Don't You Love Your Daddy? (25 page)

It was when my father was like this that I became more confused about my situation than ever. The violent acts that happened in my bedroom and in the woods, although I knew they were not a figment of my imagination, seemed unreal, almost as though they were part of a bad dream; a dream that took place in the darkness and the sunlight chased away. With those words of understanding, he had resumed the role of ‘good daddy’ and I found myself giving him an answering uncertain smile.

Before my father had finished parking the car my grandmother, her wrinkled face wreathed in smiles, had opened her front door and was standing on the doorstep. Comforting arms were wrapped around me, hugs and kisses were exchanged and I was led into the familiar warmth of her house. My aunt bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea-towel, and the greetings were repeated. As though by magic a fresh pot of tea and plates of homemade cake and biscuits appeared, and were placed on the small coffee-table in the front room. As I was contentedly munching a second piece of my grandmother’s jam-filled sponge, she handed me a parcel: ‘Something for you to enjoy over the holidays,’ she said. Unwrapping my present excitedly, I was thrilled to find two books by my favourite author.

Later, more relatives arrived and two of my older cousins went with Dolly and me to the park; the same one where in another life I had gone as a little girl with my mother. There, as I swung on the swings, watched Dolly chasing her ball and chattered nineteen to the dozen to my cousins, I was able to forget my problems and, for that afternoon, was a carefree child again.

As soon as we returned to the house the first thing I noticed was the aroma of my grandmother’s cooking wafting through from the kitchen. ‘Lamb casserole for supper tonight – your favourite, Sally,’ she told us, before sending us all to the bathroom to wash our hands. As I had so many times before, I sat shoulder to shoulder with my cousins at the crowded table as plates piled with chunks of meat and vegetables were passed round. Nana’s wonderful apple pie and custard followed, conversation flowed and, as my father had promised, nothing was said about my recent behaviour.

By the time my father and I left, the food and the day’s exertions had made me feel both drowsy and contented. The happiness of the day evaporated as soon as we drove away. Would he park in those woods as he had done on other times? My hands tensed into tight fists with my fingernails digging into my palms at the mere thought of what might happen. But, to my relief, he drove past the area he normally went to and instead pulled into a lay-by. There, with his arm gently resting on my shoulders, he uttered the words I still longed to hear: that I was loved, that I was still his special girl and that I must never forget it.

‘I know you’ll be good from now on, Sally,’ he said finally, and gave me a quick hug, then started the car and drove home.

Sue was waiting for us and, studying my face, she immediately asked me if I had enjoyed myself. That time, instead of trying to rush past her and go straight to bed, I was able to grin happily at her. ‘I had a really lovely day,’ I said, and proudly showed her the books that I had been given.

‘She was just being silly earlier, weren’t you?’ my father said, throwing me a glance. ‘Worried I’d talk about her made-up stories and embarrass her in front of her grandmother. Isn’t that right, Sally?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

I saw something in Sue’s watchful eyes then that, as a child, I didn’t recognize. But when I bring up that memory and examine it through my adult eyes I can identify what I saw: it was relief. Perhaps Jennifer had talked, after all.

It was during that summer holiday that Sue tried to be friendlier towards me. Maybe she, like me, was bored. Not only was I barred from Jennifer’s house but I was restricted to mine and, apart from taking Dolly for her walks, for which I was only given a short time, I was still not allowed to leave home.

Certainly before her marriage to my father, Sue’s life had been much more varied. She had been used to working in a busy office environment, having lunches out with her girlfriends and, from what I gleaned from bits of her conversation, there had been plenty of nights out at the smarter pubs or wine bars, and parties too, which she had loved attending. Being married to an older man with children had put paid to that. On a rare moment of intimacy she told me he didn’t want any more children although she longed for a baby of her own. Then, realizing that she ought not to be confiding such things in me, she quickly changed the subject.

It entered my head then that she was lonely: she had few visits from her contemporaries during the daytime. I picked up from snippets of chat that most of them had left the small town and it was only when they visited their parents, with or without their current boyfriends, that the girls’ nights out were arranged; Sue seemed to live for them.

‘Have to keep up with all the gossip,’ she would say, on the evenings she excitedly got ready to meet them. I took that to mean that fashion was the main topic of conversation. But now I think of it, she must have yearned for the carefree company of those youthful friends. On the few times she had tried to entertain them in our home the difference in age between them and my father was apparent even to me. Gradually she restricted herself to seeing them on her girls’ nights out or for the very occasional lunch when my father was at work.

The people who made up my father and Sue’s social circle were all older couples between his and Sue’s father’s age. Although the men would stop off at the local pub for a drink after work with a friend or colleague, the women seldom did. Their socializing was mainly done at dinner parties and, in the early weeks after her marriage to my father, it had become clear that cooking was not Sue’s forte.

Realizing that she was expected to put a decent meal on the table she had enrolled on a cooking course. But once she had learnt the basics, she had decided that she was still too limited in her repertoire, and went on to do a more advanced one. From the moment we had moved into the new house, she had decided to put into practice what the latest lessons had taught her.

Big shiny pots and pans appeared in the kitchen, with thick cookery books and a wide assortment of glass jars containing herbs and spices. An array of electrical equipment was purchased from John Lewis and soon a food processor, mixer, pressure cooker, steamer, pasta maker and an ice-cream machine cluttered the initially empty worktops. A pretty apron was tied around Sue’s slim waist, and nearly every day she presented us with something new at mealtimes.

She wanted to prove that she was capable of being a better cook than either my grandmother or my mother had been, even though to begin with it was their type of cooking she had learnt. ‘What’s your favourite meal apart from cheese on toast, Sally?’ she would ask repeatedly, in the early days, and I would search my mind for a dish that was neither a casserole, which she had already managed, nor a roast, which she had yet to master.

‘Billy and I like your macaroni cheese dish,’ I told her hopefully.

But it was not what we liked that she was interested in. ‘Well, you might like that but I’m sure it’s not your father’s first choice.’

I searched my mind for something he had commented on. ‘He likes Nana’s steak and kidney pie,’ I admitted.

She was soon putting flour and butter into the mixing bowl and I knew what was going to be cooked for that night’s dinner.

That summer when I was confined to the house, Sue decided that her menus were becoming too repetitive again and that her cooking needed to be more adventurous. Out came the cookery books and the many recipes she had torn from glossy magazines as she sought culinary inspiration. Remembering the success of the steak and kidney pie, she looked to see what else she could do using those particular ingredients. She reasoned that if my father liked them all put together, he would enjoy the individual components served differently. For the following week every meal seemed to have one of those items in it. Steak with onions, kidneys in red wine, pies with puff pastry covering a rich, meaty filling, and suet-crusted steak puddings.

‘I’ve made a special meal for you tonight, David,’ she would tell him, as soon as he came through the door.

‘Mmm, it smells nice, dear,’ was his usual response, as he sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘Good to have some real home cooking.’ Meanwhile Billy and I longed for something simple, for although Sue’s rule of us eating separately was still in force, the leftovers from each meal were served to us the following day.

When every steak and offal recipe was exhausted she turned to the cookery books once again. ‘What about pork?’ she asked me, as she paged thoughtfully through the books, examining the pictures that illustrated the dishes. ‘Your father likes that, doesn’t he?’

I remembered my grandmother’s roast leg of pork with its crisp crackling and her tangy homemade apple sauce. ‘Yummy – yes, we all do,’ I replied, my mouth watering as I thought of the delicious leftovers I would get.

But something as simple as a roast was not what Sue had in mind. ‘No point going to a cookery course to learn something that easy,’ she said airily. Remembering the burnt roast potatoes, the overcooked vegetables and flat Yorkshire puddings that had resembled limp pancakes, I thought it was a shame that her course hadn’t covered that skill. Nana always said doing a good roast was just a matter of getting the timing right, something that the cookery books never taught Sue. That night when my father came back from work she showed him some large batter-covered objects. ‘They,’ she told him proudly, ‘are deep-fried pig’s trotters. I should have painted their toenails,’ she said, with a giggle, when my father lifted a portion of the batter to disclose what was inside. Even he blanched at the thought.

After pork done every way imaginable, except roasted, she turned her hand to lamb. ‘He likes grilled chops,’ I said helpfully, but received one of her disdainful sniffs at the idea of cooking something so ordinary. ‘I know that, Sally, but I’ve cooked them for him countless times. I’ll think of something different.’ Out came the cookbooks again as she settled down with a cup of coffee, a pen and a notepad at the ready. Finally, after much pondering, she headed for the shops armed with a long list. Within an hour she was back, bringing in various shopping bags. ‘I’m going to try out something really different tonight,’ she said.

My heart sank. Something new was usually made from a part of the animal I found repulsive to look at, let alone eat.

When I asked her what it was going to be I received a secretive smile. She said it was something she hadn’t attempted before but the butcher had assured her it would be delicious.

I was given the job of peeling potatoes, then shooed out of the kitchen. ‘I don’t want you distracting me – it’s a delicate business,’ she said, and told me to take the dog out for a walk.

Later, thinking that Billy and I would be fed in the kitchen that evening, I poked my head round the door only to be asked to wash up what seemed like every available pan and utensil in the kitchen. Rolling up my sleeves I washed, rinsed and stacked them until the draining-board was buried under a pile of shiny stainless steel.

‘Sally,’ Sue said, when I had finished, ‘for a special treat I thought we’d all eat together tonight. This dish needs to be served hot.’

I looked at her with something approaching gratitude. Spending every evening in my room alone had made me both bored and depressed. Billy could watch the children’s programmes in the lounge but as part of my punishment I wasn’t allowed to join him.

‘No point in removing your TV from your room,’ Sue had said, when I protested, ‘only to have you in here as well.’ She did take me to the library once a week so that at least I had something to occupy myself, but there was only so much reading I could do.

I missed Jennifer and my schoolfriends. Having no one of my own age to talk to, I even welcomed helping Sue in the kitchen, even if that help consisted mainly of washing up the numerous pots and pans she used on her cooking sprees. At least it gave me something to do and the bit of conversation that passed between us was better than nothing.

I was told to wash my hands and change and bring Billy into the dining room when she called us. Wondering what culinary delight she had conjured up, and having been told she didn’t need any further help, when we heard her call I took my seat next to Billy and waited to find out.

‘I’ve made a special meal for you tonight, David,’ Sue said predictably, as he came through the door. I saw a look of suspicion cross my father’s face. He had always liked plain food, and the richness of Sue’s cooking was not always to his taste.

‘What – a nice roast dinner?’ he asked, half joking, half hoping.

‘Oh, don’t be silly, Davie,’ she answered coyly. ‘I didn’t go to cookery classes to learn what any old cook can do.’

Once we were all in our places, Sue wheeled in her latest possession, the heated hostess trolley – and, dumbfounded, I stared at what was sitting in the middle of it. It was a baked sheep’s head with a protruding grey flabby tongue. Its lips, through which I could see the creature’s large yellow teeth, looked as though they had been drawn back in pain – almost as though it had been alive when it went into the hot oven. The top of its head had been removed and a little bunch of watercress poked out of the hole like a silly green hat.

I was transfixed by the hideousness of it, and then I noticed the animal’s eyes. They were white with dark rings around them and they seemed to stare sightlessly straight at me. I heard Billy gulp back his inclination to scream, but his hand pointed waveringly at it and his body trembled.