Never a Hero to Me (4 page)

He made a strange noise, almost snorting at her offer. ‘No. Absolutely not. We can manage.’ I have often wondered why Agnes kept trying. My dad was being very blunt in his refusal, but she didn’t give up. ‘Today then. I’ll take them today. Or what about little Tracy? I could just take her. Give her something to eat. Leave her till suppertime, I’ll give her a bath and get her all settled. Why not, Harry?’

My dad’s eyes flicked over me. ‘I’ve got someone coming in, Agnes. I don’t need you. We don’t need you.’ With that, he slammed the door in her face and made his way back to the lounge, followed by Gary. I stood there, something in my little heart realising that a chance had been taken away from me. Dad had said that someone was coming to look after us, and that gave me a glimmer of hope, but I wanted to go with Agnes. ‘Dad,’ I began, going into the lounge. ‘When is the lady coming to look after us? Who is she?’

‘What?’ he barked. ‘You must be even more stupid than I thought you were. I only said that to get the interfering old cow out of my face. We don’t need her poking her nose in. When I’m gone, don’t answer the door – and stay away from the windows, or you know what you’ll get.’

He only looked at me when he said all of this, and Gary seemed oblivious to the instructions or the threat. ‘Can I go out and play when you visit Mum later?’ he asked.

‘Course you can, son,’ Dad quickly assured him, as the unfairness of it all hit me. I was the one being kept inside. I was the one who wasn’t to answer the door. I was the one being imprisoned.

‘And you,’ he hissed, narrowing his eyes at me as if I was something nasty he’d trod in. ‘Clean up. Shut up. And remember – be a good girl.’

This was a phrase which was already filling me with dread, and it would be one which would become his code for so many awful things I couldn’t even imagine at that stage. Gary’s voice cut into my thoughts. ‘I’m starving – what are we having for dinner?’

‘Tracy – you know how to use the grill?’ Dad asked.

I shook my head quickly and looked at the floor, wishing it would swallow me up. ‘No. No, I don’t. Please don’t make me do that, Dad. I can’t.’

‘Shut up. You’ll do exactly what I tell you to do. You’re the woman of the house now and you’ll do everything,
everything
, that needs to be done. Understand?’

‘But I’m not meant to touch the grill, Dad,’ I whimpered. ‘Mum says it’s too dangerous.’

‘Bloody useless! Doesn’t your mother teach you anything? You’re a lazy little bitch – now get in that fucking kitchen. I’ll show you once, and you’ll learn, because I won’t fucking show you twice.’ He punched me in the back to get me moving and pushed me towards the kitchen, where we soon ended up with some half-burned sausages. I got a few slaps along the way, but I was just grateful I didn’t have to put my body in front of his while he cooked.

There was something about the scenario which made me really uncomfortable. Now, I know it was the words he used rather than the actions or the casual violence which was now punctuating all of his time with me. Swear words were littering everything he said, whereas previously he would never have cursed in front of me. He was calling me a ‘little bitch’ with increasing frequency. But, more than anything, it was his constant reiteration that I was the ‘woman of the house’ which made my skin prickle with fear.

I went back to the kitchen with the empty plates, trying to carry all three of them at one time. I hadn’t had to be told that it was my ‘job’ or that I would get no help. I dragged a little stool over to the sink, climbed up and ran hot, soapy water into the basin just as I had seen Mum do on countless occasions. There had been a few times when she had let me climb up there and wash a few bits for fun, when she was in a good mood and feeling well, but it seemed very different now. I had cried a lot over the past couple of days and, although I felt upset, there were no tears now. I knew I had to get on with things, and that’s a terrible realisation for a small child. I don’t think I had an acceptance of the abuse at that stage, because I didn’t quite know what was going on or even what had happened, but I did know there had been a change and that cooking, cleaning and being hit was now the norm for me.

I stood there, my arms up to the elbows in sudsy water, and sent out a little prayer for Mum. We had never been a fairy-tale family, and I had never been showered with affection, but the way we had been previously was a picnic compared to the hell I was now living in.

I think people are almost immune to abuse in some ways. Although we talk about it far more now than in my childhood (and that can only be a good thing), it is sometimes too easy to think it is all in the past, or it must have been OK because the victim is still standing. It always needs to be put into context. I was five years old. I had seen my mother taken to hospital under terrifying circumstances. My dad was lying to people, telling me to stay indoors and not answer the door to anyone, even good people like Agnes. He had pushed me, slapped me, punched me. He had shoved his body into mine, rubbed against me and made those strange noises while he did it. And all of these bad things were the things I had to accept if I was to be a good girl.

The dishes were finished, so I gingerly crept along the hall. I wanted to go to my own bed in my own room; hopefully sleep would come quickly and tomorrow might be better. I had only gone a few steps when I heard him shout, ‘Tracy! Where do you think you’re going? Get your lazy arse back in here.’

I did as I was told. I’m not sure if I would have been left alone in my room anyway given that it was next door to his (something he would always make sure was the case wherever we moved). ‘Sit,’ he barked, as if I were a dog.

I sat.

‘Have you cleaned up?’

I nodded.

‘Can’t you talk?’ he snapped. I could see Gary grin. He always liked it when I was in trouble; I guess it deflected attention from him and lessened the chance that he was going to get told off.

‘Can I go to bed, Dad?’ I asked.

‘At this time of night? Something wrong with you? I’ll have to think whether there’s anything else you need to do first.’

His words chilled me, but I knew Gary hadn’t a clue about what could be the real meaning. Dad’s gaze wandered again. I didn’t know how much he had been drinking, as it was always difficult to gauge, as it never seemed to affect him. I don’t know how long we all sat there – it was a while. Gary eventually went through to his own room, the one furthest away from where I was left with Dad, and I sat, as motionless as possible, trying not to draw his eyes to me. I remembered that he was meant to be going to hospital to see Mum soon, and that visiting hours were almost starting. I couldn’t wait for him to leave.

‘Are you going to see Mum tonight, Dad?’ I asked, quietly.

It was ages before he finally turned and looked at me. He put his empty can down on the floor beside all the others he had accumulated throughout the day so far. He placed his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray beside the dozen or so other butts. He was going to be in a right state when he finally did go in to visit his wife.

‘Yes, yes, I am. But I won’t be long, don’t you worry. You’re a good girl, Tracy. You’ve done well today. I hope you’ll keep on being a good girl for me – you will, won’t you?’

I nodded, relieved at the thought of him being away for a couple of hours, but knowing just what he had done last time he said I was a good girl. I didn’t want that again.

I didn’t want to be a good girl if that’s what it brought me.

I didn’t want to be his sort of good girl.

When Dad left for hospital, Gary went out to play with his friends. I would have preferred it if Gary had stayed, as I was still a bit scared when there was no one in the house – but I was quickly realising that there were worse things than being alone. I decided to clean and tidy some more, desperately hoping I could keep on Dad’s good side. I emptied the box which held the beer cans and tipped the contents of the ashtray into a bin liner. The smell of the cans was horrible and the stale stink of the ashtray made me feel queasy. It took me ages to get everything looking nice.

I sat down, my stomach churning, and thought about how things were in my little life. There were many hundreds of Army families on that base in Germany. We lived in a flat at the bottom of the whole base. It was a close-knit community in many ways – and I have no doubt that, had it been known what my father did to me as a child, he would have been ripped apart. Sadly, his methods of keeping me quiet would be too effective, my silence pretty much guaranteed as a result of the web of lies and threats he would weave around me. That day, when we had such ‘fun’ changing the bed linen, was the start of his campaign of abuse, the start of my realisation that this man, who presented himself as a hero and great guy to everyone, was nothing more than a sick pervert who preyed on my innocence.

Army life is a strange combination of the ‘real’ world and something so distinct, so protected and separated from that same real life, it is hard to describe to anyone who has never been part of it. No matter where you are, no matter which country or region, you generally still have your own shops, your own school, your own insular life. At least you did when I was a child growing up in such a world. Even when you move from one base to another, there is a huge familiarity to the lifestyle and surroundings, even if the accents outside change or the temperature is the opposite of what you were used to in your last location.

We had moved to Rinteln when I was four. Before that, when we lived in Singapore, I was too little to remember a huge amount, so Germany was the scene of my first real childhood memories. We lived in a street which had three blocks of housing. In each of those blocks were three homes. Every single one had the same layout – if you were in a three-bedroomed Army house in one part of the base, you could rest assured every other three-bedroomed house across the whole place would be exactly the same. In fact, when we returned to Germany some years later for my father’s third stint there, we lived in the house in the block directly next door to the one we stayed in when he first started to abuse me. They were so similar that, one night, coming back drunk from the Army bar, Dad went into our old house, let himself in the unlocked door, and slumped down in a drunken stupor on a chair – completely unaware that it wasn’t his home! There was nothing different about it at all, and he hadn’t noticed a thing.

As an adult, I’ve often wondered whether this lack of identity in something so personal as where you live was part of my dad’s increasing problems with his own identity. He changed from day to day, from posting to posting, and yet he had chosen a life in which he was expected to be the same, to show no emotion, to not even have a home which reflected his own idiosyncrasies.

I know, from talking to my brother and Mum in later years, that he presented the move from Singapore to Germany as an exciting, positive one. ‘You’ll love it,’ he told Gary. ‘There are loads of kids your own age, youth clubs, swimming groups – there’s everything.’

Gary’s response was typical of him. Straightforward, blunt – but completely lacking in sense.

‘Nazis,’ he said.

‘What?’ asked my dad.

‘Nazis. That’s what there is. It’s Germany. It’ll be full of Nazis. I hate Nazis.’

My dad told him to stop being so stupid. ‘It won’t be full of Nazis. The war’s over, you stupid boy. Anyway, how many Nazis do you think there’ll be in a British Army camp?’

My brother was unrepentant. ‘But I don’t like them. I don’t like Nazis.’

‘You won’t see any bloody Nazis – even if Germany’s still stuffed to the gunnels with them, they’ll be on the other side of the fence.’

That was the end of that argument. Dad managed to convince Gary and Mum that the move would be a good one and, from what I’ve heard, he certainly seemed excited about it. I was too little to really be part of the discussions, but I was excited about the prospect of a new house and new friends. In Singapore, we had lived in a high-rise block of flats and there was very little to do. I rarely got to play outside, and had no friends to speak of, so Germany would be a novelty for me.

When we got there we did meet lots of people, but Gary was better at making friends than I was. I was a reserved child, extremely quiet, and I wasn’t the naturally bubbly sort of little girl who drew others to her. I was allowed out to play a few times – but that would soon stop.

Gary was allowed out to youth clubs and football practice, he played on the camp with his mates, and he always seemed to be having a good time. Dad was very laid-back with him, and allowed him to go his own way. At first, I thought it unfair that I was so restricted while Gary lived the life of Riley outside of school; only later did I realise that his absence from home was a deliberate strategy by Dad to ensure he had access to me whenever he wanted. When Mum was in hospital and Dad visited her, Gary would be allowed out to play with only one rule – he wasn’t to come back in until Dad gave him permission.

One of the things I remember very clearly about living in the base was that every house had a big walk-in cellar. They were almost like cages when you walked into them. Most parents let the kids do the cellars up themselves with whatever decoration they liked, to make them into private dens. We were all very much aware of the music and fashion trends from back home, and the cellars were a reflection of British, not German life. Radios would blast out hits of the time, and there was a constant soundtrack of the Monkees and the Beatles. Songs like ‘I’m A Believer’ and ‘All You Need Is Love’ were always playing on camp, from radios in houses, and in the kids’ dens. When Mum was at home, she had her favourites, which seemed more ‘grown-up’ than the bands who were the noise of my childhood. Engelbert Humperdinck would croon ‘Release Me’ and ‘The Last Waltz’ in the kitchen, and I would wonder why she liked such sad-sounding songs.

The cellars of many people I knew were like snugs. All of the old, unwanted furniture from their houses would get put down there, so there was a real hotchpotch of stuff in every one. There would be soft furnishings, lamps, record players, radios, books, comics, and a very warm feeling from such messy comfort in most places. I always loved going to friends’ cellars. Every time an Army family moved, their belongings would be transported in what were called MFO boxes. MFO stood for Military Forwarding Office or Military Freight, and the MFO boxes were used for sending personal possessions overseas. They were big wooden crates, rather like tea chests, and these were usually kept in the cellars too. They were made of four sheets of plywood with bendy tin riveted joints and an interchangeable pair of lids and bases, all kept together with half-inch screws. People would write the address of their posting on the outside and it would turn up at their new accommodation – this was back in the days when the Army did it all, long before major removal companies were brought in.