After an hour, my water breaks. I feel a lot of pressure in my groin and manage to push out the baby. It doesn’t feel like labour; the baby doesn’t make any noise and is tiny. My mother is there holding my hand. I start to cry.
The midwife takes the baby and then comes back to clean me up. I tell her I want to see the baby. Thirty minutes later, she comes into the room and hands me my son. I look into his tiny face. He would have looked like Eligh. His skin is translucent, and I cannot see his deformity, only a tiny, perfect, dead child. My mother looks at him. The nurse has left the room. I can feel a strong presence in the room with us. All I can say is, “He’s like an angel.” I keep repeating those words. I still cannot explain it; it was a surreal feeling. I knew an angel was in that room with us, waiting to take my son away. I named him Dillon.
Zitty picked me up from hospital the next day. We didn’t talk; he drove, and I stared out of the window. All I could see were pregnant women. Before I left the hospital, I asked the nurse if I could have the baby blessed, because I’m Catholic and want to know he will go to heaven. The registrar at the hospital comes to speak to me and says that the baby would have to have been twenty-two weeks old to be buried. After seeing my face crumple, he then tells me rules were made to be broken, and he will arrange a funeral for my son. I have never been so grateful to any man, and I thank him with all my heart. Dillon first has to go for an autopsy. He has to go be examined to determine how this happened and the chances of it happening to me again.
Two weeks later, I bury my son. I insist on just my mother coming to the funeral; Dad is hard work, and I couldn’t cope with him at the moment. I later have to include my mother-in-law to keep the peace. To my surprise, Zitty also attends. He couldn’t look bad in front of the neighbours – his mother wouldn’t have that.
The hospital arranged for a counsellor to visit me at home after my bereavement. Zitty was pissed about that and said I should “get over it”. If people told him they were sorry for his loss, he just replied, “She lost it, not me.” I had an infection soon after giving birth and was readmitted back into hospital for a D and C. My mother-in-law offered to mind the boys, and I was grateful. I saw the counsellor a few times, but I always had the boys with me, and I couldn’t cry in front of them. If I did, they would cry as well because it scared them. So I held it all in, and when they went to bed, I’d run a bath, sit there, and sob my heart out. I grieved alone.
Mam was a good listener, and now we had something in common. She told me that time was a great healer. I told her if I died young, she had to make sure that I was buried with Dillon. My way of coping with my loss was to have another baby. I thought if I could get the baby back, I’d be OK. Four months later, I was pregnant again. This time I was thrilled because it was what I wanted. Zitty wasn’t bothered; he had always wanted a girl and so was hoping for a change of sex, but I wanted my boy back. The doctors had told me that there was a 25 per cent chance of having another spina bifida child. I had been advised to take folic acid tablets before conceiving. This was a new recommendation for all woman wanting to start a family.
It was approaching my nineteen-week scan, and I had to go to a hospital in the city for a deep bone scan, to check the baby’s spine. I was so nervous, but my mother came with me. I entered the radiographer’s room and was told to lie on the bed. She put the cold jelly on my stomach. The scan took longer than normal, and eventually I was allowed to look at the screen. Everything was fine, and she asked if I wanted to know the sex before revealing that I was carrying a healthy baby boy.
Time passed quickly. I made sure I eat a healthy diet throughout the pregnancy. In July I gave birth to a bouncing baby boy with a mop of black hair. I called him Frankie, and he weighed in at a healthy nine pounds, two ounces.
Frankie is such a pleasant, placid baby. I put him down awake, and he lies there until he falls asleep. My mother-in-law is smitten with him and asks to take him for a walk to the local shop most evenings. This is also an excuse because the buggy helps her to carry her daily order of six flagons of Strongbow home. She has been having problems with her shoulder of late, probably due to her daily trips to the shops for supplies. Everyone comments on Frankie’s mop of black hair; he looks like Mowgli from The Jungle Book. People stop when I am shopping and comment, “Oh, what a beautiful baby girl!! I dress him in pale blue, and he has boy features, but as soon as they see the hair, they look past all that and assume he is a girl. Friends and family comment, “Oh, never mind – another boy.” I am thrilled he is healthy. My family is complete.
It is hard getting into a routine with three children under five. Jonah regularly asks me when I am having the next one. I reply, “That’s it. I do not want any more.” Although his speech had improved, he is now in reception class. Jonah is a nervous child. Every painting he brings home is a black page. If I ask him what it is, and he tells me it is a door. My mother says he has been watching a programme on TV about children, and this is a sign of depression in children.
Jonah is given a book to read each week. I read him the story each night and ask him to repeat the words. He finds it hard to do this. It is frustrating, because he is a bright child and I don’t understand it. A few days later, I have to go into town. My mother offers to sit with the children. As I wait for the bus, I notice a lady standing next to me. I see the bus is approaching, and I turn to look at her and smile politely. The lady looks at me and says, “You live in a house full of tears. You will move from that house, but it will get worse before it gets better.” I don’t reply and get on the bus.
Later, when I got home, I tell my mother what the lady said. Mam replies, “She must have been a gypsy.”
I say, “I have only just moved and am never moving again!”
Frankie is four months old and is growing quickly. He is in nine- to twelve-month clothes already. I have been feeling a little sickly of late. I am breastfeeding the baby, and the doctor has put me on the mini pill. I am told to take it the same time every day. I remind her that having three small children means I don’t do anything at the same time every day. She recommends that I change my contraception to an injection. As I go into the surgery and see the nurse, I tell her that I haven’t had a proper monthly since Frankie was born. She tells me this is because I am breastfeeding, and there is nothing to worry about. She does a pregnancy test to rule it out. It’s negative, and I have the injection as planned. Sex is practically non-existent anyway, but I don’t want to take any chances.
A month later, I am feeling exhausted all the time. I put it down to running around after three children all day, washing and ironing, and cleaning the house. Two months later, I am due to go for my next injection. When the day of my appointment arrives, I tell the nurse about being so tired, and I explain to her that my stomach is swollen and that I don’t feel right. She asks the doctor to examine me. The doctor tells me to put in a water sample. I have to call in for the results the next day. When I get to the surgery, I am nervous and have convinced myself that I am not pregnant. The test result comes back positive. I cannot believe it. I cannot remember when I even slept with Zitty last. A scan is booked.
A week later, I am told I am fifteen weeks pregnant. I also have to go for a special scan. This is with a heart specialist, so they can check the baby doesn’t have a hole in the heart due to the contraceptive injection. The doctor explains that I must have been a few weeks pregnant before I had the injection. I am still in shock. I thought my family was complete. I am pregnant for the fifth time in seven years, and I am due to give birth in four and a half months. I ask the midwife about being sterilised after the baby is born. She writes it in my notes and tells me to discuss it with the doctor at the hospital, when I go for my antenatal appointments there. This means that it will be in my notes, and if I have to have an emergency caesarean section, they will sterilise me at the same time. I am twenty-four years old.
While I am at home carrying our child, Zitt
y acts like a single man. He goes out every weekend and gets into fights. The police have had enough of his behaviour, and after he attends court yet again, he is sentenced to four and a half months in prison. He tries to play on the fact that I am pregnant and asks if I will go to court. I tell him I am too busy and have no one to have the children. I am really thinking, Like fuck, you prick. I pray he will go down. This time my wish is granted, and I thank the Lord. At least I know where he is for the remainder of my pregnancy, and I have peace and quiet. It is heaven!
In the time he is in prison, I manage to move house. I do a swap with a couple who had split up and got back together. The wife only went back on the condition that they would move. The house is run-down and has a coal fire, but it is bigger than my old house, and I can see the potential here. With a lot of TLC, it will be lovely. It is also farther away from the in-laws. I know that it is essential to move away from the nosey parkers if I am ever going to leave Zitty and get a life of my own. Life is bliss with him inside, and I realise I can bring up the kids much easier on my own. I have enough money to buy new bedding for the cot, and I’ve kitted out the boys with new clothes. Zitty agrees to the move after I tell him it means that his parents will not be able to keep such a close eye on him. I move with the help of my family. His parents babysit for me while I decorate the boys’ bedroom. By the time he gets out of prison, I have moved and decorated most of the house. Five weeks later, I give birth to a daughter. Zitty insists that he names her. She is born a healthy seven pounds, four ounces and is named Polly.
I have a natural birth, my quickest: she is born in eight hours. She is the icing on the cake. I have a daughter and love her instantly, but I also know I don’t want any more. When she is twelve weeks old, I have my appointment to go into hospital to be sterilised. My mother comments that Zitty should be the one going in for the snip, saying I have been through enough. I ask her to be quiet because I want to have it done. I don’t want any more children by anyone. My mind is made up: I am not staying with Zitty for the rest of my life. I am sterilised thirteen weeks later.
Zitty has started staying out all the time. We live separate lives. The less I see of him, the better. The children and I only relax when he leaves the house. He has started hanging around with a rough crowd; they are his new drinking butties. I don’t know who they are, and I don’t care what he does. My only priority is my children. I am too tired after caring for them and cleaning the house to think about anything else.
I get up one morning and notice bags of rubbish by the back door. It is bin day, so I put them out with the rest of the garbage. Zitty rises from bed around midday, which is normal, and asks me where the bags are. I tell him I have thrown them out for the rubbish man. I do all the household chores, so I don’t know what the problem is. He is furious and says it was knock-off gear. The boys who own it are going kill him. He calls me a fucking fat slut, slaps me, and leaves the house. As far as I am concerned, it is a win-win situation. I hope they do it soon because I hate the prick. He goes out most nights, and when he is at home, he makes the children nervous. He is always ill-tempered and screams at them. I am worn out by looking after four children. The physical and mental abuse is also taking a toll on me.
Most nights are the same. I get up to feed Polly, but tonight Frankie is ill and also needs me. Zitty refuses to hold Polly while I get up to see Frankie. I have been up all night and am exhausted. The alarm goes off, and it’s a school day, so it’s time to sort out the boys. I go into the bedroom and carry the little ones with me. The boys are making some noise, and Zitty starts shouting at them, “Shut the fuck up!”
I snap. I put Frankie and Polly on Eligh’s bed, storm into the bedroom, and scream at him to fuck off. I tell him, “They are children. It’s their home, and they are only playing. If you don’t like it, you can fuck off, because you’re nothing but a selfish twat.” I walk back into the bedroom and am so proud of myself. I stood up to him, and it worked.
As I start to undress Frankie on the bed, Zitty storms into the bedroom in a rage. He grabs me by my hair and smashes my head against the bunk beds several times. I look at Jonah and put my hand up to tell him not to come near me. Zitty screams at me, “You fucking slut! Don’t you ever talk to me like that again, or I’ll fucking kill you!” He spits in my face and then storms out of the room.
It’s quiet, and the kids are terrified. I wipe the spit from my face, and silent tears run from my eyes. Jonah and Eligh rush to me and ask if I am OK. I have never felt so helpless and humiliated.
I look at them both and reply, “I promise you one day, I will set us free.”
After that day, I remain silent. I do not answer back for fear of the children getting hurt as well. Zitty’s mood swings continue to get worse. He keeps reminding me that those men whose knock-off items I binned are going to kill him. I think, If only, but say nothing. He also tells me that they will beat up me and the kids as well, to get back at him. He makes sure he goes out every night to avoid them. I am left to defend us all if they knock on the door. I don’t know who they are. He is a gutless bastard.
A week later, Frankie has an ear infection, and I manage to get an emergency appointment at the doctor’s. I leave Polly at my parents and take him down. The boys are in school. Doctor James has been my doctor for years and asks me how I am. It’s the first time in a long time anyone has asked me this. She says that she was talking to my mother-in-law, who has spoken about me. I tell her about my terrible marriage and how my husband lives like a single man whilst I struggle to bring up the kids. I tell her about the kids and I being afraid of him, and how although he works, he spends every penny on himself.
Doctor James listens and then replies, “That doesn’t sound like a marriage, but a prison sentence.” I tell her that I feel like I am in this big hole and will never be able to dig myself out. She suggests a good solicitor might help. I thank her for her advice.
When I leave the surgery, I walk to the phone box. I look for the yellow pages and find the names of local solicitors. I dial the first number and ask to book an appointment to see someone about getting a divorce. I am shaking. The man on the other end of the phone introduces himself as David, and he tells me not to worry.
He books an appointment for the following week and tells me if I don’t turn up, he will understand. I put down the phone and feel sick. If Zitty finds out, he is going to kill me. I then realise I’m not really living anyway. I am doing this for my children, and for Dr James. She believes in me, and this gives me the courage to carry on. I attend the appointment the following week.
David introduces himself and shakes my hand. He can tell how nervous I am and reassures me that this meeting is confidential. He asks me if I am married, and when I tell him that I am, he replies, “All right, that makes it slightly more difficult.” He explains that if I wasn’t married, it would be much easier. He gives me forms to fill out to apply for legal aid, and he tells me to write down some examples of the physical and mental abuse. I write three pages and give it to him the following week. He tells me this will help my case. I tell David that my husband cannot find out about this until it is nearly over, because he will kill me. David asks if I do his washing and ironing, and I reply that I do. I tell him that I do not have marital relations (sex with him) anymore, though this is true.
I have continued to attend my appointments, and David explains the procedures. I have to go to the housing officer and try to get Zitty’s name off the lease of the house, or I may lose it. He explains possession is nine-tenths of the law. If Zitty refuses to leave, and his name is on the lease, I will lose my home. I visit the housing officer and have all the kids with me. I explain my situation, and he tells me he cannot take the name off without Zitty’s consent. He suggests writing to him. At that point, I freak out and tell him, “No way – he will kill me!” I also ask him how am I going to carry four kids out of the house to safety when he explodes. Zitty has been threatenin
g to stab me for weeks, and I am scared. He knows I am up to something, but he doesn’t know what. The housing officer apologises for not being able to help me and tells me there is nothing he can do. Before I get up to leave, I tell him, “It’s not being beat up that I am scared of. It’s the stress of not knowing when it is going to happen, and how am I going to protect my kids.”
I am scared most days now. Zitty keeps asking me what’s wrong, and I tell him nothing. I have really bad constipation, and I am in so much pain; the stomach cramps are the worst. Eventually, I manage to go to the toilet, and I feel like I have given birth. I get up early the next day and go shopping with Mam. She knows about the divorce and tells me that he has the right to know. She doesn’t know the half of it.
He has told me to bring him fish and chips, and I do as I am told. When I get home, I give him his food. He gets up to look for the vinegar, and he starts knocking everything over in the cupboard and screams in my face, “You are a stupid slut. Where is the fucking vinegar? Who can eat fish and chips without vinegar?” The window is open, and my nosey neighbour can hear everything. I decide now is the time, so I tell him I want a divorce. He just looks at me, and I smile nervously, but I am shaking inside.
My True Colours Page 4