Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (36 page)

              It remained that there had to be a key as to why this had happened to us and I prayed that Brian and Phillip would find one.  Off the record they believed that a Paedophile ring lay at the heart of this, but without firm evidence, there was no hope of exposure.  We'd even hired Private Investigators a couple of times, but they never managed to turn up anything really significant.  They'd filmed some of our contacts showing M's distress at seeing his father.  They'd even managed to capture the psychologist bringing R to and from the airport and then going into his home, but as far as the Judge was concerned these things were irrelevant.  Whilst they were submitted in evidence, the Judge either hadn't watched them or chose to ignore the blatant bias of the woman who led all those who came after her into disbelieving us and supporting M's father.

              The best you could say was that this was an error of judgment of his part, albeit an horrific one.  That, in itself was bad enough, but we suspected in ran deeper than that. It was well known that mistakes were never admitted.                Clearly when they had initially re-established contact between M and his father, they had had some doubts about R's behaviour as they were still insisting that his wife be present if M stayed the night with him.  I learned this from one of the Social Worker’s reports and my lawyers had questioned why they insisted upon this safety net, if they were so sure that M was not at risk.  As usual, they didn't reply.  They completely ignored any questions they didn’t like.  It made no difference whether I wrote to the Department or the lawyer’s wrote to their lawyer – the result was the same – a stone wall of silence.

              We'd  even gone to the lengths of employing the same Investigator who'd been involved in the Madelaine McCann case, but what he turned up was of precious little help.  To date, Madelaine has not been found and the key to this case would probably never be found either.

              One reporter had written:- “Things are desperate when ordinary people choose to leave everything behind and risk jail rather than trust the State.”  Whilst I have been much criticised for doing what I did in fleeing, I would urge those people who judged me, to honestly say that they wouldn’t have run, if the option was handing their child over to someone who the child alleged had abused them. 

              I don’t think anyone realises how hard it is to flee.  It isn't something one does lightly but sadly we would have been safe had we done it sooner, we would not have been in breach of the orders that were made through the case and as such, could have left without any fear or consequence. 

              Parents mostly don't take this action until all other routes have been tried. To decide to take a child from all that is familiar and abandon your home, family and friends, to go on the run, your back has to be so firmly against the wall, that there's no other option left.

              Would I have run again in hindsight?  Yes, probably, because the same set of factors would have existed and if there was any chance of saving M, I had to try.  This doesn't mean that I felt no regret for what had happened to M as a result of us being found.  I would have given my right arm to spare him one moment of the pain of that brutal day when he was forced screaming from my body or of his subsequent suffering in foster care, but at the time we ran we were not thinking of failing or consequences, just our need to reach safety.

              For a short while at least M had lived the bliss of being free from the pain, strife and fear that had become his daily existence. They had been heady days – but as quickly as Paradise had been found, it had been lost again.  The pain of that moment will never leave me and I have relived M’s suffering in my heart more times than I can count.

              Britain at this time was more and more beginning to resemble George Orwell’s
1984.
  Our supposedly civilised country, was becoming a police state akin to China with its communist regime.  Whilst I was raise true-blue conservative with the benefit of private schools and colleges, and the daughter of a successful businessman, it had shocked me to hear on the news that Cameron was now intending to introduce the bill that would allow all individual's communication to be scrutinised by the government – this to include, one’s emails,
Skype
and social networking activity, as well as phone calls from landline and mobiles.  

              It was a truly horrific state of affairs and completely against the Human Rights Act which advocated an individual’s right to a private and family life.  What had happened to our world and our country that this was even being discussed?  Only twenty years ago, Britain had been a wonderful place to live in most respects, synonymous with freedom from fear, but now we seemed to be under State control more and more.

              One woman I knew of, fled Britain when they threatened to take her child on the grounds that she herself, had been subjected to physical violence by the father.  The mother was blamed for allowing herself to be abused and forced to run.  She was found the first time, but ran a second time – this time heavily pregnant with a second child.  Mothers all over the country were running from Britain, fleeing to Europe and Southern Ireland in the main, but not even safe in those places.  Local Authorities would go to any lengths to capture the children and return them. Vast amounts of money were spent in locating and extraditing parents and children who took the law into their own hands. 

              It had the strange and deeply disturbing feel of Jews fleeing the Nazis.  I'd faced my own “
Sophie’s Choice
” when going on the run with M – knowing the risk I was taking.  I had no knowledge then of the others who'd taken this route.  I'd picked a country whose laws were akin to Britain and that was a mistake.  Had we gone to certain parts of Europe – such as Northern Cyprus or Barbados which was outside the Hague, we'd have had a better chance of safety. Now here I was paying the high price of my actions - the highest price of all - my son’s suffering.  What they did to me, an adult, paled into insignificance by comparison.

              As I was once again locked in that night with my solitude, despair and loneliness, I thought of Amanda safely on the outside – but was she safe?  Her own sadness went with her, as did her loss.  I vowed to write to her the next day.   White noise pieced the darkness from the television screen through the night as the ache in my heart for M engulfed me – I lay awake counting the minutes until another dawn, knowing it would bring no relief, smothered in my cruel heavy blanket – for no light could pierce this endless black – the only light that shone for me was M.

Chapter 16

              The only things available to punctuate the tedium of the day were  – Cookery, Art, Education and the Gym, three days a week. I'd already abandoned all except the Gym and for a couple of weeks Art, due to the daily threats from Charlene.

              I didn’t believe she would or even could carry out these threats, but my presence seemed to anger her and I decided to withdraw for the sake of peace and the other girls.  It was a shame as I  enjoyed the Art Classes and had been working on a cushion cover for M with a painting of Coco on it.  I'd almost finished this, when I pulled out of class.

              As far as Cookery went, the confined area of the kitchen was too close for comfort and this was the one place where knives could be found.  I decided after just one class that it was too risky.  Charlene went to all the classes, unless she was holed up in her cell in bed which she did periodically and I decided it was better not to fuel the flames of her aggression with my presence.  I withdrew, secreting myself more and more in the confines of my cell. 

              There was nothing about my situation that could be shared and no common ground since Amanda had gone.  I wrote letters daily, worked on my book and read avidly.  I'd brought two novels in with me, both based on true stories– one was the Angela Canning's story and the other, Sally Clarke’s - Both women having been charged with crimes for which they were later acquitted - accused of murder of their children by smothering and shaken baby syndrome. 

              In reading the stories of the two brave women, I took courage from their fight – although sadly Sally Clarke had taken her own life after her release, unable to come to terms with her loss.  I could relate to  her need to escape her pain but I could never hurt M by giving up and I took comfort from the fact that they had both been vindicated in the end.

              I was disappointed to have to give up Cooker because the girls got to eat and with the  unpalatable prison food, a diet of refined carbohydrate and over-cooked vegetables - I had seen it as an opportunity to eat something more healthy.

              The snow that had come with winter had made the already freezing jail, even colder and the icy wind blew through the wing from every crack and badly fitted window.  In the end I had to eat whatever I could for warmth and tolerate the inevitable side effects.  It was that, or starve.

              With Amanda gone, the gulf between myself and the other girls seemed to widen even more. Whilst they hadn't completely accepted Amanda for the same reasons as they rejected me, they were not so threatened by her and largely just left her alone.  She had sensibly kept a very low profile and hadn't attempted to mix.  I had so wanted to feel some sense of camaraderie to combat my isolation and fear, that I'd pushed myself forward and made enemies in doing so. 

              I had been shocked by the fact that the wardens, initially friendly, were more sympathetic to the girls than me as regards the bullying and to my horror and complete astonishment, I was told that I was making my “class” too obvious.  I didn’t understand.  I was just being myself – speaking as I'd always spoken and being polite and courteous to all.   

              I'd never felt I had a class until now. I'd always mixed with people from all walks of life and couldn’t understand why the others saw me in the way they did.  I thought that we would at least have bonded on the level of being separated from our children, but I was repeatedly told to use the “F” word more, stop speaking “posh” and try to be more aggressive. 

              Mrs H called me into her office and announced, “you're on your own now that Amanda has gone.  The others don’t like you and I don’t want an atmosphere on my wing.”  Having initially liked the wardens, I felt deeply hurt, humiliated and treated like a five year old. 

              “You’ve criticised Social Services.  You can’t do that.”  She continued, ignoring my grief.  “The girls rely on them for benefits and are at their mercy for access to their children.  They know they have to tow the line with the Department and do.  No matter how much they may sound off, they are never going to openly criticise the Department.”  I'd read this all wrong.  The very thing I had mis judged the very thing that I thought might have been common ground between myself and the other inmates. I had a baptism of fire that day.

              Whilst the girls openly and vehemently attacked the wardens at every opportunity, it appeared that Social Workers were off-limits.  They saw them as a necessary means to an end and befriended them.

              Drugs were drugs, there was no ambivalence.  They knew they faced jail if caught when they used or dealt. They took this chance regardless of the consequences and knew no other way of life.  They'd done the crime and expected to do the time.  For some jail was preferable to home.  This meant there was an unspoken loyalty to those who held the keys to their release, their children, their outer world.  And whilst inside, they were all part of the same club. 

              I remained firmly on the outside.  I had no chance of befriending the social workers.  They were never going to accept me for exactly the same reasons as the girls rejected me.  I suffered from their fierce jealousy of what they thought I had – so little did they know of our life outside. 

                Miss Whiplash continued to take her personal animosity out on me by denying me access to M -  hurting him in the process, but I knew she couldn't keep this up forever.  The prison would have to allow a visit eventually - under their own rules. 

              Two of the girls, Donna and Sara, had known about my case from my friend Liz before I had come in and had promised to look out for me - sadly their promises were empty.  They had greeted me warmly enough but then the green-eyed monster had reared its head.

              As soon as Charlene, who seemed to have a lot of influence with the others, made it clear that I was
persona non grata
, they had all followed suit with the exception of Annabel and Irene. 

              Irene didn’t so much befriend me, as tolerate me.  She had no particular agenda and was just seeing her time out and keeping her head down, much as Amanda had done.  Had I done the same at the beginning, rather than seek out friendship, I doubt still that I would have been accepted, but I might not have been bullied quite so hard. 

              As the Thorn bird, impaled as it sings its final song, I was impaled on the thorn of having sung the truth. 

              All I had now for company, were the daily letters that arrived from friends and well-wishers and these now became even more important to me. I waited hungrily for post to arrive and replied to every letter.

              Sometime after the first week, the Department arranged for M to have a mobile phone so that I could call him twice a week at a set time.  We were only given a ten minute allowance and I had to include in that calls to my father and lawyers.  

              The two weekly call was manna from heaven to my soul, starved of contact with M.  I ensured I spoke to no-one else on those days, but the calls were often difficult and fragmented, with constant interruptions.  Warning messages told me that we were being recorded and that the call would end in 30 seconds.  It was hard for M on the other end to understand what was happening and sometimes we were cut off after just a few minutes and I would call straight back only to find that I couldn’t now get him as the Foster Carers had taken back the phone. 

              I was still pushing daily to be allowed to see him and writing letters to the Probation Officer and Miss W pleading for a visit.

              Joy of joys, I eventually got my reward.  In the third week, I was notified that M was being brought to see me that Wednesday after school - a good hour's drive from the prison.  As he was at school in the South of the Island and in Foster Care in the East, the prison being furthest North, this took some organizing, especially as they didn’t want him to have contact with my father and I together which would have been the norm. 

              They were not adhering to the usual visiting rules – that children were brought in at the same time as other visitors.  I had no say in this, but it created further jealousy from the other girls who again saw it as special treatment. 

              I ignored the girls jibes.  I was determined that nothing would spoil the fact that I would at last see M.  It had only been three weeks since we had last seen each other, but it felt like an eternity.  How little I knew then, that I might one day consider that a short separation.

              The afternoon of November 12
th
, 2010 was colder and darker than most.  We were taken outside to the football pitch for exercise as a rare treat -  not that it felt much better walking on the astro turf than in the yard, but it was at least a bigger area.  We had to walk past C wing where the “vulnerable” prisoners were kept – the child molesters and others who risked attack.  I found this particularly disturbing and wondered again what kind of people could harm a child or take their innocence.  I could only think that it stemmed from sickness or from a childhood of abuse that has repeated itself. Ironically I was the one jailed, whilst the man who had caused the harm was free and revered by all. 

              I kept my eyes upward towards the dark featureless sky as the biting wind cut through me.  The walls blocked out any sign of outside life and as usual, I walked alone, snubbed by the other inmates.  We paced around the ground for forty-five minutes, an extra fifteen minutes treat to our usual half-hour exercise allowance.  

              At least I now had my warm anorak and some gloves – to replace the socks I had had to put over my hands in the first few weeks.

              As I walked, face into the wind and felt the sting of its icy touch, I felt as isolated as one can feel.  The other girls walked ahead, giggling, linking arms and I was again reminded of primary school where I had been bullied for being top of the class and for coming from a privileged background – history  repeating itself.

              It hurt as much now, as it had then. I had often wished as a child that instead of living in the big house on the hill, I lived in a council house,  so I could fit in.  Obviously when you get older, these things matter less or should, but it seemed those differences mattered a great deal in a place such as this.

              Life had improved for me when I had left the local village school and gone to public school, the same school that M was now at.  But sadly whilst this school had been a happy, slightly chaotic environment, with elements of St Tinian's about it, it was now headed up by someone who was little more than an administrator, had few people skills and no natural warmth or understanding.  This school had been another forum of bullying for my son, but not by the children, by the adults – the people in positions of trust and I would never forget M being brought home, soaked in his own urine having been bullied by the not-so-independent psychologist, supporting M’s father.

              Eventually exercise time came to an end and for once I was glad to get back inside into the comparative warmth of the wing.  My heart was lifted by the news that a card had arrived for me from M and I hurriedly took it to my cell to read.  On the front it said,
As Mother’s Go You’re the Very Best
.  It was filled with hugs and kisses and inside he'd written,
I love you Mummy
in big bold letters. 

              I had to be thankful that despite the best efforts of his father, the various experts and social workers, our bond was as strong as ever.  They would never break it.  There was nothing that could ever come between us or change that and my heart sang.  I had feared that under all the pressure of what might now be being said to him about Mummy being in jail, he might succumb to thinking that I was a bad person, but if they were trying to alienate him, they had failed and knowing this did much to raise my flagging spirits,

              I would see him in a couple of days and I now knew that our bond would carry both of us through this terrible ordeal.  At last I would be able to hold him and tell him how proud I that he had been so brave through it all.

              I put the card nearest my bed and looked at it over and over, especially at moments when my courage failed me. 

              I had two other cards that day.  One was from an old school friend who I had seen at our summer school reunion, the other from the girl that I had never met, who was going through a similar experience to me in the UK and wanted to offer me her support. 

              I read her story with mounting interest.  Her child had also made allegations of abuse and been disbelieved.  She too had been accused of coaching, the child, a girl only a year younger than M, had been removed from her and she too faced losing her to the alleged abuser.  The sincerity of her words meant that I had no doubt that this woman was telling me the truth and that she and her daughter had also suffered the same injustice.  We began a correspondence and soon afterwards she asked if she might come to the Island and visit me.  I didn’t hesitate to agree and I asked my father to get in touch with her and find out more, as well as organize it.

              Later that day, I came out of the shower room and had to walk past Charlene who was on the phone.  So much was her jealousy and hatred she interrupted her call to spit vitriol at me; “Bet you have a fucking Nanny don’t you?  Don’t like to get your hands dirty.”  I tried to stand up to her, “Don’t be stupid Charlene.  Grow up.”