Tell Me You're Sorry, Daddy--Two Scared Little Girls. One Abusive Father. One Survived Against All Odds to Tell Their Story

by Caryn Walker

  ‘Over?’ I whispered. ‘What do you mean? It will never be over, not if he doesn’t have to face up to it.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide right now,’ they told me. ‘The decision doesn’t have to be made until tomorrow – we all hope you find the strength to do this though, Karen. Us, the judge, the police team, the CPS … we’re all with you.’

  Nodding, I let them out – I did want to fight it, I did want to be strong enough to say, no, it isn’t enough to say you ‘touched my chest’ when I was eleven; but I wanted to spare everyone so much that I just accepted it. I’d go with what he was willing to admit, and let him call the shots again.

  But what about me, Jenny? What about us? If I just say ‘Fine!’, he’ll get a slap on the wrist and everyone will just think I made a fuss about nothing. In fact, they’ll probably think he didn’t even do the things he is willing to admit to. They’ll probably think he’s the good man again. That he is admitting to things he didn’t do just out of some fatherly duty, to stop the mad daughter having to go through it all. That’s what they always thought, isn’t it? That Norman Yeo was a saint – that he took on Mum and her bastards, took them on as his own, and only had his fishing trips as an escape from it all. But we had no escape, did we? No escape from him or for her. If I let him get away with this, if I don’t even try to fight for us, where does that leave your legacy? I want the world to remember you, Jenny, and this is a part of me trying to achieve that. I want to tell your story, and I can’t be true to that story if I don’t stand up in court and say what he did to me.

  So, I made up my mind to do it. I decided that the vague notion of a ‘possible’ maximum two-year sentence if his plea was accepted just wasn’t enough. There was also the chance that he would get no sentence at all, even having accepted those few charges. I needed closure. I actually felt quite shocked at what he was proposing, and the anger started to build and I knew in my heart that I needed to go ahead with the trial. I thought a lot about my sister that night. I couldn’t sleep, again, and got up at 1.30am to go to the loo. The moon was shining straight into my bed when I got back into it, right through my window, although the sky was cloudy. It might sound crazy but I felt like it was a sign from Jenny. I told her, I will do good for us both, for what we went through. I’ll manage this – but I’ll need you there beside me.

  On the day I needed to give evidence – Tuesday, 22 June 2011, a date I will never forget – I was shattered. I had been up all night. We both had; Elroy had paced the floor with me. I felt scared of what the following hours would bring but I also had a feeling that my whole life has been about this day. We were collected at 8.30am by Tina and Tamsin and made our way to court.

  Here we go, I thought to myself.

  We headed in through the witness entrance and into the suite allocated for me. Here I met the barrister, Mr McNally, for the first time. I think it might surprise a lot of people to hear that you don’t meet your barrister until that point; there was certainly no previous relationship, although I guess he had spent a lot of time on my files and statements. He was nice, friendly, and he put me at ease. He went through my statement and told me the things he didn’t want me to answer – I was to avoid hearsay, mostly. This turned out to be good advice and I’m glad he told me. I had to wait in the witness suite. My head was spinning. Tamsin and Tina were with me, and Melanie and Ian, but I decided to go into the suite on my own. I thought I’d be stronger that way but when Melanie asked at the last minute if I wanted her to come in, I agreed. In the end, I was glad of a face I knew when it got tough.

  Two hours after arriving, the court usher turned up to take me into court.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’

  I wondered if that was true. Was this the start of it ending, or just another horrible chapter? I was amazed at how terrified I felt. I was also still in shock that Dad had even turned up, as over the past few months I’d feared so much that he would harm himself and not come to court at all. But there he was; he had tried to admit those few minor charges, which hadn’t worked, so it was crystal clear that he was going to make me fight all the way. Actually, I told myself, it was a good thing that my misguided feelings about him having any remorse or being sorry were slowly but surely being completely squashed. I also found out that morning that Kevin knew he must attend court, that he had no choice – but he said he would turn up only so he wouldn’t be sent to prison for non-attendance, and that he was intending to refuse to talk on the stand.

  Just before I went in, I was told the defence barrister had accepted my brothers’ statements as fact, which meant they didn’t have to be cross-examined; their statements would be read out in court instead. In those statements, Ian and Andrew said they wanted to help; they felt they didn’t do anything as kids and they wanted to help now. This made me very sad. Just giving a statement is a massive help and great support. It wasn’t their job to help me when we were children. It wasn’t their job to be my protector. It was our parents’ job and they failed us, both of them.

  When I entered court, my legs felt as though they didn’t have the strength to hold me. I felt hot and dizzy and overwhelmed. The curtain was already pulled over and the judge and the jury were absent. The usher took me through the little half door and down two steps into the witness box, located next to the judge. The jury box was directly in front of me and the barristers were to my right. Because of the screen, my barrister was behind Dad instead of to his right, and I knew Dad was there.

  He’s there.

  Jenny, he’s there.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE TRIAL

  I just sense him, I just sense his very presence as if it’s oozing out towards me.

  His barrister is a craggy-looking man who constantly stares at me over the top of his glasses. I feel intimidated by this but maybe that’s his plan. I’m later told that Dad looks about a hundred years old, and his face seems to have collapsed. I don’t want to feel one jot of sympathy for him, but I wonder what the reaction of the jury will be to this pathetic, pitiful creature. I want them to see him as he was; I want them to see the man who raped me over thirty years ago, not this weary, bewildered pensioner.

  The jury is brought in while the usher gives me tissues and water. I watch them out of the corner of my eye. I think the jury is made up of eight women and four men, but I’m not 100 per cent sure. My barrister smiles at me and I think I might fall over purely out of feeling so overwhelmed. The presence of him, of my dad, feels enormous to me.

  For an hour, maybe an hour and a half, my barrister gently talks me through my statement. It is more difficult than I could ever have imagined. He constantly pushes me on issues, pushing for more details, pushing, pushing, pushing, and I want to stop, I want to not have to say the words – but I know I must do this. He must do this for the sake of the jury. I knew this would be hard, but I find it so difficult to actually ‘say’ the things that happened. I am aware that my father is sitting twenty feet away from me, listening, as it goes on. I try to concentrate on the questions and make myself less aware of his presence, but it’s hard to actively ignore something when it seems to loom so large. I look either at my barrister or above the jurors. The questions are very, very sensitive and some of the answers I have to give do make me cry. The details are very personal and I feel ashamed saying them.

  Relief floods through me when it’s over. I’ve noticed some of the jury trying to make eye contact with me, but I try to avoid it as I don’t know if it’s allowed. The judge is stony-faced. I can’t guess what he’s thinking. After my barrister has finished, the judge asks me if I am OK to carry on. I’m dreading this bit even more but I say ‘Yes’ and the barristers switch places.

  The first angle Dad’s barrister tries is that I am confused. He says that I think I can remember but I am mistaken. He says I’m bewildered about ages and houses and other ‘facts’. I tell him I’m not. I do feel intimidated by how he looks at me and how he talks to me �
�� and, at first, the intimidation works. I’m shaking like a leaf and keep asking myself, where is my strength, when is it going to come? This man is calm, collected, educated; he knows the system inside and out, and he’s trying to trip me up on little things so that the big things shatter too. I know what he’s trying to do – if I can’t remember what age I was, or what house I lived in, how can I be trusted with allegations that could ruin a man’s life? But I do know. I do remember. I tell myself, remember you are only telling the truth; you can’t be tripped up on the truth, just state the facts. One of the legal team had said to me, ‘If you knew everything on a timeline, you wouldn’t be believed by the jury. You can’t know the dates of everything, you can’t know the detail of everything – stick to what you do know, stick to the truth and don’t embellish it.’

  It’s very harsh though. I feel nauseous and shaky. In my hand is a small crystal that Jenny gave me years ago, and I turn it round and round as the barrister goes over and over the same points. In my mind, I keep saying to her, This is for us, Sis. This is for all the hurt against us both. Jenny can’t take the stand and say what happened, and little Karen is now gone. I’m the only one left. It is up to me to tell the truth.

  Surprisingly, the more the barrister accuses me – calls me a liar, says I am exaggerating, says I’ve made things up – the stronger I feel. I’m not weak. I’m really not. I just insist that I am telling the truth, and I do remember what happened. I believe Jenny sent me strength that day and the more he tries to undermine me, the more she makes me feel that I can do this.

  At 1pm, it’s time for the first break. I go to meet Vicky, who says I am doing fine, and Ian and Elroy. I can’t eat anything. I walk back to court with Vicky. I hear my dad mumbling to someone as we go back in and I try to walk with my eyes closed as we go past him.

  The afternoon cross-examination takes forever and it feels like Dad’s barrister goes over the same points again and again – what school, what house? It was harder to go back into court in the afternoon, probably because I knew what I was facing.

  Even as I am writing this, I am still feeling the shock. How did I do it? Where did I find the strength? How did I finally manage to stand up for myself? Dad did do those things to me, he did take away my life for so long, he did leave me damaged; please, please let this be a new start for me, I pray inwardly. Please let me be able to build on what I’m managing here.

  The questions go on and on and on. At one point, I look at the little door/hatch thing at the side and imagine myself just running through it. I feel at times that I can’t take any more – how much longer will he keep questioning me, and how much longer will my strength hold? His questions again and again and again. He is ruthless and calls me a liar, says I made things up. He says personal things and, at times, I feel light-headed. I don’t know how my legs are holding me up. I keep turning Jenny’s crystal over in my hand and, eventually, I develop a coping strategy – I just take it one question at a time. Don’t think backwards, Karen, don’t think forwards, I tell myself; one question at a time. This seems to help.

  At 3.45pm, the judge turns into my saviour.

  ‘Do you have much more to ask?’ he enquires.

  ‘Not really,’ replies the barrister.

  ‘This is going to be over today,’ says the judge, and my heart leaps. ‘Get on with it.’

  I think he figured the same as me; I suspected that the barrister was trying to get his questioning to roll over to the next day. He has kept flicking through his papers and scrolling through his laptop, as if he was trying to find more questions, because I disputed every lie or accusation he threw at me.

  The thought of it rolling over terrified me. I genuinely thought it was a possibility until the judge stepped in, and I did think to myself, I can’t come back here tomorrow, not when he has had a whole night to figure out more accusations and questions, and to find more stuff to throw at me. I don’t know what I would have done if it had happened, so thank goodness for the judge. Court usually ends at about 4pm but, just before then, the barrister finds what he thinks is a discrepancy in my statement. The judge sends me out to read through it and I immediately find what he’s going on about.

  He keeps picking out differences between my statement and my personal notes. I say eight or nine times that these notes were personal memories that were only ever for me, for my eyes, when I had sat and tried to make sense of what was in my head; putting it on paper helped but they were only ever for me, they weren’t for a forensic examination. I was upset when the police took them away and one of the most devastating things about the whole trial is this point, when I realise everybody in that court has a copy of my personal thoughts, my horrible memories and my private words that I never wanted anyone else to ever see. This is very hard to deal with. Now the barrister is trying to pick holes in all of it – but he can’t, because I’m sticking to my rule: only tell the truth.

  ***

  Court finally finished just after 5pm and I remember the judge looking at me and nodding kindly as I said, ‘Can I go now?’ I nearly stumbled up the two steps as I left the witness box. I don’t think I have ever felt so out of control of my own body. I kept thinking, they’ll call me back. I didn’t think it was really done with. The thought haunted me as I sobbed outside that courthouse. My barrister told me I had done well and wished me good luck. Everyone said I was brave and strong, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. I tried to rush everyone away as I knew Dad would be out soon – he was to go and sign the Sex Offenders Register as he had already admitted some charges, but then he was free to leave, as nothing had been decided yet. He was still a free man.

  ***

  The evening goes by in a blur. I am in shock, scared, relieved, proud, sad, all rolled into one. I also can’t get Jenny out of my mind. I’m not a religious person but I wonder if she’s looking down on me and if she’s feeling proud. I couldn’t have done this without the memory of her and her crystal, but I know we still have a long way to go.

  ***

  The next day in court, the biggest thing is Mum’s evidence. It only takes a couple of hours for that and her cross-examination. I am obviously not there, but I am told later by people who were that there are a lot of contradictions. She does admit a few things though, and I hope they show that I was telling the truth. She says she put a lock on my bedroom door when she caught him in there, again when I was thirteen, and that she also found him going through my underwear.

  Some parts of the evidence only bring up her side, but I guess that’s always the case in court. When she admits Dad had put me in their bed, she says her back was to me, and she snapped at him, ‘What did you bring her in here for?’ Mum tells the court that she allowed me to stay in the bed when he did that to keep me safe; I can’t challenge that, but can only hope the jurors see that it never achieved that aim, even if that’s what she was trying to do, and that putting me back in my own locked room, and getting rid of the man she kept finding with me, would have been a much better option.

  Mum is asked by my barrister what her relationship with me was like, and she said it was hit and miss but most of the time we had got on.

  Maybe that’s what she thought. Maybe she did actually feel that, most of the time, we got on. What I remember, though, is that she continually discussed her sex life with me from when I was tiny, she told me about abuse, she told me about rape, she said she had sticks pushed into her, that she was forced to have sex with another woman. Who am I to say what was true and what wasn’t? I can only repeat what I was told. But, combining all of that with other things she said and how she acted, I am wary of believing any single word.

  I am covered in scars – my buttocks, my private area; a triangular one at the back of my knee and I have one from a cut on the side of my eye – but none of these injuries were ever treated by medics. How does that fit with looking after your child, and keeping them safe?

  When the barrister asks if she knew what was going on about the lock, Mum jus
t says it was to keep my dad out. She tells the barrister that she asked me what was going on, and I said ‘Nothing’, so she believed me.

  I am told that Mum looked at Dad constantly as she said these things, and that there were smirks from her side, but I wasn’t there and I can’t prove it; all I know is that although she told the jury I confided in her, surely they would have realised from my evidence that this would never have happened? The very notion of confiding in or trusting my mother was the opposite of every part of our relationship. My emotions are everywhere – I’m relieved to not be called back, worried I still might be, worried my mother will have made the jury doubt me; I just feel drained.

  In his statement, Andy says he saw Dad coming out of my bedroom naked and going into the bathroom, then going back in. He mentioned the food we had to eat back then and mapped out the house and address perfectly, and it all tallies with what I have said. He had seen Dad coming out of my bedroom with an erection when he was ten – he had carried that all his life. His statement, and Kev’s, are read out the afternoon after Mum gives her evidence, but they aren’t cross-examined. They are just accepted.

  ***

  When morning breaks on the Thursday, I’m barely standing. Today is the day that Dad will give his evidence. Elroy and Ian will sit in, and they will tell me everything. It’s only scheduled to last a couple of hours. I was on the stand for much longer, which seems ridiculous. He still insists he only started after I was eleven and that it was very ‘minor’ touching.

  ***

  Apparently, Dad admitted that he had been attracted to me in ‘that way’, and stood with his head down a lot. Elroy told me the jury were looking at him with what seemed like disgust, as was the court clerk and sometimes even the judge, but I wondered if he was just saying this to make me feel better. At one point, the judge ordered a ten-minute recess and said he needed some time in a dark room; that he couldn’t possibly go on. I had hoped the judge and jury weren’t buying Dad’s lies for one moment, and this action from the judge gave me a little hope as it made me feel that he was seeing how awful it all was.