What Daddy Did

by Ford, Donna

  Helen was really angry with me that day. She'd told me she'd be in to deal with me later. She was always threatening to 'deal with me', or give me the 'something' that was coming to me. I could hear her moving about, coming out of the living room now and again, walking in the hall or going into one of the other rooms. Every time I heard her footsteps and the noise of a door handle, my heart started racing and I shook with fear of her coming in.

  Of course she did eventually open the door.

  I cowered at the sight of her shape in the doorframe. Helen dragged me by the hair away from where I was standing and threw me into the lobby with a yell. 'Out, bastard!' she shouted at me before turning back in to use the loo herself. After she was finished, she opened the door and I was just as quickly thrown back in. She went into the living room and I heard her music going on. I was, by now, very worried because I had seen that she was 'dolled up': she had make-up on, her hair had been done, and one of her 'good' outfits had made an appearance. I knew all of that meant she was expecting company.

  My stomach rumbled with hunger and the fear of what was to come as I went back to standing in position. It wasn't long before the doorbell rang three times. I heard Helen go down the lobby and open, first, the vestibule door, then the big front door to greet her guests. I heard all the voices saying hello to each other and doors closing, then I listened for the footsteps as they got closer. Closer and closer. I made out the shapes of four people through the frosted glass of the bathroom door as they all came into the lobby. One by one, they went into the living room and closed the door behind them. I heard the music – 'Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me' – and the sound of the partygoers opening cans of beer, talking all the while.

  I took the opportunity to do two things at this point. The flurry of activity that accompanied the arrival of Helen's friends provided enough of a distraction for me to go for a pee and gulp down a mouthful of water from the tap at the sink by the door. I then sat on the edge of the bath for a few minutes to rest my legs, rubbing my thighs to try and warm them, as I strained my ears to make out the conversation coming from the living room. Most of it was indecipherable but, now and again, I made out the sound of the 'pet name' Helen used for me all the time – 'bastard'. I knew she would be bemoaning the fact that she had to be responsible for me, because I had heard it all before through the adjoining window between my bedroom and the living room. I heard them talking and laughing and I waited.

  I can only try now, as an adult, to make sense of what kind of conversation they had in there that prompted the next act.

  I heard the living room handle turn noisily. The voices got louder. I watched, shaking with abject fear, as the shapes approached the bathroom. The time had come for my punishment. I just wasn't sure what it was to be this time.

  It happened very quickly, and I'm unsure what sparked it off. All of a sudden, Helen was there, standing in the doorway. Right behind her was a woman and two men. I recognised one of the men, but I'd never seen the other before, the one who wore glasses.

  Helen stood there, looking down at me with hatred in her eyes. She had one hand on her left hip and the other was holding the tawse. The woman stood directly behind her, looking over her right shoulder at me. Immediately behind her were the two men. Every part of me was shaking as I looked at my stepmother, and tears started burning at the back of my eyes. I forced them back. I knew I couldn't let her see me cry.

  'So, bastard,' she said to me, 'what have you got to say for yourself?'

  I looked at her and really had no idea what she wanted me to say. All I could do was blurt out, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry!'

  'I'm sorry?' she yelled back at me, then turned to look at her friends. 'Did you hear that?' she said to them. 'She's sorry! What are you?' she said, wanting to hear it again.

  'I'm sorry,' I repeated.

  Reaching out, she grabbed me by the right arm and, pulling it, she shouted in my face, 'And why is the little bastard sorry?'

  'I'm sorry that I've been bad,' I said, because I knew that's what she expected and wanted to hear. At this, she forced me over the bath, pushing me down on the cold metal.

  'And what do you deserve when you've been bad?' she yelled at me.

  'I deserve to be punished,' I choked, repeating the ritual of fake words that I was now used to. I was so scared and incredibly humiliated because this time I had an audience, an audience who clearly were there for the sport of it rather than to help me. I could hear them moving about but I couldn't see them, although I could feel their eyes on me. I was leaning over the bath, afraid to move, as I waited for that first stinging blow. It came soon enough, as did all the others raining down on my back, legs and backside. I yelped and squirmed and repeated her mantra: 'I am bad, I deserve to be punished.' It was agonising and seemed to go on for ever.

  When it did stop, she started yelling at me again: 'Bed, bastard!' I wasted no time in running past the group at the doorway, who had parted to allow me through. I ran as fast as I could into my room, into my bed, where I wrapped the woollen blanket around me like a shield. I cried and nursed myself to sleep. I don't remember much more about that day – what happened, whether her friends stayed on, or what time the others came home. I simply did what I often did at times like this and shut myself out from the rest of the world.

  Throughout the school summer holidays, I didn't have what other children experienced. So many of them – although not all, I realise that – had little more than boredom to contend with as they spent one lazy day after another. Not for me was there a normal summer day of playing in the street with friends, or a day trip to the seaside. I was there only to be used. Parties would eventually finish (always before teatime). People would leave as quickly as they had arrived and things went back to 'normal'. I would hear Helen feed her own children and laugh with them as she got them ready for bed. Sometimes, after one of these events, I would be allowed up and given tea standing at the table, then I'd do the dishes. Very occasionally, I would be allowed a bath; even more rarely, I'd be allowed to sit on the floor in the living room and watch some television.

  My Dad had been working lots of hours at the GPO as well as doing window cleaning. He had been doing this window cleaning for some time before he had an accident; exactly howlong I amnot sure, but he'd started up what he hoped would be his own business because the Post Office had cut back on overtime. He was still working as a postman but he wanted out of there eventually, and setting up this business seemed to be a good way of earning money and moving on. He was out of the house even more during this time, as he'd leave early to go and do his deliveries, and when he returned in the afternoon he would get changed and go straight back out to wash the windows in our area.

  One day, he fell. He had been cleaning a tenement window and was standing on the window ledge outside when he somehow lost his grip and fell 14 feet. He landed on his feet but smashed both of his ankles. He was in hospital for what seemed like months, and while he was laid up, Helen partied.

  The day he had the accident I came home from school to find Auntie Madge – my Dad's sister – there instead of Helen. The atmosphere in the house was strange. I could tell this wasn't one of Auntie Madge's usual visits where we would all be on our best behaviour and I would be allowed to stay up. She would usually bring us a comic and a sweetie on these visits, but today there was a look on her face. Finally, she told me the news about Dad's accident. I was so upset. I felt my whole world was going to fall apart. I just kept saying over and over again, 'Is he going to die? Is he going to die?' Auntie Madge said that he wouldn't and that he would be fine, although she warned us that he might not be able to walk for a while, and when he finally did, he'd have crutches.

  All I could think about was how awful it was when he wasn't in the house. I had visions of him never coming home, and I was truly scared about what would happen to me if there was only Helen in my life. Although he was far from the best of dads, life with him was much better than with Helen. For the
rest of that day and the next, Auntie Madge stayed over while Helen went to visit my Dad in the hospital. After a few days it was clear that he was going to be in hospital for a while. It was a terrible time. I knew I couldn't ask about him as that would just annoy Helen. I didn't know how bad he was because I was never really told, and there was no way that I was ever going to get to visit him in the hospital.

  Meanwhile, to all the people that mattered, Helen behaved as if it was a terrible hardship. When the social worker came, she was so dramatic, saying how terrible it was that her poor husband had had such an awful accident, and how was she going to look after us all now? She said pretty much the same things to Auntie Madge, but when there was no-one like that around, she'd get herself all done up and people would come to the house.

  I can still smell the hairspray and cheap perfume she wore. Helen liked to look after herself; she liked new clothes and she loved getting 'dolled up'. She tried her best, I suppose, but I could never look at my stepmother and see anything pretty about her. She wore glasses – the kind that look best on Dame Edna – and she'd had her teeth removed due to gingivitis. As a result, the false teeth clicked in her mouth constantly. Her nylon clothes bristled with static as she walked. Even her birthday was appropriate – 31 October, Hallowe'en! I used to believe that she was a witch because she always made such a big fuss about this day.

  I'm sure that Helen must have thought she looked great when she made an effort, but to me she looked terrible because her getting dressed up could only mean one thing – a party. At the time of my Dad's hospitalisation, these parties were more frequent – nearly every day – and they lasted longer because my Dad wasn't going to be home from work.

  The week before my Dad came out of hospital was the worst I can remember. The parties were constant, as was the associated horror. On one day, three men came to my room, one after the other, each taking turns to abuse me. Looking back, it seems as if the attacks on me heightened in intensity and number at this time. Perhaps this was because Helen had been told by the hospital doctors just how bad Dad's injuries were, and she was facing the realisation that the parties would have to stop.

  When he returned from hospital, my Dad was hobbling pretty badly on crutches. He clearly couldn't work because of the type of injuries he had. In fact, he would have difficulty walking from then on and never worked again. This changed things. From that point on, the parties and the sexual abuse stopped. I'm sure that was purely for practical reasons. My Dad was there so Helen couldn't carry on in the way she had been doing. So, for once in my life, my Dad did protect me, even if it was unwittingly. From the moment he came home, simply by being there, I was safer. The school holidays finished soon after he was discharged from hospital, and it was back to school.

  Helen did go out on her own, all dolled up in heavy make-up and Lurex, always at night, always without my Dad. I assume that there were parties elsewhere, but I don't have any evidence. On a few occasions after she'd slammed the door behind her and announced she'd be back 'late', I remember having such a nice time with my Dad. He'd buy fizzy cream soda and a bar of Wall's vanilla ice cream to make ice cream floats. We'd sit together in the living room and watch telly while slurping at the treats. It was all simple enough, but it was what I had dreamed of. These were rare events, but all the more memorable for that.

  The contrast of having my Dad at home was immediate, and the dynamics began to change in the house. There were new patterns, though, and every evening would be the same. No sooner would I be in bed than the arguments between them would start. The fighting would go on and on until one night, when Helen Ford finally left my life.

  I remember it so clearly.

  Around New Year, my Dad and Helen were arguing in the living room. As I sat in my bedroom, cuddling my knees and hearing the hatred between them, I realised that this fight was heated, even by their standards. The voices kept getting louder and the swearing was getting stronger. Suddenly, I heard a loud clattering noise before everything went silent for a few moments. When the shouting started up again, it was largely Helen's voice that I could hear. The words were muffled, but the pitch and tone made it clear that she despised my Dad in every way.

  The fact that one of them might leave was, of course, in my mind. Indeed, I'd fantasised about my stepmother going for years; but it suddenly hit me that it might be my Dad who would go. Helen was more comfortable in this house as it had always been her little kingdom. She had her kids to look after, and she was surrounded by friends. If my Dad did go, I'd be thrown back into the pit of horror with parties and men and terror day after day. I could barely breathe as I waited to see (or hear) what would happen next.

  The shouting from Helen was interspersed with periods of quietness. I didn't hear my Dad say or do anything at all. I was so used to all of the noises of that house and all the clues I used to get when I would hear footsteps go one way or the other that I knew when she was coming my way. She passed my bedroom door as I sat there, crouched and frozen.

  I heard the front door onto the street open.

  I heard footsteps walking away outside.

  I didn't hear them come back.

  I didn't hear them come back!

  She had gone.

  Helen had gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE WOMAN OF THE HOUSE

  THERE ARE TWO STORIES I have about Helen's departure. Her version, which I heard from other people, is that my Dad hit her, and the other is that she hit my Dad.

  My Dad and Helen had a friend who used to come round to the house. We called her Auntie Mae but she wasn't a relative; like a lot of children in those days, we were expected to call friends of our parents Auntie or Uncle. She was the only woman I can remember visiting us, apart from Nellie and Madge. Auntie Mae would often come with her daughter, who was younger than me.

  Once, when I was around nine years old, I was thrown out of the house by Helen for allegedly stealing a shilling from her purse. I wandered the streets in the cold for what seemed like hours, having been told not to come back. When it got dark, I was very scared – but even more scared of going home.

  I was passing the window of Mae's house when she spotted me. She had a main door flat that opened onto the street, and when she opened the door and called to me, I burst into tears. She took me in and made me tea and toast and asked me what was wrong. I told her I'd been thrown out after being accused of taking the shilling. Mae noticed my bruises. She recognised them as having been given in anger; as a victim of domestic violence she was no stranger to bruises herself. She sat me down and asked me to tell her what had happened.

  I told Mae about Helen and the beatings. I told her how I felt Helen hated me. Auntie Mae sat and listened to me as I told her about not being fed, and about how scared I was. The only thing I didn't tell her about was the sexual abuse. I was just too ashamed. Mae was a drinker. In fact, she was often drunk when I saw her, but she was a cheerful drunk. In spite of the bruises she often wore on her face, she was a beautiful woman. She was downtrodden and life was hard for her, but she was a good person. As she sat there and listened to me, she held my hand and wiped the tears from her eyes and mine. 'I'll have a word with Helen,' she said to me softly, as she held me. I was hysterical. 'Please, no! No, don't do that, Auntie Mae!' I begged. I was so scared of what my stepmother would do. I was convinced that she would kill me if she knew that I was even at someone's house, never mind that I'd told them about her. I was terrified, but Mae managed to calm me down. She said that it would be fine and that she would make sure Helen didn't touch me.

  Auntie Mae put on her coat and, taking me by the hand, led me home. I stood behind her, shaking, as she rang the doorbell. One of the boys answered and shouted to Helen that Auntie Mae was there with me.

  I was still shaking and couldn't see how this could possibly end well. Auntie Mae pushed the door aside and went marching up the lobby towards the living room. As she stomped, she shouted back to me, 'Get to your bed, hen, you'll be fine
– I promise.' I still didn't dare trust her – I never dared trust anyone – but I sneaked into my bedroom and got into bed as fast as I could. I heard them talking, though I don't know what was said, and I heard footsteps going past my door as Auntie Mae was shown out. I waited and waited for Helen to come into my room but she never did, and she never mentioned the matter to me. I don't know what was said between those two women that evening but whatever Mae did say saved my bacon for the next few days – for that, I'm eternally grateful.