Never a Hero to Me by Tracy Black Page A

off with the others; he took me into the kitchen. We were the only ones there early on and he started explaining things to me. There was an old toasting machine, the sort where you place the split rolls on a tray and they roll through, getting toasted on the way before they drop off the end. I was told to do hamburgers that way too, four at a time. It was quite a small place, maybe about eight feet long and just wide enough for someone to stand at the toasting machine with no one behind them. The mess itself had a huge kitchen, but this area was really just for making snacks. Given the way it was laid out, I was squashed almost in a corner making the rolls as other people came in, some to get the hot drinks ready, others to grab something to eat. People said ‘hello’ or mentioned how nice it was for me to help out, but Dad had already given me his usual speech about not engaging with others, so I didn’t chat.
    He was standing on the other side of the partition where we handed food through when I heard someone say, ‘Where’s Tracy?’ I didn’t know anyone, so couldn’t imagine why there would be a man asking for me by name. I didn’t hear my father replying to him, but seconds later a burly chap came in and headed straight for me. I was still standing over the toasting machine and he walked over behind me, squeezing past everyone else.
    ‘Hello there, young Tracy,’ he said, smiling.
    I said ‘hello’ back to him, and kept my head down as I made the burgers. I suspected Dad was somewhere nearby and I didn’t want to get into trouble for talking – not that I particularly wanted to talk to this man anyway.
    ‘Busy?’ he asked as he moved closer. I looked behind me at him and said nothing. He was very close to me. There wasn’t much space where I was working anyway, but he had chosen to put himself there. As I moved the burgers and bread rolls through the machine, he pushed the front of his body into the back of mine. It was like the situation when Dad made me change the duvet cover all over again. I had no idea what to do – if I drew attention to what was happening I feared I would get into trouble. All the things Dad regularly called me, all the blame he laid on me for what happened, went through my mind. The kitchen was busy and no one was paying attention to what was going on. This man was pressing hard into me and I knew what I could feel; I had felt Dad’s often enough. He was getting harder and harder and he had a horrible grin on his face.
    All of a sudden, I heard Dad call ‘Graham!’ from the door of the kitchen.
    The man moved away from me, slapped me on the backside, and waved. ‘Harry!’ he called, walking towards him. ‘Something wrong?’
    My Dad didn’t answer immediately. When he did, he just said, ‘No, nothing’s wrong – a word, if you don’t mind?’ Graham left the room with him and I continued making the food. I knew I couldn’t get upset and I knew I had to keep going through the motions or there would be a few hard punches and slaps waiting for me when we got home.
    Nothing was said by my father about what had happened, but I thought I knew. It came to me in a flash of realisation that they had been talking, he had been one of the men I had seen in the halfway house, and he had known my name. Dad had shown me to him, and he had thought he had the right to do what he did. What did that mean? Had Dad told other men what he was doing to me? If that was the case, did that mean they thought it was fine? If he had told them of the abuse and they hadn’t told him he was a bad man, then all the things he had been indoctrinating me with were true – this was OK, this was what made me a good girl.
    My head was spinning. If he was telling other people, did that mean men like Graham could do these things to me as well? Was that what he was trying? Was he paving the way?
    What a horrible situation for a young child. Not only was I being violated by the person who should care for