The two sides of me fought that night for control: the frightened child that lived inside me and the successful woman I’d worked so hard to become. My vision blurred, I felt the familiar sensation of falling, only this time I was awake, my chest constricted and panic turning my breathing into painful rasps. Light was fading, and then I felt a hand on my shoulder, heard a voice ask, ‘Toni, are you all right?’
I looked up to see Jane’s gentle eyes gazing with concern into mine. No, I thought, I want to cry, I want to be held, I want to be comforted, I want my memories to go away.
‘I’m fine,’ I replied, brushing away my tears, then curiosity overcame me. ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’
Her kind eyes held mine as she nodded. She lightly squeezed my shoulder as she left me to return to her husband’s bedside.
Like waves blown in on an angry storm my memories came crashing into me and I feared I might drown. The mask I had hidden the child behind had slipped; no longer was I the person I had worked so hard to become. In the two weeks I had been in the hospice Toni, the self-possessed businesswoman, had gradually slipped away. Antoinette, the frightened child, the obedient puppet of her parents, had begun to retake possession.
I had lost a lot of weight, and when I looked in the mirror Antoinette’s eyes, ringed by dark circles, gazed back at me full of fear and panic, feelings that now threatened to swamp me.
Not being able to escape my memories I felt the past draw me back and felt myself wavering on the edge of sanity, the edge I had teetered on twice before. I felt again that temptation to cross it, for on the other side lay safety. It’s a safety where all responsibility for our life is taken away as, childlike, we pass it on to others. Then, embryo-like, we can curl up and let the days wash over us until the mind becomes a blank space and is freed for ever from its nightmares.
My sleep, sometimes taken at my mother’s bedside, sometimes on a put-you-up bed in the doctor’s room, was broken by constant nightmares. In them I was helpless because my control was sliding away from me. Warning bells rang in my head as I felt my adult self regressing. I needed help and I needed it quickly. This was not going to happen to me, not again. I would not, could not, let it.
I went to the minister. He, thinking he was in for some light relief from ministering to the dying, from holding skeletal hands and passing tissues to the recently bereaved, smilingly ushered me into his office. He did not know that this was not going to be his lucky day.
‘I need to talk,’ I managed to say as I took a seat, and he saw that all signs of the stoic, controlled woman he knew had disappeared. The look of concern on his face showed that he knew he was going to have to deal with something more than a woman losing her mother. For my mother, at eighty, had lived what in most people’s opinions would be considered a long life, and I had had over a year to prepare myself for the final outcome of her cancer. That, he soon realized, was not going to be why I needed to talk to him.
He, a man of compassion and humour, was the minister my mother had asked for several times in the middle of the night, before finding she lacked that final courage to confide her fears to him. After all, how could she repent what she still refused to admit? My mother, I now realized, was going to die with her conviction firmly in place; that conviction that she was the victim would remain at the front of her mind and any doubts she had would continue to be tightly suppressed.
Now he was looking at me expectantly as I lit my nicotine prop with hands that trembled. Haltingly, I told him my story, told him that I was reliving the emotions I had felt as a child but mixed with them was a feeling akin to shame; shame that I had allowed their hold over me to remain for so many years. If my mother had orchestrated the game of happy families when I was a child, I as an adult had perpetrated the same myth.
Why, I asked him, had I done that? Why had I invented a past that included loving parents? Why had I pretended to myself and never found the courage to break free?
‘Why do you think you couldn’t?’ he asked, and then let a silence grow, giving me time to think as he waited patiently for my answer.
‘I wanted to be like everyone else when they talked about their childhoods,’ I replied. ‘I wanted to be seen going to Northern Ireland visiting them, and being part of a family.’
‘And were you? Did you ever feel part of your family again?’
I thought of the truth then, the things I had tolerated, the things I had accepted and never challenged.
‘No, I would always try and visit when my father went to his family. After the day they banned me from their homes I never saw any of them again. My grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins remained his family but ceased to be mine.’
I paused for a moment and admitted what I had not acknowledged even to myself before. ‘Do you know, when I was in my teens deep down I missed them so much but I never let myself think about it, never admitted how lonely I was. I’ve never allowed myself to feel bitterness, but when my grandmother told me that I was no longer welcome in their homes I was numb with despair.’
I paused for a moment as I remembered those feelings of being so rejected.
‘What I felt was deeper than loneliness; it was a feeling of being alien to everyone in the world. In later years, when he went to a family wedding, of which there were several, and I was never invited I didn’t question it. I accepted the fact that I was not wanted. I never commented on the unfairness of it. I knew that collectively their minds were made up; there was no going back, for they had banished me from their hearts, but not him. I was even excluded from my grandmother’s funeral. Once she had loved me and I her. All that was taken away from me by his actions, not mine, and my mother never spoke of it. She just accepted it.’
‘What about your relatives in England? You were close to some of them once.’
‘The years when my father was in prison, the years I had spent in a mental hospital, left too many gaps for me to have easy conversations with them. I never felt comfortable for they, the few I saw when I first left Northern Ireland, could not understand why I lived away from home and did the jobs I did to survive. They, I think, saw me more as my father’s daughter, a man they had always considered their social inferior, and of course I had so much to hide that I must have come across as secretive. I was someone who did not fit in. I could have seen them, I suppose, but I chose not to.’
Even my grandmother, whom I had been so close to when I was in England, had been separated from me by the family secrets. She was not allowed to know why I had left school early and given up the plans for university that I had once described so enthusiastically to her. I only saw her a few more times before she died.
The minister looked at me with sympathy. ‘So, as a teenager you had no one, no siblings, no extended family, no aunts and uncles to turn to, only your parents.’ Then he shot an unexpected question at me, ‘Did you love them?’
‘I loved my mother. That never changed. I never loved my father. As a small child he was away so much that he just seemed like a visitor who brought me presents. Oh, he could be immensely charming when he wanted to be, but I was always scared of him. Even now my feelings are mixed. That’s what is so confusing. One moment I see this old man who still loves his wife, like he always did. I know how well he looked after her when she became ill, and then I remember the monster of my childhood. He can still intimidate me now,’ I finally acknowledged.
‘Love is a hard habit to break,’ he said gently. ‘Ask any woman who has stayed in a bad relationship long after it has ceased to work. Women who have had to flee to refuges so often take their abusive partners back. Why? Because they are in love not with the men who have abused them, but the men they thought they married. They search for that person again and again. Your ties of love were formed when you were a baby: the bond between mother and daughter forged then. If your father had been cruel to her maybe you could have learnt to hate him, but he wasn’t and your mother brainwashed you, as well as herself, into the belief that she was a vi
ctim of your behaviour. Your emotions are at war with your logic. Emotionally you are carrying your childhood guilt; logically you know that your parents do not deserve you and, certainly, you did not deserve them, no child did. I’m a man of God, I preach forgiveness but, Toni, you have to be clear on the roles your parents played, you have to accept the part your mother participated in, in order to free yourself, for that is the one thing you have never come to terms with.’
His words seemed to lift the barriers with which I had surrounded the truth. The words, once released, seemed to pour out of me in a torrent. I told him how she had constantly said that I must ‘get on with my father’, how she had ‘suffered enough’, how she was on ‘one dose of medication after another’ for her nerves. How I had always ‘given her worry’.
‘I dreaded phoning home but I did so nearly every week and I knew that her usual refrain would ring in my ears, “Just a moment darling, Daddy wants a word”, and over all those years I humoured her, frightened of her love being withdrawn if I made her face reality.’
And finally I told him what I’d never explained to anyone, what I felt about Antoinette, the child who had once been me.
‘She would have been so different if she had been allowed to grow up normally, gone to university, made friends. She never stood a chance, and every time something goes wrong in my life I blame that childhood for it. When I was much younger she took over and I relived all of her emotions again. That’s when I’d walk into mentally abusive relationships saying, “Hallo, I’m here, this feels like home.” Or my old childhood friend, the bottle, would reappear. I’ve fought those demons all my life and most of the time I’ve won, but I’m not winning now.’
The ashtray became full as I talked, my head clearing as I accepted the final reality.
‘She never loved me. She needs me now so that she can die in peace, with her dream intact; the dream of a good-looking husband who adores her, a happy marriage and one child. I’m just a player in her last act. That’s my role here.’
‘And are you going to shatter that dream?’
I thought of the tiny form of my mother, so dependent on me now. ‘No,’ I sighed. ‘How could I?’
Chapter Twenty-Five
I’d been placed in a small, airless room in the police station, furnished only with a brown Formica-topped table and a few wooden chairs. Under my feet I could see brown cracked lino and the one small window was set too high in the nicotine-stained wall to afford any outside view. I knew my father was nearby. I knew my nightmare had to have come to an end, but instead of relief I felt apprehension. What would the future hold now, I wondered.
The door opened and I looked round to see the policewoman from earlier, only this time she was accompanied by another young woman dressed in civilian clothes. They asked me if I’d eaten. On the shake of my head the policewoman left to return a few minutes later with a tray holding tea, sandwiches and some chocolate biscuits, which she placed in front of me with a friendly smile. Notebooks were produced, telling me that however relaxed they were trying to make the atmosphere, this was official. The woman in civilian clothes was introduced to me as a social worker called Jean and I was asked if I knew why I was there. Then they asked if I was completely aware that what my father and I had done was a crime. To both of those questions I replied in a whisper, ‘Yes.’
Gently, the policewoman explained that my father was also being questioned in another room and all I had to do was tell the truth. It was also explained that as I was under age the crime was his and without doubt he would go to prison for it.
‘Antoinette, you have done nothing wrong, but we do have to ask you some questions. Are you up to answering them?’ the policewoman asked.
I stared at her. How could I find my voice to talk about a secret I had kept for so many years? A secret my father had told me repeatedly I would be blamed for. I had already found out that once discovered it would lead to the anger and blame he had predicted.
Then the social worker spoke for the first time.
‘Antoinette, I want to help you, but I can only do that when I have your side of the story. I know this is painful for you but we are on your side.’
She stretched her hand across the desk and gently took my hand. ‘Please answer these questions.’
The first one to be taken down for evidence was asked by the policewoman.
‘How old were you when your father first touched you?’
I felt the warm pressure of Jean’s hand on mine.
‘Six,’ I finally whispered, and then the tears came. A silent torrent gushed from my eyes and poured down my cheeks. The tissues were passed to me without a word. Neither woman spoke until I had composed myself.
‘Why have you kept quiet for all these years? Did you not tell your mother at least?’ were the first questions put to me by Jean.
No words came, my memory box stayed shut; the time I had tried to tell my mother stayed firmly locked away as I shook my head. Would my life have been different if I had remembered then and told them? Certainly I would have been taken away from her and events which damaged me later would not have happened. Or would that love for her have always influenced me and affected my life? Even now it’s not a question I have found the answer to.
Gently they prised out of me how at weekends he had taken me for drives, how he told me I would be taken away if I talked, how people would blame me and how my mother would cease to love me. On hearing this I saw a look I understood exchanged between the two women. They knew his threats were the truth. They both knew better than me that everything he had threatened and worse was going to come true for me, as I was to learn, and that any remnants of childhood had finally left me.
Gradually my story was drawn from me with sympathetic questions, to which I replied truthfully. But I found it impossible to volunteer any additional information. It would be many years before I would be able to speak about my childhood freely, without shame and guilt. They asked me if I had not been scared of becoming pregnant. I replied that I thought it was impossible to become pregnant by my father.
The ticking of the clock marked the time as it sped away. Tiredness and hopelessness filled me equally as I wondered over and over what was going to happen to me now.
‘What are your plans for the future?’ the social worker asked. ‘Will you be able to stay on at school now?’
Looking at her blankly at first, I suddenly realized what she meant. I was a fee-paying pupil, my father was going to prison and although my mother worked his was the larger wage. Suddenly I was aware of the enormity of what I had done, what harm I had caused; my parents’ house was bought on a bank loan, my mother could not drive and my fees could not be paid. All thought of the home my parents had wanted to hide me away in left my mind and a guilty panic replaced it. I had, I realized, ruined my mother’s life.
Seeing my blank look turn to one of comprehension as some of what was to face me penetrated my mind, she tried to reassure me.
‘Antoinette, this is not your fault. Surely your mother must have guessed over all those years?’
Believing such a thing would have been too much for me to bear. How could I handle the thought of such a betrayal from the one person I loved unconditionally? Desperately I denied it to them, just as I denied it to myself, and again I saw a look exchanged between them, a look that combined pity and disbelief.
‘Antoinette,’ the policewoman said, her eyes holding a mixture of compassion and a resolution to do her job, ‘you are going to have to be a witness at your father’s trial – do you understand what that means?’
Before I had time to digest what that would mean, she added to my fear by informing me that he would be released on bail and both he and I would be returned home together. Then she left the room, leaving me with the social worker. I sat silently while the facts sunk into my mind, then my fear rose unchecked.
‘I can’t go home,’ I stuttered, ‘please.’
I felt Jean’s pity as she answered. ‘Unle
ss the police state that you are at risk there’s nothing I can do.’
Long minutes passed before the door opened to admit the policewoman accompanied by her sergeant. Unsmiling, they both sat down to face me.
‘Your father has admitted guilt,’ the sergeant baldly informed me. ‘That makes the trial easier for you. The case will be held in camera because you are a minor. Do you know what that means?’
I shook my head as I tried to whisper no.
‘That means that no press or members of the public unconnected with the case will be admitted. The trial date has not been decided yet, but it will only be a few weeks away. Now we are going to take both you and your father home.’
I burst into tears. Still feeling weak from my blood loss and emergency operation, all powers of resistance deserted me. I felt paralysed with fear.
‘Please don’t send me back,’ I managed to gasp between sobs, remembering the beating I’d received for not hanging up my gymslip. If he’d done that for such a small misdemeanour, what punishment would be meted out to me for this? In terror my fingers grasped the edge of the table, as though by clinging on I could postpone the moment I had to go home.
The policewoman was the first to speak. ‘We have nowhere to put someone of your age, Antoinette, but your parents won’t hurt you again. The sergeant as well as Jean and I are coming with you to speak to your mother.’
The sergeant tried to reassure me further. ‘Your father has already been spoken to; he knows the consequences if he touches you again.’
Their words were a cold comfort to me because I could remember my mother’s rage, the doctor’s disdain and my father’s many acts of cruelty. I knew that I was being returned to a home where I was not wanted, to a mother who no longer loved me and a man who would blame me for everything that was now going to happen to the family.
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