The hairs on the back of my neck stood up now. I knew what he wanted, and I couldn’t move. I sat there like a little statue, feeling sick and scared and horribly confused.
‘Move now! Get here now!’ he shouted. His voice was so fierce and angry it triggered me into action. I moved closer to him, and I felt my body start to tremble as he pulled me across his lap.
I tried to shut my eyes so tight it would make everything numb and black, but it didn’t work.
I felt a rubbing and pushing up my back and my bottom. My face was pushed down into the blankets but I could hear the kids downstairs laughing and chattering as they played with their presents.
Mary was only small and she’d chosen a plastic doll as her gift. She was thrilled with it, and I tried to picture her happily playing with it to take my mind off what Daddy was doing to me in the bed.
I thought about the Apache Indian doll Mammy had bought me. I loved cowboys and Indians films, and she’d let me pick out this doll with an embroidered face, leather clothes and threaded plaits.
Suddenly the images of the presents and the smiling children and the tinsel downstairs vanished.
That agonizing shooting pain I had felt before had taken over my mind and body again.
I was paralysed by it, and by the fear. I was going to break in two. The smell of the turkey hovered over the bed. I wanted to be sick. Daddy had spoilt Christmas. I thought he loved me. I still wanted him to love me. But he couldn’t love me that much if he hurt me and frightened me like this, could he?
I tried not to cry when I put my clothes back on and struggled downstairs. Mary was giggling and giving her dolly a hug. I didn’t want to spoil her day, so I sat on the sofa quietly watching, shuffling nervously on my sore bottom.
It felt as if the front bedroom belonged to another world. It was like I’d just stepped out of a scary film and walked back into real life. But real life was scary too. I could still feel the acute pain, even though my heart felt cold and dead.
Mammy glared at me. I’d forgotten to bring the plate back down, and I thought for a second she was going to order me back upstairs to get it. I looked back at her, tears welling up in my eyes, but she just looked away.
She couldn’t know what Daddy had just done, could she? Maybe I should tell Mammy what Daddy did after all. I couldn’t bear the thought of being hurt that way again. It had to stop, but what could I say, and how would Mammy react? I had no idea, but I knew I had to try.
Chapter 8
Telling Mammy
I loved New Year’s Eve. It was my favourite time of year. All the boats out at sea would sound their foghorns at midnight and the church bells would ring in the New Year.
We called it the Boats and the Bells, and when I was smaller I remembered Mammy would tell me to hurry up and go to sleep so that she could wake me up at midnight to hear the celebrations. Then I was allowed to run outside and wish the neighbours a Happy New Year.
This year, I didn’t feel excited at all. I was only eight-years-old, but nothing seemed to make me feel excited any more. When Granny called round to tell me one of her stories it cheered me up, but not much.
Even my blue piano didn’t make me happy. I looked at it stowed in the corner, untouched for days. It had a layer of dust on it already. I didn’t want to play it, and I didn’t want to sing. What Daddy did on Christmas Day made me so very sad.
My head hurt all the time. I had asked Mammy for pills the night before it was so bad, but she shouted at me. ‘No, Cynthia, I might have a hangover tomorrow! You can’t have my painkillers.’ The foghorns sounded out as noisily as ever when midnight struck, but my own head felt so foggy the booming sound didn’t inspire me like it normally did. It was just a noise in the distance, another sound bouncing aimlessly around in my head.
‘What’s your New Year’s resolution going to be this year, Cynthia?’ asked one of our neighbours in the street.
All the other kids were chattering and shouting out their resolutions, like learning to swim, doing their homework or helping their mammy make bread.
I had so many things I wanted to change in my life, I didn’t know where to start. ‘I don’t know - wash the dishes for Mammy!’ I offered, while inside I thought: Tell Mammy. Pluck up the courage to tell Mammy what Daddy does in bed. Ever since Christmas Day I had been trying to be brave enough to tell her how much he hurt me, but I was terrified. I thought back to when Mammy called me a ‘dirty bastard’ for walking in on her getting dressed. She had just been in her bra, and she looked ashamed and tried to cover herself up. Would she think I was dirty? When Mother Dorothy had told me off for wearing smelly knickers Mammy had screamed, ‘Don’t go talking about the filthy parts of your body! I’ll wash your mouth out with soap and water, you filthy little bitch!’
I looked at the other kids, making up their resolutions like I used to. I had to tell Mammy, I just had to. I didn’t want to be sore and in pain. I wanted to have fun and be happy and normal like other kids. I had to see if it was possible. I had to tell.
I spent many weeks agonizing over it. There was nobody else
