E) Tainted (chapter 2)

CHAPTER TWO

So I was tainted. That was the first time I remember any real violence.
Though I suspect it had always been there, suppressed, denied, kept
behind closed doors, the way most middle class wife and child beaters
keep their violence.

I returned to the cellar on many other occasions, which resulted in
other injuries, that were less visible though far more scarring. I
remember them now that they have broken free of the mental block. I
have met them head on, confronted them, and done the bastards down.
They still come back to haunt sometimes, but for the most part they are
demons with their arms laid down and their white hankies waving.

That particular oak door. In the long white corridor was never opened
again. As much as Paul tried to persuade me to go to that place again.
I tried just as hard to defy him. I could not, would not, do it. The
'cellar monster' will remain forever locked behind the oak door. Other
incidents that happened there have been brought out and dusted off
privately, and then laid back in their memory trunk between layers of
fine tissue paper. They did not need to be spoken aloud in hypnotherapy
sessions.

In those early days of my life, my poor mum suffered more than I did. I
remember one incident that puzzled me for years. Though at the time I
could not make any sense of it. I had for some reason gone in to mum's
bedroom, some strange men had arrived, and she had gone off with them,
leaving me with Auntie Mary. They went in an ambulance. By the bed I
saw a large gauze pad covered in blood, I think at the time I was
either late four, or early five, so it was close to mum's death. I knew
it was blood on the pad and this worried me. I also knew I was
somewhere I shouldn't be, but mum and dad had been shouting before she
left with the men, and I had retreated to safety. If they found out
that I had been in there without their permission, I would have been in
big trouble.

I had already learned the hard way to keep my mouth shut, and to curb
my natural childish curiosity about life. The pad worried me a great
deal and stayed in my mind for many years. I never mentioned it. I hit
puberty, or maybe puberty hit me, either way, being Nancy Drew teen
detective incarnate, the mystery of bloody pad was solved, or so I
thought. However with adult knowledge, and maybe a little wisdom, I
knew my thinking was flawed. For one thing as I remember it, the pad
was the wrong shape, too thick and square, rather than long, secondly I
knew mum was not the type of lady to leave soiled sanitary provisions
all over her bedroom floor. One more piece of the puzzle is that on the
day that I found the pad mum walked into a cupboard door, and had to go
to hospital and have several stitches put into her face.

One day dad threw me down the stairs. I was four; and had made a bit of
a fuss that day in town because I wanted a new toothbrush with Mickey
Mouse on it. I don't know whether or not I got the toothbrush, but I
have vivid memories of the bruises that close contact with the stairs
gave me.

On another similar occasion I had gone down into the bar, I asked for a
packet of crisps, and was told, 'no'. Being me of course, I didn't
accept this, after several wailing's please, dad had bellowed at the
top of his voice. "Bedroom now!"

The bar became deadly silent, as all eyes turned to us. I ran to my
room like a frightened rabbit. I did get my crisps though, a whole box
of them. I also got a black eye, I had embarrassed dad in public, and
this was not a smart move. He called me several names, and told me not
to come downstairs until I had eaten every packet of crisps in the pub
sized catering pack box. I didn't eat any more of the crisps, in fact I
didn't even open the box, all I tasted were my salt and vinegar tears.
Because I didn't eat the crisps as ordered, I stayed in my room, locked
in a battle of wills with dad from that lunchtime until the following
tea-time. I was not allowed to leave my room and was punished severely
for wetting the bed that night.

I sometimes think of that experience now when one of my boys wants
something; I don't particularly want them to have. My lads have never
known parental fear, and I dare say on occasions they get away with
murder, but I wouldn't change that for the world.

I feel that I've have done some pretty heavy 'dad bashing' up to now.
And that is so unfair, because Dad was a complex man of mood and
temperament. The highs were heady, and the lows were desperate. And to
write him off as a 'bad man' is not my intention. Now I would like to
think of something positive to say about him, but that is going to be
difficult, not because there were no good times, because there were
plenty, but more because of a mental block I have put on those early
years preceding mums death.

I really remember very little, so for the sake of balance I am going to
move forward a few years to when I was ten.

Dad was a big man. Really that is all you need to say about my dad.
It's the kind of statement a child would make, but Dad was simply
a-big-man. So one sentence sums him up. Dad was six foot six inches,
and I would guess around eighteen stone give or take a stone or two. He
was fit for his age, though to hear him talk every single day was his
last. Dad was also an old man, he was sixty one when I was born and
eighty three when he died

He had a wonderful deep voice. When he was in a good mood, it was a joy
to hear him talk. His voice was so deep, that he used to frighten
children and dogs in the street. Yet he could inject a great softness
and warmth into it when it suited him. It was under pleasant
circumstances a kind and gentle voice, but always with a booming
resonance all of it's own. A bass baritone man, with a bass baritone
voice.

Dad was big, his mouth was big, his personality was big. Dad was a
Geordie born and bred. He hailed from South Shields. And was always
very proud of his North Eastern roots. We moved to Ullerton, Cumbria in
the South Lakes when I was two.

Dad was a natural funny man, his good temper was so rare that when he
was in Jocular mood, life was suspended and put on hold. You would
forsake friends, miss parties, turn off the television and put down the
book you 'can't-put-down' just to sit and languish in his words. He was
a storyteller, and told of magical lands and times a-plenty. By this
time we had lost both hotels, and the newsagents, through his gambling
and drinking habits. Times were hard and we were now living off the
state in a council house.

So there I would sit, surrounded by soft, lumpy cushions, and after a
time my eyes would close, and I would be transported to another place
and time. Dad's voice would lull and please me, and make me wish that
life could always be that good.

On these occasions I can maybe see a little of what mum must have seen
in him. Mum had already had a hard life, and at twenty-eight, this
strong, unyielding, force of nature had to come into her life, much
older and wiser than she, and offering sanctuary.

He was still, I suppose a handsome man, and I suspect that in those
early days he was the answer to all her prayers. A man who promised to
cherish and protect. How the sins of the father are visited up on the
daughter, and how often the circle continues. For my boys life will be
different and the circle will be broken.

Dad was a great performer. To the day he died, He would get up at the
`Buff club' and sing Auntie Mary says that he would sing in turn to
every lady in the room. Looking deeply into their eyes and crooning
beautiful love songs. Sometimes fresh flowers were placed on the bar.
If this were the case, at the end of his song, he would dramatically
pluck one from its vase, and present it to some lucky lady, staring
intently into her eyes, and seductively murmuring a few choice words in
French. It didn't matter a jot to him that he was eighty-three and past
it. He was one of the world's greatest lovers. Of course in reality
what he was, was a Pratt and laughing stock, but then, that was my
Dad.

When dad left the stage some other drunk, brave with cheap whiskey,
would get up and belt out 'My Way' or some other equally murderable
song of the day. My dad was different, he didn't just sing-he
performed. I stopped going to the Buff club with him for two reasons.
Both embarrassment. One because at every opportunity dad would make me
get up and sing snowbird, or close to you. Or anything else he could
talk me into. I 'd blush and squirm and go through a thousand deaths,
then after my ordeal was over we'd have the post-mortem. After death
aptly named.

"Bloody awful." He'd bellow across the room, for all to hear.

"She can do better than that. Project. Project. Sell yourself girl, Of
course she'll never have her poor Mother's talent."

The second reason I stopped attending those torture-by-fatherhood
sessions that was I could no longer tolerate my dad's performance, both
on stage and off. He never drank much before he sang that would be
unprofessional. Even at a Saturday night sing-song. Dad saw it, not as
a bit of fun, but as his duty to get up and entertain the crowd.
Sometimes he was the compare. That was awful, because we all had to
endure his jokes, I found that often they were at my expense.

"Eeeh you'd have laughed at our Louise today, She's home on leave from
the exclusive boarding that I've sent her to. Thirteen years old she
is. Anyway's she comes in and asks if I'll buy her a bra. Laugh Eeeh, I
nearly wet me sen. I'll buy you one, when you've got summat to put in
the bugger hen. Here hinny, have these two corn plasters to be going on
wi`" Then he reached into his blazer pocket, and pulled out a packet of
corn plasters, which he threw across the room for me to catch. A
premeditated act of cruelty, to a child already awkward and lacking in
confidence. He probably got the idea of putting me in his act, the
minute I asked for the rotten bra, not one to miss an opportunity, my
dad.

Dad was furious when we got home, I had run to the ladies, where I had
been mopped up and attended to by some of the ladies present. One of
those had spoken her mind to dad. I of course received the brunt of his
anger for this. I had some good friends at the Buff club they looked
out for me. But of course they didn't see what happened behind closed
doors. No body did.

My Dad had always been a proud man. He had never taken a penny from the
state. He was a much-respected publican, shop and Property owner. After
Mums death he lost the lot, we were "on our uppers", and struggling.
This formerly proud and independent man, was reduced to pauper and
beggar.

After his singing and compare 'duties' were finished for the night,
the drinking in earnest would begin. Dad was a master at his craft; it
was an art form practised to perfection.

He would leave the house at around seven p.m., with maybe twelve
pounds in his pocket. After he had ingratiated himself into someone's
company, He would start telling his captive audience of the enormous
cost of sending me to an 'exclusive Private Boarding School' and how
while there I was being groomed to become a young lady. I don't think
he ever went quite so far as to tell them it was a Swiss finishing
School, but the insinuation was there none the less. He would brag
about me becoming someone, and having the opportunity of making
something of myself, an advantage he let it be known that he had given
me over the other children in the town. Every single person in the
place had heard this story a dozen times. Every one of them knew that
the school didn't cost him a penny, and was far from being an exclusive
boarding school. It was a care institution and I was sent there under a
care order for my own safety. He would go on to say how just that week
he'd had to buy me &;#8230; he would reel off a great list of things
I'd never seen, half the things I'd never even heard of. I've never
owned a Lacrosse stick in my life, and common or garden hockey is the
closest I've ever come to playing it. This would drag out for an
agonising length of time, then, just as it would seem things couldn't
become any more humiliating, he would dramatically throw his money onto
the table, in as much small change as he had accumulated. Then he would
announce in a voice verging on martyrdom that after all the expenses
I'd loaded him with that week, the meagre amount on the table was all
he had left. Result.... Free drinks all night.

Sometimes he bragged the following day, that he had come home legless,
with his twelve pounds intact, plus a few quid extra in his pocket. He
would be overly sated and very pleased with himself.

The sad thing was though, that everyone knew the truth. Dad was their
favourite charity. They knew what he was, and they undoubtedly
begrudged giving to 'Scrounging Geordie'. I suppose they felt that they
had to buy him drinks, he would get into mixed company where all the
men were buying rounds. Then he'd sit down without a drink and his
mixed change spread out on the table. He'd wait until it was time for
the next round to be bought, then say,

"Do what you can with that lad, It's not much but it's all I've got,
there might just be enough to buy everyone, one drink then I'll be on
my way." Fifteen pints later he'd collect his untouched money from the
table and be 'on his way'.

The extra money he sometimes came home with, I think was gladly given.
More often than not a five or ten pound note was quietly slipped into
his pocket when he went to the toilet. This money you see, was for my
benefit. As were the Christmas hampers from The Buffs, The Masons, St.
Vincent de Paul, The British Legion, and any other charity that Dad
could con into taking pity on us. I was a reluctant Artful Dodger, and
Dad had more skill than Fagin. Everybody took pity on 'That poor
motherless child' . How I learned to despise their pity and their
charity.

Apart from the 'incidents' which occurred now and then, I think my
early life in Ullerton was a fairly happy one. Being the child from The
Twisted vine, I was well know in the town. People would stop in the
street to talk to me, and I felt at peace with my world. I was known as
Geordie Girl around the town, but it was the local Police who gave me
the Nickname 'Lozzy' which to my shame stayed with me until I outgrew
it at around the age of ten.

The Police Station was about two minutes down the road from us,
although to get to it, it was necessary to cross the main road through
Ullerton. However in 1966, I don't think there was much traffic passing
through. Life was slower, cars were slower, and above all children were
safer. At around three-o-clock in the afternoon it was customary for
both Mum and Dad to be busy in the bar, or maybe they took an afternoon
nap, whatever the reason I was left pretty much to my own devises at
this time. I don't suppose it happened every day, but in my memory
that's the way it seemed. I became known around town for my regular
break-outs.

I would escape the pub, and set off down the cobbled street. This was a
sedate experience because would stop to talk to all the people who I
met along the way, and would pop in and out of the shops along the
street to say hello to all the shop keepers. Often I'd leave with a
sweet or a piece of mint cake.

When I reached the Main Road, I'd wait patiently until a grown up came
along and then I'd ask the if they could please take me across the
road. I'd skip happily into the Police station, and straight up to the
Information desk.

"Hallo Dave. Hallo John, I'm lost."

"Hello there young Lozzie, well in that case you'd better come into our
back room where we keep all our lost property. You're just in time for
a jam tart and a glass of milk. and there I'd sit, swinging my legs
contentedly munching on their tarts. We'd swap jokes and giggle until
their tea-break was over, then with my little hand completely lost in
the Policeman's big one we'd walk home together. Looking back now this
should seem strange or irresponsible, but in those days life was easy
and Ullerton was quaint. Three-year-old children presenting themselves
at the local Station was just a pleasant distraction from hum-drum
little town policing.

I could twist those poor coppers round my little finger. They'd often
have a few boiled sweets in their breast pockets, just on the off
chance that I would be lost again.

Another of my happiest childhood memories is of the Sunday morning
'going for the papers' trip. We would be up and out early, before
breakfast while Mum attended mass. Breakfast was always late on a
Sunday because of church. Dad and I would walk down to Salmon's to get
the Sunday papers. The streets would be deserted, and the only sound
would be the early morning birdsong. I don't remember ever doing this
in winter, only in spring and summer. There was always a weak sun, just
pulling itself up from behind the rooftops, and there was that distinct
lazy Sunday morning feeling. Sometimes as we walked down the road, the
church bells would begin to toll calling the faithful to the first
service of the day. It was idyllic.

Salmon's has long since been pulled down and a cafe built in its place.
Mr. Salmon died many years ago, and has been duly replaced by a long
line of sixteen year old waitresses.

That paper shop was like no other. After walking along the rough
cobbles of Main Street, and enjoying the early morning sun, you'd step
over the threshold of the shop, and it was like an instant and total
eclipse of the sun. Suddenly you were in a cold, dark, dingy little
shop. Everything was filthy and had a lovely damp, musty sort of old
newspaper smell. It was a long and very narrow shop. Dad had to squeeze
past all the magazine racks, and took up all available space between
them and the counter. When the new newspapers and magazines came out
they were just thrown on top of the old ones. Sometimes the pile became
so high that you could hardly see the shopkeeper.

We would go through the ritual of asking for whatever it was we
wanted. This was the Salmons etiquette. Dad already knowing the outcome
would ask for the papers he wanted. Mr.Salmon would then tell him that
he knew exactly where to put his hands on them. Ten minutes later after
unhurried paper shuffling and sorting, the much sort after papers and
comic would be found. They would be held aloft triumphantly, dog eared,
rumpled, and smelling strongly of pipe tobacco. And that was just the
way we liked it. Dad would never have dreamed of going to the
new-fangled newsagents, that had recently opened. Dad and Mr. Salmon
were the old breed of tobaconists. A species trodden underfoot by
evolution. They were the Woolly Mammoth's of the newspaper
industry.

Salmon's was a Sunday tradition as steeped in habit as the joint of
beef served pink and steaming at two-o-clock.