What Daddy Did by Donna Ford Read Free Book Online Page A

chore if I was left alone to do it, but Helen was in a bad mood that day. I was dragged from my bedroom by the hair and smacked across the face with the back of her hand for looking at her 'like that'. I never knew what 'that' was. I know now she just hated me and having to be a parent to me – those things and the fact that I was my father's firstborn were my real crimes. There was never any rhyme or reason to Helen's behaviour or mood swings. She could go from being quite chirpy and offering me food or the chance to get out and do the shopping or to brush her hair (which I hated), to this.
     
That day, I was dragged into the bathroom and ordered to fill the bath, with Helen reminding me that cold water would be good enough. Then I put the bleach and blankets in. The bleach gave off such a stench it made my eyes sting, and I knew my skin would be red and irritated afterwards – but those things were the least of my worries. The smell of bleach is often a trigger for me, bringing back a memory of those times. I hate swimming pools for this reason.
     
Trampling the sheets or blankets was usually a once-a-week event as Helen was very particular about keeping a clean house. The bedroom she shared with my Dad – which was wholly out of bounds to me – was immaculate, and the amount of cleaning we each had to do daily ensured the rest of the house matched. I don't think she was obsessed by it; I just think she liked the praise she got for the effort. I remember the look of pride on her face when one social worker commented on what a nice tidy house she kept. The woman jokingly questioned how Helen managed it with all those children. Little did she know that it was us who kept it that way; maybe she could have dug just a little deeper rather than make light of it.
     
So that day, first thing in the morning and before breakfast (which I was never guaranteed to get anyway), Helen was standing there beside me in the bathroom in a nylon quilted dressing gown combined with the worn leather slippers she always had on her feet. Her eyes were magnified by her NHS glasses and her false teeth clicked furiously in her mouth as she screamed at me: 'Get in the fucking bath, you useless little bastard!' I did everything that she said without hesitating, as I always did. I trampled the blankets in the bath, walking up and down until she was satisfied that I was doing my job properly and could continue unsupervised. She left me to get on with it. I heard her boys going out to play for the day, bouncing their football down the lobby as they went, and I heard Helen move about in the living room. I carried on with my task, trampling up and down the bath, squeezing all the muck out of the blankets as my spindly legs got bluer and bluer with the cold water. As I trampled, I imagined that I was in Kinghorn, on holiday again, and that I was really splashing through the waves looking out for the baby flounders that lay just under the sand.
     
I was rudely awakened from that thought when Helen yelled at me to 'get wringing'. This meant I now had to drain the water out of the bath, rinse the blankets then wring the water out by twisting the wet blankets. I was never a big child – Helen made sure of that by starving me – and that task is a difficult enough one for an adult. For me, with my tiny frame, it was nearly impossible. I was supposed to get all the water out, enough for them to be taken down to the back green to be hung out to dry. I did my best and folded them as well as I could before putting them in the plastic wash basket in the bath ready for Helen. I went back to my room as instructed and waited there for my next order. I was obviously not getting breakfast that day. My only hope of food some mornings was if I was on dishwashing duty and could scavenge a leftover from the plates of the others.
     
I could hear Helen going about her business while the radio blared out. She was in a foul temper – if there was one thing I was aware