by Lisa James
‘She knows, doesn’t she?’ I wailed, my voice rising in despair. All the emotion I’d suppressed for years was struggling to get out.
Dad looked almost embarrassed. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘So what?’
I ran up to my bedroom and sat with my back to the door, my feet braced against the bed in case Dad came storming up the stairs as he normally would. It wasn’t until a good half an hour had passed that I felt safe enough to move. It seemed things were changing; he hadn’t followed and kicked me round the room for a start. I sat on the edge of my bed and waited for Mum to come home. I tried to rehearse what I would say, but I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t want to dwell on the fact that she had known and had chosen not to help me. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel bad, because then she would get angry and I needed her now more than ever. She had to get me away from here.
I stared at my clock and watched as each agonising minute ticked by. Periodically I’d look out of the window but I had to sit down again quickly because when I stood up my tummy would do nervous somersaults. I wished I could smoke like Mum did when she was anxious, because it seemed to settle her nerves. I thought about how bizarre it was that I was routinely raped and battered by my dad with my mum’s full knowledge and yet both of them had always frowned upon the idea of me taking up smoking. I was just a kid, too young to smoke and swear. Dad always told me that he wanted me to hang on to my innocence for as long as possible.
By the time I heard the gate swing outside and Mum’s key turning in the lock, I had worked myself up into another state. My eyes would barely open they were so swollen with tears, and my head was throbbing with pain due to the hours of crying. My whole body was trembling. I was absolutely terrified. Terrified of Mum and what we would both feel when we locked eyes for the first time now that the family’s biggest open secret was no longer under wraps. I was terrified of Dad and what damage he would inflict and on whom: Mum and me, or just me, as it had been for the last few years?
I opened the bedroom door and heard them talking downstairs. Dad was saying ‘She knows that you know. She heard us talking last night.’
There was more talk in hushed tones, then Mum started coming up the stairs.
When she reached the top flight, she gave a huge, theatrical sigh and exclaimed, ‘Oh my Gawd!’ as if it were all a big joke. She sounded as though she was doing an impression of Frankie Howerd or one of the Carry On team. Surely it was all an act though? She couldn’t possibly be dealing with this whole thing in such a light-hearted manner.
I ran back into my bedroom, dreading the moment she’d walk into the room. I was excruciatingly embarrassed and ashamed, as if it was all my fault and I wasn’t just a victim of my own dad’s perversions. I knew I wasn’t thinking rationally. I couldn’t, I was so torn up with fear on so many different levels.
As she came through the door, I became almost hysterical. I rushed towards her and threw myself into her arms, my whole body shaking with sobs. As I felt her arms hold me to her for the first time in years, it was as if a dam burst within me. All the grief for my lost family, my childhood, my schooling and my teenage years came flooding out.
‘Now don’t be silly,’ Mum said softly but completely dry-eyed.
And then, even though a voice at the back of my mind urged me to be careful, I began repeating over and over, ‘He made me do it. I didn’t want to. He made me do it.’
I felt Mum’s body stiffen. ‘Shush! Shush or he’ll hear you.’ She was only too aware of the consequences of Dad’s anger.
Her next words took my breath away. She spoke as if she hadn’t a care in the world. ‘Now calm down and come downstairs for a cup of tea. I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking gasping.’
I blinked and dried my snot and tears on the sleeve of my jumper, not quite sure what she was doing. She seemed to be behaving as if nothing had happened. Then I got it. I understood that she must be talking in code in case Dad was listening on the stairs. ‘Having a cup of tea’ really meant lulling the dirty violent bastard downstairs into a false sense of security until we could get away safely. We had to be careful and not make any sudden moves until we worked out what to do. Dad probably hadn’t wanted a phone in the house because he was wary of the fact that 999 was all too easy to dial on impulse, especially if you had a mad man coming at you wanting blood.
As I watched Mum plod her way downstairs, my head was still reeling from all the emotion, but I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I knew that life would have to change now. It couldn’t go on as it had before, could it?
I hid in my room for as long as I could, unable to face the thought of going downstairs. I didn’t know how to act. I wondered if this would be the day when Dad finally lost it and stabbed me to death, as he had often threatened.
‘Lisa, get down here,’ Dad shouted up for a second time, and I didn’t dare disobey him any longer. His voice sounded quite cheerful, under the circumstances, and I thought I’d better not antagonise him. With a little luck I wouldn’t have to put up with him for much longer, not now that mum couldn’t get away with sticking her head in the sand any longer. I knew, she knew. There could be no pretence any more.
I walked down the stairs, into the usual choking fug of Benson & Hedges that rose from the ground floor. I stopped outside the kitchen door and listened, expecting to hear them arguing, or at least talking about the situation, but instead they sounded as if it was just like any other day. Dad was saying how his ‘guts’ were rumbling and he could ‘eat a fucking horse’, and Mum said, ‘I’m gonna make a sandwich in a minute. I got a nice bit of ham over Londis.’ It seemed like business as usual, and I almost felt like pinching myself to check I wasn’t having a nightmare. How could Mum still talk civilly to him? How could she offer to make him a sandwich, knowing what he had done to her daughter? If someone had done that to a daughter of mine, I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from trying to stab them through the heart.
I walked in and when Dad saw me he stopped spooning sugar in his tea for a moment and said, ‘Look at the face on that. She looks like a fucking tomato.’ He laughed uproariously at his own joke.
Mum cackled and took a last drag of her cigarette before dropping it in a teacup where it made a loud sizzle. ‘Mustard or pickle?’
‘Mustard, triple-decker please, Donna,’ said Dad, without a care in the world.
It was just like any other day. I tried to catch Mum’s eye to ask her what was going on, but she wouldn’t look at me, just kept layering on the ham she was so pleased with. Gradually it dawned on me that this was it. She wasn’t pretending to appease Dad to keep him from getting violent–she wasn’t going to do anything. She had simply accepted the situation. It was the ultimate betrayal. She had made her choice a while ago and she was sticking with it. I felt so stupid for believing she would help me. Nothing had changed at all in our weird family set-up, except that the one person who had been living in a state of blind ignorance could finally see the reality. That person was me. It was never Mum–she had known all along. It was me whose eyes were opened at last.
A couple of hours later Dad sent me out to the shop, and when I got back I overheard Mum saying, ‘We don’t want any accidents. That’s all I bleedin’ need.’
I wondered what she was talking about, but later in the week it became clear. Far from hatching a plan to get me away from the man who had tortured and abused me for so long, Mum was concerned only that I might get pregnant. Between them they decided I was to go on the Pill.
Dad marched me over to the doctor’s surgery. ‘You go in, you tell him you want the Pill, bang. Done. No fucking discussion. No chit-chat shit. Nothing. Do you understand?’ he said, holding my chin. ‘And make sure he don’t see any of…you know, any of those marks.’
‘Okay, Dad,’ I nodded. I was glad he found it hard to speak about the injuries he gave me: the bruises and scratches all over my back; the lump on my leg where he’d kicked me last week, and w
hich still hadn’t gone down. He seemed embarrassed at what he’d done, and in my naivety I thought that meant a small part of him was sorry. I knew that the word wasn’t actually in his vocabulary, but I wanted to believe he had at least a little conscience.
He told me he would wait outside by the raised flowerbeds, and added, ‘Remember, don’t answer him if he starts poking his nose in.’
I pushed open the swing doors to the surgery and was hit by a rush of hot air infused with the smell of disinfectant and antiseptic. I was incredibly nervous. I didn’t want to go on the Pill. Neither did I want to be raped by my father any more. But I didn’t know how I could help myself, and I had nobody to turn to. I had tried several more times to ask for Mum’s help, but she wouldn’t have it.
‘Mum, please,’ I begged, ‘I can’t believe you’re letting him do this to me.’
‘Now don’t fucking start, Lisa,’ she warned. ‘I can’t stop him. You’re sixteen years old, a legal consenting adult.’
‘But I’m not consenting!’ I shrieked. ‘I’m covered in cuts and bruises.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, you’re his girlfriend, and that’s that.’
The truth was that now I was sixteen and ‘legal’, Mum felt she didn’t owe me any duty of care whatsoever. She had been beaten black and blue by this man for years, forced to dump every member of her family, and now she was willing to stand by while he raped and beat her own daughter right under her nose in the family home. I began to realise why she had hidden from the truth for so long. If I were any younger she would have been forced to act in case anyone else found out–like the school, for instance. Now, because Dad wasn’t blood-related and I was legally allowed to have sex, they both felt able to brush all the previous years of abuse under the carpet for a fresh start. Clearly they had come to an arrangement between them that I was no longer Dad’s daughter–I was his girlfriend instead. Technically Mum may have been the wife who still shared his bed at night, but now she was a sort of motherin-law as well.
My head spun as I sat in the doctor’s waiting room and I realised the light at the end of the tunnel was shrinking to nothing more than a pin prick. I couldn’t believe Mum’s only response had been to make everything easier in the contraception department, rather than protecting me from harm full stop. What sort of woman was she?
My heart was racing as I waited for my name to be called over the tannoy. I had cauterised my emotions as a matter of survival for so long, but now Mum’s betrayal of everything a mother should be overwhelmed me. Unshed tears threatened to spill over, and I was desperate to think about other things. I spotted a pile of well-worn magazines in front of me and was about to reach for one when I saw Dad glaring at me through the plate-glass window and pointing at his watch as if to ask me what was taking so long.
The doctor was obviously running late with his appointments because I should have been called fifteen minutes before. A door opened and a young Indian man emerged. He was very tall and wore a pristine white turban. I presumed he was a doctor as he was carrying some files. As he passed he gave me a smile, showing brilliantly white teeth. ‘Okay?’ he asked.
I gave a half smile back, and was filled with equal measures of dread and relief as I heard my name called. I made my way along the corridor to Dr Ainsworth’s office, practising what I was going to say. It all felt wrong.
‘Do your parents know you want to go on the Pill?’ he asked, with a slight frown. He was an elderly man and I felt so uncomfortable I could hardly look at him. I was also frightened. Dad said I was to ignore any questions, and I wasn’t sure where this was leading.
‘No…No, they don’t,’ I stammered. My face burned as I imagined what he would think of me if he knew he truth: that it was actually my parents who had sent me here, so that my own dad wouldn’t make me pregnant. Shame consumed me as the doctor continued to peer at me over the top of his glasses.
‘And you are sixteen, aren’t you?’ He picked up my notes and read out my date of birth to double check.
He looked at me for a moment as if waiting for me to say something, and then chuckled and said, ‘Sorry, but you look about the same age as my grand-daughter, and she’s only thirteen.’
It was true; I did have a very young face for my age. Some of the girls at school wore make-up, which made them look much older, but Dad wouldn’t let me. To me they looked like proper teenagers, as if they might actually have a boyfriend and need the Pill. I could understand the doctor’s surprise because I didn’t look mature enough to be having sex, and I could see he was a little taken aback, even though he did his best to hide it. I wasn’t sure about the procedure and started to worry that he might have to contact my parents. Dad would kill me if that was the case. I could feel prickles of sweat under my armpits.
‘Jolly good,’ said the doctor, adding a note to my records and reaching for the blood pressure cuff. ‘Slip your coat off and we’ll just check you over.’
Finally he was satisfied I was in good health and scribbled me a prescription for three months’ supply of contraceptive pills. I felt like a criminal, as if I’d got away with hiding the biggest, darkest secret anyone could have. I didn’t even think of showing the doctor my injuries and telling him I had been abused for years. Dad was all-powerful, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would kill me if I ever told. I had never seen anyone stand up to him. My whole family had just bowed down and let him walk all over them and I didn’t have the courage to break the mould. So when the doctor gave a little wave and said, ‘Cheerio, dear,’ I was just relieved to get out of there.
But when I saw Dad leaning against the wall outside, I knew something was very wrong. His face was like thunder.
‘You took your fucking time. And why are you all red?’ He looked me up and down suspiciously.
I was just trying to work out how to answer when he asked, ‘Which doctor was it, then? It was that Paki bastard, wasn’t it?’
‘No, it was Dr Ainsworth, the one with the white hair,’ I said, suddenly on high alert, sensitive as ever to Dad’s fluctuating moods.
‘Don’t fucking lie. I saw you smiling at him with his fucking tea cosy on his head.’
The slap connected with the right side of my head and knocked me off balance so that I span away from him. ‘No, Dad, it was Dr Ainsworth, the old one.’
‘I said don’t lie, you little whore.’ He grabbed the top of my arm and dug his fingers in through my coat. ‘He touched you up, didn’t he?’
I felt panic rising. ‘Course not, Dad.’
‘Do I look like a cunt? I ain’t as fucking stupid as you like to think.’ His voice rose. ‘I bet he had his greasy hand up your fanny faster than a rat up a fucking drainpipe.’
I felt the familiar dread settle over me and prayed he wouldn’t keep hitting me because someone might see. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching from inside the waiting room and was relieved to see the other patients contentedly flicking through their Reader’s Digests, or staring into space, totally oblivious to what was happening just outside the swing doors.
He slapped the side of my head again. ‘Who you looking for? Gupter?’
‘No, Dad. Can we just go home now? I need the toilet.’ Fear still made me want to wee, just as it had done all those years ago when I used to wet myself regularly.
‘Oh, she needs the fucking toilet,’ said Dad, raising his face to talk to the sky for a moment, then pushing his face into mine. ‘I bet you fucking do. What, is it to wipe away Gupter’s spunk, is it? Like Pakis then, do you?’
He grabbed the back of my neck between vice-like fingers and propelled me along the path that led out onto the pavement. ‘We’re going home alright, don’t you fucking worry about that.’
My stomach was in knots as we walked the short distance home. All the way, Dad kept up his tirade, punctuating his words with sharp digs. People walked by us with their heads down and eyes averted, their body language making it clear they didn’t want to get involved.
Dad looked me up and down. ‘Do you know how I know what you’ve been up to?’ he bellowed over the rumble of a passing bus. ‘It’s your fucking coat that’s given the game away. It was done up when you went in there and now it’s not. Get out of that.’
He looked at me triumphantly, as if he’d proved his point. His argument was so irrational, so weak, that I knew he couldn’t possibly believe it himself. He was just looking for an excuse to hurt me. My tears seemed to excite him, so I tried to hold them back for as long as I could, but I was so frightened I couldn’t stop them for long.
‘Come on, you snivelling bitch, fucking answer me. Did you, or did you not, take that fucking coat off so that he could ram his cock up your arse?’
‘But I had to…take my coat off, I mean. He had to do my blood pressure, and then I just didn’t button it up again, that’s all. I’m sorry.’
‘Bollocks!’ he shouted, seeming not to care who heard. ‘There was no fucking blood test. You’re only a kid. You must have me down as a right mug.’
‘No, not a blood test…blood pressure,’ I garbled. I thought if I could only make him understand then he wouldn’t be so angry. I started to drag my feet a little, terrified of arriving home. I reasoned I was relatively safe while we were out in the street, but he grabbed my ear and yanked me over the road: ‘Get a move on!’ A white van had to screech to a halt and the driver peered angrily at us through the windscreen mouthing the word ‘wanker’ at Dad. I was surprised when Dad held up a hand in apology. I wasn’t used to seeing him back down to anyone.
We continued walking in silence, only a few minutes from home now. I thought his rant had petered out like it did sometimes. But no.
‘Don’t forget I’m a fucking man, and I know how men think,’ he started again as we turned into our road. ‘And I know all about you as well, don’t I? Fucking slag that you are.’