FEBRUARY
FEBRUARY 1ST 1999
I discovered that one of my pipes
had been yanked off the wall. That cockroach can just keep on coming here and
doing what the hell he pleases! What if I went sniffing around his place and
just pulled a couple of pipes down or sprayed blobs of blue paint over his rhododendrons?
He’d half kill me; that’s what.
The scumbag has been crawling past
in his prized possession on and off all evening. I went through the formalities
of reporting it to police but, typically, when they turned up, smarty-pants had done a runner.
Uniform informed me that they were responding as soon as possible but with only two officers on duty, they were running
a tight ship. So back to square one; they can’t arrest until they catch
him in the act; he isn’t stupid enough to make himself available to them and I can’t hold him here, so what now? Back to court? What’s the point?
FEBRUARY 2ND 1999
Jordan and Mel attended the leisure
centre crèche while I went jogging along the beach. I’ve decided I’m
now going to train in earnest for the London marathon and that I’m going to lose quite a bit of weight in the doing. Linzi came along too, but she was perched on her bike. Andrew
and Shell were cycling also – half a mile in front of us. But all my grand
plans soon came to an abrupt and humiliating halt. I could barely manage to jog
and found myself huffing and puffing as I heaved myself along for an embarrassing two minutes.
So I gave up and settled for a more dignified swift walk. Anyway the wind was biting and blowing at a rate of knots
and odd drops of menacing drizzle came cascading upon us. [All the excuses were
there.] After about forty five minutes of this spectacular debacle, me and Linz sloped off
to the café for a welcoming slush puppy. As we sat exchanging gossip, I became
aware of my calves throbbing. It was quite extraordinary since I’d only
been walking. I guess it proves how ashamedly unfit I am.
Linzi and I compared notes on rearing
kids. We agreed that the most important thing you can give your kids is your
time, your friendship, bundles of love and complete honesty. I allow Andrew and
Shell to answer me back sometimes because I want them to grow up feeling relaxed and with the confidence to have opinions. I want my kids to be able to trust me with anything and not to be scared of me or
to consider me an ‘authoritarian dictator’. But I am prone to bullying
them if I think they’re being idle. Some parents, we concluded, are so
aggressive towards their kids – forcing them to practice musical instruments daily, attend clubs, do homework every
night et cetera, that their kids grow up stressed out and of a nervous disposition.
They end up lacking confidence and being fearful and hating life.
In crèche the babies were described
as “shy” because they weren’t in a hurry to part with their double buggy.
I reckon they’re just taking their time weighing up their surroundings and are not prepared to rush into a decision
yet as to whether they are in a homely or hostile place. I don’t think
kids should be rushed into ‘socialising’ and that it is sensible for them to be a little ‘reserved’
for a while. Children and babies are reliably honest with their feelings and
are not easily tricked by well-intentioned adults, some of whom are inclined to be too forthright and embarrassing to little
people.
FEBRUARY 3RD 1999
As we sat at the tea table shovelling
bangers and mash down our throats, the conversation drifted on to our time with Gareth. The kids came out with things that
I never knew had happened, such as the times Andrew had sat up until 2.00 am supping strong lager with Gareth
and his son beside a bonfire while I slumbered on. Andrew said that Gareth was
always in a good mood at such times and would sling him coins and cans but then all of a sudden he’d turn really nasty,
would start spitting and would order him to “ger a bed – NOW.” He
told me that when I was out of the room, Gareth would often give Jordan sips of grog and that sometimes
Jordy ended up swallowing a cup or so of lager. Shell quickly revealed her revelations,
one of which was that they were made to say that Gareth’s dinners were the best and that mine were horrible and that
if they didn’t praise him they’d be chucked in the thorns later. “Good job we’re well rid of the fat b…. std,” came my response. “No need for secrets now or pretences.”
A philosophical thought popped into
my mind just at that moment. ‘Every person in your life – for whatever
reason – is there because you have drawn them there. What you chose to
do with them is up to you.’ Then another thought popped into my head. ‘There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts.’
I wondered why I’d drawn such a bad bugger like Gareth into my life and that although I’d had problems
during my time with him I also had gifts – Jordan and Melissa. Now that
I’m still getting problems because of my irksome ex, I wonder if there will be a gift in the end. The only real gift
of any significance that I could wish for would be a safe and peaceful world for all children to grow up in.
FEBRUARY 4TH 1999
Linzi and I had made impressive plans
to play tennis, but that idea was given the elbow because buffeting winds threatened to take the ball off elsewhere; so we
opted for a run [well ok a brisk walk] instead. I casually slung Andrew my racquet
and politely asked him to return it to the leisure centre for me, but he protested vehemently and came out with a string of
obscenities that was enough to turn the air blue. He’d decided he was too
old to run errands for me and that I’d have to take it back myself. Well
that did it! I asked him in dictatorial tone, “Just who the hell do you
think you are? Don’t you raise your voice like that to me again; now do
as you are told or you can go to bed early for a week. You’ll do as I say
until you’re eighteen.” With that, he stormed off, his face looking
like thunder and, armed with my racquet, he had the disposition of a boy on a mission to kill.
I turned to Linzi with an expression of hopelessness on my face, took a deep breath and tried to concentrate my mind
on our fitness objective.
As we paced ourselves, she gave me
some consoling words along the lines of, “I hate to think how Jamie would’ve reacted if I’d told him to
take my tennis racquets back. Ten year olds go through an ‘attitude’
stage when they think they’re not kids anymore; it’s all to do with their hormones. Andrew will turn as nice as pie again after a short while and will be all eager to please and then when
he’s about thirteen, look out, he’ll go through a horrible phase again.
He’ll be really argumentative and awkward – you watch.” She
is entitled to speak such authoritative words being a mum of three, aged fifteen years, eleven years and nine years.
FEBRUARY 5TH 1999
I cannot believe the events of today. One minute I was thinking positively, and excitedly arranging my fitness-training
schedule and the next I was sitting in hospital with my kids, accused of being a baby batterer. I had taken Melissa for her routine eight-month check up at the clinic when health visitor Mrs Browne became
alarmed at a red rash on Mel’s shoulder. I explained that I’d noticed
it a few days ago but that I was sure it was eczema as it looked just like Andrew’s whenever his flared up. I told her that Melissa wasn’t unwell so I wasn’t unduly worried and that I thought it would
just clear up as Andrew’s always does; without the use of creams. I explained
that I’ve never been one to rush to the doctor every time I see a rash cos babies get them so often and they can look
aggressive one minute and then can virtually disappear the next. But she wasn’t
happy with that and called the clinic doctor [Dr Macareth] who also took a critical view.
The doctor told me that my baby had
been burned or scalded and that if I hadn’t done it to her, then it was necessary to find out immediately who had done
it. She proceeded to enquire as to who else had looked after Melly recently,
but by now I couldn’t take in what she was saying, my mind was in ‘blackout mode’. I heard her vaguely babbling on about Melly going to hospital as a matter of urgency and being examined
by a paediatrician and that social services would be called in at once. I was
stunned. I began to wonder if Mel had accidentally burned herself on the radiator
without my knowledge but then I told myself that that was virtually impossible because I’d have heard her screaming
and would’ve been the first on the phone to call an ambulance if that had been the case.
I knew Andrew and Shell hadn’t hurt her because they’re never left alone with her and I was damned sure
that crèche or nursery weren’t to blame. So I again expressed my innocence,
tried to explain that it was only eczema and that she’d had wisps of it before.
Overcome with shock and disbelief,
I found myself begging Dr Macareth not to contact social services because I was so scared of Gareth finding out. I worried about the implications of it being recorded. I explained
the problems I was having with Gareth – about his threats that my kids will be taken into ‘care’, all his
slanderous vindictive allegations to social services and NSPCC and my custody court battle.
I told her that Gareth had done this to his ex wife and that she’d been denied any form of contact with her own
two children. But the doctor coldly announced that she didn’t need my permission,
she was duty-bound to inform social services when there were suspicions of child abuse and that I’d better hurry home
to pack some things for Melissa because she’d be staying in hospital for a few nights and the ambulance would be arriving
in ten minutes to take her. By now I was in a state of panic and confusion, and
as tears began to well up inside me I squeaked, “They’re not going to take my children off me, are they?” I don’t remember her reply. I was
in no fit state to absorb anything at this stage. I do remember thinking, ‘But
I’m duty-bound too – to protect my kids from interfering officials and their abusive father.’
In the ambulance I was still in a
haze and in silent torture. The hospital staff were a little more compassionate
and offered us juice and sandwiches while we waited. After a couple of hours,
the paediatrician finally examined Melissa’s mark. He told me that it was
“definitely not a scald, possibly a burn and probably eczema,” as he pointed to the wisps on her chest. He quickly added that it wasn’t so mysterious and nothing to worry about but that since it was slightly
infected it was wise to leave her in hospital overnight.
I had no choice but to leave her there
alone. We got a taxi home but I worried and fretted all night. She was still
being breastfed and I couldn’t be there to nurse her. I tormented myself
with thoughts that she was crying for me now that she realised I’d gone.
I called dad and he was outraged too at that judgemental overbearing clinic doctor.
He was also so sure that I’d get more sympathy from my own GP. I
hardly slept all night. The ugly accusation “child abuser” kept ringing
in my ears.
FEBRUARY 6TH 1999
Dad lent me his car to go and visit
my baby. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d been forced
to rely on the buses which is the only form of transport that I could later be reimbursed on.
They travel half hourly [and that’s assuming they’re on time] and connections are appalling, with a half
hour wait in between at least. The Colwyn Bay to Rhyl
bus is a three quarterly hour journey and the Rhyl to hospital bus twenty minutes. If
I’d needed to use the Sunday service [God help me] I could expect to wait two hours at least for a bus. Talk about third world Britain! Public transport is pathetic. Prescott should do us all a favour and push off out of his privileged ministerial position and
he should compensate us all out of his own personal wealth for gross negligence and incompetence. To make matters worse was the condition of the weather – icy blizzards. How could I take an eight-month old baby [plus the other three kids - one of them only twenty three months old] home from hospital with the bus system in such shambles? Did Dr Macareth think of that when she high and mightily forced my baby to unnecessarily spend a night
twenty miles away from me? Her actions could’ve resulted in Mel getting
pneumonia; then she’d have had something to be concerned about. And all
this fiasco was despite the sick stage of our cash strapped NHS. My baby could’ve
taken up resources that a really needy child might’ve been denied.
The nurses were in love with Mel and
told me she’s a gorgeously contented baby and that she’s been cooing, laughing and chatting to herself all morning. The doctors were impressed with her happy disposition too and remarked that she’d
gurgled and chuckled alone in her room for ages. I picked her up and cradled
her. When she realised it was me she fell apart and began wailing. I thought she was angry at me or something for leaving her but the nurse assured me, “She knows she’s
in mum’s arms now and she feels secure enough to be able to show her true emotions – she’s so overwhelmed
to see you.” Thank heavens Jordan
was on his best behaviour. The doctors and nurses remarked how adorable he was
because he ate his lunch so nicely and he put his rubbish [even his crumbs] in the bin.
I was allowed to take Melissa home and I spent the rest of the day praying that a good hospital report would filter
through to the authorities and that they’d decide social services intervention was unnecessary.
I recalled the visit with the H/V
before she noticed the mark. She was whittering on about Melly being a bit slow
to sit up and that she’d have to check her next month. For crying out loud,
if Mel doesn’t want [doesn’t feel the need] to be sitting up, then so be it.
That’s her business. What are the professionals going to do about
it? Force her? It’s no wonder
we have a nation of nervous wrecks with all these expected and enforced milestones!
Then, when kids go to school, they are bombarded with a plethora of exams and testing to make sure everyone reaches
the expected level for their age! Where’s the merit of individuality and
creativity gone? The government will be telling us next when and how to visit
the loo!
Mel isn’t a performing circus
elephant. Jordan made it clear to her that he’s
no robot or dummy either and he screamed blue murder when she told him to get out of his pram.
It didn’t surprise me. He has good judgement in his opinion of folk – especially officials. Babies and little kids demonstrate more alertness and intelligence than most adults. Kids don’t pretend, don’t hate, don’t inflict harm on others, have natural behaviour
and a healthy zest for life, until adults change them and make them evil and turn them into slaves - to harmful substances
and society. Even children with ‘special needs’ understand injustice
and pretension but are often unable to express themselves except in a negative manner.
As for ‘health’ visitors being an authority on health, I am extremely sceptical. I remember a health visitor I once had in Australia when Andrew and Shell were
babies; the woman was HUGE. From the moment I met her I thought that if she was
a symbol of health I’d rather not pay much heed to that breed. She even
found it funny that some mums put a tot of whisky in their babies’ milk to make them sleep longer.
FEBRUARY 7TH 1999
My mind was racing. Dr Macareth now has me feeling so low and inadequate as a mother.
She’d even said that social services need to investigate “for your own good.” I’d felt like a naughty schoolgirl. I began to think
maybe I should hand over my kids to someone else who can do a better job than me
in raising them. My confidence is at rock bottom.
It is easy to see how innocent people get driven to nervous breakdowns. Maybe
this was her aim; maybe she has been warned by Gareth to be wary of me. It all
seems highly suspicious. She was extremely overbearing. Gareth had promised all this would happen, that he’d win and that all my kids would be taken off
me. The people that matter don’t believe me; they do not think that I’m a good mum. They’re listening to him.
How can this be happening? Who or what is he? My job with children could now be in jeopardy too. This happened
to GW’s ex wife. She lost her
children. How? Why? I would’ve thought Mrs Browne would be more sympathetic since she sits on the domestic violence forum
and must understand how violated and crushed women are who have suffered mental and/or physical violence at the hands of the
one person who is supposed to love and protect them. It is so hard to break free
from a controlling oppressive man and to move on. How can you, when you are still
being attacked by him and by the very people who are supposed to help you?
I began to question our supreme divine
saviour; the one they call God. I decided that there is no God and if there was,
then he should be ashamed of himself – allowing all the misery, suffering, injustice and poverty in the world. I had him incriminated and charged with treachery and I felt he should be forced to
resign his post and take early retirement. But then I lightened up a bit and
felt more forgiving as I considered the possibility that God was, in fact, trying his best to relieve us of our torment but
that he needed more people on his side and that he was having a real battle defeating Satan – the personification of
evil.
FEBRUARY 8TH 1999
Jordan put me in my place this morning. After breccy
he carefully placed his cereal bowl and spoon in the sink as he always does then he decided to clear up Mel’s things
too. He placed her spoon in the sink then carried her bowl over to the bin. I hastily shouted, “No no Jord – in the sink, yes?” But he just looked at me as if I was stupid and proceeded to the bin whereupon he emptied out the dregs
from the bowl; then he toddled back to the sink and deposited the bowl. He then
turned to me and said in serious tone, “Ok?” I just stood there speechless
until I managed to mumble meekly, “Good boy; thank you.” He’s
not yet two!
The H/V phoned to enquire after Mel’s
health. I told her in no uncertain terms how I felt about the way she and the
clinic doctor had handled it and that it was all so distressing and damaging to us all.
I made it clear that I’d lost confidence in Dr Macareth; that she was tyrannically overbearing and that I felt
she’d abused her position. I told her that she’d taken the ‘erring
on caution’ stance a bit too far and that the hospital doctors weren’t worried about Mel and had stated that it
was eczema. I made it clear to her that such an over reaction by health professionals
gave the likes of Gareth Williams more ammunition for his seedy little plot. I
let it be known that people like her and Dr Macareth don’t know who they’re dealing with in men like Gareth, that
he is such a conniving conman and that it’s one thing having referrals from him – a vindictive vicious ex and
quite another from health professionals. I informed her that I’m now too
terrified to play with Jordan in case he gets excited, accidentally falls and bumps himself. I told her I’m beginning to feel obsessed with safety and that I’m conscious all the time of
Jordan not getting any cuts and bruises because I might be accused of child abuse. I
said that Gareth is slyly watching my every move and is on the lookout for any mark on the babies cos he knows he can turn
it against me, which is so ridiculous because all kids get bumps – it is a natural part of growing up and the only way
that kids learn. I asked her what was I supposed to do – run to the doctor’s
immediately any minor medical mishap occurred?
I ended with, “Why did the clinic wholeheartedly dismiss my claim that the mark was only a rash?” And I declared that the least Dr Macareth could do would be to apologise and help
get me off the hook that she so spectacularly put me on since it has been proven that I’m innocent. The H/V then asked if I wished to talk with Dr Mac, so I enquired if an apology was forthcoming, but since
it wasn’t, I declined, saying that I wouldn’t waste my time.
I sought solace from my solicitor
and even Julie Bray wonders if Gareth has put the seeds of suspicion into the health professionals’ heads.
Later in the afternoon, I paid a visit
to my own doctors’ surgery at Rhoslan. Melly was seen by a locum, Dr Arthur,
who was in no doubt that Mel had eczema. He said that it was most certainly not
a burn and that it had been totally unnecessary to whisk her off to the hospital for an examination. He said that it was easily treatable at the doctors’ surgery.
I explained the situation, told him about the abhorrent way I’d been treated at the clinic and asked if I was
within my rights to refuse to visit that place again. He told me that it’s
a free country and that I was perfectly at liberty to refuse any doctor/nurse/health visitor – whatever – if I
so wished. Phew! That was a relief
to know. I didn’t waste any time contacting the clinic and announcing that my allegiance was now to my own doctors’
surgery only. [I had to wrestle with myself to stop blurting out, “So you
can shove that in your pipe and smoke it.”]
FEBRUARY 9TH 1999
Oh for gawd’s sake, here come
the prying nosey parkers with nothing better to do than pester me just cos some high-handed doctor wants to prove a point
– that she can effectively destroy my life. Two social workers stood at
my door demanding an explanation for Melissa’s ‘burn’. I enquired as to whether they’d bothered asking
the opinion of the hospital paediatrician and my own GP. They told me that they
wanted my version, so I gave it to them good style and while I was on the subject, I announced that they had some nerve questioning
me since social services have one hell of a reputation. I mentioned their own record of widespread child abuse in North Wales
Children’s Homes over a period of years and the shameful scandalous cover up by the all the authorities, despite much
damning evidence. One of them said, “Such stories sell newspapers.” I retorted, “Hang on a minute, such news reveals the shocking truth about many
of our public services and if it wasn’t for the press, people like your greedy wicked bosses would be getting away with
murder.” I told them that in my opinion Dr Macareth shouldn’t be
wasting taxpayer’s dosh calling in social services so hastily and that she should’ve had a second medical opinion. I continued, “You complacent do-gooders don’t realise what men like Gareth
Williams are like, how powerful they are and what back-up they have. It is easy
to see how crime can not be eradicated. Not only have we got the problem of lack
of witnesses coming forth to testify due to intimidation [many people even being threatened with their lives] but we have
the likes of you people and other professionals doing nothing to help and protect the victims.
People like you listen to and obey criminal godfathers and their henchmen because you yourselves fear them and you
find it easier to give them what they want. In the doing, and time again, the
poor innocent victim gets punished all over again by OFFICIALS. You lot are renowned
for picking on easy targets – the parents who are dedicated, doting, caring…. Scum like Gareth Williams know how
to play the system and how to perform. They know how to avoid police prosecution
and how to shift blame on to others, on to those who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Those
worthless pieces of bacterium are allowed to continue to wreak mayhem and violence, fraud and theft, pain and misery….
with the full blessing of people like YOU and your timid evil bosses. This is
not and never has been about the kids.
Even my ex’s older children
are just puppets to him – props to help conceal his ugly cowardly deceit and lies.
They are bullied into doing what he wants them to do, forced to be his accomplices
in crime and to cover up his crimes, and if they don’t comply they suffer the consequences. They know there is nowhere for them to run - no protection. His
son tried that a few times – and failed. They know they can only live their
lives of confusion under his control; under a charade; but they don’t realise the damage he has inflicted on them. They have witnessed their dad hitting me and Andrew yet fear drives them to deny it. I once ran screaming from his house, begging for their help – for ten measly
pence so that I could use the phone box, but they both sat glumly shaking their heads.
Their mother was under the misconception that if she succumbed to him and allowed him custody of her children he would
leave her alone. Wrong. Even today,
more that five years on, she remains terrified of him. She lost her kids, her
home and her freedom and all because, like me, she fell for a charming conman. Gareth
Williams is a lying evil-minded crook. He’s a lazy drunkard who [cleverly]
knows how to beat the justice system. And people like you are helping him and
God knows how many others like him.”
I was on a roll now and added, “Men
like Gareth Williams are motivated by easy money [the root of all evil] and the
desire for power by brutal force over women and children. Gareth is now incensed
that I’ve found the courage to dump him and he will do anything to deliver
his revenge. But worse than that is the fact that I am now targeted in order
to silence me because the weak parasite is worried sick that one day I just might
land him behind bars, where he belongs. He knows that I’m gaining strength
daily. And that worries him. Now
that you know a little bit more about reality, perhaps you will afford me the courtesy of understanding my frustration and
incredulity that your type come here with suspicions that I’m a child abuser,
just because some do-good doctor finds a small rash that she cannot correctly identify and thus concludes that it must be
a burn. Just because a professional cannot fathom what something is or how it
got there does not give that person the right to make assumptions and point fingers, which could be highly damaging to an
innocent person. Don’t you people realise that a member of your family could be a victim of one of the Gareth Williamses of this world?
By golly! Then you wouldn’t be so blasé; you’d be wanting
big changes; you’d want an incorruptible body of state authorities and you’d be fighting like fury for TRUTH.”
My sermon didn’t get me very
far, although the two ‘concerned’ women [concern for who?] did meekly acknowledge that I had good reason to be
infuriated. I then offered the argument, “If I was guilty, do you suppose
that I’d take Melissa for a check up at the clinic? No, I’d make
some excuse not to attend until the ‘mark’ had faded.” I knew
I’d wasted my breath on them when one remarked, “It’s unusually quiet in here, considering you’ve
got two babies.” I thought despairingly to myself, ‘So now you’re
going to hang me just because my kids are not wild animals? I suppose you think
I’ve got rid of them or something?’ As they headed for the door,
I reasoned, “Look, the kids and I have suffered abuse at the hands of a violent maniac.
Now we want to move on in our lives. All I want is to bring my kids up in a safe, happy and just environment. We just want our FREEDOM.”
FEBRUARY 10TH 1999
I had the pleasure of another enlightening
experience with Vera, the court welfare officer. This time she wanted to see
the babies in action and she wanted to see how they interacted with evil features. Fair play to her, she was more compassionate
about the whole ‘burn’ affair and said she’d have a word with social services. She also agreed that it would be a disgrace if my work with children was put in jeopardy. The convincing conman passed a message through Vera that dad would have to pursue his ladder through solicitors. Even she remarked that he was just being bloody minded. Vera told me that his royal highness spent the whole time smothering Jordan and Mel with kisses until Melly
played hell and demanded to be returned to me.
Typically, everything that I say about
him – the TRUTH, he says about me – the LIES. Vera told me that he says that I’m the alci, that I went
to Alcoholics Anonymous for counselling and that he supported me. The facts are stated in AA’s books: Gareth Williams is the alcoholic. Gareth Williams admitted
to the AA counsellors and to a roomful of other ‘recovering’ alcoholics that he has this problem. Gareth Williams went for counselling for his alcoholism at venues in Colwyn Bay and Llandudno. Why on Earth can’t AA divulge such info? – for the sake of the children
who are in danger and for the sake of saving other potential little victims and also for the protection of mothers like me
who find themselves up against other Gareth Williamses. Women like myself need
all the help they can get regarding their efforts to discredit the likes of men like Gareth Williams. More worryingly, Vera even hinted that one prominent AA counsellor supported GW’s assertions. Bloody incredible!
So even those counsellors are willing to bend the rules when it suits them. Worse,
they are prepared to fib. Even Lorraine at the church told me that she thought
that we had visited the church together wanting help and support because she thought we both
had an alcohol problem. Why can’t Vera find out the facts? The point is alcoholic parents are a danger to their children,
especially when the children are very young. Organisations should be protecting
the children, not the adult’s right of anonymity. Children depend on healthy
parents for their wellbeing. The alcoholics are the adults and are old enough
to look after themselves and to take responsibility for their own actions. Children’s
lives should not be put in jeopardy. To suggest that alcoholics should be protected
by anonymity on the excuse that they wouldn’t otherwise attend is a weak argument.
Either a person is serious about kicking an addiction or he/she isn’t.
This is especially so for those who have children. They either want to
be responsible and capable parents or they don’t. I have a sneaking suspicion
that if I had been the alcoholic and it was my
name that was on AA’s books, that fact would’ve appeared on one of Vera’s court welfare reports. Social services check up on me unannounced every time they get one of GW’s or
one of his ‘anonymous’ referrals, I wonder if they are just as conscientious about all calls that they receive. If they were, they’d soon see
for themselves who the alcoholics are and the drug addicts and the child abusers and the paedophiles…. In other words,
which parents pose a genuine risk to their children. Of course, the truth is
that such an undertaking would cost far too much and in any case the state does not give a fig about the well being of children. So instead, they pick on easy targets. They
snoop on the people who pose no risk whatsoever to their children….
On the way home, on the bus, I got
nattering with an old lady about government cock-ups and incompetence. She informed
me that folk who are addicted to alcohol actually get paid thirty pounds extra per week for the privilege of feeding their
alcoholism. Crazy, isn’t it? Next,
they’ll be paying junkies to snort coke or school kids to go to school.
On our return, I discovered that some
joker had shoved something sinister inside my shed padlock so that I couldn’t stick the key in and the lock was effectively
useless. I had no choice but to force if off by pounding it with my axe. Now I’ll have to stump up for another one.
So the skunk has been sniffing around here again, has he? Maybe he wasn’t
too happy about today’s events.
FEBRUARY 11TH 1999
I took Melissa for another professional
opinion on Mel’s mysterious rash. Dr Thackray was in no doubt also that
Mel had eczema and he prescribed creams. I unburdened my thoughts about the debacle
and the implications. He seemed horrified at the way we’d been treated
and agreed that the involvement of social services was overdoing things a bit. He
looked genuinely shocked when I informed him that Gareth had promised to wreck my life and that he’d thwart anything
I ever did in the future.
Later in the afternoon Andrew and
Shell were followed by GW’s daughter and her friend as they walked out of the leisure centre. The two teenagers childishly taunted my two with names and threats such as, “Na na na na na Andrew
and Shelly, you are dickheads. We’re gonna get ya – ha ha.” Andrew and Shell took to their heels and ran as fast as they could all the way home. I told them that they did the right thing and that if they see her again they should
just ignore her and her equally immature pal and hopefully she’ll soon give up.
I hope it won’t get so bad that I have to escort them everywhere but there’s no other protection. I don’t see the point in calling incompetent cops, and the court has little
clout. So much for court intervention!
I think the stick insect forgot to tell his silly daughter that the undertaking included her too. In my opinion, the only reason we have courts are to make fat cat lawyers and judges fatter.
FEBRUARY 12TH 1999
Mel’s eczema has progressed
to her chin. I took her to see Dr Ratcliffe for another professional medical
opinion. I told her that in the past I’ve been advised to just bathe rashes
in cool boiled water and they usually disappear quite quickly. I told her that
Andrew has recurring eczema that clears on its own because creams don’t help him.
I explained that I’ve never been one to rush to the doctors willy nilly and since Mel never showed any signs
of being unwell I didn’t want to bother doctors or be considered a neurotic over-protective mother. I declared that if I’d known accusations were awaiting us at the clinic I would’ve whisked
Mel to Rhoslan in a flash before confronting heavy-handed clinic staff. Dr Ratcliffe
was sympathetic, surprised at the clinic conduct and positively discouraged me from running to see the doctor for every minor
ailment. I joked that I might have to start asking her for some valium or something
to calm my nerves and that the unwarranted over-the-top way we’d been treated was enough to send anyone to the psychiatrist’s
couch. She gave me a stern look and said, “You’re not going to crack
up; are you?”
I told her that I was worried sick
that my case will now be weakened in court against my unscrupulous ex and that my job with children may now be in jeopardy. Close to tears, I blurted out that I’m beginning to suspect a conspiracy to
have my children displaced – on Gareth’s authority, because he’d for-warned me that this would be the pattern
of events until he finally got my babies and I was denied anything to do with them.
I told her that he’d callously warned me not to try to break free from him because he’d see to it that
I’d be denied all my kids. He’d said that he’d make sure that
Andrew and Shell would be in ‘care’ or living with their dad. I said
that he’d already tried to get my ex husband to file for custody of them after he’d told a pack of vicious lies. I informed her that he would remind me that he’d masterminded his ex wife’s
fate just because she’d dared to run from him. The authorities had listened
to him then and are doing so now. I
babbled on that Dr Macareth doesn’t realise how ruthless some men are out there and how damaging her actions are under
the circumstances and that as such I truly believe that I am entitled to an apology.
Dr Ratcliffe could only listen in shocked silence, but then remarked that events had been blown all out of proportion.
FEBRUARY 13TH 1999
Andrew has developed an annoying little
habit lately. He keeps nicking my tools to mess about on his bike and then he
leaves the darned things lying around outside. I’m sick of coming across
spanners scattered here and there in the yard and I even found my hammer perched on the windowsill today. There’s only one solution; I’ll have to ban him from them until he learns to put things back.
Shell came out with a deep and meaningful
statement today. She announced that she’s glad she lives with me because
“You’re strict on us all – for all the right reasons”. She
reckons that I harp on at them to “brush your teeth, don’t eat sweets and chocolate, heat healthy foods –
fruit and salads, not sugary or fatty foods, do exercise, get on with your work books and keyboard practice, keep your rooms
tidy, change your undies daily.” But she says that I don’t nag them
because I’m “controlling or nasty” but to “help us grow up healthy, confident and clever and well
prepared for anything that life throws at us.” She continued, “Gaven
always used to buy our love – he bought us gifts, sweets and treats and he took us to fairgrounds and arcades. We could do what we wanted and used to run around all over his flat, jump on his bed
with our shoes on, throw food around his kitchen…. We drank all his lager; we played all day in the arcade with money
he told us to steal from you. We used to take fishcakes and bread from your freezer
for him to cook up. We would argue with him and call him names. Andrew kicked him and spat at him. His neighbours always rowed
with him because we were so noisy. We thought it was so funny at the time but
I can see now that it was a bad way to behave; but he never stopped us. He just
used to laugh and tell us to do it all the more.” She then said, “You don’t have to prove that you love
us by buying us things – we know you can’t afford much. You give
us much more than money could buy any day. You give us your time and your brain;
you guide us and know what we need and what’s best for us….”. By
the time she’d finished I felt as if I was walking on clouds.
The kids and I watched a film tonight
based on a true story that had us all perched on the edge of our seats from beginning to end.
It was the tearjerker of the century and every parent’s dread. An
eighteen-month old baby girl fell down a well in her back garden and got lodged fourteen feet down. There is no word in the dictionary that could adequately describe the feelings of helplessness and despair
of the parents. It’s alright some people tutting and asking why the toddler
was unsupervised for the seconds it took for her to tumble in or indeed why the hole wasn’t covered. Tragic accidents can happen to ANYONE – it only takes seconds and a slight oversight. Within minutes, emergency services arrived and a microphone dangled down to the child. Mum and dad took it in turns to talk to her and reassure her, while rescuers battled against the clock. Minutes turned to hours, hours into days as it became evident that tunnelling would
have to take place, feet away. Crowds and the media appeared from miles around
and people from everywhere offered their services and help in any way they could. The
delicate operation was risky but there was no alternative. Everyone was on tenterhooks
– vibrations from the drilling could have caused her to slip further down at any moment and there was anxiety as to
her exact location. Time was of the essence.
Periodically her parents could hear her faint cries, but when she remained quiet for hours on end, it took divinely
courageous helpers to calm them and convince them that she was only sleeping. After
a nightmare fiftyfour hours and a painstaking delicate procedure, involving teams of men working shifts, the little baby was
finally reached and brought to safety, suffering only relatively minor injury. After
a few days in hospital, she had fully recovered.
I’d never got so choked up over
a film before like I did this one. I looked at Andrew and Shell and said, “Your
nan used to say that you don’t know what real love and sacrifice is until you have a child.” There is never a truer statement. Kids make you selfless;
they make you realise what total unconditional love is. The quote at the end
of the film, “Volunteerism and the meaning of love,” wrapped it all up and made me think that there are so many
people out there with kindness and love in their hearts but that there are also many with hatred and evil intent in their
souls. When you see such films it brings it home to you. Why can’t we all be loving and helpful to others, instead of being selfish, greedy, wicked and destructive? Unfortunately, the majority of good folk are ruled by the few evil ones.
FEBRUARY 14TH 1999
Jordan had me in stitches today. I was busy sewing
up a mattress and he was busy nudging and prodding me to get my attention. So
I grabbed the beaker that he was clutching and balanced it on my head. For some
reason he found that hilarious and laughed heartily in a way only infants know how.
He then proceeded to transfer the beaker onto his own head. This little
game went on for a few minutes, with both of us creased up until pud found a way of defying gravity and holding the beaker
against his face. He’d discovered the power of suction, and like a true
scientist, he expressed his euphoria by running around in circles creating a right hullabaloo.
FEBRUARY 15TH 1999
I eavesdropped into a radio discussion
on parenting. The ‘expert’ outlined the dos and don’ts and
that it is imperative to concentrate on positive commands for children rather than the negative versions, such as “walk”
not “don’t run” and “keep clean” not “don’t get dirty.” She then stressed the importance of not calling your kids names such as “you idle prat” but
rather explain that you are unhappy with your child’s behaviour not him. I
vowed to make a conscious effort to adopt their rule and stop calling Shell a “little cow” and Andy a “twit.” Other advice was geared to stopping kids using whiny baby talk when they can talk
perfectly well, for example, “I can’t understand that voice and I don’t know what you want.” She says to be full of praise for your child when you are pleased and to express thanks
where it is due. She advises that you should warn kids that bad behaviour won’t
be tolerated by saying something like, “If you are silly, we will come straight home.” Then, she says, give a second chance such as a glare but that if misbehaviour continues simply say, “I
can see you have decided to go home,” and do just that. Further tips were
that you have to teach kids how to behave correctly which is time-consuming and
demands patience but that the results are well worth it. It wasn’t long
before I put her methods to the test. Shell was being a right mouthy madam just
because I asked her to remove her butt from the armchair and help out in the kitchen.
My first reaction was to growl: “Oi, don’t you dare back-answer me you cocky little….”. Then I got a grip and commented coolly, “Shell, don’t you think that sounds
really nasty? Don’t you think we should all pull together, especially as
I get tired too and need to get my feet up now and again. Shall we try again?” She looked bewildered and gob smacked then managed to ask, “What?” I repeated my request firmly but softly: “You may watch TV after tea. You can tape CITV if it is so important, but right now I’d like your help in the kitchen please,”
and with that I swivelled on my heels and strode out. Before I got to the kitchen
I heard her shut the living room door and follow me. Nothing more was said about
the matter, but I had a Cheshire-cat grin on my face all evening.
FEBRUARY 16TH 1999
I told Andrew and Shell that they
could write a story on anything they wished as part of their English lesson. I
told them I wanted a title, capital letters and full stops in the correct places and that they had to use their dictionary/thesaurus
to check their spellings and to find some alternative words to express themselves. In
the past they’ve written about: days out to fun places, swimming in the sea, animals…. But today they both decided
to log details of the goings on opposite and nearby our house. Andrew focussed
on the house of drugs and Shell turned her attention to street gangs. I was a
little hesitant at first about them actually writing about the more sinister aspect of life as I was fully aware that we’d
be due a visit from a Local Educational Authority ‘inspector’ at any time to check up on Andrew’s and Shell’s
work. I felt a little daunted about the probability that he or she would be rather
critical of me allowing them to write about [or even be aware of] evil. But then
I reasoned that it is a free country and Andrew and Shell are entitled to write about anything that is in their heart and
that they were only speaking the truth regarding the seedy area that we inhabit. I
figured that it would be wrong of me to suppress their thoughts and to pretend nothing bad happens and I decided that if anyone
is to blame it is the authorities for allowing crime to manifest and thrive, for turning a blind eye and for lying when they
claim to be cracking down on criminals. I told myself that if the LEA pick on
me for letting the kids write about the grubbier realities of life, then their crime is bigger than mine. I decided that they would be guilty of denial or, worse, promotion of criminality. As Andrew allowed his thoughts to spill out through his pen, he declared that he was going to keep a journal
of the “evils of the world” and that he’d try to get it published.
He chose the title ‘A fly
on the Wall’ and spoke about himself as being the fly and witnessing the most horrendous scenes such as murders,
violence and rape. He wrote about the drug dealers that he sees coming and going
in the house opposite at all times of the day and night; about the naked women at the windows who are being forced to have
sex and the young girls who run from there screaming and crying. He stated, “One
day I’m going to join the police force and root out corupshun. The bastads
in that house get lots of money for selling drugs. People are ill and dying because
of drugs. It is blood money and bastad police wont do any thing about it.” I was a little shocked at his terminology, but rather than correcting him for using
such explicit language, I found myself merely correcting his spelling and I thought, rather brazenly, that the LEA can lump
it if they don’t like it – at least Andrew is being honest. And anyway, more to the point, he shouldn’t
have to put up with all those louts sneaking in and out of that house doing dirty deals, and junkies breaking into nearby
houses stealing from and terrorising old folk. Furthermore, I’ll invite
any official to show me a kid around here who doesn’t use such language and I’ll call him/her a liar.
Shell also used the rather blunt approach
to her street terror awareness. She spoke of, “Sick gangs of kids chucking
rocks at windows, bloody minded ring leaders spraying paint on peoples walls and bastuds skwurting super glue into keyholes.” Hers also ended with a finger pointing at police.
She mockingly enquired, “Why can’t the idle prats break the gangs up and stop the idiots?” Scornfully, she asks, “Are they scared of three year olds?”
Then rather philosophically, she points out that PC stands for “perfect clown” not ‘police constable’. The kids don’t beat about the bush. They
know that it is evil to glorify evil and that ‘bastard’ is the correct word.
Tonight I had my first night out in
ages with Linzi. We’d booked Llandudno theatre seats for The Rocky Horror Show and had planned a swift half in the pub before catching the last bus home. My babysitter Paula showed up straight after work. She had
tea with us and told me all about her day at the nursery. Afterwards she insisted
on washing up while I put Jordan and Melissa to bed. [I’d kept them up
all day and had worn them out so that they would be ready for bed a little earlier than usual.] I didn’t want to burden Paula on her first night with having to go through the babies’ bedtime
rigmarole. I then returned to find her sat on the living room floor with Andrew
and Shell engrossed in deep conversation about which video[s] they were all going to watch.
I like this girl. She seems to be an angel. I sloped off to doll myself up. It’s months since I
had a night out and I began to feel school girlishly excited. At 7.00 pm I was just heading for the door when I decided to give Paula a recap of the dos and don’ts and to remind her
to help herself to supper and to make herself at home.
The bus came on time and Linzi boarded
at the bottom of her road in Penrhyn Bay. We flattered each other on our appearances
and rabbited on about all sorts, such as working with ‘special needs’ folk.
She now has a part time job with ‘special needs’ adults. I
recalled the ‘special needs’ children that I cared for and that a couple of them were so challenging and virtually
out of control that I’d once asked to sit in at a ‘special’ school to learn how to cope, but was refused. At theatre we had twenty minutes to kill before the show started, so we headed for
the bar and bought two glasses of coke. Linzi then proceeded to remove two miniature
bottles of bacardi from her handbag, thrust one in my hand and we began to chill out.
She then dropped a bombshell and announced that after fifteen years of marriage she was getting divorced. I was stunned since I thought they were one of life’s few happily married couples. She told me that they’d had problems recently and had been to Jamaica
on hols to try and sort out their future. But it was there that her hubby admitted
the affair that she’d suspected, but worse still was the knowledge that his girlfriend is pregnant. I really felt for her. She was close to tears and began puffing
nervously on a ciggie. I’ve never seen her smoke before. It all came spilling out then. I never realised things had
been so bad for her. She’s always listened to my woes in the past but has
never even hinted that anything could be wrong in her life. It seems it’s
not the first time that he’s had other women and he’s also quite fond of using his fists.
By now we had progressed to the auditorium
and found ourselves surrounded by fishnet-stockinged men and women in frenzied exultation.
We sort of watched the show and during the quieter periods, steadfastly continued with our intense conversation until
the people behind us got pretty narked after gentle hints to shut us up. So we
hoofed it to the
