Chapter 1 - Little girl blue

  Picture me then at eight years old. Red shorts, a white button-through blouse with little puff sleeves, and a pair of blue and white striped canvas gym shoes. Two kirby grips to hold back my unruly shoulder length dark hair, one on each side of a ragged middle parting. Rosy cheeks from a summer spent in the local park. A little breathless from pushing that swing higher and higher then running right underneath it and out of reach, before it swung stright back down again.
  Then come with me to a cheap hotel in Glasgow. We're all there for the weekend for a treat while Dad's at a Local Government conference. It's about 10pm. Norma and Campbell are fast asleep, I'm reading 'Five on Kirrin Island Again' with a torch under the bedcovers. Mum's crying softly into the pillow and I can sense a problem. Dad is 'in a mood'.
  Feel my fear.
  He comes back into our room, slams the door and launches into a fierce interrogation - 'Why didn't you come to meet me after the dinner? What did you get up to? Why is she still awake? Why did you pick this lousy guest house anyway?'
  And know that you'll need to comfort the younger two when they wake up, put a consoling arm round Mum's shoulders and hold back your own wobbly tears. Everything must stay calm.
  And still feel that fear - almost forty years on. Only now, for the very first time, recognise what it is and where it all started. And - what's worse - the effect it has had every day of your life from that day on.
**
  What the world saw was Diane, eldest child of Ken and Isobel Steven. Lively, tall for her age, a fast runner when she wasn't falling over her own oversized feet, happy out of doors, head in a book otherwise. A bright child who does well as she moves into Forfar Academy, developing real talent as an artist, and with a strong sense of right and wrong, manifesting itself in support for all underdogs.
  But indoors, I was someone different. I was 'the watcher'. Six pm and no sign of Dad - better listen out for his key. Back door pushed open roughly - maybe he's angry. Mum fidgety and fragile - is she expecting trouble?
 Dad's voice roughening up - will he go for Mum or will it be one of us? Not that he ever raised a hand - his look, tone, accusations and overpowering body language had the ability to reduce us all to quivering wrecks.
  I watched for us all. And when they came, these black days, I stayed strong for the others and minimised any possible triggers. It became what I did; it became who I was; the knot in my stomach a permanent feature. I could breathe really quietly if I had to and never caused any trouble at home. If necessary, I could distract the other two and move them out of range. And I became Mum's best friend. Just so that everything could be calm.
  No-one else knew. Not even Bruce.