Читать книгу Running From The Devil - How I Survived a Stolen Childhood - Sara Davies - Страница 9
ОглавлениеFrom a very young age, I was what you might call mentally overdeveloped. I knew much more than the other kids in my class did. When most of them would swear and be asked what it meant, they’d shrug their shoulders, but I knew what most swear words meant. ‘Fuck’ was the first I learned. My father would often say it to me in a childlike voice and giggle, as though he couldn’t believe he was getting away with it. He’d then tell me that he could only show me what it meant.
By the age of five, I knew what sex was and what ‘cheating’ meant, not only because I had seen that kind of behaviour in my home but also because I was being subjected to several hours of what I can only describe as physical and mental torture. Although my father had touched my vagina and often rubbed himself against me from as long ago as I can remember, it wasn’t until my fifth birthday that he took the abuse to another level. He’d decided that from that day on I was going to be his lover and not his daughter.
Most weekends I was at my grandparents’ and, although this arrangement wasn’t always rosy, at least I had a little time away from my father and his monstrous ways. Our grandparents on both sides took it in turn to have my brother Carl and me to stay with them, but we dreaded going to Dad’s parents. But, even though they abused us and were absolutely horrifying to be with, staying with them didn’t seem half as bad as being at home with our drunken skunk of a father.
These weekends away from home lasted for about two years, until my mother decided that she didn’t want to go out to blues parties with my father any more because she couldn’t handle the number of women that she was fighting with over him. Whenever they dropped us off at my dad’s parents’, we were guaranteed a beating from our grandfather. As soon as they walked away from the house, our chests would pound with fear. We knew that it was just a matter of time before he took off his belt and thrashed us, as though we were his Alsatian guard dog, which he kept in the garden and often beat for no apparent reason. He would say that the dog needed teaching a lesson and a dog is just a filthy animal that needs to be kept in its place. So, when he was beating us while calling us ‘fucking dirty mongrels’, we started to believe that we were just as filthy and deserved as little respect as his dog.
Carl and I became so fearful of our dad’s parents that we would start to scream at them to take us to Nana and Granddad’s house as soon as my parents walked away. We realised that it was a big mistake to make so much noise early on, when he started sending us to his room straight away. He would tell us to lie face down on the bed and then follow us up the stairs after kissing my mother goodbye and patting my father on the back as he told them that we would be fine. His beatings were very severe. I could tell by the way that he whipped us that he was the person who had trained my father how to use his belt on us. The only thing that was different about the beating from our grandfather was the fact that his belt was ten times thicker than our dad’s. He must have gone out and bought a thicker one every year, as though his beating wasn’t good enough and he wasn’t getting his fix any more.
Our grandmother would stand and watch him, as though she had to make sure he had done a good enough job on us. She would often say, ‘Next time you come, if you’re better behaved, then you won’t get a beating, will you? Luther, when you’ve finished, send them fucking pickneys downstairs to me, because them have some chores to do.’
We’d then drag our sore, tiny bodies down the stairs and start our tasks. First of all, we’d have to pick up the dog mess from the backyard, usually dodging the very angry Alsatian, bitter over his last whipping and wanting to take it out on someone. Sometimes Joel, their son and my uncle, who was 16 at the time, would see that we needed help to escape the dog. He would sneak out to hold him while we picked up the sloppy turds that were left for our fortnightly visit.
Next, we’d have to scrub our grandmother’s filthy kitchen inch by inch. But, because the grease on the walls from her fried fish and dumplings was so ingrained, however much we scrubbed, it seemed to make no difference. While she would be there cooking her ‘Saturday soup’, which consisted of mutton, dumplings, yam and potatoes, with a few kidney beans thrown in to add to the flavour, she would supervise our chores. She’d stand over us, slapping the backs of our heads and telling us we’d missed a bit. We couldn’t tell what we’d missed and what we hadn’t, so we’d just keep on scrubbing until the dreaded mealtime arrived three hours later. She would then lay the table, often making me sit by Joel, and I hated sitting next to him because at night when everyone was asleep he would occasionally do the same things that my father did to me.
Our times in that house were full of fear, pain and suffering. Most of the time we couldn’t even finish our meals because she’d be screaming at us, saying that we hadn’t eaten fast enough and that we’d have to starve for the rest of the day. She’d then send us to the room that we shared with Joel. There was a dividing screen across the room; Joel would have one half and Carl and I the other. Joel always managed to bribe Carl with the offer of playing with his old toys if Carl swapped sides with him and let him sleep with me. Because Carl was so innocent, he went along with the idea. Joel would then sexually abuse me, lying all over me with his body that smelled so. He always stank of urine and he wet his bed every single night of the week. A 16-year-old boy wetting himself because he feared his parents so much.
I thought it best to keep our secret because I’d been told to do the same by my father, and I began to believe that my life was supposed to be like that.
Staying at my mother’s parents was so different. With Nana and Granddad, we had loads of fun. I can safely say that they have been the only stable people in our lives. We loved it there and would often beg my mother to let us go there every weekend. She’d always tell us that we had to be fair and let our grandparents share us. We didn’t understand what she meant but we had no choice but to agree with her. Our lives were full of horror and the only bit of sanity we had was the time we spent with Nana and Granddad. They loved us with all their hearts and most definitely let us know it. We felt safe in their hands: no beatings, no shouting, no abuse whatsoever from either of them – only love and affection, jokes and a lot of laughter. They made us very happy and their home became our little safe haven, a place where we could play naturally without fear of a good kicking for any of the reasons our father or his parents would dream up.
With Nana and Granddad, we could be happy, normal and very playful children. Our trips to Blackpool with them were something that we looked forward to all year long, but especially on the nights leading up to going, when we would hardly sleep for excitement. When finally the morning arrived for us to leave, we were up at four, begging Granddad to get the car started so that we could get started on what seemed the longest journey ever, even though it was only a few hours’ drive. Nana would never leave the house without doing her exercises. She’d stand with her back against one corner of the room and ask me to do the same in the opposite corner. Then we’d swing our hips to the beat of Nana’s Abba music, mainly keeping in time with each other, but sometimes racing to see which of us could swing our hips the most, and always giggling away like two little girls.
I remember one morning that, while doing my exercise with Nana, I was so happy looking at her beautiful and kind face across the room that the fact that I was on my way to Blackpool and had been looking forward to it all year totally slipped my mind for a few seconds. That is, until Granddad walked into the room, as if he was tired of waiting and probably sick of Carl asking him where we were. ‘Come on, Titch,’ he said affectionately to Nana, who was so petite, whereas he was a tall, fine figure of a man.
We then made our way to Blackpool, with Carl and I doing our usual whinging every ten or so minutes. ‘Are we there yet? How long is it going to take?’ Nana and Granddad would always laugh at us and one of them would say, ‘We have an awful lot further to go, darlings. Don’t you worry, when we get there we’ll have loads of fun, I promise you. It’s worth the wait.’ Then Granddad would give us his speech on how patience is a virtue. We would listen to his every word. He’d tell us stories about how he’d had to be patient many times while he fought in the war, as his life could have been totally different if he hadn’t been. We were so wrapped up in his stories, and he told us so many, that we would be in Blackpool before we knew it.
Our trips to the seaside were a joy from start to finish. First of all, we would grab our deckchairs from the boot of the car and race along the road alongside the beach to our favourite spot. As we always left very early in the morning, we could claim the spot for ourselves. There we would lay out the breakfast that Nana had so clearly lovingly prepared because it flowed with wonderful tastes that could only have come from her kitchen. We’d eat our feast and then tidy things away, before getting ready to move on to our favourite place – the fairground. Given £5 each to do whatever we liked with – and that went a long way back then – we had two or three hours of real fun, especially on the thrilling rides where we would scream with pride, ‘Nana, Granddad, look at me!’ Nana would smile and wave at us with a tear in her eye, so happy to see us full of joy. Granddad would nod his head and blow a kiss at us.
Once we’d spent our money, we would move on to our walk along the pier. Then at two we’d go for our regular fish and chips at one of the local restaurants across the road from the beach. By now, our hearts would already be turning from happy to sad as we knew that the time was drawing nearer for us to go back to the place that I can only describe as hell. But there was still a couple of hours on the beach before Granddad would say, ‘We have to go soon.’With us being obedient children, we’d not say a word to try to change his mind, though I think that our faces said it all. We hated that time of day, and the fact that we had to go home, as well as facing school the following day, often ruined what was one of the best days we’d had all year.
Walking away from the beach to the car with our heads down, we never wanted to look back on our brief happiness. We knew that we had to move forward and hope for the best. At those times, I often wished that I could tell Nana about my father’s abuse, but, as he’d warned me that he would shoot both of my grandparents with his friend’s gun, I couldn’t say a word.
The dream Carl and I shared of going home and Dad being pleased to see that we’d had a wonderful day never came true, because as soon as we got back we always received the same treatment. In fact, it was worse because he was envious of the fact that we’d had fun. We would bring him some Blackpool rock, in the hope that it would stop him harming us, but he was angry that we’d enjoyed ourselves with what I would call our true parents. He would show his jealousy by waking us in the middle of the night to beat us, for instance, because he couldn’t find his passport. It was like that for a long time and nothing much seemed to change at all. Our only aid to survival was the knowledge that we had our Nana and Granddad for comfort, love and happiness on alternate weekends.
