after Cec Parsons had been with me, Mum and Dad appeared in the bedroom and hauled me out of bed. I could tell Dad was acting at the behest of Mum, because she was standing behind him like an overfed ship commander, raging and ordering: ‘Get her on the kitchen table, dammit, and let’s have a look. Then we’ll see what’s going on here.’ And Dad, strangely, like a gawky cadet sailor unsure how to proceed, was obeying her.
Half asleep, I was led through the darkness of the house into the kitchen. There, in the complete black of night, I was lifted onto the kitchen table and told to lie on my back. The ceiling felt so close to my head and everything around me was so dark and threatening that my head felt like a flock of migrating birds lost in a jungle of squalling clouds.
Above me, Dad’s menacing bird-eyes were looking grey and frozen while Mum’s dark eyes blazed so intently and seriously I thought they were going to jump out of her head and beat me. It was like her eyes were a surgeon’s knife cutting through my skin.
And in the end, like surgeons, it was like the two of them, Mum and Dad, knew exactly what they were doing and where they were going with it. Only to me as a person, as a little girl alone on a dark wooden kitchen table, their eyes didn’t speak. They just barked orders and sliced. My body was writhing with the heat of small yet hugely painful incisions.
As I lay there like that, confused, self-conscious and embarrassed beyond belief, Mum was only about to make it worse. She ordered me to take my flannelette pyjama pants off. When I had done that, one of them, I think it was Mum this time, pulled down my knickers.
She growled to Dad to fetch a torch, and I completely believed, even without my pants on, they were going to examine my eyes. The birds in my head were whorling like a big and dusty whirly-whirly and I could not help but wonder if this was some new ritual Dad had not shown me that kings and queens performed.
Finally, a yellow light shone into my face. Behind it stood Dad. They both gathered at my side and Mum stood there, the short and plump commander, the Lord Admiral, giving orders. She was looking into my eyes but yelling something completely unfathomable.
‘Open your legs, Debbie!’
‘No, no. Why?’ I was sleepy and befuddled.
‘Just do it. Open them! Now ! ’
Looking up into Dad’s eyes, I saw stone. Looking up into Mum’s eyes I saw desperation – that urgent, sharp-gashing surgeon’s blade. Neither of them were giving an inch. I opened my legs.
All I remember was it was cold, and I sort of peered back with my head into the darkness behind me as they shone the torch between my legs.
In another world, in another era, it could have looked like a witches coven or like a Medieval torture chamber; in this world it was a torch held by two adult people, called parents, searching between my little girl legs for I did not know what. It was an investigation, a close and brutal interrogation. I was their prisoner and I held all their enemy’s secret truths.
Staring intently down there, the torch waving just slightly, Mum was the first to put her verdict on it.
‘It’s red,’ she said. ‘You can see it. He’s been touching her.’
Dad beckoned down with his eyes but stopped at the top of Mum’s head, like he was avoiding her. In a sense, without saying a word, I could see by the way he fidgeted and looked about Mum, that what Mum had said was his verdict too. He was just not prepared to openly say a word about it.
For me, the word “touching” was my clue. I knew from experience what Mum was on about. Only I couldn’t tell her, I couldn’t say anything. And quietly I knew it wasn’t just Cec, it was Dad. It was Dad, too.
Eventually, it sounded like eventually because Dad was silent for a long time, but finally he breathed: ‘I’ll have a word with him, Julie. He had better not be doing anything like this. Else he won’t be allowed back again. I’ll make
Half asleep, I was led through the darkness of the house into the kitchen. There, in the complete black of night, I was lifted onto the kitchen table and told to lie on my back. The ceiling felt so close to my head and everything around me was so dark and threatening that my head felt like a flock of migrating birds lost in a jungle of squalling clouds.
Above me, Dad’s menacing bird-eyes were looking grey and frozen while Mum’s dark eyes blazed so intently and seriously I thought they were going to jump out of her head and beat me. It was like her eyes were a surgeon’s knife cutting through my skin.
And in the end, like surgeons, it was like the two of them, Mum and Dad, knew exactly what they were doing and where they were going with it. Only to me as a person, as a little girl alone on a dark wooden kitchen table, their eyes didn’t speak. They just barked orders and sliced. My body was writhing with the heat of small yet hugely painful incisions.
As I lay there like that, confused, self-conscious and embarrassed beyond belief, Mum was only about to make it worse. She ordered me to take my flannelette pyjama pants off. When I had done that, one of them, I think it was Mum this time, pulled down my knickers.
She growled to Dad to fetch a torch, and I completely believed, even without my pants on, they were going to examine my eyes. The birds in my head were whorling like a big and dusty whirly-whirly and I could not help but wonder if this was some new ritual Dad had not shown me that kings and queens performed.
Finally, a yellow light shone into my face. Behind it stood Dad. They both gathered at my side and Mum stood there, the short and plump commander, the Lord Admiral, giving orders. She was looking into my eyes but yelling something completely unfathomable.
‘Open your legs, Debbie!’
‘No, no. Why?’ I was sleepy and befuddled.
‘Just do it. Open them! Now ! ’
Looking up into Dad’s eyes, I saw stone. Looking up into Mum’s eyes I saw desperation – that urgent, sharp-gashing surgeon’s blade. Neither of them were giving an inch. I opened my legs.
All I remember was it was cold, and I sort of peered back with my head into the darkness behind me as they shone the torch between my legs.
In another world, in another era, it could have looked like a witches coven or like a Medieval torture chamber; in this world it was a torch held by two adult people, called parents, searching between my little girl legs for I did not know what. It was an investigation, a close and brutal interrogation. I was their prisoner and I held all their enemy’s secret truths.
Staring intently down there, the torch waving just slightly, Mum was the first to put her verdict on it.
‘It’s red,’ she said. ‘You can see it. He’s been touching her.’
Dad beckoned down with his eyes but stopped at the top of Mum’s head, like he was avoiding her. In a sense, without saying a word, I could see by the way he fidgeted and looked about Mum, that what Mum had said was his verdict too. He was just not prepared to openly say a word about it.
For me, the word “touching” was my clue. I knew from experience what Mum was on about. Only I couldn’t tell her, I couldn’t say anything. And quietly I knew it wasn’t just Cec, it was Dad. It was Dad, too.
Eventually, it sounded like eventually because Dad was silent for a long time, but finally he breathed: ‘I’ll have a word with him, Julie. He had better not be doing anything like this. Else he won’t be allowed back again. I’ll make
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