DECEMBER
DECEMBER 1ST 1998
Mandy dropped in on me this morning. She’s full of beans because she’s now dating someone who’s ‘really
nice’. I’m happy for her. Deep
down I’m a little envious. Despite my resolute ‘front’, I’d
really love one day to find my ‘soul mate’ – if he exists! But
right now I don’t have the time, energy or desire to meet someone and anyway I’m scared stiff of blokes. Sometimes I look at couples and think that they’re lucky because they seem so
‘together’ and then I remember that Gareth and I used to stroll down the streets in just the same way –
hand in hand and all lovey dovey. I gaze beyond the façade and wonder how many
couples are in denial, leading tormented lives behind closed doors. I’d
love to be a fly on the wall in some people’s houses!
This afternoon the kids and I were
busy making an ear trumpet as part of our study of sound. We found that our paper
cone served two purposes: when we spoke into the narrow end our voices were amplified and when the narrow end was placed into
the ear we discovered that sounds became louder. We found out that this was because,
in the second case, the trumpet collects sounds and directs them into the ear and in the first case, the sound energy from
us was more concentrated because sound wasn’t being lost so quickly.
During our experiment, we noticed
some shifty looking characters shinning up the drainpipes of the dwelling opposite.
One by one all eight of them scrambled up and clambered through an upstairs window.
Seconds later one of them emerged clutching a wad of ten-pound notes in his fist.
Suspicions compounded, Shell alerted police with a very impressive and detailed account of the dubious goings on just
witnessed. Police duly arrived and made their ‘investigations’ but,
and just as before, insisted that the incident was innocent and that nothing improper was going on. Bewildered, I reiterated our observations and pointed out that since rumour is ripe regarding drug abuse
at that house, the youths must be dealing the stuff. But police weren’t
interested, made their excuses and left, leaving me in a state of confusion and shock.
They’d had such a complacent dismissive and aloof attitude that was just beyond comprehension. It was obvious they just wanted an easy life. I questioned
the purpose of our police force. Were they a tourist attraction? - A body of
society in limbo? - A theatrical organisation? - A crime enhancer?
DECEMBER 2ND 1998
I received a letter this morning from
his lordship’s solicitor threatening legal action against me! My crime? Harassment of him by me via police! Oh that’s just ruddy typical innit? I
know for a fact that if the boot was on the other foot and I’d been doing to Gareth and his family what he’s done
unto us, I’d have been arrested long ago, lobbed into some form of penal
institution or asylum, and consigned to oblivion. It’s still a man’s
world alright; of that I am convinced.
In the evening I let the kids roller
blade just outside our house while I cast my beady eye on them from the living room window.
After a while I bimbled out to beckon them in, just at the same time as my neighbour was hailing her’s. We exchanged niceties for ten minutes or so then both of us stood dumb like goldfish
as he drove past us. Bold as you like,
he wound his window down and in a sickeningly sweet tone asked after my health.
It was mindless provocation. I did not respond, partly because I was stunned
into silence and also because I wasn’t going to give the crank the satisfaction. Eventually my neighbour passed a comment
on his gall. Then he did it again. He
pulled up to inform me that it was “cold out tonight,” chillingly followed by “I’ll be back later
to collect my babies – you’ll never see them again.” I made
a hasty retreat. Cowering behind the front door I dreaded his next move. We had no protection. The police had
proved themselves to be totally useless and we now existed on God’s good humour.
For the record I diarised the episode and the kids bravely announced that they’d keep vigil from the upstairs
bedroom.
The rest of the evening passed without
further ado, thank heavens, but I suffered another sleepless night. My mind raced
with the same unanswered questions – when’s he going to stop tormenting us?
What can I do to make him stop? Will we ever be able to relax again –
safe in the knowledge that he won’t hurt us?
What if I get ill with stress – who will look after my children then? Will
there ever be light at the end of the tunnel?
DECEMBER 3RD 1998
I unloaded some of my problems on
the phone to dad this morning. He too was incensed at that pot-bellied pillack’s
antics, but agreed that short of confronting him with a baseball bat and sledgehammer [or paying someone else to do the dirty
deed] there was sweet nothing we could do about him. He hoped the justice system would eventually bring relief and decided that it was about time he sued the
slug to try and recoup some of his two and a half grand.
Andrew and Shelly announced that they
no longer fear Gareth, that his bullying has gone on long enough and that they are now declaring all-out war against him as
of today. On querying what they had in mind and if they had a plan of attack,
I learned that they’d spy from the bedroom windows at various times throughout the evening and if Gareth was spotted
lurking in our back yard then they would fire arrows at him. But they wouldn’t
use the flimsy plastic toy variety that leaps pathetically off its bow, they’d be making their own precision-aimed lethal
weapon – a long bamboo stick with a nail fixed to one end. Oh and they’d
also catapult stones at him – just for good measure. I was horrified and
although I admired their fighting spirit and chivalrous intentions, I worried about them using illegal, dangerous and offensive
weapons. They did have a point tho when they remarked that Gareth did not obey
the law, that he has inflicted physical harm on all of us and that he continues to hound us, make evil threats and terrorize. Also, that police are scandalously inadequate, that I have a right to protect my property
and family and that there are no other options available to us short of surrender or suicide.
Their argument had substance. Why should we have to put up with being
prisoners in our own home? And why do we have to suffer because that worm has
a license to do to us whatever he pleases? I swiftly gave my kids’ idea
my support. In fact I was so proud of them, that they had such spunk, that I
found myself grinning like a Cheshire cat.
DECEMBER 4TH 1998
The annual epistle of glad tidings
looms menacingly towards us. I decided to write out my obligatory messages of goodwill.
But just as I was about to connect pen with crimbo card, I pondered the consequences of not sending any…. not
one chrissy card out. After all I didn’t enjoy scrawling those silly festive
notes. I positively loathed the job. What’s
the point in buying loads of daft cards with santas and other convivial characters leering from the forefront and sending
greetings of goodwill to people I rarely, if ever, see, let alone give a fig for? Is
it to symbolize one’s popularity? Might as well buy a box and send the
contents to myself – with various transcribes of love and wit from fictitious friends, family and…. Or stick last
year’s collection back up! I used to worry in case I’d forgotten
someone. I’d panic when I couldn’t find someone’s address or
when I wasn’t sure of their children’s names or in fact how many kids they had now! I used to get annoyed when I received a card from an unexpected source…. because it was too late
to send one back. But not any more. Triviality
and cumbersomeness no longer exist in my little world. This is a bold new me.
The way I see it Christmas is a pretty
damned miserable time anyway. It’s a time for indulgence and for being
ill and hung-over, for being conned and broke, for family tensions and divorce proceedings, for suffering at the hands of
excessive revellers and for pretending…. So I did the most extraordinary thing.
I actually dared to flout tradition! I did not send out one Christmas
card – not one. And what an immense feeling of power I felt. The buzz was exhilarating. I did however fear an almighty
backlash from the kids, but I needn’t have. They didn’t care much
for Christmas cards either – considered them a waste of time and money. But
they did care about the tree going up and the Christmas decorations and having some good grub – not turkey and Christmas
pud, but chocolates and biscuits and log!
The evening passed quite peacefully. Andrew and Shell spied sporadically from their bedroom windows. They reported that he had driven past half a dozen times or
so but that’s all.
DECEMBER 5TH 1998
Jordan threw a king-sized wobbly this
morning. I’d planned a visit to the market and was racing to accomplish
the trip before the weather changed – high winds and rain were forecast. But Jordan had other ideas. He was busy organising the teddy bear’s tea party. And
that was one hell of an undertaking. After the zillionth time of yelling him,
I impatiently took hold of his hand and insisted that we have to go NOW. Well
that was it! All hell broke loose. He
took in a mega-lungful of air and let out a never-ending continuous mega-shrill, at the same time as collapsing on the floor
to roll and lash about in blind fury. Such passion was incredible! I’d never seen anything like it. He was like a child
possessed. He was inconsolable and I felt dumbstruck and horror-stricken. I tried to restrain him but he just howled and thrashed all the more. So I walked away and left him to it. Then the little horror
shut up. I glanced at him to find him sneaking a peek at me! I then walked back to him but he again erupted in fury. So
I walked out of the room, slumped onto the floor and sobbed my heart out. My
mind was racing. Was this the start of some disturbing, damaging behaviour? How was I going to manage this problem? I
don’t remember Andy and Shell ever getting that worked up. What have I done to make him so angry and frustrated? He’s
troubled…. Why? What if he does it outside? I’ll be reported. Oh God. Oh no…. No…. No….
Next minute, in toddled a little blonde chap all meek and mild, with tears streaming down his face, red cheeks, quivering
lips, snotty nose and a pitiful “m m m mmmm” whimper. He stretched
his arms out to me and looked down. I pulled him to me, cuddled him close and
we snivelled together; him with his wet nose and face buried in my neck and me with tears dribbling into his hair. After a few minutes we were both fine and all was forgotten. We
didn’t get to the market tho!
This afternoon I told the kids they
could read up on anything they wanted – as long as it was from the science encyclopaedia. Andrew began to study the planets, which led us all to discussing their sizes and distances from the sun. Shell asked how fast we whizz around that big ball of fire. I told her I hadn’t got a clue but that we could try to work it out.
This led to us having an impromptu maths lesson on circles and pi.
In the evening the kids went on guard
duty upstairs and reported back that everything was as it should be; that we’d had no visitors.
DECEMBER 8TH 1998
The vigilantes were at work. At about 9.00 pm Andy virtually flew down the stairs with Shell in hot pursuit. They were so full of themselves that they were almost incoherent, but the gist of
their euphoria was victory. Revenge was so sweet and satisfying and they’d
had a glorious taste of it tonight. Before they revealed the gory details, I
tested the authenticity. I heard their account of the drama separately so that
I could compare each version. I was astonished to find that their stories matched
completely. They’d spied from Jordan’s room. Gareth had appeared from over the wall. He’d tiptoed
up to my kitchen window, pressed his nose against the glass pane, cupped his hands by his eyes to aid his vision and had stood
peeping for a few seconds. Andrew had held his breath, taken aim and fired his
‘spear’. The missile had struck Gareth in the ribs momentarily before
dropping onto the floor. The snooper let out a startled anguished cry, looked
up at the window to see two kids splitting their sides. He’d clutched his
wound and fled. Andrew said the look of shock and agony on Gareth’s face
made him feel like all his Christmases had come at once. Shell said she felt
“on top of the world.” I was gob smacked, exuberant and anxious all
in one. For a second I wondered if such resourceful kids were mine! Maybe this tactic would work. I actually began to feel relief
and optimism; and it was all because of my little soldiers.
DECEMBER 9TH 1998
Dad gave a bit of a chuckle when he
learned of his grandchildren’s aggression and he agreed that the only way to deal with Gareth’s type is to fight
fire with fire.
This afternoon Andy and Shell got
stuck into their maths books. Shell seemed determined to give incomplete answers
– she’d forget to put pounds or metres or whatever it was and I had to repeatedly prompt her with: ten what? Bananas? Penguins? What? She also had some trouble remembering what a cylinder
looked like so I told her to think of toilet rolls.
This evening the kids set ‘traps’
out. They tied fishing line onto rocks, which balanced precariously at various
points dotted around the yard. They also resumed nightly guard duty.
DECEMBER 10TH 1998
I bumped into my old school pal this
morning while trying to dodge the throng of Christmas shoppers. Karen is one
of those rare breeds who has been happily married for eighteen years. I know
because I was her chief bridesmaid and I got her and her hubby Duncan together. They
have three boys. She patiently listened to my ‘anti-men’ chit chat
– my belief that virtually all men have hang ups, that they’ve been abused as children and that their mothers
did a bad job of raising them! Then we moved on to the topic of kids. I told her that I was so pleased that Jordan no longer bangs his head and that he sleeps contentedly through
the night. I passed a remark that I should’ve left that b…. steward ages ago.
Karen said that she’d heard that it is quite common for young children to head bang when a new baby brother or
sister comes on the scene. I told her that the H/V had told me the same thing
and that the advice is to give the older child a bit more attention and they soon grow out of it. Since Jordy no longer head bangs I’m pretty sure that his behaviour had a lot to do with Gareth,
or maybe pud was just picking up on the tensions between us. Jordy seems ok now
though. Thank God.
The kids repeated last night’s
routine – but all was quiet in the back yard.
DECEMBER 11TH 1998
Dad dropped in this morning with some
cake for the kids. It had been sent from his girlfriend. There was also an invitation
for the kids to accompany them to a Christmas panto. This all seemed a touch
‘heavy’ to me. I asked dad if he had ‘serious’ intentions
with this woman. His reply? “Good
God, no.” “In that case,” I informed him, “I’m
not particularly fussed at playing ‘happy families’ – count us out.
I can’t be doing with any more complications.” “Fair
point,” came the reply.
This evening the traps were set and
the kids were busy at work. At about 10.00 pm [ish], Shell’s bedroom erupted
in exaltation. Apparently Shell had scored a direct hit on the trespasser’s
rump with her catapulted rock as Gareth Williams scrambled over our wall after he’d been loitering in the yard. I was surprised he’d visited again so soon.
Maybe he has masochistic leanings too!
DECEMBER 12TH 1998
It’s a pretty sick state of
affairs when you have to spend ages at your wheelie bin emptying the contents of the vac bag!
[The poverty status is etched also in the kitchen’s ‘no-frills’ produce, in the ketchup balancing
precariously on its head, in the second-hand furniture and in the kids’ ‘hand-me-downs’.] My neighbour opposite noticed me fighting with the dust bag and bolted over to tell me her news. She said that she and her daughter had been kept awake all night because of the goings on at the ‘junkie’
house next door to her. The party goers/dealers had been discussing prices and
types of illegal produce. They’d boasted of call-girl dalliances and they’d
cockily counted out wads of tenners during exchanges. There was a constant “thud
thud thud” of their stereo and arguing, yelling and screaming of hysterical girls.
I asked what the police had done about it. She looked at me as if I’d
just flown in from Mars, told me to “get real” and declared it was a “complete and utter waste of time calling
those pathetic pen-pushers out because they just take notes and do precious little else.” She added, “They sound sympathetic and supportive on the phone but when they do show up they don’t
do anything.”
I sat on guard with the kids from
7.00 pm to 11.00 pm hoping for a glimpse of our perpetrator but there was no life out there.
Not a dickie bird – all night.
DECEMBER 13TH 1998
The kids decided that they’d
like to go fishing. Andrew remembered that this time last year he was catching
Whiting galore off the pier and since he hadn’t been fishing since before we left Gareth, he reckoned it was time he
threw a line out again. But, horror of horrors, when he collected his fishing
kit from the shed, we were met with the most repugnant fishy odour imaginable and we discovered that his bag was crawling
with…. Maggots. I could’ve cheerfully strangled him. The idle oaf hadn’t bothered to dump his unused bait and clean his fishing tools; nor had he bothered
to take out his woolly hat and gloves and, as a result, there was life in the bag – hundreds of maggots, an inch long,
writhing in and around rotting mackerel, hooks and line and in his woollies! I
spent the next half hour in hysterics. I ranted and raved at Andrew and demanded
to know how many times he needed to be told to dump his unwanted bait and to clean up all his utensils after every fishing trip. I ended by giving him the glum news – that
he was now banned from fishing – FOREVER.
The kids kept their nightly vigil
but all was quiet in the great big outdoors.
DECEMBER 14TH 1998
The kids kept a beady eye on the outside
world but thankfully there was nothing to report. I was beginning to think he’d got the message and had decided to call a truce.
DECEMBER 15TH 1998
The first court hearing today. Shell accompanied the babies in nursery and Andrew tagged along with me to hold my
hand. It’s a flaming joke – he’s
taking me to court yet I’m landed with all the expense – of nursery fees and train fares! Can you imagine him making a contribution!!! Gareth Williams turned up with his alcohol dependent cousin and her unfortunate child – the one who
wants to come and live with me! In the waiting room I could sense his eyes on
me but I didn’t look at him - not once.
I wouldn’t give the git the satisfaction. My solicitor and his solicitor
bumbled off into another room for a periodic ‘tete a tete’. The devil’s
advocate and I were hauled in front of the resident welfare officer for a grilling as to why we couldn’t come to amicable
arrangements for the children. I lay my case down on the table and outlined my
genuine concerns; he constantly interrupted me with a blatant pack of vicious lies.
We were locked in a battle of words, both getting louder and more determined with each breath until the officer gave
up and turfed us out. Meanwhile the two kids quietly amused themselves with friendly
facial gestures and signals in a language that only children can comprehend. The
question of Christmas cropped up and I got pushed into allowing him to see the babies on Christmas eve in a supervised setting
– the church that he now attends regularly and where I once visited with him, in a vain bid to keep our relationship
intact and help him beat the booze. After a miserable three-hour wait, their
Royal Highnesses adjourned, pending a court welfare officer’s report.
The babies had a better day than me
and had soon settled down amongst their temporary new peers and carers. Shell
was their main carer and she even ended up entertaining a couple of other tots at times.
In fact it would seem that the proprietor and staff were so impressed at her maturity and competence and they were
pleased that she was there for the sake of her little siblings that they said she is welcome in the future without charge. How nice to have some positive feedback for a change and to be conversing with ‘ordinary’
down-to-earth folk. I feel so happy and relieved to have found somewhere I can
rely on to leave the kids on the occasions that I have to attend that unpleasant so-called seat of judgment and its associate
establishment – the court welfare office.
All was ‘normal’ beyond
the frontiers of my own little castle. The kids manned the bedroom windows and
I glanced apprehensively through the living room window.
DECEMBER 16TH 1998
GW came snooping around again tonight; only this time he got well and truly tangled up in the kids’ traps. The delay enabled Andrew to shoot two arrows at the beleaguered antagonist. According to the kids, both
spears caught Gareth fair and square in the chest but since he was wearing a thick coat, the darts soon fell out. The assault was effective tho; Gareth bellowed a string of vile obscenities, much to the ultimate pleasure
of Andrew and Shell.
DECEMBER 17TH 1998
We duly paid Santa a visit this morning,
in his grotto, in Safeways’ precinct. Jordan wasn’t impressed with
the whole charade and couldn’t wait to make a swift exit. Melissa too looked
on bemused. Andrew and Shell waited patiently for us amongst Santa’s throng
of nodding reindeers and cheerful snowmen. They declared that they were too big
to pay homage to this sacred spirit but asked if they could have the three quid entrance fee instead!
DECEMBER 18TH 1998
While leafing through the local rag
and slurping on my brew, I noticed that Cinderella was showing at the nearby theatre. Thinking the kids would be enthralled with the pleasures of a panto, I eagerly pointed
it out and suggested they go. But they just looked at each other and, in synchro,
screwed up their faces and shook their heads. Shell piped up ever so sweetly,
“Can we have the money though?”
During the evening the kids engaged
in guard duty as usual and, thankfully, reported back that all was well.
DECEMBER 19TH 1998
I spent two hours yakking on the phone
to my cousin Sian who now lives in Devon. We covered the cost of Christmas to
our late loved ones, to our loathed ex-partners. She is a similar boat to me
– a single mum and ‘divorced’ from a gambling, lying, womanising, control-freak of an ex. She passed a remark that almost all the mums at her son’s school have partners or ex-partners in
virtually the same category as our ex men – self centred b…. stds. She
asked how you know, when you’re dating, if you’ve got a good un – when men are so flippin’ clever
at hiding the bad bits about themselves. My answer? “Pass.”
This evening I’ve clamped down
on Andrew and Shelly. I’ve now banned them once and for all from eating
or drinking in the living room because there’s been some confusion lately, which leads to ‘hot heads’ all
round, as to if and when they are allowed refreshments in the lounge. I’ve
been laxi daisy lately and have sometimes allowed it but since Andrew knocked his
glass of blackcurrant flying [all over the carpet] and I discovered biscuit bits stuffed under the couch cushions, THAT’S
IT NOW! I wondered if I was being too hard on them but then I told myself that
they enjoy more luxuries than me, and that by being inconsistent, I was just making a massive rod for my own back.
DECEMBER 20TH 1998
The kids decided they wanted to go
carol singing [anything for money] but I was reluctant to allow it because of GW and all the other night gremlins. In the end I agreed to it but I warned them I’d be lurking in the background with the babies. I managed to persuade them to sing solo, reasoning that it would raise the odds of
them receiving money rather than a bucket of water. However despite their bravery
and half-decent singular efforts, every house occupant on four nearby streets either
[a] didn’t bother answering the door [b] grunted “get lost” or words to that effect or [c] appeared
attentive for one or two verses then declared that they had no change. So much
for Christmas bonhomie! An hour later and half a mile further, the kids’
spirits lifted as things started looking up and they began to reap their reward – ten pence at one house, twenty pence
at another; fifty pence even. They ‘robbed’ Lauri and Paddy of a
couple of quid and raided the pockets of my aunties – Marge and Margaret. I
enjoyed a large scotch in both households too, so all in all it was an enjoyable, productive evening. The kids had raised nearly twelve quid and I’d received some medicinal comforts plus some light-hearted
banter.
For the remainder of the evening the
kids took up their posts as night watchmen but had nothing to report.
DECEMBER 21ST 1998
A mother’s worst nightmare became
a reality for me today in Safeways. Jordan created ‘blue murder’
as we inched steadily through the masses of grocery shoppers. He got tired and
bored and began to lift tins of this and packets of that off the shelves. I firmly
but politely retrieved them and repeatedly told him “no.” Then he
just ‘snapped’, sent a mound of baked beans tumbling and spinning down the aisle into oblivion, and unleashed
a rip-roaring, incessant, attention-grabbing bellow. I could’ve died; I
could’ve killed him; I wanted the ground to swallow me up; but when I realised that it wasn’t going to, I scurried
around in blind confusion in a desperate bid to salvage the wayward beans. I
became acutely aware of the disapproving stares around me and hisses of “tut tut – she has no control over that
horrible little brat.” With head down and glaring pointedly at the little
blighter, I abandoned my shopping and made a hasty retreat whilst trying to tell myself that a huge percentage of the people
around me, at some time in their life, have experienced that dreaded public embarrassment of the toddler tantrum. However Jordan’s was a whopper and I couldn’t wait to get the little thug out of the shop. I willed myself to march straight home and told myself not to pay any further attention
to his shocking outburst, praying that he wouldn’t make a habit of such disruptive behaviour and would hopefully soon
learn that his unsociable antics weren’t that powerful or manipulative anyway,
so not to bother doing it again.
This evening Andrew and I stayed up
until the wee small hours watching The Omen.
I’d seen it three times before; knew exactly what was coming next, yet I still managed to jump and recoil in
horror at the appropriate parts! Afterwards, we were both reluctant to go to
bed. Much to my annoyance I found myself searching the house for…. I don’t
know what…. But I searched for ‘it’ anyway – all over the place!
Finally I convinced myself that it was ‘safe’ to retire. Andrew
pleaded to be allowed his bedroom light on; then he was certain he’d heard someone walking across the hall. I asked if he wanted to drag his mattress into my room and kip on the floor – just for tonight. He didn’t need asking twice!
DECEMBER 22ND 1998
I indulged in a Christmas rum and
coke whilst enjoying a two hour session of Anna Rayburn’s slot on Talk Radio. She has a lovely natural line of patter and brilliant advice. A lady came on the line with the dilemma of who to put first – her new boyfriend, who wanted her
to go away for Christmas or her son who did not want her to go because he didn’t want to be parked off onto rellies. Another woman phoned in with the advice that she should listen to her son because
“men come and go but your children are with you for life.” How profound. Then Anna advised another caller about how she should deal with the Local Education
Authority regarding problems with her son. She said, “Never get angry or
swear; remain cool, calm and dignified but get your point over clearly and simply and straightforwardly.” I shall have to remember that when dealing with the authorities.
It’s all too easy to ‘lose it’.
This evening that evil-minded manic
ex of mine came back for more! I was pottering around the living room when Andrew
flew down the stairs full of euphoria because he’d fired a missile at the slug and this time had managed to draw blood. Apparently Gareth had glanced up at the window to see Andrew poised with weapon, and
ready for the kill. The snooper had raised his hand to shield his ugly mug and
had received the implement directly into his flesh. He’s squealed and swore
and scurried off to sanctuary. The kids and I scrambled out after him and found
a gruesome trail of his blood. It did turn my stomach but maybe this time he’ll
get the message. I won’t be putting any bets on it though! Happy Christmas Gareth.
Later in bed my thoughts drifted to
mum. She told me ages ago to get rid of the beast but I never listened. She even warned me that it would be no easy task because she was so sure that he wouldn’t
let me go. How right she was. S’funny
how mums have these things sussed.
DECEMBER 23RD 1998
Well, that’s just ruddy typical! It’s Christmas and both babies are ill.
They spent all morning chucking up in synchro. I don’t know what
brought it on; there was no warning. Jordan sat on the couch and just spewed
up – all over himself, the cushions and the furniture. Melissa looked at
him and promptly brought up her breccy too. I didn’t know who to attend
to first. I opted for Jordan cos he was just about to leg it. I whipped his gear off and hauled him upstairs for a swift bath.
Thankfully Andrew and Shell were on hand to fetch and carry for me. Melly
followed him in. I then spent ages cleaning up the mess. Oh well the cushions needed doing anyway! I spent the rest
of the day with two babies at my side who were sucking on water and sat next to sick bowls.
They were still cheerful in between bouts of vomiting so I wasn’t unduly worried.
I told Andrew and Shell that if they
want to eat over Christmas they’d better go to the kwikie because I wouldn’t be doing any shopping with the babies
off colour. I gave them a list and a twenty-pound note and said they could use
a fiver of that on some treats for themselves – choccies, a log, Pringles or whatever.
They returned in a taxi with bags full of…. treats and about a fiver’s worth of items on the list! Good job I already have the turkey on the side defrosting.
DECEMBER 24TH 1998
Jordy and Melly are still off colour
and both have got raised temperatures, flushed faces and coughs. I called in
Dr Ratcliffe. Apparently ninety percent of Colwyn Bay are suffering from the
same bug. Does that mean everyone is tired, rundown and…. Stressed? Is that what xmas does to us all? I phoned
the church to explain that I wouldn’t be bringing Jordan and Melly and got into a half hour chat with one of the leaders
- Lorraine. I gave her some background of why I felt so strongly about refusing
GW contact and all the harassment we’ve had to put up with. She listened
in silence, then said that she was praying for us both. She told me he’s
a regular churchgoer now and quite popular with everyone. Thugs like him perfect
that art - of presenting their ‘Mr Nice Guy’ image to unsuspecting acquaintances and associates and managing to
turn all the blame onto their victim. I couldn’t help thinking cynically
that he was using these people just to get himself a good character reference to produce in court – just like he did
when his ex-wife left him; only then his admirable credentials were from the Dolgellau police, no less. And this was despite the fact that he is known to them as being a wife and child batterer and small-time
crook! I arranged to take the babies in two weeks time, all being well.
This afternoon Gaven turned up on
my doorstep to announce that he was going back to Australia to live. He offered
me a Kentucky – for old times’ sakes. But I politely declined. He gave Andrew and Shell some money in a crimbo card.
They mumbled their thank yous then made a swift exit upstairs. He then
told me that Gareth had visited him at his place of work a few times to tell him that Andrew and Shell are desperately unhappy
at home, that they want to live with their dad and that I beat them up and starve them.
He said that Gareth has been trying his best to persuade him to file for custody.
Apparently, his cousin had also phoned up and visited Gaven with the same vicious lies.
Fair dos tho, Gaven told him he was a liar, at which point Gareth [quite characteristically] turned nasty and insulting. “Desperate,” “despicable” and “scumbag” are not
strong enough words to describe Gareth Williams, whose sole purpose in life seems to be to execute venomous revenge on the
women who dump him. Maybe he is hitting back at his own mother who perhaps he
feels let him down big time.
After a few minutes, Gaven departed
and I poured myself a large brandy. Past thoughts came to the fore and began
to swirl depressively around in my head. I remember the phase Andrew and Shelly
went through when they were about five or six. They were stealing from me to
give to Gaven. I caught Andrew in my handbag with a ten-pound note in his fist. I remember food used to disappear from my freezer. I later learned that Gaven had
ordered Andrew and Shell to nick fish fingers and the like so that he could give
them their tea! I used to dread contact sessions.
The kids always returned hyped up, aggressive, hateful and tearful after every visit with Gaven. I needed the patience of a saint to cope with them. It is
a hard enough job bringing up kids single-handedly; it is intolerable when the father is a negative damaging influence on
the kids. Judging from the remarks of many mothers I speak to, the need for women’s
refuge centres and the growing trend in domestic violence, I am not alone. It
is clearly evident that many fathers do not have their child’s best interests at heart or any interest whatsoever in
the child; many are simply using their kids as weapons to hit back at the wives/girlfriends who find the courage to leave
their bad relationships.
It is a disturbing form of harassment
and continued child abuse, unrecognised by the courts and shamefully not acknowledged until a child is a certain age at which
point irreversible damage has often been done to the child. It is appalling that
children who suffer at the hands of violent parents [usually fathers] are then further abused by a ‘judge’ who
forces those children to spend time with the person who has violated them - who has: kicked, punched and beaten them and sent
them to hell and back for the best part of their lives. They say it is “in
the child’s best interests.” The other scandal is that many of these
so-called judges and other highly respected figures of society are guilty of wife and child abuse, but their crimes are shamefully
covered up because of their ‘status’. Who’s going to listen
to a woman or kid against a judge? It is no surprise that evil is escalating.
After tea, I seasoned the festive
bird and slapped it in the oven; then I supped some sparkling wine while I soaked in the bath.
Dad is spending the holiday period in Turkey! with a group of bridge friends.
He took a bridge holiday last Christmas too. I reckon he just doesn’t
want to be at home now that mum has passed on to the higher realms. Andrew and
Shell sat glued to the goggle box. They swigged shandy and stuffed their faces
with chocolate and crisps.
At midnight they opened their Christmas
parcel – a sock each containing edible luxuries including, of course, a mars bar each.
For as long as I can remember, every Christmas, mum used to fill stockings up for my brother Malcolm and me. They would be overflowing with chocolate bars and novelties; and hidden right at the bottom would be [without
fail]…. a mars bar each. That touching little gesture was poignant because
it was carried on from her childhood Christmases where she received a stocking containing a mars bar [a real treat in those
days] plus an apple and an orange and a banana and the same doll that was given each Christmas dressed up in a new outfit
that my nan had knitted. The difference was that mum and her brothers and sister
got nothing else whereas my brother and I were spoiled with sacks full of toys, games, books etc. I reminded Andrew and Shell that they’d had their Christmas gift – cash. We hugged and kissed each other, wished each other happy Christmas and then helped ourselves to turkey
butties.
I later dozed off recollecting my
happy childhood Christmases. Malcolm and I were always asked to work the bank
holidays at the zoo. We’d hike up there at 6.00 am and do the necessary
day’s work in the locust room in less than half the time. The boss would
bring us a mince pie, a glass of shandy and triple pay, then we’d run home at about 10.00 am, clean up and open all
our pressies. Mum would make us a scrumptious Christmas dinner and we’d
all laze about for the rest of the day.
DECEMBER 25TH 1998
The babies are still off colour. They tried breccy but after a couple of spoons full, pushed their bowls away. They weren’t deterred from inspecting their sacks of toys though and squealed
in delight at their collection of: cars, beakers, teddies, shape sorters etcetera. [It
didn’t worry them that most of it was bought at car boot sales.]
I busied myself in the kitchen. Andrew and Shell wanted just turkey and mash with cauli plus gravy – without
all the frills. I grinned whilst listening to Nancy Roberts on Talk Radio telling a caller “I never leave the house – I tell my husbands to get out.” My thoughts drifted to mum. I had planned
to visit her at the crematorium but it was out of the question now. She used
to visit her mum there at special times throughout the year without fail so I suppose I was trying to keep up the tradition. Last Christmas I stood at her gravestone with the kids and my now loathed ex. I had been stony-faced and close to tears when suddenly, Jordan who had been in my
arms, giving me a bear hug and also looking solemn, broke into a huge smile for no apparent reason. His whole face lit up and his little body sprang upright as if he was preparing to jump into someone else’s
arms. Gareth had remarked in utter amazement, “Your mother is here with
us right now, but only Jordan can see her and she is making him laugh.” I
immediately thought that he was a sentimental nitwit but then I allowed myself to consider the remotest possibility that he
could be right; after all who really knows? I visualised the grave that I’d
seen of a baby near to mum’s. It brought a lump to my throat and my insides
sobbed for its parents.
DECEMBER 26TH 1998
Called the doctor again today. He said not to worry that Jordan and Melly aren’t eating as long as they are
taking fluids. Because Melly hasn’t suckled, my breasts are now swollen
and gorged and I’m doubled up in agony. I must’ve picked up their
bug too because I spent all evening chucking up. I dragged myself off to bed
at a respectable 9.00 pm, convinced that sleep would cure all ills but it eluded me cos I was so tense with pain and sickness. After much tossing and turning, I eventually resorted to doing something that I’d
been too busy to do lately and hadn’t felt the need to do – meditation.
It was something that I used to do quite often because it totally relaxed me.
It removed any type of bodily discomfort and tension and completely moved my mind on to a totally new plane –
a different level of consciousness. My theory is that if I can deeply relax my
mind and body, my natural bodily defences will find it easier to defeat any invasion of disease and thus the process of fighting
and beating illness is quicker. This is because my body’s little warriors
are in a stress-free zone, have no worries about being overwhelmed with an intolerable workload and are thus strong and powerful. It usually works after a bit of perseverance.
It always helps me get a good night’s sleep and I love the sensation of the various natural bodily reactions
that occur when I get into this deep state of tranquillity. Sometimes I have
feelings of pins and needles all over, sometimes I feel as if I’m levitating and floating around the room. Most of the time my head becomes crystal clear and I get the feeling that it will burst at any moment. I began to concentrate on…. nothing. It’s a technique that I’ve
perfected and is right for me. Some people suggest another method - of imagining
that a brilliant white light is entering your body through your forehead and is filling you up until it spills out into the
room and into the atmosphere so that you and your surroundings become one mass of blinding light. My thoughts turned blank, my head cleared, my body relaxed and I succumbed to blissful sleep.
DECEMBER 27TH 1998
Andrew and Shelly have now come down
with the bug and both look like death warmed up. The babies are still ailing
and I’ve had the occasional bout of retching, but I’m not unduly worried; I
know that it’s just a temporary, annoying blip. I have to cope; there is
no one to look after me. Despite all the work and worry though, I’d die
without the kids. I cannot understand why people have such a lowly opinion of
women who are mere mums. Raising kids is THE most important and worthwhile job
there is. Just look at all the consequences if mothers get it wrong. I feel so loved and blessed simply because I am the mother of my kids.
DCEMBER
31ST 1998
Andrew
and Shell spent their chrissy money on second hand bikes but before I allowed them to go off cycling, I drilled them on the
rules: they are not allowed to cycle on the pavement or roads, they must push their bikes to the promenade and ride on the
cycle track only. They are allowed to go as far as Old Colwyn in one direction
or Rhos-On-Sea in the other, but no further. I reminded them that I’d be
nipping out later to spy on them and that if I caught them breaking the rules, the bikes would go back to the shop.
It’s
new-years eve and Jasper Carrott is taking the p…. out of me. He’s
looking at me from the focal point in the corner of my living room and he’s taunting, “Yes, you know who you are
sat there in your armchair feeling lonely and miserable…. Clutching at your glass of festive spirit and pretending to
be having fun. No-one stays in on new years eve – except you.”
