A Family Secret

by Maureen Wood

  The sickening irony of her statement was possibly lost on her, but not on me. I left school the following summer with just one O Level, in Home Economics. I felt some disappointment, because I had once been one of the brightest students in my class, tipped by my teachers to do well, especially in English. But I had turned my back on the world, just as I felt the world had turned its back on me. Failing my exams felt like a statement, an act of rebellion, which, when the results came through, was something of a damp squib. Still, the O Level in cooking would serve me well. Baking, like reading, was a therapy and a catharsis for me. These were lifelines, and a constancy in my life that real people never were.

  I was still only sixteen when Mum went off to Scotland for a fortnight’s holiday to visit her relatives, leaving me on my own in the house with John Wood. As the front door slammed shut behind her, he turned to me and said: ‘You’re my wife this week.’

  A chill ran right through my veins. I could almost feel my blood solidifying with the fear. Looking back now, I feel furious at myself that I didn’t run away, there and then. But it wasn’t that simple. The sixteen-year-old me was frightened of him. Frightened of my mother. I had no idea whether she was in on his little plan; whether indeed her entire holiday had been planned to suit him. And even if I did run away, I knew that I could never truly escape them – they would always catch up with me.

  I had very little fight left in me. The only real and lasting escape from the abuse would, I knew, be death. But however much I longed to be with Christopher, I was not prepared to give up on myself or on my life. I didn’t think about suicide, I was a survivor, and despite everything I was determined to see it through.

  That night, I was on my way up to bed when John Wood grabbed me from behind and threw me roughly against the stairs. He raped me, right there and then, on the staircase. He was so incensed, so savage, that he seemed inhuman. His hands clutched around my throat. His foul beard scratched against my cheeks. I thought, genuinely, that he might kill me. For the first time, I was in fear of my life. When he was done, he stepped over me on the stairs, like I was a piece of rubbish, and went up to the bathroom. I lay there, doubled over, barely able to believe I was still breathing. Stinging with pain, I eventually managed to crawl up to my bedroom, too terrified to stay in the house, and also too terrified to leave it. Never had Christopher and my days as a mummy seemed so far away.

  The following morning, at 5 a.m., I had to get up for work. After leaving school, I’d got a job in a factory making electrical components for cars. Like a robot, I brushed my teeth, got dressed, and let myself out of the house as quietly as I could, leaving evil sleeping. After work I came home, cooked an evening meal for John Wood and cleaned the house. I was on auto-pilot, indoctrinated to follow rules. That night, at 10 p.m., he arrived home from work.

  ‘Where’s my tea?’ he asked.

  In his mind he was playing out a sick fantasy of me as his teenage bride, his child wife. And obediently, I complied. After he had eaten, the same, horrific routine began again. He raped me over and over again, the whole night, until it was time for me to go to work the next morning. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t even seem to get tired. It was as if he was running on a toxic adrenalin; the fix from each rape giving him the energy to launch the next attack.

  ‘Please,’ I sobbed. ‘I can’t take any more.’

  But he just grunted and forced my head back. When the dawn came, and I had to go to work, he took himself off to bed. He would not respect my wishes or my body. But he respected my working hours. And oddly, although I could not bring myself to run away during the night, I was able to get myself showered and ready for work, as normal. It was as though my brain had partially shut down, and I could only follow set tasks, without deviation. I was brainwashed, I could no longer think for myself. And John Wood clearly felt so sure of himself, and was so complacent in his domination, that he allowed me to go to work, knowing full well that I would never have the confidence or the impudence to betray his deadly secret.

  That morning I was undergoing training, preparing me for clerical work in the office. I had a rotten headache and my mind was elsewhere. I struggled to concentrate properly. Part-way through the session the manager called me into her office. My heart sank. I thought I was in trouble, and I was going to be sacked.

  ‘Maureen, what’s wrong with you?’ she asked gently.

  I stared, uncomprehending. Nobody had ever asked me what was wrong, in my entire life. Nobody had ever directly confronted the problem. And now the moment was here, I was dumbstruck.

  ‘You are covered in bruises and you look pale. In fact, you look terrible,’ she said. ‘I know there’s something wrong and I want to help you. Please tell me.

  ‘Tell me where you got those bruises. Tell me what happened.’

  Her kindness overwhelmed me. And, before I could process my thoughts, it all tumbled out. It was as though I had been waiting all these years, since I was a frightened eight-year-old, for someone to ask what was wrong with me.

  ‘My stepfather has been raping me, it’s been going on for years,’ I told her, each word tripping over the next. ‘He rapes me over and over, he’s violent and he’s angry and I think he’s going to kill me one of these days.’

  The words gushed out in a torrent. It was like a dam bursting. And as I spoke, and as I sobbed, I felt lighter and lighter. By the end of my unburdening I was almost floating.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ she asked, with tears streaming down her cheeks too. ‘Where’s the rest of your family?’

  I clamped shut again. Blocked. The abuse by Mum was unthinkable. Unspeakable. It felt like the last taboo and I couldn’t begin to admit it out loud. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself.

  ‘She’s on holiday,’ I mumbled. ‘They won’t help me.’

  ‘I’m going to call social services,’ said the manager eventually. ‘We need to get some help for you.’

  She rang social services, as I waited in the office, then she drove me to the offices herself that same day. I was filled with gratitude at her kindness, but I found it puzzling too. Why would anyone want to help me? The manager, whoever she was, had changed my life. She had most likely saved my life. And yet I didn’t even know her name. When she dropped me off, she put her hand on mine and said:

  ‘Good luck, Maureen. It will get better from here.’

  And then, she was gone. Inside, the social worker took me into a small room, opened up a file, and said: ‘I believe you have made an accusation of sexual abuse.’

  ‘It is not an accusation,’ I replied. ‘It is just what happens to me.’

  ‘Would you like to make a report to the police?’ she asked.

  I shook my head firmly.

  ‘Definitely not,’ I replied.

  I could not go through that. I couldn’t face more examinations, more trauma. I didn’t want to bring more trouble into my family. I wanted an escape.

  ‘I just want out,’ I said desperately. ‘Please get me out of that house.’

  The social worker nodded and left the room for a few minutes. When she returned, she said:

  ‘I’ve found you a place in supported accommodation, but you can’t move in immediately. You will have to go to meetings with the other residents to be approved, and you will also have to agree to counselling by the NSPCC. How does this sound to you? Can you hold on until then?’

  I nodded. This was the start. The start of the end of my suffering.

  That night I was petrified to go home but I had nowhere else to go. The rapes continued for the rest of the week; sometimes the attacks lasted all night. He seemed to take perverse delight in knowing we had the house to ourselves, and he raped me when and wherever he chose. He even raped me the night before Mum was due home from Scotland. She must have known, when she walked in through the door, that I was traumatised. I was covered in bruises and pinch marks. I was painf
ully thin, desperately pale, and exhausted to the point of collapse. If a total stranger – my manager – could spot it, then surely my mother would notice?

  ‘Have you behaved yourself?’ she asked me, looking instead at her husband for confirmation.

  He said nothing, but his smile said it all. I had no idea if she knew. She had never once touched me since I’d fallen pregnant with Christopher, but I couldn’t believe that she hadn’t worked out what was going on. That week she and John Wood had a terrible row, and I heard her scream:

  ‘Admit it! You prefer fucking her to me! You prefer fucking my daughter!’

  For me, it was the confirmation I didn’t want. She knew he was still raping me. And now, as if things couldn’t get any more absurd, she was jealous of me. I was causing trouble in their marriage. It was so surreal and so sick, it was almost comical.

  Secretly, I went to the weekly meetings at the new house and I got on well with the other residents. They were around my age and a little older. Like me, they’d had their problems at home, though I doubted many had come from families quite like mine. During those final few weeks that I lived in the family home, John Wood never touched me once. It was strange and baffling, the way he just stopped abusing me. I can only think that I had a confidence about me, and an indifference to him and to my home life, and he had picked up on that. It was as though I was giving off a strange scent, warning him off. I was no longer a soft target, no longer a willing victim. I was on my way up. I answered back to him and Mum.

  ‘Make us a drink, Mo-Jo,’ she would say.

  ‘I’m busy, I’ll do it later,’ I heard myself reply.

  I was amazed by this new me, and I quite liked her too. I slacked on my chores. I stayed out late. My relationship with Dave petered out, but we were on friendly terms. Though not exactly carefree, I was feeling better and brighter than I had for a long time. The house meetings went well too. Whatever the basis, I bonded with the other teenagers there, and when they gave me a set of keys I felt like singing for joy. I skipped home, with keys – my keys – in my pocket. That feeling of independence was priceless. I felt weightless.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Mum demanded. ‘It’s 9 p.m. and you were supposed to cook our tea.’

  ‘I’m moving out,’ I announced, unable to keep the smile off my face.

  She stared at me, trying to weigh up for a moment whether or not I was lying.

  Then she snapped: ‘Pack your fucking bags and go now. Get out of my house!’

  John Wood stepped in and tried to stop me, to persuade me to change my mind. He was less hot-headed, less impulsive than my mother. But he was also more intelligent. I knew he would be thinking ahead.

  ‘Think about what you’re doing, Maureen,’ he said, with a warning note in his voice.

  He was trying to scare me. But I knew, deep down, it was more likely that he was scared. Scared of losing his sexual punchbag. And more scared that I might open my mouth.

  The argument raged until 1 a.m. Eventually I managed to escape to my room and I packed all my stuff, what little I had. It didn’t add up to much for sixteen years of life. I had a few tracksuits, jeans and trainers. Books. My wonderful books. My rosary beads. And that was it. I didn’t have a single photo of Christopher. Mum had seen to that. After his death she had packed away everything that was associated with him and I was not allowed even to keep one of his tiny little hats or a pair of mittens. It was like a punishment; she confiscated his clothes, his pram and all reminders of him, because she knew that I longed to see them and smell them again. Years later, when I plucked up courage to ask her again for a memento, she snapped: ‘I threw the lot away. There’s nothing left.’

  With all my worldly goods in three carrier bags, I sat on the bed, swinging my legs, and waited until 5 a.m., when I knew the first buses would begin. Then I crept downstairs, as quietly as I could, and let myself out into the crisp morning air. I had walked out. I was never going back. I was free.

  Trudging down the main road, dragging my bags along the pavement, I suddenly heard a car slowing down, behind me. For a wild moment I panicked, thinking John Wood and Mum had sent someone to abduct me and take me back. But it was a police car, and an officer wound down the window and said: ‘Where are you going on your own at this hour?’

  I explained I was leaving home, and they offered me a lift.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said, polite but wary.

  I wanted to do this myself. And I was worried, even at this stage, that they might take me home. Instead, they followed me, slowly, down the street, and watched as I climbed onto the bus, before driving off. It was another small slice of kindness that I would remember, always.

  I was bursting with anticipation on that bus ride. I gazed out of the grimy windows as we passed shuttered-up shops and houses in darkness; here and there I spotted a light on, curtains open. The world was slowly waking up, and so was I. Sure, I had no idea of what was ahead. But I knew it had to be better than what I had left behind. Little did I know I could not shake off the past like a dirty old coat.

  Chapter 9

  For the next few months my life was wonderfully normal and predictable. Like most teenagers my age, I had no idea how to budget. I had to learn how to do a weekly shop and how to organise myself. In those early weeks I blew my entire week’s money on a night out and had to live on toast for the next six days.

  ‘We all did it, Maureen,’ laughed one of my housemates.

  But I soon learned how to be sensible. And I loved cooking, which was a bonus, for me and my housemates. I rustled up lots of cheap basic meals, casseroles, pies, cakes and biscuits.

  ‘This is great,’ they said. ‘You should be a chef.’

  It was peculiar to be appreciated and popular, but I was enjoying it. We lived in a large, Victorian, three-storey building in Stoke-on-Trent town centre, where I had my own bedroom, with a shared living room, kitchen and dining room. The place was clean; spotless in fact. And it was warm too. But more than anything, it was safe. For the first time, I felt truly safe. I could close my bedroom door and know that nobody would walk through it without my permission. For me, that was groundbreaking. I attended group counselling, as part of my agreement with social services. We all sat in a circle and I felt horribly awkward and exposed.

  ‘Could you draw a picture of your feelings?’ asked the counsellor.

  I looked blankly at her. Where on earth would I start? That would be a hell of a picture. It was no reflection on the counsellor, but really, she had no idea how to help me. I continued with the sessions, just to fulfil my part of the bargain, but I gave nothing away.

  Around a month after moving into my new home I bumped into an old school friend in town. I had known she was gay, right through school, so when she asked if she could come back to my flat I had an idea what she was planning. I was sitting on my bed, nervously making small talk, when she kissed me. And in that moment I realised I much preferred kissing girls to boys. I had not even considered it until then. We didn’t see each other again after that night. I wasn’t ready for any kind of relationship, with anyone, but our time together was a memory I would always treasure; it was a small piece of the jigsaw which, when complete, would be the finished me.

  I couldn’t face going back to the factory where I had worked. I felt certain that everyone would know about me being taken into the office, and driven away to see social services, and that they would all be whispering behind my back.

  ‘That’s her, the one whose stepdad raped her. Did it for years, she reckons …’

  I still couldn’t shake the conviction that the abuse was my fault, and I was just too ashamed to return to my job. I didn’t even go back to thank the manager, which is one of my biggest regrets. I owed her more than she could probably ever imagine. But I was young and troubled, and I hope that she understood.

  One of the requirements of living at my n
ew house was that I must be working or studying, and so I enrolled to study hairdressing. I worked in a salon five days a week with one day in college, and I loved it. In the evenings I would go to the pub if I had enough money, otherwise I’d spend my time alone, in my room. And if I was honest, I preferred being on my own. On one night out I bumped into Dave, my first boyfriend. He and I had drifted apart as I coped with the abuse at home, but we settled back into a relationship easily enough. Dave was familiar and he represented safety to me, but again, what I longed for most were the nights on my own. Christopher was always in my thoughts and I liked to be alone with them. I drank heavily to blot out my grief, but alcohol only made it worse. Clouds of depression hung low over me and I knew they always would. I had to learn to live with them, somehow.

  During office hours there was a welfare officer based in our house, and she insisted I write to Mum and tell her where I was living. It was, apparently, one of the rules, to keep parents informed. I did as she said, scribbling a simple note with my address, but as I posted it I dreaded the consequences. My only comfort was that my new place was a good half hour’s bus journey from my old family home and I didn’t think Mum would be bothered to make the effort. Several months on, one autumn day, the welfare officer tapped at my door and said: ‘Maureen, you have a visitor. Well, two in fact.’

  My blood ran cold. I knew instantly it had to be her. Yet she’d given me no warning at all. I went downstairs, all at once a shivering, frightened shell of myself. I had regressed ten years in a matter of seconds. Just seeing her in the hallway gave me a real fright. I worried, for a moment, that she might force me to go back home. She had brought one of my sisters with her and also my old black-and-white portable TV from home. It was a little old-fashioned set, with a dial to change channels.

  ‘Well, look where you’ve been hiding,’ said my mother, as though she had caught me out, as though she had the upper hand already.