What Daddy Did (21 page)

I didn't know at that point that I would never see a Christmas like it again in my own childhood. In the dark years that followed, I clung to that memory to give me solace. As an adult I'm ridiculous when it comes to Christmas. Santa still comes down our chimney and fills up stockings, and my tree is always reminiscent of the one in my memory all those years ago, gaudily decorated with bright baubles and twinkling lights. Rather than look back at what I didn't have, I choose to remember the times when I did have something, and Edinburgh plays a big part in that memory for me.

WHEN I WAS 15 AND GETTING
ready to leave high school, one of the few social events in my life so far took place: the Leavers' Dance. Dad gave me a Provident cheque to go and get an outfit for this occasion, only because I'd pestered him so much, saying that I really wanted to go. I don't know why it was so important to me because I can't even remember who I went with, or indeed if I actually went with anyone.

There was a little clothes shop next to our old house on Easter Road – a boutique, as it was called then – and they took Provident cheques. I bought myself a new dress for the first time. It was green and fitted like a glove. I also bought a pair of black wedge shoes and new tights. I wore kohl around my eyes and mascara. My most distinctive memory is not of the dance, nor who was there or indeed whether I was asked to dance by anyone. It was of me standing on a dining chair looking at myself in the mirror in, for the very first time, a brand-new outfit I had chosen.

As I brushed my hair, my Dad paused beside me. There was no contact, no warmth, just a few hurried words: 'Watch yourself tonight,' he said. 'Watch those boys that'll be there – they're only after one thing. Don't give it away.'

I was incredulous.

I'd been getting raped under this man's roof since I was at primary school and now he was offering words of advice about the ways of men.

There weren't many times when my Dad offered me advice while I was growing up. Going by that example, it may have been just as well. In my teenage years, I didn't really want to listen to anything he had to say because I didn't respect him. I sometimes thought I was just being horrible because I was ashamed of him. He was nothing more than a little, broken man sitting in an armchair with a fag and beer can or cup of tea. When he wasn't doing that, he was in the pub with his cronies. To hear him offer me advice was abhorrent. As his words came out, I'd be thinking, 'Too late, Dad, far too late. I'm soiled and I'm damaged and it's all your fault.'

I was still worried about leaving Karen, but I knew that I had to get out of that place or I'd be stuck there for ever. It was about survival. As soon as I sat my one O Grade, I left school. I took a job at Andrew White's, the bookbinders on Bothwell Street, where I had the task of counting reams of paper. I really wanted to do the paper marbling but I was told that it would take me years to work up to that level. Before long I had a very sore back from carrying around heavy reams of paper and standing for hours on end. It would have been hard anyway but I found it really testing because of the number of beatings I'd had as a child.

I hated the tedium and drudgery of this 8am to 4.30pm job, with its 10-minute tea break in the morning, and 45-minute lunch break where you would eat a cheese sandwich and drink a mug of tea while gossiping about the people on the other floor. The only highlight of the week was on a Friday when the hooter would sound a little earlier than every other day, and people would stream out of the building and queue up for their pay packet.

It did, however, bring in £12.50 a week. I was allowed to keep five pounds from this wage and the rest went to my Dad for board and lodgings. I remember buying school clothes for Karen with one of my first-ever wages because I wanted her to look nice.

As I got older, I learned how to avoid the men who came back to my Dad's. Indeed, they more or less stopped coming around when they realised that I would just make myself scarce or be busy, or always have Karen or one of the others with me. I still hated living there though. I didn't want to work in a factory for ever, and I didn't want to sit around and watch my father drink and smoke himself to death while my life disappeared too. My Dad wanted me to continue working at the printers because it was a 'good steady job', but I needed to get out. I had lots of arguments with him around this time because by now I realised I just didn't respect him. And he thought I was being irresponsible when I eventually gave up the job I had always hated.

I went to see a careers officer and told him I wanted to be an artist. The man I spoke to said that it was a field far too difficult for me to get into because I had no qualifications. When I told my Dad I wanted to be an artist, his one comment was that I didn't stand a chance because I couldn't draw horses! Guess what, Dad? I can draw them now.

I managed to find a job with the grand title of 'finishing artist' with a company called Ian Fraser Designs, situated in the St Leonards area of Edinburgh. This company produced blown plastic relief pictures of scenes such as gypsy caravans, tramps and animals with a 'flock' background. The base coat was spraypainted onto the picture then it was my job to paint in the details. I stayed there a couple of months then decided it was time that I left Edinburgh. I didn't think about it. I just left.

When I moved out of my Dad's house, I just wanted to get as far away from everything as I possibly could. I had no idea where to go really, but I knew I wanted to get right out of the capital. I went up to Waverley railway station with the bit of money I had and a carrier bag full of my meagre belongings. Choosing Inverness as my destination, I bought a single ticket. No return. I remember choosing Inverness because I knew someone who had come from there, and when he spoke of it, it sounded like a lovely place.

When I was on the train, I got chatting to a couple who had a little baby with them. They asked me where I was going, and I told them I was heading to Inverness to find some work. They were really friendly and, as we chatted more, they discovered I had nowhere to stay at my destination. By the time the journey came to an end, they had offered me a room in their house in return for looking after the baby while they were working, as well as being responsible for cleaning the house for them. I shudder to think now how innocent and trusting I was. I took up their offer because I had nowhere else to go and, as we travelled, it was getting dark.

I telephoned home to let them know I was okay and where I was, but really, all I wanted to know was how Karen was. She was my only concern, but even she at that point couldn't keep me in that environment a moment longer.

Inevitably, the arrangement with the couple from the train didn't work out. I was basically to skivvy for them 24/7, and I felt no better off than I did at home. Even the room they gave me was no more than a cupboard without a window. I knew I had to get out of there. My opportunity came when I saw an advert in the local newspaper for auxiliary nurses with 'live-in accommodation'. I phoned up one day when the couple were out working and, taking the baby with me on the bus, I went for an interview. To this day I don't know how I managed to get the job. Maybe the interviewer took pity on me, or perhaps they really believed my over-enthusiastic warblings about how I wanted to be a nurse (which wasn't true as I still dreamed of being an artist). I told them I could start immediately, and I did – the next day. I can remember going back to the home of the people I was working for with their baby and feeling such an amazing sense of achievement. I had got a job and with it came my very own bedroom with clean sheets, towels and a window!

I was given a uniform – a yellow nurse's dress with white shoes and a little white hat. The work in general was very easy: making beds, changing water jugs, moving patients around, bathing them and suchlike. I found it very straightforward and, in return, was paid a wage and had somewhere nice to stay.

In Inverness, I felt a million miles away from Easter Road – and my Dad and the men – but I missed Karen and still felt really guilty about leaving her. My monthly wage seemed like a fortune. I could have spent it all on myself, buying new clothes and nice things, but I sent two-thirds home. This helped to relieve my guilt a bit, but it didn't take away the nightmares.

Although I was physically away from the horrors, they were still very much with me emotionally. I thought I could just bury my past and flee to a new life, but in reality I was very illequipped. I had no social skills, and the experiences I'd had with men had badly scarred me. I was at a very big disadvantage out there now in the world on my own.

I worked at the hospital for almost a year and made some friends. I bought a second-hand bike and would cycle for hours around the streets, right out to Loch Ness and around the loch itself. I bought my clothes in the big Oxfam shop down by the river. It was like a warehouse where all the clothes were set out as if for a jumble sale. I wore vintage blouses with faded jeans and I grew my hair long.

The hospital I worked in, the Hilton, was a geriatric hospital. Most of the patients had suffered strokes or were unable to look after themselves any longer. I loved spending time with them, listening to the stories of their youths. One old lady, who reminded me of my Auntie Nellie, had spent many years in India as her husband had been a major in the army. She would tell me wonderful stories about her big house in Rajasthan where she had servants. Before I left that job, she gave me a silver compact, which I still have to this day; it has a picture of an Indian palace embossed in black on the lid.

Many of the old people were from the Islands – Stornoway and the like – and spoke Gaelic. I learned words in Gaelic from them and loved that too. After a while, I was given the job of assistant to the occupational therapist. With this post came the chance to do crafts with the residents to keep them occupied. I learned more from them than they did from me; one old lady even taught me how to crochet. I was doing my job really, but, inadvertently, I was making them feel useful by getting them to teach me things rather than the other way around!