The damned phone went again – it was him.  I told him that after today he wouldn’t be able to pester me anymore because my number and locks would be changed.  I told him we were through for good this time and that whatever meaningless words of remorse he now came out with he could shove them up his a….  I called him all the names under the sun as I referred to my stolen valuables. I told him he’d better return them – and quick, as well as all the other things that belong to me and my family: dad’s ladders and his two and a half thousand pounds, the kids’ toys, baby stuff [bath, cot, bedding….] tapes [squash and ‘999’] certificates [aikido dan grade and parachute jump.]  I screamed at him, “How would you feel if I swiped your daughter’s birthday present?”  “Sorry,” came his feeble reply, followed by, “Don’t you touch those baby car seats – they belong in my car.  If you take them I’ll have the police on to you for theft” and “I’m going to see to it there will be a gruesome accident when you go to Geronimos on Shell’s birthday and you will die a horrible death.”  I boomed back, “God I should have spoken to your ex-wife  – I bet she could tell me a thing or two about you.  ‘Course I should have sussed you out after meeting that family of yours.  You are a two-faced, lying, idle, drunken, gossip mongering, hypocritical lot.  I wished I’d smashed up that car of yours for you – by accident of course.” 

I slammed the phone down and marched out to retrieve my baby seats.  I must admit tho I did hesitate – I was worried he might carry out his threats.  Then I remembered Andrew’s words of support and encouragement in recent weeks.  He’d tell me to do just what I want, that I don’t need his permission and that I have just as much say in things as he does.  The kids knew that I always worried about provoking him and making matters worse.  But they were right in their reasoning that “whatever he wants to do he’ll do anyway – it doesn’t matter what you do or say.”  I examined his pride and joy and for a split-second an evil thought popped into my head – ‘What if I just slashed those tyres or ran a screw-driver….’ Then I thought better of it.  The psychopath would just do something sinister to me in retaliation.

However the truth was that I was sufficiently ruffled enough to warrant some comfort from an authority law-enforcing figure, so I called the police.  A sympathetic and no nonsense PC reassured me that I’d put up with three years of bullying, that he was only the biological father and didn’t have any automatic rights as regards to my children and that it would be a civil matter whereupon it is the mother who almost always gets custody unless it can be proved that she is a grossly inadequate mother.  “And from where I’m sitting,” he said, “you have absolutely no worries in that department.”  He went on to say that I didn’t have to tolerate any more of Gareth’s vile behaviour and that I could have him arrested for harassment if he so much as: drives continuously down my road, bothers me or my kids in the street, trespasses or shouts any kind of abuse at me.

I was starting to feel slightly more relaxed, optimistic and confident until some letters plopped through the letterbox.  My pathetic nervous reaction surprised me.  The PC grinned.  His parting words were, “Get witnesses if he starts pestering you; tell people – neighbours, shopkeepers, friends….”

Dad was over the moon that I’d got rid of idiot features.  He came round to help me change my locks and gave me a peptalk on men.   He said he’d vet the next one for me.  I said, “No need.  There won’t be any more - NO WAY.  I’ve got no time, no interest, no inclination.”  He asked if he could have that in writing!

That nutcase has driven past my house so many times I’ve lost count.

OCTOBER 7^TH 1998

I thought a lot about mum today.  She departed our world on June 14^th 1997, after suffering malignant melanoma of the brain.  Even when she was very close to death she told me not to marry that man.  Funny how mums know these things!  She hadn’t liked him for a while.  I can picture her now looking down on me with a gi-normous beam on her face.  She’d told me to leave him lots of times.  “Think of the children,” she’d say.  “Put yourself and your kids first. He doesn’t care about any of you – he only cares about himself.  He’s only using you for what he can get from you and your dad.”  She was right of course, and despite the fact he did have his loving, caring moments and was pretty nifty at such things as: dismantling and repairing my washing machine, tumble dryer, toilet…. he was really lousy when it came down to the kids.  He just couldn’t be bothered, didn’t have the patience, preferred his can of lager and yacking for hours on the phone to his mother…. He was pathetically childish and downright irresponsible when on the booze [which was almost every day starting around lunchtime and sustained until late evening where he’d drop off inebriated.]  It seems some men just fall apart when little people come on the scene.  A hell of a lot just can’t seem to hack it.

I dropped in at Women’s Aid this afternoon in desperate need of moral support.  A lovely lady there, Henri, made me feel so much better; so less isolated.  She made me lighten up and had me laughing as she recalled tales of other women in my predicament and how the worm eventually turned.  She told me that women suffer mentally and physically at the hands of their men folk and that the physical scars heal quicker than the emotional ones.  I could relate to that.  For a large part of the latter part of my relationship with Gareth I was in tears – I suffered frustration, confusion, doubt and anxiety.

Henri said that I was wise getting out now, that it was a relatively short time compared with the many years some women tolerate abuse.  She said that the longer you stay, the worse it gets and the longer the road to recovery when you finally do break free.  She commented that I was strong right now; that he hadn’t broken me – yet.  She also told me about someone she knows who has been and still is verbally assaulted by her boyfriend of seven years.  This woman has changed from a bubbly, confident, outgoing person to one full of self-doubt, depression and introversion and is now too scared to walk away, is a prisoner inside her four walls and has suicidal tendencies.  Amazingly she denies there is anything wrong defends her man and will not be persuaded to leave. 

I sat with my mentor for over an hour.  By the time we’d finished we’d declared world war three on all men folk!  Thank goodness Jordan and Melissa were patient in their pram.  Jordan grinned mischievously every time Henri poked him playfully with her pencil.

As I was leaving I told her I never wanted to be a single mum.  I wanted a good role-model male in our lives, but since I can’t find him I’m going to be happy with what I do have.  I said I’ve read all the ‘parenting’ books, listened to all the professional advise on baby/child care and now I intend to raise my children to feel safe, secure and loved – to the best of my ability and for us to be friends and happy.  She encouraged me to keep up the healthy attitude.

After tea I sat nursing Melissa whilst watching Jordan busy himself with his stack of beakers.  Andrew and Shell sat engrossed at something on the goggle box.  I look at them all with such love and devotion.  I feel so blessed and honoured to have them and to be the beneficiary of their unconditional love.  To me they are treasured gifts.  Lots of people have commented on what great kids I have – so well behaved, happy and intelligent.  Some even ask what the secret is and they joke that I can have their kids to train.  That makes me feel so proud.  But it isn’t all rosy.  Quite often they play me up and I’m reduced to screaming and swearing my head off, although I do try very hard to control myself.  But on the whole I must be doing something right.  My kids are my life.  They are my greatest teachers and my biggest influence and inspiration.  I’d die without them.  I reckon I could cope with almost anything that life threw at me but I know I could not cope if I had to be parted from them or if any of them were seriously ill, hurt or God-forbid, the unthinkable happened.  Their innocence, wonder and spontaneity is so magical and irretrievable that sometimes I feel in awe.  They trust me with heart and soul and they look up to me for guidance and protection. What a heck of a responsibility.  I could not bear to let them down.  My children are precious gifts.  They give meaning to life and transform my world – daily.  If I’ve learnt anything of any real value from having children it is that the self centredness that I once had has been dislodged by them.

That lunatic has driven slowly past my house – ten times that I saw.  Andrew counted a further fifteen times that he passed a bit later on.

OCTOBER 8^TH 1998

Jordan trundled around his new playroom today – he’s a demon explorer.  I’m glad that Andrew suggested we turn the dining room into a rummage room for roamers.  It’s funny how the smallest members of the family have the most personals.  Their toys invade virtually every room of the house.  I’ve come to the conclusion tho that the more tot-friendly a house is, the less stressed out mum is.  All my ornaments and valuables are out of reach for little hands.  Not that I’m an ornament enthusiast – can’t stand the hassle of dusting the damn things, but I did inherit them from mum and that in itself is significant and they are quite appealing and expensive.  It’s just as well that I only dust once a month or so and that they are out of eye-level.  Shell doesn’t mind profiting from periodically polishing them!

I have a lock on the lounge door so that the inquisitive wanderers cannot toddle in unsupervised – it enables me to relax when I’m busy in the kitchen [which seems to be a large percentage of my time.] I’ve erected a temporary door [with lock] on the under stairs area which serves two purposes.  1: To hide all the junk that gets slung in because it’s a useful storage spot.  2: To keep out little surveyors.  I’ve also assembled a metre-high door [with lock] on my utility room, which is an extension of the kitchen.  This serves to keep prying fingers out of my: tools, paints and varnishes, other poisonous or harmful substances and various odds and ends that I don’t want disturbed.  When I do allow myself the luxury of lounging in the living room, I ensure that the kitchen door is shut [fortunately the handle is out of Jordan’s reach] so that he has the run of the hall, playroom and lounge which are relatively safe.

I sat for about two hours on a comfy armchair in the playroom this morning.  Jordan repeatedly stacked his coloured cubes with concentrated precision then promptly dismantled them with one swift swipe.  He bimbled up to me every so often with a very serious expression on his face.  I’m sure he was coming to check on me, to make sure everything is ok.  His vocabulary is virtually non-existent yet but he does come out with “mum,mum,mum” quite a lot of the time while he goes about his daily business.  He also says “ba” while pointing to Mel and he says “Dougie, Dougie, Dougie,” but I have no idea who Dougie is!

Melissa snuggled close as she suckled.  I love her smell and look of contentment.  I adore the little noises she makes.  Her tiny hand cups my breast.  She fixes her gorgeous big green eyes on my face.  Sometimes she grins at me while still gripping my nipple.  Sometimes she half looks at Jordan to see what he’s up to and then she’ll quickly come back for a few more gulps of milk.  She then might break into a fully-fledged smile, which lights up her whole face.  Then she might make some satisfying muffled sound while she nuzzles her whole face into my breast.  When she’s done with playing, her eyelids will get heavy and she gives up the struggle to stay awake.  

I think breast-feeding is one of the greatest pleasures a woman can have.  I’m reluctant to relinquish it and will milk it for all it’s worth yet.  I’ve always fed on demand – all of my babies, and never ever felt it any hardship.  The babies fit in with my plans.  I never burp Melissa – never feel the need.  She takes two naps a day and sleeps from 7.oo pm until 8.30/9.00 am.  Sometimes she wakes at night.  Then I just change and nurse her while I read or watch the late night movie or heated debate until she drops off again.  Jordan takes a nap from 2.00-4.00 pm daily and sleeps from 7.00 pm until 9.00 am.  He needs his afternoon nap or he gets unbearably irritable by about 3.00 pm.  I need that break from him too – for the sake of my sanity.  I don’t fuss as much as I did when Andrew and Shell were babies.  I’m not frightened to leave Melissa cry sometimes - I recognise the different cries and know when she needs immediate attention or if she’s just whingy through tiredness.

I recall that it was mum who drummed into me the importance of a strict routine and regular nap times when Andrew and Shell were babies.  It is so tragic she was taken from us so suddenly – she got so much pleasure out of Andrew and Shell and loved to see them growing up.  I miss her support, advice and words of wisdom and I’m sad that she hardly knew Jordan – she was too ill - and she never even knew about Melissa.

I forced myself to stop the melancholic thoughts of the past and to now focus on the future.  What now?  Where do I go from here?  All the plans I’d made with him can now be disregarded.  We had discussed starting up a business – breeding and selling locusts.  I might still be able to do it on my own – dad would give me a hand erecting a shed, fitting insulation, building a frame for the cages etcetera.  He’s brilliant at that kind of stuff, but it is all a bit out of the question until Jord and Mel are a little older as it is such a filthy job and right now they’re my full-time responsibility.  I could ask for my old job as a bank clerk back but that’d mean putting the kids in nursery.   I’d be better off going back to my more recent job of caring for ‘special needs’ children as it is done in the home, which means I do not need to find someone to care for Jordan and Melissa.  I like working with children – they are more realistic and less pretentious than most adults.  But that too is impractical at the moment.  I certainly could do with some extra pennies.  I can’t imagine him ever helping me out financially or any other way – FAT CHANCE.  His only aim in life is to wreck my life.  For now I’ll just be a full-time mum, which is very demanding and difficult in itself but is extremely rewarding – and I wouldn’t swap it for the world. 

I could make use of the local leisure centre crèche – it’s open three mornings a week.  That would take care of the babies’ social interaction and I can get fit [and slim] again.  I’ll have to contact a couple of my old squash partners.  I can’t really re-join the squash league yet as games are played in the evenings and I’d need a baby sitter.  Sitters cost too much and dad wouldn’t oblige unless it was an emergency or a one-off.  For that reason I can’t return to aikido just yet either.  Thinking back, while I was with him I wasn’t allowed to join any club or league.  He always insisted that I take the babies with me everywhere I went because he had no intentions of looking after them.  Come to think of it, he even stopped me returning to my old job [which I intended to do to help pay off his debts] because he was convinced that I had ‘ulterior motives’.   

I could jog during crèche time; but that’s boring – unless there’s a goal.  Well I’ve always fancied having a go at the London marathon…. The training would certainly be good for my physical and mental health and I desperately need to slim down into my pre-pregnancy size ten.  I get depressed when I think of all the trendy clothes that are in my wardrobe but that I can’t now wear.  Some of them have now discoloured and have a musky odour.

That pest has driven down my road again on and off all night – about twenty times.  He even stopped the car, walked up to my driveway, peered down it for a couple of minutes and went away again.  Weird!  I’m certainly not going to have a confrontation with him.  God knows what kind of mood he’s in and I don’t trust the maniac.

This evening I wrote out a rough timetable for my intended new daily life.  It now looks a bit more organised and orderly.  I feel a bit more secure now that I have some direction.

OCTOBER 9^TH 1998

I spent the morning in the kitchen [as usual.]  Melissa gurgled and chortled contentedly in her moses basket.  She has a cute play frame that has Mickey, Minnie and Pluto dangling down at her disposal, which she kicks and thumps the hell out of.  She shrieks in glee at their disposition.  Jordan got himself scientifically involved with my: pots, pans, bowls and boxes.  He gets so engrossed in his very important work that if something doesn’t go according to his plan, he’ll poker-facedly utter “tut”.  That just creases me up with laugher.  He’ll then look at me with an expression of disbelieving disgust – which make me howl even harder. I’ve twigged through experience of Andrew and Shell not to bother wasting money on toys until the kids are around five/six years old.  I bought a few toys for Jordan and Mel but they’ve been cheap items from car boot sales, mainly of the larger object-on-wheels variety.  Jordan much prefers to rummage through my kitchen cupboards.  I remember one xmas spending over three hundred pounds on ‘educational’ toys for Andrew and Shell when they were toddlers.  To an adult they were indeed impressive little gadgets – one could appreciate their learning capacity.  But you couldn’t deceive Andrew and Shell.  Such worthwhile toys were swiftly cast aside and ignored or dismantled and used for some other purpose – for their own inventions. 

Jordan knows the items that he’s allowed to relocate such as plastic, aluminium and other baby-friendly contraptions and the ones that he mustn’t touch such as glass, crockery and other breakables.  He understands quite a lot and will put things in the bin when asked – he’ll even dispose of his own nappy without any prompting.  He shuts doors when asked [providing he’s in helpful mood] and is always the first to slam the doors when the smoke-alarm goes bananas [as is often the case during cooking.] He’ll even point to the window as if to say, “Open that, you twit.”  He’s affectionate and protective towards Mel and will cry in empathy when she’s upset.  Their moods change at the drop of a hat; but then so does everyone else’s.

They both love it when I burst into spontaneous song.  Melissa stares at me wide-eyed, whoops and waves her arms wildly as if suffering a psychopathic seizure!  Jordan performs an impromptu rain dance and the three of us engage in a skirmish for sonic supremacy.

I love to just stop what I’m doing wherever and whenever I please and spend a few moments; maybe minutes larking around with the little uns.  I cherish our moments of pure unadulterated pleasure, which is instinctive and never forced.  They appreciate and respond so gleefully and wholeheartedly to genuine play.   Such displays of natural, uninhibited delight is priceless and unique only to babies and small children and is sadly lost on maturity, never to be recaptured.  I’ve noticed that if I grudgingly make an effort to play with Jord and Mel, they recognise my insincerity and falsehood and are uninterested, even insulted.  Youngsters don’t lie about their feelings and will freely demonstrate their true emotions.

I couldn’t believe what I witnessed this afternoon through my living-room window.  That psychopath spent two hours and twenty minutes fixing his car right outside my driveway.  He fiddled about under the bonnet, disappeared to Motorworld for a few minutes, returned, eyeballed my house, fiddled some more, studied my gate, dawdled to the boot, removed some rags, shuffled to the driver’s door, threw a glance in my direction, stared at my upstairs window then offensively basked in the aura of my property and presence.  The nincompoop then repeated the procedure several times more until the scenario was completed with the deposition of soiled spark plugs, distributor lead and oily rags on top of my refuse bin.  He is definitely desperate – and dangerous. 

I wittered on the phone for a couple of hours with my mate Mandy tonight.  She informed me that my creepy ex has been stirring again.  Mand told me that he wasted no time contacting her [and God knows how many other friends and rellies of mine] to say that he had no choice in finally being forced to leave me because he could not tolerate my behaviour any longer.  According to him I am depressed, destructive, an alcoholic, a schizophrenic, a nymphomaniac, an adulteress, a thief, liar, baby- batterer and petty criminal.  I’m supposed to have fled his house in a manic drunken state after stealing money from him and items from his house.  Curiously, most of the things he’s accusing me of being fit the description of him to a tee.  Mandy says that if she didn’t know me as well as she does his version of it would chillingly be quite plausible. She says she told him that he’s an “incredible bare-faced liar.”  She then advised me, “You don’t want to bother with anyone else – for a while; you’re better off on your own.”  I assured her that the only men in my life from now on and for a whopping length of time are the two that I’m bringing up.  I also remarked that if and that is a monumental IF cupid did miraculously strike again, the bloke would need to have a lot [but not all] the qualities of my dad.  He’d have to be: loving, intelligent, dexterous, self-assured, shrewd, dependable, supportive, caring, considerate, sensitive, softhearted, witty – and loaded.  That just about disregards most potential contenders.  Mandy quipped that he’d also need to welcome a challenge.  We then proceeded to discuss her lovelife but since she’s also anti men right now, the conversation swiftly shifted to her job and our get fit plans….

It is now 2.00 a.m.  From about 7.00 pm onwards, that sociopath has driven like a bat out of hell past my house – thirty two times.  I counted them while I was yakking to Mand.  On three occasions he pulled up right outside my house, strolled up to my driveway, surveyed it for several seconds then slithered off to resume his mission.  I don’t know whether to feel sorry for him or scared of him.

OCTOBER 10^TH 1998

Every morning I get up – sort of mechanically, dress respectfully and put on my ‘face’.  It’s all a bit of a coping ritual.  I figure if I look presentable and operational on the outside, I should feel healthy and optimistic on the inside.  To be honest it’s a bit of a cover up, a confidence booster.  But if it works and it gets me through the days, that’ll do for me.  Anyway it’s just an illusion really.  Someone once asked me, “What are you really like?”  At the time I was puzzled, but not anymore – LIFE is an illusion.  The world is a stage with actors upon it.  We are all two people or more.

Dad phoned this morning to say that it looks as if we’re going to have problems with “that imbecile family.”  He said he’d had his aunty on the phone whinging on about rumours that I’m blackening her son’s name - something about him taking drugs.  For crying out loud, I’ve never met her son, I’ve no idea what he gets up to and I wouldn’t know him if I fell over him. Dad gave her a polite understatement that it is well known in this community that Gareth Williams is extremely economical with the truth.  What with her and her nutty sister [his mother], no wonder he has problems.  He always did hang on to his mum’s every word; told her everything.  He must be in awe of her.

The kids and I trudged around Saturday’s market.  Everyone needed clothes.  On the way home we took the scenic route.  Thankfully, Andrew and Shell are so much more relaxed now. We prattled on about: the choppy sea, the swooping seagulls, the dog-dirt infestation and the graffiti-strewn ice-cream huts.  This led to a chat on vandalism, which progressed to the wanton destruction and bullying that occurs in schools and of which decent well-behaved pupils have to put up with.  Andrew and Shell spoke about some of the goings on at school of which education chiefs refuse to acknowledge.  I heard tales of unruly classes, where kids get away with: chucking screwed up messages such as f…off at the teacher, stealing chocolate from a locked drawer and remaining undetected, arguing with teachers, refusing to do their work, falling asleep in class [of which some teachers are also guilty], using fowl language such as “shut the f…up” and widespread unyielding molestation – during playtimes and after school.  Andrew used to return with filthy clothes.  I once had to wash his uniform daily.  Shell frequently came home with blobs of school dinner down her cardi.  Andrew would tell me that thugs and idiots dragged him through the mud.  Shell said there were always some kids chucking food around the dining room and that she and her pal were caught in the firing line.  I’d go to the school to confront various authority figures [most of whom represented ostriches] and was told ever so politely and pompously that, “Our school does not have a problem with bullying; we do not tolerate it; we have suitable combating measures” and “Food is not thrown at lunchtimes – the children are supervised effectively.”  I once questioned officials about the disappearance of my daughter’s coat and on another occasion, her watch, to be disdainfully informed “We do not have thieves here,” to which I retorted “Oh yes you do.”  In exasperation I would tell Andrew and Shell to give the bullies “what for back.”  So they did and together with their mates, the good guys were dumped in detention.  And what about the perpetrators?  Well they were let off – scotfree of course because they said they “didn’t do it.”  So school bullies learn that their behaviour is tolerated when they are kids and nothing is going to stop them when they reach adulthood either.  The good ones learn injustice in school and experience it in society and throughout their lives.

The kids and I have always been close and able to talk openly about virtually everything and anything.  I do not censor their TV viewing [unless it is porn] because I think it is useful to be aware of the harsh realities of life.  I encourage them to view programmes such as Crimewatch and also documentaries – most of which portray violence and injustice.  I let them watch horror movies because many are based on real-life stories and I’d rather they be aware of and wise to mankind’s evil doings than innocent, naïve and thus victimized.  The news is practically dominated by crime in one form or another, which prompts many of our peptalks and discussions.  I’m always on at the kids not to trust strangers or to be impressed or taken in by others who may have only harmful intent.  Periodically we watch ‘999’ survival programmes, which help me refresh my memory of steps to take in an emergency and for the purpose of teaching the kids in case I ever need first aid!  [They know how to turn off the electric and gas and how to call for urgent help.]  Some excellent programmes such as Panorama reveal the truth regarding many world issues which disturbingly disclose the corruption, incompetence, abuse of power, arrogance and greed that some of our politicians and leaders are shamefacedly guilty of.  

The kids and I frequently discuss the importance of doing the right thing, always standing up for what you believe in and sticking firmly to your principles.  We chat about the value of honesty and strength of character.  I admit to them that I’m only just finding the strength now to do what’s right and that I’ve been indecisive and intimidated in the past.  I’m riddled with guilt; that I put them through the torment of him and his overbearing family and I tell them so. But they light-heartedly insist that I must not worry and that “everything’s fine now.”  I tell them not to make the same mistakes as me [I remember my mum telling me the same thing] and that I hope they’ll be better than me – more successful, cleverer, stronger, happier and better at forming relationships.  They reply, “We think you’re perfect – the best mum ever” and “We love you just the way you are.”  Such reassuring words give me a lump in my throat, hope and the will to carry on.  I really pray though that they haven’t been damaged by the destruction they endured.  Thank God they had the sense to scarper from under his feet when he was in vile mood.  Of course he did have his good moments and he did occasionally take my kids fishing, but that loving good-natured side of him did become more infrequent as time passed. 

We were all subject to his outbursts of ugly brutality.  Andrew and Shell have witnessed shocking scenes of violence unleashed by him.  On one awful occasion [when I was nine months pregnant] he horrifically attacked Andrew during a drunken binge.  He forcefully hurled Andrew into a door and wall just because Andrew had carried tales to me about him.  Then he threw my son into the fireplace, banging his head repeatedly on the stone surround.  Andrew suffered a large lump on his head and emotional trauma.  We fled that night, but soon returned because of the imminent birth and because he solemnly swore never to lay one finger on any of my kids ever again.  Thankfully after that episode I didn’t see him smack the kids but he did often growl at them.  He also once lay a heavy dining table on top of Shelly whilst she slept; this was after he’d yelled at her to get to bed and had not allowed her to kiss me goodnight.  There was also the time when, in a temper, he threw Andrew’s shoe outside – it was never recovered.   The on-off pattern of our relationship was set.  I was reluctant to end it conclusively because I was simply too terrified to leave.  I worried about the threatened repercussions and so I desperately tried to keep the status quo.  Gareth’s daughter also witnessed his vehemence and has even seen him strike his own face to make it look as if he had been attacked.  She has not been on the receiving end of his wrath to the same extent as the lads but has suffered emotionally as a result of her father’s possessiveness and tyrannical behaviour.  Consequently she used to unburden her frustrations on Andrew and Shell.  At times I’ve even had to stand in front of Gareth’s own son to stop him savagely kicking and punching him.  No wonder he ran away from home – three times that I know of.  

I must admit I did believe that the kids’ submissive and obedient behaviour in his presence was a sign of respect for their step-dad to be and I was thankful as it made my job of disciplining them so much easier.  But looking back on it all now, I’m horrified and ashamed to realise that I misconstrued the seemingly kind and necessary chastisement.  He overplayed the castigation – it was abuse.  He was in fact little more than a tyrant, dictator and bully to them.  They were oppressed, helpless and in despair at times.  Only now when we discuss that family is it becoming evident just how much they did despise, hate and fear him.  I hope time and talk will help ease their pain.  They do seem to be a bit more ‘normal’ now, more outspoken and cheeky even.  In fact I now have to force myself to resist the temptation to reprimand them with,  “Don’t speak to me like that – you wouldn’t dare if Gareth was here.”

Children have a right to free speech, to be treated fairly and to feel angry.  Children are truth.

After lunch the babies took their nap, Shell began keyboard practice and Andrew nipped to the corner shop.  I momentarily let down my guard, didn’t check the front door - and there he was, peering in at me.  I startled and he started his usual pleas of forgiveness.  He swore he’d never bark at me again, let alone strike me, and he begged me for “just one last chance.”  “Get lost,” I said, followed by, “I don’t suppose you thought to bring back the things you stole and my other belongings and dad’s ladders.  Why did you take Shell’s birthday pressie and money or are you going to deny it?”  “Sorry,” he said, and, “I don’t know why I took it – I promise to return everything.”  “Why tell me such whopping lies?”  I asked.  “I’ve been finding out things.”  “I don’t lie all the time,” he whimpered.  “What the hell are you doing continually driving past at all hours and snooping around my house, and why do you involve your daughter in your relentless manic mission?  She is sixteen; let her go and get a life of her own,” I urged.  “I’ve only been down your road a couple of times and if I want to park outside your house, and fix my car there, you can’t stop me,” came the reply.  He continued, “Let me see my kids.  I’m their daddy – they need me.  You have them for a week and so on.  You can’t stop me seeing them.  You always said you wouldn’t deny me my kids.” 

“Hang on a minute,” I replied, “I used to say that ages ago – before I realised just how irresponsible and dangerous you are.  You are totally dependent on the bottle.  You drink all day – often into oblivion.  You lose your rag so easily and just lash out and you are a control freak.  You are using the babies as an excuse to carry on manipulating me.  You are a compulsive liar and a schizophrenic.  How could I trust you?  You never looked after Jordan or Melissa before.  You did very little with either of them.  Why now?  You never changed Mel.   I could count the times on one hand that you changed Jordan.  I’d ask you to check on the babies but you’d say that you couldn’t be bothered and that it was my job.  You never once got up to either of them at night – the booze knocked you out cold.  You always insisted I take the babies everywhere with me.  You admitted you haven’t got any patience with them and that you are incapable of caring for them.  You are too self-centred, vindictive and violent.  You’ve done absurd things under drink.  You’ve threatened to shoot me, Andrew and Shell.  You are irrational and insane.  How do I know that you won’t get stressed out with Jordan and Mel and hit out at either of them or worse…. just to get me back?  You’ve threatened revenge anyway you know how and you know the only way you could ever hurt me is via any of my kids.  From what I’ve seen of your venomous behaviour lately and in recent months, you are capable of ANYTHING.  You are like a demon possessed.  You’ve got some damned nerve coming here demanding to see Jordan and Melissa when you didn’t care about them one iota before.  In fact you proved that Jordan is of little importance to you when you rammed him in his pram into me – causing cuts, bruising and swelling on my ankles and Jordan to scream hysterically; and all because you’d unjustifiably worked yourself up into a jealous rage. Or have you forgotten that day?  We’re not talking about dolls here you know.”  

To which he announced, “Right, I’ll see you in court.  I’ll be getting custody of Jordan and Melissa and you will never see them.  You are an alcoholic, an unfit mother, a thief, prostitute…. I will see to it that Gaven gets your two little brats too.  By the time the court has heard exactly what you are and what you’ve done, you’ll be banned from seeing any of your kids.”  I retorted, “The court will also know what a bare-faced liar you are.”  To which he snarled, “Prove it – your word against mine.”  I shut the door in his face.  He pushed the letterbox open and bellowed, “And you’re a f…ing little shit-headed lesbian.  I’ll be round later to snatch my kids and I’m going to kill you.”   Eventually he left.  I was unnerved.

That raving lunatic is at it again.  He’s driven past about twenty times tonight.  That’s a bit of an improvement on last night.  I wonder if that is a sign he might concede.  I wish!  Then my confident front quickly turned to doubt.  Why won’t he leave me alone?  What’s the point in driving past and loitering?  What the hell’s he going to do next?

OCTOBER 11^TH 1998

Car boot day today.  The place was heaving – I could only stomach it for half an hour.  Managed to pick up some baby books for Jordan – five for forty pence – not bad.  Andrew and Shell took off on their own, disappeared into the masses and resurfaced a couple of hours later.  They’ve now got their eyes on various items: radios, tape recorders, torches, batteries, and the like.  However, on account of the fact that their weekly pocket money is no king’s ransom, the question of Christmas was swiftly brought to the fore.  They decided that as they no longer believe in Santa, would it be ok if they had money this year so that they could buy their own Christmas presents.  My reply was, “Oh, so how long have you been pretending to believe that this generous guy Santa exist?”  “A few years but we didn’t want to tell you because we thought we wouldn’t get anything,” came the reply.  I thought about their proposition and figured it did make sense especially as the dilemma of what to buy them is just one big headache for me.  They said they wanted to buy things from the car boot sale because they’d get more than if things were bought new from a shop. “Fair reasoning,” I thought.  “Ok, here’s the deal,” I said.  “You can have a few quid every other week to spend but you give me everything you’ve bought so that I can keep it for you until Christmas.  The total you can have is sixty pounds – that is thirty pounds from me and the thirty pounds that you always get from granddad.”  Then I said, “Aw, what the heck, you might as well keep and use what you buy now – no point in saving it until Christmas when you know exactly what you’ve got.” Then I added, “But don’t expect anything else on the day – because I just can’t afford it.”  They were well pleased with the offer and began to plan their future produce.

In the afternoon, the idiot fronted up again.   I ignored the doorbell and tapping on the glass and figured he’d eventually get fed-up with a zero response and just clear off.  Next minute though, he pushed open the letterbox and boomed, “Why won’t you answer me?  You’ve got a bloke in there, haven’t you?  Your neighbours told me you’ve been seeing someone else.  So that’s why you dumped me – isn’t it?  Well you’d better keep him away from my kids – or else.”  “GO AWAY,” I screamed in exasperation at him.  “There is no-one else here except me and the kids.  As if I’d have the time or the energy even if I did have the interest – which I don’t.  Right now the kids are my full-time commitment.  I have very little time for me.  Now sod off and don’t bother me again,” I ordered, as fear and loathing began to overwhelm me.

After what seemed like an eternity of nonsense, he went and in desperation I rang Women’s Aid.  I was shaking and crying.  “I don’t know what to do,” I babbled, “he won’t stay away.  He comes around; he drives down my road at all hours, every day.  He won’t accept it’s over. He parks on my road and stands peering down my drive and at my house.  I’m really worried he may come around one day all tanked up and in a desperate mood – he might kick the door in and carry out his heinous threats.  I’ve never been in this type of situation before and I feel so insecure and unsure of myself and how to deal with what’s happening.  He’s sapping all my inner strength.” 

The reassuring voice on the other end explained that this was typical harassment and that it could continue unabated for months, years even, as has happened to some women.  She said that the world is full of arrogant male chauvinists whose main occupation is to control and intimidate women. But they do retreat when they know they’re not getting the desired response - of mainly fear and surrender.  She asked if I could move away for a while – just to let the dust settle; but that was not an option.  She offered me and the kids refuge at the aid centre, but I politely declined.  “Why should I let him bully me out my home?”  “The only other alternative,” she advised, “is to lock and chain-lock your doors and windows and to phone the police every time he comes to your house, then he will know that you really mean what you say.”  She added, “Carry around a burglar alarm with you so that if he bothers you in the street, you can activate it in his face.  Also, scream your head off  – he’ll probably leg it. And see your solicitor about an injunction.  Oh and above all else, remove that power from him; he no longer has any over you.  You’ve left him; you do not intend to return to him – ever.  Get that message across to him – by not communicating with him in anyway.” 

I thanked her for her enlightening words and for my new found positive attitude.  Thank goodness for organisations like Women’s Aid.  I reasoned to myself that moving away did seem a welcoming proposition and a solution but it would only be temporary and that’s like trying to run away from the problem, which is a sign of weakness and renunciation.  I’m not going to give him and his family the satisfaction.

My heart felt lighter.  I found myself singing as I got the babies up from their nap.  Jordan and Melissa responded with shrieks of delight.   Melissa received her milk first.  She snuggled up to me and guzzled to her heart’s content while Jordan perched himself on the couch next to me and fixed his gaze on his teletubby tape.  He loves the theme tune and the little blonde baby with the big blue eyes whom he bears a striking resemblance to.  When Melissa had finished I lay her on her baby quilt on the floor.  She kicked and punched the air and chortled with glee when Shell appeared and amused her.  Andrew and Shell think the world of their baby siblings and are a big help to me with them.

I left the two girls frolicking.  Andrew was busy in his bedroom gathering some items for his science lesson.  His class are apparently doing a project on electricity and have been asked to produce: batteries, torches, wires and the like.  Andrew’s taking his circuit board in too.  Jordan followed me into the kitchen to ‘help’ make tea.  He is like a little lamb following me everywhere.  It feels like I have a miniature shadow that grunts and babbles.  I can’t even sit on the loo in peace because a little blonde head almost always pokes itself around the door to peer at me!

Decisions, decisions – what to have for tea tonight?  I remember when I used to enjoy cooking.  I used to spend ages in the kitchen just preparing one meal!  I’d have my head stuck in a cookery book and I’d enjoy experimenting with ‘cordon bleu’.  But that was all before the kids came along, in the days when I used to impress my boyfriends with my gourmet dinners.

Nowadays I spend ages in the kitchen just plodding through three basic meals a day – what with preparing, eating, feeding and washing up.  It is a rare luxury now if I get to sit down and eat a meal uninterrupted.  I figure if I manage to include the necessary daily nutrients that are contained in: milk, eggs, cheese, yoghurt, rice, pasta, potato, wholemeal bread, cereals, meat, fish, beans, fruits, salads and veg in as simply prepared and as appetising a meal as possible then I’m on the right tracks.  So tonight we’ll have one of Andrew’s favourites – mashed spuds mixed with cauli and sprinkled with cheese, sausages and baked beans.  Followed by bananas and custard.