my bedroom and listening to every word. My bedroom was more of a boxroom than a bedroom, and its layout made it easy for me to listen in. Helen went on about how I was always being bad; how I wouldn't do as I was told; how I was cheeky to her. She said that she was at breaking point, and that her sons were missing out on things because she had all this extra work with me. I was lazy; I was insolent; I stole food and I wet the bed. All more work for her; all more work for poor, put-upon Helen. It always followed a pattern. After she had ranted, she would ask my Dad what he was going to do about me as she would claim she was at the end of her tether. I'd hear her say, 'I'm trying to be a good mum but she hates me!' and wondered how she could speak that way without the words choking her.
This argument went on, as it always did, until finally I heard my Dad come out of the living room. I could tell by his footsteps that he was angry. He didn't come to the bathroom door as I'd expected, but went charging down the lobby and then stopped two-thirds of the way down. I could see his shape moving around. Then I heard him lifting the hatch to the cellar that ran below our flat, and joined up with a network of cellars that belonged to the various shops and restaurants on Easter Road, all separated by locked wooden doors. I heard him switch on the light he'd installed as he moved the wooden ladder into place that allowed people to go down there.
Then he came to the bathroom.
I bristled with fear as he yanked open the door. I looked up at him standing there in his Post Office trousers with a V-neck sweater over a white shirt and his tie loosened slightly. His eyes were massive brown pools behind NHS glasses. He was angry. I motioned to speak but he yelled at me not to say a word, and said that I was to get down in the cellar and wait for him.
I scurried down the corridor in my bare feet and vest and pants, almost numb from standing in the cold all day. As I passed the living room I caught sight of Helen standing behind the door, watching and listening. I'll never forget that sneer on her face.
I reached the hatch of the cellar and lowered myself onto the wooden ladder that wobbled as I climbed down it. I hated that cellar with its musty smell, cobwebs, dark shadows and cold, deathly feel. I just stood there again – awaiting my fate. I heard the footsteps of both my Dad and Helen walking about, and the muffled sounds of their resumed arguing. Then I heard him coming down the lobby. I watched as his shape occluded the hatch and he descended step by step, getting bigger as he got closer. I felt as if my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I was terrified.
I knew that I was going to get another beating but I just didn't want my Daddy to do it.
He finally got down to where I was, and I stared at the ground, stared at his feet. As I did, he removed the slipper from his right foot and stood with one slipper and one sock-covered foot. He grabbed me and sort of put me over his knee, although I wasn't lying down completely. He started whacking me. Over and over again I was thrashed – combined with what Helen had done to me earlier that day, it was a miracle that my skinny, beaten, malnourished body didn't just give in. All the time that he hit me, my Dad's breathing was laboured.
I tried to tell him to stop. I whimpered at him more than anything, but he just kept hitting and hitting me across the bottom and backs of my legs. He was really angry with me and told me I had to be good. He asked, 'Do you want your mother to leave us all?' My heart screamed out, 'Yes! Yes, I do! I want that woman who is not my mother, who will never be my mother and who says she hates me, to go away for ever. And I want you to look after me, Daddy, to protect me.' But my heart couldn't speak and, in a desperate fit of self-preservation, I said that I wanted her to stay.
The beating continued for a bit longer. My Dad then told me
This argument went on, as it always did, until finally I heard my Dad come out of the living room. I could tell by his footsteps that he was angry. He didn't come to the bathroom door as I'd expected, but went charging down the lobby and then stopped two-thirds of the way down. I could see his shape moving around. Then I heard him lifting the hatch to the cellar that ran below our flat, and joined up with a network of cellars that belonged to the various shops and restaurants on Easter Road, all separated by locked wooden doors. I heard him switch on the light he'd installed as he moved the wooden ladder into place that allowed people to go down there.
Then he came to the bathroom.
I bristled with fear as he yanked open the door. I looked up at him standing there in his Post Office trousers with a V-neck sweater over a white shirt and his tie loosened slightly. His eyes were massive brown pools behind NHS glasses. He was angry. I motioned to speak but he yelled at me not to say a word, and said that I was to get down in the cellar and wait for him.
I scurried down the corridor in my bare feet and vest and pants, almost numb from standing in the cold all day. As I passed the living room I caught sight of Helen standing behind the door, watching and listening. I'll never forget that sneer on her face.
I reached the hatch of the cellar and lowered myself onto the wooden ladder that wobbled as I climbed down it. I hated that cellar with its musty smell, cobwebs, dark shadows and cold, deathly feel. I just stood there again – awaiting my fate. I heard the footsteps of both my Dad and Helen walking about, and the muffled sounds of their resumed arguing. Then I heard him coming down the lobby. I watched as his shape occluded the hatch and he descended step by step, getting bigger as he got closer. I felt as if my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I was terrified.
I knew that I was going to get another beating but I just didn't want my Daddy to do it.
He finally got down to where I was, and I stared at the ground, stared at his feet. As I did, he removed the slipper from his right foot and stood with one slipper and one sock-covered foot. He grabbed me and sort of put me over his knee, although I wasn't lying down completely. He started whacking me. Over and over again I was thrashed – combined with what Helen had done to me earlier that day, it was a miracle that my skinny, beaten, malnourished body didn't just give in. All the time that he hit me, my Dad's breathing was laboured.
I tried to tell him to stop. I whimpered at him more than anything, but he just kept hitting and hitting me across the bottom and backs of my legs. He was really angry with me and told me I had to be good. He asked, 'Do you want your mother to leave us all?' My heart screamed out, 'Yes! Yes, I do! I want that woman who is not my mother, who will never be my mother and who says she hates me, to go away for ever. And I want you to look after me, Daddy, to protect me.' But my heart couldn't speak and, in a desperate fit of self-preservation, I said that I wanted her to stay.
The beating continued for a bit longer. My Dad then told me
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