by Mary Hayward
I strutted into the office like a peacock. Mr Williams was impeccably dressed in his smart white shirt and pinstriped charcoal suit. Cleanliness, fingernails almost polished, they were so clean. Everything about him was neat, like his work, as if it was an obsession. He was sitting at his desk.
“Five we found, Mr Williams!” I dumped the bugs onto his desk in a heap and watched his reaction.
“My goodness, I didn’t think these things were available,” he said. His thick mop of dark hair flopped over his glasses. I stood over him as he craned his neck to look up at me.
“Here.” Thud.
I dropped a recent copy of the Exchange & Mart on his desk, open at the page advertising surveillance equipment. His blue steely eyes followed like a child being fed in a high chair.
“I’ll put them in the safe right away; they will provide good evidence of intimidation when we go to court. Well done. You’ve taught me something today.”
I recounted a brief account of my discovery, and left. It was one battle I felt I had won.
Empty beer cans soon collected by the back gate. It was strange at the time, but I took no real notice until the cans were joined by footprints in the mud. I felt uneasy.
Woken by a noise, I worried that someone was breaking in. I opened my bedroom window, lent out, and shone my torch down the wall at the rear kitchen door. Caught in the flashlight, Billy was spread-eagled against the living room window, trying to be invisible, but it wasn’t working.
It was as if he was trying to listen, now that his bugs had been removed. I quietly filled Lindsay’s Mickey Mouse waste paper bin with water and tipped it out the window as close to the wall as I could. I returned to my bed, cosy and dry.
I phoned Mr Williams in the morning, and he applied for another Non Molestation order.
Struggling to keep things going with a limited income, I got work serving as a checkout lady at the local Tesco supermarket. It wasn’t ideal, but it had to fit in with Lindsay. I had arranged for Mum to babysit for a few hours each day, and I fitted in the work to suit.
Billy was a continual threat. I took as many precautions as I could to prevent him screwing up my life. I always took the back alley route to the store. I tried to stick to paths, and tracks, avoiding the roads where I knew he would cruise in his car. Yet despite all my efforts, somehow, he found out that I was working.
I was serving a long queue of customers on the checkout, when he started ranting for all to hear. He screamed all sorts of profanities, innuendoes and downright lies. Personal things, even intimate things I couldn’t repeat to my own mother.
The stalking, the turning up unexpectedly—I couldn’t take it any more and I was reaching the end of my endurance. It was so spiteful; so hateful, it crushed me. It was all going wrong for me again. Something about Billy could reduce me to a quivering wreck, and weaken my resolve, but I wasn’t going to cry.
Keeping my head high, I calmly gathered my things and walked away from the till, telling the supervisor I had to go home. If I thought I could escape, I was wrong.
Following me, kerb crawling in his car, he continued to shout and swear in one long monologue. I watched as a woman walking towards me crossed over to the other side of the road. I felt my face flush as I banished a tear. I ducked down the alley that led to the house, and suddenly I was free. I stopped and listened as his abusive swearing petered out. I wanted to know if he was going to sit and wait, or drive off and give up.
I heard him drive away, and ran home as fast as I could.
I slid indoors, sat down in the living room, as if a prisoner in my own home, and sobbed. I was drowning, clinging to sanity by a thread. I wiped my tears, downtrodden again, but I was determined to carry on. I promised myself I had to do it for Lindsay, as I had for Colin.
I phoned Mr Williams to stop Billy stalking me. He told me he would arrange an injunction, but it wasn’t long before I arrived home in the afternoon to find a ladder propped up against the back wall of the house. He had broken in through the bedroom window and I found him asleep in the master bedroom, lying amongst a pile of empty beer cans.
My first reaction was to call the police, to exact revenge because he was so vulnerable lying there. Then I thought better of it. I went down to the kitchen and rummaged in the drawer for a telephone bill. I extracted the tenancy form that the Solicitor had given me from my handbag, and snatched a pen from the nearby pot in the hallway. Returning to the bedroom, I woke him. He was still drunk from the beer and difficult to rouse, but I persisted.
He grunted into consciousness, and I waved the bill in his face. I pushed the form under his nose, carefully placing it on top of the telephone bill, and placed the pen in his hand.
“Telephone bill that arrived today. It’s in your name.” I wanted him to hear the word bill.
“Well,” he said.
“Shall I send the bill to you?”
“No.”
“Then sign here.” I placed the pen on the form. “Put the telephone in my name.” My voice was firm.
I held my breath as he signed it. I was so frightened I almost wet myself, but I held my nerve.
I snatched it away from him and raced down the stairs.
My heart was pounding so loudly that it felt as if it would explode in my chest. I sat on the stairs, and waited, expecting him to follow, but he fell back to sleep.
Calmly I made two phone calls. One to the police, and one to the solicitor. I dialled 999.
“Emergency, which service do you require?”
“Police.”
“What’s the emergency?”
“I have a Non Molestation Order against my husband, and he has broken in.”
I gave the details, and within ten minutes a police van arrived outside, and two large policemen removed Billy.
They didn’t have the power to arrest him; instead, they physically removed him, took him to his dingy flat he rented at the end of the road, and spoke to him.
The important thing was to get the house transferred to my name. Until that happened, I was in danger of losing my home.
I dialled the solicitor.
“Mr Williams, are you listening?”
“Yes Mary,” he recognised my voice.
“I have the tenancy agreement signed over to my name!”
“Wow, that’s very good news.” He sounded so pleased for me.
“He broke into my house and was asleep on the bed, so I put the form…”
“Don’t,” he interrupted, “I don’t want to know how you managed it.” He stifled a little chuckle.
“I’ll need to come and see you about the divorce.”
“Yes of course Mary, tomorrow morning, about 10 o’clock, would that suit?”
“Perfect, thank you.”
Before picking up Lindsay from Mum’s, I needed a moment alone. I didn’t feel I wanted to celebrate in the way that some might expect. It wasn’t like winning a prize, it was more like the gates to my freedom were being suddenly opened. I felt like a caged bird, slightly afraid to leave, fearful of the future, yet at the same time a warm glow of satisfaction dominated. It was a small victory in a troubled path. It wasn’t the end—it was more like the end of the beginning.
I was not yet safe, not until the form was in the Council Offices. I couldn’t risk Billy snatching it from me; after all, there still might be an undiscovered bug in the house.
I walked to a neighbour, Heather. We hadn’t spoken much, but she understood some of what had happened. I asked if I could call a taxi from her house, and while I waited, I told her the good news. She got out some cakes and we celebrated together over a cup of tea. I sensed that she had some experience of these matters, though she had never disclosed the circumstances. As I left, she held my hand. “You can live on bread and jam, you know Mary.” She patted my hand. She seemed familiar with Billy’s behaviour, as though it were a well-trodden path and it made me warm to her after that.
I wasted no time. I made my way to the Council offi
ces and handed in the form. I even stood over the official to make sure the house was transferred into my name. I didn’t want to take a chance.
Finally I got my divorce, and with it my freedom from Billy. It was a difficult time.
I began to realise I had this baggage. Not only from my childhood, the death of Joyce, but more importantly the devastating impact of the divorce from Terry—not to mention the crushing trauma of my life with Billy. It was a time of much reflection and personal development. Determined to find a new approach to my future, I sought help to exorcise the demons of my past.
I went in search of a counsellor. I needed therapy to understand myself so that I could put my life back on track.
38
Back on Track
R UTH, MY COUNSELLOR, had seen me for a number of weeks, and I was making progress, but the money ran out. She offered to defer the fees when I told her I was finding it difficult to afford the cost of the sessions as a single parent. Although she suggested I could pay her back later, I didn’t want the debt.
She had no idea about the hardship I suffered trying to keep the house going. I had lived in debt for most of my childhood, my marriage, losing the house, and now she wanted me to build up debt again. No, no, no, not this lady.
I worked with her for a number of weeks and made clear progress. I set goals, focused on life choices, and found a new direction for myself and my family. These were all positive things, but I was stronger than she had imagined. She had become too controlling and crossed that fine line between listening, and reflecting. She told me that the choice of my next partner would be a joint decision, to be taken with her guidance.
Enough, this was too much! I had outgrown her. She was advising, not counselling, and she seemed to have lost her way. How dare she presume to pick my next partner? I could see why, and perhaps my past decisions had been clouded by my history, but it was my life, and it would be my choice.
Although I spoke about my life, I never spoke about Joyce, or the affect it had on me; yet to me that seemed to be the nub of the problem. Billy had a similar Scottish accent to that of Joyce. It felt as if my mind, in its grief, had carried out some subtle sleight of hand. I wondered if I convinced myself it had brought me closer to Joyce. It appeared as if my mind, in its turmoil, could not have rejected him any more than a bee could have rejected honey.
When I met Billy, I was uncomfortable living on my own; I am ashamed to say this, but I was desperately frightened of the dark—a legacy of my childhood that I could trace back to Les leaving home.
As I began to decipher my baggage, in analysis, I began to see more clearly.
Stubbing out cigarettes on my carpet, stealing money from Florrie’s purse at the wedding, and the fact that Billy never tried to redress these misdemeanours—all this told me that he was fundamentally different; we never shared a common goal. I needed to feel like two horses in harness, but what I got was an inadequate puppy on a short lead. He never completed his university education; hadn’t committed to a full-time job, and he couldn’t take the pressure of responsibility. If he couldn’t do that for himself, it was unlikely that he could ever do it for me. The clues were there, yet I never saw them.
I was ready to choose someone myself; I would take the responsibility for the choice; I had to correct my nighttime phobia from childhood. It was time for change.
Putting locks on all the interior doors was the first step of many. I slept with a knife under my pillow.
I considered my income and how I could get off of State Benefit. I felt depressed on the benefit and I needed to raise the game. Billy wasn’t paying any maintenance for Lindsay, and it looked increasingly obvious to me that he never would.
I needed to improve my standard of living and I had to do it by myself.
Lindsay had never known Christmas or holidays, other than the odd day out, and the galling truth was that it smacked of my own childhood, and I was determined I wasn’t going to give her that.
As the weeks and months tumbled by, I managed to keep myself going financially, and give Lindsay a day out as a holiday. Colin was becoming restless after Billy left, and although I suggested he take a computing course at the local college, he preferred to earn more money. Despite arranging an interview, nothing would persuade Colin to gain any further qualifications, and in the end he went his own way.
In the meantime, Mother had got mugged and was in a terrible state. I spoke to the local authority about re-housing, and fought to have her transferred nearer to me. There was an empty flat just across the road, and eventually I made such a nuisance of myself, that I was able to persuade the officials to give her the flat.
With all my church friends, I painted and decorated it. She bought a new carpet, I fitted it myself, and set her up with everything she needed. She couldn’t have been happier, although when Jane visited to have a look, she complained about the colour scheme.
Colin was now a very tall, seventeen-year-old—very respectable, smart and impeccably spoken. He presented well at interviews, and had an easygoing and friendly nature. It was not long before he obtained a job at the Builder Group.
Soon he was enjoying a better income, and with it a subtle change in his attitude. He started to arrive home late at night, asserting his position within the family as if he had suddenly replaced Billy in the pecking order. Like Jane did to Mum when Dad left, Colin wanted to do with me. He saw himself as the head of the household. I loved Colin, and at the tender age of seventeen, he probably thought he would be very noble; be there to protect, and look after me. It wasn’t his role—I was his mother, not his wife. It was my responsibility and my burden, not his, and I couldn’t let him sacrifice himself in that way. It left me no choice: I couldn’t let Colin control my life anymore than I could let Billy.
Nevertheless, I found myself struggling to be able to control him.
Things eventually came to a head when he gave me an ultimatum. Either I would have to change, or else he was leaving to live on his own. I told him straight. I had every confidence in him, and left him to make his free choice. He chose to leave.
Florrie had lost Jack to cancer a few years earlier and was living on her own in Hornchurch. I didn’t want Colin to just go off on his own because he was too young. Unfortunately Terry, now married to Theresa, was unable to have him at this time.
Although Colin didn’t know, I arranged for him to move in with Florrie, his paternal grandmother. She always liked him, was glad of the extra income and the company he provided. It was the ideal relationship.
She telephoned Colin, and offered him lodging for a nominal rent. He jumped at the chance. He got the freedom he wanted, and I knew that Florrie would keep an eye on him.
Colin came over by train and visited Lindsay and me from time to time, keeping in close touch. It seemed to work out very well.
Billy didn’t disappear from my life, as I had hoped. He had stopped stalking me, but continually insisted on access to Lindsay. When I gave him access, he either turned up late, or not at all. Lindsay would become so distressed, one moment longing for the day with her daddy, and then the crushing disappointment. He never paid maintenance, and continually played mind games when she was in his company. She frequently arrived back home in tears.
I found her crying in the bathroom.
“What’s wrong, darling?” I spoke through the door.
“I don’t want to keep secrets mummy,” she sobbed.
“Little girls don’t have to.”
“Daddy is going to take me to see his mum and dad.”
“Did he say where?”
“Doncaster, I think…” sob “…he said.” Sniff.
“That’s a long way.”
“Mummy, I’m scared.” She tore off some toilet paper to wipe her nose. “I don’t want to go without you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s all right darling.”
“Don’t I, mummy? Daddy will be cross with me.”
“It’s all right darling, come out
of the toilet and I will give you a cuddle.”
I scooped her up in my arms and I sat for a moment, drying her eyes.
Everything was on Billy’s terms, and I had a continual battle of mind games. Lindsay kept getting caught in the crossfire and it was breaking my heart. I needed to get a job and become independent.
With Lindsay getting older, now four, I returned to full-time employment as a secretary, for a local company in Waltham Cross. Mum was living so close that she frequently offered to babysit Lindsay for me, picking her up from school and giving her a small plate of chips for tea. The arrangement worked for a little while—until one day I came home and found Mum sitting in my house, in the dark, muttering to herself like she was back in Langhedge Lane.
“What you doing sitting in the dark?”
“Can’t yer live on benefit?” she snapped.
“No Mum, I can’t, I need to go to work to keep my self respect, to get on with life; and I can’t just sit on my hands and do nothing.”
“Why do you need a man?”
I didn’t understand why she brought it up.
“I don’t particularly, but it will be my choice. I want a father for Lindsay, someone to show her the way, show her that all men are not bastards like you would have us believe.”
“Why can’t you be like Jane? She used to be all right on her own.”
“You just hate men, Mum. I’ve come too far, I’m in a rut, and I’m not giving up my fight and settling for this. I want to become my own woman, show my children the way, give them hope, give them the promise that they can do anything they want in life if they fight for it. Just like Joyce and I said to each other all those years ago, I’ve not forgotten the dream, and it feels close now. I have not too far to go.”
“I don’t want to be relied upon—I’m not doing it anymore,” she shuffled.
“I’m sorry you feel you can’t help me. Do you love me, Mum?”
She shuffled again, looked down at the floor before blurting out:
