What new nonsense is this? What care home? Absolutely not! Im not going anywhere, not from my own home! My father, Norman Preston, hurled a mug at my head, aiming to hit me, but I dodged out of habit.
This simply couldnt go on. Sooner or later hed find a way to make real trouble for me, and Id never see it coming. Even as I filled out the paperwork for his care home admission, my only true feeling was guiltthough, considering how hed treated me over the years, what I was doing for him now was already more than generous.
When he was finally being settled into the car, he yelled, thrashed, and cursed everyone involved in moving him.
I stood at the front window, watching the car as it disappeared down the drive. Thered been a time like this in my life beforebut back then, I was just a boy, barely understanding what the future would hold.
I was an only child. My mum didnt dare have anotherdad was a domestic tyrant, committed to making her life a waking nightmare.
My father, Norman, was already in his forties when I was borna respectable age by then.
He married for one reason alone: advancement. Marriage for love or family held no appeal for him. There was no one in the world he loved more than himself. In pursuit of a solid career and the right family-man appearance, he married out of calculation. He picked my mother, Susan, a bright, sweet girl training to be a teacher, from a family of factory-workers in Sheffield. A union with someone from such a respectable lower class background was perfect for his image as a champion of the working man. Of course, no one asked my mothers opinion about marrying him. The wedding was grand, though my grandparents were left outtoo common for my fathers tastes.
After the wedding, my mother moved into his house.
To turn Susan quickly into the proper civil servants wife, Dad hired a woman to teach her etiquette, how to keep quiet, and how to look the other way when things were off-limits.
Hows your day been? Norman would ask, settling into his armchair after work.
All fine. I worked on table manners and started my English lessons, Mum would reply, careful not to provoke any criticism.
Thats it? And who took care of the house?
I did, with the cook I wrote out menus for the week, did the shopping, and cleaned up too.
Hm. Not bad. Just make sure you keep your hands clean, look presentable, dont go about like one of those farm girls. Behave, Ill think about getting you a driver or a maidbut youve not earned that yet.
No matter how hard she tried, such peaceful days were rare. Most nights, Norman came home late, angry and exhausted. His wife and the staff were the only targets for his venom, but the staff could quit or gossipSusan had nowhere and no one.
The first time Norman hit my mother was barely a month after the weddingno reason, just a demonstration of power, a warning of what might come should she defy him.
After that, the violence grew frequent. He was carefulno visible bruises, nothing that might reveal the truth to outsiders. My mother hid the marks under her clothes, always smiling through dinners with his friends and colleagues, as if nothing was amiss.
The first year of marriage passed. Friends and acquaintances soon started casting not-so-subtle doubts.
Norman, youre a healthy bloke! Whys your young wife still not expecting? Sure everythings in working order? Id get her checked if I were you.
Weve not planned for a family yet. Shes still studying, Norman would reply, coolly.
Studying? Whats a woman want with an education? Home, children, husbandthats all she needs! Get her to a doctor. You married to set an example, didnt you?
Thus began another stage in my mothers life: endless appointments, tests and doctors. Norman even stopped hitting her, not wanting anyone to see the injuries. Months passed. Doctors found mum healthy and ableimplying, not so subtly, the fault lay with Norman. One bold specialist suggested Norman should be examined.
Me? Dont be ridiculous. One phone call from me and youll be sorting sheep in some crumbling village veterinary, my father threatened.
That might be so, but it wont solve your problem, replied the doctor, unruffled.
So what do you suggest?
Start by getting yourself checked.
Weeks later, after all the tests, Norman received the unwelcome verdicthis chances of fathering children were slim. Only a miracle could help.
Annoyed by constant whispers and the sight of his young, bright wife, Norman became nastier. Beating my mother no longer gave him satisfactionshed grown numb, hardly even crying. When she froze under his blows, he lost interest. Eventually, he found a mistress, which kept him distracted for a while.
It took another two and a half years before my mother unexpectedly fell pregnant. In due course, I was born, sporting the same steely eyes and square jaw as my father. But Norman felt nothing for me. It was left to my mother and the nanny to raise me. He could go weeks without seeing me, never caring.
The older I got, the more I grated on his nerves, until it became almost impossible for him to resist lashing out. The first time he hit me, I was five years old. Id been whining, pestering him after he returned from a tense meeting with his boss. He lost his temper, threw me across the room, and I hit the wall, too shocked even to cry. Dad just turned on the telly and ignored me.
I learned my lesson fastbest not to provoke him. Yet, having hit me once, he no longer bothered to control himself. Hed shout, slap, and humiliate me, even if guests were in the house. By this time, his career was secureno longer needing to play the doting father in public. In fact, he seemed to delight in belittling me in front of others.
Norman, a guest would say, Ive heard your sons a talented violinist. May we hear him play?
Violinist? That idiot still cant hold the thing the right way up! But if you want a laugh, by all means. Oi, Jamie! Fetch your fiddle and give us a tune!
Blushing with shame, Id fetch my violin. Playing in front of people terrified me, but offending Dad was unthinkable.
This fear lingered for years, and I never touched an instrument after leaving music school. The possibility of an illustrious musical career vanished.
Back then it never occurred to me that other families werent like mine. Reading storybooks about happy families, I wondered why Id been cursed with someone who despised the world.
Mum, too, was no role model for marriage or motherhood. She could never love a child fathered by a man who loathed her. When I was thirteen, she diedcar accident, so they claimed. I never learned the truth. After that, I retreated further into myself.
After finishing school, I went to university for a subject chosen by my father, one of the last things he ever dictated to me. At work, things had long since soured for him, and he lost interest in our relationship. By graduation, most of his stature and money were gonespent guarding his freedom from the consequences of crimes he’d committed in senior posts. Luckily, he managed to hush things up and retire quietly to a cottage. I stayed away; there was nothing left to say, and Id had enough of his venom.
Left to his own devices, he could no longer poison those around him, and his mental health rapidly declined. Neighbours rang me again and again, reporting his odd behaviour. Eventually, with no options left, I brought him into my home.
Having a fresh target improved his mood. Every day, he lashed outshouting insults, throwing crockery, trashing the house. I resorted to confining him to a single room with a lock, but even that couldnt contain his outbursts as his dementia progressed. I had no choice but to send him to a care home.
I never started a family of my owntoo shy, too battered in spirit. I kept to myself at work, never forming close friendships. But when it finally came to sending Dad away, the guilt was crushing.
It was not safe to keep him with metests confirmed his dementia, and he was a danger. Though he no longer recognised me, the old spite and hatred burned on.
I visited every care home in town, searching for the best. The decent ones cost a small fortune, so most of my salary and every odd job went on his bills, barely leaving me enough to live.
For days after he left, I wandered in a daze. I remembered the only other time wed left togetherMums one failed attempt to escape. Norman dragged us both back; not long after, she died.
Even so, when visiting Dad, I always left weeping with guilt and pityemotions my parents had instilled as thoroughly as anything.
Along with mounting guilt, I soon noticed my health beginning to fail.
