Daddy

For the longest time I adored my Father. I was an only child in a bizarre household, we never mixed, had little, intermittent contact with the few family we had and my life consisted of long, lonely days being ignored, berated, punished and raged at in no particular order for no particular reason. 

My Mother was dead behind the eyes. When I tried to engage her in any way I got one of these responses....

It was either No response at all other than a nod or a hhmmmm

Or......Told to "Not keep demanding attention" because she was tired, busy or I`d had enough of her time already

Or she would listen and quickly interrupt to tell me that reminded her about....then would come some long, rambling tale where she was the victim and express deep sympathy for herself sometimes followed by a gleeful add on where the `villain` of the story got their comeuppance to which she would glow with the buzz of retelling the tale and the vengeance she had enjoyed and then retreat into her own head with a spaced out look oblivious to me even being there let alone vaguely aware I had been trying to tell her something

Or, listen but only to pick up on something I said and somehow use it as a reason to scold me. If I should dare try to defend myself or explain it could well turn into a huge rant and rave session which I would be told I had bought it on myself.

I did however enjoy the luxury of being briefly `seen` and `heard`, to some extent, by my Father in the short pockets of time I was alone with him, in the earlier years at least, usually because she had gone shopping or was napping or reading and had no immediate need to have him at her beck and call.

He would take me out to walk the dog, visit my Nan`s every blue moon when Mother was riding a high and let him off the leash, or potter in the garage or garden together.

He had blue eyes like mine which twinkled at me and his expression was lighter when he was away from her, he laughed and chatted about this and that and everything, he went into detail about things I had no real interest in, like feeding homegrown tomatoes or changing brake shoes on his car but I would listen with delight because he was speaking to me...Me !

His attention and time were mine for a moment or two and I revelled in it.

He was an intelligent man with an interest in many things, happy to share his knowledge and eager to learn more, it was enriching for me to spend time with him and such a refreshing change from my `the lights are on but no one`s home` Mother.

I hung on his every word and tried so hard to make him like me, make him love, perhaps win him over a little so that I had an ally to help me cope with my Mother.

As I grew and time went by I slowly realised that would never happen. He gradually became absorbed by her until he was nothing more than an extension of her poison, always ready to do her bidding for a quiet life, the sparkle in his blue eyes gradually fading until he eventually wore a permanent scowl.

Like visiting hours in a prison time would soon be up and my Mother would be heard thumping the wall or floor or calling for him and he would instantly disengage and rush to respond to her, hurrying me out of the way or telling me run and see what she needed. It was as if we were the staff who had been caught out on an impromptu break.

I was always a bit nervous in case her jealous streak had been triggered and there would be some price to pay and I remember clearly my Father and I avoided eye contact or speaking to each other in front of her for a while in case the happiness of a few relaxed moments together show, moments she had not been at the centre of, she wouldn`t like that at all.