She gave me a black bag to fill and we worked side by side all afternoon. By the time we left, the room was as clean as it was going to get without the use of an industrial-strength hose. The man in the suit was very pleased and pressed a large wad of notes into Mummy’s hand. All the way home she kept saying ‘Oh my God’ and looking into her bag to see if the money was still there.
When Dad saw how much the man had given her, he was suspicious. ‘What did you have to do to get that?’
‘They’re sheikhs, Frank. This is small change to them. And I’d still be there shovelling sheeps’ heads now if I hadn’t had her to help me.’ She jerked her thumb towards me.
Mummy thought I had done such a good job that she let me stay off school the next day too. She took me on another job in a place in Notting Hill and this time she let me polish the furniture with a yellow duster and a can of Mr Sheen.
‘Is this alright, Mummy?’ I asked, eager to please.
‘That’s it, Lisa. Give it some elbow grease,’ she urged.
I felt so happy. Not only was I away from Susan Jackson, but it seemed Mummy was actually pleased with me for once.
When we’d finished, Mummy called up a narrow dark stairway, ‘I’ll be off now.’ I had heard somebody using a typewriter up there while I’d been going around with my duster. The door opened at the top of the stairs and a man with greased-back grey hair came down. He wore baggy green corduroy trousers and a pair of small glasses hung on a cord around his neck. As he paid Mummy for the work, he looked at me and asked ‘Shouldn’t she be at school?’
‘She’s ill,’ said Mummy.
‘Is she now?’ he said, bending down to look at me. ‘She looks well enough to me. What’s wrong with you, sweetheart?’
I didn’t know what to say so I looked up at Mummy for help, and she nodded as if I should tell the truth. So I did. ‘Nothing’s wrong with me. Mummy needed a hand with the cleaning, that’s all.’
He seemed surprised and took Mummy off to a corner, wagging his finger at her.
I could tell she was fuming when we got out on the street.
‘What the fuck did you say that for?’ she demanded. ‘You trying to get me in trouble?’
‘No, Mummy,’ I replied, upset that I’d annoyed her.
‘Nosey old bastard. What right has he got to lecture me, the cunt? He can stuff his fucking job.’
Whenever Mummy took me cleaning I tried my best to do a good job, and hoped that she and I would get closer once we were working together like this but she never said ‘Well done’ or ‘Thanks’ or ‘Aren’t you a good girl?’ If anything, she acted as though it was a nuisance having me around. I would have done anything for a hug or a few words of praise but they were never forthcoming. She wasn’t that kind of a mother, I supposed. She wasn’t the cuddly type.
By the time I was eight years old I had finally stopped wetting the bed at night but my bladder remained on a hair trigger, and sometimes when Dad was at his most threatening, he’d only need to make a sudden lunge towards me and I would wet myself before his slap had even connected. He’d been living with us for four years, almost as long as I could remember, and he was as volatile as ever. At various times, one or all of us would be ostracised. When it was your turn, you had to stay in your bedroom and nobody was allowed to talk to you while Dad was at home. Although the silent treatment had its benefits–Dad didn’t scream in your face for a start–it also carried with it a great cloud of menace, which was somehow even more frightening.
Davie was almost always getting the big freeze treatment, but for some reason it seemed I had definitely become Dad’s favourite girl and he took every opportunity to pull me onto his lap for cuddles. I didn’t feel very comfortable with this affectionate behaviour, but if I pulled away even slightly from his scratchy kisses, his face would cloud over and a fierce look would descend to smother the smiles of a moment before.
‘You know I love you like my own daughter, don’t you, Lisa?’
I beamed a big smile at him then, because there was nothing I wanted more than for us all to be a normal family. I wanted him to stay as Dr Jekyll and bury Mr Hyde forever.
When Dad was in a good mood, he liked to play lots of jokes and games. He mostly played them with me, because more often than not he wasn’t on speaking terms with Diane, Cheryl or Davie, and he didn’t like them anyway.
‘You’re not like them other bastards, Lisa,’ he said. ‘They’re all cunts.’
Some games I liked better than others. Bat the balloon was my favourite. Dad would lie in bed and I’d stand near his feet while we knocked the balloon back and forth between us. I never got bored with it, and could have played for hours, but Dad could only put up with it for a short time before he got fed up and burst the balloon with his cigarette.
My heart would sink because then it would be his turn to choose a game. I didn’t like any of his favourites at all. Especially the ones that involved him taking my clothes off. I was eight now and becoming embarrassed. I’d try to cover myself with my arms but that would only make him tickle me, his fingers hurting as they dug in.
‘Are you blushing?’ he would tease, tweaking my chest and bottom. ‘I’ve seen it all before, Lisa. Don’t forget I used to wipe your arse when you were a baby.’
No matter what he said, I still didn’t like it, and when he tied knots in the side of Mum’s knickers and made me wear them I used to cry. I couldn’t see the fun in it. Sometimes he’d wear a pair too.
‘Can we play bat the balloon again after?’ I’d sob as he slipped Mum’s scratchy lace nightie over my head.
‘Shut up about bat the fucking balloon, will ya?’ he said. ‘First we play this, then we might play that. But only if you give me a special kiss.’
I didn’t like Dad’s special kisses either. His whiskers scratched and his lips were all slobbery.
One day Mum came home from work earlier than expected, and he just had time to leap into bed and hide what he was wearing from her. He didn’t seem bothered that I was almost naked and wearing her clothes.
‘What’s she doing with my fucking knickers on, Frank?’ she asked.
Dad laughed. ‘Leave her alone, you miserable cow. She’s only fucking playing.’
‘Get ’em off,’ Mum shouted, slapping my legs.
‘But Dad put them on me,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to.’
‘Don’t tell lies, you disgusting little cow,’ shouted Mum, her face flushing with anger, ‘or I’ll slap your bleedin’ face for you.’
I looked over at Dad, expecting him to explain about the game, but he only smirked.
‘He’s wearing some too,’ I cried.
‘Eh?’ said Mum, pulling back the sheet to see Dad’s ding-a-ling hanging out of her best silky pink pair.
Dad burst out laughing. ‘What? Can’t you take a joke?’
Mum sent me to my room, with a sharp poke in the back. Later I heard them arguing.
‘I ain’t fucking gay at all, you slag,’ shouted Dad. ‘It’s just a stupid game. I’m only trying to entertain your fucking kid for ya.’
I don’t think we played that game again for a while, though.
During the school summer holidays, Nanny and Jenny asked if they could take Davie and me to Canvey Island Caravan Park for a week’s break. I begged Mum to