Tell Me Why, Mummy: A Little Boy’s Struggle to Survive. A Mother’s Shameful Secret. The Power to Forgive.. David Thomas

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      For my sixth birthday, Mum gives me a red articulated truck. It is new, not secondhand, and I’m thrilled with it. I take it to school to show off to the other kids. It’s great being the centre of attention for once and I feel so proud. Then one of the children takes a swipe at it, knocking it out of my hand. It crashes to the floor and breaks into pieces. All the kids go ‘Ooooohhh!’ and run off to avoid getting the blame.

      I stand there, crying my eyes out, not because the toy is broken but because I know I won’t get another new one. I hide it in my bag and don’t tell Mum.

      * * *

      When she’s not drinking she wants the best for me and she does this by being strict with me. She is anxious for me to do well in school and when we go on trips to other places in West Yorkshire and even to the seaside at Blackpool, she’ll drag me around historical sites – maybe not kicking and screaming but sometimes a little reluctantly when I’d just like to have fun. Like her mother Sandra did to her, she pushes me hard, and keeps a close eye on me when it comes to schoolwork.

      In stark contrast to how she is when she’s drinking, when she is sober she won’t tolerate bad behaviour. Once she makes her mind up on something, that is that. She always gets me to wash my hands before each meal and after I’ve finished eating I have to ask to leave the table. She believes in good manners and behaving myself in public, although this doesn’t stop her doing embarrassing things herself.

      One Saturday, when we’re shopping in Halifax she buys me some fruitdrops and when I put one in my mouth I realize it’s blackcurrant.

      I pull a face and immediately take it out.

      ‘Come on, David,’ Mum is saying, ‘we’ve got to get back home.’

      ‘Can’t we go to the toyshop and see the model railway, Mum?’ I plead.

      ‘No, I’ve told you once, we need to get home now.’

      Mum has made up her mind and starts walking me towards the bus stop.

      But I want to go and see the model railway in the toyshop and in a fit of pique I throw my fruitdrop on the ground.

      We’re in the middle of the town centre, milling with people, probably including children from my school. That doesn’t worry Mum. She pulls down my trousers and smacks my backside in full view of anyone who is watching.

      If Mum has decided on something and laid down the law, that’s final. She won’t allow any argument.

      One evening, she makes kedgeree, a rice dish with fish. She is brilliant at baking but awful at cooking and as this is one of the few meals she can successfully cook, she often makes it. Although I can eat it, kedgeree is probably one of my least favourite meals, so I eat as much as I can stomach and leave the rest.

      ‘Are you leaving that food?’ Mum asks.

      ‘Yes, I’ve had enough, Mum,’ I reply.

      ‘Right, well in that case, you will eat it for your breakfast.’

      When she says something like that I know she means it. I’ll have to eat it in the morning.

      The meal has been bad enough the night before when it was warm and freshly cooked, but cold fish and rice for breakfast are disgusting. Yet the next morning, there it is, waiting for me. I struggle to get it down, doing everything in my power to stop myself throwing up.

      This teaches me a lesson: not to upset Mum and to do exactly as I am told. From then on, I do this to the best of my ability, both through fear of reprisal and because, strangely enough, it makes me feel close to her. I rarely defy her and am always excited when she pays me a compliment.

      * * *

      The first Christmas after we move into the house on the far end of the block at Calder Bridge, Mum works very hard to turn it into something special: we decorate the house with crêpe paper and baubles on the tree, and there’s a big bag of gifts on Christmas morning. The decorations are cheap but plentiful and we put them all over the house. Mum takes small items like chocolate bars and wraps them up in Christmas wrapping paper. It may not be quite the same thing as a real present but it helps make the bag look bigger and that’s what matters to me.

      I sneak down early on Christmas morning and start opening my presents. I feel a warm, glowing excitement and I want the day to go on forever. But I know this day will end and that sooner or later the Dark Mummy, the one who comes to me at night when she has been drinking, will return. And although I’m only six, I’m starting to realize that what she is asking me to do for her, and do to her, is very wrong.

      My mother is drinking more than ever – I know that, because she is making me do things to her more often. It only seems to happen when she drinks and she never comes to me until she is badly drunk. That seems to happen quickly as soon as she starts drinking brandy.

      It is always the same. She wants me to make her happy by rubbing her minnie. She never touches my willy or shows any interest in doing anything more than that. She takes my hand and places it on her minnie and rubs it.

      But one thing is different now. Before, she needed to guide my hand and do it for me. But now that I’m older, I am learning to do it with less help from her. That seems to give her more pleasure and so it pleases me more.

      I am totally unaware of the sexual and moral implications of what I am doing. I am just happy that Mum and I are doing something together that feels intimate. I am an affectionate and tactile child, loving to cuddle and be cuddled. And I feel that what has happened between us is a natural extension of that. But why she drinks and why she wants me to do these things for her is a closed book to me.

      On the other hand, even as a six-year-old I know that Mum has been very lonely since she and Dad split up. Things have been difficult for her and yet she has driven Dad away through her difficult behaviour. I think she truly did love him and expected to spend the rest of her life with him. She is now solely responsible for bringing me up, and without any career or job to support her.

      Mum can still be great company. She’s in her late twenties and I sometimes see men looking at her and wanting to talk to her, but a few years later when I look back at this period it dawns on me that it must have taken an unusual man to accept her with all her problems, especially as at this stage she’s had a six-year-old in tow.

      From this time onwards, I begin to realize that the men closest to Mum are much older than her. They are the only ones who seem to be able to cope with how she is when she drinks. And around this time, something terrible happens as a result of her drinking which I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

      * * *

      Mum has a friend called Charlie who lives in a small terraced house in a village called Mystendyke, not too far from where we live. Charlie has a beard and is tall and thin. To me, he seems very old but he’s probably only in his sixties – certainly a lot older than Mum – and I’m not sure of the nature of their relationship. He’s good company and I enjoy going there as he is always nice to me, telling me stories and jokes.

      One night when we’re there at his house, Mum gets steaming drunk and their conversation becomes really heated. Even though I’m only six, I have already seen this many times before and I know what’s coming. They begin arguing and as each minute goes by, I can sense СКАЧАТЬ