Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new)

by Jeanne D'Olivier

  My son’s cries to make it stop resounded without end – make them stop – make the Courts, Social Services, the so called officers, experts and Judge – all colluding in destroying an innocent child who had dared to break his silence to tell me his father had been abusing him and that he no longer wanted to see him. For that he was punished, accused of lying, bullied and denigrated by the system, by one so called expert after another, all who refused to listen to him. All who said that I and even my father had put words of filth in his mouth to alienate him from a man that had shown no interest in him from conception until he was six months old and then only as a pawn to keep his right to control and bully and hurt - A one or two-day-a-month visitor, a virtual stranger who had failed to win the love or respect of my little boy and had scared him on each visit with threats of punching him if he ever told the dark secrets of what his father did behind closed doors, until my son could bear no more the fear and broke his silence – turning to Mummy to make it stop. Mummy who could comfort, love and keep him safe – Mummy who made pain go away – and Mummy who could not make it stop.

  And so the punching began. The punching of my son and Mummy – the punching by the system behind the cloth of gold and as we punched from the other side – the side of righteousness, love and truth, we made not a single dent.

  Chapter 2

  We tried to appear relaxed and nonchalant as our innards twisted in somersaults, sitting in the passenger lounge of the ferry that would take us not to total safety, but at least to a safer harbour. The most dangerous part of our journey was almost over – the breaching of the Prohibited Steps Order that had been issued only the day before -The final straw in the many whip lashes that had broken our backs and given us this terrifying scenario as our only option if we were to stay together. My son was brave as a lion when I told him that we must go. He had been asking to leave for some time when the forced contact with his abuser did not stop. When the system refused to acknowledge his tears, listen to his desperate pleas and gave him less rights than an animal.

  “Why has God given me a rubbish life?” He often asked. I could not answer that for our prayers had not been answered when we turned helpless to our Maker. I had never been religious, but even I had begun to pray and seemingly we were not heard – but I suppose any devout Christian would allude to God having given man choice and we were the victims of his father’s choice to control, bully and abuse. I merely told him that God must have a plan for us and that a better life must lie ahead. As I took him away from his home, friends and those he loved, I hoped with all my heart that I could fulfil the promise of God’s plan.

  But perhaps He was listening – for we reached the other side without the feared tap on the shoulder in the passenger lounge from any lurking police officer waiting to climb the ladder. We survived the agonizing three hour journey in broad daylight without disturbance from the outside – despite the inner turmoil I was convinced was etched for all to see on my face. We behaved as if we were off for a holiday jaunt for the weekend – a shopping trip on the mainland – perhaps to watch a football match of my son’s favourite team .

  Every minute seemed endless as we saw the Island diminish further into the distance. Every breath from my body and beat of my heart seemed to echo resoundingly in my ears and whilst innocent of anything other than love – I felt guilty – guilty for taking him to safety – guilty for refusing to hand him over to Social Services to brainwash him into accepting the abuse – accepting the loss of his mother – accepting the loss of his adored grandfather and being given to strangers to prepare for the transition of being placed in the full time custody of his father. The man he feared most on earth.

  I had collapsed in the Courtroom from shock when my advocate had read out the evil plan they had in mind for my son – the supposed Care Order – Care for who? Care only to crush, destroy, devastate – to fulfil the increasing demands of a man who had no soul, who watched his son’s suffering at a tender age with brutal satisfaction, smugness and a smile like a cruel slash of a knife across his face. He had the whole Court in the palm of his hand. Fathers for Justice had swung the pendulum so far away from the biological and natural role of motherhood that men were now, it seemed, more suitable to raise children than women regardless of their fitness, ability or relationship with the child. The sound of Patriarchy rang in my ears – Man, Man, Man – and woe to anyone who dared to question the sanity, logic or reason – woe to Man – Woe – Man – Woman.

  Ironically I had been an intellectual feminist at university. I say it in those terms because I had been someone who had always believed not in the rights of the woman to dig the roads, but in the individual to be considered on their own merits. I had studied the works of many oppressed women – abused women – marginalized groups – with sympathy and the objective distance of one who is merely analysing coldly the worlds of those who are committed to paper – and in the case of Viv Elliot and Zelda Fitzgerald – to hospitals –to allow the misogynistic traits of Tom and Scott to plagiarize their voices whilst committing their souls. Hysterical women? The womb gone crazy? Or just women trying to forge an identity for themselves - to speak to be heard, to be allowed a voice – to be worth something – anything.

  Here we were now, marginalized, abused, oppressed and voiceless. Were we back in the Dark Ages before enlightenment, intelligence, freedom of speech – a vote? No – we were in the 21st century – 2009. The crazy Brave New World of Fathers becoming Mothers – the control of a state watching your every move, and telling children what to think, feel and believe – even who to love. The Thought Police pre-ordained by Huxley and Orwell – the rat cage over the head – the brainwashing of children to attempt to break their souls before giving them over to abuse – for what? For the protection of social services mistakes? For the protection of the ideal of an Island with zero crime? For the washing of backhanded money? For the control of Woman by Man? It could be all or any one of these – or it could just be evil in its purest form – the protection of one paedophile by another.

  As my father started the engine, we huddled together once more on the back seat and I prayed silently that we would not be stopped for a spot inspection on the other side. The other side of the darkness, the murky depths of the harbour offered solace not filth and inside the boot of the car lay our passports carefully hidden inside DVD cases with plastic covers painstakingly replaced to conceal fully the contents and keys to our freedom. My credit and bank cards were secreted in similar fashion in CD cases and anything that gave us any sense of identity was buried at the base of our suitcases. I hardly dared breathe as we drove down the ramp and onto the dock straight past the security officers and headed into the centre of the nearest town.

  “We need to find a travel agent.” My father said with apparent calm as he pulled in to ask a woman walking along the pavement.

  “Dad, NO, not her.” I screamed frantically in the back as I noted the familiar uniform of a ferry stewardess.

  He quickly pulled away from the kerb, but he still seemed in a state of quiet resignation and did not appear aware of the minefields that I imagined lay all around us – one false move and our cover would be blown.

  We eventually located a travel agent and Dad dropped me outside whilst taking M with him to hunt for a parking space. I walked inside again feeling like I was wearing an enormous sign round my neck with our names and the words ON THE RUN” emblazoned in big red letters for all to see. I was convinced that I looked guilty as I tried to appear happy and excited to be going on an impulse holiday to visit distant friends.

  “How lovely.” Said the girl as she searched for late flights. “So has school finished early in Scotland?"

  I averted her eyes as I mumbled “No, but the Head has okayed us missing a week – travel is so broadening at this age.” I said with as much conviction as possible. Just how broadening this was going to be one could not possibly imagine. My son was embarking on the biggest adventure of his little life and I felt ridd
led with guilt for taking him and yet what had lain in his future back home was inconceivable to either of us.

  As for the school condoning missing a week, nothing could be further from the truth. The school had been complicit in damning me to hell. The same school that I had attended for most of my childhood – a school, we as a family, had supported through three generations both on my mother’s and father’s side, who had collaborated with this evil plan to take my beautiful child away from me. They had written one damning report after another and had been part of a Court Marshall type approach of the “Professionals” sitting like Rowling’s Dementors around a table waiting to order my execution. And yes it would have been death if they had carried out their plan – not because of their plan to silence me by locking me up. Jail held no fear for me at all – the loss of freedom is in the mind not the body. If you allow them to take away your thoughts you are lost forever, but no one can destroy what is true and borne out of love. Love is stronger than any evil and it was love that motivated my actions now and was the means justifying this tragic end to our existence as we knew it. The true death would be in the loss of my son. I could not have withstood that. I could not have borne seeing him only once a week for two hours which was what they had told me would be my fate. It would have been living death and cruelty of the worst kind to know he was suffering and not be able to help him and yet my story was not unique.

  Since our horrific nightmare began, others had contacted me to say they were in the same position. Some had already lost their children to violent or abusive men. The subversion of all that was natural – a mother’s bond with a child the strongest bond that can exist as you carry them inside you and nurture with your very soul the life force within. The world that was now taking nature and turning it on its head, going against all that was natural and beautiful and strong and cutting through it with cruel slashes of “legislation” – empty laws, empty words, empty threats. For I was saying NO a resounding echoing NO to their “Justice” – I was saying NO to cruelty, devastation of a child’s life and mine. I was saying YES to freedom of thought, of speech and the right to LOVE my child and more importantly than my words, my son was saying NO to the past and YES to a future that may be uncertain and new, but allowed him his right to stay with the one he loved most and the one who loved him most – his mum.

  “I can get you on a flight this afternoon.” The girl said brightly. I nodded my assent and waited anxiously for Dad and my little boy to return. I dared not use my phone to see where they were, so I sat in front of the travel agent talking rubbish about our plans for “our holiday” and half expecting a police officer to appear at any moment and arrest me.

  Dad was unfamiliar with the new shopping centre outlay and it seemed ages that I sat there willing them to appear as he searched for the car park. I wondered if the girl opposite me could see my fear, but she seemed oblivious to the whirring thoughts of my mind or my hands clenched tightly in my lap. It was twenty minutes since I had walked into the shop and I kept glancing down at my watch as she asked question after question about our holiday plans. I kept a fixed smile on my face as I talked rubbish about fictitious vacation plans. “It sounds great.” She smiled. “How lovely to go on impulse like this. Wish I was you.”

  If only she had known.

  After what seemed like hours, my father and son appeared and within a few minutes we were on our way – money in our pocket would last us who knew how long – maybe days, maybe weeks – in an unknown culture who could say - And a lot would depend on our friends, who in reality were mere acquaintances.

  We drove to the airport where we parted company with my father. He went away anxiously fearing, I think, that the police were already on our tail. They were. My mobile rang as I checked in our suitcases and I let it go to voicemail. I listened to the message – they were already asking to know our whereabouts. I took the simm card out of my phone and threw it in the nearest bin. I then switched off my I-phone and my last link with the life we had left.

  The flight to the States was delayed. We hung around the airport trying to kill time. My son unaware of the danger we were in was happy to play with his DS Lite. He had the innocence of youth on his side – the ignorance of authority – although he already had had his right to be free of fear and abuse snatched away so his trust of adults – other than Dad and I was seriously impaired. I marvelled at the faith he had in me to take him to safety and to follow me to the ends of the earth in order to remain together if that was what it took. We looked forwards, not backwards and held hands, united in our quest to have the right to live free of fear, abuse and bullying.

  After two further delays we made it onto the plane at last. I still felt that people were looking at us and wondering why a seven year old was not in school. I tried to act confident and yet felt guilt was written all over my face. The six hour flight seemed to last forever. My son watched films, chatted, played games and was relaxed and happy, we were heading to the unknown, but we were leaving the certainty of separation and for him a nightmare existence which I was determined to rescue him from. I knew I was doing the right thing. I just hoped we would make it to safety.

  The next problem we encountered was having to complete the immigration forms. I used my mother’s address. She had died during the proceedings of a sudden stroke which had left me bereft and I felt may have been caused by the stress of our situation. But I knew that she was with us all the way. She was always brave and I know she had spoken to my uncle and aunt and asked them to help us. It was to them we were running – from there we would make plans. I wrote down the address and put down the our return flight for two weeks hence. I doubted anyone would check anything and my handwriting which has always been indecipherable at the best of times, was even worse under pressure. I knew it was important to go on acting innocently and keep up the pretence.

  We walked through the security check, my heart missing a beat when I was pulled over and asked the purpose of our trip. I said we were visiting relatives – the truth- he nodded and welcomed us to the United States. Again I felt that my guilt was evident, but he did not question me further and we exited safely to be met by an uncle and aunt I barely knew. They greeted us warmly and bundled us into their car. We headed then for their home– a three hour drive. My son put his little head on my shoulder and went to sleep for the rest of the journey whilst I chatted to my aunt and uncle whom I had only seen once at my mother’s funeral recently and only two or three times my whole life. We were strangers. But right now I was just glad we were free and safe and away from the Island that had held our lives prisoner and so damaged my precious child.

  We arrived at my relatives' home in the early hours of the morning - tired and cold, even though it was June and scorching heat, we were happy to crawl into the guest bedroom double bed, snuggle up closely and my son went back to sleep with his head on my chest – safe, with the person he loved and trusted most in the world. I breathed freely for the first time, the enormity of what we had just done hitting me in waves, but grateful that we had made the leap and started our journey into a future that was unknown, but held promise, expectation, excitement and most of all freedom to be together. The American dream, that we hoped, would rescue us from our nightmare.

  Chapter 3

  I slept fitfully for a few hours and then crept out of bed and went into the small kitchen and made a cup of tea. I took my laptop out of its case and began to write. It had always been may way of trying to make sense of things and I knew it was important to log our escape, as it would be important to log our progress. What had happened to us had happened to other innocent mothers and children in the Britain. We were not the only ones who had suffered at the hands of the Family Courts. The Local Authority were guilty of heinous crimes against the rights of children and I knew it would be important one day that our story was told. I did not know then where we were headed or where it would end, but I knew that as a writer, I had an obligation to share this - the pen is mightier than th
e law and only when wrong is voiced, can it be challenged. For what had happened to us could happen to many – it had happened to some that we already knew of, but would go on happening unless the world became aware. I had little means to change wrong but I had a duty to bring it to the attention of those who could.

  It was now just the two of us. No lawyers. I had released mine before departure. No home of our own in this country – only the kindness of these relative strangers on which to rely and with only two hundred pounds to our name in cash, hurriedly gained from a cash machine before we left and converted to dollars at the airport. We had nothing more than we held in two small suitcases.

  My aunt awoke and we talked a while sitting at the kitchen table. I tried to fill her in on the gaps of our story of which she was unaware. She told me that my mother had contacted her some months before she died and had asked if they would help us.

  My mother did not know then what we were about to find out – that that offer of help would be meaningless in the face of their own fear – a fear that was instilled in them by the arrival of my female cousin who arrived two days later and insisted we leave. The apple of her parents’ eye - loud, brash and totally in control of my aunt and uncle – she was aggressive to us – uncaring of our plight and accusatory of the danger we had placed her parents in. I could not argue with her – nor did I want to – I was not about to change one level of control and bullying for another – I offered to go to a motel with my son that day. They could not get rid of us fast enough. We had been in Florida exactly four days.