Read What Daddy Did for Free Online Page B

Helen operated. From what I can remember, he spent most of his holiday in the clubhouse. I can imagine it must have involved beer, dominoes, horse racing and being away from Helen and her moods. I have one good image of my Dad taking me fishing on one holiday. We caught sticklebacks that were too big for the little metal pail I had. They were catching their tails as they swam, turning round and round in circles, never getting anywhere. My Dad watched them for ages, mesmerised – maybe he saw his own existence within their futile endeavours. Thinking of him that way is nice as it was so normal, but I have far more memories of him coming back from the club smelling of beer, and arguing with Helen as soon as he returned, the sound echoing around the wooden walls. Even there, in that lovely place, there were always arguments. In fact, arguments seemed to be about all they had in common.
     
Occasionally, when Frances was still at home, my Dad and Helen would go off to the club together in the evening, leaving us all in bed with strict instructions not to move. Time out together was pretty rare for them – perhaps because Helen much preferred to party without the presence of her husband, as I would find out to my cost.
     
So, you see, I was never bad. I was just a child with basic needs that weren't being met. I was hungry. I was cold. I was battered. I was unloved. I tried to state my case but whenever I plucked up the courage to speak, I was accused of being cheeky, insolent, rude. I couldn't make sense of any of it, but even without that understanding, I soon learned how to deal with my daily abuse.
     
I learned not to talk.
     
I learned not to scream or cry when I was beaten.
     
I learned not to question any adult's actions towards me.
     
And now I can see that was exactly what Helen wanted.
     
I soon learned that, when any form of abuse came at me, I should just take it, with the knowledge that it would soon be over.
     
Wouldn't it?
     
As an adult, I can see now that Helen was grooming me. She was a good teacher – she taught me how to behave; she taught me that if I yelled or wept or questioned her, the punishment would be more severe. There was one occasion when she was beating me over and over again with the belt in the bathroom and I jumped away and fell. While I was crouching down by the toilet, she hit me with even more fury, belting and belting me over the head, back, shoulders – wherever she could – screaming at me the whole time for being disobedient. I couldn't get up. I had my arms crossed over my face as I was screaming: 'Don't, Mummy! Please don't, Mummy! I'll be good, I'll be good!' As she hit me, she screamed, 'I'm not your Mummy! I'm not your fucking Mummy and I never will be! Don't you dare call me that!' She kept going until she'd spent herself. She walked away and I was just left there, in a heap on the floor, shaking, until I was told to go to bed.
     

Chapter Seven

     

S UCH A G OOD M AN
I SPENT MANY YEARS BLOCKING out my past and these terrible times. When I was first asked to give a statement to the police about my stepmother, I was reluctant to go back there – because I was scared. Initially, I could only remember some fragmented things. However, once I started remembering – once I started digging – it was like opening the floodgates. One memory would trigger off another; even here, as I relate one story, another will soon come to me. When I first started remembering it was too painful to look at. It was horrible; it was like going back in there; the pain was excruciating. Now, although the memories still hurt, they are not quite as profound as they once were. I put that down to being able to tell my story, being able to get it all out.
     
Just as I've thought of the story of my time in the bathroom, being beaten by Helen, I've remembered another instance of being thrashed in there. The bathroom door was open and I could see Snooky, the dog, sitting in the hall. I never really