concept of how long it was until Monday.
A little while later, my mother came into the room carrying a tray of sandwiches and two glasses of water. As soon as she opened the door, my father appeared behind her, as if by magic.
‘I thought I had made it clear that you are not to give them anything to eat or drink,’ he said, in a slow, menacing voice.
My mother was startled by his silent, abrupt appearance and as she spun round to face him, one of the glasses tipped over, sending water cascading on to the sandwiches. She righted the glass and blinked rapidly as she pleaded with my father, ‘Please, Harry. They’re only children. They’ve got to eat. At least let them drink something. They can’t stay locked in here without food or water for two whole days.’
Suddenly, without any warning, my father lashed out and hit her across the face, and she dropped the tray at his feet.
‘Pick it up!’ he hissed at her.
He kicked her as she fell to her knees and began to scoop up soggy pieces of sandwich and the two empty glasses. Then she stumbled out of the room and my father followed her, locking the door behind him, while we sat and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading away along the corridor.
Over the next two days and three nights, my brother and I played games together, cried when the pain of hunger and thirst grew too urgent to ignore, and slept for increasingly long periods of time. My mother came to check on us at irregular intervals, looking anxiously at the cut on my brother’s head each time, before letting us out of the room to go to the toilet. Then she hugged us quickly, glancing over her shoulder with fearful eyes, and told us not to cry because it wouldn’t be long before we could have something to eat.
During that weekend, we learned the price to be paid for disobeying my father. It was a lesson I always remembered every time I noticed the scar on my brother’s head, although, in reality, it had been the cause of far worse scars for both of us that no one could see.
The kitchen in our house was overrun with mice, and as my father hated animals of all species, particularly anything small and scurrying, he used to make my brother or me go down to get ice-cream for him when he came home drunk at night or at the weekends. I’d have hated going down there in the dark even without the mice to contend with, but they terrified me.
I’d edge my way down the stairs and then grope frantically in the darkness for the switch that would light up the corridor leading to the kitchen. My heart would be thumping against my ribs and I’d have to cross my legs to stop the pee escaping as I forced myself to stand my ground and fumble for the light switch. Sometimes, I’d have to make several attempts, running back up the stairs and waiting in the light of the hallway each time while I summoned the courage to try again.
As I finally approached the kitchen door, I’d hear little feet scuttling on the flagstones and I’d stamp my own feet and bang my hands on the walls of the corridor. Then I’d stand still for a few moments to give the mice time to scamper back to their hiding places. But I didn’t dare delay too long, because I knew my father would be waiting with increasingly impatient irritation for his ice-cream, and I was even more afraid of my father than I was of the mice.
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
