I Remember, Daddy: The harrowing true story of a daughter haunted by memories too terrible to forget. Katie Matthews
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believe in presents. On the one occasion when I did have a birthday party, all the gifts that had been bought for me were collected into black bin bags as soon as the guests had gone home, and then they were given away.
The only time my father showed any interest in me and my brother was when he made us perform for the entertainment and amusement of his guests. We were like little puppets, only really coming to life in my father’s eyes when he decided to tug at our strings and show us off. From the time I was three years old, he used to teach me fables in French, which I had to recite on demand to his friends. They’d all stand around me in a circle, sipping their whisky from crystal glasses and smiling benevolently as I spouted words I didn’t understand, which my father had taught me, parrot-fashion.
I can’t remember the fables now, although I can still remember clearly how afraid I used to be of my father’s sudden impatient anger whenever I made a mistake while he was teaching them to me. I can remember how my whole body used to shake and how I’d clench my little fists until my hands were damp with sweat and my fingernails were digging into my palms, and how my father towered over me like the embodiment of a threat as the strange, incomprehensible sounds tumbled from my lips. The fear I felt was well founded, because if I made just one mistake, my father would tell me to pull down my pants and lie across my bed and then he’d beat me with his belt, shouting at me that I was useless, before sending me to bed without any supper.
One of my earliest memories is of something that happened just before I turned three. My brother and I weren’t allowed in the rooms on the first floor of the house. We had a playroom on the floor above, which was the only place we were supposed to play. But, when my father was at work, my mother used to let us do more or less what we wanted, and one day we decided to play trains in the drawing room. Ian was leading the way, making a very satisfactory steam-train noise, and I was holding on to his waist, following behind him and singing out ‘Oooh-Oooh’ every few minutes, in a not quite so realistic imitation of a train’s whistle.
Suddenly, Ian tripped and fell headlong against one of the huge windows. There was an ear-splitting roar as the glass cracked and then dropped, in a massive sheet, to the ground, only just missing decapitating him. I screamed, but Ian just stood there in silence, too shocked to react. After a few seconds, he touched his hand to his forehead and looked at the blood on his fingers as though he couldn’t understand what it was.
I was still screaming when I heard my father shout and, at the same moment, the drawing-room door flew open and he burst into the room, followed closely by my mother.
We found out later that he’d been walking home along the edge of the leafy square when he’d seen my brother fall against the window and had watched as the glass splintered and smashed. But, instead of being concerned about the long, deep gash on my brother’s head, which was now spurting forth what looked like pints of blood, or about the fact that Ian had come very close to being killed, my father was almost ballistic with fury because we’d been playing in the drawing room.
Ian was still standing, dazed and completely still, near the empty window frame when my father came into the room. Finally, though, as the initial numbness of the shock began to wear off, his whole body started to shake violently. And it was at that moment that my father almost ran across the room and grabbed him by the shoulders.
‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’ he bellowed into my brother’s blood-covered face. ‘You are not allowed to play in the drawing room!’ With each shouted word, he punched Ian on the arm and then he screamed, ‘How many times do you have to be told something as simple as that?’
My brother flinched and leaned away from him.
‘Please, Harry,’ my mother said, touching my father’s shoulder and then quickly pulling her hand away again. ‘We need to get Ian to the hospital. It’s a really serious cut.’
‘The hospital?’ My father’s face was a deep-red colour and I knew he was on the verge of losing control completely. ‘The fucking hospital?’ he shrieked again. ‘Get to your room! Both of you!’ He swung round, took a step towards where I was cowering on the floor at the side of the chintz-covered sofa and shouted, ‘Now!’
As I fled from the room, I heard my mother pleading with him again, ‘Please, Harry.’ Then she gave a sharp cry, and I knew my father had punched her.
I sat on my bed, sobbing with shocked distress because of what had happened and because I was terrified of what was to come. A few minutes later, my father walked into my bedroom and slowly undid the buckle of his belt. Without having to be told, I pulled my pants down to my knees and lay on my stomach across my bed while he gave me ‘ten of the best’. Then I struggled to my feet and tried to pull my pants back up over the bleeding rawness of my buttocks.
‘Go to your brother’s room.’ My father spat the words at me, his face a contorted mask of hatred and fury.
I limped along the corridor and stood helplessly beside Ian, who was sitting on his bed crying, his tears diluting the blood that was still seeping from the cut on his head.
When I looked up, my father was standing in the doorway, surveying us both with an expression of disgust. ‘You will stay there without food or water until Monday morning,’ he said coldly, and then he turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.
It was a Friday evening. But I was just two years old and Ian was five, and we had no concept of how long it was until Monday.
A little while later, my mother came into the room carrying a tray of sandwiches and two glasses of water. As soon as she opened the door, my father appeared behind her, as if by magic.
‘I thought I had made it clear that you are not to give them anything to eat or drink,’ he said, in a slow, menacing voice.
My mother was startled by his silent, abrupt appearance and as she spun round to face him, one of the glasses tipped over, sending water cascading on to the sandwiches. She righted the glass and blinked rapidly as she pleaded with my father, ‘Please, Harry. They’re only children. They’ve got to eat. At least let them drink something. They can’t stay locked in here without food or water for two whole days.’
Suddenly, without any warning, my father lashed out and hit her across the face, and she dropped the tray at his feet.
‘Pick it up!’ he hissed at her.
He kicked her as she fell to her knees and began to scoop up soggy pieces of sandwich and the two empty glasses. Then she stumbled out of the room and my father followed her, locking the door behind him, while we sat and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading away along the corridor.
Over the next two days and three nights, my brother and I played games together, cried when the pain of hunger and thirst grew too urgent to ignore, and slept for increasingly long periods of time. My mother came to check on us at irregular intervals, looking anxiously at the cut on my brother’s head each time, before letting us out of the room to go to the toilet. Then she hugged us quickly, glancing over her shoulder with fearful eyes, and told us not to cry because it wouldn’t be long before we could have something to eat.
During that weekend, we learned the price to be paid for disobeying my father. It was a lesson I always remembered every time I noticed the scar on my brother’s head, although, in reality, it had been the cause of far worse scars for both of us that no one could see.
The kitchen in our house was overrun with mice, and as my father hated animals of all species, particularly anything small and scurrying, he used to make my brother or me go down to get ice-cream for him when he came home drunk at night or at the weekends. I’d have hated going down there in the dark even without the mice to contend with, but they terrified me.
I’d edge my way down the stairs and then grope frantically in the darkness for the switch that would light up the corridor leading to the kitchen. My heart would be thumping against my ribs and I’d have to cross my legs to stop the pee escaping as I forced myself to stand my ground and fumble for the light switch. Sometimes, I’d have to make several attempts, running back up the stairs and waiting in the light of the hallway each time while I summoned