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kept me cleaning and tidying all day and, on the few occasions when I did sit down, I’d catch him staring at me. When I’d asked for breakfast, he’d hit me and asked why I couldn’t make it myself. When I’d tried, he came and told me to make some for him and Gary too. I’d been hit again when I messed that up.
    I was dreading him asking me to change the bed again – even though I had only done it two days earlier, there was something inside me thinking it could be used as a command again. As the day wore on, with Gary only coming back now and again for meals and snacks, I relaxed a little. There was nothing left to clean and I was allowed to sit by the table at the window, drawing and colouring. I tried to make dinner – potatoes and sausages – and was surprised when Dad didn’t shout at me. Even I knew I’d made a bad job of it – the potatoes were undercooked, the sausages were burned, and everything was cold before it reached the table (and there were no microwaves in those days to rescue such meals).
    At about 6pm, he told us to get ready for bed. It was early even for a five-year-old, given that it was the weekend. Gary complained a little, but didn’t push things.
    I trotted through to my bedroom and put my pyjamas on, before brushing my dark hair and cleaning my teeth. After I had gone through my usual routine, I went back to the living room where Gary was already sitting with Dad, watching television. As soon as I walked in, Dad stared at me. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’ he snapped. I was confused – he’d told me to get ready for bed, and I had. What could I possibly have done wrong now?
    ‘My pyjamas,’ I stuttered. ‘You told me to get changed.’
    ‘I told you to get ready for bed – and that means put your nightdress on,’ he bawled at me.
    I felt hot, angry tears falling down my cheeks as I ran back to my room. Could I get nothing right? Was he going to shout at me for every little thing?
    I struggled out of my pyjamas and into my winceyette nightie. It was getting too short for me and I had chosen my pyjamas as I wanted to be cosy, but I didn’t dare defy Dad. I took a deep breath and went back through to him again. He nodded when I walked in this time. ‘Better,’ was all he said.
    I sat beside Gary on the sofa, hoping we’d get to stay up a little longer. I was exhausted from cleaning all day, but there was something inside me saying that, if I was close to my big brother, even if there was no love lost between us, I’d be safe.
    No sooner had I sat down than Dad spoke. ‘Are you fucking deaf?’ he asked. ‘I told you to get ready for bed, and that means you’re going to your fucking bed.’
    Gary groaned but got up. I followed him.
    ‘No,’ said Dad, with menace in his voice. ‘Him. Not you.’
    ‘What?’ Gary shouted, all thoughts of keeping Dad sweet disappearing with this unfairness.
    ‘I don’t mind going to bed, Dad,’ I said. ‘I want to. I’m really tired.’
    He stared at me in a manner that I was becoming used to.
    ‘Please,’ I whispered. ‘Please.’
    ‘Gary, go. You,’ he said, pointing at me, ‘sit.’
    My stomach was immediately in knots. What was I going to get in trouble for this time? I sat back down on the brown fabric sofa, trying to hide the fact that I was shaking, and pressed myself back into the cushions.
    ‘Not there. Sit here. Beside me.’
    I couldn’t quite work out what he was telling me to do. He was sitting in what was known as ‘his’ chair. It was a sludgy olive-green fabric on a wooden frame and no one else was allowed to sit there. On top of that, there was only room for him.
    ‘Where?’ I asked.
    ‘Here. Beside me,’ he replied, patting the small bit of seat that was free beside him. He had squeezed over to the side of the seat, but there was very little spare space.
    ‘I’m fine here, Dad,’ I whispered. ‘Shall I just go to bed?’
    ‘No,’ he hissed, ‘you’ll get your arse over here just like I