With the meagre ten minute daily allowance, whilst I had nine other people on my list, including my lawyers, Dad was really the only person I spoke to. I knew he could keep my friends up-to-date and pass on messages.
The minutes always went too fast and we spent the time in voicing our pain and anger at what had happened. From my position I was more caught up in the sadness and despair and worry for M – Dad was very focused, understandably, on the injustice, but we were still putting our faith in Phillip and had no option other than to do so.
I didn’t want to worry my father – but I had no one else with whom I could share my acute sadness. There were things that he wanted to do, including changing the sign outside the Court house from Courts of Justice, to injustice. I knew he was unlikely to act on these fantasies, but I feared in his shared desperation and in a weak moment, he might say something unwise to M in front of the Social Workers - that might lead to his contact being terminated. I didn’t want to risk him damaging our case so close to the Final Hearing in the Family Court, which was now only a week away. I felt that we had to allow the lawyers do their job, even if I did not agree with their strategy of watering down the abuse to appease the Judge, which I still felt was never going to work - not least because it was not what we truly believed.
M had been only five and half when he made his initial allegations. He could not possibly have made them up and a child does not show the level of fear that M did, without something terribly disturbing having happened. I knew for certain that he could never have fabricated his disclosures and was without any knowledge or points of reference to do so, as such this was what bewildered me most. Anybody with a grain of common sense knows that children of that age do not come out with sexual disclosures from their imagination, nor could they be coached to so, They would simply make too many mistakes at interview and be unable to sustain or remember what they were supposed to say. When the advocated view was that the child should always be believed, it remained a mystery to me always, as to why my son had not been, even from the very first.
I stared at the picture on my notice board of M happily smiling in his snow suit in Lapland. It had been his favourite holiday and he was cuddling into me as we were both radiant and happy to be there. I had saved up to give him the magical treat and it had been worth every penny. How far away, those days now seemed. My eyes moved to the picture next to it – our first foreign holiday in Sardinia - M in his shorts, just four years old, we had had a wonderful fun time and I remembered how much he had loved the baby disco in the evening. He would nap in the afternoon heat and then stay up to dance with the other children. He had been so confident and happy then.
My reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. I was being called in to see a senior prison officer. I was obviously in some kind of trouble, but I didn’t know what. I entered the office nervously. What on earth could I have done, hardly leaving my cell anymore and rarely speaking to anyone?
When I arrived at the office – Charlene was inside perched on the edge of a desk, smirking. I assumed she must be in trouble for bullying me and that I had got it wrong.
This was not the case. It turned out that I had been overhead speaking about my situation to Annabel over lunch one day. It seemed even our conversations were policed. But it wasn’t that I had shared our horror story with a friend that bothered them. It was the fact that I had told her that I had a QC from the UK representing me. Apparently some of the other girls had overheard and were fiercely jealous. This astonished me. They all had lawyers – paid for by the State and ours was costing a fortune – but the difference was that these girls were in jail for criminal activities – maybe understandable given their various backgrounds, but nonetheless it hardly compared to trying to protect your child.
I was told to keep quiet about my circumstances and keep a low profile – unsure how I could keep it any lower than I already was. I said nothing in my defence. It was pointless and it was perhaps notable that the person who was making this request was a badly spoken, bully boy who related more to Charlene and saw me as a spoilt rich kid who needed bringing down a peg or two. I nonetheless felt shamed and like a school girl being brought in to see the Head Teacher for something that another child has done.
I agreed to keep my own counsel and left the office. I could only hope that the dressing down would get Charlene off my back. Surely now she would feel satisfied that I had been well and truly put in my place and would leave me alone. How wrong could I have been?
Charlene felt empowered by the incident and now knew that the staff were also enjoying my suffering as much as she. She could now bully me to heart's content, safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't protect me. She increased her jibes and threats and encouraged other girls to do the same and naturally the staff turned a blind eye, despite being fully aware of what was going on. Annabel, to give her credit, remained friendly and stuck by me whenever she could, but as she was awaiting her gall-bladder operation and was often ill and in her cell, I was now increasingly an island within a world of hatred.
As I headed back to my cell, I could still hear the officer’s words:- “You’re creating an atmosphere. You’re too different. Try and be more like the others.” We were back to, swear more, be abusive to the staff, exude hatred from every pore. I agreed to try and blend into the background, but I knew I could never be and would never want to be the same as the others.
“Your presence winds everybody up.” He had continued. “Well I wish I wasn’t present.” I had retorted. He did not see the irony, and why should he? He was having too much fun putting down a girl who came from the other side of the tracks and who probably reminded him of the posh girls he couldn’t date in high school.
Word travelled fast and later that day, most of the girls unusually came out for exercise. Then the jibes really started in earnest. Several of them linked arms with Charlene and followed me closely sneering and laughing. I tried to block my ears and hold my head up, but tears were pricking my eyes as I could not fail to hear their words of cruelty and vitriol. I tried to think only of M. All I wanted was to cuddle him and tell him how much I loved him – I could cope with anything so long as I remembered he loved me and needed me and I focused on that and shut out everything else. Totally ill-equipped to deal with prison life, all I could do was stay in my cell as much as possible and interact with the others as little as I could.
One of the girls left and I was offered her job of doing the laundry. I was now in a double- bind because if I turned it down I would be considered not to be pulling my weight and if I accepted, it would cause further jealousy as I knew that some of the other girl’s coveted this particular job which paid £13.50 a week, instead of the usual £10.00. I would gladly have forfeited it and done without but I had to do something and when I suggested I took one of the lesser paid jobs, the warden insisted that these were all taken and that it would be considered a black mark against me if I turned it down. I reluctantly agreed, as I daren’t risk losing the chance to see M.
Up until then, I had done Amanda’s cleaning job each day unpaid. There was no one else to do it and I didn’t mind. It was not very difficult cleaning the iron stair-treads and rails. Charlene would follow me around telling me I had missed a bit and then grassing on me to the wardens. I took no notice and got it over with quickly in the morning and then retreated to my cell.
I was dreading my first attempt at laundry as I really didn’t know how the industrial machines worked and I was concerned that Charlene would say I had damaged or lost an item of her clothing. However, it was only twice a week and I managed to muddle through somehow and get the girl’s clothes washed, dry and sorted without any major catastrophes.
At lunch that day I heard Charlene ask the warden what penalties she would incur if she were put on basic. I couldn’t understand why. There were three categories of prison life – standard which everybody comes in, meaning that you can have a television in your cell and go to exercise, classes and the gym. Basic
- which means that you stay twenty-four hours in the cell in solitary with no television or radio and enhanced which meant you had some added privileges such as a DVD player, awarded to those who had been in jail for three months without infringing any of the rules.
I felt a pang of fear as I realised that Charlene was obviously intending to get put on basic for some reason. Was she planning to do something to me with her newfound power and support? She glared over at me at lunch with evil intent in her eyes and the food stuck in my throat as I realised that she clearly was plotting something – something she was even prepared to lose her liberty and privileges for. No doubt hurting me would earn her even greater acumen amongst her peers.
After lunch I was handed a note from an old boyfriend from school days who had cycled up to the prison and left his phone number for me. He clearly wanted me to put him on my telephone list, but as I really only used my time to ring M and Dad, I couldn't take him up on it. I sat down and wrote him a letter instead as I appreciated the gesture and marvelled at how much support I had outside. Much of it came from people I hadn’t seen for many years but had heard of my plight and friends who had been in my year at school, who all rallied round who I marvelled, still supported each other through difficult times. My friend Mags, in particular, was fantastic and sent me a card almost every day with a carefully chosen picture on it to brighten my cell. It was gestures such as these that got me through the darkest times and reminded me how much love there remained on the outside.
Mags came in with Dad to see me on one occasion, as did another friend from school who had also been very supportive and there were many others who wanted to, but with the strict three people limitation and only one hour a week, I had to keep it to letters with most of my friends.
At Meds the following morning, I tried again to reach out to Charlene in the hope of avoiding any trouble that might be brewing. We were alone in the holding area awaiting our medications – mine being tame by comparison to most of the girls who were on mood stabilizers, tranquilisers and sleeping pills – but if Charlene was anything to go by, they weren’t helping them much. It seemed crazy to give drug addicts- addictive drugs rather than counselling, but at times I even felt faintly envious that some people were given things that could transport them from the reality of this world into the hypnotic state that sleep provided but these moments were far- outweighed by a fear of anything that altered the mind and I certainly didn’t want to go that route.
There were times at night that my fear of enclosed spaces really took hold and I would become anxious that I was somehow locked in forever. I wondered what might happen in a fire. Some years later, I would meet Terry Waite and ask him how he had coped with solitude and captivity for so long. His response to me, was that he had used his mind to transport him from the reality of what was happening to him and keep it as occupied as possible. My plight was minor compared to his, but I certainly knew the importance of distracting oneself from the irrational fears that could creep up on you like a monster through endless night and the sense of isolation.
Knowing Charlene was suffering from an exposed nerve in a tooth, I made the mistake of asking her how she was feeling. She gave me a grunt and then began banging on the holding area door demanding to be let out. She couldn’t bear to be within yards of me and I wondered what was at the root of such hostility and aggression or was it just a habit. I knew jealousy was much behind it but I guess even Charlene did not really know what she was angry about. She was a person with no emotional intelligence or ability to rationalize anything she felt. I realised with a heavy heart that she was determined to hold onto what was really self-hatred. I was just the chosen target on which she projected it – her unhappiness, self-loathing and anger. She no doubt had an extremely damaged childhood, but any attempt to try befriend her, only made her despise me even more.
Whilst I had survived the weekend fifteen and a half hour lock-ins so far, I still found that time the hardest. Shut in my cell with the demons of my past descending and overwhelming me and faced with the grief of losing my precious son. I knew that he was now almost permanently with his father and the Department were pushing harder and harder for him to be given into his full-time care. I feared that I may soon be out of M's life altogether. It was a frightening and terrifying thought that I could lose all contact and even more so because of what M had told me his father had done.
M's father lived on a remote farm and I feared that once out of the spotlight of the Court, he would re-enact the things that he had done before. At times, I was still consumed with anger towards my father and cursed him for giving us up, but I knew that was pointless too. There was nothing I could do about it now and I loved him far too much not to forgive him.
It seemed likely that even had he not broken his silence, we would still have been brought back from the States. I had recently read in the paper, of one mother who had also fled to America and had managed to stay underground for three years with her daughter in similar circumstances to mine. Nonetheless she had eventually been found.
Daily the papers were reporting women being charged with child abduction and the lengths and expense local authorities would invest in bringing them back. It seemed there was an epidemic of mothers running from Social Services, the common denominator being, having been failed by the authorities to whom they had turned for help. In nearly every case there were allegations of emotional abuse and/or coaching against them and I realised that what had been set up as an institution to protect children, was now the seat of more harm than one could imagine.
I had even turned in vain to the NSPCC for help, but all that had happened was, despite offering me complete confidentiality, they had instead contacted Miss Whiplash and passed my emails onto her, whilst fully accepting her word over mine.
More and more extreme and ridiculous cases were being reported. Parents losing children because they themselves had grown up in care, so may in the future harm their kids. What better formula than to take the child and put him or her in care? It was insane. It was a chain that would not be broken, but at least the press were putting it into the public domain and the more public awareness was raised, the better the chance of change.
On Sunday mornings I was allowed my ten minute call with M. The minutes always ticked by too fast, but at least I could hear his voice. The important thing was to keep reassuring him how much I loved him and that I was fine so he would not worry. I tried with increasing difficulty, to always sound as bright and cheerful as I could, knowing that my internment was equally hard for him and wanting to detract from it as much as possible.
M plied me with questions about my new life. He wanted to know how I was eating and whether I could get my “funny milk” in jail. I suffered from dairy and wheat intolerance but had long since given up on any special diet. It was just too difficult in jail. They did get me some rice cakes and wheat-free bread, which again angered the others, so now, in an attempt to blend in, I not only took all my meals to my cell, but ate what the others ate in the hope of appeasing them. It only angered Charlene more.
Each time I stood at the serving hatch, Charlene would watch me like a hawk. "That’s got wheat in it." She spat, the first time I took a piece a piece of apple pie. I had only intended to eat the filling, but to her, I was now a fraud. I said nothing, took it back to my cell, vowing to stay out of her way as much as possible. Charlene was short and very overweight and I suspect that my being slim annoyed her as much as anything.
Along with being warm, I had to admit to missing the occasional glass of wine that I could have at home, for no other reason that it had helped me to get some sleep. I was always careful not to over drink because I could see how easily someone in my situation might succumb to dependency, knowing too that any suggestion of this, would be something else to use against me. However, a small spritzer on a Saturday night had, on occasion, given me some much needed rest.
There was no means of blocking out the emotional agony and torment of my separatio
n from M. I sometimes wondered if sleep had ever brought any comfort really - my dream state bore little difference to my waking hours, seeming to merge into one endless nightmare.
“I went to contact on Friday Mummy, but Granddad wasn’t there.” M told me that Sunday on the phone. It seemed the Social Workers hadn’t let my father know that they had agreed to let him have my contact slot, but I also wondered if my father who had become so vague under the pressure, might also have forgotten or not read an email correctly. He had mentioned to me the day before that he was now getting weekly contact, but seemed to be under the impression that it was beginning the following week.
I felt a pang of anger that M had been let down both by the Department and my father. Whoever was responsible, M had suffered and again I could do nothing to change it. I knew how much seeing my father meant to M and I often wished Dad would be more proactive in his dealings with the Department. He seemed to have lost any fighting spirit he might have had and was constantly down and despondent. I wanted him to fight for M’s right to see his family, when I couldn’t, but I sensed Dad was intimidated by the cruel bullies from the Department and being a vital man who had led a very successful business in the past, he was not used to having to answer to anyone else.
Rightly or wrongly, at times I felt a sense of frustration that whilst I had to be strong and keep fighting, my father just couldn’t get the same determination to stand up to them. Would it have made any difference? Probably not, but it would have helped me to know that he was doing all he could and I believe it would have helped him to feel less powerless. But we are all different and all a product of life’s circumstances. Dad had always been in control, in charge of the company, respected as a member of the community who contributed much and now he found himself demoralized and bullied by people who were so far out of his experience, he had almost shut down to protect himself.
Having always seen him so commanding and vital, I forgot at times that he was now in his eighties and had had three heart attacks - quite naturally it was harder for him to be forceful. It was a time in his life that he should have been able to enjoy, playing golf, seeing his grandchildren, relaxing after years of hard graft. Instead he was under more stress than he had ever been in his life.
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