I Own You

by Dawn McConnell

  But when I arrived on the ward, I discovered Mum weeping in the corridor.

  ‘Mum, what’s wrong? Is Dad okay?’

  ‘They’ve taken his whole leg off. His whole leg, Dawn! He’s going to be crippled for the rest of his life!’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘They had to keep going back to the first vein that hadn’t collapsed. All his veins in his foot were gone and then they couldn’t find a vein until they got right up to his groin. He went under the knife thinking he was losing a bloody toe and here he is waking up without his leg, Dawn!’

  Oh Christ. I felt terrible. ‘Where is he? Can I see him?’

  ‘No, he’s still in recovery. He’s sleeping. They said to come back in first thing in the morning.’

  I drove Mum home that night, trying to come to terms with Dad’s altered state. He was going to have to learn how to walk with a prosthetic limb – that wasn’t going to be an easy task for a man his age.

  ‘Do you have any idea how this is going to change our lives? My life?’ Mum spoke with horror. ‘I’m going to be a carer for him for the rest of my life. He won’t be able to do anything for himself – I mean how is he going to bath himself or get around?’

  ‘Mum. Mum, it’s okay, it’s going to be fine,’ I replied automatically. I couldn’t bear her relentless negativity; somebody had to stay positive. ‘They’ll send him to rehab,’ I said. ‘He’ll learn how to use a prosthesis and he’ll be up and about sooner than you think. We can make alterations to the flat to make things easier for him – we’ll put in a disabled bath. We’ll get carers for him. He’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.’

  ‘He’s a big man.’ Mum shook her head, unconvinced. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to cope with this.’

  ‘You know, this isn’t the end of the world. He’ll be fine. Honestly.’

  And he was – once he got over the initial, dreadful shock, which at first left him very low. My family and I spent the next two weeks in and out of hospital – me, Mum, Callum and Stuart, all of us trying our best to cheer Dad up. Gradually, the antidepressants kicked in and after a couple of days he was asking for a copy of the Telegraph. A few days later, he was back to his usual self, talking about politics and the problems with ‘New Labour’, asking for Mum’s home-cooked food and gossiping about the other patients on the ward. He was resigned to the fact that his leg was gone but he said he was determined to use a prosthetic limb.

  ‘I’m not going to spend the rest of my life sitting down all the time in a bloody chair,’ he said determinedly and I was relieved to see the fire back in his eyes. With his fighting spirit so evident, I felt we were probably over the worst of the crisis.

  It was a good thing, too, since I was due to fly to Goa with Stuart and Callum for two weeks. Susy had offered to come up to help Mum out while Dad was still recovering in hospital and I was looking forward to a break. The last few weeks had been gruelling and we all needed some time out. Dad had given me a long list of spices and condiments to bring back from India for his famous curries and he promised to be up and about by the time we got back. It felt like everything was going in the right direction and Dad would make a strong recovery.

  Then, the night before we were due to leave: a setback.

  ‘Gangrene,’ Dad announced when I walked onto the ward that evening. ‘In the right leg. They’re going to have to take that too.’

  He spoke in a flat monotone but behind the words I could sense the intensity of his emotions. He was utterly devastated and the black cloud of depression that had fogged him when they first took his leg had returned.

  ‘Oh Dad. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Dad nodded. He looked away, didn’t trust himself to speak.

  ‘Look, it will be okay, Dad,’ I started, but then he fixed me with a baleful look and I fell silent. He didn’t think it would be okay and he wasn’t ready to hear me say it.

  ‘A wheelchair, Dawn,’ he said at last, his voice shaking. ‘I’ll be in a wheelchair.’ And that was the last thing he said to me before I left. No matter how much I tried to cajole and encourage him, he refused to say another word.

  ‘I’ll bring back all your spices,’ I whispered as I hugged him goodbye; Dad had insisted we should still go away. ‘I love you.’

  Afterwards, I stepped out into the corridor to speak to Mum, who was beside herself despite my reassurances that we’d do everything we could to help out. ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take!’ she declared dramatically.

  And then, just as we were about to leave, we heard my father’s voice calling for Callum. My eleven-year-old son had been sitting in the corridor the whole time, silently absorbing the news. Alone, he went onto the ward to see his grandpa.

  ‘Well, that was weird,’ my son said later as we drove home.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Grandpa,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘He told me he loved me and said “I’ll see you soon.”’

  What an odd thing to say, I thought. We were due to set off first thing in the morning so Dad wouldn’t see us again until we came home in the New Year. I thought about Dad the whole thirteen-hour flight, wondering how the operation was going. As soon as we landed, I called Mum to find out how it had gone.

  ‘Mum – it’s me. How did the operation go?’

  ‘Your father’s dead,’ Mum said dully.

  ‘What?’ Tears sprang to my eyes. ‘How?’

  ‘He had a complication in the night,’ she went on. Her voice was thick and strangely flat. ‘They did the operation but then he got an infection afterwards and his heart gave out and he died.’

  There was a long silence. I couldn’t be optimistic anymore; I couldn’t tell her everything would be fine. It wasn’t.

  ‘Oh Mum, I’m sorry.’ And then: ‘We’ll be here for you,’ I said, immediately. My brain was already ticking over what had to happen. What’s next? Should we turn around and go home again? There’s the funeral to organize; Mum will need help with all of that . . .

  But her next words stunned me.

  ‘I’ve called John,’ she went on, barely acknowledging what I’d said. ‘He’s coming up tonight.’

  ‘Oh . . . er . . . okay,’ I replied, shaken. I suddenly felt sick. ‘Okay, erm . . . Listen, I’m just at the airport. Let me call you back in a minute.’

  I had to put the phone down in a hurry before I burst into tears. I don’t know why, but Mum mentioning John like that, coming on top of the news about my dad, just sent me over the edge. I slumped forward in my chair and started to weep. Callum held me close as I cried like a baby.

  Stuart had guessed what had happened by my reaction on the phone and shook his head. ‘What a shame. Poor old fella.’ Then his mind turned to practical matters. ‘So what do you want to do, Dawn?’ he went on. ‘You want to go home?’

  I thought of Mum. I thought of Dad. And, then, I thought of John. His pale face. His guiltless eyes. Returning to the bosom of the family in Mum’s hour of need, like a prodigal son. And in that second, I knew I didn’t want to go back. I couldn’t face John and I didn’t know how on earth I’d get through a funeral with him there. Dad was gone now – there was nothing more I could do for him. He had said goodbye to my son, his only grandson, because he had guessed he wouldn’t make it through another operation. It was over.

  ‘No,’ I said resolutely. ‘Let’s stick with the plans. We’ll say goodbye to Dad in our own way.’

  I was angry with Mum that she hadn’t called a doctor about it before it was too late, angry that she hadn’t done something sooner. And I was even angrier with myself. I’d known he wouldn’t make it, I had seen the sadness and fear in his eyes when I’d left him for the last time. I should have stayed, I berated myself. I should never have left him. If nothing else, I would have seen him one more time before he died.

  My failure to return did not go down well with my family.

  ‘What are you doing in Goa?’ Susy called a few hours after I’d spoken to Mum. She was furious wi
th me. ‘Don’t you think you better come back? Mum’s falling to pieces here. They’ve put her on tranquillizers. We’ve got a funeral to organize. Don’t tell me you’re not going to be here for the funeral.’

  ‘Susy, is John there?’ I asked coolly.

  ‘Yes, of course he’s here,’ she said. ‘You know he is.’

  ‘Well, then I think Mum has ample support so, no, I don’t think we’re going to come back for the funeral. Remember, we’ve been there for Dad throughout all of this. I’ve been there for both of them, in fact. You’re in London and that’s fine but I’m the one who’s taken on the responsibility of caring for our parents. And trust me, when you go home again, I’ll be there for Mum. But I don’t need to be at Dad’s funeral – I visited him every single day in hospital when he was alive. So my conscience is clear. You help Mum. You help organize the funeral.’

  ‘But how will it look if . . .’

  ‘I don’t care how it looks to anyone!’ I suddenly exploded. I couldn’t bear this obsession with public appearances. It all came from Mum, of course. Yes, it looked bad me not coming home; but it would look a whole lot worse if I’d gone to the police about John’s behaviour. She should think about that, I thought angrily. And it strengthened my resolve. I wasn’t the youngest child any more, biddable by her older siblings. I was a grown woman and I was sick of putting on a show for everyone else’s sake. I wasn’t coming home.

  But I didn’t say any of this. After all, it wasn’t Susy’s fault. Right now, she was just the one trying to keep everyone together. So I apologized.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Su. Really, I don’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just that I think I’m better off away from things right now. Dad’s dead and whether I come back home or not, nothing’s going to change that.’

  It wasn’t a particularly great holiday, but I have to admit that it was what I needed after spending so many weeks running back and forth to the hospital, and it was a hell of a lot better than making small talk with my childhood abuser over a funeral buffet. I hadn’t appreciated just how upsetting it had all been.

  We stayed at a beautiful beach resort for two weeks and, on the second-to-last day, Callum and I visited a stunning waterfall a few hours inland from our hotel. Once we reached the top, we had a little ceremony for my father. We each said our own goodbyes and then threw a handful of long-stemmed tiger lilies into the waterfall. As I watched the white-and-orange striped flowers swirling into the pool below, I spoke to my father:

  ‘You’re better off now, Dad. If you’d survived, you wouldn’t be a happy man, I know that. You were a warrior – a strong man, so full of pride. My hero. You chose to let go. I accept that, Dad, and I’m sorry, I’m really sorry you left us, but I know it was probably for the best. Mum wouldn’t have coped well. You did the right thing by her. You let her go. I’m sorry, Dad. I love you and I’ll miss you so much.’

  It was a relief not to go to the funeral, not to have to face my abuser brother or all the drama I knew my mother would create around herself. And there was worse. Talking to my sister about the arrangements, I learned that John was due to give the eulogy – how repellant! He’d had a terrible relationship with my father all his life – he would talk a load of rubbish and I knew I didn’t want to hear it.

  It irritated me so much that John was in Glasgow, staying with my mother in what was still my property! The fact was, he’d got away with the abuse for all these years and he was still getting away with it now. Several times that holiday, I found myself returning to a moment when I had finally plucked up the courage to ask Dad about John.

  One drizzly afternoon in March 1997, we were alone in reception at The Cavendish when it suddenly occurred to me that I had never talked to Dad about the abuse. I was curious so I decided just to ask him, out of the blue.

  ‘Dad, did you know about John?’ I asked him.

  ‘Know about what?’ He squinted up at me from his regular seat in the lounge area. He had his Telegraph open on the table in front of him, next to an empty cup of tea.

  ‘Did you know he abused me? Did you know at the time, Dad?’

  Dad put a hand out to signal for me to stop and with his other hand he fished out a large white handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Oh. Oh . . .’ He seemed in distress.

  ‘Dad?’

  He put the hanky to his nose and started to weep then. I couldn’t bear it – he was then seventy-two years old and a frail, infirm old man. Watching him cry like that was possibly the saddest thing I had ever seen. He looked at me with his bloodshot eyes and shook his head. Eventually he spoke: ‘Can I have another cup of tea please, Dawn?’

  What did it mean? I wondered on that Indian holiday after his death, as I stared out to sea. Did it mean he knew or he didn’t know? Why the tears? Why was he there at the hotel so much?

  I listened to the waves gently lapping at the sand and in those few seconds, it was as if the answer to the question I had sent out to sea had washed up onto the shore. A thought struck me like a bolt of electricity. Dad was there to protect me! Whether or not he had known about John when we were children, he certainly became aware of what he had done to me after I spoke to Mum aged twenty-two. And he came to The Cavendish because he thought it was a dangerous place. He came to give me the protection he had failed to give me as a child. That was why he had cried!

  I shook my head at my own foolishness and short-sightedness. Why hadn’t I given him the time he deserved? Why hadn’t I just sat and talked with him? Now it was all too late and I was filled with regret at all those missed opportunities. How shallow and silly I have been, I reflected sadly, so caught up in my day-to-day problems, I didn’t make the time for my own father.

  By the time we returned to Glasgow the funeral was over and my siblings had returned to London. If Mum was angry with me for staying away she certainly didn’t show it, but then Mum so rarely showed her emotions. After forty years of marriage, she was now on her own and though she was far from a sobbing wreck, neither was she quite herself either. For the first few weeks she spent a lot of time alone in the flat, quiet and withdrawn. Eventually, we managed to coax her round to our house and she found small moments of joy in the domestic life we shared. She loved to cook Callum’s favourite dishes for him – steak pie and pancakes – and the pair became close as they spent more time together. I encouraged her to help me sort out the garden and as winter turned to spring and we saw the fruits of our labours, we both started to enjoy the time we spent together outside, weeding, planting and pruning. Gradually, the four of us learned to be a family together, going to movies, visiting historic gardens and supporting my sporty son Callum in his tennis and rugby matches.

  Then, just as my home life settled down, the business took a fatal blow. After so much upheaval – the regular deaths, fires, violence, health-and-safety demands, police raids and drug busts – I thought we could survive anything. I was wrong.

  The fire certificate at The Cavendish was due for renewal in the next twelve months – and the legislation had changed massively since our last certificate was issued. To bring the hotel up to compliance with the new regulations, we needed to invest in hard-wired smoke alarms and a sprinkler system at a cost of £300,000. But the owner of the building, Adam, decided he didn’t want to put in the capital. We didn’t have the money either – after all, Stuart’s wealth was tied up in the cousins’ jointly owned Mayfair Holdings company – so, in the end, we simply closed the doors. That was it.

  Adam was about as hard-nosed as you could get. There were never any favours from him when it came to business. He took what he could get, and woe betide anyone who stood in his way. There were many evenings when I would sit silently as he regaled Stuart and me with boastful tales about how he had screwed people over and ran circles round the authorities. Nobody could catch him, he laughed. Nobody knew his devious, deceitful tricks because he always stayed one step ahead. Stuart lapped it up while I looked on distastefully at this poor excuse fo
r a human being. Contractors were never paid, partners were dumped and the taxman was sent away empty-handed. He was a millionaire many times over but he was the meanest man I’d ever met. He’d steal the coins from a beggar’s hat if he thought he could get away with it. Often the people he hurt weren’t even business associates, but were just innocent bystanders who had the bad luck to cross his path. In the early days he had even tried to bed me – so much for family ties! Of course I had turned him down flat. I knew he only wanted to have sex with me so that he would have power over me, and I was never going to let that happen. One controlling husband was bad enough without being blackmailed by Adam too. No, Adam was a nasty piece of work – he would do anything to get what he wanted, and I knew that of the two cousins he was the one with the real money, brains and power. But I couldn’t say a thing against him. In Stuart’s eyes, he could do no wrong.

  And so, like so much of my life with Stuart, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. In a way, however, although it broke my heart to say goodbye to the staff I’d worked alongside for so long, and to the many residents who had become like my own family, I couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief. For after seven years of worrying about residents killing themselves, each other or burning my hotel down, I didn’t have the burden of responsibility any more. I hadn’t touched alcohol for seven years because of the worry that I might have to dash to the hotel at a moment’s notice.

  And yet, and yet . . . if Adam had made the investment, we could have gone for years, extremely successfully, providing that warm community for society’s cast-offs – and raking in the money ourselves. It annoyed me that Adam had rejected the idea of carrying out the works without a moment’s thought. It was so short-sighted, so selfish! He had the money, I knew that. He had tons of cash.

  But it wasn’t a surprise. I’d been involved in the cousins’ business dealings for ten years by now; I’d seen for myself the way he and Stuart operated – and it was purely for themselves. They never invested or created anything, just plundered and pillaged a business till there was nothing left to take. If only he had invested, then he and Stuart could have been taking carrier bags of cash out of The Cavendish every week for years to come. But no, Adam decided to close it and sell it instead; give someone else the headache and the expense of overseeing the works.