The Stick

When I was 6 years old we moved from a high rise flat to a 3 storey terraced council house, our road was adjacent to a very busy dual carriage way, there was constant traffic noise, the gardens were small and over looked and the house had no natural light in the halls which the rooms were off. It was freezing in the winter and sultry in the summer, it had a hot air central heating system which was never used as Mother says it made her wheeze so there was just an electric fire and couple of plug in radiators. It had an oppressive, ominous atmosphere given the existence which passed for a life within its walls.

Same type as my house

The ground floor had the garage under the house, a tiny 3rd spare room at the back of that, a cupboard and the stairs to the 2nd floor where there was a kitchen, living room, toilet and the stairs to the 3rd floor housing 2 bedrooms, mine and my parents and a bathroom. 

Its truly amazing the amount of things that do not register because in your world they are the norm but as the years pass and you gain a wider perspective you look back and realise things were odd, off or just plain nasty.

Mother`s room was pink and frilly, fancy curtains, floral bedding, feminine furniture, liberally covered in a heady mix of L`aimant talcum powder, dust and discarded clothes. My room looked like a spare room that was used occasionally by an aged visiting relative. You would never guess a little girl slept there. There was blue patterned wall paper bought in a sale, an ill fitting off cut of dark green carpet left over from the living room {yes green again !} the head board was chocolate brown with a missing button and there was a miss matched wardrobe and old chest of draws {painted green !} passed to me when my parents had new. There was to be no pink or girly prettiness for me, it was staid, masculine and make do. My Mother was the only Princess in our house, she paid attention to every detail to ensure that was the case.  For the longest time I believed myself to be not that keen on pink until I got to my 40`s and began my journey of discovery, processing and understanding the abuse I endured and the scars it left me with.

The Stick was kept by the side of the washing basket at the end of the dark hall at the foot of the stairs. Its official purpose was to be used when walking our dog in case some other vicious dog attacked ours. It was never used for this purpose, not once and its only now as I type this it occurs to me this was probably just an excuse and a smoke screen for its real purpose, to threaten me with regularly and keep me in line. It was actually a cane taken from a selection my Father used for his tomato growing and it was always there, propped up in the corner, I passed it every time I went up and down the stairs to my room and I couldn`t bear to look at it.

I was only hit with it a few times, I don`t remember my Father using it, his hands were big and strong enough for good hidings but my Mother did. She was however careful to leave no lasting marks. As is widely known Narcissistic Mothers are less likely to be physical in their abuse in case there is tangible, undeniable evidence and that would never do.

I was threatened with it regularly though..." If you don`t behave you`ll have the stick ". Threatened until I was far bigger then my Mother and the threat itself was quite ridiculous and yet she relished saying those words, probably remembering the fear I must of shown on my little face years ago when she said them. She really was a sadist, she revelled in others pain, it was written all over her face time and time again.

The stick remained there until they moved when I was in my 30`s, it then moved to the hall of their new bungalow, it remained long after they had no dog and I walked past it when visiting with my children. It served to remind me what a potentially dangerous place I was entering, not that a reminder was needed, my guard was always up...always...

And when she died 12 years ago and the task of emptying her home fell to me I noticed it was missing from the hall as I entered her home for the first time in quite a while. I had broken off contact with her a year or so before her death.

But as I dismantled her life room by room I discovered it tucked away at the back of her wardrobe. I didn`t know whether to laugh or cry. As I left the house for the final time I put a little flower from the garden near the window in her bedroom, to appease her spirit in a way I suppose, after all Mother loved gifts. And I picked the stick up one last time and and held it for a moment, feeling both it`s weight and significance before leaving it on the floor of her empty bedroom. I had an unsettling feeling from behind as I walked away, almost as if I were about feel the blow of the cane against my legs.