Anne's Song by Anne Nolan Page B

that didn't mean I wasn't wary in his presence. Who knew when he might strike again? As it happens, I didn't have to wait long to find out.
    One night, I woke up with another of my fierce headaches and went into my dad's room. I was groggy from sleep, my head was pounding, I think I was a bit disorientated. I just headed for the nearest parent, without thinking. I wanted something to ease the pain. Dad went off, returned with some headache pills and then said, 'Get in beside me.'
    I wasn't at all sure. 'No,' I said, 'I don't want to. I'll go back to my own bed.'
    But he was insistent. 'You've got a bad headache,' he reasoned, 'you'll keep the others awake. Much better if you sleep here.'
    He had a huge amount of natural authority and I wasn't about to cause a noisy scene with everyone else in the house sound asleep. So, reluctantly, I did as he told me. It was a single bed. He was by the wall; I was on the outer edge. I lay on my back for ages before eventually falling asleep. The next thing I knew, it was early morning and the sun was streaming through the curtains. My dad was still asleep.
    As I pulled the bedclothes back, my hand brushed across my nightdress – and a wet, sticky patch. Then I felt something resting against my stomach. It was my father's penis. I recoiled in horror. Without thinking, I moved it away, got out of bed and ran to the bathroom where I scrubbed and scrubbed myself in an attempt to feel clean again. I was in a daze, and yet I felt I had no one to confide in. I knew I could never tell another living soul the unbelievably disgusting truth: my own father had masturbated over me, his own daughter, while I lay sleeping.
    It was such a shock, truly the worst thing he'd ever done to me. I felt dirty, degraded, debased – and totally betrayed. Stupidly, I'd trusted him when I wasn't feeling well, and this was the contempt with which he'd treated me. I'd gone to my father for help. Here was his response. If there had been any last small hope of repairing our fractured relationship, that single filthy act had put a stop to it once and for all.
    I never willingly went anywhere near the man again. If we were ever alone in the same room, Fd position myself as far away from him as possible. From that day forward, I wouldn't sit next to him on the sofa if we were all watching television. I couldn't bear the thought of him even touching me. Not that you'd ever have guessed what he'd done to me from his demeanour or behaviour. There wasn't even a tacit acknowledgement of the disgusting things he'd done.
    And still I wasn't entirely safe from my father's dark desires. 1 remember the night, not too long after, when Dad arrived home drunk after performing in a local club. I heard him climb the stairs and walk unsteadily to the bedroom I shared with Denise and Maureen. He came over to where I was lying and put his hand under my bedclothes, fumbling to fondle me between my legs.
    Immediately, I sat bolt upright.
    'Stop it!' I hissed under my breath. 'I don't like it.'
    He simply laughed, the smell of alcohol on his breath hot and rank on my face.
    'Don't! Get away!' I was almost shouting now. I pushed him as hard as I could. It wasn't difficult because he was so wobbly on his feet. I was grinding my teeth in fury. Again, he just laughed at me and stumbled out of the room – but it must have made some sort of impression: he never, ever tried to touch me between my legs again.
    Even allowing for all of this, my life wasn't one of relentless domestic gloom and abuse. Christmas, for example, was always a magical time. We'd get up and go to Mass and then there'd be a marathon session of opening all our presents which would last for hours. Mum would cook a late breakfast and she'd be in charge of Christmas dinner, although my dad would help her. That would start around four o'clock.
    When we'd finished the traditional meal of turkey with all the trimmings, we'd tuck into my mother's homemade Christmas pudding, the best