Naturally the call ended off with, “I love you Jane. And don’t tell anyone our secret … or else.”
Thursday 16 March 1989
I haven’t written for a few weeks because I’ve been busy. I am really happy to be here at boarding school. But I cry a lot, I really can’t help it. I feel like there is a huge lump of sadness sitting on my heart. I think God still hears my prayers – at least I hope so. There is a long closed weekend coming up soon and you can guess what’s going to happen to me. I feel sick. Especially when he makes me watch boxing with him. Joanne and Anthony can’t stand boxing and they go to bed. He tells them I like it and makes me stay up to watch. Then he does it to me from behind and I feel like I am being boxed from the rear end up. It’s hard to express how much I hate it and him when he’s doing it.
Today he yelled and lectured me on the phone as Matron told him I cry a lot and he said it reflects badly on the family. How can he shout at me when he is the cause of all this? He’s the one who makes me feel so sad and ugly about myself. I despise him for everything I’m going through and I hate myself for my angry thoughts. What must I do?
The next dreaded closed weekend was a four day affair and arrived seven weeks into term. I could no longer avoid the inevitable.
As Dad signed me out of the hostel, he greeted Matron Ruth with his usual convivial façade. Strangely though, once in the car he didn’t start by touching me. Instead he began by questioning me.
“Jane have you had your monthly visitor?”
“Dad you never let anyone visit me.”
‘Don’t be stupid! I mean, have you had your monthly period? You should be having it about now. Are you bleeding?”
I couldn’t understand his preoccupation with my menstrual cycle. He always kept a check on me, and seemed to know my cycle better than I did.
I tried to think. It was always hard to think when my father was probing into personal aspects of my life. When had I last needed to be excused from swimming because of it? Not once this year! Come to think of it, my last cycle had been at the end of the holidays, in mid January actually! And I hadn’t even noticed it. More than seven weeks without ‘the curse’ as Joanne called it. Lucky me!
His voice was more urgent. “Jane, have you had your period this month?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about this term?”
“No!” I was both irritated and humiliated. “Anyway, why do you need to know? It’s private!”
“Don’t use that tone of voice with me, young lady! I’m just being a concerned father!”
He seemed wrapped up in thought. I sat there, tensely waiting for him to make his move but he kept his hands to himself.
Near the end of the trip, he stopped the car at a service station and filled up with fuel. He took me into the Garage Café and we ordered a drink. I was amazed and a little excited! Maybe the weekend was not going to be so bad! No touching; a chocolate milkshake … could life be getting better?
Naive and ignorant, I hadn’t reckoned on what a missed period might mean.
The large Café was almost empty and Dad chose a table isolated from the few other diners who were there.
As I relished my milkshake, Dad’s voice pierced my little spot of calm. His tone was low, soft and urgent as he delivered an instruction I could not comprehend. “Jane you have to do me a favour… I want you to tell Joanne that when you stayed with Roxy at the end of the holidays, two black boys pulled you into her garage and raped you. Also tell her you’ve missed your period for two months.”
“What’s rape?”
He rolled his eyes. “Tell her that Roxy’s whole family was out riding their horses and while you were alone at the house these two black boys pulled you into the garage….”
He proceeded to describe a scenario that made me feel ill. “Tell Joanne you screamed but no-one heard you and that when they finished they ran away. Say you didn’t tell anyone because you were too afraid. Tell her they said they’d come back and kill you if you told. And you can say you can’t remember their faces now if anyone asks. Say it was too dark in there.”
I began to choke violently on my chocolate milkshake. The last patron stared hard at me then left the café. Eventually I gasped out, “But that’s not true! I don’t know any black boys and it never happened. That’s just sick. Why would I want to tell Joanne such a disgusting lie?”
“Jane, you have to say what I have told you. You have to promise me you will tell her that.”
“No! I am not going to!”
“Jane, I am your Dad and I know best. You have got to tell her what I’ve just told you.” His voice was menacing and low. “If you don’t, Jane, you will be very, very sorry. You don’t like it when I get angry and I’ll get extremely angry if you don’t obey me on this. Do I make myself clear? You love me so you will do this for me. You will tell her you were raped.…”
“But I wasn’t…”
A sharp blow caught my cheek as his hand flew across the table and the last of the milkshake landed on the floor, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.
“Sorry about the mess, my daughter dropped her glass,” he said to the server behind the till. Then he steered me back to the car. I nursed my aching face as I fearfully did up my seat belt. My stomach tightened and I wanted to vomit. A moment ago, I thought life was getting better but how wrong could I have been?
I burst into tears. What had I done to deserve this? It was bad enough having my father do all these things to me in secret but to tell Joanne, of all people, that such things had happened to me was more than I could bear. She needed no more ammunition to despise me.
Before Dad had even pulled out of the car park I began to heave. He stopped the car with a screech: “Whatever you do, don’t throw up in my car!” he yelled and I stumbled onto the verge where I deposited my guts in further humiliation.
Chapter 9
“Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked;
protect me from men of violence,
who plan to trip my feet.”
Psalm 140:4
That night I raged at God in desperation and anger, asking why the whole world seemed so set against me.
Sometime after midnight I was woken by my father’s hands which were under the duvet and fondling me inside my pyjamas.
“Jane,” he whispered. “Jane, don’t forget what I told you to tell Joanne. You tell her first thing this morning when you get up. About the rape.”
In the morning I woke, tired and fuzzy headed. Had he really been in my bed again last night? Over the years, I’d become really efficient at separating my life into compartments. This dissociative behaviour protected me. It was easier to tolerate my father’s physical demands because I could still own at least a part of my mind.
When he was using me I could make my mind leave my body and deliberately blank out the details of most of the encounters. It was my survival net. One encounter ran into the next, in a blur of unhappy memories. They became like a collection of disagreeable paintings on a wall. You know they are there and you hate them, but if you walk on by without looking up at the offending eyesores, they affront you less.
In those tormented years I had learnt to be two people. At school I was a struggler; battling to keep my mind on my school work long enough to pass a test; always afraid or anxious and of course I had to live with the reputation of being a notorious cry-baby and attention-seeker.
At home I had to assume the role of a subjugated, oppressed, child-woman, forced into guilty, silent duty with my father and loathed by his wife. Often I hated both of my personas equally.
While making myself a cup of tea and agonizing over the events of the past twenty four hours, my father walked into the kitchen. My heart jumped into my mouth.
“Have you told her yet?” he asked. He was matter-of fact; distant and clearly preoccupied.
“No.” I was feeling belligerent.
“Go and tell her now. She’s changing the baby.”
“But Dad I don’t want to … it’s a lie … I want to ride bikes with Anthony!”
He grabbed my shoulders and stared menacingly into my face. “No bikes! You go tell her now!”
“But Dad…” My lip was quivering and he was right in my head space. “You do it!” His nails dug my flesh and he squeezed my lip with his free hand. “You will do it … You will tell her everything we practised.” His voice took on an even lower, steely tone. “Go now … or else!”
I admit I was a coward. I didn’t want to find out how severe ‘or else’ would be. I was pretty sure it would begin with his leather belt…but where would it end?
With heart pounding, I knocked feebly on the door of the baby’s room, nausea sitting just below my chest; this was Joanne’s private preserve where Dad’s ‘other’ children were not permitted to enter. I didn’t want to go in. I hated lying. It always made me feel guilty and afraid. What if God punished me for lying?
I think I coped by telling myself that pretence was different from lying. I survived by pretending everything was okay and normal; I had to because Dad said it was our secret and I’d be punished if I told…but going and deliberately telling all these lies to Joanne…what was in Dad’s head, or his heart for that matter?
“Please God help me. What do I do?”
‘An honest speaker comes out with the truth.’ Those were words I must have heard at church, but why did I recall them now?
“I can’t tell the truth to her! If I do my Dad will kill me. Why don’t you ever help me when I’m in trouble, God? I pray all the time.”
I looked back down the passage for an exit route but Dad was glaring at me from the kitchen doorway. With legs shaking, I knocked again and opened the door slightly.
“Oh it’s you, what do you want?” Joanne’s tone changed instantly from warm baby chatter to irritation.
I took a deep breath. “I have to talk to you,” I said, but with that I began to cry.
“Oh, come in. If you have to,” she responded. Through my tears the baby’s room seemed to be a blur of blues and whites and smelt of sweet baby powder. I would have loved it in there if Joanne had been kinder. “Sit down and tell me what’s wrong with you now.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling.
I began to stammer my way through the story Dad had forced me to learn. “In the last week of the holidays I was…” I paused, heat pouring into my face, “I was …” Joanne was looking at me with ice in her eyes. She did not try to help. I died inside once more.
“I can’t say it,” I whispered to myself.
‘Do it or else … you know he means it!’ Fear spoke darkly, loudly, into my heart.
“I was … I was … raped.” I whispered the last word.
Joanne put down the diapers she had been folding. “What the hell are you saying?” Her tone was harsh and accusatory.
“I said I was … raped ….” I whispered it again.
“Where?” Joanne’s voice was loud and abrasive “Where could you have possibly been raped? How come you never said anything earlier? You’re talking trash.…” She turned back to the diapers.
I began to sob in utter humiliation. “It was when I was at Roxy’s house. They all went horse-riding and two black boys came to the house and did it to me in the garage.”
“Oh rubbish! Who were they? What did they look like? What do you mean by ‘it”? What did they do to you? Describe it in detail. Describe everything.” She was furious.
I tried to remember exactly what my father had told me to say but it’s always easier to remember the truth than a lie. I had to do it right or there’d be worse trouble so, through tears, I stared at the carpet and described a scenario that sounded remarkably like some of the things my own dad had done to me and that realization made me feel even worse. However, it was when I said I’d missed my periods for two months that Joanne really hit the roof. She swore a string of unrepeatable words and yelled for my father.
Of course he walked down the passage exactly on cue and asked nonchalantly: “What’s the matter? You sound upset!”
He was such a good actor.
“Listen to this story!” Joanne snarled. “As if we don’t have enough to complicate our lives already! Now a bloody pregnant teenager is all we need…” and she swore some more. “Tell your father what you just told me.”
Intensely humiliated, I cried out angrily, “I’m not pregnant! I’m not a pregnant teenager!”
Dad appeared full of concern as he listened intently to me retelling his own shocking lie to his face. He actually managed to turn white and he began to cry. He grasped me in his arms and rocked me, saying, “My baby. My poor baby. How could this have happened to you?”
I think that his calculated performance that day disgusted me more than anything he’d ever done to me before that. Just how could anybody be such a heartless fraud and liar?
Joanne continued to be angry but looked a little more concerned. She kept asking questions and forcing me to repeat the details. “When? Where …? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Over and over she asked and still she doubted. I always knew it would be hard to fool Joanne.
Then they began to argue.
“We never saw any bruises and she came home happy enough from Roxy’s that weekend. I do not believe this story, Dirk. This daughter of yours is an attention-seeking little drama queen. She might well be pregnant but I don’t accept the rape story. I don’t see it. Sorry, but she should be living with her mother!”
“No! I have custody. Her mother’s incapable of raising her. You know that! And how can you say she’s lying? She’s clearly devastated and she has missed her period. Obviously you’re going to have to do something.” He was wiping his tears and mine. He made me sick.
“Why must I do something?” Joanne was outraged. “She’s your daughter, you sort out the problem!”
“No. It’s a woman thing. You are my wife and you must phone the doctor and see what can be done. Obviously she’s pregnant and she needs an abortion. I’m not having my daughter giving birth to some little half-cast brat. If they made her pregnant we’ve got to help her and get rid of it.”
I looked from one to the other, stunned. My mind raced and my head throbbed. Since when did this whole thing become about pregnancy? “I’m not pregnant! How could I be pregnant! Don’t keep saying that!” I yelled. I was getting hysterical now. What were they on about? And why were they talking about abortion? I’d heard abortion whispered about in the hostel. Someone knew someone whose aunt had one and died. It was dangerous and a crime.
Joanne’s icy voice cut the air again. “If it is rape, we need to call the police,” stated Joanne in a studied voice. “They need to investigate and catch the child molesters. How can you think otherwise? Plus, abortion is totally illegal in this country, unless you can prove rape.”
“No, no police,” Dad answered quickly.
Joanne looked at him long and hard.
“Why not?”
“No. They … they treat the victim too harshly. They don’t believe them and they make them go over it again and again. She’s too young for that. No cops.”
“Fine. No police. But she’ll have to go to the state doctor and have an examination and answer a lot of probing questions. They’ll want to know a lot about her … like if she has boyfriends and if she’s ever slept with them.”
“Impossible! You know she’s never had a chance to be with boys!” shouted Dad.
“How could you possibly know that? What about at boarding school? Or at Roxy’s house?” argued Joanne. “Roxy has a brother. Maybe she slept with him and this whole rape story is a cover up!”
“I haven’t, I didn’t!” I wailed out vehemently, realizing that my father’s lies were about to trigger a tidal wave of disastrous consequences.
“Joanne, rather just take her to Dr Harris. Please. Do it for me.” He was on his knees next to the bed where she sat, pleading and hurting now. “I can’t face this at the moment. My poor child. Just tell him w
hat’s happened and say he must do something. But don’t leave her alone with him. The child has been through enough. Tell him we don’t want to press charges. They’ll never catch them and the courts will drag her through hell. She’s already said she can’t identify them. And you know the Matron at school phoned and said how miserable she’s been lately.”
I looked at my father, stunned. He had an answer for everything!
“Come on Darling. I’ll look after the little ones and you take her,” he coaxed.
I was sent to dress in a hurry while Joanne reluctantly made the phone call and found her car keys. Joanne said they had managed to squeeze us in as an “emergency” appointment, but I heard her threatening the receptionist over the phone.
All the way there, Joanne interrogated me. She wanted all the details over and over and I was so afraid I’d forget something.
We sat in the waiting room in tense silence, pretending, like the other patients, to read the year old magazines. Suddenly the awkward silence was broken by an ambulance siren screaming out fairly close by. It was joined by another and a third. Fire engine sirens joined the melee and soon the phone rang out.
We all heard the receptionist say, in a loud, important voice, “Is it? Is it? Oh my! That bad. Okay. He’ll be on his way now.” She buzzed through to Dr Harris and spoke in hushed tones, then looked up over her bifocals.
“Sorry people!” She used her condescending, practice-room smile now. “Doctor Harris has been called away … to a real emergency. Dr Palmer will see any extremely urgent cases … in about an hour and a half. The rest of you …” she looked directly at Joanne, “will have to please reschedule for Monday.”
Joanne frog-marched me out to the car while cursing under her breath. “Get in the back, sit in the middle again ....” she growled and the interrogation continued. “When, where, how, what, how long, how many times, what did they look like, how did it feel…?”
At that moment I was the criminal in a TV court case and of course, because I was telling her a lie, I was sure Joanne would be able to prove it. It was really hard to lie to Joanne and even though I didn’t like her, I hated doing this.
Unspoken - Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part I Page 6
