by Maureen Wood
Chapter 6
On 5 October 1984 I woke in the early hours with crippling stomach cramps and a dull ache in my lower back. I imagined, with a flush of excitement, these were the first stages of labour. For a while I lay still, simply savouring the knowledge that each cramp, each twinge, was a step closer to me becoming a mummy. Then, as they grew more intense, I got more anxious and I crept into the bathroom and leaned against the sink, groaning. I heard a noise on the landing and realised Mum was awake too. I was worried she might give me a good hiding for disturbing her sleep, but she huffed and puffed, then went across the street to call an ambulance from the neighbour’s phone.
I was loaded into the ambulance with my overnight bag and I felt a rush of happiness. This was it. It was finally happening. We went off to hospital, but after a cursory examination by the midwife I was sent back home again.
‘It’s too early yet,’ the midwife told me. ‘Come back when the contractions are more regular.’
Mum was unimpressed, but she slept in my bedroom that night, to keep an eye on me. It wasn’t lost on me that the last time we’d slept in the same room she had sexually assaulted me, time after time. But now I had to shut it out. I had to focus on my baby.
I dozed off, but at 3 a.m. I woke again, and went downstairs for a hot drink to ease my stomach pain. This time I managed my contractions by myself, breathing deeply, all alone in the living room, watching the first lights of a cold dawn streaking through a grey sky.
‘Not long now, angel,’ I whispered, cupping my bump with my hands.
Mum woke after 8 a.m. and came marching downstairs to find me.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ she demanded.
‘I didn’t need you,’ I replied. ‘I was fine.’
But though I was loath to admit it, as the contractions got worse I did need her. I needed her desperately. They tore through my body, strong enough to whip my breath away and leave me shuddering in pain. I was suddenly terrified of the labour, of the pain that lay ahead. I hadn’t expected it to be this brutal and now I didn’t know what to expect. Part of me thought that if I ignored the whole thing it might not happen. It was a child’s approach to an inescapably adult situation. I wanted the baby, but not the labour.
By now the contractions were fierce and regular, and Mum went over to the neighbour and called another ambulance. But the hospital refused to send a second one, which sent Mum into a rage.
‘What do they expect me to do?’ she shouted, throwing her arms up, as if the idea of her paying for a taxi for her own daughter was completely unreasonable.
In the end, our neighbour offered to take us in her car. Mum didn’t like that either; I knew she didn’t like the street knowing our business. Now the neighbour was in on the whole scandal. When we got out of the car, in the hospital car park, I was expecting Mum to explode on me. Instead, she was unnervingly calm. She opened doors for me, ushered me along, and even carried my hospital bag. And all through the final throes of the labour she was the most supportive and the kindest she had ever been. It was almost as though someone else had stepped into her personality.
‘Can I get you anything, love?’ she asked. ‘A drink? An extra blanket?’
Perhaps it was another false show of unity to impress the midwives. Or maybe she was worried about me breaking down and telling them the truth. But I hoped, and wanted so much to believe, that finally, finally, she wanted to do something good. She had ruined her daughter, completely and irreparably, but perhaps she could redeem herself, in the smallest of ways, with her new grandchild. The pain became unbearable, ripping through my entire body, and I screamed uncontrollably.
‘I can’t do this!’ I wailed. ‘I can’t!’
I found myself reaching, instinctively, for Mum’s hand. The same hand that had forced its way inside me and left me sobbing in pain and abject humiliation. But now I grabbed onto it like a lifeline. I was given an epidural, but that made the pain stop so suddenly, almost as if it had been switched off at a tap, and it scared me even more.
‘Push, push,’ urged the midwives.
‘Push what?’ I asked.
I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I’d had no antenatal classes, no leaflets from the doctor, not even a word of advice from my mother. I had no feeling below my waist. With my legs in stirrups and anaesthetic running through my veins, I felt almost hallucinogenic. There were three midwives around my bed, all giving instructions and platitudes. But again, it was Mum who I turned to. Mum who wiped my forehead. Mum who I trusted. After all she had done, I needed her. I loved and loathed her in equal measure. And I loathed myself, too, for the paradox.
‘Listen to the midwife,’ Mum said gently. ‘You’re doing a great job. He’s almost here, darling. You’re doing a wonderful job.’
It was as though she had transformed into a proper mother, a decent person. I liked this new improved Mum, but she freaked me out, too. She didn’t seem real, somehow.
My baby son was born at 5.15 p.m., 6 October 1984, on Jock’s nineteenth birthday. He had been due on John Wood’s birthday; he was born instead on Jock’s. And in my child’s mind, that sealed the paternity issue. He was meant to be here, to save me. And he was meant to be here, today.
Mum sniffed and said, ‘Hold him now, you won’t see him again.’
He was laid in my arms and just looking at his tiny scrunched-up features made my heart sing with overwhelming joy and love. I drank him in, greedily, every line on his fingernails, every hair on his head, stored carefully in my memory and in my heart.
‘You are wanted, you are loved,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t ever believe anything else.’
I felt his tiny hand curl around my finger and marvelled that something so pure, so divine, could come from such evil. Mum nodded to the midwife and she leaned over the bed and held out her arms for me to hand over my son. I couldn’t stretch out my arms. I could not be a part of this. But she took him regardless, and in that crushing moment I realised that I was powerless to stop her. It was as if giving birth had aged me ten years and I saw the world through the eyes of a grown-up, through the eyes of a mother. And only now I could see how ridiculous my plans had been. I couldn’t run away with my baby. I couldn’t bring him up without a home, on my own. I’d had romantic dreams of running away to London and living on nothing but love and fresh air. I had no baby clothes, no pram, nothing.
For his sake, I had to put my own needs aside and I had to put his first. That was what being a mummy was all about. Even at fourteen I had grasped that and accepted it. But as the midwife took him from me, she might as well have taken a cleaver to my soul. I felt wretched. Mum went home and I was taken to the ward, my son was taken to the nursery, and we were separated. I lay in bed, unable to move because of the epidural, with arms so empty they hurt. I longed to see him, to hold him, to smell him again. The loss was greater than I could ever have imagined – greater than I could cope with. I had produced the most beautiful baby but he was being snatched away and rejected by the very people who ought to have been welcoming him into our family. My story was ending before the ink was even dry on the first page.
I don’t think I slept at all that night. Every few minutes I would call a nurse over and ask how my baby was.
‘Is he feeding OK?’ I asked anxiously. ‘I could take him, if you like, settle him for you.’
The nurses were kind but reluctant to give me too many details; worried no doubt about building me up to smash me down all over again.
‘He’s doing well,’ was all they said. ‘Don’t fret.’
All night I hoped and prayed that Mum would relent. That a guardian angel might step in. That someone, somewhere, would see my plight and let me keep my son.
‘I will give anything to be with my angel,’ I whispered fervently, through the dim yellow haze of the hospital night lights.
The next morning, Mum and John Wood visited
with my younger siblings. They were sent off to the nursery.
‘Go and see the new baby,’ Mum told them, obviously keen to get them out of the way.
‘My new baby,’ I thought angrily. ‘My baby. They’re allowed to see him, but I’m not.’
But I said nothing. I knew better.
Mum looked hard at me and said: ‘We had a long talk last night and we’ve come to a decision. You can keep this baby as long as we raise him as our own.’
I stared at her as the words sank in:
‘As our own.’
That was a stab at my heart. They wanted to take him from me. Claim him as their own. But this was a lifeline. Better than I could ever have hoped for. I knew the answer was yes. Yes, yes, yes! But I said nothing. Motherhood had made me brave and astute. I had my baby to think of now. I didn’t want them bullying him the way they bullied me.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why do you want to bring him up?’
Mum sighed.
‘We can’t have children, because of your dad’s vasectomy,’ she said. ‘And we think a new baby might save our marriage. We need this. We need a baby of our own.’
I had no way of knowing whether this was true, or what her real motives were. But I was trapped. It was a cruel compromise. I wanted him to be my son. I wanted the world to know. But like most mothers (except my own), I would lay down my life for my child. I knew this was the best offer I was going to get.
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Well, the final decision has to be yours, apparently,’ Mum said, through gritted teeth. ‘You have to tell the nurses yourself that we’re taking him home and you’re happy with it.’
There was a desperation in her eyes, and I saw in that moment how much she wanted the baby. My baby. For the first time, I had power over her. I was in control. Well, I would use it wisely. I waited until my family had left, then the minute the ward doors swung shut I shouted for the nurses: ‘Bring my baby! Let me see him! I am taking him home!’
Giddy with excitement, awash with gratitude, I held him in my arms and beamed.
‘I’m your mummy,’ I said to him quietly. ‘I always will be. And I’ll never let them hurt you.’
Mum and John Wood visited again that night.
‘What about a name?’ she asked. ‘We thought John would be nice.’
Her voice sliced through me. What kind of sick mind would ask a child to call her baby after her rapist? That was rich, even for her. Jock’s real name was John too. For me, the name conjured up suffering, pain and despair.
‘No way,’ I replied. ‘He’s not being called John.’
I saw a nurse hovering close by, and I knew again I had the power. I could make decisions. I could voice opinions. While I was in hospital I held the baby and I held all the cards.
Wiser, sharper than I had ever been, I knew I had to make the most of it.
‘I will choose the name,’ I said boldly.
I could hardly believe the words were coming out of my mouth. And I could see that Mum was ready to erupt, like a pressure cooker. But there was nothing she could do.
‘Very well,’ she said, each word clipped. ‘You do as you wish.’
She snatched up her bag and left. That afternoon I ran through a list of names in my head. I wouldn’t even consider John, not for a moment. My plan was to stay at home whilst I was too young to live alone. But the moment I was old enough, the second I had enough money, I would leave and get my own place, just me and my baby. There was no way John Wood, or my mother, or Jock, would ever get their hands on my son. I wanted no reminders and no connections. Especially not in his name. But I was struggling to find a name I liked, so I started saying them out loud, slowly, to my baby as he slept in my arms.
‘James, Luke, Oliver, Michael, Daniel …’
But he slept on and on. But when I eventually got to ‘Christopher’ he opened an eye and looked straight at me. That was all the confirmation I needed.
‘There, it’s Christopher,’ I smiled. ‘You chose your own name. And you suit it too.’
I knew, from RE at school, that St Christopher was the patron saint of travellers, and to me that seemed quite apt.
‘You and me are going on a journey through life together,’ I smiled. ‘I will be with you, every step of the way.’
All thoughts of Jock and his St Christopher medal were far from my mind. Nothing could intrude on the happiness and the unspoilt beauty and innocence of those first few days. We came home from hospital ten days later, on my fourteenth birthday. After that first day of separation, I’d had nine days of pure bliss on the ward with him. And now I was bursting with pride as I carried him through the front door and into the living room of my home. My siblings crowded round, fussing over him and admiring him. For once, I wasn’t in trouble. I wasn’t shunned or abused. It was the best birthday of my life. In fact, it was the best day of my life so far. I was running out of superlatives in my head. I was literally over-flowing with joy. Mum had got me a second-hand Moses basket and a pram. There was a pile of baby clothes, nothing new, mostly donated. I didn’t choose a thing. But that didn’t matter at all.
‘You look so beautiful in everything you wear,’ I told Christopher, gently touching the tip of his nose.
And to my surprise, Mum nodded and smiled.
‘He does, you’re right,’ she agreed. ‘He is gorgeous.’
I loved the pram, an old-fashioned, bottle-green Silver Cross model, which squeaked as I pushed it along. I even liked the squeak; it felt as though the pram was proudly announcing Christopher’s presence and heralding his arrival: ‘Here I come, here I am, with my beautiful new baby.’
Upstairs Christopher slept in his basket, downstairs he was in the pram. But he was so rarely in either; there was always someone holding him or playing with him. I was moved into the box bedroom, which had once been Jock’s, and Christopher slept in there with me. Despite Mum’s initial vow to steal him away, I did everything for him. He was my baby. I made up the bottles, changed the nappies, washed the bibs and gave him all the love. I cuddled him every spare moment of the day. For the first time ever, my books lay unopened, stacked under my bed.
I no longer needed an escape, a way out. All I needed was right here, in the Moses basket. During the night, long after his bottle was finished, I would sit and look at Christopher and wonder at how lucky I was. Silently and solemnly, I thanked whoever it was who had picked me out for such happiness. And it seemed to spread through the entire family, too.
Christopher had brought the first taste of joy to our house that I could remember. He was a shaft of bright light, a small bundle of joy and of hope. The tension was gone. The arguments stopped. The abuse almost felt like another lifetime. I buried it away as I concentrated on my little boy. Christopher was the focal point of all our lives, but for me he represented life itself. Everything I had, everything I did, every time I breathed, it was all for him. I didn’t think too far ahead into the future. I had a day-by-day approach, like most fourteen-year-olds.
To say I was happy just didn’t come close. I was in paradise. I had cried myself to sleep for as long as I remembered, but now I lay awake in bed, watching Christopher in the basket at my side, marvelling at the perfection. He was a noisy sleeper and made adorable twittery sounds, like a baby bird. Listening to those funny little snuffles, watching his eyelids flutter as he dreamed, I felt awash with contentment and satisfaction. It didn’t matter where he had come from or what had gone before. All that mattered now was the promise and possibility of what lay ahead. It almost seemed that going through the abuse was a trade-off for having Christopher. I’d suffered appallingly, but now the balance had been redressed. I didn’t dwell on the evil of his conception. I concentrated only on the miracle of his birth. And one thing was certain: this baby was not Jock’s or John Wood’s or my mother’s. He was mine.
S
oon after we came home from hospital, Jock came to visit, bringing with him a belated fourteenth birthday card for me. By now he was living with his new girlfriend and her family, and she came along with him. When I heard his voice in the hallway, my stomach flipped unpleasantly. I had not been looking forward to this meeting, yet I knew it had to happen. Everyone, as usual, was fussing over Christopher, so it was only natural for Jock to peer into the pram and marvel at him too.
‘Can I pick him up and hold him?’ Jock asked hesitantly.
‘Course you can, he’s your nephew,’ Mum replied, before I even had the chance to open my mouth.
It was like she was waiting, ready, with her answer, as though she sensed I might speak out of turn. I even felt I could hear a slight emphasis on ‘nephew’, but nobody else seemed to notice it. And anyway, if they had, they would never have dared to say anything. Jock cradled Christopher in his arms and talked softly to him for what felt like a long time. I had never seen him so enraptured, and so gentle and soothing, too. As I watched, split-second flashbacks of the rapes played, like grainy films, across the back of my brain. The brute force of the attacks jarred starkly with the tenderness he showed Christopher. His son. I knew then, beyond all doubt, that he was the father. Christopher looked just like Jock. But Jock looked very much like me, too, so the resemblance was possibly familial, rather than paternal. But when he held him, I could sense it. It almost prickled across the room like electricity. It was almost like a tell-tale whisper, in the air.
‘Jock is the father, Jock is the father …’
I could not tell whether he felt it, whether he knew too. It was such a powerful surge and I wondered whether anyone else had noticed – did Mum and John Wood know? I still wasn’t sure they even knew Jock had continued raping me.
