Tortured: Abused and neglected by Britain’s most sadistic mum. This is my story of survival.

by Victoria Spry

  I wanted to do what I thought was right.

  Ant was worried for me. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked me. He knew as well as I did that you can’t just pluck self-esteem out of the air. Could I really be confident enough to stand up and speak out for myself – and not suffer any consequences?

  What was driving me on was my desire not to lose everything I’d built up, not to lose the home we’d built together. I was happy – and I wanted desperately to stay that way. ‘Not really, love,’ I told him, with brutal honesty. ‘But if I don’t take the leap, I’ll never know.’

  I went to a media agency, who arranged an interview with the Sun. After that, I gave interviews to magazines. I went on This Morning. What was hard was that often, just at the last minute, I’d be told I couldn’t mention the petition, due to ‘legal reasons’. My whole reason for telling my story was to bring the petition to people’s attention, so that was very frustrating. Most of all, I didn’t want to look like a victim. The media concentrated on the horror of what I’d been through, when the message I really wanted to communicate was: ‘I’m fighting back now. Help me to help myself by signing my petition.’

  Happily, bit by bit, people did sign. Within the first day we had over 1,000 signatures. I was overwhelmed by the support, especially from my friends in the online dog community, who shared the link to the petition on their social-media pages, over and over and over again. They took the campaign to their hearts and that initial number of signatures ballooned – until we’d gone way past 10,000 names, which was the magic number I’d been told I would need to hit. I found it incredible, everyone pulling together: so many human beings working to counteract one evil one.

  There was space for people to leave comments next to their signatures, and I took a lot of strength from the overwhelming kindness of strangers in their messages of support. The amount of times I cried and wanted to hug people at the other end of the Internet … And the more signatures I got, the more confidence it gave me.

  My going to the media didn’t go down well with the powers-that-be. I’d crossed the line as far as they were concerned, by not allowing my protests to be heard through the ‘proper channels’. Never mind the fact that when I’d asked to have a voice at my mum’s rehoming meetings, I was told they didn’t mix the two sides, and that I’d only ever gone to the media in the first place because I wanted to feel safe. I felt officials tried to patronise me. ‘You’re a vulnerable adult, you shouldn’t be putting yourself out to the papers,’ they told me. When I criticised the lack of communication between government departments, and called their efforts ‘wishy-washy’ several times, my unvarying vocabulary was commented upon. ‘You like that word, “wishy-washy”, don’t you?’ one of the team sneered. And when I mentioned that I’d written about my campaign to my local MP, seeking help from anyone I could think of, I was told I was a ‘bit of a name-dropper’. But I didn’t let that bother me. I kept my head held high, I fought back – and I won.

  For, after I went to the media, I finally managed to secure a meeting with the MAPPA officials. MAPPA stands for Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements. It brings together the police, the prison service and the probation service, and has responsibility for serious offenders. At long last, I got to speak to the people who would be rehoming Mum. It was what I had wanted more than anything – because, before this victory, I had just been a name on a piece of paper to them; I’d been so conscious of that. Now, they would have to talk to me face to face.

  To begin with, they tried to placate me. ‘Miss Spry, you’ve got to realise we didn’t know what was happening with your mother back then. We didn’t know what she was like. We do now.’

  ‘But if that’s true,’ I argued, ‘why on earth are you trying to put her down the road from me, if you know what she’s like? This isn’t just a random stab in the street. She did this over years, over decades. She manipulated everyone. To my mind, she’s now doing it all over again.

  ‘People tell me,’ I continued, ‘that this is the worst case they’ve ever come across. If I was in your shoes – if I was doing your jobs – I would do everything in my power to help the children she hurt go to bed at night, safe. That’s what I’d do.’

  They went quiet at that, because there was nothing more they could say.

  I won several battles in that meeting, including the right to a panic alarm in my home – where before I’d been told I was foolish for even wanting one. And I won the right to write a letter to my mother’s probation officer, which the MAPPA people promised me they would read out in their next multi-agency meeting.

  That was an emotional letter to write. I had to beg them, from the bottom of my heart, not to rehome her in the county next door. I said, ‘I’ve just built my life up, after this woman trashed it. Trashed it from almost the moment I was born. And I am fighting now not only for my life – because I want to settle down, I want to have children. So I am fighting not just for me, but for my future babies. Because I want them to grow up free from harm. I don’t want to feel like I’m on the run with them, that I’m always looking over my shoulder. I just want to feel safe.’ I sent the letter with a summary of the serious case review of my case, which had been conducted by the Gloucestershire Safeguarding Children Board after the trial and listed, in bullet point after bullet point, how my mum had got away with her abuse for decades: by manipulating and intimidating the authorities. Please don’t let her do it again, I thought, as I sealed the envelope and sent it off.

  They told me later that, when the letter was read out, the whole room was in tears. By that stage, so was I: tears of joy. Whether through the petition, or the MAPPA meetings, or my going to the media – and in so doing making Worcestershire an unsafe place for my mother to be – I achieved my mission: impossible. I was told she wouldn’t be moved to the county right next door, and she was still banned from Gloucestershire.

  I was so proud of myself. And I thought, You’ve done this, Torrie – and you’ve fought her by yourself. No one can take that away from you. You’ve done that. You. And I felt genuine pride in myself for going to the police in the first place, all those years ago, for perhaps the first time ever. I felt pride that I’d put her away, and I felt pride that I’d finished the job properly, now, in making sure she couldn’t harm me again.

  It was so strange, when July came round: knowing she would be coming out. What was frustrating was that they wouldn’t tell me exactly when it was happening. Every day, for thirty-one days, I wondered: Is this the day? Is this the day she can walk down the street, ponytail bouncing, flick-flicking its tail on the end?

  I have wondered what I would do if I saw her again. Her liaison officers talk to me about her safety, but I don’t think I’d hurt her, if our paths did cross; I’d be too worried she’d hurt me first. I’ve told Ant that if ever I saw her again, I’d have to walk away with my fingers in my ears because I know, with her snake’s tongue, that she could whisper poison that would eat me up. I’ve heard enough of her words to last me a lifetime.

  I think she wanted to return to Worcestershire because I think that’s where my nan lives now. I think, I don’t know; because anything I hear about that family comes on a Chinese-whispers grapevine. Several years ago, I heard that my old dog Jet had died. Poor, loving Jet: Nan had taken him after my mum was jailed. There was a bit of me that had always hoped we would one day be reunited, so I could thank him for all he did. Now, we never will be, but I hope he knows how very much I loved him.

  I’ve heard rumours on that same grapevine that my nan has dementia, these days, and that makes me sad. I would love to see her again, to see those twinkling eyes that were the bright spots of my childhood, but I would never go to visit her. Because I know that, if she was of sound mind, she probably wouldn’t want to see me, and I respect that.

  I also heard that Uncle Phil died, a couple of years ago now. The way I heard it, from a neighbour, he passed away in his mother’s home, and Nan was so far gone with dementia that he
lay dead on the sofa for three days without her noticing. He’ll never face justice for what he did to me now. But, having lived the hell of an alcoholic’s life myself, I like to think that maybe, just maybe, he suffered in his own way before he died. I take strength from the fact that I proved myself stronger than him, in the end: far, far stronger. I dragged myself out of my pit; he died enmeshed in his.

  I have my campaign to thank for a lot of my strength today. Through it, I turned what could have been one of the worst years of my life into one of the best. Because I’m now talking to social services, and sharing my story to try to help other children, to improve officials’ understanding of the psychology of abused kids. I’ve sat down with the head of my local social services, Duncan, and gone through the serious case review of my case, highlighting to him what I believe still needs changing; where lessons can still be learned. It’s such a good feeling, to think that my past isn’t a wasted childhood, and that I can use it to help others. For I can remember so clearly sitting in my wheelchair in Mum’s kitchen, year after year, thinking, Why don’t they want to save me? Where is everybody? Why does no one want to help? And Mum using it to her advantage: ‘Nobody loves you, Victoria. They don’t care.’

  I don’t want that ever to happen to another child.

  I’m trying to show people, through my case, how they can help kids like me. Some social workers think they can go into a room and ask a child once if they’re being abused. The child, with terrifying threats hanging over their head, will say no; and the social worker may think, Great, no problem there. Over and over I’m told there isn’t time to talk to kids, but that is the central problem in getting children to open up, and ask for the help they desperately need.

  It’s about trust: building trust. Having a key worker who gets to know a child, and builds a relationship with them. Trust is what makes the difference. Trust is what saved my life. Trust gives a child a choice.

  For there will always be Eunices in this world. There’s not a fairy on this planet – much as I’d like to believe there is – who could wave a magic wand and rid the world of every child abuser. But with better training, training that I now hope to be a part of in the future, we can close the net on them. We can encourage agencies to talk to each other, challenge each other; to fit the puzzle pieces together and realise what’s really going on.

  None of this potential would have happened if I hadn’t hit rock bottom, through my drinking. But because I lost everything, I learned to fight against the odds. I’m grateful, in a weird way, to have lost it all, because a new me rose from the ashes of that forest fire that burned so wildly in my brain: a new-born phoenix, a brand-new start.

  The best thing of all, though, is that the new me … is just me. It’s Victoria, a little girl who was tortured as a child, but lived to tell the tale. And so, if you saw me in a coffee shop today, I’d be the blonde girl sitting in the corner, taking comfort from the walls that have my back; a hoodie jumper raised above my hair, its thin cotton protection still a comfort blanket I can’t quite give up. I’m the girl who says to my fiancé in the supermarket, when we’re in the washing-up-liquid aisle, ‘Don’t get the lemon flavour!’, the girl who is always saying ‘sorry’ out of habit. I’m the woman who, this September, didn’t visit her sisters’ graves for the first time, to lay yellow freesias on Judith’s plaque. As time has gone on, I’m not sure she deserves them.

  Ant and I take Noah and Berry out for a good long walk every day, the wind whipping through our hair as we throw balls for them to chase. Berry comes racing back and drops her gift at my feet, her tail wagging and her big brown eyes looking up at me with such love. My dogs were the first people ever to accept me for who I am. They made me think: If they love me, why shouldn’t I love myself? Thanks to them, I have now accepted me for me. I used to want to fit in with people, with society, and so I tried desperately to do anything I could to make that happen. But, increasingly, I’m now proud to be someone who stands out.

  I even have hopes for the future. The future … There once was a time when I couldn’t even imagine one for myself. Now, I hope that Ant and I will be able to start a family together. I worry that I won’t be able to – after all, I did have a 24-tonne truck drive into my pelvis – but that’s what I want, more than anything. And if I’m lucky enough to have it happen, I will love my children for who they are, from top to toe, every single hair on their heads.

  I don’t want a perfect life. Someone said to me the other day that they were a bit of a perfectionist; I’m anything but: because we’re not perfect. We don’t live in a perfect world. There are bumps along the road and you’ve got to accept that and just do your best.

  This book is the story of my bumpy road so far. I’m going to put this book on the shelf now, a cardboard cover keeping its secrets safe, and I’m going to walk away. And I’ll keep on walking down my road, into my future. I know some days will be rainy and others bathed in glorious sunlight. Yet every single day, come rain or shine, will be mine. Mine to spend how I wish.

  So, I want you to close your eyes and imagine. Imagine me walking my dogs, Berry’s brown tail going nineteen to the dozen. Imagine Ant and me cooking up a supper together in our bright, clean kitchen. Imagine me with a camera to my face, taking a snapshot of my family.

  Welcome to my world.

  THANK YOU FOR READING …

  My story. I would like to ask something of you all. If you feel angry or upset at the way my mother treated me, or the way the authorities dealt with my case, then please, please channel that emotion into helping other children.

  Because it’s too late for me now: tears and vitriol can’t turn back time and change what’s happened; it’s just life. I don’t feel sorry for myself; what I feel is that I want my story to make a difference. Please, let’s all use the power of our feelings by channelling them in a positive, proactive way.

  So, if you’re reading this, and it’s sparked a thought in you about a child you know; if you’re sitting there worrying that something isn’t quite right in a family in your life, then please take action. Don’t leave it for someone else to make that call. Because that’s what happened in my case: everybody thought it was somebody else’s responsibility. But we’re all responsible for each other. Please make that call.

  If you’re worried about a child, you can phone the NSPCC helpline on 0808 800 5000, text on 88858 or email help@nspcc.org.uk. They’re open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. If you wish, you can remain anonymous, and you don’t have to wait until you’re certain there’s a problem before calling. If the hairs are standing up on the back of your neck and your instincts are telling you something is wrong – then please, make that call.

  Thank you.

  Me with Noah and Berry on my twenty-ninth birthday, January 2015.

  The dog who taught me how to love: me with my beautiful boy Ollie.

  Berry as a puppy. She chose me.

  They will always have a place in my heart. From left to right: Milly, Alfie, Ollie.

  With my family, Berry and Noah, on a walk.

  © Victoria Spry

  Welcome to my world: with Berry and Noah, and with Ant (here).

  © Victoria Spry

  © Victoria Spry

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To Alloma, Christopher and Adam: I love you. Thank you for being you. As with roots to a tree, our roots will never change, even if our branches grow in different directions. We were very different people growing up, with very different characters, but sadly the road we walked together will always remain the same. You all inspire me in your own different ways. Alloma, you are so artistic and intelligent; Christopher, you have such a generous soul; and Adam, you are such an honest soul. Adam, you will always be my little man, and I will always be your little mummy. You will always have a place in my heart.

  Alloma, Christopher, Adam: we may not have the same blood running through our veins, but my loyalty to you all and my memories of you mean you will be forever in my heart
and part of my family. When we look at each other, we don’t need to utter a word: we know the pain, but also the strength each one of us possesses, because we’ve been there together. Please know that I will never abandon you as people did with us. If you ever need me, you know where I am. I will never turn you away. I will always love you, understand you, defend you, care for you and ultimately be here for you, no matter what life throws at us. Be happy, be free. You can achieve anything in life you want to. I wish you all the happiness and love that you all so rightly deserve xxx

  To my dear nanny Katie and granddad John. Nanny, my only true and sincere happy memories of my childhood are those that you made for me. You stood up for me when I was a child, which many were too scared to do. I know you were under Eunice’s hypnotic spell, but at least I have some special memories with you as a little girl. I will always love you and Granddad. Thank you for my cuddles as a little one.

  To my beautiful and precious fur-babies, Berry and Noah. Berry, you are probably the first soul on this planet who has loved me for just being me. As a puppy you chose me and refused to leave my side. Later on, you saved my life; you gave me a reason to fight. You showed me all that was beautiful in the world and pulled me out of a very deep and dangerous depression. Thank you, my little Bambi. I saw you born and your little paws grew into bigger paws that walked across my heart and beside me through life’s journey. Noah, my beautiful, funny, gentle boy, you’re Berry’s buddy, Mummy’s little man: thank you for making us complete. I love you both more than I can ever describe.