Free Anne's Song by Anne Nolan Page B

off-stage by nine each evening; that was the law of the land. Technically, we all had to have a licence to perform in public under the age of sixteen, but no one ever seemed to enforce it for Denise, Maureen and me.
    During those seasons at the Brunswick, Dad liked to stay behind after the show and prop up the bar. Because we lived close by, we kids were usually sent home by taxi, albeit much too late for our age, and promptly put to bed. Later, I'd hear Dad returning, stumbling into the house, and I'd lie rigid in my bed in case he came into the bedroom I shared with Denise, Maureen and Linda. It was driving home from the Brunswick late one night that my father had stopped the car and told me he wanted to say something special.
    That episode haunts me to this day. As soon as he'd said that he'd give me a lift home, I'd felt uneasy, but nothing could have prepared me for his obscene suggestion that we should run away and live together as man and wife. The abuse I'd suffered at his hands had been bad enough, but this was worse. I remember being gripped by a new panic. Was this an overture to our having full sex together somewhere that very evening? It was late. It was dark. He could have driven me anywhere and easily have overpowered me. My tears, my abject fear, must have communicated to him, though, because he had suddenly started up the engine and we'd driven straight home, in silence.
    The thought of him blundering drunkenly into my bedroom and trying to grope me was a real and constant fear with his increasing drinking. It was worse if Blackpool FC were playing at home, although any trouble usually occurred in the evening rather than during the night. He'd go to the match and arrive home considerably the worse for wear before we invariably all had to go off for a singing engagement. That's when he'd pick a fight with Mum. She was the very opposite of a belligerent woman, but he'd go on and on at her until she was goaded into reacting.
    Every Saturday, she'd make a big pan of stew from which we could all go and serve ourselves at whatever time suited us best. By the time my father got back from the football match and the drinks afterwards, all the stew would be gone. He'd march into the kitchen.
    'There's only potatoes and vegetables left in this stew,' he'd say. 'Where's all the meat?'
    My mother would try and keep calm. She'd say, 'It's not my fault, Tommy. The kids must have eaten it all.'
    That would never satisfy him. 'You know how many of us there are,' he'd reply, in a really patronising way. 'Why don't you put more meat in the stew in the first place?'
    And so it would escalate until she said something like, 'Well, if you didn't stay out drinking, there'd be plenty of meat for you.' Then he'd smack her one, a slap across the face. Or he'd push her across the room. He never cared if any of us was there. Fuelled by alcohol, he no longer kept a lid on his naturally bullying nature.
    The truth is, anything she said would have set him off, and he'd carry on riling her, determined to pick a fight. I'd beg her over and over again to say nothing when he came through the front door with the drink on him, but it was no good. He'd needle her, she'd eventually answer back and then there'd be trouble.
    One night, just before we set off for the Brunswick, Dad came back from the football, drunk again, and a row started between him and Mum. I'd seen it so many times before. The three of us were in the lounge. For no good reason, he suddenly lashed out at her, as he'd done many times in the past. He slapped her across the face and then pushed her hard on to the sofa. She was trying to defend herself and crying now. I hated witnessing such violence against my poor mother, but she always told us to keep out of it. For some reason, this time it was different. All the simmering rage I felt about him, and what he'd put me through, boiled to the surface. I was really angry. He was hitting my mum and in front of me. How dare he! I wasn't