Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new)

by Jeanne D'Olivier

  I could only hope that M would wake from his trance in time to save himself. I knew that he was now accepting his father to a certain extent and was developing "Stockholm Syndrome," borne out by the recent change I'd seen in him . For now, he seemed to have switched the past off in his mind. He had stopped fighting the system and was understandably desperate to get out of foster care. He no longer saw coming back to Mummy was as an option - and indeed he could not for the next four months. He simply didn't have the strength to fight anymore and no longer saw the perils, slipping instead into dangerous unconsciousness in order to survive.

  Whilst they had me safely out of the way, denying M contact with me, they held another Looked After Children Review meeting. This time M was taken by his father and my views were not even sought. Protocol dictated that I should have been sent a form to elicit my views, but these failures to adhere to the law, were considered minor infringements by the Judge and were overlooked, not that they would likely have made any difference to the final outcome. The Department adhered neither to legality or protocol. They were outside the law. And so with his father sitting right beside him, a man who had harmed him, a six foot man, and his mother in jail, M was asked with whom he wanted to live? Even under those conditions, he'd said either parent, so long as he could see the other – but it was the first time he had not said with Mummy. I had no doubt that R had been on his best behaviour since he had begun seeing him again in February that year. He was playing a careful game of plausibility and credibility and I knew only too well, how good at playing the victim he was, of twisting the truth - a man with no conscience - not really a man at all.

  The world had gone mad and I was trying to stay sane within its confines, whilst the system closed ranks, backed each other up and covered each other’s mistakes – making every piece fit the picture they chose to present to the Court – a distortion of truth built out of mirrors and smoke.

  I, the caged animal, sat waiting to be brought back into the ring before the ringmaster – a cruel Judge who with a flick of his whip would make me jump through hoop after hoop and then cage me again. A Judge who would use any cruel means at his disposal in denying me my child. Like the acts I had taken M to see in the Cirque de Surreal, nothing was real - only an illusion and one which we couldn't escape.

  No one can touch a mirror image and make it change – things remain in reverse no matter what you do, the only escape was to move away from the perceived reflection of self altogether, become invisible – give up identity- leave the ring. That was not an option. So I stood in front of the mirror, willing the impossible to change.

  My first week in jail seemed like one continuous day, followed by endless night. It was the bleakest time of year too, approaching winter, short days, less daylight, which only heightened my feelings of isolation and despair and the incessant cold that penetrated every cell of one’s body.

  The one duvet was thin and completely inadequate – the concrete slab we slept on was no more than a few feet wide and the mattress only a couple of inches thick. There was no escape into the comfort of sleep, so I stopped trying and instead watched the news endlessly through the night. I was in the Twilight Zone – endless, deepest, darkness, lost in the shadows, without one chink of light, distraction my only chance of survival and yet there was nothing to do.

  I had immediately signed up to attend both Education and the gym. Education was something of a joke as it was tailored for people with none. I was asked to complete a literacy and numeracy test that my son could easily have managed. It was insulting. I had two degrees, a BA Honours in English and Drama and a Masters in English – the only education beyond that would be a PhD and once again, in a vain attempt at humour, I suggested I commence one forthwith.

  Humour was not part of the menu of jail and the little old lady who had come to present me with the temptation of Education, was anything but amused. I tried to be more obliging. I asked if I might use this time to write. That was eventually agreed to by the Governor, but as I 'd already experienced the jealousy of the other girls when anything went outside the realms of what they did, I chose not to go in the end. Furthermore, I didn't feel it safe to write anything on the prison computers, so I spent most of my hours in my cell, writing on sheets of paper and hoping that they would be decipherable when I came out. This was more therapy at that time - a way of organizing my thoughts and externalizing my pain. Did it help? I don’t know, but it passed the time and gave me a sense of purpose. One day I hoped my son would be able to read my account so that he could make sense of what had happened and know that I'd tried to save him, even if I had failed.

  The gym would have been a way of venting some of the anger I felt towards those who had hurt my precious child, but it seemed to take forever to arrange. That in itself was strange because others who were brought in after me, were in the gym within days. It seemed I was being denied what was considered to be a privilege. Some privilege – the gym was a few archaic machines and a couple of beefy instructors who had no interest in doing anything much more than sitting in their office, no doubt until it was time to go to the pub or a real gym. I was from the wrong side of the tracks – I was from the house on the hill – the over- privileged and someone to be punished for what they perceived I represented. The cynicism that pervaded Cell Block D was contagious, as was the raging anger that paced the floors daily in the form of women who'd chosen the wrong path.

  I waited patiently to be allowed to use the gym, asking daily, but always given some excuse. I had to settle for my daily half hour around the exercise yard, whilst the girls sneered and muttered behind me, staring blankly ahead of me as my feet paced one in front of the other and the ice cold wind froze my breath into white and blue streaks before me. The dark green metal walls loomed high above. The spikes of barbed wire at the top, a warning against attempts to escape – relentless pacing until the half hour was up, but I took the opportunity every day regardless – anything to pass my time, as I counted the days to my release, marking them off one by one on a piece of paper, stuck to my notice-board with toothpaste.

  My father had brought in a radio, but I'd not yet been allowed it. Everything had to be checked and double-checked, especially electrical items. I guessed it was so that people couldn't make bombs – or perhaps there was some other explanation, but I didn’t know what it was. My prior experience of anything like this was zero. I had no friends who'd been inside. I didn’t even watch Bad Girls – in fact I hadn’t even heard of the programme, until a warden made a comparison. I was as green as the exercise yard walls. All I knew was that whatever the question, the answer would be "No," as M’s experience had been in Foster Care.

  I waited for the privilege of gym and my radio, hungrily. To be able to listen to Radio 4, a half decent play, some music that wasn’t the blare of thumping, tuneless, noise - the girls playing music all day long from which there was no escape.

  I wondered how they could stand it, but perhaps it was their way of surviving. To start with, I was glad to be on the ground floor where I was furthest away from it. The days dragged on and the No’s kept coming.

  In my second week, I was allowed to go to the library for the first time and saw Sophie's husband - friend from the outside world who'd also been framed by the legal system it seemed. He'd been jailed for money laundering and rumour had it that he'd been made fall guy in the case. Nigel was an old- school gentleman, something of a likeable rogue, but kindly, and his wife who I'd shared my last night of freedom with, had been a tower of strength to me throughout my trial.

  It seemed bizarre to see Nigel in this unfamiliar context. He feigned cheerfulness and told me, “to be a good girl”, in his typical manner. I noticed how much older he looked, how broken. He wasn't a young man any more, but he'd always had a glint in his eye, albeit a wandering one. He and Sophie had lived with the trappings of wealth and there was a strong feeling that the system was harshest and took most satisfaction in cutting down to size, those who they felt had ha
d it too easy. Termed “crab syndrome” by someone - the analogy was that the crab trying to get out of the bucket reaches the top and those left behind ask him to reach down and pull them out - instead they pull him back in before he secures his freedom. This metaphor was well known to be synonymous with Island mentality and I saw over and over again the left wing, inverted snobbery and jealousy that seemed to motivate their acts of cruelty on those they perceived as successful. From a distance, no-one sees the truth of a person's life. Even those who seem to have it all, don't escape the pain and hurt that is part of the human condition and if only people would accept the collective consciousness of mankind, then crimes against class, whether upper or lower, would not exist.

  Poor Nigel, I guess he was as embarrassed as I was to be meeting in this stark library, amongst a few old battered paperbacks donated from the depths of people’s yearly clear outs. There was nothing to choose to read to engage my thoughts, but I selected a couple of books so that I could speak to Nigel a little more. He'd been given the job of library attendant and this meant we were able to exchange a few words as I signed the books out. We didn’t really know each other very well as he was more a friend of my elder sister’s than my own, having never belonged to the world of extreme wealth, but he'd more of a connection to me than anyone else in the place and even a little familiarity was better than none.

  It is strange what brings people together. All I saw now was Nigel’s inherent kindness and gentleness, as I remembered the last time we'd met during my mother’s funeral. He and Sophie had had the whole family round for dinner at their beautiful and rather exotic home, which had a swimming pool adjoining the kitchen, with a little boat in it. I remembered how Nigel had played with M with some kind of antique table top game. He had been a collector of all sorts of antiques and contemporary art. I had thought then, what a gentle soul he was, despite his Lothario reputation. Now, bizarrely he was checking out two books for me at a jail counter. We said goodbye and I walked with the warden back to the wing with a heavy heart – Nigel had been so full of life, so full of fun. Who knew now, if he would ever get out. I'd heard the police had cheered when he was convicted – how cruel – how unprofessional – how typical.

  I soon discovered it wasn’t the jail that was blocking my contact with M. It was, as usual, Social Services and no doubt the highly vindictive Miss Whiplash. The Deputy Governor was actually trying hard to make it happen, but the Social Worker was making this her own personal vendetta and doing all she could to prevent it - an act of vengeance, no doubt for my open disdain for the system, which I'd done nothing to conceal in Court. Having chosen to voice what I thought about the Judiciary and the Department in particular, one might say was unwise, but I'd hoped that the lay person in the jury, a jury made up of the “common man” would, no doubt, have their own grievances against this Ancien Regime, thinking naively that they would support someone who had the courage to stand up to the wrongs in the system. I suspect, that whatever their true beliefs, most of them were too scared to go against the Prosecution and I remembered again, that when we'd come back into court for the verdict, the Prosecutor was already in the courtroom – a courtroom that had been locked.

  I thought back to the look of sympathy on the face of one of the jurors as she heard our story. It seemed impossible that same woman had found me guilty – but maybe she hadn't - in her heart. She had looked like a grandmother, a kindly face, a large figure. I wondered if some of the hostility was due to my connections, my family name, rather than who I was. It was no secret on the Island that my sister had had several high profile marriages and wasn't popular – I wanted to scream, “that’s her, not me, I'm just like you.” Had they even seen me at all?

  I was knitting furiously, hoping to finish the scarf for M in time to hand it out to my father on his next visit. At least Dad was still having contact once a week. My heart ached for my son, to see him, reassure him, hold him, it was torture. I knitted my love into each stitch as I worked into the night on the blue and white striped scarf, the only thing I could offer him.

  The finished product wasn't great. I was terribly out of practice, but at least, M would know I'd been thinking of him. I thought of the gifts I'd already begun secreting in the loft ready for Christmas. Would I ever get a chance to give these to him? I completed the scarf just in time for Dad's next visit and in my haste nearly wrecked it, trying to cut off the loose ends, as I didn't have a darning needle to sew them in. I vowed to start another the next day or a hat, but for now, it would have to do.

  That evening I was suddenly told that I could have a phone call with M, scheduled for seven p.m. - for ten minutes. Naturally I was overjoyed. I hadn't heard his voice since our final contact - but alongside my jubilation, I was worried how he would feel, hearing my voice, when he couldn't see me and was concerned that this may upset him even more. I still had no idea what he'd been told.

  When the time came for my call, I was taken into the office and the warden spoke first to M explaining that she was someone who “cared for his Mummy”. I anxiously took the phone and tried to sound as bright as possible. His first words were; “Are you okay Mummy?” He sounded worried. I told him I was fine and I would be out in no time - hoping like crazy that he would believe me. I told him to be brave and strong as he had been throughout. He told me, to my relief, that he'd received the one letter I'd been allowed to write and thanked me for it. My heart was bursting and tears were threatening to fall, but I willed them to stay back until our ten minutes were over, not wanting to worry him further.

  He told me he'd bought me a birthday present of a glass heart with the words “I love you Mummy” engraved on it and had wanted to send it to me but hadn't been allowed. How cruel to deny him - I wondered what harm it could have done? I stifled as sob, as I told him to keep it for me until I came out or give it to Granddad to keep safe for me.

  "Lots of people are working hard to get me out of prison. I'm sure it won't be long before I am." I tried my best to reassure him. I was so impressed by how grown up M had become, how caring and wonderful and brave – but all children are wonderful – gifts of God, the Universe. No child should have had to experience this pain.

  M told me to treat being in jail like a holiday. In his child’s mind he needed to put this into a context that was less frightening to him. I assured him that I would do as he suggested and told him that that was a good idea. I marvelled at how he tried to comfort me, unselfish and only concerned for my suffering. He was such a special boy and had always been naturally caring of others. I was so very proud of him, his words to me then, reminiscent of what I'd said the first contact after he was taken in America – to treat it as if he was on a summer camp. Now, here was my little boy telling me to do the same, showing a maturity well beyond his years. My heart burst with love and pride.

  The call kept getting interrupted by messages saying my credit was running out. This was frustrating as I knew I had plenty of credit in my ten minute daily allowance. Either this was a technical hitch or a way of them listening in and monitoring the call. In the end we were cut off before we had a chance to say goodbye. I asked the warden to let me ring back and she kindly let me do this so I could say “I love you the world and back” which he echoed. I felt, that at least on some level, M had been reassured by hearing my voice and I took some small comfort in that.

  I liked the two female wardens on our wing, they were not without compassion and I think they even grasped the situation to a certain extent. I certainly sensed no hostility from them. This was another source of jealousy for the other girls though, who saw me as siding with the "screws" - a betrayal, when they themselves abused the female staff as much as possible and expected others to do the same.

  M had told me he had confided in two of his closest school friends, he trusted. Apparently the two boys had been sympathetic to him, as much as children of that age were capable. I was relieved he hadn't said anything about being bullied. I couldn't have borne it if he was.
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br />   I'd assured him that things inside were not too bad, but in reality, I knew that the cold hard facts or at least the Court’s version of those facts had been well-publicised on both the BBC news and in the National Press. The worst reporting, however, had been in the local press which was well-known to be owned and paid for by local Government. It had damned me very hard for my actions and I feared that M may not be oblivious to this. There was nothing I could do but hope he was not too damaged by it.

  I remembered that the paediatrician had told me in his chilling words to “let them carry out their experiment," of giving M to his father, assuring me that it would fail. But after years of forced contacts with his father back then and the way they had cruelly and relentlessly insisted they continue, despite his protests, I doubt very much that whatever his reaction, they would have abandoned what they were so determined to do - to take him from his mother and give him to his abuser at all costs.

  I discovered later, sadly, from Social Services notes, that M had been taunted the first time they had taken him back to his old school - children asking whether his mummy was in jail. I had been horrified to read this in the reports, but again, was powerless to do anything about it. I felt the school had been lacking in not better preparing the children and ensuring that they didn't question M, but the school had shown unbreakable allegiance to the fee payer – M's father – something that I would see again and again. Money talked, where duty of care to a child, should have been the only currency.

  M had also told me during that call that he'd been staying with his father since I was put in jail. They were increasing the contact at a very fast pace now, in preparation for the Final Hearing in the Family Court. With Mummy safely out of the way, they pushed as hard as they could to get M conditioned to accept a new life without me, in the hands of his father and his father’s new wife - the woman he'd married only weeks earlier – despite dating her for eight years – an Ace card he would play to demonstrate stability and a stereotypical family life.