LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

the days and weeks go on, Dad goes away on his business trips more and more, and I stop asking Mum when he’s coming home.

      Finally, one day, I know he won’t be coming back ever again when Mum tells me that she and Dad can’t live together any more and from now on it’s just her and me.

      ‘Why doesn’t Dad want to live with us, Mummy?’ I ask.

      ‘He just doesn’t, David,’ she replies dully. I think maybe she’s hoping I won’t ask her again. She’s making jam in the kitchen which is something she enjoys doing, but I sense that this morning she’s doing it to keep busy and to stop herself from falling apart.

      ‘But why? Tell me why, Mummy.’

      ‘Because we’re unhappy together, because . . . just don’t keep asking,’ she snaps.

      I know better than to ask again when she uses that tone. Instead I go off to the scrapyard and hide in the nooks and crannies of the metal caves, and think about my daddy who talks to me about his bikes and cars and sometimes cracks jokes which I don’t always understand and who won’t be coming home again.

      I am starting to cry when I hear footsteps nearby.

      ‘You there, Dave?’ comes the voice of the scrapyard owner’s son.

      ‘Be right there, Jeff.’

      I climb out of my hidey hole and go and play. My dad won’t be back and there’s no point in asking again.

      But it turns out I’m wrong about Dad not coming back. Not only does he return to the house but he also remains in the house. It’s Mum and me who move out – in fact we move exactly three houses away to the other end of the block of four terraced houses. Both houses feel very similar. They have the same sort of furniture, which is another way of saying that they are both pretty bare.

      So there’s Dad at one end of the block, and me and Mum at the other end. In the months to come I go from one house to the other, spending huge amounts of time with Mum but very little with Dad. He’s often busy, usually away travelling, and he never seems to talk to me about anything personal to do with me and Mum or our wider family or our lives together. But he still chats easily about cars and bikes and things like that.

      Every time I see him I long for a stronger bond between us, but it never happens. I wish he would cuddle me or sit me on his knee, but it hardly ever happens and it makes me feel sad.

      * * *

      My parents separate around 1973 when I am five but it isn’t until many years later that Dad tells me that even though they both knew their marriage was over, it took some time for them to be able to sit down and talk it through because it could only be done when she wasn’t drinking.

      Even by the age of five there is a definite hole in my life developing. I am happy when Mum helps me to fill it by the way she pays me attention. She doesn’t come to me and make me touch her every day – sometimes weeks go by without her coming to me in this way. But when she does, it somehow fulfils a need in us both.

      She needs it for reasons that I am too young to understand. The reason for my need is much more simple: I need the attention. Even at this early age, it helps to build a bond between us. As she is now the only active parent I have, I instinctively understand the importance of this.

      At the end of those times we spend together, when she wants me to touch her, she never thanks me but she doesn’t tell me off either. That’s to become the norm and that’s how I want it to be.

      I have always worked harder to avoid criticism than to chase praise.

      I am too young to know that, in reality, my mother is taking advantage of my submissive nature, committing the worst abuse of the power she has over her child that any parent can. I will soon come to realize this, and that’s when the problems really begin.

2

       My Dark Mummy

      In 1973 at the age of five I start school. Calder Bridge Primary School is a large old building with tall windows, built in the shade and surrounded by trees. Even in summer, it feels dark and cold, and looks like something out of a horror film. I am already a nervous child and I’m not looking forward to it.

      To make matters worse, Mum takes me to school to begin with but then puts me on the bus. It’s a short trip and she asks one of the older kids to look after me. Although Lizzie is a very nice girl I’m anxious about this arrangement and I can’t understand why my mummy won’t come with me on this bus and look after me.

      ‘Please take me to school, Mum,’ I plead as the bus comes round the corner.

      ‘You’ll be fine,’ she says, putting me on the bus. ‘Off you go.’

      This isn’t a good start for me at my new school and I feel lonely and insecure among all the strange faces. All the other children seem to have at least one parent taking them to school; some even have two.

      I don’t know anyone and I find it difficult to talk to the other children or make any friends. In my first year at primary school I get picked on by a girl called Karen, two or three years older than me.

      She is tall and towers over me. I have ginger-red hair and she soon discovers that I have a slight lisp and can’t pronounce my ‘s’s clearly. After that she picks on me mercilessly. I spend most of my time trying to avoid her but she always manages to seek me out.

      ‘What’th the matter, Ginger Bithcuit, have you done poo-pooth in your troutherth?’ she calls out to me in the school playground. ‘What’th your mummy going to thay? I bet she’ll thpank your bumbumth?’

      ‘Go away! Leave me alone!’ I reply miserably. ‘I haven’t done anything to hurt you.’

      ‘Oooh, baby Ginger Bithcuit’th cwying,’ she taunts back. ‘He’th going to wee all over hith troutherth coth he’th tho upthet. Boo hoo! Boo hoo! You’d better go and tell your mummy and she can kith you better!’

      I don’t know how or why, but she’s hit the target, picked on my weak spot. I don’t really understand what’s going on at home, but Mum scares me when she’s out of control and I somehow feel crushed and humiliated by this sneering jibe.

      I blush bright scarlet.

      ‘Look at Baby Ginger! Hith fathe hath gone all red. It’th all gingery like the retht of him.’

      Her friends laugh and snigger. But I’m praying that she’s had her fun now and if I’m lucky she’ll leave me alone now for the rest of the day. Of course she knows very well that the last thing I’m going to do is tell Mum. I can’t tell my mother and I can’t tell anyone else either.

      Karen doesn’t physically hurt me and I don’t mention these incidents to anyone, but this is the first time I have been bullied and I hate it. It destroys my confidence and makes me deeply unhappy. I withdraw into myself, feeling that I’m on the outside looking in. From now on I keep myself to myself and mainly talk to the other quiet kids.

      I’m not used to people being nasty to me like this. In the years to come I will come to understand that I have been bullied, just as I will come to realize that my mother has been sexually abusing me, but at the age of five I don’t attach these labels to what is happening to me. All I know is that at school Karen makes my life miserable, while at home I have two mummies – the Light Mummy, the caring, loving and affectionate one, and the Dark Mummy, who frightens me when she’s drinking and out of control.

      But even with Dark Mummy, I can comfort myself that I’m doing it to make her happy and if it pleases her it makes me feel better. Besides, she isn’t hurting me and that’s what matters.

      I

Скачать книгу