I Own You

by Dawn McConnell

  It confused me that Stuart didn’t pay anything towards our household expenses from his own business ventures; after all, he made his own money through buying and selling antiques, jewellery, art, property and cars. But it seemed all his money went to Guernsey. This, his business empire, paid him a monthly ‘dividend’. But he said it was only enough to cover his own expenses. It wasn’t enough to pay our household bills: that was up to me. And, I suppose, this didn’t bother me at first because I was so driven to succeed.

  Certainly, it felt important to prove to everyone that I wasn’t the miserable failure that I had appeared to be three years before when I had returned to my parents’ house, a broke, single, teenage mum without one O level to my name. More importantly, I felt I had to prove to my mother that I had turned my life around, that I had made the ‘right’ choices after all. So, once the pub was up and running, I took driving lessons and, after passing my test, I bought my first-ever car. It was a very battered, 1960s Ferrari. It was so old and knackered it was the price of a clapped-out Ford, but to me it said something to the world, something important about where I was going in life.

  With the car keys in my hand, I was ready to stage my comeback. And so, when Callum was three years old, I drove him round to The Drayton Arms in my new car. This time I would make the effort and sit in their company and introduce them to Callum. The last three years with them had been tense, and I could count on one hand the times we had seen each other.

  ‘Oh hell, what do you want?’ Mum exclaimed when she saw me. ‘Do you want me to look after Callum? Is that why you’re here?’

  I had to smile. She never changed.

  ‘No, Mum,’ I replied. ‘I’ve just come to see you. I’m doing fine, everything’s fine. I just thought it would be nice for Callum to get to know his grandparents a bit.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’re pretty busy right now so maybe you can go through to the kitchen to help out there and I’ll catch up with you when I get a minute.’

  I wandered through to the kitchen where I found Dad perched on a stool, peeling potatoes. He was fatter than ever but it was still lovely to see him after all this time. He seemed much happier to see us than Mum and we spent a long time catching up on what I’d been up to. He’d heard that I was now running The Old Bell and he said, with no small amount of pride in his voice: ‘Aye, it’s getting a good reputation, that place. I’ll have to swing by some time, see what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Yeah, that would be really nice, Dad,’ I said with a shy smile.

  ‘Ah, I always knew you’d be alright,’ he said. ‘You’re a chip off the old block. There’s warrior blood in yous, Dawn. Aye . . . I never really worried about you, ken?’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’ I grinned at him. Then he heaved himself off his stool and lumbered over to the cupboard, where he got out a chocolate bar for Callum.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said with a smile for my little boy. ‘Does ma grandson want a special treat from his grandpa then?’

  From then on, I was back in touch with my parents and I was grateful to find that, although Dad was now suffering quite badly with his health due to years of over-indulgence, he was more than happy to take Callum on days out to the park or the zoo. It meant a lot to me that my son had a good relationship with his grandpa. Dad walked slowly but that suited Callum’s little legs and Dad loved to spoil him, buying him treats like ice cream and fish and chips. Dad even started to come to The Old Bell regularly for his lunch, which was really nice. Although I was often very busy myself, I liked to have him there and it made me feel like he was proud of me and what I had achieved.

  In fact, I was growing up every day and learning how to deal with customers and difficult situations better. Now twenty years old, I had experience under my belt and my confidence was growing by the day.

  I often needed it. One quiet Monday night in January, I was behind the bar polishing the glasses when a man wearing a raincoat came in and ordered a pint. He took it and sat down in the corner booth opposite me. Now, the raincoat wasn’t unusual, and neither were the wellies, but, if I wasn’t mistaken, didn’t he have bare legs? Strange attire for January, I thought.

  Then he stood up, opened his coat and, to my horror, I saw he was completely naked underneath and sporting a rather large erection. Then he started masturbating in front of me. Oh hell, I thought. What do I do now? What is he going to do with that? I didn’t want to be raped. Fuck! Okay, deep breath . . . Deal with it, Dawn! This is your bar and you are in charge here.

  So, summoning up all my courage, I walked over to the gentleman, took his pint, walked to the sink and poured it away. Then I turned back to him.

  ‘I suggest you leave now,’ I said coldly. ‘The police are on their way.’

  To my utter astonishment, it worked. Hurriedly, he tied his mac up at the front and left. He didn’t even challenge me. At The Old Bell, I was certainly the woman in charge and everyone knew it.

  At home, though, it was a different story. There, Stuart was the boss and I had to do what he said. This was the choice I made every day because I thought it was easier on me and my son. I didn’t love him, I knew that. Stuart controlled every aspect of my life. I had no bank account, and if I did I would have to explain why I needed one. I was never allowed to open my own mail, he opened everything. Every daily event was timed and every minute away from him had to be properly accounted for or he would punish me. Car keys would be taken first, followed by the house keys and my purse, so I couldn’t make a quick exit. He would be very careful not to show any signs of violence that would be noticeable to anyone but liked simple tortures like coming up behind me when I was making a cup of tea and twisting my arm around my back for minutes on end until I begged for him to stop. He also liked to pour boiling water on my hand just as a reminder that he was in charge or to yank my hair in a tight knot and hold my head in place whilst he kept pulling until my scalp bled at the roots. This would happen if I was late home or refused to answer his calls, but most of the time it was for no reason at all, just to keep me in check.

  There was no time to visit friends, no time for anything apart from work and home. Every waking minute was controlled by Stuart. So when he told me to stop wearing skirts and dresses because I was fat and had tree-trunk legs, I stopped wearing skirts and dresses. He said make-up made me look like a drag queen so that was out too. When he told me to take him and his friends out for the night, driving them round from pub to pub, that’s what I did; and when he called the pub five times a day to check up on me, I was expected to answer or I knew there would be trouble. I was completely under his control. Stuart liked to know where I was at all times so it suited him well that I worked at The Old Bell from first thing in the morning till last thing at night.

  And God forbid I should be somewhere else! Then his temper would flare up and he’d scream down the phone at me or leave threatening messages on the answerphone: ‘If you don’t pick up the fucking phone in the next thirty seconds I’ll come over there and fucking kill you, you silly bitch!’

  I was a twenty-year-old woman and he was afraid I would go off with someone else. He had often commented that I needn’t think about leaving him for someone younger, since men were all the same in bed. The truth was I didn’t know any different, so I assumed that this was normal. Looking back, I can see that my life with Stuart was very far from normal, that a partner isn’t meant to control every aspect of your life – choose your clothes, keep money from you, stop you going out – but I was so young and naive, I accepted it. And this kind of behaviour is insidious, destroying your self-esteem, making you feel powerless, and brainwashing you until you simply cannot see any other way to be.

  Today the bullying, threats and intimidation would be interpreted by the law as coercive control, which carries a prison sentence. Because we understand so much more about domestic abuse now, we know it’s not just about one or two incidents, but about a pattern of abusive behaviour that can trap someone in a prison created for them by their
own partner.

  And his threats were so scary, I always did as I was told. He owned everything in my life and he could take it away in a second. The fact was, we had a child together and I thought I had to make it work for the sake of our little boy. Yes, there were many times I thought of leaving Stuart but then, to my mind, what sort of a mother would I be if I took Callum away from his father? Though Stuart hurt me, he never hit Callum. Also, there was the unavoidable fact that Stuart and his cousin owned my pub. And, oh yes, he liked to rub that in my face.

  Frequently, he would stand at the bar, getting steadily drunker throughout the afternoon, reminding me that I was just a worker, that he was the real brains behind our success and so I had better show him the respect he deserved.

  ‘I could take all this away tomorrow if I wanted to,’ he’d slur. ‘I’m the fucking owner. You’re only the licensee. Remember that. I could easily replace you, close the doors, change the locks and that would be you – out!’

  ‘Shhh . . .’ I’d try to placate him, afraid of what others thought. ‘Please don’t shout.’

  ‘Well, don’t make me angry then!’ he’d shoot back. The fact was, Stuart loved to make a scene and embarrass me in front of people, whether it was, on the street or in a posh restaurant. He knew I was too afraid of what people thought to challenge him in public – just another way he liked to control and dominate me.

  ‘I own this fucking pub and I own you, Dawn McConnell. Don’t fucking forget it!’

  Almost without me noticing, years passed. The work at the pub got harder as we got busier and the council regulations for bars and restaurants were changing all the time, which I had to keep on top of. Though I hated to, I seemed to spend more and more time there and less and less time at home. Though at first I had enjoyed making my mark on the pub and using my brain and my creativity to build a successful business, I realized with horror that, instead of the life of leisure I’d always imagined for myself, I’d only managed to replicate my mother’s life, the life of a workaholic. I grew to hate the daily drive to the pub and the long, long shifts I was forced to put in.

  The constant work was even taking a toll on my body – I’d been diagnosed with kidney stones and some days I was in almost constant agony. But the physical pain was as nothing to the emotional distress I suffered. For, as the years passed, I noted with sadness that my baby was growing into a little boy and I was missing all this wonderful time together. It wasn’t even as if Stuart spent much time with him either – he was Hannah’s little boy now. When he was sick, it was Hannah he asked for; when he wanted something to eat, he asked Hannah to feed him; and when he cried, it was Hannah’s arms he wanted to comfort him. I felt that he was slipping away from me and there was nothing I could do about it.

  One evening in 1991 our solicitor dropped in an official-looking letter for me at the pub. I was too busy serving during our weekly quiz to look at it, so I slipped it between the orange and lime cordials while I dealt with the customers. Later, as I cleared up at just gone 12.30 a.m., I noticed it sitting there, so I wiped down my hands and opened it.

  For a moment, I couldn’t quite believe what I was reading. Then I pumped the air with my fist and screamed: ‘YES!’

  Stuart, sipping from a bottle of Miller at a bar stool, looked up.

  ‘Whassup?’ he slurred.

  ‘We have an offer in from Scottish and Newcastle Brewers to buy the freehold of the pub,’ I told him excitedly. ‘I’m outta here. Thank God for that!’

  ‘You aren’t seriously considering taking it, are you?’

  Normally, I would never answer Stuart back. I would never question his judgement or challenge his decisions. But on this one occasion, I just couldn’t hold back. This was my call to make, not his.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘I don’t see my son. I work sixteen hours a day and on my one day off a week, I clean the house and do the laundry. I have no life. I don’t go anywhere because you are so jealous and think I’m going to run off with the first person I meet. I’m stuck here all the time and I hate it. I hate this damned pub.’

  Stuart just sat there, staring at me, as I carried on, ranting, years of frustration finally bubbling to the surface.

  ‘On top of the regulations becoming impossible, I have a son who is now five years old. Someone else has the privilege of looking after him at my cost. Don’t you think I would rather be looking after him while the nanny works in the pub? I’m twenty-two and I want to see my son grow up before it’s too late. So yes, I’m the licensee and I’m selling.’

  The thought of having free time to see Callum gave me the strength to stand up to Stuart. I couldn’t stop the words coming out, and it was only later I realized what I had done. I had stood up to him for the first time.

  He just looked at me, took a sip of his beer and then hurled it against the wall. Then he got up and left.

  I sold the pub that year for a little over £700,000. Stuart and Adam took the agreed £200,000 cut from the proceeds for their share, I paid off the remaining £50,000 loan from the bank and with the leftover £450,000 I purchased flats to let. These flats were mine – I owned them and they were in my name. I knew this was important; I knew I had to build up an independent source of income for myself. After all, Stuart had told me so many times that I couldn’t rely on him for money, so I needed my own safety net. Just in case.

  I began spending more and more time visiting my parents, helping out at their hotel. Mum talked a lot about Susy and John when I was there, who were both living in London. I noticed she had pictures of them up on the mantelpiece but there were none of me. It irked me, and if I was honest with myself it hurt me, too, but there was nothing much I could do about it.

  Given where they lived, I rarely, if ever, saw my siblings. And that suited me just fine, especially when it came to John. The fact was, I didn’t think about my brother and what he had done to me anymore. Out of sight, out of mind, that was my attitude: an attitude I had to stick to in order to stay safe; to stay sane. It was all in the past as far as I was concerned and that was where I wanted it to stay. Forever.

  Only things didn’t quite work out that way.

  Chapter 13

  Revelations

  I stood at the kitchen window and poked my tongue out at Callum, who was on the front lawn of the hotel grounds, kicking his football. It was a sweltering day in July 1991 and I’d brought my son over to The Drayton Arms to play while I helped Mum out with the catering for a funeral.

  A smartly dressed little boy from the funeral party stood watching my son from the gravel pathway. I signalled to Callum to invite him to play and, happily, Callum lobbed the ball over to the boy in the waistcoat and tie, who kicked it straight back. Then they were off, the pair of them zigzagging round the lawn.

  He didn’t need much encouragement, I realized with wonder. My son was a very sociable little boy and always looking for new playmates. There was so much I was learning about him, now that we had some time together at last.

  I turned back to the kitchen counter where I was buttering bread for the sandwiches, hopping up onto a bar stool to continue my work. Mum was stood next to me, filling the sandwiches and cutting them into neat triangles before arranging them carefully on large silver platters. Once they were ready, her ancient waitress Phyllis shuttled the trays to and from the dining room.

  The local news on the radio was the only sound in the kitchen as we all worked busily to finish the order, mindlessly listening to the news reporter’s words.

  ‘. . . He was sentenced to fifteen years in jail for the abuse. Summing up, the judge said the defendant had shown no remorse for his abominable actions which had damaged his own daughter for life. The family thanked the police for their cooperation and said that the interest of justice had finally been served.’

  ‘Och, that’s terrible what happened to that lassie,’ Phyllis commented sadly as she waited for Mum to finish off the smoked-salmon platter. ‘Being abused like that all that time. And no
one did anything about it.’

  ‘I know, it’s absolutely shocking,’ Mum agreed, lining up the triangles on the platter. Then she straightened up and put a hand to the small of her back. ‘I mean, how can something like that go on in your own home and you don’t know it?’ she went on. ‘In your own home. Right under your nose!’

  ‘Aye, but they say it’s more common than you think,’ remarked Phyllis, picking up the tray. ‘They say the victims always know their abusers. It’s never a stranger.’

  I sat there on my stool, hot blood pounding in my ears, still buttering bread mechanically. Mum’s words were circling in my head like piranhas, eating me up. ‘How can something like that go on in your own home and you don’t know it.’ How can she say that? I thought numbly. How can Mum say that after what happened to me?

  But then, I thought to myself, had Mum known about it? Maybe that was the whole point, the point she was unwittingly making – for I had been abused for years ‘under her nose’, and she had never made it stop. Was it because she had not known? But no – I had told her that day, I had said ‘John’s hurting me’. Surely she had known what I’d meant?

  I watched as Mum added a sprig of parsley garnish to the smoked-salmon sandwich platter: it was the finishing touch. Phyllis scooped up the tray and tottered out of the kitchen with it in her patent black court shoes. Mum and I were left alone.

  I sat quietly for a moment, slowly spreading the butter up and down a slice of white bread. As though from a great distance, I watched my own hand as it moved backwards and forwards, feeling slightly detached from it, as if it was someone else’s hand. Then I stopped. I took a deep breath. As an adult I’d never broached the subject of my abuse with my mother, but now it had come up, I couldn’t ignore what she’d just said.