Don't Tell Mummy

by Maguire, Toni

  We were driven back in two unmarked cars, as my mother had requested. We drew up to the house where the lights were still on. My mother, unsmiling, let us all in, then mercifully allowed me to disappear upstairs to my room, where the murmur of voices could be heard but not understood. Hunger gnawed at me as I realized that apart from the sandwiches the policewoman had given me, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast time in the hospital. I wondered if my mother would think of that, but when I finally heard the door close on the police no footsteps approached my room. Eventually I drifted into a restless sleep in which dreams spread their fear. I woke up to a silent house.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The day I had been looking forward to with dread had come. The day my father was to be tried and sentenced for the crime he had committed against me, the crime of multiple rapes.

  My mother, who still protested she was the victim in this triangle, had refused to accompany me to the court. Instead she had gone to work as normal. The sergeant, feeling that I needed female support, had told me he would bring his wife to look after me. Standing at the window at home, too apprehensive to sit, I waited for them to appear.

  My father had already left to make his own way to the courtroom, leaving his car behind, which told me that whatever his solicitor had said, he knew he would not be returning home at the end of the day. At least I had been spared his presence that morning.

  Unable to relax, I’d been ready since I’d awoken several hours earlier. I’d dressed in a grey skirt and blouse with my school blazer over it. I wondered whether I was still entitled to wear it, but having no other jacket I had no choice.

  Judy had had her morning walk. My mainly uneaten breakfast had long ago been finished when the sound of a car’s engine announced the arrival of the sergeant. Dressed in his everyday uniform of tweed jacket and grey trousers, he opened the car door for me and introduced his wife, a small plump woman who acknowledged my presence with a small, tight smile. Then we drove the short journey to the courts. Conversation was stilted in the car. All I could see in my mind was my mother’s cold stare whenever she had to look at me. Now my wish for a home where only my mother and I would live was finally to come true; the realization that no happiness could now come from it had long ago dawned on me.

  Finally the austere grey buildings of the courts came into view. On legs that suddenly felt leaden I passed through the double doors into the intimidating interior. Barristers, solicitors and alleged criminals huddled in groups on seats that had been designed with neither aesthetics nor comfort in mind. I sat flanked on either side by the sergeant and his wife, wondering where my father was, but thankful I could not see him. I was waiting for the time I would be called to give evidence against him.

  The mirror that morning had shown me a drawn, pale face, looking older than my fifteen years, framed by shoulder-length hair in a neat pageboy style. No make-up reduced my pallor or disguised the dark shadows beneath eyes that held no youthful optimism or the joyful expectancy of a teenager with her whole life before her. It was the face of a girl in whom all hope and trust had, if not died, been abandoned for that day.

  Tea was brought to me as we waited, then the internal door of the court opened to release the black-suited clerk of the court, whom I knew by sight. He approached me hurriedly and informed me that my father had already given his evidence and pleaded guilty, so I would not have to be cross-examined. He told me that the judge had a few questions to put to me though, and then he ushered me in.

  A Bible was produced for me to swear, ‘to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth’. I was shown where to stand and turned to face the bewigged judge who, with a kindly smile, asked me if I wanted to sit, which gratefully I did. My mouth was dry and the judge instructed water to be passed to me. I took small sips, letting it slide down my suddenly dry throat.

  ‘Antoinette,’ he commenced, ‘I just want you to answer a few questions, then you will be free to go. Just answer them to the best of your ability. And remember that you are not on trial here. Can you do that?’

  Overawed by his white wig and scarlet gown, I whispered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you at any time tell your mother?’

  I replied in the negative.

  His next question took me by surprise and I felt an awareness in the room that had not been there before. ‘Do you know the facts of life? Do you know how women become pregnant?’ he asked.

  Again I whispered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then surely you must have been scared of becoming pregnant?’

  I looked into his face and knew, without understanding why, that the answer to this was important.

  ‘He always used something,’ I answered at last and heard the sigh of my father’s solicitor.

  ‘What did he use?’ was his last question.

  ‘It looked like a balloon,’ was my answer. With my lack of interest in boys, I had no need to know the word condom.

  At the time I didn’t realize that my answer had just confirmed premeditation. Those few words had ensured my father received a prison sentence and was not sent to the mental hospital as his solicitor had been hoping. The judge excused me and I, avoiding my father’s gaze, left the courtroom to return to my seat in the waiting room, where I would have to sit until the judge had passed sentence and I had been told of the outcome.

  Watching the doors of the courtroom for what seemed like hours, but can’t have been more than fifteen minutes, I saw them open and my father’s solicitor coming through them. He came to my side.

  ‘Your father received four years,’ he said. ‘With good behaviour he’ll be out in two and a half.’ There was no emotion in his voice at the fate of his client. ‘Your father wants to see you. He’s in the holding cells – it’s up to you if you want to. You don’t have to.’

  Trained as I was to obey, I agreed to go. He took me to where my father sat. All fear left me as I looked at the man who had tormented me for so many years and I waited for him to speak.

  ‘You be looking after your mother now, Antoinette, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy,’ I replied for the last time for many months. Then I turned and walked away, to go in search of the police sergeant and his wife.

  ‘The judge wants to see you for a few minutes,’ the sergeant informed me as the clerk of the court walked up to us and motioned me to follow him.

  Moments later, for the second time that day, I faced the judge. This time it was in his rooms and he had already removed his wig and gown. He motioned me to take a seat. Looking at me gravely he told me his reasons for wanting to speak to me in private.

  ‘Antoinette, you will find, as I know you already have, that life is not fair. People will blame you, as they already have. But I want you to listen to me very carefully. I’ve seen the police reports. I’ve seen your medical reports. I know exactly what has happened to you, and I’m telling you that none of this was your fault. You have done nothing to be ashamed of.’

  Those words I stored safely away, ready to take them out when the need came.

  A case that is held in camera might limit the number of people allowed inside a courtroom, but it can never silence the ones outside. Ambulance drivers, nurses, the police themselves, not to mention social workers and two teachers were all on my mother’s list of suspects when she became aware that the whole town was talking.

  Not only were they talking, they had taken sides. Coleraine, my father’s staunch Protestant home town, blamed the child.

  I was well developed, my shyness made me seem aloof and I spoke in a middle-class English accent, an accent that was far from popular in Ulster then. My father, on the other hand, was a local man, one who had fought in the war, come home with medals and was seen as a hero by his family. With no conscription in Northern Ireland every man who had fought in the Second World War was a brave volunteer. They felt his mistake was in his choice of wife, a woman not only five years older than him, but one who looked down on his friends and family. He was the good sport in the pu
bs, a champion amateur golfer and a brilliant snooker player, a man liked and respected by men and women alike.

  ‘Paedophile’ was not a word bandied about then, nor was it the one they would have attached to my father anyway. I was a willing party, they said, and to save myself when I fell pregnant I’d screamed rape. I’d taken my own father to court, testified against him and washed a very large family’s dirty linen in public. With the case held in camera only some of the facts had come out but even if all of them had been printed in the papers I doubt if the town would have believed them. People, I learnt early, believe mainly what they want to, including the person telling the lies.

  I first became aware of the town’s reaction when I called on one of my father’s cousins, Nora, a woman with a five-year-old daughter whom I was fond of. I’d baby-sat for the child and enjoyed playing with her on numerous occasions. Nora’s door swung open and she stood with her hands on her hips and a glare on her face, while her daughter hid behind her skirts, her face peeking round.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve coming round here. Do you think we’d let our daughter play with the likes of you? We know what you’ve done – we know all about your father and you.’ Anger, coupled with disgust, almost made her choke as she spat the final words at me. ‘Get yourself off my doorstep and don’t come back.’

  I reeled back as though hit, and the last sight of the little girl I had played with were her bewildered blue eyes looking up at me before the door slammed in my face. Stunned, I went home to the coldness of my mother. She had given up her job, she said, and was never going to leave the house. She could not bear the disgrace – it was in the papers. And it was. My name was not mentioned and naively I still thought that in some way that would protect me, but everyone knew and now it was officially confirmed.

  My mother then told me she was putting the house on the market and we would move, not to England as I hoped, but to Belfast. We would move as soon as it was sold. In the meantime I could do all the shopping; she was not going to face the town and the gossip – I could deal with that. I could carry on at school until we left, as it would get me out of the house. She was wrong about that: the next day I was expelled.

  There was a hush as I entered the school hall: girls avoided my eyes; girls who I thought were my friends turned away, except one. Lorna, my friend from Portstewart, a girl whose home I’d visited many times, met my eyes and smiled. Thinking she was still a friend I approached her. She gave me an embarrassed look, for she had been appointed as the spokesperson for the group. Although she looked far from happy with the task, I could see her determination to blurt out her prepared speech.

  ‘My mother says I’m to have nothing to do with you.’ Then she paused. ‘I’m sorry, but we’ve all been told the same.’

  I stood in the school grounds, holding my satchel to me, too numb to feel emotion, and saw the Deputy Head approaching.

  ‘Antoinette, we did not expect you today. We’ve written to your mother. Did she not get our letter?’

  I told her the post always came after I left for school and her only response was to purse her lips, while her small dark eyes slid from my face to a point over my shoulder. I stood silent, in the vain hope that I could delay what I knew was to come. Finally she spoke again. ‘You can’t attend this school. Your mother will get her letter today.’ She must have seen the stricken look on my face as she looked at me with distaste, but her only answer to my silent appeal was another question.

  ‘What did you expect after all your carrying on? We know about you and your father. We’ve had phone calls from parents, the board was consulted last night and we had a meeting about you. It’s a unanimous decision: you’re expelled. Your desk and locker have been cleared. Now follow me to my office and you can collect your possessions.’

  Disgrace weighing me down, I rebelled and turned to her. ‘It was not my fault,’ I protested. ‘He made me.’

  ‘What, every time? Don’t make things even worse.’

  Then, with her unpleasant duty done, she escorted me to the gates.

  ‘Don’t try and contact any of the girls – their parents don’t want them to have anything to do with you,’ were her parting words, and I walked away from the building where for eight years I had spent the majority of my schooling. It was here that I had tentatively tried to make those early friendships, the sort of friendships that we hope once formed will last for life. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying as I thought of what I could do to delay going home.

  My mother, I knew, would have had her letter by now. What would her reaction be? I wondered miserably, dreading returning to her and the cold barrier that she had erected between us. A wall that I had never accepted had been steadily built, brick by brick, over the eight years since I was six. Now it was impossible to scale. Since I’d told her of my pregnancy the final brick had been laid and the coldness showed that with it the last threads of any love she might once have felt had now died. I walked, clutching my satchel stuffed full now with the extra books from my desk. Surely, I thought miserably, my grandmother would welcome me as she loved me, and with that hope my steps took me to her house.

  She let me in, and then went to the kitchen to make tea. No question was asked of why I was there on a school morning and that warned me what the next few minutes would bring. She gave me a cup of tea at the table and she sat down opposite me. She looked careworn, dragged down by her son’s guilt and the decision she felt had to be made. She broke the family’s conclusion as to the best way to handle the situation as gently as she could.

  ‘I knew you would come here today. I know what Nora is planning to say to you.’ She must have seen by the expression on my face that I had already paid a visit to my father’s cousin’s house. She sighed and her hand came over the table to cover mine.

  ‘Antoinette, listen to me. Your father is my eldest son, and what he did was wrong – I know that, but we cannot have you visit us again.’

  I stared at her bleakly. She was speaking the words that deep down I had been dreading hearing. I put my cup down and asked her a question I already knew the answer to. ‘Do all of you feel the same?’

  ‘Yes, go back to your mother. It would be better if she took you to England. It’s where you both belong.’

  And that was her goodbye to me, because I never saw her again.

  I squared my shoulders and for the first time did not kiss her goodbye. Instead I walked out of her house and up the street, where not one person greeted me. I thought of the warmth of my grandparents’ home, the love I’d received there. I remembered her smiles of welcome when we had returned from England and saw the sag of her shoulders as the realization of what her son had done sunk in. I already felt the loss of my family for I knew they were gone for ever. I realized that over the years he would be forgiven but I, once loved but not as much as him, would not. Having nowhere left to go, I forced that final loss to the back of my mind and went home to confront my mother.

  The weeks before the house and my father’s car were sold passed in coldness, until even running the gauntlet of the stares and muttering of the town as I did our shopping was preferable to staying at home. I had expected at least some understanding, even sympathy, from the adult world but in the end small kindnesses came only from the most unexpected places. Our next-door neighbours, who must have heard some of the sounds of my father’s temper filtering into their house in the past, invited us for supper. The husband offered to help with any odd jobs that might be needed round the house so we would get the best price for it and his wife offered to help with packing. The next person was the owner of our local shop, the only person who spoke directly to me.

  ‘You’re always welcome in here,’ he told me. ‘I’ve heard the stories and I want to tell you my viewpoint is different from most you’ve come across. If anyone is rude to you in here they can leave my shop. They know that too.’

  Nobody was – they just treated me as though I was invisible as I, with my chin up, not loo
king to right or left, selected our purchases.

  My mother kept her word and, apart from the occasional visit to our neighbours, whom up to then she had always felt herself superior to, she never left the house to venture out in Coleraine. Not until it was sold and we were free to move to Belfast did she tell me what her plans were. She had organized the rental of a small house in the notorious Shankhill district, for that was all we could afford now. She could not return to England: she had no intention of her family finding out where her husband was, and for the same reason I could not leave. I would have to find work in Belfast, a reality which I had already come to terms with. I would, I had decided, look for a job living-in, which would have two benefits. It would give me independence and get me away from my mother. Judy, I realized, would not be able to come with me and I knew how much I would miss her, but my mother loved her too and I knew she would look after the little dog if I was not there to do it. My need to escape the constant guilt I felt outweighed every other emotion. My long-cherished dream of living with my mother without my father had become a nightmare. I still loved her, longed for her to show me some understanding and affection, but she, caught up in her own depression, had none to give me. Two months after the court case we made our move and arrived in Belfast.

  I thought the streets of tiny red-bricked houses, their doors opening straight onto the road, looked similar to my grandparents’ area, but bigger and more interesting. Here there were numerous shops, a pub on every corner and a constant flow of people. Predictably, my mother hated it at first sight. This, she felt, was the end of her dream of life in Ireland; this was rock bottom and she was there through no fault of her own. Now a slow rage, fuelled by her resentment of life, seemed to burn in her. A resentment not just of the position she was in but also towards me. I let two days pass then told her that now we were unpacked I was starting my job-hunting the next day.