table for this sort of thing. Once a man can see his own daughter as a sexual object, he crosses a line from beyond which there is no way back. And, anyway, the abuse isn't only physical, not for the victim, at least.
My father may have invaded my body, but he also invaded my mind. I'm now in my late fifties, and yet, to this day, no recollection of my childhood can ever be carefree, and that includes the years before the abuse began. It has a contaminating effect that seeps into every corner of your mind, every facet of your life. It doesn't go away, and the slate can never be wiped clean.
4
Suffer the Little Children
In 1964, when I was thirteen, my parents bought their first house. When we moved to Waterloo Road from Uncle Fred's, I didn't like it. It was bigger than his place, but it was a bit run-down, and dark and dingy, too. In time, however, Mum and Dad paid for somebody to knock down a wall to combine a couple of rooms downstairs and repaint and decorate the whole place.
The house was terraced. There was a long hall with a staircase leading up to the bedrooms. Immediately on the left as you came through the front door, there was a front room, kept for best. I remember the first time that Jacqui came to the house, she and I were allowed to eat in that room on our own. My dad had set up a table for us. At the end of the hall, there was another family room and a kitchen with a yard off it where there was an outside toilet that had been converted into a coal shed.
Immediately in front of you as you came up the stairs, there was a box room at the back of the house where my two brothers slept. Then there was a combined bathroom and toilet on the left-hand side at the top of the stairwell. A left turn up three or four steps would take you to three bedrooms. In the first, there were two sets of bunk beds: Maureen was on the top of one and I was on the bottom; Denise was on the top of the other with no one beneath her. Linda and Bernie were in the front bedroom. And my dad was in the second small box room.
I never thought about why my parents didn't sleep in the same bedroom; maybe they didn't want any more babies. My mother slept on a couch downstairs. I know she had to get up very early each morning to light the fire, to make our breakfast and to get us off to school before she herself went to work: perhaps she felt she'd disturb fewer people by sleeping on the ground floor.
Our next-door neighbours were called the Flecks, Ena and Neil. She had three children, Alan, Linda and Suzanne Gallagher, from her first marriage; Suzanne was my sister Linda's best friend. Then there were Mark and Joanna by Neil.
Mrs Fleck was a Scot, a lovely woman with a very distinctive, quirky sense of humour. She might ask one of us to go to the local shop for her and get her a cabbage 'as big as your head'. She was a real joker. I remember telling her once that there was a cigarette butt stuck to the sole of her shoe. 'Oh, I know,' she said. 'That's where I keep them.' Later on, we'd get back from a gig at one or two in the morning and she'd make bacon butties for all of us. You couldn't have wished for a nicer neighbour. She was fabulous. I'm still in touch with her to this day.
Because our house wasn't centrally heated, there were always wet knickers hanging all over the fireplace to dry while everyone would fight for a central position in front of the fire. And because the toilet was in the bathroom and because there were so many females in the house, my brothers used to have to nip next door to Mrs Fleck's, if they needed to use the loo. Or, if she wasn't at home, they'd have to go up the road to the public toilets on the corner.
Being part of a large family was fun but I loved going to school or to stay with my lovely Aunt Teresa. I got on well with my brothers and sisters and my mum, too, but I was always cautious around my father. Since I'd started school, no opportunities had presented themselves for him to molest me again, but
My father may have invaded my body, but he also invaded my mind. I'm now in my late fifties, and yet, to this day, no recollection of my childhood can ever be carefree, and that includes the years before the abuse began. It has a contaminating effect that seeps into every corner of your mind, every facet of your life. It doesn't go away, and the slate can never be wiped clean.
4
Suffer the Little Children
In 1964, when I was thirteen, my parents bought their first house. When we moved to Waterloo Road from Uncle Fred's, I didn't like it. It was bigger than his place, but it was a bit run-down, and dark and dingy, too. In time, however, Mum and Dad paid for somebody to knock down a wall to combine a couple of rooms downstairs and repaint and decorate the whole place.
The house was terraced. There was a long hall with a staircase leading up to the bedrooms. Immediately on the left as you came through the front door, there was a front room, kept for best. I remember the first time that Jacqui came to the house, she and I were allowed to eat in that room on our own. My dad had set up a table for us. At the end of the hall, there was another family room and a kitchen with a yard off it where there was an outside toilet that had been converted into a coal shed.
Immediately in front of you as you came up the stairs, there was a box room at the back of the house where my two brothers slept. Then there was a combined bathroom and toilet on the left-hand side at the top of the stairwell. A left turn up three or four steps would take you to three bedrooms. In the first, there were two sets of bunk beds: Maureen was on the top of one and I was on the bottom; Denise was on the top of the other with no one beneath her. Linda and Bernie were in the front bedroom. And my dad was in the second small box room.
I never thought about why my parents didn't sleep in the same bedroom; maybe they didn't want any more babies. My mother slept on a couch downstairs. I know she had to get up very early each morning to light the fire, to make our breakfast and to get us off to school before she herself went to work: perhaps she felt she'd disturb fewer people by sleeping on the ground floor.
Our next-door neighbours were called the Flecks, Ena and Neil. She had three children, Alan, Linda and Suzanne Gallagher, from her first marriage; Suzanne was my sister Linda's best friend. Then there were Mark and Joanna by Neil.
Mrs Fleck was a Scot, a lovely woman with a very distinctive, quirky sense of humour. She might ask one of us to go to the local shop for her and get her a cabbage 'as big as your head'. She was a real joker. I remember telling her once that there was a cigarette butt stuck to the sole of her shoe. 'Oh, I know,' she said. 'That's where I keep them.' Later on, we'd get back from a gig at one or two in the morning and she'd make bacon butties for all of us. You couldn't have wished for a nicer neighbour. She was fabulous. I'm still in touch with her to this day.
Because our house wasn't centrally heated, there were always wet knickers hanging all over the fireplace to dry while everyone would fight for a central position in front of the fire. And because the toilet was in the bathroom and because there were so many females in the house, my brothers used to have to nip next door to Mrs Fleck's, if they needed to use the loo. Or, if she wasn't at home, they'd have to go up the road to the public toilets on the corner.
Being part of a large family was fun but I loved going to school or to stay with my lovely Aunt Teresa. I got on well with my brothers and sisters and my mum, too, but I was always cautious around my father. Since I'd started school, no opportunities had presented themselves for him to molest me again, but
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