Gullible’s Travels
The Dark Hilarity of Family Violence
Our dad’s leather belt hung in the upstairs landing, so it’d be handy when he came in to beat us awake.
‘No!’ my middle sis tells me, ‘That was mum’s belt. She used it to threaten me.’
I was only three when Dad left so those years are pre-vocal and shaky. My pictures of him are all framed by others — especially in our bonding moments with Mum when the four of us would rock with laughter about all the funny things that happened.
‘That time Mum threw a pan of water at Dad and he ducked and I got it in the face?!’ Big Sis cracks us up with her outrage.
‘And Dad stabbed Mum,’ I added, ‘With a bread knife!’
An awkward silence. Being the littlest is no fun — they’re such know-it-alls.
Some stuff I see clear as video — my chubby little legs kicking furiously beneath the kitchen table, urgently pumping: get this porridge down, or see it again for dinner. Cold, of course. Or worse.
‘And when mum hid my breakfast behind the curtain!’
They laugh, and my place as comic entertainment is restored. Mum was our hero, always there to defend us.
These were the stories we liked; told on long drives, back from visiting relatives in the North. We treasured those times when we had mum to ourselves; undistracted, unstressed. Just the four of us. Chatting in the dark.
I half-remember one story where I took centre stage. But this one is cloudy, only shared with Middle Sis. She’d overheard our parents talking and had terrible news.
‘Dad’s going away, and taking you with him!’
‘Why me???’ I cried, ‘He doesn’t even like me!’
By that time, neither of us dared be left alone with Dad. We’d huddle at Mum’s dressing table while she got ready for work, fighting to be the one to carry down her bag or dirty cups to the kitchen. Where he’d be waiting.
‘I heard them. You’ve got to escape.’
We shimmied out the window, and went round the neighbourhood collecting supplies. My memory pictures the local kids donating as a gang, uniting on this Hero’s Journey.
Logic tells me we bullied for or stole stuff — food, money, knives — whatever we fancied. It was funny, how even the boys were scared of us.
They deserved it, our neighbours and friends; away skiing, doing nice things, being happy. They deserved to be trespassed and vandalised. One time we doused a neighbour’s antique furniture with paint and turps. Then torched it and scarpered. That was amongst the best of our ‘mischiefs’. We relived that one for years.
M led me through the night and into the park. She found a cluster of bushes, pushed me in to hide. And left.
But here’s a thing. She’s only 18 months older yet somehow always right, best at everything. I’m the Bart to her Lisa — the steady worker, the over-achiever. She cast protective wings around me.
We made a pact to honour each other’s birthdays — so at least someone would remember. Except I don’t much care about birthdays — never have.
Being the youngest, everyone else holds the punchline. I only know my own small part in the joke — that of fool. Gullible’s travels.
Shove me into a bush, tell me to hide and wait, and I’ll likely hide and wait. Needing to believe I’m being looked after, I’m part of the game.
All the time afraid that I am the game.
Which was this one? I’d have got bored, and tearful, and frightened.
And hungry.
That would be the clincher. I’ve always been led by my stomach and it, the faithful friend, would have eventually steered me home.
Where they were waiting. Not for me. But for Dad’s girlfriend. Who has the same name as me.
Of course, he was never going to take me away. How pathetically stupid.
Years later, we did the math. Not the four of us, but we three, in treacherous collusion.
Mum hadn’t really kicked him out, had she, to protect us? They looked at me, pityingly. Poor, stupid infant. He’d left with his girlfriend.
I didn’t have the frame for those photos.
The hot water, the stabbing? Dad was taken to hospital, Mum to the police station. He didn’t press charges.
And that belt? It wasn’t in THAT house. It was THE OTHER house. Later. Not Dad’s belt.
I wish people wouldn’t ask, ‘Where are you from?’ So casual, so easy for them. They push for answers. It makes me feel like crying, so I become aggressive.
We’re still doing it, this math, these memories. Today. On the phone with my sister. She’s 60.
Mum’s belt. Dad didn’t hit me, I was too small. She was his target. Repeatedly, constantly threatening — and delivering. My sis, my closest, my lifetime ally.
And I didn’t know. Until today.
I could go on. But who needs it, really? Not all at once, not now.
There’s sunshine outside; friends and boats and gulls; fofinho half-breed chihuahuas; cats to coax to show their bellies.
When nursing one’s inner child (much as the term repels me), it’s vital to nurture the WHOLE of it. Which is why I value Play — curiosity, spontaneity, and fun — and why I live in Nature.
It’s a damn sight less scary than the suburbs.
