Never a Hero To Me

by Tracy Black

  Dan’s mother, Cathy, was an interfering old woman, and she was always nosey about my background. She wanted to know why I wasn’t in contact with my parents and I was always worried I would trip myself up on my own lies as I tried to throw her off the scent. However, she was like a dog with a bone. She didn’t like me, and I suspect one of the reasons she wanted to find my parents was in the hope that she could persuade them to take me far away from her precious son.

  A few days after Joe was born, Cathy sailed into the maternity ward. I could smell the booze on her from a mile away, but she seemed happy today, which was out of character. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you!’ she announced. I looked behind her, towards the ward door, and there stood my mum and dad. Cathy was delighted. She had tracked them down somehow and discovered they were living at Redford Barracks. Apparently, they had been back in the UK since 1979 and living in the same city as me for two years. Dad had taken voluntary redundancy due to Mum’s health, and they were living on a reduced pension about half an hour from where I stayed. I could hardly believe it. I was feeling awful as it was. I was flooded with post-pregnancy hormones and Joe was still really ill – and now my abuser had turned up with the mother who hated me.

  It was difficult to say the least. Naturally, nothing was said – I say ‘naturally’ because my family was based on lies and secrets. My mum seemed to think she could waltz in and be a granny when she had never proven herself to be a mother in the first place. When I got home with Joe, I found it very hard to work out where I was going with my life. I had thought I knew what I needed to be, the person I needed to grow into becoming, but now I was being thrown back to everything I wanted to escape. I hated Cathy for bringing them into my life.

  It affected my marriage as I had never gone into detail with Dan about what had happened to me and he was oblivious to how hard I was finding it to cope. We were arguing a lot and he was violent towards me. When we moved house to the Pilton area of the city, I had hoped it could be a fresh start but nothing changed. I wouldn’t let Dad visit but Mum was coming round quite often. I always put a brave face on when I saw her because I wanted her to believe everything was working out for me. It was important for me to make her think I had a happy life, a perfect child, a loving marriage and a man who cared for me. The truth was the return of my father into my life coupled with my so-called marriage and the birth had all taken their toll. I remained disgusted at Dad for what he had done and upset at Mum for never having believed me. I have to admit that I never mentioned the abuse again to Mum at that point because I wanted to have a relationship with her. I was hoping against hope she could show that she loved me after all, but deep down I knew she was only back in my life for Joe.

  I was very protective of my baby, never letting him out of my sight, but when he was eight months old, I had to accept that I had post-natal depression. Mum didn’t know, as I was still keeping up the pretence of having a great life.

  It seemed as if I was never to be free of my past, even now I was a wife and mother, but I knew I would keep fighting while I still had breath left in my body.

  CHAPTER 24

  STANDING MY GROUND

  As time went on, we all tried to muddle along. The postnatal depression faded with the help of medication and I continued trying to be the woman I wanted to be. I had told my mother very early on that under no circumstances would I leave my son in their care. Joe would never be left with my father. She didn’t even look shocked when I said that, she merely said, ‘If that’s what you want.’ That response spoke volumes to me. If she had believed in her husband’s innocence, she surely would have protested at that point?

  Visits to my mother’s were nearly always when Dad was working. When she came to my house to visit me, he would drop her off and pick her up without coming into my home. After a few months of my shaky reconciliation with them, he started a job as a security officer, which ensured he was in uniform again – I think that really mattered to him, it gave him an identity. When we did meet, he would avoid conversation and eye contact. Unsurprisingly, seeing him was always a reminder to me of the abuse. It made me feel uncomfortable, sick to the stomach and anxious – the memories of what he had done would seem all too real again.

  While Joe was little, I saw them maybe once a fortnight (well, I saw Mum really), and I only ever stayed for a couple of hours. Dad was usually working – I think we all preferred it that way as it saved awkwardness. Not that Mum and I had much to say to each other. It was all centred around Joe and what stage he was at. She never asked me how I was or even commented when I would turn up with bruises or a black eye. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  I have wondered about whether my father abused any other children. It may have happened in Germany, it may have happened when I was at boarding school or when I left, but I don’t know for sure. Paedophiles don’t stop as far as I can tell. They keep going until they get caught or they can’t do it any more. I do feel that, even if he did abuse others, I was his main focus. From what I learned about his behaviour once he came to Edinburgh, I don’t think he continued as he was acting so erratically that he wouldn’t have been capable of maintaining the web of lies required to do anything. When he lived in Edinburgh and then on the outskirts, he was a loner, keeping himself to himself.

  My Auntie Fiona, Mum’s sister, also lived in the village my parents had moved to and saw him every day. She said he was always quiet; she thought maybe he was missing the Army and not adjusting to civvy life terribly well, and Mum had said the same on more than one occasion. My immediate thought to myself was ‘Yes, that would be the case – he doesn’t have his “friends” with him.’ I know that was very bitter, but I was still feeling bitter about the abuse and about him ‘getting away’ with it.

  Mum was ill again. She had been diagnosed properly at last, but her body was rejecting the medication given. She had to have her spleen taken out and was in hospital for a few months. When she was first taken in she suggested that I visit her in the afternoon and Dad would come in for the evening sessions, so we would never bump into each other. That was fine by me, although by then I had another new baby and it was a lot to juggle, but she was in there for so long it meant I didn’t see just how ill he was becoming too. When I had visited them at their house, or he dropped her off at mine, I caught glimpses. With this new arrangement, I was seeing less of him. I was however gradually getting snippets from Auntie Fiona. According to her, his behaviour was becoming stranger by the day.

  One day, Auntie Fiona came to the hospital just as I was leaving. It was intentional as she wanted to talk to me, but not in front of Mum. She said my father was acting strangely at home and, that morning, she had seen him driving on the wrong side of the road. She was keeping the house tidy for Mum and had gone round that morning and let herself in. Mum had wooden wall panels, the décor of the time, but my father had apparently drilled big holes in the wall; not just one or two but dozens. The house was a complete mess and one bedroom was completely full of toilet rolls he had stolen from his work.

  Dad came into the hospital just as Fiona was finishing telling me all of this – I can only assume he had no concept of time either. He looked almost demonic. His eyes were wide and staring, he was sneering like an idiot, ranting aloud, saying, ‘They thought they would catch me, but I fucked them up!’

  Auntie Fiona said, ‘Who are you talking about, Harry?’

  He just said, ‘You know, you know who I’m talking about! I couldn’t find them in the walls but I know they’re there somewhere!’

  He kept uttering unintelligible drivel to himself. He didn’t acknowledge my presence but, then again, I’m sure he didn’t recognise Fiona either. She told me to go and get a doctor as she took him to Mum’s ward and sat him down. When I returned to Mum he was dribbling at the mouth and sniggering to himself with his eyes wide. Mum was in a room by herself and he was looking around madly. Fiona told Mum he was a little bit under the weather so she had called for a doctor to look at him
. Mum hadn’t witnessed the short conversation Fiona had with my father but she saw from looking at him that something was very wrong. She was quite poorly herself and I felt so sorry for her. She didn’t say much and just stared at him.

  The doctor came and observed Dad for about twenty minutes. I had to go as the baby was getting fractious and I needed to pick up Joe from toddler group. I wasn’t really interested in Dad but decided to go back and see my mum again that night as her visit had been interrupted.

  I was still shocked when she told me where Dad was – it wasn’t the place I’d expected, it was the Royal Edinburgh Hospital. Despite its name, this wasn’t an ordinary general hospital – it was known as one thing by locals: the loony bin.

  My mum’s response was hardly sympathetic to me or him.

  ‘The doctor sent for an ambulance when you left, he had no choice. You must have known,’ she said.

  ‘Known what?’ I asked.

  ‘About him – about him being . . .’ she made a twisting gesture at the side of her head. ‘Not right, there’s something not right with your dad.’

  She said it in such a matter-of-fact way but, to me, it was a complete revelation. I knew he was a bastard. I knew he was evil. I knew he was a paedophile. But I had always assumed that these were choices he made. I had never, for one moment, suspected he was mentally ill.

  When I left Mum’s bedside, I went to a café. I needed to be alone and I needed to think. What did this mean? If he was unhinged or mad or had some condition that had always been there, did that mean he wasn’t responsible for his actions?

  I could hardly bear to think about it as I sat there with a cup of tea getting cold, and the baby asleep in the pushchair.

  The same question was going round and round in my head – what did this mean, what did this mean, what did this mean?

  Was he absolved of all he had done?

  People didn’t go into the Royal Ed for fun; in fact, people fought with all they had to avoid the place. If he was in there, it was because there was something terribly wrong, and it was something which had worried medical experts enough to have him detained. I never found out if he had been sectioned, but it was likely. Very few people walked into that place voluntarily. If he was there, it was through necessity, not choice.

  I felt nothing for him – in fact I was hoping this breakdown was in some way payback for what he had done to me.

  Nothing really happened for about three weeks as Dad needed to be assessed. As my mother was ill, I was able to see his doctor and he explained things to me. He said that he thought it was paranoid schizophrenia and they were giving him medication accordingly, which seemed to be helping him. I was told he would have to always take the medication and, as long as he took it, he should be balanced and not suffer psychotic episodes again.

  My head was buzzing with questions.

  Paranoid schizophrenia was such a major thing and it had brought so many questions to my mind.

  ‘How long has he had this?’ I asked.

  ‘I have no idea,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s impossible to know – I’d only be guessing.’

  ‘Then do that,’ I urged. ‘If that’s all there is, do it – guess.’

  I needed an answer. Had he suffered from this all through my childhood?

  ‘A number of years,’ was all he would say.

  ‘What’s the number? How many years?’ I probed.

  ‘I really don’t know, but probably about ten to fifteen.’

  Not long enough.

  Not long enough for it to be a valid excuse – not that there could be a valid excuse for what he had done.

  The doctor was watching me and now it was his turn to ask the questions.

  ‘Why do you want to know? Why are you so interested in how long he’s had it?’ he questioned.

  I shook my head and didn’t reply.

  ‘Is there any particular reason you’re asking?’ he went on.

  I had been insistent in asking my questions, but the doctor turned the tables on me. I wondered whether he knew something, was he prompting me? Perhaps Dad had said things while he had been rambling or perhaps he had talked to someone when lucid; I had no idea but I felt as if I was the one being watched now. My mouth was dry and my heart was pumping but no words came out. I wanted to tell the doctor what had happened but the memory of some of my previous cries for help and the way they had fallen on deaf ears until I found CO Stewart stopped me. Fear of not being believed prevented me from talking – I also didn’t want to give my dad an excuse for all the abuse he’d inflicted on me. The very thought of him saying, ‘I was ill, I didn’t know what I was doing’, made me feel sick.

  I went back and told Mum what the doctor had said. She asked me if they knew what caused it and I retorted, ‘Maybe it’s his badness coming out.’ She didn’t ask me what I meant and only said, ‘We all have badness in us.’

  I wanted to scream at her – not when we’re five, not when our fathers are raping us and ruining our lives and our futures.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’ she asked.

  ‘No – and I don’t intend to.’

  She was ill too, and they had never been close, but I do think she was curious about what was happening to the man she had shared her life with.

  Throughout the following weeks, I started having flashbacks. My marriage was crumbling and my husband had proven to be a nasty, violent bully. The boys were taking up so much of my time but I felt I couldn’t give them the full attention they needed as I spent so much time at hospital. My dad’s hospitalisation and diagnosis had brought back the pain and shame I had experienced and still had to live with. I began to have nightmares again, which I had been free of since my boarding school days. At the time I never believed it was paranoid schizophrenia and I put it down to the guilt of what he had done to me, his own daughter.

  One day as I was leaving, Mum said, ‘I think it’s all down to stress, you know.’

  I told her that stress didn’t give you paranoid schizophrenia but she was adamant.

  ‘I’m sure that’s it, Tracy. He never did adjust to life on civvy street – and he had to cope with me being ill for all those years.’

  I couldn’t help myself from replying, ‘Your illness has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘I can’t help it, it wasn’t my fault,’ she said.

  ‘You could have helped some things, Mum, you know that.’

  ‘Let’s not go there,’ she snapped.

  ‘Let’s,’ I said, staring her down. I felt guilty because she was my mother and she was in hospital but I could feel the emotion building up and I thought this might be my only chance to say something. ‘Let’s finally say it. You weren’t there and that wasn’t your fault. But he used that to get me and when I told you, you didn’t listen. Do you know what he did? He raped me, Mum, he raped a child for years.’

  ‘Not this again!’ she shouted, and turned away from me. ‘I won’t hear it! I won’t hear another word!’

  I left.

  There was no point in continuing as I’d never get what I needed.

  There was only one confrontation left to have – and the time was coming.

  CHAPTER 25

  TIME TO FLY

  Dad came out of hospital and returned home about the same time as Mum was discharged. While she continued to get better, his state varied. I’m not sure how good he was about taking his medication but, by early summer of 1985, he had been readmitted to the psychiatric hospital. I had spent months in a terrible state. The flashbacks and nightmares were frequent, and the rest of my life was falling apart.

  I had to make a choice. I had to decide whether to let this haunt me for the rest of my life or deal with it on my terms.

  I opted for the latter – Dad was getting worse and I might regret it forever if I didn’t challenge him.

  I will never forget that day. I left my children with a friend and took the bus to the hospital. Due to the type of hospital it was, visitors had to be in a large room w
ith other visitors and patients. The staff tended to be in the same room but at a distance. They didn’t go in for privacy there as they had no idea how patients were going to be from one minute to the next, but I gave it a shot and tried to position our chairs in a corner.

  I asked him how he was and he seemed to be having one of his better days. He was a little distant and almost embarrassed but he always appeared like that around me. There was a long silence – actually, it probably only lasted a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity to me.

  How could I start the conversation I had been working up to since I was five years old?

  It had to start somewhere.

  ‘Do you remember everything?’

  He seemed like such an old man, but he was barely fifty – and he still had the ability to try and avoid responsibility.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I took ill and they brought me here.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that – you know I don’t. I mean what you did to me when I was little.’

  He just stared at me then looked about the room.

  ‘Dad,’ I continued, ‘I’m asking you – do you remember? You hurt me. I had to be sent away because of what you did.’ I said it quietly but I was becoming angry. He began to fidget and squirm like an unruly child getting a telling-off. There was another long silence before he spoke.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I repeated. ‘Sorry? So you do remember?’

  He nodded very slightly.

  ‘Why then? Why?’ I pressed.

  ‘I’m ill, I’m ill, it’s my head.’

  ‘That’s right, use that as an excuse. I bloody knew you would,’ I snapped.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m ill, I’m ill, it’s my head.’ He repeated this a few times and looked quite scared. By this time, he was attracting attention and a nurse came over.