Mummy Knew

by Lisa James

  ‘Maybe we could try to find her?’

  I couldn’t remember Mum’s address, but within half an hour Neil had found it on the Internet. ‘It looks as though Kat’s still living with your mum. She’s on the electoral roll there.’

  The next day I paced up and down, unsure whether I wanted to bring the past back into my life. But I had spent so many hours looking after Kat when she was a baby that every time I looked at my own children I was reminded of her. At the same time, I was worried about stirring up the emotional silt. It had taken me years to get to a point where I was happy. I had my own family, untainted by abuse and rape.

  In the end, I knew I would never be able to rest if I didn’t find out if Kat was OK. I sat down and spent hours writing and rewriting a letter. I addressed it to both Mum and Kat, and included photos of my children. As soon as I posted it I wanted to reach into the postbox and pull it out again, because suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of Mum looking at or touching photos of my children. But it was too late; it had gone.

  Neil told me I had done the right thing.

  A few days later the phone rang. I picked it up and when there was silence at the other end, I knew it was Kat.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said at last. ‘Mum told me to ring and tell you never to write again.’

  ‘It’s you I care about. I’ve never stopped thinking about you,’ I said. ‘I just have to know you’re alright.’

  Kat was quiet on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Are you there?’ I asked. ‘So you’re still living with Mum, are you?’

  ‘Mum, yeah,’ she said. ‘Mum and Dad.’

  I almost dropped the phone in shock, and my heart pounded in my ears.

  ‘What do you mean–he’s there?’ I asked, thinking I’d misunderstood somehow. ‘Mum said he went to Spain. Everyone said he went to Spain.’

  ‘He never went,’ she said.

  For the next three hours we stayed on the phone talking. She told me that after I had left, Dad gave up the flat immediately, and moved in with her and Mum. Mum and Dad were back together and lived as man and wife. Kat said my name was never mentioned in the house, and neither was the divorce. It was as if it had never happened.

  I was mortified to realise that in the fifteen years since I escaped, Dad had been there all the time. It was the final confirmation that Mum had a massive screw loose. How on earth could she stay with a man like that? I had long understood and accepted that she had never cared about me, but how could she put Kat at risk like that?

  Kat insisted that he had never touched her in a sexual way, but told me some hair-raising stories about his violence. There were other disturbing echoes of my experience too. He routinely spat in her food, and if she ever went out she had to account for every minute she was gone. He would even inspect her till receipts to check the times tallied. Also, Mum and Dad would meet her at lunchtimes, just as they used to do with me. It sounded as though he controlled her every movement and she told me she was desperate to get away.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘You don’t have to put up with it any more.’ I told her about the way I finally managed to escape and helped her to make her plans.

  She was calling from work, where she had very understanding bosses. They arranged a police escort to meet her at Mum and Dad’s flat so she could gather her belongings, and a girl she worked with offered her a place to stay. I wanted her to join me as soon as she could. I wanted to look into her eyes, and ask her again if he’d ever touched her because I knew how difficult it was to discuss such things and I suspected she wasn’t telling the truth.

  When we spoke later that night, she was in the safety of her friend’s flat and elated to be free from fear and violence. ‘Thank God you got in touch, Lisa. There’s no way I would have been able to get out on my own.’

  We arranged that she would come up to see me the following weekend and I hung up the phone with my customary mix of emotions: pleased that Kat was free, but heartsick I hadn’t contacted her earlier. As usual, Neil reassured me that I could only do my best at any one time.

  Kat said she would ring to let me know which train she was catching so we could pick her up from the station, but instead she called to cancel the trip. Things had changed. After she had left with the police, Mum and Dad had a blazing row. Mum walked out and set off to Diane’s house, the sanctuary she had denied me all those years ago when I was bruised and bleeding. At last she was free, and Kat said she was going to stay with her now. So I didn’t get my little sister back, but at least she was out of danger. That was the main thing.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Thirty years too late, Mum had finally left Dad. It was easy in the end–she just upped and went. Kat told me they were both going to stay at Diane’s for a while, and then they would get a flat together. I knew at that moment that Mum would never let me develop a relationship with Kat. She would be lost to me forever, just like my other sisters and my brother.

  The irony was that by writing the letter, I had reunited Mum with her family. Apparently everyone was overjoyed to have her back in the fold. Very quickly Kat stopped returning my calls. I spoke to Mum a couple of times, even sending presents for her new flat. I was pleased she had finally left Dad. No matter how badly she had hurt and betrayed me in the past, I wanted her to be happy.

  However, writing the letter had a disastrous effect on me. I became depressed and unable to sleep properly. I’d look at my young daughters and think about Dad and the vile things he did to me at the same age. It was becoming clear that I had to do something. It had got to the stage where I couldn’t bury the past any more. Motherhood and contact with people from my childhood had brought it all back.

  I decided to report my abuse to the police. I looked at my own innocent children and realised that Dad could hurt anyone. He could infiltrate another unsuspecting family and target another child, just as he had done with me. Guilt was back, but this time I didn’t feel guilty about what had happened to me–that was old thinking; now I felt guilty that I had let him get away with it. For the first time ever, I realised that I had a duty to report him. Too many people kept silent about their abuse, thinking that because they had ‘survived’, it was over. I knew from my own experience that an abuser could go on to abuse other children and I had to make sure that didn’t happen.

  I made a statement to the police, detailing everything that had happened, and in liaison with the Crown Prosecution Service, they decided that Mum had a case to answer too. It was never my intention to report her, but in recounting events it became clear that she had acted in a highly negligent way.

  One early morning in August 2005, both Mum and Dad were arrested and taken to separate police stations for questioning. When I spoke to the detective later that day, I noticed a change in her tone. Earlier she had been completely sympathetic and supportive, but now she said that Mum’s and Dad’s stories were completely different from mine. They claimed there had been no abuse. Dad had admitted he had a sexual relationship with me when I was sixteen but he insisted I was a fully consenting adult and even said he had tried his best to push me away. Mum had told the same story.

  ‘But they’re lying. Who on earth would consent to sex with their dad?’ I cried. ‘And don’t forget they’ve had years to come up with the same story. They were worried I was going to report them back when I first left.’

  ‘But he’s not your blood father, is he?’ said the probationary detective constable who had been assigned to my case.

  I felt as if my whole world was crashing down. This was madness. Dad was claiming I had willingly entered into a relationship with him a few days after my sixteenth birthday. It seemed that the only person who could back me up was Mum, and apparently she was outraged at her arrest and desperately telling defensive lies in order to wriggle out of the charges of neglect. It became clear that in order to save herself she was proving to be Dad’s biggest asset. As long as she stuck to the story that I had fallen dramatically in love wi
th Dad a couple of days after my sixteenth birthday she would be alright, and so would he. The only way the police had a chance of proceeding against Mum would be if Dad admitted everything, and there was no way he was going to do that. Mum had done wrong–there was no doubt in my mind–but the person I really wanted to bring to justice was Dad.

  I gave the police every detail I could think of, including the names of people who could confirm my stories of missing school and violent attacks in public. But a few weeks later I received the phone call I had been dreading. The CPS had decided there was insufficient evidence to proceed against Dad. I was devastated.

  I tried to move on for the sake of my young family, but I couldn’t let such a massive injustice rest. Not after what Dad had done. Now that I was older and a mother, I began to worry he could infiltrate another family and do the same to someone else. I couldn’t let that happen.

  I insisted on speaking to a senior officer and he assured me they had no intention of letting the matter drop. They would continue their investigations in the hope of gathering enough evidence to re-submit the case to the CPS for further consideration.

  I replaced the telephone receiver with shaking hands and braced myself to walk downstairs where I could hear my children playing, thankfully oblivious to the turmoil I was feeling inside. I couldn’t understand why this wasn’t being treated as an open and shut case, especially as Dad had made a partial admission. It should be obvious to any right-minded person that no child ever wants to enter into a sexual relationship with a parent of their own free will. Surely they could see that there must have been a substantial period of prior abuse and grooming? All I could do now was wait and see what would happen but by this stage my faith in the justice system was starting to crack.

  In desperation I trawled the Internet in the hope of finding some help and support. I quickly came across The Phoenix Chief Advocates, a group who act on behalf of victims of child sexual abuse. I sent an email outlining my situation and asked if they could help. Shortly after, I received a telephone call from Shy Keenan, the founder of Phoenix and an award-winning children’s champion and campaigner. We spoke for nearly two hours, during which time I was enveloped in what felt like Shy’s protective Phoenix wings. I sobbed as I explained what had happened so far with the police investigation. She was outraged at the way I had been treated by the police, and immediately phoned the detective I’d been dealing with to tell him so. I no longer felt so frightened and alone. Not now I had Shy and Phoenix on my side. In contrast to how I felt earlier that morning after speaking to the police, I replaced the phone having said goodbye to Shy, feeling strong and inspired to fight for what I knew was right.

  Shy and I kept in regular contact as I waited to hear back from the detective. I knew that she was highly regarded by both the police and the media for her campaigning work, and I hoped the fact that she was behind me would make all the difference. But, ever professional, she was at pains to point out there was no magic wand. We were very much dependent on the officer in charge of the case to do his job properly, and gather all available evidence before the case stood a chance of proceeding.

  This turned out to be painfully true when a few weeks later I received a letter from the police informing me they had taken the investigation as far as they could. With Mum and the rest of the family refusing to offer valuable corroborative evidence, they felt the case was no longer viable. I was distraught as I stared at the letter and was very upset to be told in such a cold manner. It was as if I was being told that what Dad had done to me didn’t matter. Sickening memories of his abuse and violence played in my head and I imagined his arrogant smile when the police told him they were dropping the case. It was then I started to feel a burning sense of injustice.

  I re-read the letter and it became clear the police hadn’t bothered to investigate my case properly. Leads hadn’t been followed up. No attempts had been made to trace important witnesses, and according to Shy, strict procedures laid down by the Metropolitan Police themselves were not adhered to. I had very good grounds to register a complaint and ask for the case to be reinvestigated by another team.

  I wrote lengthy letters outlining my case to the head of the Child Abuse Investigation Unit and the Sector Director of the Crown Prosecution Service. I mentioned I had the full support of Shy Keenan at Phoenix, and the end result was that I received a very quick apology, and a high-ranking specialist officer was assigned to review my case formally. However, it took a further two years and many more letters before finally they were able to gather the evidence needed by the Crown Prosecution Service to press charges against Dad. Apparently it is quite usual for historical abuse cases to take this long due to the sheer length of time that has passed since the crimes were committed, and the fact that important witnesses may have moved to another area and be nigh on impossible to find. Shy remained a tower of strength throughout what was a very draining process, and without her bolstering support I’m sure I might have given up like so many other people do.

  Finally, in the autumn of 2007 Dad was charged with four sample counts of indecent assault. The officer who had fought so hard over the past two years was over the moon when she told me.

  ‘It’s what we’ve been fighting for, Lisa,’ she smiled.

  ‘How long before it goes to court?’ I asked, elated at the news.

  ‘It’ll take about a year,’ she said. ‘Hopefully I can talk to your family again and see if any of them are willing to come forward to back you up about how violent he was.’

  A few weeks later I called and asked if there was any news. I didn’t expect Mum to come forward because that would implicate her for charges of neglect, but surely Jenny, Diane, Cheryl and Davie wouldn’t let me down?

  ‘Sorry, Lisa,’ my officer said. ‘They don’t want to say anything that might get your Mum in trouble.’

  I was distraught. What chance did I have if my own family couldn’t be bothered to come forward and confirm the simplest fact, like Dad’s violence. If only Cheryl would speak about what nearly happened to her, it would make such a difference.

  ‘Maybe I can talk to them,’ I suggested.

  ‘You’re not allowed to approach them. Otherwise you could be accused by the other side of coercing witnesses.’

  So there it was. Although my testimony was rock solid, I had little in the way of support. Mum had refused to give evidence for either Dad or me, frightened that the prosecution would rip her to shreds. And not one member of my family was prepared to stand up and tell the court how violent or lecherous Dad was.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I complained to Neil later. ‘All I want is for them to tell the truth–nothing more, nothing less. I don’t know how they can live with themselves.’

  ‘Think about it, Lisa,’ he said. ‘If they told the truth, it could land your Mum in trouble. They’re petrified they’ll lose her again.’

  I knew Neil was right. Diane, Cheryl, Davie and Jenny couldn’t face the truth. Kat was too young to remember much, but even if she did, I knew that her first loyalty would be to Mum, not some sister she hadn’t seen for nearly two decades. The only people I could rely on were Bridget from the tanning salon and Karen, my old school friend, who the police had managed to trace after much searching. I hoped that both of them would be able to remember the events I mentioned in my statement but I had no way of knowing because we weren’t allowed any contact before the trial. So much time had passed since it all happened, I could only hope that Karen would remember how I was kept off school, unable to take any exams, and never allowed out to play. Bridget had seen my cut and bruised legs the night she offered me a place to stay, and I was pretty sure she would testify given her own past history.

  Their testimonies were small components of my whole case, but very important nevertheless. The crucial thing was going to be how well I came across in the witness box. I had to be very clear and certain in giving my evidence. Dad’s defence barrister specialised in defending all manner of sexual assault cases
. He was nicknamed ‘the Rottweiler’ and, as I was to find out, he employed a particularly aggressive cross-examination technique.

  The months leading up to the case passed slowly, and then time went into free fall. I tried to concentrate on normal family life, and used my old survival technique of placing things I found particularly stressful in a separate box in my mind.

  Finally the day of the court case arrived. The defence had tried numerous times to get the whole case thrown out, using legal technicalities and points of law which left me reeling in confusion and fear. There were so many pre-trial hearings that I spent the final run-up to the trial on perpetual tenterhooks, waiting for my police officer to ring with news. In fact, the case was a day late in starting, because right up to the last minute the Rottweiler was arguing against it, but the judge was having none of it.

  I was to be the first witness. Before I went in, my barrister introduced himself briefly and told me to speak the truth clearly. He was a middle-aged man with sparkling blue eyes and, according to my officer, was highly regarded. I was taken aback by the brevity of our meeting, though, because I expected we would talk through strategies.

  ‘You’ve been watching too much TV,’ my police officer laughed, trying to relieve the tension. ‘It’s only the defence barristers who get to talk to their clients like that.’

  I imagined the Rottweiler ensconced with Dad, priming him on what to say and how to say it. It all seemed so unfair. Even my officer wasn’t allowed to stay to settle me in the witness suite, or contact me throughout the trial, or she might have compromised her own evidence. I was left alone.

  I waited all day until finally I was called into court. I’ll never forget the fear that gripped me, making me want to throw up. I walked into a small modern courtroom, with Formica benches that looked as though they were straight off the set of Crossroads, the old 1970s soap opera that was notorious for its wonky walls. Every pair of eyes in the courtroom turned towards me. Including Dad’s.