When does our childhood end? Does it ever really end or does it just slowly mutate into something that we are told is adulthood which contains the child we were/are within it?
When I was 15 I went on a grand adventure. I can't remember all the details of the day. For instance, how I got back to and from my parents house. I will try to record what I do recall without inventing infill content. I may need to say when I don't remember some details.
My grandfather (Grandad we called him) was a long distance lorry driver and he invited me to go with him on a run to a major dock terminal. The journey to the docks was fantastic for being allowed to go on this adventure for the day. On the way back the lorry began to play up but it limped back to it's depot. Grandad and a mechanic spent hours trying to sort the problem out while I was sat in the cab getting colder by the minute. The ground outside had a small blanket of snow and the air in the cab dropped in temperature towards the low Celsius numbers.
When we got back to my grandparents house nobody was home. We had a cup of tea and some biscuits then Grandad started drinking beer. Lots of beer. Nobody had warned me of what could happen. Grandad had been drunk around me before but there had always been other adults around as well. When he was drunk he became a lot more emotional, often sang songs and could become very tearful. This day was different. He didn't sing or become tearful. He asked me to help him change the sheets on a bed before I went home.
After the bottom sheet was on the bed and tucked in he came around to the side where I was and stood behind me. I didn't think anything of this. He was Grandad. I trusted him. The next thing I know I am laying on the bed on my front and he is lying on top of me. He was a short man but very overweight. I wasn't athletic. I hated sports activities at school. I could ride my bicycle for miles as long as it was on level ground but I didn't have enough strength to push him off me. I also didn't understand yet what was happening.
His hand reached around me and started to undo my trousers. I was becoming alarmed and pulled them back together. He kept unfastening them and trying to pull them down or to put his hands inside my underwear. After what seemed a few minutes trying to keep his hands out of my clothes (I don't really know how long it took) I managed to wriggle out from underneath him, zipped and buttoned my trousers before fastening the belt. Now he started to cry and beg. He didn't say he was sorry but he begged me not to tell anyone what had happened. In some ways I was a naive kid. I still wanted to trust him. I agreed and didn't tell anyone about it for several years.
I so regret not telling anyone because it meant he later managed to rape my sister. Nobody warned her about him either.
My dream of childhood is still broken over 40 years later and I still feel guilty everytime I think about what happened to my sister. I know so much more about him now. I know a lot about his childhood and my mothers. I know that he raped all his own children. It is a very complex web of historical abuse, secrets being kept, shame, compromises and choices that were made to escape him which have ongoing consequences in the lives of others many decades on.
The strange thing is, I loved him still to the day he died. Love isn't rational. It can defy all expectations. I loved him and took my sons to meet him. I wanted them to know that part of their ancestry and see a real person. I never left him alone with them of course. I never told them any of this story. I hope that I can let the chain of hurt die with me.