I Remember, Daddy: The harrowing true story of a daughter haunted by memories too terrible to forget. Katie Matthews
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Eventually, with one final thump on the kitchen door, I’d push it open and shudder at the sight of the thin, hairless tails of the last few mice as they shot behind the dresser or through the ragged-edged holes in the skirting board. Then I’d open the door of the freezer compartment in the fridge and scoop ice-cream into a bowl, singing or talking loudly to myself all the time so that the watching, waiting mice wouldn’t think I’d gone and come darting back out again from their hiding places.
I dreaded those forays down to the kitchen, and I’ve been frightened of mice ever since. But I longed to have a hamster and, much to amazement, when I was five years old, my father agreed to let my mother buy one for me.
I adored Daisy from the moment I set eyes on her. She had to be kept in the laundry room next to the kitchen, although sometimes, when my father was at work, my brother and I would take her out of her little cage and carry her into the living room. We’d hold her and stroke her and let her run along the coffee table beside the couch and then I’d scoop her up again and try to kiss her pink, twitching, inquisitive little nose.
One day, when we’d taken Daisy into the living room, she escaped and, with our hearts racing, Ian and I were still searching for her when my father came home from work unexpectedly. As soon as we heard his tread on the stairs, we rushed to take our places on the sofa, and when the living-room door flew open, we were sitting the way our father always insisted we should sit – hands in our laps, backs ramrod straight. Except that, on this occasion, my hands were clasped together so tightly I could feel the blood pulsing painfully in my wrists.
I prayed a silent prayer, although I had little hope of it being heard by the unforgiving God whose terrible wrath my grandmother had described to me so often and in such frightening detail.
‘Please,’ I kept repeating over and over in my head. ‘Please don’t let Daddy see Daisy. Please keep her hidden, just till he’s left the room. I’ll be good for ever and ever. I promise.’
I knew we’d broken the rules by taking the hamster into the living room. But I’d felt sorry for her, all alone and cold in the laundry room, and I’d been certain we’d hear my father’s key turn in the lock of the front door and would have plenty of time to slip down the back stairs and return Daisy to her cage before he’d even crossed the hallway.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white as the hamster ran along the arm of the chair beside me. I glanced up quickly at my father, hoping he hadn’t noticed. But, although the expression on his face barely changed, I knew that he had.
I held my breath, closing my eyes and sending tears spilling out on to my cheeks as I waited for the outburst of anger I knew was coming. To my astonishment, however, my father remained silent, and after a few seconds I dared to look up at him again. He was standing with his back to the window, his mouth twisted into a tight line of distaste as he surveyed my brother and me coldly.
Then, spitting out the words with staccato finality, he spoke directly to me as he said, ‘Take that thing back to where it belongs.’
I scooped the warm, furry body into my hands and ran from the room before he had time to change his mind. I could hardly believe what had happened. Had we really escaped the agonising lashings that were our usual punishment for any act of disobedience or sign of inadequacy? As the evening wore on and my father stayed locked in his study, it seemed that we had.
The next morning, when I crept into the kitchen for breakfast, my father didn’t look up from his newspaper. I slid silently on to a chair, taking more than usual care to prevent it scraping noisily on the flagstone floor. Then I reached out my hand towards the silver toast rack – and screamed. Squashed into a milk bottle, just a few inches from my plate, was the twisted, suffocated little body of my hamster.
My father lowered his newspaper and leaned across the table towards me. His face was contorted into an ugly expression of vengeful satisfaction as he said, in a slow, even drawl, ‘And that’s what happens when you don’t do what you’re told.’
I was heartbroken. My whole body was shaking and I felt sick with shock and with the knowledge that the horrible death my little hamster had suffered had been my fault. If I hadn’t broken the rules, Daisy would still be scuttling around happily in her cage. And, in that moment, I knew that my father was right: I was worthless and bad, because by not doing what I’d been told, I’d killed her.
Chapter Four
The first time I remember my father hitting me with his belt was when I was two years old. I soon learned that his word was law. If I didn’t do what he told me to do, it was as though something snapped inside him and, whatever his mood had been, it would change instantly to one of blind, raging fury. Nothing ever excuses hitting a child, and it’s beyond belief that anyone could bring themselves to thrash a two-year-old with a belt. But, as my father was only ever really physically violent towards me when I disobeyed him, I thought that his anger was my fault.
He didn’t need a reason to punch my mother, though, or to attack her viciously; he sometimes did it just to make it clear to her – and perhaps to my brother and me, too – that he was in charge. And there was certainly no doubt in any of our minds that he was in charge, totally and utterly. It seemed that he controlled every breath we took, and I learned always to think about whether something I was going to do might make him angry, which meant that I lived in a constant state of almost unbearable anxiety.
To my father, my brother and I were nuisances who had to be taught to respect and obey him, but could otherwise be ignored. I think his only reason for having children at all was because it fitted in, peripherally, to his idea of the life he aspired to as a successful businessman living in an expensive house in an affluent and prestigious neighbourhood, with an attractive wife from a good family, and children who could recite poems and fables in French to order before they were whisked away out of sight by their nanny.
Surprisingly, perhaps, of all the countless things that hurt and terrified me during my childhood, it was often my father’s violent bullying of my mother that was more frightening than anything else, and there were many occasions when I thought he was going to kill her.
One night, when I was five years old, I was woken up by the sound of someone sobbing. I lay on my back in my bed, listening, and after a few moments I realised that it was my mother. I released the breath I’d been holding – and, with it, a small, frightened whimper – and then I started to count. One, two, three … When I got to ten it would stop, and if it hadn’t … I paused in my counting and listened again.
Perhaps my parents were playing a game. I’d heard my mother shout out in the night before, and when I asked her about it the next morning, she told me that she and my father had just been ‘messing around’. So, maybe, if I listened for long enough, I’d hear her laugh and then I’d know that everything was all right.
But, in my fiercely thumping heart, I knew it wasn’t a game.
I heard my father shout something harsh and angry; then my mother cried out again, and this time there was no mistaking the terror in her voice. I pulled the bedcovers over my head, trying to block out the sound, and attempted to swallow the solid ball of fear that had lodged in my throat. I knew, though, that I couldn’t just abandon my mother when she might need help.
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut for a moment and then, in one quick movement, sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Then I tiptoed out of my room and crept along the thickly carpeted landing, counting my footsteps silently in my head to try to focus on something other than my own fear.
Crouching at the top of the stairs, I pushed my head just far enough through the balusters to be able to see my parents, who were standing on the staircase between the ground and first floors. My father was wearing