shouted at for trying to be a human being.
My father parked the car in the parking area and we walked towards the small grandstand. People milled about and I saw several groups of children playing football on the lawns of the complex. I ran towards one of the groups to join in the fun.
“Garth!” my father shouted at me. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? Come back here immediately!”
I stopped and turned to my father.
“Please, daddy.” I said. “Let me go and play with those children. I never get a chance to play with other children. Please?”
“Come here, right now!” my father shouted. “If you don’t behave yourself I’ll lock you in the car and you won’t see any of the game!”
I looked over my shoulder at the children playing so happily together. Some of them stopped to look at me. I felt my shoulders sag and a painful feeling of depression filled my chest. I walked back to where my parents stood waiting for me.
“We came here to watch the football game.” my father said sternly. “Not for you to play football with the other children. We only brought you with us because we couldn’t leave you at home alone. If you continue to misbehave we won’t bring you with us again.”
My parents continued to walk towards the grandstand. I followed them, my excitement at being part of the family destroyed. We found our seats in the stand and sat down. I continued to watch the children playing on the lawns. They seemed so happy and carefree. A hollow feeling crept into my stomach as I though of my own confined existence.
The game started and my enthusiasm returned. I stared at the players in awe.
“Which one’s Neville Pienaar, daddy?” I asked excitedly.
My father ignored me but the man sitting next to me pointed out my hero to me.
“Neville Pienaar’s number nine.” the man told me pointing to one of the players.
My father turned to the stranger.
“It’s no good telling him which number Pienaar is.” he said. “He’s too stupid. He can’t even count to five yet.”
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