I Did Tell, I Did (16 page)

The only good thing out of all of this, something I was so relieved about later, was that we had never been lovers. Our love was so special, he asked nothing physical of me. Our love was pure. Our love was wonderful. But our love was wrong. And now it was over.

Lots of other things began to make sense now—if sense is the right word. Uncle Bill had often said while he was raping or abusing me that he had the right to do it, and I never knew what he meant at the time. Of course he didn’t have the right—no one has that right—but I could see now why he had said it. The jibes that I had listened to for years, in which Mum said that Dad had no rights over me, again made sense now.

To my mind, my real ‘father’ would always be the man who had brought me up and looked after me through my childhood, the man who made me a pink doll’s cot out of tomato boxes. He wasn’t the man who abused, destroyed and terrified me, leaving me feeling dirty and ashamed. A man who steals your childhood is not a father. He is evil.

I didn’t know the word ‘incest’ at the age of seventeen. I’m glad I didn’t. I was suffering enough and didn’t need another thing to feel dirty and ashamed about. But incest it was. Why on earth hadn’t Mum tried to stop me going out with Steve? I didn’t dare ask her, but all I can assume is that she wanted to
cause me pain. She knew the truth would come out eventually, and she wanted me to be unhappy.

For the rest of the summer I was lost in my own heartache. It wasn’t just this revelation about my birth, but also the pain of loss, loss of the love I had had. I couldn’t get my head around what had happened. For some reason I felt ashamed of how I had hurt my half-brother. Ashamed that I had been treated so badly by Uncle Bill, the man who it now seemed was my father. What an awful person I must be to have been treated this way. It must all be my fault.

Mum had always told me that I was to blame for all the pain she and our family were suffering. This must be what she had meant. But the mistake that had caused it all wasn’t mine, surely? They were her mistakes—hers and Uncle Bill’s.

I remembered a lesson at school when the teacher was asking about our fathers’ war careers and I said that mine was out in Burma from 1943 until the end of the war in 1945.

‘That can’t be right,’ the teacher said. ‘He must have had leave during that time.’ Of course, she was thinking about the fact that I was born in November 1945. But in reality, the man I grew up calling ‘Dad’ didn’t meet me until I was six months old. It seemed Mum had been having an intense affair with Bill. Many women did have encounters, liaisons, affairs while their men were away fighting. It was a difficult time; people were afraid and lonely. These things happen. Many illegitimate children were born, and many men left their unfaithful wives when they got back from the front line. But my dad didn’t. He stayed.

You would have to know my dad to understand why he did this. He was a gentle, kind man who loved my mum to distraction. He forgave his wife and understood that she had felt lonely and afraid while he was away.

The more I thought about Mum and Bill, the sicker I felt. I thought about how giggly and flirtatious she became around him, with freshly retouched lipstick and a softer, more feminine tone of voice. I thought about that kiss I had seen in the hall the night I told her that Bill had been touching me inside my panties. I thought about all the times as a child when I was sent out to play in the garden when he came round. And a horrible suspicion began to shape in my head. Had their affair really finished the day that Dad came home from war? Or did they still get together sometimes? Was that what the fight was about when I was eleven? Had Aunt Gwen found out they were still having an affair? Surely he had stopped having sex with my mother by the time he started having sex with me?

Maybe this would go some way to explain why Mum hadn’t believed me when I told her that Bill was kissing and hurting me. She just couldn’t believe it of someone who was my biological father, and her lover. That’s why she thought I was making it up. Because she couldn’t face the truth about the nasty, evil man who was her lover.

But why would she insist that I was to blame for everything that had gone wrong in the family? It seemed to me that my only ‘sin’ was being born—and there wasn’t much I could do about that. Mum said I had ruined everyone’s lives by raking up past mistakes, but they were his and her mistakes, not mine
or Steves’s. We were the victims in this trauma. But I felt so wretched that I took all the guilt onto myself. I believed that I must have been a really bad person, because otherwise these things that had happened wouldn’t have happened to me. I had tried to be a good girl, I had asked God to protect me and help me. But I must be a bad person because God wasn’t listening.

A few days after the life-shattering revelation, I had a doctor’s appointment to talk about the fact that I was having very bad periods. My GP was kind to me and asked if I had any other worries, at which point I broke down. I wanted to tell him everything, wanted to pour my heart out to this health professional, who seemed to sense that something else was wrong in my life.

But I didn’t. How could I explain the horrendous abuse that had been going on for the last ten years, since I was seven years old? How could I tell him of the pain, humiliation and constant belittlement I suffered at the hands of my mother? Bill had drummed it into me that I wouldn’t be believed. He constantly reminded me that all the family knew how much he cared about me. How I willingly spent time with him. How I showed the world that I loved him.

Would this kind doctor have believed me? I was scared that he wouldn’t. So I said I was fine, just tired after the pre-nursing course and the experiences in hospital. I told him I was still getting the headaches and period pains but that otherwise I was just OK.

He said he would change my current prescription to some new, stronger tablets that would take away the period pains
and the headaches and make me feel a lot better. At that stage I would have taken anything to feel better. Clutching the prescription, I made my way to the nearest chemist, disappointed that I hadn’t found the courage to tell my GP about my problems but relieved that he thought my physical complaints could be solved by taking a few pills.

We trusted our doctors back then, were in awe of them. If they said these pills were the right ones to take for our problems, then take them we did. Benzodiazepines were still seen as safe wonder drugs, although a few research studies had raised warnings about their addictive nature. Millions of people, mostly women, were prescribed them on repeat prescription for years and years on end. And I was one of these women.

As time went on, I began to feel better. The headaches almost stopped and my periods, although still very heavy, were not as painful. Apparently, any kind of stress will make menstruation more painful, so when the pills helped me to cope better with the dysfunctional family I was part of, the period pains got less.

As regards my career, I didn’t have the heart to argue any more after Mum’s bombshell. She contacted the college to enquire about me recommencing the nursing course. I didn’t want to do this, but as far as she was concerned it wasn’t up to me. However, the principal of the college had heard from the matron of the hospital where I had been working and between them they had decided that it wasn’t a good idea for me to continue my nursing career at that point. The practical part, which was where I became unstuck, was a major part of the
course in the second year, so they thought that maybe I should come back to nursing when I was older.

My mother was furious and was about to give the principal an earful, but the principal said that there was another opportunity I might like to try for, one that she thought would suit me better. The government had set up a pilot scheme for training medical receptionists. Only six students were going to be selected and she wondered if I would like a place on this course? Mum could see some prestige in this, a government-sponsored pilot scheme, so she said yes, I would like to accept a place.

She didn’t consult me, of course. There was no question of me switching to the journalism course I had longed to do.

As it happens, I had been so happy at college that I was relieved to be going back to any course that didn’t involve nursing. I went back in September
1962
, still only seventeen, and embarked on the first medical receptionist training course in the country. I still saw all my good friends from the prenursing course and still felt very much part of the student family. This helped me to begin to come to terms with the tumultuous events of the summer months.

I didn’t see Steve, my half-brother, again for a long time. He didn’t come over to our house and I didn’t go to see him. Although the pain was still there, college life and my youth helped me deal with it.

I continued to feel a strong sense of betrayal, though. I was used to Mum letting me down and hurting me, but this surpassed everything she had ever done in the past. And what
must my dear, gentle, kind dad be feeling? We never once discussed it. He kept out of my way. I presume he meant this to protect me and not cause me any more anguish, but I could have used someone to talk to at home and there was no one there.

Uncle Bill kept away for the rest of that year. I suppose things must have been difficult for him at home. No doubt Gwen was furious with him. I thought about her and her family, and Steve in particular. You can’t just turn off a love as strong as I had felt for him and I cried myself to sleep many, many times.

‘Gwen and the family hate you now,’ Mum told me, and I believed her. So I stayed away.

How could I have gone to see them? It was all my fault, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t been born, their lives would have continued just fine. No one would be hurting now.

It was my guilt, my shame, and I would have to carry it for most of the rest of my life.‘

I
n contrast to my home life, I really enjoyed my time at college. I joined a theatre group, sang with a glee club and continued to be a member of the church choir, as well as singing in the band on Friday nights. Gradually I began to live the life of a normal student. I had my quiet moments, when the dark thoughts crept up on me, but I had become an expert at hiding all the horrible bits of my life and pretending that things were good.

Mum continued to be harsh and cruel. My older siblings had all left—Ellen and Rosie were married and Tom was overseas with the Marines, but Anne remained at home, where she got to take over the role of Mum’s favourite, in contrast to me, the person who had ruined her life. I was too busy to spend much time at home, because on top of my social life I had to work hard to keep up with the course work, but that was all for the best.

The great thing was that I hadn’t seen Bill for over a year. He had gone, and as time went by I let myself believe that was it,
that I would never see him again, never have to do those despicable things with him again. I was trying very hard to put all the pain of my past where it belonged—in the past. I was trying to make another norm, one that was happy and free from fear.

When I was eighteen years old I met an actor called Alistair, who was the original tall, dark and handsome man. He was full of charisma and an amazing actor as well. All the girls adored him so I was completely bowled over when he asked me to go on a date. Me!

I was shocked and astonished but I said yes straight away (and almost added ‘Yes, please!’).

We started dating, but during the early months of our relationship, once again, Uncle Bill came back on the scene. I arrived home one day after college and there he was, sitting in our living room with a mug of tea in his hand. I was shocked and went straight to my room but Mum called me down to speak to him. What was she thinking? Did she think that I would start treating him as my father? Did she really think that I could have this relationship with him? I had told her about how he hurt me, so what was she thinking? I went down and said hello and made the bare minimum of polite conversation, then escaped up to my room again. Nothing was said about the revelation that he was my father, or about the end of my relationship with his son. He never brought it up, and I didn’t either.

For a while after that I managed to avoid being alone with him, but he seemed almost to be stalking me until he could get me alone and try to lure me away with him.

‘Bill wants to take you into town, so get your coat,’ Mum said one Saturday when he had dropped in. ‘It’s a long time since you spent time together. I’m going out with Auntie Mary. See you both later!’

She left, and Bill looked at me with his awful, awful grin. ‘Come on, Cassie, we can have fun. We could buy you some new shoes or something.’

‘I’m not coming out with you!’ I said firmly.

‘Your mum said you’ve got to come. Do you want to take it up with her? She’ll be very cross with you.’

‘I’m not coming with you any more,’ I insisted. ‘You can’t make me. If you try to force me, I’ll tell Alistair.’ I just said this because it was the first thing that came into my head. I hadn’t really thought it through.

Uncle Bill laughed. ‘What would he think of you if you told him? He’ll say, if you didn’t like what was going on, why didn’t you stop it? Why didn’t you tell someone before?’

I could see how it might look to an outsider. I
had
told someone, but I hadn’t been believed. What if Alistair thought I had wanted to have sex with the man I now knew to be my own father? Surely he would run a mile?

Bill threatened that if I didn’t agree to have sex with him he would tell Alistair about our relationship, tell him that I had instigated it, that I was the one who made things sexual. I was horrified! Horrified that he could do this and horrified at the thought that he might be believed.

Would he really tell? I didn’t understand the law at that age. I thought that it would be seen as my fault because I
hadn’t done anything to stop it. I was scared of losing Alistair, with whom I was completely infatuated. I was too naïve to realise that I had any choice in the matter, even at the age of eighteen. When I was younger and I had told Mum about Bill abusing me, she hadn’t believed me. I had tried to put it behind me during the time Bill wasn’t on the scene, but now he was back all the fears and doubts overwhelmed me again. I couldn’t tell now, could I? What would I say? He had continually raped and abused me for years and years. Wouldn’t people think it was strange that I hadn’t told anyone before? Would they believe him? As far as I could see, I had to keep quiet—and I couldn’t let him tell either. I was confused, and scared of Uncle Bill, and so I gave in and let him have his way again.