Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (42 page)

              The Judge, the Department’s lawyer and the Guardian’s lawyer had all come out of the same law firm and knew each other intimately.  R’s lawyer had worked in the Attorney General’s office, the brother of the Family Court Judge.  The incestuous nature of all of this was not helping our cause.  One big closed shop unit controlled everything  - if one added Freemasonry into the mix, this made for a completely impenetrable wall..

              I at last saw M, two weeks after I was incarcerated.  Despite the obvious conflict that she had given evidence against me in the criminal trial, he was accompanied by Miss Whiplash and Nanny McPhee.  Certainly neither could be considered child-friendly and the guards in prison had a more amiable manner than either of M’s jailors. 

              They entered silently, whilst M ran towards me into my arms yelling “Mummy” delightedly.  He then sat down in a plastic chair and looked around nervously taking in his surroundings.  We now had three people supervising – the two Social Workers and the prison guard.  They all went to the drinks machine and bought themselves coffee without offering anything to M.  I was not allowed to have cash in jail so couldn’t offer him anything either.  He had come straight from school and had had an hour long journey to get there.  I stuck my neck out in the end and asked them to buy him an orange juice from the machine.  They gave him enough money only for some water and did so reluctantly.  Nanny Mac and Miss W sat chatting to each other – often in muted tones – whilst glaring at me, no doubt spreading more of their malicious lies to the prison warden who, up until then had been quite friendly, but I suspected ran with both the hare and the hounds.  It was a product of my experience that I no longer trusted anyone and as far as I was concerned they were guilty until proven innocent, as I had been.

              M was chatty, asking lots of questions about prison life.  He told me again how his father had shown him pictures of the prison on the internet and when the Deputy Governor walked through the visitor’s room he was able to identify him immediately.  I hated the fact that he had so much insight into my situation at just eight years old. 

              He told me that he had recently attended the Looked After Children’s Review meeting and had been accompanied by his father.  With a pang of anger, I realised that they had all met to decide M’s future without me having a voice at all or even being sent a form to offer my views.  They had not even afforded me the opportunity to send a representative, such as my lawyer or my father to the meeting.  They had clearly already made up their minds to exclude me and I felt the all too familiar heavy grip of fear in my stomach.

              M looked as if he hadn’t been sleeping and had dark circles under his eyes.  I longed to take him in my arms and tell him he would be coming home to Mummy soon, but the cold reality was that he was likely to be going to his father.

              There were no toys in the visitor’s room, other than a few designed more for babies and toddlers and M was not allowed to bring anything into prison.  He was uncomplaining and after his drink, he sat on my knee on the floor, longing for the closeness that we both craved as we attempted to play a memory card matching game, suitable for a much younger child.  It didn't matter to M what we did, he relished every second we had together as I did and the minutes ticked by all too quickly.

              M wanted to give me his empty drinks bottle to use in the gym for water.  This was not allowed, however, which seemed ridiculously harsh and M asked why.   I told him “It’s just the rules sweetheart.”  How could I explain to an eight year old that he could not give his mummy a harmless plastic bottle?  I tried to reassure him that I was fine and that life in jail was not too bad and hoped with all my heart, that he wouldn’t see the reality behind my forced smile.  I wanted to yell; “This is all wrong.  How dare you destroy my family?” to the two Social Workers who sat head to head, no doubt revelling in my suffering.  I tried to keep what dignity I could by not letting my pain show and being as natural as possible with M.

              M continued “at least the decision will be made in two week’s Mummy.”  I realised someone had already discussed this with him.  He quickly added, “that’s good isn’t it."  I nodded and said, “yes,” but in reality I knew it may be the end of my involvement in his life and there was nothing good in that.  I desperately wanted to tell him to stop co-operating with them and to assert his wish to come home, but could say nothing.  My contact with M would have been stopped instantaneously had I said anything at all that undermined their plans. 

              M was completely ignorant to the dangers that lay in his future and the fact that the Court, Department, Guardian and his father all wanted to push my father and I out of his life.  Had he known this then, I am sure he would have protested vehemently but he was labouring under the illusion that even if he did go to R, his father would let him see me on a regular basis and that would be preferable to the supervised contact we had endured for eighteen months now and staying in foster care where he was deeply unhappy. 

              When five O'clock came, M and I had our final hug.  I was afraid that with so little and such regimented contact, he might shut down in showing his feelings, but he was as loving towards me as he had always been.   He clung tightly to me and I held him close – pushing back the tears that threatened to come.  “I love you the world and back Mummy,” he said and I responded, “I love you the world and back too,”  as we always had before we went to sleep each night. Now we were apart, but in our hearts and minds we were still together.

              My heart was breaking as he was led away by his two jailors.  I was led back to the wing by one of mine.  We were both in the same boat really – being in Foster Care was as much a prison to M as he had gradually been denied every part of his former life, his family, his friends and his activities, reduced to a life of television, computer games and an unknown future and locked away from everything he knew and loved.  The Island had destroyed us for daring to expose the truth and at just eight years old, M was paying with his life for daring to tell me what his father had been doing for who knew, how long.

              Desolate, I walked quietly back onto the wing to meet the hard cruel glare of  Charlene who stared at me jealously for the time I had been allowed with M.  I collected my rancid supper on its plastic plate and took it back to my cell on a tray, unable to cope with Charlene along with my pain.  I had been moved that morning from Amanda’s cell to the one next door.  This one was no warmer than the last as those closer to the yard area got the full blast of the North wind which blew relentlessly, day and night at this time of year.  The jail really was a modern equivalent of a Siberian camp and I can’t remember being warm there at any time, no matter how many of my few allowed pieces of clothing I piled on.  

              Miss H had at last managed to get some hot water bottles for the wing and although it was small comfort, it was at least something to put my ice cold feet on later that night.

              With Christmas fast approaching, M had asked whether they did anything special at the jail.  I had told him they had a Family Day and he might be able to come to that.  He said, “yes,” with a flicker of hope in his eyes, quickly extinguished by the realisation that he would likely be living with his father in England by then.  Neither of us wanted to believe what was happening and the only way we could survive was to pretend that things would go back to normal or at the very least had a chance of doing so. 

              I didn’t know how I would survive Christmas without M.   It had been hard enough coping with his first Christmas in Foster Care, but at least then, we had seen each other on Christmas Eve and spoken to each other on Christmas day.  What would happen this year if he was no longer on the Island?  We needed a miracle but I had lost faith in God long ago.

              I spent a sleepless night of worry and anxiety about M’s future, battered by the extreme cold from the northerly wind.  My cell felt like an ice-box.  Even with the comfort of the hot water bottle, I couldn’t get warm and I shivered all night, longing for morning and an escape from the freezing conditions.  If only I could have escaped my fears and pain so easily.

              It was during the following morning, that I had at last succumbed to the idea of moving upstairs.  It was a Hobson’s choice really.  I could either stay downstairs and freeze to death or move upstairs and live with Charlene’s threats of throwing me over the railings.  I decided I had a better chance of surviving the latter than the former.   At least Annabel would be next door if I moved and perhaps that would make life a little less lonely, given that now Amanda had gone, Annabel was the only person who ever spoke to me.  

              Half-way through exercise that morning in the biting wind, meds were called, and relieved to get back inside where it was marginally warmer, I had  made my decision and let the staff know that I was ready to move to the upper floor.  Charlene picked up on this and began taunting me immediately, calling me, “Madam” and repeating her threats to push me to my death if I dared to move upstairs.  I hesitated as I genuinely believed she was capable of this and the wardens did nothing to ease my fears as they too found her threatening and knew she was quite capable of violence.  After all she was inside for assault and battery, so it was not an unrealistic fear. 

              Annabel heard the threats and immediately approached.  She said she didn’t like Charlene and not to take any notice.  “She’s all mouth and just wants to scare and intimidate you.”  But I was not reassured by these words.  Annabel went on encouraging me, saying she herself felt lonely and would be glad of someone to talk to.  In the end, I decided to risk it and hope for the best.

              With no escape from the music that blasted day and night on the upper floor, it was now much more difficult to think, let alone write, so I spent a lot more time knitting scarves and hats for M and left my writing until Charlene went to Cookery or Education, which was not very often.

              I learned later that day that my QC was coming to visit and after the junior’s visit which had shaken me, I was much relieved.  I hoped that Phillip might be able to offer me some cogent plan of action.  Deep down, I knew that he was more likely to recommend maintaining the defensive position that we had taken throughout the case which I had felt was hugely damaging.

              Of all the lawyers involved so far, Phillip understood the corruption least, but he was someone who had always listened so I tried to keep an open mind.

              I had moved upstairs whilst the other girls were at I.T. Throughout my move, Charlene who had not gone to class and was now only two cells apart from me jeered at me or stood at the door of my cell, her hands  pushed firmly into the pockets of her regulation track suit bottoms and her round shoulders hunched as she stared at me.  She clearly hoped to intimidate me as much as possible, but I ignored her as best I could.  If she threw me over the metal railings, so be it.  I could not live in fear of that happening every second.  I was in so much mental anguish that it may have been a blessed relief.

              The wardens had advised me to stand up to Charlene, but it wasn’t in me to 'eff and blind' at someone which was the only language she understood.  The best I could manage was “go away” or “leave me alone.”  Feeble as that might sound, I couldn’t change who I was, my background or my upbringing.  In a way it was a form of protest to hold onto my value system and not to become like those around me. 

              The noise upstairs was deafening and relentless and wore me down even more than Charlene’s constant abuse.  During lockdown after lunch, I attempted to read legal documents in readiness for Phillip’s visit but I could barely hear myself think with the noise emanating from the next door cell.

              It was the kind of music I detested, loud, thumping, tuneless and headache-inducing.  As the wardens would not stamp on this, my only other option would be to move to a cell at the end of the corridor which was separated from the others by some empty cells.  However, I felt that this would be dangerous as it would isolate me and make it far easier for Charlene to bully me.  In any event, that cell was opposite the utility room where the girls congregated and played music on a portable CD player, so there really was no escape from the endless thudding.  All I could do was to try and find a way of tolerating the noise.  I certainly couldn’t ask to move again and any complaint would be ineffective and only lead to further hostility from the girls.

              The one positive factor was being next to Annabel who the more I talked to, the more I realised had had an appalling childhood of abuse and neglect.  It was no wonder her life had come to this.  She had survived the most terrible treatment at the hands of her own family and was trying to write her autobiography.  When she asked for my help with this, I was only too glad to give it. She was ill-educated so her spelling and grammar was atrocious, but I felt to change it would detract from her story and it was more compelling if it was written in her rather childlike style, than if I had put my English scholar’s critique on it.  Her story touched me deeply and I felt it would others.  I suggested she go on writing it as she was.  Once she eventually left prison there would be time enough to spell-check and hone it, but my belief has always been that writing has to flow from within and be the essence of the creator.  I did not want to interfere with her style or writing identity and told her so.