Читать книгу Don’t Tell Mummy: A True Story of the Ultimate Betrayal - Toni Maguire - Страница 9

Chapter Six

Iwould always be exhausted by the time I had walked home, but I still had homework to do. I would sit at the table in our kitchen, which also doubled as our sitting room, trying desperately to stay awake. The only heat came from the cooking range at the far end of the room, the only light from the oil-fuelled Tilly lamps, which gave out a dim, orangey glow.

Once my homework was finished, I would try to sit closer to the warmth of the range and read, or I would watch my mother put a griddle pan onto the stove. Onto it she poured a batter mixture, which magically turned into drop scones or soda bread. We had to be as self-sufficient as possible in those days. Bought cakes and bread were considered to be as great a luxury as red meat or fresh fruit. If it was not home grown we simply didn’t buy it.

We had our chickens, which not only provided us with a regular source of eggs but also paid in part for the groceries we bought from the twice-weekly van. Potatoes and carrots were supplied from our vegetable patch, and when I went to the neighbouring farm to collect milk I also collected the buttermilk that my mother used for baking.

Now that I was seven and a half I could read fluently and, during the time we spent at the thatched house, my love for books grew. A mobile library would come at the weekends and I could choose whichever books I wanted. Apart from my animals, books were my escape. I could disappear into other worlds of fantasy, adventure and fun. I could play detective with Enid Blyton’s ‘Famous Five’, explore the underwater world of the Water Babies and feel frightened by Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Little Women showed me how women could be independent. I dreamt of being like Jo when I grew up. Under the light of the Tilly lamps I could have secret adventures with imaginary friends and vanish with them into a life where I was beautifully dressed and where everyone liked me. As my love of reading grew, so did my father’s resentment of it.

He never read more than the sports section in the newspaper and considered my mother’s and my interest in books a waste of time. Whereas he didn’t dare criticize her, he had no qualms in venting his displeasure on me.

‘What are you doing that for?’ he’d grumble. ‘Can you not find something better to do? Does your mother not need you to help? See if there is some washing up to do.’

Another time he’d say, ‘What about your homework?’

When I replied, ‘I’ve finished it,’ he’d give a disdainful grunt. Unnerved, I would feel his resentment wash over me and pray for bedtime so that I could make my escape.

Full of resentment for anybody who might be happy or educated, my father’s rages and tempers were unpredictable. There were the times when he came home quite early, bringing my mother and me sweets and chocolates. Those were the evenings when the jovial father would appear with hugs for my mother and friendly greetings for me. In my mind I had two fathers, the nasty one and the nice one. The nasty one I was very scared of, while the nice one, whom I remembered meeting us at the docks, was the laughing, good-humoured man whom my mother loved. I was only ever allowed rare glimpses of the nice father now, but always hoped for more.

In the spring my father rented a wooden barn, which he said he could keep all his tools in, so that he could repair the car. Housing the chickens, he said, had taken up all the available sheds near the house. This would save us money, he said, since he was a qualified mechanic. Wouldn’t it be stupid to be paying other men good money for a job he could do better himself?

My mother agreed with him, which put him in a good humour and suddenly his manner towards me changed. He stopped always being cross, criticizing everything I did. From alternating between wanting me out of the way, ignoring me or shouting at me, he suddenly became friendly all the time. Remembering his hasty fumbles that time when my mother was out of the room, I viewed his overtures with suspicion, but I forced my doubts to one side because, above everything else, I had a desperate need to be loved by my parents. I should have trusted my instincts.

‘She’s done so much homework this week,’ he said to my mother one evening. ‘She’s had all those long walks to school and back, I’ll take her out for a drive in the car.’

My mother smiled brightly. ‘Yes, Antoinette, run along with Daddy. He’s going to take you out for a drive.’

I jumped into the car enthusiastically, my pleasure only marred when Judy was barred from coming with us. As I sat gazing out of the window I wondered where the drive would take us. I was soon to find out. At the end of our lane he turned off into the field where the small wooden barn he had rented stood. This was where all my weekend drives would lead.

He drove into the dim, shadowy building. The only natural light came from a small window with sacking nailed across it. I felt a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach, felt an unknown fear and knew that I did not want to get out of the car.

‘Daddy,’ I pleaded, ‘please take me home, I don’t like it here.’

He just looked at me, with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

‘Stay here, Antoinette,’ he commanded. ‘Your Daddy has a present for you. You’re going to like it, you’ll see.’

The fear I had of him intensified into terror, creating a leaden weight of dread that kept me firmly in my seat. He got out of the car to lock the shed, then opened the passenger door. When he pulled me round to face him I saw that his trousers were unzipped. His face was red; his eyes were glazed. As I looked into them he no longer seemed to see me. A tremor started deep inside me, shaking my body and forcing its way out of my throat as a whimper.

‘You be a good girl now,’ he said, taking my child-sized hand, small, plump and dimpled, in his. Holding it firmly, he forced my fingers round his penis then moved them up and down. All the time I was doing it I could hear small animal whimpers escaping from my throat and mingling with his grunts. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping that if I couldn’t see then it would stop, but it didn’t.

Suddenly my hand was released and my body thrown back across the seat. I felt one hand holding me firmly by pressing on my stomach while another pulled my dress up and yanked my knickers down. I felt shame as my small body was exposed to his eyes and I was pushed further down on the cold leather seat. He pulled me sideways, leaving my legs dangling helplessly over the edge. Legs that I tried in vain to close. I felt him force them further apart, knew he was gazing at the part of me that I thought private, felt a cushion slide under my bottom and then the pain as he pushed himself into me, not hard enough in those early days to tear or damage, but hard enough to hurt.

I lay as limp and as mute as a rag doll, trying to focus on anything apart from what was happening, while the smell of the shed with its combination of damp, oil and petrol, mingled with my father’s male smell of tobacco and stale body odour, seemed to seep into the very pores of my skin.

After what seemed like an eternity, he gave a groan and pulled out of me. I felt a warm, wet, sticky substance dripping onto my stomach. He threw a piece of sacking at me.

‘Clean yourself up with that.’

Wordlessly, I did as he instructed.

His next words were destined to become a regular refrain: ‘Don’t you be telling your mother, my girl. This is our secret. If you tell her, she won’t believe you. She won’t love you any longer.’

I already knew that was true.

The one secret I held back from my father was the secret I held back from myself. My mother did know. The one fear he had was that she would find out. So that was the day we started the game; the game was called ‘our secret’, a game that he and I were to play for seven more years.