Sarah's Story Read online

  ‘I thought you liked it,’ he whispered.

  How could I possibly like being abused by this old, sad, crumpled man? How could he possibly think I’d like being abused by any man? What kind of sick, perverted world did he think he lived in? Why did he think I’d want to be a part of that world?

  I thought for a moment before I replied. ‘I don’t want to be here. I don’t like it. I hate it and I hate you. I hate everything about you. I have for a long time. Each time you’ve touched me, every second you’ve touched me I have felt like dirt trampled on the ground beneath everyone’s shoes.’

  I continued talking slowly so that all my words would register in his ears. ‘What reason do you possibly think I could have for staying here, letting you do the things you’ve done, when out there is a world you have taken from me, a world I want to be part of again before you steal the rest of my life?’

  He fell back on to the chair at the side of me, looking shocked by my words. I knew he wasn’t expecting me to say such things to him. After all, he was the adult. I was still the child.

  ‘I want you to stay with me, Sarah. That boy doesn’t want you; he’s just using you …’

  ‘And you aren’t?’

  ‘I want you to be here with me more often. I missed you. Can’t I still see you on the days when you don’t see Paul? I’ll share you, I don’t mind’.

  ‘You don’t understand, do you? I’m older now. I want you to set me free. I don’t want to be anywhere near you. I want to be left alone to follow the path I want to follow, not the path you’ve set out for me. I want to go my own way; I want to be with people my own age. I’m missing my life because you’ve taken it from me. You continually steal precious minutes from me, my minutes, minutes that aren’t yours to take.’

  I looked at him. He was ready to speak but I had to finish what I’d started. ‘I want it back before it’s too late,’ I added hesitantly.

  I waited for his reply. My heart was racing – the beats felt like a bass drum beating louder than ever inside of me. He looked at me and replied, but this time I could hear the mounting venom in his voice as he spoke the words. ‘I think you are being ungrateful. You are not being fair. I’ve tried to take you away from your life on that council estate, tried to make things better for you by showing you there are other things outside of there.’

  I was traumatised by his accusing words: did he really expect me to be grateful for the abuse he had subjected me to? ‘Other things? The only other things you have shown me are the four walls of this flat, and the sand hills in Blackpool. I want you to leave me alone. I am still a growing child. I am not an adult. I won’t let you do this to me any more, Bill.’

  I stood still for a moment, watching his reaction to my last few words – they had left my mouth quicker and with more power than I expected.

  Then he spoke. ‘How will you stop me?’

  ‘I’ll go to the police and tell them everything. Today.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. They won’t believe you.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that they’ll listen. After all, how many times has that lady downstairs seen you bringing me here?’

  As he looked at me, he seemed to be getting smaller; shrivelling up into the insignificant old man he was. He didn’t look like a man in control any more. He looked as if he had lost everything he had.

  Had I won? Was that my trump card, or did he have an ace up his sleeve?

  I looked at him, watched him as he got up and slowly put his shoes on, waiting apprehensively for his next word. He said nothing. He just beckoned me to follow him out of the flat. As he drove the car away from the flat that night, he took a longer route home. I didn’t know where I was and all I could do was sit still and wait for the familiar streets to return. If he changed direction in the past I would usually ask him where we were going. Tonight I didn’t. I didn’t want him to know I was worried about what he was doing. He would have enjoyed that.

  Fifty minutes later I was home. He grabbed hold of me before I could open the car door. ‘You’ll regret this, Sarah, you know you will.’

  ‘No I won’t. I never will. But you might, one day.’

  I stood outside the back door for a few minutes before I went in, trying to control my violently shaking body. Eventually I wiped my damp eyes and slowly opened the kitchen door. I went inside. Mum looked beyond me into the hall, looking for Bill. ‘He’s not coming in tonight, Mum. He’s had to go off somewhere. He said he’d see you at bingo,’ I lied.

  At least she didn’t question me any further. I was relieved – if she had done, I think I would probably have opened up and told her everything that had happened. She continued sorting out the cutlery and plates ready for tea. ‘OK, love. Tea’s ready.’

  I slept easier that night after my bath. I threw my clothes away that I had worn that day. The important thing was I had to have a clean start, a start without the soiled images in that open box of bad memories. As I slept, I dreamed of closing the lid. I wanted to push it out of my mind, but it was too heavy, fixed tightly in place. The only thing I could do was close the lid firmly now that I didn’t need it any more.

  Sixteen

  IN THE YEAR that followed, lots of things happened to me. I went out more, and spent more time with Paul. I began to enjoy what was left of my stolen adolescence because I knew it was the only thing left I could rescue. My childhood years had already gone forever, never to be retrieved. What I had left I had to make the most of. I had to live life to the full and that was what I intended to do.

  No one guided me through, no one showed me the right or wrong path to take; it was just me, on my own, proceeding cautiously. All I could do now was take one step at a time. Then one hour at a time. And finally one day at a time.

  I was just trying to live through the traumatic reminders of my past, trying to put goodness and laughter in places where sadness and tears had ruled for so long. I gradually put aside what had happened to me, although it was never easy. I tried to replace my memories of Bill with good ones of my own, but it wasn’t always straightforward, especially when the bad ones still outweighed the good ones. But I progressively replaced each one of those bad memories with those of people that I cared about and loved so sincerely.

  I had the memories that Paul gave me. New memories. Good memories. I also had memories that Daniel had left me: these were my bright memories. And I had Tom’s memories all stacked high inside my good box. Tom’s memories were the ones that I learned to treasure the most: it was him who helped me when I was at my lowest ebb. He understood me the most. The times I spent with Tom were good, precious, wonderful times.

  During the time I spent with Paul, I became very close to him, and in 1977, when I was just fifteen, I became pregnant. I was so frightened of what my parents would say. I didn’t tell them until I was almost ten weeks pregnant. Mum was furious. ‘She can go and get rid of it, she’s just too young to be a mother,’ she yelled.

  ‘It’s my baby. I won’t.’

  ‘You will do as you are told, my girl, and that’s final.’ I watched anger mounting in her face. She was adamant she would get her way. ‘Where is he, anyway? Why isn’t he here facing the music?’

  ‘He’s at work,’ I answered. ‘He has to work.’

  ‘Well, he’d better not show his face around here again. You are going to get rid of it, Sarah. There is no way you are keeping a baby at fifteen.’

  I looked at Mum, and then across the room to where Dad was sitting. ‘I am keeping my baby. You can’t make me get rid of it. It’s my baby and I will be sixteen when he’s born.’

  Mum was angrier than ever. ‘You’ll do as I say!’

  At that moment, Dad butted into the conversation. He wanted to have his say, but that just made Mum madder. ‘If she’s sixteen when the baby is born, Evelyn, then she has a right to make her own decision. But I will say this to you, Sarah: you have made your bed so you will lie in it. Don’t come crying to us if you can’t cope or if things go wrong with Paul
. We won’t be here to pick up the pieces. It’s your decision and you’ll live by it. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Dad, I do.’

  That evening I walked out of the lounge and away from my parents’ support. I heard them discussing me, talking about the financial implications and how they couldn’t support me and a child – they just didn’t have the money.

  The next evening I got a bus into town and met up with Paul. We now had to tell his parents. His mum looked hurt at the news – after all, this was the first time they had met me and they were also being told I was pregnant. His dad was furious and rose from his seat sharply, calling Paul ‘a bloody fool’.

  ‘How old are you, girl?’ he shouted at me.

  I was just about to say fifteen when Paul quickly interrupted. ‘She’s seventeen.’Why was he lying to his parents? Why hadn’t he told the truth? After an uneasy half-hour we left, and as we walked to the bus stop I asked Paul why he had lied about my age.

  ‘I lied because, if I hadn’t, my dad would have given me the hiding of my life. He’d have kicked me from one end of the street to the other.’ He looked at me with those soppy, deep-brown eyes of his and I swallowed all his lies. It wasn’t that his father would have beaten him: it was more that if his dad found out I was only fifteen he would have known his son could have been prosecuted for having sex with a minor.

  We sat on the bus that night talking about what we would do. We agreed to stay with our parents until we managed to find a flat to live in. Paul told me it would only be for a few weeks – in the end, it turned out to be five months. During that time, Paul did come to the house, and Dad had a go at him, telling him he was no good for his daughter, but, if he was what I wanted, he had better make damn sure that he supported me well.

  The next time Paul visited he said that he couldn’t find a flat on the wages he earned so he was thinking of joining the army.

  ‘What about us, the baby?’ For the first time since I became pregnant, I doubted Paul’s commitment to me.

  ‘You can live with your parents, can’t you? And I can send you money each week for the baby.’

  ‘Well, I suppose, if that’s what you want …’

  ‘I think it’s for the best, Sarah, that way I can support you better.’

  I watched him walking off towards the end of the street an hour later that night. He was walking with purpose, his head held high with relief. I wondered if he had just told me of his plans for the army to frighten me and get out of being lumbered with a baby. I half-expected that he wanted to hear the words, ‘It’s OK, Paul, I don’t want to be a burden. Forget me, forget the baby and go and enjoy your life.’ I never did say those words because this was his responsibility too. This was his child I was having, he had to be responsible at some time in his life so now was a good time to start.

  He didn’t visit me for two weeks after that. I thought he had deserted us when one Sunday morning he appeared saying he had found us a flat in Ashley. It was a bed-sit, one large attic room in a good, middle-class area. I loved it, although I wasn’t looking forward to climbing the three flights of stairs with a pram.

  Once I had moved out of home, I felt differently towards my parents and they behaved differently towards me. When I had told them that Paul had found a flat for us, Mum changed somehow. She suggested I stay at home and live with them. I could go back to school to finish my education. As she continued talking to me, telling me of her plans, I knew that this would never work. I felt that I wouldn’t be my baby’s mum – my mother would. She would take over, raising my child her way. She told me how she would take him for walks and have him in her and my father’s room so that he wouldn’t disturb me in the night. It was at that point I knew I would lose him if I stayed home and didn’t move in with Paul. I knew they both believed I was too young, but in my heart I had done all the growing up I needed to in order to become a good, caring, considerate mum to my child.

  A few nights later, my suitcase packed, I left home. I wasn’t yet sixteen. Paul came to collect me and we went to catch the bus together. My dad looked at me caringly as I made my way to the door. He grabbed me, gave me a hug and spoke into my ear. I thought he was going to say sorry for what he had done to me; but the sorry I expected never came. Instead, he told me that, if I ever needed them, or was unsure, all I had to do was say the word and I could come home again. His words and Mum’s plans made me even more determined to go it alone. This was now my life, not theirs, and I was determined that I would succeed and overcome whatever was thrown my way.

  More importantly, I knew I would never see Bill again after I left home.

  Our baby was born six weeks later, a beautiful, fine and healthy boy. We soon moved from the large bed-sit in Ashley to a two-bedroom flat nearer the town.

  Before I married Paul, I told him about my past. I thought I was doing the right thing, telling him the truth about the person he was about to marry. It was the hardest thing I had ever done.

  Paul and I had some good times together, but things were never really as wonderful as I expected them to be. He never really loved me the way I loved him – something had always been missing. During our second year of marriage, things became difficult and I wanted to leave Paul because he was drinking and spending all our money. I also discovered he had been seeing another woman. One night I told him of my plans to leave him. He threatened to tell the world about my past if I did. I thought he understood, but it turned out he was no better that night than any of the men who had raided me of those perfect childhood years.

  I stayed, and gradually things smoothed out. I forgave him for what he had said, but I never stopped believing that he now thought I was responsible for what had happened to me. We eventually split up after seven years, despite managing to have some good times together. My family had also grown too. While I was married to Paul, I gave birth to three more wonderful bundles of joy, three more terrific boys.

  As my marriage to Paul was ending, I met the one person who would change my life forever. It was a quarter past six one evening early in November and I was going home to visit my parents. After arriving at the bus station to catch a connecting bus, I was introduced to a friend of Paul’s brother. From that moment on he had a huge impact on my life, and, when Paul and I divorced the following year, I started seeing and married this extraordinary person.

  In the last nineteen years, he has given me so much. We have even added to our family with the welcome addition of a fifth son. My husband has added warmth, light and laughter into my life. He has shown me love and understanding. He has protected me and kept me safe, and has become an amazing father to our wonderful children.

  The abuse I suffered made me very protective of my children. I never let them play on the streets when they were little, and I did everything possible to keep them out of danger. I watched them all the time. I was aware from stories in the news that many children were still at risk from monsters who, like Bill, preyed on young children. The only difference now was that there were more stories of dreadful things happening to boys as well as girls.

  The first time my son went to high school, I was so afraid of him catching buses by himself. I wished I had time to take him myself, but the other boys all needed to be taken to school for nine o’clock too. His school was six miles away, so the logistics were impossible. He hadn’t been at high school long when he came home telling me about the games lesson that day, and how his teacher was really nice. Instantly, the alarm bells started to ring in my mind. ‘He hasn’t touched you, has he?’ Before I realised how bad the words sounded, they were hurtling towards my son.

  ‘What do you mean, Mum?’

  I couldn’t take back the words; they had already been spoken, so I had to try to soften their meaning in some way. ‘Is he friendly? You know, putting his arm round you like one of your friends would do?’

  ‘No, Mum, don’t be daft, he’s my teacher. He’s just great to talk to.’

  ‘OK, love.’ I watched him as he left the
kitchen, trailing his school bag along the floor behind him. He was my son, my first-born, a life I have protected since he drew his first breath. I knew that if anyone tried to hurt him or any of my children I would end up in prison on a murder charge. I knew there was just no way I would allow what had happened to me to happen to any of them.

  All that is left is the rest of my life, and as each day passes me by I add good memories to my memory bank. No one can steal them because they truly belong to me, created with the man I love and the family we both share.

  My new memories are now outweighing the bad ones, and the old tattered box that once was full to the brim is finally crumbling away from my mind. Each day another particle of bad memory falls away, disappearing forever, never to be relived again.

  Epilogue

  MY FATHER BECAME very ill in 1996 when he was diagnosed with cancer in his larynx and pharynx after routine tooth removal in preparation for dentures. A couple of months later, his mouth still hadn’t healed properly so he was referred to the ear, nose and throat specialist at the county hospital. After his initial consultation, he underwent twenty-eight hours of surgery after a number of growths were discovered. It was a very traumatic time. My sister, brother and I went to the hospital every visiting hour we were allowed. We were told my father would be able to drink and eat two weeks later, but things never pan out as you expect them to. Within twenty-four hours he was back in the operating theatre where he underwent a further sixteen hours of surgery. He then developed heart problems and was moved from intensive care to the coronary-care unit.

  He eventually got through all the problems and he left hospital four months later without his voice but equipped with a little gadget that he put on the side of his neck. It converted the vibrations he made when he silently spoke into words we could all hear. It was a marvellous invention, but it made him sound like one of the robots you’d find in some time-travel programme on television. I hated the loss of his voice, because of all the things I remember clearly about my dad the one thing that I don’t remember is what his voice sounded like. I prayed to God that, just once, I would be able to hear the voice that had been there all through my life. My prayer was never answered.