Little Tim, Big Tim (3 page)

Peter and I are sometimes left unattended. In a large family of seven it’s unusual, but when this happens we are grateful to be by ourselves. We sleep in the same room as our brothers, but when daylight arrives we are kept apart, separated or taking our turn in the cupboard. It is useless being angry about our confinement because that just increases the duration and the pain to be suffered. The decision not to get angry leaves Peter and I in greater control of our world.

Dad refrains from raping us for some time, maybe months, however the brutal floggings and bashings don’t cease. Simple misdemeanours create a rage that will frighten the dead into being dead again. The physical abuse is at night after Dad gets home from work. He will walk in the door and be informed by our Mum what we have done wrong.

‘Wait ’til your father gets home,’
is her chant of terror, which always results with Peter (the pain holder) doing his job.

Dad’s job is the Bread man. He delivers bread door to door, and at times I’m kept home from school. These days I call ‘the damned days’. The rapes start again. Dad visits people that he delivers bread to on his round. It’s always organised and prior to slipping into the space of many colours, I am surprised that strangers will ask about my brothers by name and how and when they can see them again. My confusion and terror when hearing these strangers talking about my brothers suddenly whips me into the space of many colours.

The man is small with stumpy fingers; he has a round face with a balding head and black-rimmed glasses. His windpipe is extra large in proportion to his neck. Little Tim has gone again; I feel alone and ask Troy to be with me during this nightmare in the middle of the day.

‘Look at that neck, I wonder if I ran up his body and smash, smash, smash, smash it?’

Troy’s words resonate in my head. I feel comfort and hold my head up high as I’m led away to face and endure the fate that my Dad has decided for us. The attack is short and Dad comes in as I am gathering my clothes.

‘Hurry up son and meet us in the kitchen.
’

‘I’ll hurry you up Dad with the kitchen knife,
’ Troy has suddenly joined me.

Little Tim is looking for our shoes and is getting quite frustrated. I tell him to stop looking as he is bent down and looking under the bed—in this position it’s quiet painful and blood is oozing out of our bottom. Little Tim sits on the dirty brown carpet and starts crying.

‘I promise I won’t get angry so we don’t get in trouble today,’
Troy declares as he thinks he is to blame for Little Tim’s eruption of tears. I just don’t want any more pain, so I reassure Little Tim and tell him to go and find our shoes outside and return to the kitchen as ordered.

We sit at the kitchen table, looking out the window at a tree bare of leaves. Dad and his friend discuss church activities that they have been involved in recently. Money changes hands. It’s a lot more money than the cost of two loaves of bread. These people live in two worlds-the hidden one and the one they present to the world.

A small bird lands on the leafless tree and looks directly at us. The sound of Dad’s conversation starts to fade as I wish to be a bird and fly away from this human existence. The animal kingdom, birds and nature are the only source of sanity I want to be involved with.

It must’ve been a big pay-off because nothing happens to us outside of what goes on at home for a long time. I’m in the third grade, the happiest period of my young life. Troy is controlled and will only come out of the dark place, his cupboard, when asked. Little Tim is starting to resurface more and more. As Peter, I start the third grade. I can’t be a bubbly joyful little kid, but Little Tim can and his refreshing demeanour brings favour to us.

The other children refer to us as the teacher’s pet. We don’t care, and we are pleased to find someone who cares about our existence within the miserable reality in which we find ourselves. At the end of the first term Little Tim feels safe to re-emerge, so I give his body back and return to the
Dark.

It’s strange at first, getting used to some toys and clothes I have never seen before. The house we live in is cold. I go downstairs to the kitchen; I use my sense of smell to navigate around the strange rooms and hallway to find it. All of my family except my Dad are there and are looking at me strangely; I have a bewildered look on my face.

‘Areyou alright weirdo?
’ my eldest sister asks.

‘Come here Tim, warm yourself by the fire, you look like you’re frozen,’
my Mum offers generously.

This interaction isn’t what causes my bewildered look. My response to the sight in front of me is that I hardly recognise any of my family. It must’ve been six months since I have seen them (as Little Tim) and their physical changes frighten me. They are all taller and their facial features have also changed. I feel small and puny—even my younger brother James and younger sister Dorothy seem to have grown up quicker than me.

Once I’m warm and have breakfast, I run upstairs to get my homework for school and run back to the kitchen to do it by the fireplace. It’s really Peter’s homework and I will need him to explain the work I don’t understand.

Everybody else has disappeared to enjoy their holiday activities. Mum asks,

‘Why are you doing your homework on the first day of the holidays
?’

‘I need to understand the work.’

‘Can I help?
’ she offers.

I’m shocked but accept her offer. She explains the mathematics that I don’t understand and have never seen. She praises me when I finally get it right after countless times of getting it wrong. She questions me,

‘Why are you finding this work so difficult, when only a couple of weeks ago you knew the solutions?
’ I look at her and say,

‘I just forget lots of things Mum, I’m sorry,
’expecting some repercussion for being dumb. What she says next startles me.
‘That’s okay son, I forget things too.
’

Did she just then explain that she too loses time and forgets things she has learned, the same as me? My little mind tries to reason that maybe when she is nasty, she doesn’t remember. Her demeanour doesn’t change. She’s being friendly and caring and I risk another question, hoping not to provoke Nasty Mum to the surface.

‘Where’s Dad?
’

‘Oh, he’s at work.
’

‘Oh, yes, work,
’I reply, covering up that I don’t know what work he does and leaving an opening, hoping Mum will explain more. She does.

‘Yes, you haven’t seen much of him as he leaves very early in the morning and he comes home when you
’
re asleep. He does love you and misses seeing you.
’

I don’t understand her last comment and a strange thought enters my head—maybe Dad forgets too. I’m too young to explore this observation with Mum.

Mum and I are alone in the kitchen; she helps me to learn all of Peter’s work that I don’t understand. Once I feel confident that I know the work, she quizzes me. If I get it wrong, she doesn’t chastise me, she simply says, ‘hit the books’. I practise the correct answer until I get it right. When confident, I announce to my Mum, ‘
Ready for a quiz.’

‘What’s the capital of Australia?’
she starts.

‘
Canberra.’

What’s the capital of New South Wales?’

‘Sydney.’

‘Spell the word ‘giant.’

‘G-i-a-n-t, giant.’

‘Good. Spell the word friend’.’

‘F-r-i-e-n-d, friend.’

‘Good. Spell your name.’

‘T-i-m, Tim.’

‘Very good.’

The quiz ends with a 100% pass and I feel confident, with Mum’s help and Peter’s silent assistance, that I will be able to achieve a good result in the third grade. If I dedicate some extra time each day to learning the work, I can sit in Peter’s chair and no one will be wiser that I haven’t attended school in this grade. Mum states,

‘Since you have been a good boy and learnt your work, how about helping me to do some baking?’

It feels good to be praised by Mum. I feel proud. We bake all day—chocolate cake and Anzac biscuits. When the mixing is done, we each lick a beater clean. I giggle out loud at the chocolate mixture ending up on Mum’s face. She points at my face and I do the same. The freedom to be happy in my Mum’s company is indescribable.

Evening approaches and with the loud bellow of a voice that rings through two blocks at least, she summons the rest of the family to dinner. All seated at the table, the conversation revolves around family members’ activities during the day. All are excited to tell their own story. My older brother ribs me about being involved with the baking session, but he doesn’t understand it is the best day of my life.

School holidays continue and we only see Dad on Sundays. He works six days a week. Each Sunday he is extremely diligent—he makes Mum get us ready for the church service he says we need to attend to avoid being damned.

Sunday school is bearable, but Dad drags us into the big church to be bored out of our brains; we never understand the words being preached. This is an opportunity to display us to the churchgoers; some obviously have more interest in us than is socially acceptable. Soon Stewart starts having seizures again; more pain to come is the only conclusion.

My great achievement is the honour of being class captain for the last term of my third grade year. I am adorned with a white rectangular badge with the word ‘Captain’ in gold lettering; the school badge dangles underneath it. I carefully remove my pride and joy at night and place it on the dresser with careful attention, and each morning excitedly pin it to my uniform and get to class early to carry out my responsibilities.

My life is coming together. With Peter holding the pain of the attacks at bay and Troy holding the anger, I begin to truly be myself as best as I can. I become quite popular and have lots of friends. My schoolwork is constantly rated in the top three. Miss Freeman, my teacher, smiles and touches my hand as she places my work onto my desk announcing to the class that I have achieved another ‘A’. When I look up at her from my desk she smiles and winks. I have finally found an adult that I can trust.

‘I’ve got a surprise for you and James tomorrow. You won’t be going to school’ Dad informs me.

I start arguing with Dad about not wanting to miss out on school, the only place I feel safe. He removes his belt and starts swinging; I say nothing, as words offer no reason that might release him from his sadistic self. I accept the belting and am soon comforted to have Peter step in while I’m released to find sanctuary in the space of many colours.

As Peter, I can say that Troy and I have been left to feel the pain inflicted upon our bottom. We have no idea why we are getting this flogging.

Troy is vowing to grab the steering wheel of the car and send us over the edge of a cliff on the drive down the Blue Mountains.

I tell him to behave, as we have to protect James.

The destination is a commercial TV station and Dad’s promise that we get to look around the real TV station subdues us until we enter the door of the long rectangular building. It’s a lie. Two men wait inside to pay our Dad for the pleasure of having our bottoms to penetrate. We are put into one of those large black cars to be taken to an unknown destination. It’s a surreal event; James is interested in the car we are in, so much so that he’s distracted from the inevitable by asking questions of our would-be attackers.

Once again I suffer an invasion of our body and have to carry the pain. Troy is starting to piss me off, threatening to get even only
after
the act. I feel so alone at the time of the attacks; Little Tim abandons me and Troy surfaces only after the event is over. I decide in future I will take more control when I surface. From this juncture I will only provide my energy when the body is in pain.

As Little Tim, I wake up in my room unaware of recent events and proudly pin my Class Captain badge onto my uniform. At breakfast Mum gives me a phoney note explaining why we were not at school yesterday. Peter is in the
Dark
and I am really feeling how sore my bottom is. I go to school early and make sure I’m sitting down before class starts. However, at recess, Miss Freeman notices my discomfort.

She queries how I got injured. I just deny that there is anything wrong. She presses for some logical explanation and I finally crumble and break down sobbing,

‘
Daddy and his friends hurt us.
’

She storms off towards the principal’s office; she doesn’t return. I decide to pack my gear and leave immediately. I don’t go home; instead, I go to my safe place that I use on the few occasions I get the opportunity to flee.

My safe place is a bush park with large trees; at the entrance is an arch brick gateway. I locate a large tree and scale it so I can see if anyone is looking for me. I wait until the school kids cut through the park on their way home before I go home, ensuring that no suspicion arises from me arriving home early.

The front door is open so I go straight to my room and start doing homework, expecting a flogging at any moment for dobbing in my Dad. We have dinner and nothing is said. I am in bed when I hear Dad come home. Any minute now, I prepare myself. Nothing happens. Fear will not allow me to sleep; I toss and turn all night. At one stage in the intense fear of the expected torment I mentally plea for a flogging; anything to give me some relief from the anxiety I’m suffering. I wet the bed, not daring to move.

In the morning, before the others stir, I quickly put the wet sheets and pyjamas into the washing machine and close the lid so no one can see them: problem gone away. I go to breakfast and still nothing is said. In fact, Mum is extra kind and gives me extra treats in my lunch in the form of iced vovo biscuits. I run all the way to school to be close to the teacher that I trust will expose my twisted existence to the authoritarian adult world.

The bell rings to begin school. (The school captain’s responsibility is to walk around the grounds clanging the bell, yelling
‘five minutes to next bell’.)
This bell means that class captains are responsible for ensuring that all students are seated by the time the next bell rings. When it rings, most of my class is seated; I am seated too, however, frozen rigid.

The fear within me revolves around unanswered questions that have surfaced since I told Miss Freeman my distasteful tale. I am alone and have to bear the associated anxiety and pain without help from Peter. It isn’t physical pain, and Peter only surfaces now when I have to endure physical pain. I fear I have created trouble by being bad and telling Miss Freeman my story.

I wonder if Dad has been told about my accusation and has done something to Miss Freeman.

This thought scares me as I pray to God to let her walk into the classroom with her usual smiling face.

‘Sit down children,’
a man’s bellowing voice commands.

It’s the school principal that glares at us to obey his command. Within sixty seconds the class is silent, sitting at their desks, looking to the front.

‘Miss Freeman won’t be teaching you anymore. She has left the school’
he informally states.

‘I will be your teacher until we find a new one.’

Tears well up in my eyes. I’m in the front row and only the principal can truly observe my weakness of the fear of the unknown. What really happened to Miss Freeman? The girls of the class start to cry and ask the principal if we, Miss Freeman’s class, have made her leave. The rest of the boys are querying collectively if they have been too bad and made Miss Freeman leave school. They too start to cry.

By now the whole of the class is crying about missing their favourite teacher. I’m crying due to the fear and shame that what I said to her may have got her hurt from the bad people. The principal is losing control and realises that the callous way he approached telling sensitive third graders their teacher and friend won’t be coming back is not appropriate. He leaves the room with all of us still distracted with the sudden shock of the unpleasant news.

Miss Pearson enters our room and starts to quieten us down. This doesn’t take her long as we are slightly exhausted from howling, sobbing and crying and, as the last of us quieten, she tells us the truth of Miss Freeman’s sudden departure.

‘Miss Freeman has left due to the fact she is going to have a baby,’
she gently informs us.

The girls are first to respond to the news; ‘Oohs’ and ‘
Aaahs
’ echo throughout the room. The boys all have relieved faces too, as now there is a logical explanation to her departure. I feel shame, a new emotion: Shame for wondering if I’ve gotten Miss Freeman hurt or sacked. I run out of the classroom all the way to the park with the trees and heaven’s gate at the front. Shame overwhelms me as I sob, asking the same question over and over again. Did I get Miss Freeman hurt? I don’t believe adult truth.