A Family Secret

by Maureen Wood

  I felt sure now that she was here to drag me home. Instead, it turned out that she wanted me to go for dress fittings with my sister. She was getting married the following spring and I, along with a clutch of other girls, was to be a bridesmaid.

  ‘You need to be at the bridal shop next Saturday,’ Mum told me. ‘If you’re not there I’ll be round here and there’ll be trouble.

  ‘It’s her big day. We don’t need you ruining everything.’

  She plonked the telly down on my chest of drawers with such force, I thought she might smash the screen. I didn’t understand why she had brought it for me. There had to be something in it for her, but I didn’t know what.

  They didn’t stay for long, thankfully, but for ages after they’d left I just couldn’t settle. And though I should have been pleased with the telly, as I didn’t have one, I hated it. It was black and white, and yet it reminded me, in sharp focus, of the grisly technicolour horrors of home. It almost smelled of home. I couldn’t bring myself to even switch it on. But I knew better than to cross my mother, so the following weekend, as instructed, I made my way to the bridal shop. I spotted John Wood from way down the street. He was standing outside, a small, slightly stooped man, his spectacles and his beard and his thin, mean chin, clearly in profile. I hadn’t seen him since I’d left home and my stomach did a double turn. Much as I liked to think I was brave and sassy, he still turned my bones to jelly.

  ‘Good morning, Maureen,’ he said formally, but I did not reply.

  My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was so afraid. I walked straight into the shop and he followed. Because he was paying, he kept a close eye on the budget, but apart from that he had little to say. I tried not to make eye contact throughout the whole session. Even though I was out from under his reach, I had the impression he could pluck me out of my new life, if he desired, and take me back. I felt like a second-hand, soiled possession. And in the days afterwards, with his disgruntled face and his watery eyes fresh in my mind, I relived the terror and the revulsion of the rapes. There were times when I felt I had made no progress at all; how could I live without abuse? Truthfully, I hadn’t a clue. This was supposed to be a new start but I didn’t even know how to start again. I wanted so badly to feel safe but I was scared witless all of the time – scared that the past might catch up with me, scared of what the future might bring, and scared most of all that the present could be taken away from me.

  In January 1988, when I was seventeen, I missed a period and, with the familiar feelings of nausea and exhaustion, I realised that I was pregnant. I felt a swirling mix of emotions; panic, sadness, nostalgia and fear. But above it all, shining through, were feelings of happiness and joy.

  ‘I won’t forget you, Christopher,’ I promised.

  I wanted this baby desperately, but I also found it hard not to think about Christopher in the same breath. Dave was thrilled. This was his first child and, though it wasn’t planned, he was over the moon.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he beamed.

  We moved into a flat together and began preparing for our new baby. For me, each milestone was bittersweet. The first time I felt our unborn baby stir, I remembered the fluttery sensations in my belly every time Christopher had moved. And as my bump grew, I was cast back to the last time my body had changed like this, to the last time I had been a mummy. Yet I couldn’t deny that I was feeling broody and excited and maternal all over again. This, after all, would be Christopher’s brother or sister. He would live on through them, just as he did through me. And this time there was no panic over adoption or abortion. There was nobody to glare over my shoulder and tell me what I was going to do. Even so, I was wary of my mother’s reaction. I didn’t want her involvement, so I didn’t even tell her. A couple of months on, I was relieved to find I could still fit into my bridesmaid’s dress for my sister’s big day.

  The night before the wedding I was summoned back home, to be with the rest of the bridesmaids. My family had moved house again, so it was thankfully not my old bedroom, but nonetheless I felt uneasy. And it was disturbing, sleeping under the same roof as my odious parents. The memories of what they had done to me were crawling out of the walls, like an infestation. I hardly closed my eyes at all that night; it was as if being at home gave me an instant case of insomnia. The following morning, as we did our makeup and curled our hair, I found myself sitting next to Mum. I took a deep breath; she would have to know some time, after all.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I said quietly.

  ‘What – again?’ she said.

  I looked her in the eye, telling myself I was not scared, and replied: ‘Yes? What’s your problem?’

  Unusually for her, she had little to say in return, but she shot me a look that said she expected nothing better from me. The day went without any flashpoints, but as soon as I could escape the wedding, I did. I had no plans to see any of my family again.

  The pregnancy went well, though I was always on edge, worried something might happen to my baby. Sadly, my relationship with Dave didn’t go as smoothly, and towards my final trimester I found myself on my own.

  ‘Give our relationship another chance, Maureen, for the baby,’ he pleaded.

  At first, I stood firm. But when I went into labour we patched up our differences. I was as anxious as he was to give things another go. We both wanted a proper family, but I knew even then that we were clinging on to something that was already in pieces. Our son, Ben, was born in September 1988, weighing 5lb 11oz. He was long and skinny and looked just like his father. He was not at all like Christopher or me. But even so, Ben’s birth brought back all the memories in sharp detail, and at times I saw flashes of Christopher sleeping in my arms, Christopher murmuring in his Moses basket, Christopher silent and pale in his pram, Christopher ghostly in his coffin. For Ben’s sake, and for mine, I tried hard to push the comparisons away. I was determined to be a good mother and knew that I had to focus on what I had, not what I had lost. I was filled with hope for the future, but there was anxiety and trepidation too.

  The days passed and, though I didn’t want to admit it, I struggled to bond with Ben, because deep down I was expecting to lose him. Deep down, I thought he was on loan, as Christopher had been, and I could not go through that pain again. I couldn’t let myself go completely and entirely. I couldn’t give everything. And so I held back.

  ‘Mummy loves you,’ I told him. ‘I’m doing my best.’

  But for me, and for him, that wasn’t good enough. And I knew that. I was kidding nobody, certainly not myself. When Ben was six weeks old I took him to Scotland to show him off to my relatives. We had a good week, and they made such a fuss of him, but when I got back to Stoke I discovered I had lost my flat and it had been reallocated. I had a new baby and I had nowhere to go. Much as it stuck in my throat, I found myself on my mother’s doorstep, pleading for a bed for the night. There was nowhere else I could go at such short notice and I could not risk being homeless with a tiny baby. I was back in the bosom of evil. Back with my maker, and my destroyer.

  Looking back, I can see how hard it might be to understand my decision. I can’t understand it myself. But that was all I knew. I was still a teenager, with one baby in heaven and one in my arms. I was short on confidence and even shorter on love. I went back to the only family I had ever known.

  It was still rocky between Dave and me, but he came to stay with us, temporarily, to help with Ben. Mum loved having a baby in the house again; she transformed once more into a doting grandmother, clucking over the pram, giving cuddles and paying compliments. Sometimes it almost felt like I had gone back in time and Christopher was still alive.

  ‘He’s a beautiful boy, Mo-Jo,’ she said with a smile. ‘Well done.’

  And though I hated to admit it, I craved that approval and affection. I wanted a mother. Yes, I loathed her for what she was and what she had done, but I could not escape the fact that she was all I h
ad. At first, I was confused and bewildered by her warmth. She chucked in little snippets of normality, almost as though she was trying to throw me. Or I wondered if perhaps she was trying to impress Dave. It had always been her way, after all, to present a cosmetic front to the world. But then, dangerously, I settled into enjoying and expecting her good will. I let myself believe that this was the real her. She even offered to babysit one night.

  ‘You should go out, let your hair down,’ she told us.

  That left me speechless. Dave couldn’t see what all the fuss was about; he had no idea of the reptile that lurked beneath her outer layer. True to form, a couple of months on, Mum announced that they were moving house, yet again, to a smaller place.

  ‘No room for you,’ she said sharply.

  And just like that, she was back to her old self. We had outstayed our welcome and it was time to leave. Foolishly, I had become reliant on her and had done nothing about finding a new flat, and so I found myself on my own with Ben in a hostel, until I could find something more permanent.

  The relationship between me and Dave deteriorated yet further and we were barely on speaking terms. We both knew it was time to go our separate ways. Stuck in one room at the hostel, with a baby to look after, and with no support and no money, I began to struggle. I was constantly terrified that Ben was going to die. I would spend hours trying to settle him, but as soon as he was asleep I would wake him again to make sure he was OK. And I dreaded sleeping myself, in case I woke to find him dead. Images of him white and cold in his cot burned across my eyes. There was, after all, no explanation for Christopher’s death, so what if it happened to Ben, too? I convinced myself there could be a genetic fault, and that Ben, like Christopher, might be cursed. Ben was so precious to me, I loved him so much, that I could not allow myself to get too close to him. I knew I would not cope with losing him, so I had to protect myself.

  ‘He’s only on loan,’ I reminded myself.

  And part of me wondered whether I could or should open my heart to love another child the way I had loved Christopher, because he had been everything to me. Was it a betrayal for me to love another child the same? Was it tempting fate to give myself completely to this baby, as I had before? The questions and dilemmas swam around my head but there were no answers and there was no solace. I was tormented by my worries; worries about Ben and worries about my own failings as a mother. I was on edge, all the time. When Ben was around ten months old he went through a severe teething episode, where he screamed relentlessly. Nothing I did seemed to soothe him, and again I blamed my own inadequacies as a mother.

  ‘This is my own fault,’ I fretted. ‘He has sensed it. He knows I’m holding back, he knows I’m not the mother I could be.’

  I’d had no sleep, I wasn’t thinking rationally, and I was reaching the end of my tether. In naïve desperation I even rang my mum for help.

  She tutted and said: ‘You made your bed, you can lie in it.’

  And then she hung up. Her venom was no less than I should have expected but it left me feeling desolate. I felt as though I was under immense pressure. We were jammed in a tiny room at the hostel, with a bed, a cot, a pram and furniture all crammed in. And as I looked around me, helplessly, I felt as though the walls were closing in on me too. I could barely breathe. Ben screamed all of the time, he screamed all night and most of the day. I longed to close my eyes, just for a moment, to rest. But on the rare occasions that he did sleep I found myself wired and anxious and my head too full of neuroses to sleep myself. I became more frustrated, more exhausted, more isolated.

  One day, nothing at all seemed to comfort him. He was screaming so loudly my ears were ringing and my head was pounding. I tried him with a dummy as he lay in the cot, but he just picked it up in his chubby little fingers and threw it back at me. I tried a bottle, I offered him a rusk, I gave him his favourite blue blanket, but nothing worked.

  ‘Please, Ben,’ I said, stress oozing from every pore. ‘Just to go sleep.’

  As I leaned over the cot, watching his angry little face, screwed up and bright red, I realised he was screaming at me. He hated me. Just like everyone else. Furiously, desperately, tragically, I slapped him on the face. And in the next moment the room seemed to pixellate and fall to pieces around me.

  ‘What have I done?’ I wailed.

  My whole body sagged with the shame and the failure, and I was engulfed with feelings of despair and self-loathing. I locked myself in my room, and though I could hear the hostel staff talking through door, their words made no sense.

  ‘Please, Maureen, unlock the door and let us help you,’ they said.

  But I was beyond help. I knew that. Wearily, I opened the door and carried Ben outside.

  ‘Take it before I kill it,’ I said, handing him over.

  I told them exactly what I had done, before slumping back in my room, alone. I had failed the only living person I cared about. All I had wanted was to be a good mother, unlike my own. All I had wanted was for my children to love me, and me them. And yet I had ruined everything. Ben was taken away by social workers and I was not there to see it. I was not fit to stand there and call myself a parent. That night, after staring at Ben’s empty cot, I tried to hang myself in my room, looping my belt over a hot water pipe on the ceiling. But as I stepped off the end of the bed, with the belt around my neck, it snapped and I fell to the floor in a pathetic heap.

  ‘Typical,’ I seethed, grabbing the belt and throwing it against the wall. I felt nothing but disappointment and disgust. I had tried to kill myself, yet I couldn’t even get that right. I was no good to anyone and certainly not to my own son. No, I was a danger to him. That night the staff took the locks off my door and would check on me every two hours, to make sure I wasn’t trying to kill myself. Ben had been taken into temporary foster care, aged eleven months.

  ‘You can still see him,’ the staff told me. ‘This isn’t the end, you mustn’t give up.’

  But I didn’t believe them. My baby had been on loan, after all. I had lost him, but not in the way I had imagined. What did God have against me, I wondered, taking away two sons, one after another? It broke my poor heart all over again when I lost Ben. I had thought I could never feel pain like it after Christopher died. But this came close. Ben was not dead, but he was gone. Yet I understood that I was not the best person to look after him. I could not trust myself to be a good mother. If the social workers had offered him back to me, I would have refused. He deserved so much better than me. Again, as with Christopher, I had to think of what was best for him, and not for me. Two days on, I was arrested on suspicion of assault.

  ‘Yes, I did it, I slapped my own baby,’ I told the officers. ‘I want you to charge me and I want to go to jail.’

  Back at the hostel I was still on two-hourly checks. I stopped eating, not as any kind of protest, but simply because I had no appetite. I had no desire and no reason to look after myself. I had weighed around nine stone when Ben was born but my weight dropped to a little over six.

  ‘You have to eat,’ the staff urged. ‘You have to get better.’

  They even made me eat my meals in the office, with them, so that they could keep an eye on me. They did their best and, again, I wish I’d had the maturity to thank them. But I did not. I later heard that the charges against me were being dropped, because of my mental state. I was angry. I wanted to be punished for hitting my son. I wanted to be vilified. If life was a ladder, I was at the very bottom.

  In the months after losing Ben, my life unravelled. I moved out of the hostel, with no idea of where to go next. I had no emotional structure to my life, and so I suppose this decision was a rejection of a physical routine too. I didn’t want well-meaning welfare workers sticking their nose into my messed-up life and trying to help me. I was close to giving up on myself and I wanted them to admit defeat too. I had no job and no plans, and I was doped up on so much medication I could barely s
tring a sentence together. I was also drinking heavily. Those first few days, I stayed with an old school friend who had a flat share and a spare couch.

  ‘Only for a few days,’ she warned. ‘The landlord will be on my back if you stay too long.’

  From there, I went to another mate, and then another. I slept on sofas and floors. I had no idea where I would sleep or what I would do from one day to the next. During the day I walked around the town centre, aimlessly and endlessly, retracing my steps, mile after mile. I spent hours in the dole office, waiting in queues, applying for jobs, filling out forms. It all meant nothing. There was a monotony and a dullness to my days, juxtaposed with a deep hurt and a longing to see my little boy again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ I whispered. ‘Please don’t give up on me. I haven’t given up on you.’

  I walked so far that one of my trainers split, and I could feel the damp around my toes where the puddles were seeping in. But it didn’t bother me enough to buy new trainers or even tape up the hole. I just kept on walking, hoping to clear my mind of everything in it. The days were a blur and the nights were often tortuous. I slept rough more than once, and, as I bedded down on the pavement, I remembered the night I’d slept in the school boiler room as a little girl, desperate to escape the horrors at home. The problem now was that I was on the run from the horrors in my mind. But now, as then, sleeping outside held little threat for me. Unsurprisingly, I had no real friends and I was surrounded by people who were drowning in their own problems, just as I was in mine.

  As I spiralled, I considered drugs as a way out more than once, but I never went beyond smoking the odd spliff. Somehow, in the fog of my reality, I managed to say no. It just wasn’t my thing. I was a target for dealers and pimps, but again, I stood firm. Hidden underneath all the hurt was the spark of a survivor, still flickering. I have a hazy memory, late one night, of a bloke who became aggressive towards me, but I kneed him in the nuts and gave him a piece of my mind.