by Maureen Wood
Five months on, our relationship became serious. I could see a future with Mick, more so than ever before. Early in 1996, despite us using contraception, I fell pregnant. That December we had a son, Josh. Mick was over the moon, and we doted on him.
‘You must send your mum a picture of our new baby,’ he urged. ‘She has a right to see her grandchild.’
Despite my best efforts to entomb the memories and the flashbacks of the abuse, I suffered with stress and depression and there were days when I really struggled, without knowing why. My relationship with my mum was, at best, fractured and superficial. I hadn’t seen her for over a year at this point, and she didn’t even know I was pregnant. That was just how she was; she would blow hot and cold; nice and nasty; normal and twisted. As always, I was at the mercy of her mood swings.
‘I’m not sure about sending a card,’ I said hesitantly. ‘We don’t get on that well.’
‘Oh come on, it’s just a card, and she might like to see him,’ he insisted. ‘A new baby brings families together.’
Mick’s parents were dead, and he so wanted grandparents for his children. And of course he had no idea about what had happened to me. Nobody did. By now, Mum and John Wood were living at the Masonic Hall and working as caretakers there. They were seen as straitlaced and well-to-do. Nobody would ever have guessed the sordid secrets they shared behind their starched net curtains.
Eventually, just before Josh turned two years old, I sent Mum a card, with a recent photo of the children inside, to keep Mick happy. But I didn’t hear anything back and tried not to dwell on it. Three months on, Mick was in bed one afternoon, after working nights. I was downstairs, ironing, when I saw a shadow outside, reflected in the living-room mirror. Without any doubt I knew it was my mother. I would know and fear that profile anywhere. She knocked on the door and my legs turned to jelly. Much as I put on a front of being detached and unafraid, she knew, and I knew, that I was still absolutely terrified of her.
‘Can I come in?’ she asked politely. ‘I heard you’d had another baby.’
I stood aside without a word. She made a beeline for Josh’s cot and spent several moments fussing over him and admiring him.
‘Say hello to your Nanna, darling,’ she cooed. ‘You’re a beautiful boy, you really are.’
It was an emotional scene. I could almost convince myself – I did convince myself – that she was a loving grandmother.
‘Your dad doesn’t know I’m here,’ she confided. ‘He wouldn’t like it. But I’d like to visit the kids, if that’s OK? I’ve missed them. I really have.’
It was framed as a question but we both knew it wasn’t. I nodded, numbly, because I felt I had no other option. I didn’t ask about the problem with John Wood either; again, that was none of my business. She arranged to return the following day, later in the afternoon, when the older children were home from school. I felt sick all day, waiting for her visit. I didn’t tell the kids she was coming, in case she let them down. But sure enough, there was a tap at the door, and this time she had brought sweets for Ben and Naomi. Ben remembered her from the last visit, the year before, and his face lit up when he saw her.
‘My Nanna!’ he beamed, and it pulled at my heartstrings.
I wanted him to have a grandmother, but at the same time I wanted it not to be her. She spent some time with the children, she gave Josh a bottle, and played with Ben and Naomi. It could for all the world have been a happy family scene. And I reminded myself, that was just what it was. Over the weeks that followed, her visits became quite regular, and she would sometimes bring a toy or a book for the kids. They really looked forward to seeing her. Naomi would stand at the window, her nose pressed against the window, waiting for my mother to come. She loved having a Nanna, just like all her friends. For Ben she was a familiar face, a connection with his early childhood, which he welcomed. I told the children nothing about her, good or bad. I simply told them that she was my mother, that she wanted to visit us, and I let them make their own minds up. And I made sure, of course, they were never left alone with her. And, if I was honest, I liked having an extended family, too. I wanted acceptance and normality. I wanted my children to be spoiled and made a fuss of. But at what cost? Looking back now, I wonder whether my mum was trying, in her own way, to make amends, through her grandchildren. I would like to think that she was sorry. But if she was, she never said so. And it’s more likely that the whole thing was just an act on her part – another inexplicable strand of a deviant mind.
Chapter 11
Mick never liked to stay in the same house for long, and every couple of years he would talk me into moving. I didn’t like it; I hated the packing and the unpacking, the chaos of moving day, the squabble over bedrooms. I had the vague, unpleasant sensation that I was running away. But I didn’t know who from. Our little family flourished, and as our children grew older and their personalities emerged it was a joy to watch. In each of them, but especially in Naomi, I could see a small piece of Christopher. Josh was born with a condition called congenital ptosis, which meant he had no muscle in his left eyelid and it drooped. For the first few years of his life I was back and forth from the doctors, asking them to check his eyes. But I was dismissed at first as a young mum probably over-protective and neurotic, because I had previously lost a child.
‘Really, you’re worrying about nothing,’ they told me. ‘Children tend to grow out of these things.’
But Josh also had problems with his right ear and he seemed to have lots of infections, especially in the winter months. He had surgery on his ear at just eighteen months of age. After that, the operations came thick and fast, mostly on his ear but also one surgery on his eye. In all, Josh would go on to have fourteen surgeries in the first fifteen years of his life. It felt like he had only just recovered from one ordeal when we were building up the next, and I hated to see him suffer.
His entire childhood was dominated by his poor health, but he coped remarkably well. My other children had no health issues at all; it seemed as though poor Josh had got the lot. I wrapped him in cotton wool, and worried so much about him.
Naomi was a girly-girl who loved her Barbie dolls. She was very strong-willed and determined, outspoken and blunt, and reminded me of myself in so many ways. She looked just like me, too. And just like Christopher. As she grew older, I imagined his face merged with hers. It was a both a pleasure and an acute pain to see the resemblance. When Josh was born, Naomi stamped her little feet and shouted:
‘Send him back! I wanted a baby sister!’
It was the start of a simmering but loving rivalry that would last right through their lives. Ben was a sensitive boy, thoughtful and sometimes a bit of a worrier. I would always be grateful to him for giving me a second chance, and I would always feel, too, that I had some making up to do, that no matter what I did it would never be enough.
Every New Year’s Eve, when he’d had a couple of drinks, Mick would propose. It became as much of a tradition as a carol concert. Each year, as we toasted the New Year in front of our Christmas tree, he would wink and say: ‘Are we going to get married this year, or what?’
He was desperate for us to be married. He was a traditional man, and he wanted us to be a proper family. But much as I loved him, and was comfortable with him, I wasn’t so sure. We were happy as we were, and deep down I wasn’t sure marriage would change us for the better.
‘No,’ I told him every year, with a smile. ‘Ask me again in twelve months.’
We had another son in July 1999, and with four children, and a full-time cleaning job, I had my hands full. I was busy, but blissfully happy. As usual, Mick proposed again, on New Year’s Eve 1999, and this time I gave in.
‘Go on,’ I beamed. ‘You’ve waited long enough.’
We’d been together seven years by now. Our wedding was booked for the following September, and we invited my parents and some family members. Jock was n
ot invited. He hadn’t kept in touch for the past few years, and I hadn’t sought him out. I felt a little like I was waiting for bad news all the time, like I was holding my breath, just in case. Mum had kept up her visits to see the children, and by now John Wood was coming along with her too. He seemed to make a big effort with my children, and they reciprocated. They called him Grandad, and they loved him. Much as I hate to think that now, it is true. When they visited, early in the New Year, Mick was bursting to tell them our good news.
‘We’re getting married!’ he announced. ‘She finally caved in!’
Mum seemed thrilled.
‘Let me help with the arrangements,’ she said. ‘Your dad will give you away, of course, Maureen. Have you thought about bridesmaids?’
I shrugged. But I went along with her suggestions. I didn’t oppose or endorse the idea that John Wood would walk me down the aisle. I just went along with it. I knew my place. Mum insisted on being involved with the plans, and when I showed her the cream and burgundy convertible wedding cars we wanted, she offered to pay for one. She helped towards paying for the catering and the wedding cake too.
‘Don’t tell your dad,’ she said quietly. ‘This is our secret.’
Again, I look back and wonder whether she was trying to soothe past wounds. I will never know. Throwing me a few quid towards the sausage rolls was hardly redemptive, but then, what on earth would be a suitable penance for what she had done? No amount of money or effort could ever undo the horrors of my childhood.
‘Remember,’ she said, as she pressed a bundle of cash into my hand. ‘Keep quiet.’
It was typical of her to saddle me with another secret to keep. That March I discovered I was pregnant – again. We had been using contraception, as always, but it just didn’t seem to work.
‘I only have to stand next to you and you’re pregnant,’ Mick announced proudly.
A scan showed I was carrying a little girl, which we were both thrilled about, but the news heralded another difficult pregnancy. For some reason, my body did not carry girls well. I was sick and lacking in energy and seemed to pick up one infection after another. With four little ones to look after, I struggled, and perhaps it was then that the cracks between Mick and me first appeared. That August, just the day before our wedding, the council offered us a new house, with a garden. We’d never had a garden before and it was too exciting an opportunity to let pass. The moving date would have to be the week after our wedding. The timing was terrible.
‘We have to take it,’ I said to Mick. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for.’
I couldn’t wait for the children to have their own garden.
‘You can play football and tennis and we’ll sleep out in a tent in our new garden,’ I promised them. ‘We’ll have barbecues as well. We’ll have the time of our lives.’
Mum arrived dutifully early on the morning of the wedding, to help me get the children ready. Though I battled against it, and I hated to even say it, I loved her and I wanted her there. She was my mother. Satanic, depraved and horribly, terminally sick, but she was still my mother. John Wood gave me away at Knutton Pentecostal Church, Staffordshire, on a bright, sunny September afternoon. There was a moment, outside, when it was just he and I. It was a chance – and it was his chance – to say something. But it passed and there was silence on both sides. He linked his arm in mine, and I concentrated hard on my wedding day and my future. All else was buried. Mick beamed when I reached his side and whispered:
‘Here we are, at last. You look beautiful, love.’
I blushed and smiled, but in reality I was uncomfortable being the centre of attention and was glad when the official part of the ceremony was over. Mary watched as we made our vows – she was my unofficial guest of honour. It meant so much to me to have her there.
On 2 September, the day after my wedding, I went into labour, two months early. Panic-stricken, I hastily packed a bag and we rushed to hospital. The doctors managed to stop my contractions and I was eventually allowed home, just in time to oversee the move to our new house. Moving day, 8 September, was hard work and disorganised, and afterwards I breathed a sigh of relief that I could finally put my feet up and prepare for our new baby.
But that same week I was readmitted to hospital with more stomach cramps. It was serious and stressful and not at all the ideal start to married life. Two weeks on, our little girl, Michaela, was born. She was a tiny little thing, still very premature, and so delicate and sweet. She was beautiful. And again, with a new baby in the family, I felt overwhelming joy.
‘Welcome, little princess,’ I smiled.
I loved being a mum. But with five children and one baby with the angels, my family was now complete. I decided to be sterilised before we could have any more surprise babies. When I broached the subject with Mick, he was furiously against it. We had our biggest argument to date.
‘You’re being unreasonable, Mick,’ I said. ‘We have a big family, we’re very lucky. I think we should stop now.’
He wouldn’t agree. But in the end I went ahead. I’d had no say over what happened to my body throughout my childhood and I felt I had to take control now. Mick would never understand, and I decided he just had to accept that.
After my operation, Mick lost his job and was out of work for a while. Again, it triggered rows and bad feeling. I was holding down two full-time jobs, cleaning at a hospital and at a pub. I was also doing most of the housework and childcare. More often than not, I’d come home from a long shift to find the house in a mess, and it was exhausting to have to start again.
‘Mick, you could help out a bit more,’ I pleaded.
‘I’m doing my best,’ he complained. ‘Stop nagging, it’s all you do.’
It was strange; we had rarely fallen out during all the years we’d been together, but getting married had been nothing but a curse. It had completely ruined our relationship. The balance of power had shifted irreversibly in the household, and our roles had changed. I wanted to go back to how things had once been, but I didn’t know how. One day after work a neighbour stopped me in the street.
‘It’s none of my business, Maureen, but Mick has been taking your daughter to your mum’s during the day,’ she said. ‘I thought you should know. He hasn’t been looking after her himself.’
I stared at her, shocked to the core. Of course he had no idea that my parents should not have been left alone with my children, but I was horrified by the deception and I could not forgive it. Besides, I had been working hard all day and it was Mick’s job to care for Michaela.
‘We should look after our children, and nobody else,’ I told him furiously.
Mick didn’t understand my annoyance. I found out that Michaela hadn’t been there for long and she hadn’t been alone with them. But that gave me little comfort. And for Mick and I, it was the latest flash point of many. The next day, less than a year after our wedding, I filed for divorce.
We’d had so many wonderful times together and it felt as though our marriage had just drizzled away; fizzled out before it had really got going. But we remained friends, and that Christmas, and every one that followed, Mick and I had dinner together as a family. I never wanted the children to have to choose between us, or for him to be all alone over Christmas. I was not cut out for relationships, I accepted that now. But I did my best to make sure that the impact on my children was softened as much as possible.
We celebrated together, and sometimes it was so easy and comfortable between us that it felt like we were still a couple.
When Mick and I split up, I struggled financially and practically. I was a single parent with five children and I had to go to work, as well as looking after them all and making sure they coped with the emotional upset of their dad leaving the house. He was a big personality and so his absence was very keenly felt.
Those first six months, especially, were tough. I’d had spots of da
rk depression all through my life and it reared its head again now, threatening to swallow me whole. I’d had three major relationships and they had all failed. Was there something wrong with me? And was it the same fault that had caused me to be abused? Was there something rotten running through me – something I just couldn’t spot? Or was I just picking out the wrong partners, time after time? Even now, as a grown-up mother of five, I blamed myself. It was absurd, I know. But I couldn’t help it.
Gradually, I came through my depression and anxiety, focusing as always on my children. I did lots of cooking, and unlike my mother I encouraged my children into the kitchen with me, giving them a wooden spoon and a bowl to experiment as they wished. There were undeniably similarities between my mum and me; we shared genes and we shared a love of cooking, but I wanted, as much as possible, to distance myself from her. Together with Ben and Naomi, I rustled up big lasagnes, hot chillies and chicken curries. We never followed recipes, we just made it up as we went along.
‘It’s a family effort,’ I said.
We baked cakes, too, a huge cake for every birthday, and more besides. It was like group therapy for us all.
Mick and I were formally divorced in January 2005. And though I was sad for the end of a marriage, I was also relieved to be single once again. It was hard looking after the kids on my own, but it was harder trying to keep a relationship going. The children were my priority, and as we worked our way around a new routine I felt new happiness and peace. I didn’t do anything socially, but that didn’t bother me at all. I was used to being on my own and, in truth, no matter how many people were around me, I was always, essentially, alone.