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I tried to recall what age she might have been. She was certainly an adult, a pregnant adult when I met her, but what age was she when I was born? Were she and Dad really married? Wouldn’t she have been better off in a psychiatric hospital? Dad seemed to despise her. He hadn’t given her new clothing or much food, definitely didn’t like her, but he had sex with her. Did she want to? My mother seemed to hate him too. And if she didn’t want to have sex with him, did he force her? I didn’t want to think about it. Dad was such a good man in so many ways. But then there was Lindy.

I bought Lindy basic groceries that she could prepare herself and I got her books from the library. Dad insisted that she get no writing or drawing materials, no pens, pencils or crayons. I bought her gifts, though, some chocolate or clothes from the op-shops, nice soap and shampoo, new towels. Dad said there was no point being sweet on her because I couldn’t ever touch her. I knew that. But the more vulnerable and scared she was, the more I liked her. I buried my physical desires for her. I wondered if Dad was having sex with Lindy. I was afraid to ask her because I was scared of what the answer might be. One time, in the morning, Dad had scratches on his face. He said he’d tripped into the brambles when coming back from delivering Lindy’s breakfast. That was a lie because Lindy made her own breakfast. Another time, I could see dried blood pooled in his ear. Why did it take me so long to realize that my father was a paedophile?

There was one occasion when I joined her in the evening and she was particularly subdued. I laid the bag of groceries within her reach, and then backed into the corner and began to chat about the day. There was blood on the front of her T-shirt. As she silently put her things away, I noticed that one of her front teeth was missing.

Lindy had to spell it out for me, and the words rang bells that echoed right back to my early childhood. It was March 1985. I didn’t comment on her tooth, or the blood. I tried to pretend I hadn’t noticed. She waited until I was sitting in the only chair and sat down on the floor, right in front of me, and looked up into my face. ‘Steve, he said he’d kill me if I told you, but your dad isn’t keeping me here so that I can be your friend. You’re seventeen years old and you can’t be that bloody innocent. Your dad is a rapist shit. He’s been raping me twice a week since I arrived here. And if I resist, he punishes me.’ She pulled up her sleeves so that I could see bruises on her wrists.

I told her to shut up.

‘You think my tooth fell out?’ she said, and I remembered my mother’s gums. Lindy was only voicing what I had long suspected. I had worked it all out and she could tell.

‘You know, Steve, you’ve known all along. If it wasn’t for your disease, you’d be raping me too.’

I was horrified by this. ‘I swear, I’d never hurt you, I didn’t know anything.’

‘I don’t believe you. You definitely know now. What are you going to do about it?’

I couldn’t look at her, couldn’t think of what to say. I locked the door behind me as usual, and ignored her tears and frustration.

My mother was another Lindy. I remembered all the things she had said to me. She was eleven when he had kidnapped her. I remembered my little sister, Mary. What had happened to them? I had kicked my mother when she was pregnant. My own mother. Lindy was telling the truth.

I had watched enough TV shows, real-life shows and not just dramas, to see that women could be smart and funny, sweet and kind. I had met them in town occasionally, Kai’s wife and sister. They were Polynesian. Dad had made derogatory comments about them.

I had never confronted my dad before. I had never needed to. I had lived in denial. He had always been gentle and kind and protective of me. But there were times when we had arguments. For example, I had begged him to get a telephone installed, but he’d refused, claiming it was a waste of money. I’d told him he was stubborn.

Lindy’s situation was something I could not ignore any longer. I had a sleepless night, my mind in turmoil. I didn’t join Dad for breakfast the next morning. I stayed out in the vegetable garden. That evening, it was my turn to cook dinner. When I heard his car come down the road, the knot in my stomach tightened. I had burned our pork chops and overboiled the potatoes. I put the plate down in front of him and sat at the other end of the table. I watched him pour water from the jug into his glass. I was too nervous and stomach-sick to eat.

‘Are you feeling all right? You look a little off-colour,’ he said, concern in his voice.

‘I was thinking about my mother and how you raped her.’ I choked on the words.

His knife clattered on to the table.

‘I’m seventeen years old, Dad. How old was she when you got her pregnant? Was she older or younger than Lindy?’

He slammed his fist down on to the table so hard that everything jumped. His glass of water fell over. ‘I will not have this –’