Chapter 2

I sat in the room, alone. Sunlight poured in from the tall, thin window behind me but in my world it was black. I hugged my knees tightly as though they were my only form of protection, listening to everything that I didn’t want to hear. Terror ripped at my insides.

The rhythmical pounding of leaden fists on our wooden front door echoed through every room, only to come and gather in my lonely corner. The noise thumped through my head over and over. “Daddy’s here again.�?/P>

My heartbeat raced, pumping the blood round my scrawny body so fast it made me feel dizzy. Tears welled in my eyes; tears of fear and nothing but that. I didn’t want to cry, partly because I was so terrified of what would happen if I did. Crying was a weakness, Dad always said I was “mardy�?if I cried, no matter what the reason. I had to be a good girl, I had to be brave, but in stead I curled up on the floor, defeated. Sobs of a six year old painted the walls of my chamber grey.

I closed my eyes, wishing to be taken away to somewhere different, a far away place - like the one I’d seen in all the fairytale books with happy endings. I wanted to be a princess, I longed for my own magical kingdom. I closed my eyes even tighter and pressed my shaking hands over my ears until the picture formed�?/P>

I was there. I saw myself, dancing, twirling. Golden curls trailed down my back and a pink ball gown trimmed with bows spun round and round with me. I was a real princess.

The clip-clip clopping of horses�?hooves grew louder and an overwhelming sense of joy escaped me in a single gasp as I watched a magnificent carriage approaching from over the hill. I wondered where it was going to take me, who was inside and most of all, when this dream had to end�?/P>

“BANG!�?/P>

I was dragged from my world of fantasy as the rusty letter box shutter clanked. Inside my head the horses ran, scattering in every direction, neighing at the top of their lungs. They too were afraid; just like me.

“Jayne, open this fuckiing door!�?/P>

I realised then where I was. Those words sent shivers down my spine. He couldn’t come in here, this was our house. This corner was mine, I could cry here and he could not hurt me. I WASN’T being mardy this time, I was hurting, I was scared, because of him! He cursed again, growling - the same growl he’d used so many times when he was angry. Why he was angry I don’t know. What had Mummy done today? How long would this last?

We’d left our cosy, family townhouse on the quiet Farndale estate a few months before, just me, my Mum and my sister. This time there was no going back as we had done before, like dogs running to their master. This was where we’d ended up. It was a small, cramped, sad looking terraced on a busy main road. The wallpaper had been glued to the walls, cut uneven so it zigzagged from top to bottom, the carpets were old and worn and there was a musty smell covering everything from damp. There was no garden, except the grotty concrete paving out back, which was only ever good for making mud pies with my Mum’s cutlery. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t home, but it was all my Mum could afford.

This was the second time Dad had paid us a visit. Each time it seemed to be even more frightening. I could never figure out why he was here, all I knew was that we weren’t a family anymore. Every time I’d sit alone while he would shout and bawl, I’d listen while he called my Mum every hurtful name under the sun. I never knew what they meant but I knew they were made to hurt because he’d spit them through clenched teeth, or yell them so loud it was as if he wanted the whole world to know how dreadful he thought my Mum was. He succeeded in hurting her every time.

My eyes were sore from all the crying. I wanted the tears to go away - I wanted my Dad to go away. Neither happened, no matter how hard I prayed. The whimpers kept echoing, he shouted, Mum continued to try and talk. It had always been one big vicious circle. It seemed the harder I sobbed into the carpet, the louder he cursed, the harder he banged. I lost hope.

When they were together it was just the same. There were often days when my Dad would be angry or frustrated without any reason that appeared to be valid and it was almost as if he’d look for someone to fight with. Usually my Mum was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and when he did pick a fight, everyone knew about it. He had to have the last word, he had to be right. Nothing was ever finished unless he was the one to finish it.

The arguments were always bitter and if not, they were worse. Sometimes after a conflict when things became really bad and plates had been smashed or cups thrown at the wall, I’d wait for the predictable slamming of the front door and then listen for any other sound from downstairs to signify that my Mum was still alive. Thank God that sound always came. I’d hear her crying or doing her best to clear up the pieces of broken crockery quick enough before me or my sister came downstairs. I hated him when he made my Mum cry and my Sister just hated him, full stop, for what he did. He wasn’t her real Dad and some days I questioned why he had to be mine.

I was terrified of him; he was as unpredictable of British weather. It felt as though nothing me or Laura did was good enough and if it wasn’t, he’d say it straight, without any consideration for our feelings. If we were too noisy he’d shout at us to be quiet. If we were in the way, we’d be snapped at to move and woe-betide if we had an accident or broke anything. An accident was never an accident with my Dad, it was always somebody’s fault. We weren’t children when he was around, more like cardboard cut-outs.

But it wasn’t just the three of us who suffered because of his bad moods and explosive temper. Lady, my angel on four legs was also the vent of his irritation. I was four years old, it was Christmas Eve. Once more, my parents had fought - this time over whose parents they would go to for Dinner the following day. My Mum’s Mum loathed my Dad and his Mum turned her nose up at my Mum for a reason that, to this day, I still don’t know. It was a no win situation, no matter how civil they tried to be.

As my sister and I clambered into bed, full of half-hearted excitement, wondering and waiting for the presents that Father Christmas might bring us in the night, we weren’t expecting one of them to be the unresolved argument.

He stomped downstairs into the kitchen; from the thudding of his footsteps I thought that Santa hadn’t been and he was mad at him. But I was wrong. My Dad had woken up in the same mood he’d gone to bed with and hell would someone pay. Lady was a beautiful Great Dane - the runt of a litter and she hadn’t managed to be sold so the owners took her to a rescue centre. Dad had just come home with her one day after going to buy a cat - he came back with her and the cat. I instantly loved her, even though sometimes she’d walk past and whip your backside with her tail, which thrashed for about five minutes! She didn’t have a nasty bone in her body, yes she could bark loud and yes, she chewed the table legs and stole some of mine and my sister’s teddies to rip the stuffing out of, but she was never bad. She did those things because she had never been taught not to. My Dad couldn’t understand that.

He hadn’t toilet trained her either, but of course, on this particular day, that too was Lady’s fault. From behind the banister I cringed while he snarled at her as if she could recognize the words falling from his mouth and know why the yellow puddles in the middle of the floor were wrong.

“What’s this?�?He’d ask “Ey? What is it??�?pointing in the direction of the tiddle.

“You NAUGHTY girl!�?/P>

She was like another child. He told her to move in exactly the same way as me and my sister. She got shouted at, called names and sometimes I’d want to go over to her and say, “don’t worry, he speaks to me like that too. I love you�? But I knew she wouldn’t understand me any better. He kept asking, as if waiting for a reply, the reply that she couldn’t give�?And that’s when I heard something that scarred me deeper than any knife could. It was the sound of every volcano erupting, every ocean smashing against every shore, every child crying alone in the night�?It was the sound of his hand against her skin, his foot in her ribs and the yelps of agony that followed. But it repeated over and over again. He was beating her�?My September-Lady, the one who would never fight back. The one who couldn’t ask him to stop. The one who could only lick her wounds without shedding a tear.

I cried for her, hid behind that banister. I asked why, I begged with him in my mind to leave her alone. I felt every single blow as the fear of my Dad grew and my heart slowly cracked. But things were only to get worse�?/P>

“Dave! Stop!�?my Mum yelled as she ran to the kitchen. He hadn’t had enough yet! My Mum never made it through the kitchen door. It was slammed in her face with such force that her head was cut open and bleeding. She still has the scar on her eyebrow, fourteen years on. When I think back to that day, the memory is so vivid, almost like watching a film in my mind.

The argument never was resolved over whose house we would go to for Christmas dinner. Because of what happened, me, Laura and my Mum went to my Mum’s parents and my Dad went to his, so the whole thing was pointless. Lady suffered for nothing, when we all suffered due to my Dad’s expense, it was for nothing. Probably just because�?He could. He wore the trousers, he was the kind of man who was never told what to do. He was his own boss, THE boss.

Occasionally we’d visit my Great Grandparents and he’d go to “Gee Jays�?- a small shop across the road which sold every piece of cheap junk a man could possibly need. He’d always be gone for quite a while and for that time we could be children again. We’d sit and chat about things we’d done and what we’d learnt at school, or play in the hairdressers that my Great Auntie Cyn had converted her front room into. She’d curl our hair with different sized rollers and then sit us under the dryer until they were ready. I loved spending time there, it was even better when I was allowed to stay the night. My Mum would take me round at about lunch time on a Saturday and I’d spend the afternoon chatting about anything and everything whilst colouring or writing or scrubbing down the kitchen cupboard doors. I don’t know why I enjoyed doing that - probably because it made me feel like I was doing something useful and I’d always be complimented on how shiny they looked afterwards.

I also like playing with their ancient floor cleaner. It was like a vacuum but with no hoover bags or cables. You just pushed it along and it made the dirt disappear. I had no idea how it worked, but found it fascinating for some reason! I guess you could say I was easily amused as a child!

On a Sunday we’d have a great big roast dinner with chicken or pork, mashed and roast potatoes, what seemed like ten different types of vegetables, cauliflower cheese, stuffing, a huge Yorkshire pudding and gravy. It was pure heaven! I used to lather mine in mint sauce - especially the bits I didn’t like that had been put on my plate anyway! Sometimes I’d even try to hide my cabbage or broccoli under the mashed potato but it never worked. I always got away with not eating it though because everyone was so soft and I ate the best bits first!

How I missed that�?I hadn’t been there since we‘d left my Dad. It was as if half my family had vanished. My world was falling apart around me and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I felt I was the one to blame, it made sense, I was always being told off, shouted at and in the way. Even when my Dad had slammed my fingers in our living room window, it was my fault because I was stood in the wrong place. I cried too, I shouldn’t have cried. If I’d have been better he wouldn’t be shouting at Mum. Maybe he’d just had enough and wanted Mum to leave me here? I wouldn’t mind, she could go if she wanted. Maybe that’s why he was always shouting at her, because of me? I’d been nothing but trouble since the day I was born - 11 weeks premature, knocking on death’s door with both fists before I could even open my eyes and then when the doctors did manage to save my life there were all the complications to follow. I was one big accident, a walking, six year old mistake with a big mouth.

I had managed to force myself to go and stand in the door way of the dining room. I was directly facing the front door. Only twenty-odd feet and a piece of paint chipped timber separated us now. I could see his stocky figure through the patterned glass. My Mum stood shaking in the middle of the room.

“Jayne open this fucking door! I’ll knock the fucking thing down if you don’t fucking open it!�?She didn’t reply. “You listenin�?to me?!�?I saw the letter box open again. I was expecting to see his eyes peer through and look straight at me, but they didn’t. He didn’t say anything, either, just spat as if to get rid of the foul taste of losing control.

I froze. My feet were glued to the spot of swirling carpet, my hands pinned to my sides. I twiddled the fabric of my skin tight leggings between my fingers and thumb. My Doc Martens and umbrella socks felt like lead weights and chains round my tiny ankles. I could feel my chest rising and falling as I took quick, sharp breaths and the tears streaming from my eyes. I didn’t wipe them away, just let them fall, my eyes had to run dry eventually.

“Jayne!!�?/P>

Again, she didn’t answer. I don’t think my Mum could respond anymore. There was one last kick and one last yell of, “Well fuck ya then!�?/P>

Nothing but silence filled our house after that, we had given up trying to explain the feelings that burned deep inside. They were easily read on the pale faces, that glared deeply, back into their own existence. He was gone, for now.