I Won't Forgive What You Did (34 page)

And despite my knowing that I didn’t have a drink problem, he still made me quite sure that if he
did
have a problem, which he doubted, then it was obviously
me
who’d caused it. ‘No wonder I drink,’ he pointed out more than once.
‘You
wonder
why
I need a drink?’

But it was this very sureness about the drink problem that made me accept Warren’s proposal. That and the fact that splitting up from him – being alone again – was unthinkable.

I didn’t want any fuss though – I wanted just the four of us attending: him, me and, as witnesses, Jennifer and Alfie – the latter would have to be brought home from Copenhagen. Ironically, since none of them could be bothered to attend my party, my elder sister insisted the whole family come, and suddenly everything grew bigger.

But not wholly bad, even though I ended up rowing with my father, and felt once again in a daze during the ceremony. Warren genuinely seemed to want to show me how much he loved me, by arranging a surprise honeymoon in Jersey. He also had a really striking wedding ring made, though I could only wear it for short periods as my fingers were still always swollen. Two weeks after the wedding I had to leave it off altogether, as I went in for a second bout of surgery.

Due to the injury, I’d not been at work for many months, but soon after we married Warren said he’d found me a job, with lots more responsibility, and encouraged me to apply. It wasn’t really the sort of work I wanted or thought I could do, but I applied anyway, had an interview and got it.

It was work involving protecting vulnerable adults and children and came with a dizzying array of legal powers. It seemed a job much more suited to him than me, and, indeed, when I quizzed him about why he didn’t apply himself, he admitted perhaps he should have. As it was, it was me doing it, but I would naturally defer to him, feeling woefully inadequate. And it often seemed as though, far from supporting me, he was really setting me up to fail. I persevered and though it would take its toll on me eventually, by working sixty to eighty hours a week, I could just about keep on top of it.

And then in June 1997 my beautiful granddaughter Melli was born. In Copenhagen, obviously, since that was where Alfie had made his home. I was genuinely reluctant to go and see her, fearing the same things that had haunted me all my life. Of what I might feel when I met her, and held her; that I wouldn’t like her – that I actually might harm her.

But I was persuaded to go, when she was three months old, and flew to Copenhagen with Jennifer. From that moment my world changed. I set eyes on my granddaughter and it was love at first sight – the biggest revelation of my life. I was captivated by her and wanted to hold her all the time, even though doing so, inexplicably, always made me cry. With hindsight, I was crying for the childhood neither I, nor my children, had had – for the enormity of being given a chance to help make one for Melli.

Her circumstances weren’t good either. They lived in an apartment in a grey and grim part of the city and I could hardly bear the thought of them being there. Her own mother, Anna, was very damaged. Like me, she had had a terrible childhood, and as an adult was in and out of psychiatric hospital and struggling to cope. I resolved that my job must be to persuade both her and Alfie to come back and live near us in England.

Happily, they agreed, and my beautiful little granddaughter came to live in England when she was five months old. From that day she was a part of my life almost every day. I couldn’t do enough to help Alfie and Anna; it was so wonderful to feel I mattered. I would look after Melli all the time and loved the things we did together. I’d teach her songs, point out birds and insects and flowers, and show her clapping games like pat-a-cake. When she began speaking the thrill of having her call me Grandma was the most wonderful thing in the world.

Not that all in my garden was now lovely. In 1998, while Melli was at our house one afternoon, she pulled something out of Warren’s briefcase. It was a Valentine’s card, with a poem handwritten in it, which started:
You are my oasis in the desert.

Warren denied everything, just as I’d imagined he would; he was now supplementing his income by working weekends and overnight with an emergency team, and said this was just some silly joke from the girls in the office. I believed him until a few days later, when I got a call from someone who worked with him, telling me he was having an affair.

Once again he denied it and it was only when I threatened to call the office that he caved in and confessed. It was my fault again, of course, for arguing with and shouting at him; he just couldn’t stand it any more.

I was stunned, but at the same time I felt numb – he’d done everything he could to hurt me over the years – this new thing wasn’t very new at all. When it was compounded by another discovery, two weeks later, that he’d borrowed and lost £20,000 gambling on shares, it was beginning – though more shocking, and with worse implications – to seem par for the course. He’d always gambled – had done ever since I’d known him – but I suppose, looking back, I hadn’t seen it as such, because it didn’t fit with my idea of what gamblers were – they were like Pops: to my mind, rough with smelly breath and brown teeth.

But the biggest shock was just around the corner. I don’t think I realized just how vital was my relationship with Melli, until the day of her second birthday party. Alfie and her mother hadn’t been getting on for some time, and Anna told me she and Melli were returning to Copenhagen.

Watching the two of them leave for the airport was worse than anything Warren could do to me. Just knowing how much I loved my granddaughter and not knowing when or if I’d see her again was like the worst bereavement imaginable; almost like losing a part of my own body – a precious part that I’d only just discovered.

Alfie, of course, was completely distraught to be waving his daughter off from all she knew – beside herself, distressed, crying ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ He’d felt it incredibly important for his daughter’s well-being that she remained in the UK. It was mostly all she’d ever known; we were her family, who loved her. It was a place where she’d felt safe, and had love and support. We didn’t realize until after she’d already gone that, under the Hague Conventions, she was entitled to stay here. We pursued every avenue, and she should have been returned to the UK, but Denmark wouldn’t uphold the decision.

It would be four years before I saw her again.

It is difficult for me to describe, to anyone who hasn’t experienced it, what an appalling form of torture being ignored is.

My marriage to Warren had fallen into a pattern that was the same, only worse, as it had always been. Ignoring me, pretending I didn’t exist – these were the chief weapons he liked to use. Those who are familiar with relationships like this will know how destructive such tactics can be, and how completely they can crush another person.

Warren had always acted in a superior manner, of course, because he felt he
was
superior, and I mostly agreed. I’d been programmed from early childhood to think
everyone
superior – or at the very least more important. Nothing Warren ever did challenged that. His manner had always been offhand; he’d correct me when I spoke, and either laugh in front of people at my unintentional misuse of a word or became exasperated with me for my ‘inferior knowledge and tastes’. I was often a source of great annoyance to him, and as a consequence I tried excessively hard to please him. I felt that I couldn’t get anything right; even the food I was used to eating Warren said he didn’t like. He didn’t like my taste in music, my reading material, my interest in and sensitivity to other people, or my increasing need to understand myself and why I was like I was.

Lying in bed enduring one of Warren’s cold silences was the most challenging thing imaginable. I used to feel I was going mad. The longer it went on the more worked up I became. It felt almost as if I was being physically tortured; I’d get into such a state I couldn’t relax. I’d keep talking to him, endlessly, but he still totally ignored me so, eventually, I’d start raising my voice. Sometimes he’d laugh, like he was really enjoying it, but still wouldn’t engage with me. This would tip me over the edge and I would begin swearing at him, using the most offensive words I could remember my father using to me as a child.

Using such words naturally made me feel even worse, and reminded me of all the reasons Warren must hate me, but he’d carry on ignoring me or, sometimes, leave the room altogether, going into the other bedroom or to the sitting room. I’d follow him, still trying to get a reaction – till I was completely exhausted, and usually ended up crying, feeling defeated. How I functioned in my demanding new job, I do not know. It was like living in the middle of a war zone all the time, not knowing when to expect the next bombardment.

By the end of the nineties, Warren was almost permanently angry. He’d spend a lot of time walking around in a mood, wanting to know why he had to live in ‘this house’ and why he was condemned to doing his ‘shit job’, when he was so obviously meant for better things. He’d become bitter about everything, and knew the reason. Women, he said, had been his downfall. He had had what is termed a ‘clean break’ divorce, and it was anything but. In exchange for him keeping his pension, his wife had kept the house, virtually mortgage-free, and it’d made a big dent in his finances. He’d hurt and humiliated her too, and she wanted revenge. Sadly, she also turned his children against him, which helped nobody, least of all them. It was all just a horrible mess.

In September 1998, a house came up for sale down the road, and as it needed renovation it was well priced. As ever, I was concerned mostly about pleasing him, so I overrode his moans that we couldn’t afford it, as I knew it would make him happier; it was spacious and had a huge garden. I was also concerned that we put something into bricks and mortar, as even though he protested about affording it he always seemed to find money for gambling.

I also persuaded him to go to marriage guidance sessions with me, as I was becoming so worn down by his constant moaning and the tortuous silences. Once again, now I’m putting words on this page, I can’t help but question why I was trying so hard to please him.

We only lasted two sessions at marriage guidance, because it was obviously going to achieve nothing. All I wanted was for him to accept some responsibility for what he’d done, to accept that his behaviour was unkind, to embrace the idea of at least trying. But it was pointless. Emboldened by there being someone present, I’d get increasingly vocal when asking him these questions, and his response, which would be quiet, and civilized, and measured, would be to say: ‘Faith always wants to pretend I’m a bad person. But I’m not. I am a decent person. She just wants everyone to believe I’m bad.’

And, of course, he was always convincing. Who’d ever believe this charming, urbane man could inflict so much cruelty on another person?

In the meantime, though things had been so tough for my children, they were trying to make good lives. Alfie, who’d been so upset about losing Melli, had managed to buy himself a two-bedroom flat, in the hopes she’d be able to come and stay. He also decided he must get out of bricklaying and get himself more education. He did a number of college courses and after two years of hard work, he went on to win a place at university to study nursing. He’d been through so much in his young life, and I was so proud.

Proud of them both – because Jennifer, too, had begun to turn her life around. Her problems with drink had continued to be troubling, and we knew she needed to find direction or else fall very heavily by the wayside. In this, at least, Warren was helpful. He went with her to look at several different universities, and she eventually got a place in London.

The day we moved her into university digs was one I shall never forget. A big part of me wanted to bury my head in the sand and keep her close, because I was terrified about how she’d cope. I could hardly bear driving off and leaving her there, but at the same time I knew it was make or break. After a rocky first year, she began to adjust and settled into university life well.

I too had been continuing with my education. It was one area that I thought I must do well in, partly because of how they treated me at school, and partly because it gave me a sense of self-worth. Also I thought it would enable me to make change happen. I desperately wanted the people I was paid to work for to feel protected and get a better deal. For them to have a voice that was listened to. Mostly I wanted them not to lose faith; to believe there were people out there who would work on their behalf to ensure they got the best possible care.

My knowledge had come to be respected as by now I had been promoted to senior staff, and was offered the opportunity to go to university and study for a degree in social work. I was also offered the chance to do a diploma in the regulation of health and social care. I was worried about how I’d ever manage the huge workload, but I said yes – it could only be a good thing to do this – and through everything that was going on in my personal life, I studied as hard as I could. I’m still not quite sure how I did it, but in October 2001 I was awarded a BSc (Hons) 2:1.

My presentation ceremony took place in Cambridge, and I remember that day very well. It seemed almost unimaginable that I, of all people, should walk robed, with the other students, through a city like Cambridge, to receive a certificate saying I had a degree.

Perhaps made bolder by this, I decided to do something useful with the strong feelings I’d always had about trying to get justice for other people, and applied to become a Justice of the Peace. Part of this process would prove painful – I was asked to attend a series of interviews, and it was asked whether I had anything I needed to tell them, about either myself or my extended family, that could bring the magistracy into disrepute. I didn’t know where to begin. By now my family, always dysfunctional and unhappy, had grown, and there were even more skeletons in the closet.