by Jenni Regan
I have been having a lot of therapy which Tom thankfully has been paying for after we were told of the waiting lists. At first, I was horrified when I heard the term 'mental health'. I had only ever come across these 'nutters', as Gran called them, on reality TV shows or Jeremy Kyle. Of course, there were a few social media campaigns that I had joined blindly without ever really knowing what I was supposed to be supporting. I am working with a wonderful team who have gently been picking apart what happened to me and then trying to build me back up again.
I have managed to talk properly for the first time about the train crash without ending up in the midst of a panic attack. We have talked through how the Bournemouth terror attack may have triggered some really horrific memories, even though I was never actually there. Seeing what was happening, secondary trauma was enough to make me feel as though I was in the middle of it.
It sounds ridiculous and it is certainly not something I can see being embraced as a psychological model, but I think the whole healing process actually started when I was alone in the house. For so long, I had allowed my brain to be busy, always stimulated with technology. Even when I was watching TV, I would be tweeting or snapchatting or surfing at the same time. It was only when I was forced to sit alone with myself and my feelings that it began to come back to me. So much of my life, I had closed off, forgotten about. Being without anything to distract me started something really strange. I began to think. At first, it scared me. I thought I was hearing voices or something, but I realised it was my imagination that had sat dormant for so long. When I started reading, I began to experience all these wonderful worlds in my head. The irony was that I had been living a fantasy life for so long, but not for me, for everyone else. Real fantasy worlds and daydreams are fantastic.
To think I would have been happy to spend the rest of my life locked away with no one around me seems so strange now. I still find it hard to go out, and most of the time, I need to have someone with me. It tends to be Tom or one of Evan's family. But I am also making my own friends. I deleted my dormant social media accounts, and I didn't even look. I'm sure they were full of people speculating about what happened to me, people who would never have wanted to actually meet me for a coffee but who loved to know everything about my life online.
We were eventually able to hold proper funerals for my grandparents, although they were both starkly different. Granny’s was done publicly as a cremation, just as she had always wanted. She would have been pleased with the turnout, although I think it may have been bolstered tremendously with the press coverage. Today is the day we have decided to scatter her ashes.
My grandfather was also cremated, but as far as I know, it was only a formality. None of us actually attended, and there was no ceremony. The sad possibility is that knowing what I know now about abuse, it was highly likely that he was abused himself. No one is born a monster, and as much as I hate what both he and Stan did to me—and I am so glad they got punished, one above and one below the law—you probably don’t have to look far into their history to see possible causes.
Just as I am boiling the kettle, the doorbell goes. Rachel is there, looking windswept with my new little half-brother, Alfie, in the pram. We still don't really know what we should do to greet each other, so I focus on Alfie instead.
'Sorry I am so late. The traffic was murder. Oh, I guess I shouldn't really say that anymore, should I?'
She looks awkward, so I try and laugh it off. 'At least you didn't say the traffic was crazy, then I would have been really offended! I was just making a cuppa. Do you want one here or shall we go straight out and grab a drink on the seafront?'
'Well, this one has been cooped up in my rustbucket for hours, so let’s go and get some fresh air.'
As we walk, the conversation is a bit stilted, as it always is when we first get together. The last time she was down here, she brought her kids, my sisters Jess and Kylie, which was amazing. They had so many questions for me, and it was hard for them to get their heads around the idea that they were my sisters when I didn't live with them.
In a way, I think it was a nice way for my mum to get to know me as well, although until now, there really wasn't much to tell. When I was at home, I had no life, really, so trying to describe a life that wasn't really lived doesn't take long. During that visit, Rachel had spoken to me about her relationship with Dave. When she had gone home in the middle of the whole house-of-horror scandal, she had immediately moved his things out of the house, accusing him of all sorts. It was only when she agreed to some family counselling that she realised he hadn't been hurting the kids; in fact, it was quite the opposite. Unlike our father, Dave was a good man. Apparently, it is quite common for women who have been abused to never trust men in their lives.
As the fresh air is on our faces and the watery sun warms our bones, we both start to thaw out.
'So how is the therapy going? What do they do, shine lights into your eyes or something?' she asks, looking sceptical.
'Some do use a light, but mine uses her finger. I know it sounds really strange, but it does seem to be helping.'
And it's true, it is helping. I do still have bad days where I want to scream uncontrollably and throw plates at the floor. I still have dark nightmares that torture me during my sleep, and I still have panic attacks at the mere thought of leaving the house most days, but I guess if you dredge up a lot of crap, you are going to have to deal with it. It doesn't just go away. I am also now having OK days. Not jumping-round-the-room, happy-to-be-alive days, but days where I get through.
'How is yours going?' Tom had joked that we should be having double therapy sessions and claim a two-for-one offer. It is good that he hasn't lost his humour through all this, or it might just show that he is really tight!
'Well, I'm glad I am not having to look at someone's finger, but having to sit and talk to some stranger about all my innermost thoughts really isn't my idea of fun. In some ways, though, it is the only time of the week that I get to have an hour to myself, so I do enjoy that!'
'And how is the course going?' Rachel decided to go back to university to do an access course so she can get a degree, something I am really proud of and may even follow her in the future. She had a surprise windfall in Granny’s will, and Dave found another job, so she is putting herself first for the first time in many years.
'I am surrounded by people young enough to be my children. I think most of them are your age! But it is really good to be using my brain again. My brother had better watch out or he will no longer be the only intelligent one in the family! How is all your stuff going?'
All my stuff is me learning to have a life again. I am doing some voluntary work for a small, local charity. I’m running their social media channels, of all things. Tom was worried when I first started doing this that I would get sucked in again or trolled, but I am keeping it strictly business.
'I am actually really enjoying it. It is really amazing to hear stories from people who work for the charity or have been helped. It gives me a bit of a sense of purpose. I hope one day I will actually be able to work somewhere like there.'
'Give yourself a break; you have your whole life ahead of you to worry about working for a living. For now, you just focus on yourself.'
I notice she is wearing a little pin, and I admire it.
‘It is to mark a year. You know, I didn’t do all that AA stuff—I tried, and it wasn’t for me—but I found a really great group on Facebook, of all places. Apparently being sober is now quite fashionable!’
At first, I don't know what she is talking about, but then I realise: the day she gave up booze for the second time was also the day after I emerged from the house. Maybe I need to give myself a new birthday—the day I started my life again.
Tom arrives with Evan twenty minutes later. Much to Tom's annoyance, Evan and Mum get on like a house on fire, and he sweeps her up in a hug before turning to Alfie.
'Oh gosh, every time I see this little bugger, it is as though my
sperm swims up and talks to me, “Please make one of these Evan, please . . .”.'
I see him glance over at Tom fondly, and I do really hope that they decide to start a family somehow. Given how our family has been created, there would be no judgement, whichever route they decide to go down.
Tom changes the subject, and they start talking about Rachel's upcoming holiday. It is her first in years thanks to the little windfall from the sale of Gran's house. I think about sharing the news I read online this morning, but I don’t want to ruin the mood.
The story, which would have been easily missed, was about a man who was found with life-threatening injuries in a prison. He was identified as Stan Crane. There were no witnesses, but the attack bore all the hallmarks of a vigilante gang who targeted known child abusers.
The news doesn't make me happy as such. It took me a long time to put Stan in the same category as my other abusers. After all, he wasn't much older than me, and I invited him into my home. He would probably even say I encouraged the sex. But I see now that he was an attacker just like my grandfather or my foster brother. In a way, Stan being attacked is a sense of justice, I guess. Not just for me but for the dozens of other girls he abused on camera, many who were young, lost and flattered by the attention, and also for the thousands of girls who live with the horror of abuse every day.
We walk along the seafront just behind the gallery. This has become one of my new hobbies, wandering round the Turner and taking part in workshops there. I have even been looking into doing some volunteering here. It turns out I quite like being creative.
I find the right spot, looking out to sea at my favourite piece of art: the cast-iron man looking out to sea. I don’t know the tides yet, so it is always a nice surprise not knowing if I will see him, or at least how much of him I will see. He reminds me a bit of myself when I was in the house, hiding in plain sight and yet immersed.
‘This is the spot,’ I declare to our gang.
Tom smiles. ‘You know how much Mum would have hated that statue. Bloody modern art or whatever crap they are throwing money at this week. Remember the outrage of the pickled shark?’
Rachel laughs and joins in. ‘Remember how she always said she was going to draw a few dots on a page and try and flog it for a million pounds? That along with all the treasures she was going to sell from the attic!’
The mood around Granny has softened, and it is really good to hear them both talking about her with some fond memories. For most families, having someone commit murder would drive an even bigger wedge between them, but for us and what happened to us, it has elevated her to a woman who finally took charge.
She was also a woman who showed some need for forgiveness. Rachel was right, there was nothing of value in the loft, but I did find my beloved jewellery box, the one with the twirling ballerina that Granny had given me on my birthday.
I have no idea what it was doing tucked away up there, and I can only presume it was moved out when One Direction moved in. It was only when I rediscovered it that I realised it had another layer to it, a hidden one. Tucked into this space was a short and badly written note from Granny.
I waited until this moment to read it. I was worried that it might incriminate her or, even worse, that it was just a shopping list. As I get the surprisingly heavy urn with the ashes out from Alfie’s pushchair, I hand Rachel the note. After we scoff at her terrible writing, Rachel reads it out loud.
Dear Rachel, Tom and Alice,
I know this is too little too late, but I have lived with regrets for most of my life, and I guess I may never get the chance to put them right.
I am a stupid, weak woman, blinded by some kind of loyalty towards my husband when I realise now that he was actually a total pig. He was always keen with his fists, but I just thought that’s what men did. My old man was the same.
Rachel, I didn’t believe what he did to you because I didn’t want to believe it. I was so disgusted, and it was easier to write you off as a naughty teenager.
It was only when I realised that he was fiddling with Alice that I knew you had been telling the truth. I could always see him in Alice, the family resemblance doubled by his part in her creation, I guess.
I got rid of him in the end, and I wish I had been a brave enough person to tell you I was sorry, but I was too embarrassed.
Alice, my baby, I have always loved you as though you were my own. I always lived my life trying to keep you safe and protected as I should have in the first place.
I know I am a coward by writing this, hoping I will be long gone by the time it is read, which is why I am not sending this. Instead, I am hiding it away where it may never be discovered.
I hope you both have long, happy lives. You will have probably all been surprised to see that I threw a few quid your way in the will. Enjoy it. Just don’t go spending it on crack pipes or rent boys or whatever it is you two do these days.
Tom, finding out you were a poofter was one of the hardest moments of my life. But I have missed you, my little boy. I was so scared that your dad might have caused this by interfering with you too, and I couldn’t deal with that on top of everything.
Once I had driven you both away, it was so much harder to even think about welcoming you back, and so I took the easy option.
I don’t want or expect forgiveness. I will be facing my judgement up or even down there by God, but I wanted to try and explain why I did what I did.
Love Mum/Granny. x
I look across at Rachel and Tom. Both have tears in their eyes. This does not in any way excuse how she treated either of them, but I hope it makes both of them realise that they were loved in a strange way by their mum, and that none of this was their fault.
No words are needed after that, so I take the urn and tip it out into the sea to be swept away and become a part of the big world. Some of it blows back towards us, and Tom makes a face.
‘Urghh, she is trying to have the last word even from beyond the grave,’ he says, trying to spit out the crunchy dust that has landed in his face.
After the ashes are spread, we decide to order a late lunch. Tom orders a bottle of wine, and I am proud to see Mum stick to her water. I ask for a cider. I have no worries about following that particular path as the taste of most booze makes me wince, but I do like feeling like the grown-up that I am with something fizzy and sweet in front of me. As I look around the table, Tom is playing with Alfie. He is again the devoted uncle he was with me, and he is so pleased there is another boy in the family to even things out. Evan and Mum are talking about some reality show they are both hooked on, and I am just enjoying sitting there taking it all in. I reach for my phone to take a picture of the scene, but then I realise I don't need to. This is now my life, and I am living it.
Afterword
This is a book I first started to write about 12 years ago. It is something I have abandoned and come back to many times.
When I first started writing social media was still in it's infancy and I was fascinated by the effects this may have on lives and self image. Clearly many other platforms have become popular and it was just a mild FaceBook obsession but Alice had to take on Instagram and Twitter in the last couple of years.
Many have noted that Alice is rather childlike and this was intentional. Her fear of leaving the house and over reliance on grandmother and social media have left her unable to do many things adults rely on. As I watch my friend's daughters' becoming more addicted to their phones as they begin to hit puberty I do worry that we are raising a generation who seek constant reassurance and who fail to form knowledge and personal opinions. As well as a group who may find it unusual to socialise in real life.
However, as I sit and write this in the middle of the Covid-19 crisis I can also see the freedom social media and the internet have offered us. My child who would usually be in school has a world of learning at her fingertips, friends available to play with via a screen and I have managed to co-ordinate a huge response to the crisis in my area via
Facebook and Whatsapp.
I have realised that my writing always turns dark at some point and in this book we have abuse, death, addiction and mental health problems. However, I wanted to end on a positive note. Issues like what poor Alice have faced cannot be brushed away and her recovery would take years, however when the truth has been revealed and there is a family reunion of sorts, there is a way back.
I hope you have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Be relieved the next book was written in less than a year!
Acknowledgement
I would like to thank my late father for my love of writing. He was a tabloid journalist who also wrote books about royalty and celebrities.
We were both very different journalists. He spent time in India with the Beatles and broke the first scandal about Charles and Diana before being sued by John Major. I used to write news about business and finance.
However, he instilled in me a love of storytelling. He could make even the most dull everyday experience into a gripping drama. He would rarely make things up entirely but was a master of embellishment.
In his twilight years he had a gathering most days in a Wetherspoons in Camden which he would call 'The Kindergarden.' A group of local characters and Fleet Street survivers would sit around and listen to him talk. I am pretty sure the same stories were wheeled out every day but he still had a captive audience.
Cheers Dad.
About The Author
Jenni Regan