Don't You Love Your Daddy? (8 page)

I never told him where my mother hid her drink. Not even bothering to hide from me what she was doing, she would open the brown bottles and tip the contents into empty baby formula containers. She then put the empty bottles back into their brown-paper bags and hid them under the blanket in Billy’s pram. She would throw them away when she went out, but only when she had looked around and checked that no one was watching.

Each day when school finished I would race to the gates, always a bit scared that she wouldn’t be there. Two months later my fears were realized when she wasn’t outside to meet me. I waited and waited for her, and when I saw my nana walking towards me, I knew she had disappeared again.

I was told that my mother was very tired and that she’d had to go back to the hospital for a rest but that she would be home again in a few days. I found out later that her craving for drink had reacted badly with her drugs and this time the mixture had nearly killed her. The same neighbour who had found me in the street was alerted by Billy’s wails and had knocked furiously at the door. When she got no reply, she went in and found my mother unconscious on the floor with an empty cider bottle by her side. Once again an ambulance had arrived in our street, but this time when her huddled form was carried out in broad daylight the whole neighbourhood stood watching and gossiping. ‘She loves it more than us,’ my brother said angrily, when he heard.

‘Yes, she does love it more than you, but I love you best, Sally,’ my father whispered into my ear, whenever we were alone.

We never knew which neighbour had reported my mother’s behaviour to social services, only that someone had: this time her relapse brought a social worker to our door. It was my grandmother who explained to me that a lady was coming to talk to us when Pete had returned home from school. My father was also to be present.

‘She just needs to ask you both a few questions,’ Nana continued. She told me I mustn’t be scared and should answer truthfully. That afternoon, instead of going to her house, she brought Billy and me back to ours. He was popped into his playpen and toys were arranged around him in the hope that he would be quiet. Nana busied herself cleaning the house and plumping up the cushions, constantly glancing at her watch. I sat at the table and looked at a picture book – Nana had said it was too messy to colour in or use my paints.

Pete had also been told to be on his best behaviour. He had started on his homework when there was a knock at the door. My father went and brought in a woman who seemed about my mother’s age. She was sallow-skinned with a sleek dark brown bob that fell forward over her face. She looked earnestly at all of us, and surveyed the room through rimless glasses before finally taking a seat at the table. She opened her briefcase and took out a file and a pen.

My grandmother spoke first. She told her that while my mother was away she and her unmarried daughter had charge of Billy. ‘So Sally is left here?’ the woman asked quickly.

‘No. My son brings her over to me in the mornings and collects her when he returns from work,’ Nana said.

It soon became clear that it was me she was most interested in talking to. My father said that I was too young to understand what was happening. ‘That’s as may be,’ she said, ‘but I still need to ask Sally some questions.’

To begin with she asked me the same things that adults always seem to ask small children – how old was I and what did I like most at school. Once she saw I was at ease with her, more searching questions followed. ‘What do you and your mother do in your spare time?’ she enquired. I told her about the books she read to me, the pictures she drew and the stories she made up just for me. She then moved on to my two accidents.

First she questioned me about the chip pan. ‘How did it happen, Sally?’ Bewildered, I looked at my father.

‘She caught it on her sleeve, didn’t you?’ he said quickly and I, clutching at his explanation, replied, ‘Yes.’

‘Let her answer for herself,’ the social worker said sternly, then turned to me. ‘Is that what really happened, Sally?’

Again I mumbled, ‘Yes.’

Pete said nothing, but I saw him glance at my father.

The next questions were more difficult. She asked me why I had run out of the house in bare feet and where my mother had been.

Once more I looked at my father but no help came from him this time. I looked at the floor and mumbled that I didn’t know.

‘It was my fault,’ Pete said unexpectedly. ‘Mum had just popped over the road and I was meant to be watching the two of them but I went up to my room to get something and Sally ran out.’

The social worker gave him a penetrating stare but Pete just looked guilelessly straight back at her.

‘Well, I doubt if Sally can remember much about those days anyhow. That accident with the chip pan happened some time ago,’ interrupted my father, before I could be questioned about the truth of what Pete had said. I saw the social worker scribble in the file before asking me more questions.

Was I happy at my school? I replied, ‘Yes.’ She looked doubtful and asked me if I had made many friends. Not knowing what answer was expected of me I looked at her helplessly and confirmed what she suspected.

I started to get restless then. Somehow I knew that my answers to her questions were important. But there were too many of them and I was worried that I might say the wrong thing. All I could think was that I wanted the social worker to go.

‘She’s tired,’ my father said. ‘I think that should be enough for now.’

The social worker smiled at me and said I’d been very helpful, then gathered her things and left.

Later, after Pete had made the excuse that he needed ‘to study’ and had gone to a friend’s house, I went to my room and was playing with my dolls’ house with the door open. Voices drifted upstairs and became raised as I heard my grandmother and father having a heated argument. I crept quietly to the top of the stairs and sat down to listen to what they were saying.

‘Why did you get the children to lie?’ she asked him, and before he had a chance to say he hadn’t, she answered for him: ‘We both know what happened. She was drunk again, wasn’t she?’

‘And you know what would happen if that woman had been told the truth, don’t you?’ he retorted. ‘They could say she’s an unfit mother and take Sally and Billy away.’

I heard my grandmother mutter something about how it might be for the best if she wasn’t allowed near us, and knew she meant my mother. ‘This has to be the last time you hide things, David,’ my grandmother added, before she left, taking a sleeping Billy with her.

‘What did that lady want?’ I asked my father, when he was getting me ready for bed.

‘She wants to take you away from us,’ he answered. ‘It would mean you’d never see any of us again. And you wouldn’t like that, would you, Sally?’ I shook my head miserably.

‘So if that lady comes to the school and tries to see you on your own, just say you can’t talk to her unless your nana or I am there. Do you understand?’

Seeing my face pucker with worry and fear, he put his arms around me. ‘But Daddy won’t let anything bad happen to you.’

Still terrified at the pictures he had conjured up, I was unable to speak and stared mutely at him.

‘I’d never let them do that, Sally,’ he said. ‘You’re my special little girl and I love you. And you love your daddy, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘Time for your bath now,’ he said, and the ritual started. His fingers took mine and placed them on the front of his trousers. ‘Just move your hand up and down like this,’ he whispered, as he gripped my wrist tightly and forced my fingers to move.

I wanted to climb down from his knee or wriggle out of his grasp but the fear that he was the only person who could stop me being taken away for ever, never to see my family again, kept me there, doing the thing I didn’t want to do.

The next morning on the way to school I realized that Pete was the one who was most upset by my mother’s relapse. ‘That social worker will be back if it ever happens again. Don’t think we’ve seen the last of her,’ he said morosely. ‘They’ll take us all away, if she’s not careful. It happened to a boy in my class. They said his parents were unfit and now he’s in a place he really hates.’ He looked down at me. ‘It’s not fair, is it? It’s his mum and dad’s fault but he’s the one who’s made to pay.’

I had no answer for him. His voicing of his fears made mine even more real, and for the next few days I kept my eyes open and scanned every grown-up I encountered. I was scared I’d see that lady with her notebook coming towards me. She came in my dreams and pulled me out of my bed, and it was only when I screamed myself awake and was stroked calm by my father, that I understood she wasn’t there.

A week later my mother returned. There were promises that she wouldn’t leave me alone again, but I no longer believed her. I watched her surreptitiously, looking for any sign of her becoming sick again, fretting about what Pete had said. At night my fears turned into nightmares.

Tossing and turning, I started wetting my bed and woke up to a sick feeling of shame. My mother kept telling me it wasn’t my fault, but still I felt it was.

‘Sally, what’s the matter?’ my mother asked, when she caught me alone in my room silently crying.

‘Pete said that if you go back to hospital again we’ll all be sent away,’ I managed to say. ‘And I don’t want to go into a home and never see any of you again,’ and as I voiced my fears, more tears poured from my eyes and my voice turned into a frightened wail.

For a moment she looked shocked. ‘Oh, Sally, whoever put that idea into your head? Nobody’s going to take you away. I’m better now and I’m not going to leave you ever again. I love you too much for that.’

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that she loved me, but in my mind I could hear the echoes of my father’s voice telling me that it was he who loved me best and that she loved drink more than she loved any of us.

My eczema became worse and there were times when, busy with Billy or lost in her own world, my mother sent me to bed without bathing me and putting my cream on.

There was great excitement at school when it was announced that our class was being taken to the swimming-pool. An instructor was going to teach us how to swim. Boys and girls were given separate days for the classes and I was in the one for children under eight. We walked in a straggly crocodile the few hundred yards to the pool. With the strong smell of chlorine and disinfectant in our noses, we raced into the female changing rooms. The other little girls were impatient to shed their clothes and don their swimsuits.

Rubber swimming caps were pulled on over hair and, squealing with excitement, they headed for the water. I could hear them screaming as they stepped into the small footbath that prevented you carrying germs into the water. The noise echoed around the changing room as I stood in the corner holding a tog bag with my new costume in it, hoping I could hide in there and that my absence would go unnoticed.

Underneath my school clothes I knew the rash covered most parts of my arms and chest. My mother had forgotten to put my mittens on and in the night I had scratched the itching till it bled. There were oozing sores and scabs behind my knees, in the soft creases of my elbows, on my shoulders and at the tops of my legs.

At six years old I was too young for real vanity but I was old enough to understand mockery, and I could imagine the taunts and jeers that would come in my direction if my pitiful body was exposed to my classmates.

However, when our teacher did a head count, she knew one child was missing and came in search of me. ‘What are you doing hiding away in here, Sally? You should have your swimsuit on by now,’ she said impatiently. ‘Come on, let’s get you undressed and in the pool. Lift your arms up.’ Reluctantly I did so.

I heard her gasp as she pulled my dress over my head, and wanted to disappear through the floor.

‘Oh, Sally,’ I heard her say, ‘you poor little soul. Why didn’t you say anything?’ At this kindness I burst into tears and without saying any more she wrapped me in my towel and took me to the person in charge of first aid.

I heard the words ‘mother’ and ‘neglect’ being whispered between them. Something cool was put on my sores, gentle soothing words were said to me and then I was taken back to the changing room and allowed to get dressed. I watched the swimming lesson from the gallery, sitting next to the teacher, relieved I wasn’t part of it.

It was the teacher who took me home and spoke to my mother. I don’t know what was said but I remember it made my mother cry. She kept telling me she was sorry, she hadn’t known it had got so bad.

That night, after my mother had bathed me and put on my cream, she tied my cotton mittens over my hands. After I had been tucked in, I lay in bed thinking of the next day and how I would have to face my classmates. I thought that, even though the other children had not seen me when my dress was taken off, somehow they would all know what had happened. I knew what they thought of me – that I was dirty and that my mother was crazy for they had said it so many times to my face.

It was after hearing these taunts that, when my mother wasn’t looking, I started eating soap. When there was just a small piece left in the bathroom I hid it in my bedroom and ate it when nobody was about. If it cleaned the outside of me then it could clean the inside too, I rationalized.