Life With My Father

Life With My Father
By T. Sneddon

It’s true what they say, that you can’t choose your parents and I sometimes wonder how different my life might have been if I’d been able to do just that. The details of my story are unverifiable but they are true; this is a true recollection of events which made me the mother I am.
My father is Irish, mum is Scottish and we lived in a large housing estate on the outskirts of Glasgow. I am the oldest of three kids. I have a younger brother and sister, Dawn and Paul. Dad worked on building sites as a labourer and mum stayed at home to look after us. She didn’t go out to work much, opting to be the housewife instead. We attended a Catholic school, were always clean and tidy and our bellies well fed. Pretty normal childhood you might think but not all of the time.
I can’t remember exactly when my parents starting drinking, all I know is that we were young. At first, they would just have a few cans of lager on weekend nights, but it soon became a regular thing, regularly every night.
Then they moved on to the hard stuff, whiskey and special brew lager; rocket fuel to the inexperienced.
I'm not saying that parents should never drink, I do it myself sometimes, but when one parent has to be physically carried to bed and violence comes into the equation, which affects your children then it’s time for changes.
We lived in a tenement building with seven other families as neighbours. So when things kicked off in our house the entire population of the close heard every word that was screeched from my mother’s mouth.
My dad was having an affair with a local shop girl only three years older than me, when I was about fifteen. Mum found out about it and went ballistic, but only when she got a drink in her first, of course - Dutch courage. It was always the same scene:
‘Yer nothing but a fuckin’ whoremaster,’ she would scream at him. ‘Get the weans in here, I want to talk to them.’
I would be called into the living room where drinks and glasses littered the coffee table. Mum would be standing there, her face red with rage and her hands rattling with anger.
‘Decide who you’re coming to live with, me or that bastard!’ she would bellow, gesticulating in my father’s direction.
‘Why do you have to fight all the time?’ I would plead trying to back out of the room.
‘You fucking stay here and answer me!’ she would screech, throwing her glass at the wall, exploding it into millions of tiny shards.
‘I don’t want to.’ Crying, I would hold my ears as if this might shield me from her verbal assault.
‘Let the lassie go to her bed, ya fucking eejit.’ would be Dad’s response, says fuelling my mother’s anger even more.
One night she flew across the room and started hitting him around the face. He lifted a hand and it came down hard, striking her on the mouth. To my horror blood appeared just below her lip and I managed to squeeze out of the living room door unnoticed and run down the hallway, back to my room to check if Dawn and Paul were alright. They were both asleep, though God knows how. I crept in beside Paul and pulled the covers over my head to block out the bawling that was resonating from the living room.
Next day, mum was so ashamed and in pain that I had to do anything for her that might entail her leaving the house. The obscenities she was yelling the night before is gossip for the neighbours you see, so I became the housewife in our house for a few days. I took the kids to school, brought them home again and got the groceries from the shops.
Violence became a big part in my life as I grew up. The more mum let dad get away with hitting her, the more he did it. One night they were fighting fiercely. Mum managed to get herself locked in the bedroom when the handle came away from the inside of the door so she couldn’t get out. Dad wouldn’t let me in to help her so she battered the door from inside with a large ornament of Jesus’ last supper that was made of stone. When I eventually got into the room to see her the door had been smashed beyond repair and she was lying pissed on the bed, wrecked with the exertions of throwing the ornament continually at the door. I pulled back her bed covers. Her chest from the neck down to her breasts was black and blue; he had beaten her so badly.
‘You’ve got to put a stop to this mum.’ I pleaded.
‘I know hen, I know,’ she sobbed, ‘But I don’t know what to do.’
‘We’ll leave, we can find somewhere else to stay.’
She just looked at me dazed through drink-bleary eyes and sobbed gently into her pillow. I think she was too sore to think of anything at that time. I remember I made her as comfortable as possible before going to bed myself.
Once, the violence got so bad that we did leave. Upping sticks one night mum took us to a homeless shelter in Springburn. It was an absolute dive and she said she couldn’t put us through living there, so we returned home. The drinking and violence continued, as did my father’s infidelity. He slept with more women and kept letting mum find out about it. Stupidity on his part, but sometimes I wonder if maybe he liked the arguments.
There came a point though were I had to leave, it was becoming unbearable even being in the same room as him. My aunt Sandra knew how I was being treated and she let me move in with her while I tried to figure out what the future held for me. She gave me a sanctuary that I could never have at home. I had more freedom and no violence to contend with. She was someone I could confide in and the ease of our chats gave me solace. My parents moved house to something bigger when I was sixteen. I thought this would be a fresh start for all of us, so after some discussion with mum and my aunt I went back home, having stayed with my her for a few months. However nothing had changed. Dad started referring to me as the ‘Big Yin’ instead of Tracy. I hated when he called me that. His tone was always derogatory and made me feel small as if he didn’t even want me back in the house.
‘Where’s the Big Yin? Get her in here to do them dishes.’ he’d say.
If I so much as answered back and he didn’t like the way I said it, I got a hiding. I ran away many times and was brought home by the police on one occasion. Dad phoned them when I ran off. He kicked me so hard in the backside, right at the tender point of my tailbone, I could hardly sit for weeks. Another incident, I recall so vividly that I can still feel the pain of it now. My dad caught me looking out my bedroom window when I should have been in bed, this warranted him taking a bamboo cane across my back. A strong punishment for my crime, but that was his way.
I left school at sixteen and was working in a take-away in Glasgow’s Hope Street. I threw myself into work as it was a means of escape from home, working twelve hour shifts and staying away from dad as much as possible.
Money wasn’t a problem I always had plenty and I saw mum alright if she needed anything. We seemed closer than we had ever been, becoming good friends, not just mother and daughter. The hate for my father continued to manifest but I kept thinking, ‘I need to make sure mum is okay.’
Then something happened that changed everything and all I know is fear left me for good that day. I banged the living room door, not intentionally it just banged behind me. As usual he flew into a rage and chased me down the hall into my bedroom. Everything happened so fast. He had me down on the bed throwing punches so hard I didn’t know what was happening. Mum ran for the neighbour upstairs (a man called Bill) to get him off me because she couldn’t manage it herself. I thought he was going to kill me. Blood spattered the walls and the quilt and furniture got smashed. As did my face. Something clicked in my head that told me this had to stop. I waited until he was asleep later that night and, creeping into the kitchen I got the biggest knife I could find and crept into my parent’s bedroom. The door creaked and I was so scared I’d wake him. Climbing onto the bed I sat on his chest…that woke him and mum. His face looked white with sleep and he saw the knife. The look of horror on his face was amazing. His hands were trapped beneath my weight so he couldn’t move; I had him now.
‘What the fuck’s going on?‘ he spluttered. I held the knife tight against his throat. My hands were shaking and my heart pounding from my chest. I had never been so afraid in my life, but I was determined to put a stop to what he was doing to our family.
‘You lay a finger on me or mum again and I swear to God I’ll slit your fucking throat when you’re asleep. You got that?’. I think the fear on his face was enough to tell me my threat had worked. That moment changed our relationship forever.
I’ve broken all ties with them now. My mother still didn’t leave him despite the beatings, which leads me to believe she is utterly spineless and can’t stand on her own two feet. I don’t want those kind of people in my children’s life.
This final incident was the catalyst to me standing alone in this world, making me determined to build a family I am proud of. I never lift a hand to my children in anger as I don’t think they should ever feel afraid in their own home, as I did. As for my parents, well they say all dogs get their day and I am sure they will get what’s coming to them, eventually.
(1591 words approx)
© T. Sneddon