Families knew they would always be moved somewhere else, so were ready to go at a moment’s notice, and would often keep things in the MFO crates for a quick move. The children would push the crates together to make tables, places to lie down, obstacle courses to climb over – there were many uses for those things, and I think they were the most common component of every cellar or den in Germany.
Needless to say, we weren’t allowed to take command of our den. At that stage, I didn’t know many children who were in the same position, but Dad was absolutely adamant that we were not allowed into ours, and it was not our property. I never did find out why he was so hardline about this, but I knew I would get knocked about if I as much as set foot in the place. I believe it was just another way to control us, to emphasise that his word was the law, no matter what was happening in other families. I know he kept all his old Army stuff from all his years in the forces in the old MFO boxes, but that was it. Gary used to harp on about us being allowed down there, but there was no room for manoeuvre. He just didn’t want us to interact with other children – well, he particularly didn’t want
me
to interact with other children. I was kept on a tight leash.
It was a very small world. News from back home would filter through, and British programmes on TV and radio were the norm, as we never really immersed ourselves in German culture, but we were also removed from things. The world was changing – huge new towns were being built in the UK which would change the landscape of the whole country, politicians were trying to gain access to the EEC, the National Front was emerging, and Britain’s nuclear programme was growing stronger. None of it meant anything to a little girl in a different country, whose mum had been taken away and whose dad had turned into a stranger.
I had hoped for a happy life when we moved to Rinteln but, sitting there alone, such happiness seemed a world away. I heard a key in the lock of the door and sat up in the chair as my dad came in – despite being worried about him coming home, I desperately wanted to know how Mum was. He had six cans of beer in a plastic bag and threw them down on the floor next to ‘his’ chair. That explained at least part of how he intended to fill his evening – I could only hope it would be all. He looked around the room and I waited for what I hoped would be words of encouragement and some news of Mum. There was nothing. He sat down in his chair and kept looking at me.
‘Come here,’ he snapped.
I hesitated. ‘How’s Mum? Is she coming home soon?’
‘She’s fine,’ he replied, but didn’t answer my query about when she’d be back. ‘Come here.’
I didn’t move.
‘I’ve told you twice, and I won’t tell you again – come here.’
I may only have been five years old, but I knew he wasn’t asking me to come to him for comfort. There would be no hugs from my dad, no reassurance that he would look after me while Mum was away, or that he would make it all better. How can a child that age possibly balance the two horrible options she is faced with? If I didn’t go to him, he’d hit me, of that there was no doubt. The slaps and punches were getting more frequent, stronger. If I did go to him – what? What would happen? I was so young, so innocent, I didn’t even have the words for what might occur. I couldn’t actually conceive what he might be planning, but I sensed it would be awful, probably a damn sight worse than getting battered again.
As I took a few tentative steps towards him, I felt as if the walls were closing in around me. Just as I was inches away, his eyes boring into me, his gaze never flickering, I heard the door bang open yet again.
Gary flew into the room at the same time as our father jumped out of his chair. ‘What the hell are you doing back?’ he screamed.
‘What?’ stuttered Gary. ‘I thought I was to come back when you got home from hospital. I thought you wanted me in.’
Dad pushed him back onto the sofa and jabbed him in the chest.
‘You listen to me, boy, and you listen good. This is my house, and what I say is law. You go out when I tell you, you come back when I tell you. And you never – you
never fucking again
– come back inside this house until I tell you.’
He didn’t have to say anything else. The look on Gary’s face said it all. That was the only time Dad treated him the way he had been treating me, and Gary wanted no part of it. From that moment on, he would do as he was told – he would be a good son but a terrible brother, and he would close his eyes to everything that would happen.
As Dad had made so very clear, his word was law . . . and I would gradually find out just how far he would go to make sure I obeyed.
My world had changed so much since Mum had gone into hospital on the Thursday. She had been ill for a while, and I was almost used to the constant sickness and her saying she was unwell, but the fact that she wasn’t physically there was new. For a five-year-old to see her mum being taken away like that, to be given very little information over what was happening and when (or if) she might come home again, was bad enough. But I also had to face up to Dad changing overnight, swearing at me, making me do things around the house that I knew a little girl shouldn’t do, and then all the strange things which had occurred when I was told to change the bed. On top of it all, there was just a feeling, a change in the atmosphere that I couldn’t put my finger on. I only knew it felt threatening – it felt bad.
The whole of Saturday was difficult – Gary had been allowed out to play with his friends, but I’d been kept at home again. Agnes hadn’t called, so I didn’t even have the possibility of an escape route. Both Gary and I knew by this time not to ask about Mum. We’d both get shouted at, there would be no information forthcoming, and I’d get a clip round the ear for my trouble. Initially, when Gary was out, I felt as if I was walking on eggshells. Dad kept me cleaning and tidying all day and, on the few occasions when I did sit down, I’d catch him staring at me. When I’d asked for breakfast, he’d hit me and asked why I couldn’t make it myself. When I’d tried, he came and told me to make some for him and Gary too. I’d been hit again when I messed that up.
I was dreading him asking me to change the bed again – even though I had only done it two days earlier, there was something inside me thinking it could be used as a command again. As the day wore on, with Gary only coming back now and again for meals and snacks, I relaxed a little. There was nothing left to clean and I was allowed to sit by the table at the window, drawing and colouring. I tried to make dinner – potatoes and sausages – and was surprised when Dad didn’t shout at me. Even I knew I’d made a bad job of it – the potatoes were undercooked, the sausages were burned, and everything was cold before it reached the table (and there were no microwaves in those days to rescue such meals).
At about 6pm, he told us to get ready for bed. It was early even for a five-year-old, given that it was the weekend. Gary complained a little, but didn’t push things.
I trotted through to my bedroom and put my pyjamas on, before brushing my dark hair and cleaning my teeth. After I had gone through my usual routine, I went back to the living room where Gary was already sitting with Dad, watching television. As soon as I walked in, Dad stared at me. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’ he snapped. I was confused – he’d told me to get ready for bed, and I had. What could I possibly have done wrong now?
‘My pyjamas,’ I stuttered. ‘You told me to get changed.’
‘I told you to get ready for bed – and that means put your nightdress on,’ he bawled at me.
I felt hot, angry tears falling down my cheeks as I ran back to my room. Could I get nothing right? Was he going to shout at me for every little thing?
I struggled out of my pyjamas and into my winceyette nightie. It was getting too short for me and I had chosen my pyjamas as I wanted to be cosy, but I didn’t dare defy Dad. I took a deep breath and went back through to him again. He nodded when I walked in this time. ‘Better,’ was all he said.
I sat beside Gary on the sofa, hoping we’d get to stay up a little longer. I was exhausted from cleaning all day, but there was something inside me saying that, if I was close to my big brother, even if there was no love lost between us, I’d be safe.
No sooner had I sat down than Dad spoke. ‘Are you fucking deaf?’ he asked. ‘I told you to get ready for bed, and that means you’re going to your fucking bed.’
Gary groaned but got up. I followed him.
‘No,’ said Dad, with menace in his voice. ‘Him. Not you.’
‘What?’ Gary shouted, all thoughts of keeping Dad sweet disappearing with this unfairness.
‘I don’t mind going to bed, Dad,’ I said. ‘I want to. I’m really tired.’
He stared at me in a manner that I was becoming used to.
‘Please,’ I whispered. ‘Please.’
‘Gary, go. You,’ he said, pointing at me, ‘sit.’
My stomach was immediately in knots. What was I going to get in trouble for this time? I sat back down on the brown fabric sofa, trying to hide the fact that I was shaking, and pressed myself back into the cushions.
‘Not there. Sit here. Beside me.’
I couldn’t quite work out what he was telling me to do. He was sitting in what was known as ‘his’ chair. It was a sludgy olive-green fabric on a wooden frame and no one else was allowed to sit there. On top of that, there was only room for him.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Here. Beside me,’ he replied, patting the small bit of seat that was free beside him. He had squeezed over to the side of the seat, but there was very little spare space.
‘I’m fine here, Dad,’ I whispered. ‘Shall I just go to bed?’
‘No,’ he hissed, ‘you’ll get your arse over here just like I told you to, you cheeky little bitch.’
I shuffled off the sofa, grudgingly, and wriggled myself into the chair beside him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘that’s better, isn’t it? That’s nice. You think that’s nice too, Tracy.’
He wasn’t asking, he was telling me. He didn’t look like he believed it either.
I had no idea what to say or do. Was I supposed to cuddle him? Was I supposed to say I’d had enough of sitting beside him and ask to go to my room again? If he thought this was nice, then maybe I could bring up the one topic that was on my mind. I decided it was worth the risk.
‘Dad?’ I began hesitatingly, ‘is Mum any better, is she coming home soon?’
He had been moving about beside me, as if he was trying to get comfortable, but he stopped when I spoke those words.
‘Is that all you can think about? Is that all that you can say? Your mother, your mother, your mother?’
He paused.
‘You know what, Tracy? It’s time that you knew something. Your mother wants you to be a good girl. I want you to be a good girl. And do you know what good girls do? They listen to their daddies. They do as they’re told. They make their daddies happy. And when their daddies think of nice things for them to do together, good girls are pleased about that – they don’t keep fucking moaning when they should shut the fuck up.’
I tried to blink away the tears which were threatening to come again.
‘Do you understand, Tracy? Do you actually listen to a word I say?’
‘Yes, yes, I do, Dad. I’ll try to be good, I really will,’ I whispered. The thing was, I didn’t know
how
to be good. All the things I thought made a good child had not been enough. I’d been trying already. I’d cleaned and tidied and cooked. I’d stayed at home, I’d kept quiet, and yet he was still acting as if I was very naughty.
‘Do you want to know something else, Tracy?’ he asked. ‘There are lots of ways little girls can be good, and then . . . there are some very special little girls who can be
extra
good.’ His voice was softer now, and he wasn’t swearing at me.
But he was doing something else.
As he spoke to me, alone in that room, his fingers, his rough horrible fingers, were pushing up the hem of my nightdress. At first I thought he was trying to pull my nightie down, to make sure it covered me. Actually, he was doing the complete opposite and it was an invasion of me from the moment he began.
The space between us on the chair seemed like nothing – there had been very little to begin with, but now his presence seemed overwhelming. He was pushing against me, just as he had done when we were changing the bedclothes, but this time I could see his face. It was contorted, it seemed as if he was in pain, but if he was, why didn’t he stop? I couldn’t work out why he was doing this, or why it was making him act this way. I knew nothing of sex. I had never walked in on my parents doing anything, I was too young to have giggly conversations with my friends. This was the 1960s, and there were no programmes on TV which may have made me older than my years, no constant background of soap operas, no music videos teaching me things before I should know them.
I was completely innocent – and completely at his mercy.
I simply couldn’t work out what was going on. He was panting a lot, as if he had been running up the stairs. What was that for? I wondered. He was only sitting in his chair, and yet he was getting so out of breath. He was sweaty and his hands were rubbing at my legs. They went up and down, up and down, his fingers wandering a little higher every time. I was scared that, if he wasn’t careful, he would touch my private parts. A thought flashed through me of how awful that would be – and that I would probably get into trouble, even though he was the one doing it all. My thinking was so confused, because I had absolutely no frame of reference for what was being done to me.
He had pushed my nightie up so far by now, and I knew he would be able to see my bottom if I wasn’t careful. I squirmed around on the chair and tried to work the fabric back down over me, but his hands were stronger. I couldn’t understand this either. Why would he want to do this?
‘Dad . . .’ I started to say, but he told me to shut up before I could go any further. As he held my nightdress up with one hand, I could hear him panting more. His other hand went to his own trousers and he unzipped them, slipping his fingers inside and moving them around so quickly that it seemed to make him even more out of breath.