Never a Hero to Me by Tracy Black Page A

to ‘move my arse’ or ‘stop being so fucking lazy’. Mum raised her eyebrows at him a few times to begin with, but I suppose she had more to contend with given the unpredictability of her health. Dad had also started to give me the odd backhander when she was around – which increased in frequency throughout the next six months.
    All I can think now, is that once Mum started going into hospital more, and as her illness got more severe, she was more dependent on him than ever and so he could really stamp his authority on the household. He tried little things at a time, a swear word here and there, a slap to me every now and again – when he got away with it, he tried a little more the next day. Mum never stood up for me. He never hit her, though, and on the one occasion when she did see him give Gary a whack, she hit the roof. It happened about four months after her first hospital admission; she had already been back in a few times. Dad was in the kitchen making a cup of tea – a rare occurrence in itself – and Gary came in. He pushed past my dad as he was reaching for a snack. Dad’s hand came out automatically – he probably thought it was me – and he whacked him across the cheek. Mum, who had been in the living room, appeared in a flash as Gary cried out.
    ‘Never do that again!’ she exclaimed. ‘You never, EVER lift a finger to him! Do you hear me?’ she shrieked.
    My dad could do nothing but nod.
    ‘Not him,’ she said. ‘You don’t touch him.’
    The message couldn’t have been clearer had she spelled it out in flashing lights. I could be slapped whenever my dad’s fancy kicked in. I was fair game, but Gary was protected. I certainly never saw my dad hit him again. On that afternoon, Mum took Gary back through to the living room, leading him by the hand as if he had just been battered to within an inch of his life. Gary played on it, and they sat wrapped up together for the rest of the day while my dad shouted at, and threatened me, as compensation.
    Mum was always kind to Gary, she had all the time in the world for him, but I was pretty much invisible. This is what my dad played on in particular. Every time he touched me, every time his hands and fingers went places they shouldn’t, he would whisper to me, ‘Good girl, you’re doing this for your mum, and this will help to keep her out of hospital, won’t it?’ It was our little secret, it was what he used to keep me in line, but he was also fully aware that I was desperate for Mum to notice me. If he could convince me that the abuse was a way of making her well again, then surely she would be grateful to me?
    One day, Agnes came round while Mum was at a hospital appointment. Dad opened the door – I would never have been brave enough to do that on my own as I was under strict instructions to keep away from everyone – and she saw me cowering behind him as she asked after my mum. ‘Hiya, Tracy,’ she said, ‘I was just saying to your dad that the doctors will take good care of Valerie. They’ll do their best to make her well again.’
    I smiled – but I knew she was wrong. It wasn’t down to the doctors, it was down to me. If I kept being a good girl Mum would get better. When Dad closed the door to Agnes, he confirmed what I had been thinking. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,’ he said. ‘You know what you need to do, don’t you, Tracy? You know how to keep your mum out of hospital?’ I nodded as he motioned for me to go into his bedroom. He called out to Gary to bull his boots, telling him not to stop until he was told, and made some excuse about helping me with my homework. Yet again, I was placed back in the personal hell he had created for me.
    This was the circle of abuse he maintained and developed. I was always kept next door to my dad’s bedroom wherever we lived. He isolated me from friends and neighbours. He used key words to let me know what was happening without being explicit. I was his good girl