Chapter 2. Growing Up in the 70s

Growing Up in the 70s
By MissT

I remember the sound so vividly—my father whistling up the garden path, his pockets jingling with pound coins. That sound always filled me with excitement. My hero was home. The dark prince returning from his daily work chores.

He’d settle into his favourite armchair, headphones on, drifting off to sleep. I would quietly squeeze myself between him and the arm of the chair, watching the rise and fall of his belly as he breathed. That spot, right there beside him, was the safest place in the world for me. And safe places were few and far between.

My mother—at best—was tolerant of me. But she never liked the bond I had with my dad. To me, it felt like she was always angry with me, no matter what I did. Navigating her moods was something I never quite learned how to do.

She was an incredible housekeeper—I’ll give her that. She’d dash through the living room like a tornado, making everything spotless just before my father walked through the door. She had been well-trained by his mother to take care of her son. My paternal grandmother taught her to cook, and—credit where it’s due—my mum did that well. I feel I should say something kind about her, but honestly… I struggle to find much more.

From a very young age, I remember the slaps. Being called a brazen hussy, big nose, yellow teeth—told I’d never be as beautiful as her. Those words still cling to me. I carry hang-ups to this day. Back then, a slap here and there was seen as normal, but if I’d been treated like that now, I probably would’ve been taken into care.

Ducking out of the way of her eager beatings became a skill I got good at. I never imagined that fifty years later, I’d still feel the sting of her rejection. The abuse changed over time. It went from physical to mental and emotional, and it never truly stopped. Not until two years ago, when I finally found the courage to cut her out of my life for good.

The Favourite

My brother was her favourite—and she took great pleasure in letting me know it.

He had ginger hair and pale skin, and I still remember the day they brought him home from the hospital. I adored him from the start. I spoke for him until he could speak for himself. He could be a little shit at times—getting me into trouble more than once—but I loved him fiercely. I felt incredibly protective of him. I never wanted him to face the beatings I did, and I often stepped in front of him to take the smacks myself.

We had a landline in the garage. I used to play piano there, because it was full of woodworm. They’d listen to me through the phone line, my music drifting into the house. Strange moments of connection in a household that didn’t always offer much of it.

Sometimes, if I was to be disciplined by my father, my mother would listen in through that same line. I knew she wanted to hear the smacks . But my father wouldn’t do it—not really. Instead, he’d clap his hands and whisper to me, “Say owww.”

I was grateful for that small kindness. There wasn’t much kindness when he wasn’t around. Back then he was my hero. And I loved him so much.

Sometimes, I think those were the easier years—because I didn’t know any different. That was just life, and I’d learned how to survive it.

But when my parents split up, everything changed. I was 14. And things got much worse with no hero to save me.