Forgive them Father

I want to speak about one source of deep discomfort and confusion. No, it’s not the memories of that which took place in the bedroom, the bathroom, the caravan, the hotel and the swimming pool (although the flaming hot, burning shame that has resulted from those moments is at times unbearable). It’s the unalterable fact of who he was. And specifically, the fact that he was a child.

I was seven and he was older yes, but still a child. I was in year three, first year of juniors and so proud to no longer be in the infants. Allowed to play in the juniors playground, and the world was opening up just a little. He was in secondary school, to me a place which I did not understand, could not picture, but knew as a place for people even older than my big brother. A place not quite for adults but for teenagers who walked with the bodies and minds of adults. A place for those who would babysit me and knew of things that I did not; exciting, mysterious and different.

But, he was a child. Old enough to be held accountable in a court of law (not that I had any conception of the fact that a crime had been committed); old enough to be set apart, to ride off on his bike with his older friends, leaving me behind; old enough to start smoking, to inspire a feeling of curiosity and a giggle at how bad he was. I will always remember him smoking on holiday, the way he proudly asked me to check whether I could smell it on his breath in case he got into trouble from his parents. A child.

A child who knew about things. A boy who came from a beginning which was talked about in hushed tones and which necessitated his placement into a new family. A family which pledged to keep him safe, to guide him on the right path, to show him the way. A family which was good, parents who cared. A family who have never known what happened in their youngest son’s bedroom on a November evening. He knew about things. He knew what the body could do. He knew how to use his. He knew how to use another’s. How to ask for what he wanted and how the pieces fit together. He knew how to tell me to be quiet, to move quickly, efficiently and without hassle. He knew what two bodies could do. He knew it was most probably best not to answer my questions. He knew that when it was over it was better to leave the room, to quickly remove himself from the scene. He knew it was best to leave me to make my own way downstairs, on shaky seven year old legs, wrapped up in woollen school uniform tights. Tights which I had apologised for as they did not provide quick enough access. He knew how to complain about that.

But what did he not know? What can he be released from in terms of blame?

He was not a man. He was not an adult. He did not look like the raincoated, dirty old man on the street corner. Nor did he look like the kindly, older uncle who takes you on day trips and gives you treats and then does as he wishes but commands you not to tell. Nor was he any of the other imagined and real horrors which the young and defenceless have to face. He was a child. A child who knew what to do physically but, did he know what the result would be?

Could he have foreseen the many ways in which those moments would reappear to startle me, to paralyse me with fear? Starting soon after, when my dad would leave me for two minutes in the car whilst he went to the shop. I would cry, scream and run across the road, heedless of traffic, just to find him. The absolute sheer panic and thought of being left alone, left behind once again. Terror which a ten year old should surely have already put behind her?

And, the instinctual fear and tightening in the chest when a friendly man in church stands too close to me. ‘Oh don’t be so soft, he just wants to say hello and give you a cuddle because you’re such a sweet little thing.’ But inside my head is screaming ‘I can’t breathe, please move away from me. Dad, tell him to move, Dad, why can’t you see that I need you?’

And, much older, drinking and laughing at parties. Until the moment when the boy you’ve been speaking to carries you to the bedroom and you can’t speak at all any more. Where the balancing game starts up again and you weigh up where your friends are, can you do what he wants quickly and get back to their safety, would it be polite to ask to leave now? Or, the surreal moment when a man flashes you and your friends in the park whilst you’re getting high and they find it hilarious but you just start to cry. And they tell you to stop being so miserable.

And lastly, could he have foreseen the template he set up for me? The complicated and confusing relationships with men older than I. An ongoing, contemporary source of anguish which is not simple or forthcoming as I write.

Could he have foreseen all of that? I honestly do not think he could. He knew about bodies and what they did but he did not know about the mind and the soul. I feel no anger, because perhaps there is no anger to be felt? Is forgiveness mine to grant when he does not know there is anything to say sorry for? He was a child and so was I.

Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.

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