After my bath I always felt fresh, especially if I got to go in first. And to top it off, I would have the old black oven plate wrapped in newspaper put into my bed to warm it up.
It was absolute heaven ... until I heard the bedroom door go.
I knew what was going to happen because it had happened so many times before. I knew it was Daddy before the shadow of his head peeped around the door.
"All right, ducky?" he always asked.
"Yes Daddy," I’d whisper.
Daddy felt different when he was in my bedroom. He seemed so kind and would talk to me in his soothing voice, not like the voice he used downstairs. He would also give me a hard chocolate caramel, my favourite sweetie. I knew I was special and that no-one else knew about my treats. I had sweeties and my brothers had none, so I knew that Daddy loved me.
As I lay in bed he would gently touch my thin body, cuddling me and spending time on what I later learnt were my private parts. I had no idea what he doing but I loved the attention.
"Don’t tell anyone," he would whisper as the hot air escaped from under the bedclothes.
"Daddy, don’t move me," I’d whisper back as I began to get cold, then ask:
"Why, Daddy?" when he told me again and again not to let on to anyone about what went on between us.
"Don‘t!" he’d snap and the sound of his voice told me to keep quiet as he pushed a couple more sweeties into my hand. I wouldn’t have told anyone anyway, because if I did Daddy would use the belt and the thought of that alone paralysed me with fear.
By the time John and I had progressed to the juniors we were classed as children who were not academically good. We were always being told that we were "dunces".
The mental torment was taking its toll on both of us and we could see no end to it. As well as Mum’s rejection and the episodes at night with Daddy, even my step brother and brother would take turns being cruel to me. I began to ask myself: "Why was I born?"
It was especially painful for me to watch the violence inflicted on John and it was beginning to affect his schooling. John and I could not concentrate for very long or spell very well. We were bottom in every subject and our older brothers would constantly taunt us about our inability to do simply tasks.
But the torment didn’t end there. Every night after tea, John and I would be made to sit at the table in a routine that we loathed. Mother would put a list of words in front of us and we were allowed 10 minutes to memorise them before they were taken away. She would then give us a pencil and paper and sit there telling us what words to spell. We knew we couldn’t do them and the fear was too much for us. Many’s the time John would wet himself because he knew that every word we spelt wrong meant a lash from the belt when Daddy came home. I was petrified and the more I thought about the punishment the more answers I got wrong. And I knew that if we flinched when we were hit by the belt we would get another two strokes. Just remembering this now makes my eyes well with tears.
After we’d had the belt, Dad would come upstairs to see me in my bedroom. What he said and did then confused me so much that I began to think he had two heads ... a nice one and a horrible one. As I lay in bed sobbing, my hands on fire, the door would open.
"I didn’t mean it Syl," he’d whisper. "It’s your Mum’s fault."
Between my sobs I would glance up. The fondling had moved on a step further and Dad had begun to expose himself to me. I thought all Daddies did this. I suppose love is blind and I loved my Daddy so much. I saw no wrong in what he was doing and I knew I was his special little girl.
This kind of routine had been a part of my life since I was three and I had no reason to question it. But I knew that if I told anyone about it Daddy wouldn’t love me anymore. I knew I would suffer rejection from him as well as from Mum and I couldn’t take that. So it remained our secret. And while the fondling and exposing continued from Dad, another member of the family introduced himself to me in a sexual manner, this time under threat. It was Neville. He was considerably older than me [I was five and he was 10].
Copyright: Sylvia Hurt 1998-2005. All rights reserved.