Terrie Duckett - Stolen Voices - A sadistic step-father. Two children violated. Their battle for justice.

Dad worked away a lot of the time, stopping home for clean clothes and food maybe once a fortnight. When he wasn’t there to argue with Mum, I felt happy and relaxed. I had my mum all to myself and we had our routine. We didn’t have a lot of money, or many belongings, but she had time for me – even though I could be more of a hindrance than a help, as a simple trip to the shops could turn into an adventure.

At the age of four, whilst I was dawdling back from the shops with a loaf of bread for tea, I thought of Hansel and Gretel. ‘I wonder what would happen if I dropped a trail of bread slices?’ Imagining a magical creature might appear, I pulled slices of bread out of the bag and began placing them carefully on the pavement. Skipping along, I looked over my shoulder, pleased at the snowy trail … until Mum suddenly appeared, looking up the road for me. ‘Terrie!’ she cried. ‘What are you doing? That’s our tea!’

I held a slice of bread mid-air and my face crumpled. ‘Sorry, Mummy.’

She scurried to scoop up the slices and put them carefully back into the bread bag for later.

The weekends Dad came home left their impression on me. One such weekend, when I was three, I was sitting in the kitchen waiting for Mum to dish up dinner when he arrived. I looked up as he walked in, but he didn’t seem to notice me.

‘Hurry up, I’m hungry,’ he complained to Mum. Mum seemed flustered and rushed to place the plates of macaroni cheese in front of us. ‘Is this it?’

Mum looked up. ‘I have some Spam if you’d like some?’

He laughed sneeringly. ‘This’ll do.’

I was actually relieved. I hate Spam – no, I detest Spam. Poor Mum was running out of new ways to cook it. Fried, battered and deep-fried, diced and sliced. For me any way was disgusting, and I would often gag trying to swallow the pink sludge.

I hated macaroni too. I couldn’t stop thinking about slugs as I tried to swallow the slimy pasta pieces. Dad would become frustrated with the faces I was pulling and send me up to my room, telling me not to come back downstairs until they had both finished dinner.

A few minutes later, as I cautiously slid back down the stairs on my bum, I could hear our budgie was squawking loudly. Dad was standing up shouting as Mum turned to look at me. He followed her gaze and saw me. ‘Get out! This is adult talk. Get out, now! ’

I ran and sat on the stairs, scared and alone, peering through the gap.

At three years old, I was confused. I still wanted and needed to be loved by my dad, but I felt anger towards both of my parents for letting him come home and ruining my time with Mum. The rage had to get out somehow, so I began destroying things Mum had lovingly made for me. I picked apart a crocheted waistcoat made with squares of colourful pansies all sewn together. I cut the silky lining out of the green felt coat she’d made. And I carefully hacked my way across my fringe.

Dad’s presence at home meant rows and arguments, slammed doors and tears. Mum never really explained why it happened; I just thought it was my fault, because I was stupid and ugly.

It may have been that Dad felt trapped at home and would rather have been back amongst the camaraderie and banter of his army friends. Dad had joined the Territorial Army after being discharged out of the service, as it was more relaxed than the regular army. I enjoyed watching him with his mates in the TA, laughing and joking, so very different to how he was at home. Drill weekends often included family gatherings, lots of delicious food and kids running about, playing games amongst the lorries and heavy gear outside the drill hall.

But Dad did let a glimmer of his home face show there occasionally. Like the time he was supposed to be keeping an eye on me while Mum was inside with the other mums setting up for dinner. I was on my hands and knees pushing my new green plastic train that had two carriages attached. He warned me not to go near a large stack of bricks by the wall, but, me being me, I pushed my train a little hard. It sped off behind the brick stack. The top of the pile was leaning in towards the building, but there was a me-sized gap between the stack and the wall. I squeezed between and reached out for my train. I heard Dad yelling just before the pile fell onto my legs.

As he yanked me out by my arm, I said my leg felt funny and I refused to stand on it. ‘You’re just being a baby,’ he said.

I cried and he yelled for my mum. She gave me a look over and said I needed to get my leg checked. Later that day, as I showed my broken leg, plastered to the knee, to my Nan, she was horrified. She gave me extra cuddles to make up for it.

To me, Nan and Pap were perfect. Their house was an oasis of calm and I loved every brick of it, from the Indian-style felt-covered living room, where Nan saw faces and shapes in the patterns (‘Look, Terrie, there’s a goat!’ she’d laugh), to their conservatory where Pap would proudly show off his small cucumbers hanging around the door.

Nan had blonde wavy hair and sweet, flowery perfumed skin. She was always quick to cuddle me whenever she could. Nothing was ever too much trouble, whether it was cooking up delicious treats in the kitchen, playing pretend games or re-telling every fairy story I could absorb. Nan would pull up a chair in the kitchen, so I could stand and help her make dinner. Afterwards we’d play snap, or she’d get out a big tin of assorted buttons she’d collected over the years and we’d sit and thread them onto coloured cotton.

Pap was as round and cuddly as Nan, and they adored each other. He always had a twinkle in his eyes when he told me stories of when he was a boy and how mischievous he was.

All too soon, it was time to go home.

In late 1973, I was holding Mum’s hand as we walked across the Northampton market square, when she turned and knelt in front of me.

‘Mummy is going to have a baby.’ She looked a little worried, patting her tummy. I’d seen it getting rounder and fatter.

‘Okay.’ I shrugged, not really understanding. It was obviously something I was thinking about, though, as later that afternoon I pointed to Nan and Pap’s tummies. ‘Are you both having babies too?’ They laughed.

That evening I played with my only dolly, Baby Beans, named because she was filled with dried beans. I could hear Mum and Dad downstairs, and he didn’t seem happy. I tried banging my head against the wall to block out the sound of their voices. It didn’t work, but I did eventually manage to fall asleep.

When I woke in the morning, Dad had gone again for a few weeks. Mum heard me stir and called me into her bedroom. ‘Hey, Ted,’ Mum said, using her nickname for me. ‘Come and put your hand on my tummy.’

She held my hand firmly to her stomach, and I felt something move under the skin. ‘That’s the baby’s foot,’ she said, her face lighting up.

I looked at her big belly in confusion. ‘How did it get there?’ I pointed to her belly button and she laughed.

A couple of weeks later I was taken to Nan and Pap’s. ‘The baby is on its way,’ Nan said gently, ‘so Mummy is in hospital.’

I worried. I didn’t really understand what was happening. But the next morning Nan took me on a bus to the hospital and held my hand as she led me to a bed where Mum lay, looking exhausted but happy. As we reached the bed, Nan lifted me up so I could look into the crib. There was a little baby with a screwed-up pink face, swaddled in a blue blanket.

‘Isn’t he lovely?’ said Mum. ‘His name is Paul. He’s your brother.’

I grabbed Nan’s hand again. Everything seemed too strange, and I tugged at her to leave. I’d had enough of Paul already. ‘I don’t really want a brother, thank you,’ I said as politely as I could.