A Family Secret

by Maureen Wood

  ‘You’re happier in yourself, Mum,’ Naomi told me. ‘The shadow has gone from your eyes.’

  In 2013 I was diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis, which, my doctor said, had been triggered by the stress of the past few years. There were days when I could barely move, and I needed a walking stick just to get around the house. One time I got stuck in the bath and could not get out and had to shout for my children to pull me up. It was a humiliating moment, but we managed to laugh about it, and Ben and Josh kept their eyes tightly closed!

  ‘We’ve been through worse than this,’ Ben giggled.

  He was right. We had been through much worse. The hospital gave me a walking frame, but I was determined not to use it. It was a debilitating illness, but I wanted to learn to live with it. I was only forty-three years old, and I felt, in many ways, as though my life was just starting. When my psoriasis flared I was covered with ugly, weeping blisters and sores and I was in and out of hospital. But at home, life was reassuringly normal, and I was back to refereeing over arguments between the kids, clearing away breakfast pots and cooking Sunday dinners. It was predictable and boring and happy. It was everything I had always craved.

  On 10 March 2014 there was a knock on my door.

  ‘I’m from victim liaison –’ said a strange woman on my doorstep.

  ‘Which one is dead?’ I interrupted.

  She looked slightly taken aback at my bluntness and replied: ‘Your mother.’

  Now it was my turn to look shocked. For once, I was speechless. It had been a badly timed quip and I had not really expected her to reply. I felt as though I had been punched hard in the stomach and was badly winded.

  ‘You’d better come inside,’ I said.

  She explained that Mum had undiagnosed cancer, in several places, but had actually died from a DVT. I had heard nothing since she was jailed and had not even known she was ill. She had been released from custody in Styal Women’s Prison on compassionate grounds a few days earlier, and had died in Wythenshawe Hospital, Manchester.

  ‘That’s all the information I have,’ said the liaison officer. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ I said. ‘But thank you for letting me know.’

  I was taken aback that Mum was dead. I’d thought she was indestructible, that she would thunder on through life, barking out orders, bullying anyone who got in her way, and that she would easily outlive me. Nobody else had been notified of her passing because mine had been the only address the prison authorities had. I’d no idea even if anyone was with her when she died. John Wood was, of course, in prison himself. I had no contact with him or with any other relatives.

  Reluctantly, I messaged family members and posted details of the funeral on Facebook. It was to be held at Macclesfield Crematorium, Cheshire, and was organised and paid for by the prison service. In a decision that I didn’t quite understand myself, I went to the funeral. My children, except Ben, also wanted to attend. There were half a dozen other family members there too.

  We walked from the train station to the crematorium, with no idea of what to expect or who we would see. Jock did not attend, and John Wood was not allowed to go from prison, because I was there. I had stopped him attending his own wife’s funeral, and I was quite sure I would be castigated for that, along with everything else. Somehow he would blame me for that. Just before the service one of the mourners said to me: ‘The feeling is that if you’d dealt with this in the family, she would not be dead. You destroyed her.’

  I was stunned.

  ‘But we had no family,’ I protested. ‘That was the whole problem.’

  Even so, the guilt ate away at me. No matter what she had done, I didn’t want her death on my conscience. Mum’s other relatives ignored me completely, as though I was a bad smell. As though I was the problem. During the service the vicar read letters from fellow prisoners, saying what a lovely lady Mum was. I felt as though I was in a parallel universe, like I was starring in a bad movie.

  How could a woman who abused her own daughter be a lovely lady? And why was Mum’s family on her side, and not mine? Once again, all the old insecurities and misgivings of my childhood threatened to worm their way back into my consciousness, shaking the foundations of the new life I had built for me and the children.

  ‘Don’t listen to them,’ Christopher said quietly, as the vicar said a final prayer. ‘They don’t know what they’re talking about.’

  His words were a comfort, but I missed him sorely. As at any funeral, my thoughts were with him. As I watched the curtains close around Mum’s coffin, I shuddered. It was a fitting end for a monster like her, to burn in the fires of hell. And I yet I felt no sense of revenge or satisfaction. Outside the crematorium I broke down, sobbing. I felt again as though it was all my fault. I had put her in prison. I had ruined her reputation. Maybe I had signed her death warrant, after all.

  ‘No,’ whispered Christopher. ‘She signed it herself.’

  Chapter 15

  After the court case I was advised to apply to the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority and was told I would be entitled to a modest sum. I reckoned it would be enough to take the kids away for a week, maybe even go abroad for the first time. Money did not entrance me, it never had, but I wanted to give the children a treat.

  From there I was directed to a firm of solicitors, to look further into the involvement of social services in my childhood. Marie’s revelation at the trial had stuck in my mind. And in my throat, too. The idea, even the mere suggestion, that my abuse could have been stopped by social services left me cold with fury. It felt like my life had been not stolen, but handed willingly to my abusers. I instructed solicitors, based in Islington, London, to represent me.

  ‘These matters are never straightforward, Maureen,’ they warned. ‘But we will do what we can.’

  They discovered, as I suspected, that social services had been involved in my family life a lot over the years. In addition to the occasions I had remembered, there was also a time where a neighbour had made a report about us. Afterwards, I dimly recalled Mum going to the door and screaming threats at the street, as she tried to find out which neighbour had betrayed her.

  ‘I’ll kill them,’ she had shouted.

  Everything was slotting into place. I learned also that Mum herself had made a malicious report to social services about an elderly neighbour who she claimed was abusing me. There was an old man on our street and I would often walk his dog. I was about eleven years old, and I was studying World War Two at school. He would tell me fascinating stories about living through the war and fighting for his country; he brought the lessons alive, right there in his living room. He was a lovely old man, kind and gentle, and I thought of him as the grandad I had never had. Looking back, I think he probably felt sorry for me. He was my escape from the misery at home. He certainly had never laid a finger on me. But Mum had reported him to social services, probably, I think, as the fall guy in her plan. She was most likely covering herself for any revelations I might make in the future about her and John Wood. It was almost as though she was paving the way to head off the complaints before they were even made. She was a conniving and a lying woman and it was entirely possible that she had manipulated events to suit her, without a thought for our poor old neighbour. Or perhaps she was worried about me confiding in the old man and telling him about the abuse at home. Maybe she wanted him discredited and out of the way. Or – and this is quite likely – she was just a sick and twisted individual who could not believe that an elderly man and a young girl could share a genuine and innocent bond.

  Either way, social services had got involved at her request, and I had to be interviewed and examined. I remembered a lady had asked if he was abusing me and I replied: ‘No.’ Again, nobody asked me the right question. Nobody asked me what was happening at home. Nobody asked if I was being abused by my brother, or my mother, or my stepfather. And I could not find the
words without help. I so desperately needed help. There had been so many red flags over the years, so many alarm bells ringing so loudly that the social workers must have heard them. Added to that, social services knew Jock was abusing someone. They knew there was a victim. And even though I was pregnant at thirteen, they never thought to ask if it was me.

  ‘Why did nobody join the dots?’ I asked. ‘Why did nobody care about me?’

  I wanted an apology from social services. I could and should have been removed and protected. My solicitors agreed, and a legal action was launched. But the investigation was slow and difficult. Social services struggled to find the files from my childhood and it dragged on and on. I had to see two psychiatrists, one for each side, and Naomi came with me to the appointments. I hated dredging the past up yet again, but I was adamant that someone had to be held to account. I wanted to make sure that other kids were better protected in the future and that nobody else fell through the net and was trampled underfoot, as I had been. And for me, having survived three criminal trials and the ruthlessness of the barristers, an interview with a shrink really was a walk in the park! One day in November 2015, as I waited in my solicitors’ office, there were phone calls flying back and forth between the two sides. I had no real idea what was happening or what kind of settlement they were discussing.

  At the end of it my solicitor said: ‘We’ve settled out of court, Maureen. We hope you’ll be pleased with the offer. We certainly think you will.’

  I was awarded an eyewatering £200,000 from Staffordshire County Council. I was astonished at the figure. I had only ever wanted someone to admit they were wrong, but I couldn’t deny that the money was a huge bonus. I couldn’t deny that I was absolutely thrilled.

  ‘Thank you,’ I beamed.

  All through raising my children I’d scrimped and saved. I’d struggled even to pay for a weekend in Wales. With the Criminal Injuries pay-out, I had hoped, perhaps, to take them to Europe on a package holiday – Spain or maybe Portugal. But I had always promised them, always, that if I ever came into money we would go to America. It was a standing joke in our family. Ever since they had been toddlers we’d sat and drooled over Disney brochures, admiring the theme parks, and playing make-believe.

  ‘Shall we go there?’ Naomi would say, pointing to hotels with Disney characters waving outside. ‘Or there?’

  Whenever I had a bunch of ten-pound notes the kids would wave them and shout: ‘We’re off to America! See you next week!’

  It was a pipe dream. A flight of fancy. Nothing more. Now, that was all about to change. I took the train home from London in a complete daze, grinning from ear to ear. Back at home, I sat my children down in the living room to give them the good news in person. As they took their seats, I noticed Michaela was wide-eyed and hesitant.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’ she asked.

  Her words pulled on my heartstrings. They were so used to me sharing bad news, worrying news, traumatic news. The past few years had brought one crushing blow after another for my family.

  But now we were on the up. Now, at last, it was our turn to enjoy life.

  ‘We’re going to Disneyland!’ I yelled suddenly, throwing my arms around them. ‘It’s time to spend, spend, spend!’

  We all ended up in a big hug, laughing and crying all at once. By Christmas I got the first instalment of my settlement and I had £90,000 in my bank account. My eyes goggled when I saw the balance at the cash point. It almost frightened me; the sheer responsibility of such a large amount of cash. Of course, I knew I should be sensible and save my money. I knew I should invest it, maybe in a property or in shares. I should be frugal and careful and measured in my approach. But I also knew that life was too short, and that my children had suffered too much. Now was the time to relax and have fun, without the shadow that had weighed on us for so long.

  ‘Sod it,’ I grinned. ‘We will spend the lot!’

  We had a blast that Christmas. I took the kids shopping and told them to buy whatever they fancied. They got new clothes, headphones, mobile phones and laptops. All top spec, all the best brands. These were things we’d never been able to afford until now. It was a far cry from that Christmas shopping trip where I had struggled to afford pyjamas from Primark, where I’d cowered from my mum in the street, like a frightened animal. In the New Year I refurbished the entire house. I bought a new sofa and chairs, beautiful solid oak drawers, new beds and a new bathroom suite. I picked out curtains and cushions, rugs and bedding. I chose new lights and lamps and picture frames.

  ‘What about this? Or this? Or this?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘Let’s buy the bloody lot,’ I replied. ‘Why not?’

  We found ourselves laughing hysterically, just at the sheer unfeasibility of the situation. Everything, my entire life, had been second-hand, passed on from well-meaning friends or from charity shops. For the first time it was all brand spanking new. Everything shone. Everything gleamed. I snapped off the price tags and beamed. My gift to myself was an Aga cooker with a double oven. I’d spent years cooking Christmas dinners for my whole family with one oven. I juggled five pans on four rings and had to jam the Yorkshires and the roasties in around the turkey. I had cursed my oven over the years, so many times. We had a love-hate relationship, for, though I loved to cook, it was too small and way past its best. I’d had to make do for many years. But no longer. This, for me, was unlimited luxury. I felt like Mary Berry herself. The day it arrived I cooked up a big roast dinner for the entire family, just because I could.

  ‘This is great, Mum,’ smiled my children. ‘Really great.’

  By now, Ben had his own flat, as did Josh, and both lived near to me. I bought them white goods for their kitchens and some furniture. I loved being able to help them. People might say I wasted my money. I would disagree. There was no price for the smile on my kids’ faces. The feeling of being able to assist them, to set them up in life, was brilliant. When the next instalment of the compensation arrived I went straight out to my local branch of Co-op travel and told the agent exactly what I wanted. I had been planning it for long enough after all!

  ‘I’d like a month in Florida please,’ I said. ‘First-class travel.’

  I booked two weeks at the Swan and Dolphin Resort at Walt Disney World, with tickets for the parks and a day swimming with dolphins. Then I requested a further two weeks at the Hard Rock Hotel at Universal Studios. The entire trip came to a staggering £35,000. The travel agent’s jaw almost hit the desk. I couldn’t blame him. I was still in shock myself.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I told him with a smile. ‘Let’s just say me and my kids deserve a break.’

  We started shopping for our trip, buying summer clothes, sun hats and swimwear. We had never flown before. The children had never even been abroad. And apart from the first few months of my life in Germany, on an army base, neither had I. We didn’t even have passports, and I had to apply for the lot. We all had to have interviews, except Michaela, who was still a child. Mine was tricky, as I had no idea of my father’s date of birth. I couldn’t find his birth certificate, despite searching online. Eventually I traced it back from his marriage certificate, but it took weeks of detective work and anxious worry before my passport application could be approved. Our holiday was booked for August 2016 and the kids were dizzy with excitement. And I was the biggest kid of all!

  ‘I can’t wait, I can’t wait!’ I kept saying.

  We went down to Heathrow two days early, to an airport hotel, to get ourselves into the holiday spirit. On the day of the flight we were ushered into the first-class lounge, where we were waited on hand and foot. I was the one who was used to waiting on everyone else, and this was a welcome change. I was offered a cooked breakfast, and champagne!

  ‘Wow,’ I gasped, unable to stop beaming.

  I had never known anything like it, and we were still in the airport! I swapped my champagne discreetly for an orang
e juice and raised a toast along with my children.

  ‘To Christopher,’ I said. ‘Always in our hearts.’

  ‘I am always with you,’ he whispered. ‘You know that by now, Mum.’

  I was nervous about flying, but then, as we boarded, I spotted the name of the plane: Tinkerbell, which was my nickname for Michaela. It felt like a sign from Christopher. And it was enough to ease my nerves. We settled ourselves in first class, like royalty, and sat back to enjoy the journey. The flight went like a dream but up there, in the clouds, I couldn’t help thinking of my first-born, of my little angel, who had made all of this happen. For a little boy who had lived only three weeks, his impact had been quite breathtaking.

  ‘Thank you, son,’ I said softly.

  When we arrived, the hotel was fantastic, it was everything we had dreamed of and more. We had two rooms – one for the boys, one for the girls. And every day we had a ball. My arthritis was playing up, and some days I stayed by the pool whilst the kids went off to the theme parks. But I wasn’t complaining. Money even helped with pain! My psoriasis cleared up with the sunshine, too. We rode rollercoasters, swam with dolphins and ate burgers as big as dinner plates.

  ‘Can we live here forever?’ Michaela asked.

  When the month was up, we all cried. We didn’t want to come home at all. I could have stayed there for another month, quite easily. I felt on top of the world, spending time with my children, spoiling them in ways I had never imagined possible. Later that year, the money ran out. I had blown the lot on holidays, treats and renovating my home. Yet I didn’t miss it. In my opinion it had been very well spent. People have often asked since if I regret it, if I wish I had made an investment instead. That always makes me smile, because for me the memory of that holiday, the time with my children, the laughs we had shared … now that was the wisest investment of all.