Escaping the Darkness (6 page)

I gave Bess clear, precise directions over the next few minutes, speaking slowly while she noted them down.
Once I finished, she repeated them to me, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. Afterwards she said goodbye, and once more the phone sat in uninterrupted silence, redundant at last.

As I sat on the settee thinking about Monday, I felt a little shaky. My stomach churned with nervousness and I found myself rushing to the loo because of all the anxiety and unease I felt deep inside. I hoped that my nerves would ease as quickly as the stress had begun; I didn’t want to feel like this for the whole of the weekend.

Before I knew it, the weekend was over. Sam was once more starting another week of work and the boys were all back at school. It had been a particularly hectic morning because we were all up late the night before. Regardless of this, Sam left for work on time and I was back from taking the boys to school. It was 9.15, and in the hour that followed, the tidying up had been done and I just had to put Timothy in his cot for a nap. I had even managed to get some washing in the machine with a quarter of an hour to spare before Beth’s arrival. Over the next few minutes the house was filled with the sound of the washing machine groaning at me whilst it was whirring into action; deep inside, that machine knew it was another day of hard work once again. I mean when did the washing machine ever not go on in this house? The only time it wasn’t contributing to the noises in our home was when it was broken.

Then I looked at the clock: 10.20. Where had those last fifteen minutes gone? It was only a short time later
that the bell rang. I looked out of the window. There was a dark blue car parked further down the road, about five or six down from my house. As I glanced round from the road to the front door, a woman was standing there with a file of papers held under her arm. This must be her – this must be Bess.

I quickly looked in the mirror: my hair needed combing. I looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Oh well, it was too late now, this was it. I opened the door.

‘Hi,’ she said cheerily, ‘I’m Bess.’

‘Hello, pleased to meet you, I’m Sarah,’ I replied. ‘Would you like to come through?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

As she came in, I pushed open the lounge door. I don’t know why I did that, just force of habit I suppose, and after all, there was no chance of going through the wrong door because this was the only one in my tiny hallway.

Once I’d closed the front door, I went into the lounge to join Bess. She was standing in the middle of the room, waiting for an indication of where she should sit.

‘Would you like to sit down?’ I asked.

She momentarily looked at the chairs and settee. ‘All right here?’ she asked, pointing to the settee.

‘Yes.’

She settled herself on the settee and laid out her diary and some other papers she had brought with her as I sat on Sam’s chair opposite her.

‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’ I asked her.

‘Oh coffee would be lovely.’

‘How do you want it?’

‘Black, no sugar please.’

I went into the kitchen and made Bess a cup of coffee and a cup of tea for me. A few minutes later I was back in the lounge. As I placed the drinks on the little table between the settee and the chair, Bess looked up and spoke:

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where shall we start?’

She smiled reassuringly at me to begin.

I didn’t know what to say at first. I just went very quiet, returning to the safe world that was locked inside my head, surrounded by all the things that were secure and familiar to me. Talking to this stranger about the abuse I had been subjected to would probably be one of the biggest hurdles I would ever face. It all seemed so scary, so wrong. Even being here, even though this was my own home, something felt wrong. I was trying to tell someone else about my ordeal, which even now still felt like a betrayal, especially after so much time had passed since it all ended and Bill’s warnings about not telling anyone were first aired. I was now a grown woman and I had a choice to finally speak out. The problem was I was still unsure how to do it. I became a child again. I know very few minutes had passed while I wrestled with my thoughts, but these short pockets of time felt like a lifetime to me.

Bess looked across at me. She seemed to sense my feelings of insecurity, and that talking in my own home, in surroundings that I had created, was a struggle that was
going to be hard to overcome for me. She continued to look at me as she spoke softly:

‘Okay, let’s take it a little bit at a time, there’s no rush.’

Inside, my chest felt the burden easing off allowing a little bit of comfort to ease back into the cavity that had just a few seconds earlier felt lifeless and crushed.

‘All right, thanks.’

I was so glad of the words she had spoken; glad of the few things she had said that helped me start to talk about what had happened to me at the hands of the man who always said he was a friend. As Bess sat opposite me in my lounge that day, I started to slowly tell her how the events of those summers way back long ago unfolded; to tell her of experiences that were not meant for a child. It was these experiences that subsequently expanded into years of sexual abuse. These were the events that shaped my life, destroying and stealing parts of me that should never have been destroyed or stolen. I was so angry, but I hid my feelings and continued to hide them until that day: the day Bess Meyer walked into my world.

I began my story:

‘I was eleven. Bill was a man who used to work at the bingo hall my mum used to go to. He became her friend. He used to halve the cost of her tickets so she could go more often, she loved bingo.’ I sat forward in the chair and slowly took a deep breath to go on…

‘Mum used to keep me off school so I could go with her. She liked my company and I didn’t mind missing school because I didn’t have many friends. The other kids
in my class were horrible to me, and even though I only had four or five pimples on my chin, they would always pick on me and call me ‘acne face’. Every day they did this. When I walked into class, if I looked at them or smiled, they would always say, “What you looking at acne face?” The teachers at school never heard their taunts or saw what they did to me.

‘I hated school for that reason, but I loved the lessons. History and English literature were my favourite subjects. I loved reading books and used to get really excited when I knew it was English Literature day. We were reading
A Kind of Loving
by Stan Barstow. It was really good. If I could have gone to school and been left alone by the other kids, I don’t think I’d have been willing to give up any school day no matter how much I enjoyed being with my mum.

‘At first Mum didn’t go to the bingo very often, but over the next few months she seemed to be going almost every day, and on most of those days I went, too. Bill asked her one day if I could help her make the sandwiches for the snack bar in the bingo hall and she said “Yes”.

‘It didn’t matter how I felt about helping this man. Each time I objected she always said to me: “Oh Sarah you’ll be fine, after all I’m only sat here.” From that day on Bill planned, carried out and instigated his plan of how to start abusing an innocent eleven-year-old.

‘Me.

‘At that time I didn’t know why I felt uncomfortable around him and I just didn’t know the plan he had for me.

‘He carefully manoeuvred his way into my mum’s trust and gained enough of it to be alone with me. At first it was just twenty minutes, but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, these precious minutes turned into longer periods of time. Hours were far harder to forget, the memories of which were not just engraved in my memory, but deeply chiselled in, as if a stonemason had created them, anxious that his work would never wear out.’

Recalling all of this to Bess was beginning to show in my face. I began to get upset as I remembered and recalled the words that would be used to describe the events that would shortly follow the last ones I had spoken of. Eventually, I would have to speak of the things that he did to me and share them again. Saying them out loud, letting them break free. For me, once I speak about the way he moved, acted, and abused me, the words take on shape, forming themselves into dramatic visions that suddenly assume reality. I then start to see them as if I am still living them at that very moment. Once more, each memory is unblemished and alive. Recreated in a new, fresh instant, when time hasn’t quite built up enough distance to tarnish and discolour them.

Bess wrote notes as we talked, scribbling away in a small ring-bound, tattered dark blue notebook; each word was formed in a spidery, pencil-woven scroll. I wondered which bits she thought were important and which she was leaving out. She paused each time I paused, asking if I was okay to continue talking about things that have, and have had, such a huge impact on my life.

‘At first,’ I continued, ‘it was just making sandwiches, then it was helping get the shopping for the things to make the sandwiches, then he took me to his flat.’ My voice started to wobble and then tears pricked and stung the backs of my eyelids, desperately trying to stay there without falling into their normal escape route down my hot flushed cheeks. A second later they succeeded. I was unable to stop myself crying uncontrollably. Bess moved across, taking my hand in hers, slowly stroking the back of it in that familiar, motherly way that seems to be so natural for women of her age.

‘I think we’ll leave it there Sarah,’ she told me. ‘This is obviously getting harder and harder for you and I know you haven’t even touched the surface yet.’

I nodded to her, still trying desperately to control the heaving within me, caused by the pain of the memories that are still far too real.

‘Before I go I’d like to leave you with some books that you may find helpful,’ she said. ‘They’re children’s books but the stories in them are ones which I think will help you. Have a look at them and let me know what you think when I call next time.’

I hadn’t realised that there would be more meetings in the pipeline. Obviously when I look back on that period of my life, I knew that my therapy sessions with Bess would need time, lots of time, and one session would never have been enough. Bess arranged to visit at the same time the following week and we would continue then. Before she left, she asked if I was all right and left me her card with
her telephone number on it in case I needed to contact her to chat before she was due to see me next week.

Once Bess had left, I noticed that she had been here almost an hour-and-a-half, and it was now five to twelve. I quickly ran upstairs, plucked Timothy from his cot and laid the sleepy baby in his pram, dragged my jacket off the chair, splashed my face with cold water over the kitchen sink, and then left the house, quickly heading up the hill to collect William from playgroup.

It had become a lovely day. The sun felt warm and the faint breeze was refreshing on my face. As I walked, each ray of sunshine worked a small miracle, the way it had many times before. I began to feel renewed and free; for a few seconds anyhow.

Chapter Seven

AS THE REMAINDER of the week unfolded, the memories of those locked-away days returned thick and fast. I struggled to keep my feelings hidden while I carried on with day-to-day life. The boys kept me busy and I was grateful of every distraction that came my way, no matter how small or trivial. Sam worked hard that week, not getting home until after six most nights. I missed him terribly in the daytime as I longed for some adult conversation – any chatter that wasn’t centred on children’s characters from books or television would have done.

Don’t get me wrong – I loved my boys dearly – it was just that I had quite a lot more than my fair quota of ‘child talk’ for that week. My world had always revolved around my sons from my first born until my last. All five of them had given me joy each day we were together. I was privileged to be with them, sharing each memorable
part of their growing up. I was so fortunate to have such an amazing family and I felt I always had far more than I ever deserved.

I kept much of how I felt about my past hidden away as I didn’t want to upset Sam or give him cause for concern. He was a wonderful man, caring and sensitive, but I knew if he realised or found out how distraught I had felt that week, he would have been hurt, too. Each night when I should have been sleeping, I had dreams similar to those that had haunted most of my childhood. I dreamed of the past, the days with Bill, and all the awful, appalling, sick things he had done to me were slowly brought back to life with even more startling clarity than ever before. I tried to relax, hoping the sleep that had deserted me would find me soon, but still in my waking moments the dreams attacked me, bearing down on me like a rock-filled eiderdown that was covering my already limp body. I twisted and turned tensely. I felt these involuntary movements of restlessness were controlling my whole body. I woke regularly in the night, each time slowly getting up, dragging my heavy, worry-laden frame from the bed as quietly as I could in the hope of not disturbing Sam’s sleep.

As I looked across to his side of the bed, even though I couldn’t see him clearly in the darkened room, I heard the slow restful breaths of his slumber as they drifted towards me, each breath warming the cold air that surrounded him. When I was sure I hadn’t disturbed him, I slowly crept from the room, tiptoeing down the stairs to make a cup
of tea and a slice of toast – an activity that was becoming more and more of a habit than I wanted it to be.