by Lisa James
One day I was watching cartoons on TV when I heard him bellowing from the bedroom: ‘Lisa, come here a minute.’
I ran through as quickly as I could, and when I got there I was surprised to see that he was lying on his bed completely naked. He was rubbing his ding-a-ling up and down and looking at the pictures in a magazine. I could see a naked lady on the front. She had blonde pigtails like Claire at school and was sucking her finger.
‘Come and park your little arse over here,’ he said. ‘I want you to look at something.’ He laughed and took a swig of lager before letting out a loud belch.
I didn’t want to go over to him, but I was frightened not to. I climbed up onto the bed beside him, trying not to look at his ding-a-ling, which was sticking straight up in the air.
‘What do you reckon, Lisa? Who’s got the best tits out of these two–the blonde or the nig-nog?’ He flicked the magazine with his middle finger. ‘Get it right and it’s tickle time, get it wrong and I might just have to bend you over my knee.’
My eyes filled with tears and I pointed at the black lady, hoping I’d got it right.
Just then we heard the front door opening and voices in the passage. It was Diane and Cheryl. Dad seemed annoyed and hurriedly covered himself with a sheet. He slammed the magazine shut and threw it on top of the tall pile of others beside his bed. The whoosh of air made a cloud of ash fly up from the ashtray and some of it settled on top of his drink.
‘We’ll have to play this game another time,’ he said. ‘Go on, piss off back to Scooby fucking doo or whatever shit you’re watching.’
I ran back to the front room, my cheeks wet with tears.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Diane.
‘Nothing,’ I said quietly. I didn’t even think about telling her what had happened, because already I was too scared of what Dad might do.
He was always telling me that I was his favourite, his special one, and in some ways that made me happy but it meant that he wanted me at his beck and call more than the others. When he was watching TV, he liked me to sit by the set so I could turn the dial to change channels when he wanted me to.
‘It’s like having one of the seven fucking dwarves as a slave,’ he’d laugh. ‘Which one are you?’
‘Dopey,’ I’d say, as he’d taught me to.
I didn’t mind helping Dad because usually it made him friendlier towards me, but it wasn’t always easy. When he was watching TV, I had to sit as still as I could because he hated me fidgeting.
‘I’m trying to watch the film, here,’ he’d shout, throwing a shoe at me when pins and needles finally forced me to shift position. I would have preferred to play in my room but I knew I’d have to wait until Dad told me I could leave.
During the ad breaks, he liked to play horsey with me. I had to climb up and straddle him as he bounced me up and down vigorously on his lap, and this made me giggle.
One day, he stopped in the middle of bouncing and said, ‘You like sucking things, don’t you, Lisa?’
I shrugged, unsure of what he meant, then blushed as I realised. Mummy had taken away my dummy ages ago and I’d started sucking my thumb as a substitute comforter. She kept telling me I’d end up with teeth like Goofy’s so I had tried my best to stop but I was always forgetting.
‘Would you like to suck mine?’ asked Dad.
I looked at his thumb. It was stained brown from all the cigarettes he smoked and his nail was dirty and needed cutting. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to suck a thumb like that.
‘Well, would you?’ he asked again.
I shook my head, and pressed my lips firmly together.
Dad laughed, and then licked his lips.
I knew I shouldn’t but I started to wriggle off him. He grabbed me firmly with one hand, digging his nails into the top of my shoulder, and reached up to hold my nostrils closed with his other hand. He always did this when he wanted me to eat something nasty, like an old cigarette butt, for a joke. I held my breath for as long as I could, but eventually I had to gasp for breath. Before I knew it, he had rammed his dirty thumb into my mouth and was moving it back and forth really fast.
‘Go on, suck it,’ he said playfully. The taste was so bitter, I started to cough and splutter. I thought I was going to be sick.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Mummy, suddenly appearing in the doorway.
‘Look at this, Donna,’ he sniggered. ‘She’s good for a beginner but she’ll have to go some to compete with you.’
Mummy thought it was hilarious. ‘Oh, you do make me laugh,’ she said.
I knew he was only trying to be funny, but I didn’t like his jokes very much and I knew that he could suddenly turn from laughter to rage in a split second so I always had to be on my guard. Sometimes he would scare me with a sudden shout or move and I would have to cross my legs quickly to stop myself peeing. I wasn’t always successful, though, and on occasion I’d let Eddie take the blame. I felt guilty about that but when I saw the beating Dad dished out in punishment, I didn’t dare own up.
Mummy had got Eddie from Battersea Dogs’ Home when I first moved in. He was a black, white and tan mongrel of labrador stock, always playful and boisterous but gentle with it. Like most dogs on council estates in the 1970s, Eddie used to take himself for a walk. He’d be let out in the morning and he’d be gone for hours until hunger and thirst forced him home. But once Dad had started beating him, he began to chase cars and cause a commotion down in the square, barking at everyone, especially men, so Mummy decided he wasn’t allowed out on his own any more. The only trouble was that she didn’t make arrangements for anyone to walk him on the lead either, which made Eddie’s behaviour even more manic. He was desperate for the freedom he’d always known. Whenever somebody opened the front door he would attempt to charge through their legs. On the occasions when he did slip out, his behaviour was even more out of control, and the local kids, and some adults, would throw stones at him. I tried to take him out myself once but he was so strong on the lead that he pulled me the whole length of the road on my belly, grazing my face and knees, before I was forced to let go and watch as he nearly ran under the wheels of a bus.
So poor Eddie wasn’t taken out much, and he had no choice but to leave puddles of his own alongside mine; puddles and mounds of poo as well. It wasn’t unusual to step in it on the way to the bathroom as the passage was dark and even if you could smell it, you couldn’t see it until it was too late. Unfortunately for Eddie, it was often Dad’s bare foot that found it first.
One evening I was sitting on the floor behind the sofa in the front room. Dad was lying stretched out watching television. Eddie crept up, sniffed around and proceeded to urinate beside me. I wasn’t shocked because I was used to seeing him do this, but it made me want to go too. I had been desperately crossing my legs for a while, unwilling to venture out from my place of relative peace and safety because earlier Dad had been in a bad mood and had put a foot through my dolls’ house. I didn’t want to have to walk between Dad and the TV and risk starting him off on another rant and maybe getting a smack on the bottom.
Eventually I could hold it in no longer. I slipped my knickers down to my knees, squatted and let it go, just on the spot where Eddie had done his wee, reckoning someone would have to clean there anyway. But as I did so, the sound on the television dipped for a moment and the hiss and splash I made on the floor could be heard clearly.
‘What’s that noise?’ Dad demanded, pulling himself up into a sitting position. By the time he got up to investigate, I had just managed to pull up my knickers. Terrified at being discovered, I darted out in front of him and ran as fast as I could to try and find somewhere to hide.
I heard him bellow to Mummy, who was in the kitchen: ‘’Ere, Donna. The kid’s pissed herself. Dirty little cunt.’
Mummy managed to find me first, hidden amongst the dirt and dog ends under her bed, but it didn’t stop Dad rushing up behind her to give me a hard kick. I waited for Mummy to stop him as
he dragged me back to the front room by the hair, but she did nothing.
‘Please stop him, Mummy, please,’ I sobbed.
She thrust her face into mine. ‘Shut up crying!’ she hissed. ‘What do you expect me to do? It’s not my fault.’
I thought I was going to pass out with fear. Holding me by the hair, Dad forced my nose down into the wet patch that Eddie and I had made and rubbed my nose back and forwards, calling me a ‘piss-arse’. The shame was worse than the pain and I was inconsolable afterwards when Cheryl gave me a hug in our bedroom and tried to cheer me up by singing me a song.
I continued wetting the bed every night, too. If I didn’t remember to draw back my sheets and blankets to dry off in the morning, I’d have to sleep with them wet the next night. Mummy had given up going to the launderette now, and the older girls were too busy trying to keep their own clothes clean without worrying about me. Soon I developed sores at the top of my legs where my thighs rubbed together and the urine burnt my skin. Sometimes Dad would see them as I sat cross-legged on the floor and he would tease me until I cried.
Early one morning I was lying in bed, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, when I felt a weight bearing down on top of me. I twisted and turned, trying to push it off because it was hurting. I could barely breathe, it was so heavy. I opened my eyes and squinted at a dark shape, relieved to realise it was only Eddie come to say good morning.
‘Hello, boy,’ I said, then I suddenly felt hot urine seeping through the covers onto me.
‘Urgh, Lisa, what’s that dog done?’ Cheryl asked, lifting her head from the pillow to peer over at me.
‘I think he’s just weed on me,’ I said, peeling off the covers. The frosty morning air made my wet pyjamas feel like ice.
‘For God’s sake! That’s because he can smell your piss and he thinks it’s where he’s supposed to go,’ she said.
I started to shiver, my teeth chattering, not knowing what to do next.
‘Go and stand under the shower,’ Cheryl instructed.
I stared at her blankly. I wet the bed every night and the most I did was wipe myself down with a wet flannel.
‘Dog piss is stronger than ours,’ she explained. ‘You’ll have to wash it off properly otherwise you’ll have all the bitches after you on the way to school.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant but I followed orders anyway. I picked my way down the dark passageway alert for any more of Eddie’s deposits. I hated going into the damp bathroom, which smelled like a mix of mould, soap and wet ashtrays. The blue vinyl shower curtain was torn and fringed with mildew. I tugged it aside and heard it ping from another of the holding rings, so now it was only half attached and hung limply as if at half mast. I pushed it further aside so that I could inspect the bath for spiders. My body was beginning to itch in a way it didn’t when I’d only slept in my own wet patch.
Cheryl appeared over my shoulder and turned on the tap for me. The rubber shower hose sprung into life, drenching the pair of us in freezing water.
‘I’m not doing it!’ I cried. ‘It’s freezing.’
‘You dirty cow,’ said Cheryl, disgusted. ‘Get in there now.’
We stood looking at one another as the pipes gurgled and the bedsprings began to squeak in Mummy’s bedroom opposite, then I gave in and let her lift me into the bath for a quick wash-down.
I usually got myself ready for school now, with a little help from Cheryl. Diane was usually staying with her boyfriend, Martin, so wasn’t around much, and Davie had enough to contend with just trying to find something to eat. Mummy had started to slip even further behind with the washing so every day before school I had to either pull on the same clothes as the day before or set about finding something else. I’d often have to resort to rummaging through the dirty washing in the hope of finding something that I’d once considered too dirty to wear but which now looked Daz-fresh compared to the alternatives. Occasionally, when I had no other option, I’d raid my sisters’ clothes but they were obviously too big and too grown-up with their scooped necklines. Somehow I always seemed to be wearing T-shirts in winter and itchy sweaters in summer, but some things were constant regardless of season, such as my smelly knickers and odd grey socks.
We did P.E. in our underwear and I used to watch all the other children. Compared to me they looked like catalogue models. Everything matched: bright white vest tucked into knickers I just knew were clean on that morning. I had reached the age where I was self-aware enough to feel embarrassed about my own underwear. Some of the other kids would snigger and whisper about me behind my back and my friend Claire would tell them to shut up. I knew they had all noticed I was wearing the same knickers as last week, and I felt the odd one out. School wasn’t as much fun as I’d thought it was going to be.
As I got a little older, I tried to help myself a bit more. I’d ask Mummy if she could give me some money so I could take my clothes to the launderette with Cheryl, but she would usually forget so I’d attempt to wash some things under the tap in the kitchen instead. If there was any washing-up liquid, I’d use a bit of that then spend ages trying to rinse the bubbles out. In the end, I’d give up and just squeeze the rest of the suds out before leaving the clothes in the airing cupboard. They’d dry stiff as a board and I’d have to crunch them up in my hand a few times before I could wear them.
Occasionally Nanny or Jenny would buy me some new clothes. For a few days I could pretend to be like one of the kids at school, with their coordinating outfits, but soon my lovely new blouse or trousers would be as grubby as everything else I owned.
I remember being particularly proud of a little woollen dress Jenny bought me from the market. It was pink with multicoloured flowers. After wearing it every day for a week, I reluctantly took it off. Every few days I’d ask Mummy if she’d washed it yet, and she would say ‘No, I bleedin’ well haven’t. Now bugger off out of it.’ I came across it a few weeks later still buried at the bottom of the laundry bag. It had been there so long that the pretty flowers were blackened with mould. Mummy did eventually wash it, but not only did the black mould not wash out, but it also shrank so much that only my favourite dolly, Jemima, could wear it.
Around this time Aunt Freda had a heart attack and died. Mummy didn’t bother to explain what had happened so it came as quite a shock to visit Nanny one day and find Aunt Freda’s armchair empty.
‘She’s with the angels, pet,’ said Nanny, dabbing her eyes with the edge of her apron.
Freda was the eldest of Nanny’s four girls, and losing her so suddenly hit her hard. ‘I can’t believe Donna didn’t even come to the funeral,’ I heard her say to Jenny. ‘How could she be so uncaring?’
‘It’s him, Mum,’ said Jenny, trying to console her.
‘I’m not sure it is,’ Nanny replied. ‘He’s scum, there’s no doubt about that, but Donna’s always been a cold fish. Look how she left the little ’un like that.’
My visits to Nanny and Jenny remained intermittent but during the periods I was allowed to visit them, I’d spend most weekends there. In contrast to our flat, their place was always clean and tidy. Carpets were hoovered, floors swept and every surface dusted. The kitchen was pristine, without so much as a speck of dirt. Every night after dinner Jenny wouldn’t sit down until every dish and pot was washed, dried and put away. I’d usually arrive on Friday evening in time for dinner. I especially loved Jenny’s spaghetti bolognaise, which tasted a thousand times better than the orange tinned stuff I had at home. I used to laugh as I watched her throw a strand of spaghetti at the wall to test if it was cooked. If it stuck, it was ready to drain.
After dinner, Jenny would run me a lovely warm bubble bath. The carpet was pink and so soft I could wiggle my toes into it, in contrast to the slimy ripped lino at home. Soft clean towels hung on the rail. The spare toilet roll was covered by a dolly with a long skirt, whose name was Amanda. Jenny offered to let me take her home once but I refused because I couldn’t bear to think of her sitting in our grimy toilet wit
h the spiders. Besides, we never ever had a spare toilet roll; most of the time we had to use old pages from The Sun.
I wouldn’t get out of the sweet-smelling bath until my fingers and toes were wrinkled like pink little prunes. At bedtime I’d squeeze in next to Jenny because I was bigger now and might hurt Nanny’s legs in my sleep. I liked sleeping with Jenny. She was soft and fat, perfect for cuddling, and her made-up stories were just as magical as the ones Nanny used to tell me when I was younger.
On Saturday mornings Jenny would take me for a walk up to the High Street where we’d do some shopping. The Generation Game with Bruce Forsyth was on the television at the time and I’d make her laugh by doing an impression of Brucie’s pose and saying ‘Nice to see you, to see you nice.’
Nanny would be sitting out on the balcony when we got back. She was virtually housebound now, and the only fresh air she got was when she sat out on the balcony tending her geraniums and watching the world pass by. I’d go out and sit beside her. Sometimes we’d see Mummy and Dad walking in or out of our block but they didn’t wave, and nor did we.
Sunday would start off nicely enough. Jenny was always trying to lose weight and had bought a yoga book so we’d clear a space in the front room and practise the Plough and the Cobra, the Bridge and the Bow. Usually we’d be in fits of giggles because neither of us could balance and we’d end up in all sorts of tangles, as if we were playing a game of Twister.
Sunday lunch would be delicious. Sometimes Davie and Cheryl would turn up to pile their plates with Nanny’s special roast potatoes. But as the day wore on, my stomach would start to do little flips as I realised it would soon be time to go home. Home to the dirt, the disorganisation, the empty food cupboards, but worst of all, home to Mummy and Dad. Mummy who seemed to look straight through me most of the time when she wasn’t complaining that I was in her way and driving her crazy, and Dad, who alternated between his special brand of hot and cold treatment–friendly one minute, hostile and violent the next.