She Came!!!

Yes!!! As the kids say, 'Result!' Okay, it sounds silly, but it's true. I got to the railway station at 10.40 (not as arduous as it sounds - only a 5 minute trip on the train) and stood outside the railway station until 11.05, waiting, watching, wondering. Getting colder by the second, as well. Brrrr. Then, at about 11.10 my mobile rang and it was Simon. 'Where are you?' Duh. At the railway station, of course. 'So are we. There are two entrances.' You don't say. Your solicitor certainly knew! Hence she stipulated which entrance we should meet. 'I'll meet you at the entrance.' Just as I was about to ask WHICH entrance, the idiot hung up. I guessed he meant the wrong one so went up and over the tracks, down the platform and found them at the wrong entrance. Men!! We (Flavia and I, of course, not Simon and I), hugged and kissed and I was relieved to see she was more sensibly dressed this time. Even had gloves and hat as well as a scarf. Simon raced off down the platform and we took our time. Flavia told me she was so excited to see me she hadn't had breakfast (although I suspect it had something to do with not being a morning person and having to leave the house at 9.00 am!) Apparently they saw me arrive at 10.40 but he refused to allow her to call out to me. Anyway, we had five hours together. We shopped and talked, although the latter is rather difficult when you have no where to settle. I cheated and used a dictaphone to catch Flavia's answers to my questions regarding whether she was scared of Mark etc. She knew about it. I told her Mark needed to hear it from her rather than me. She told me that Simon has kindly stated she will be allowed to come to our house after Christmas. What's wrong with Christmas, since she's supposed to be with us? He's made arrangements to go to a friend's house, apparently. I know it's boloney. If she comes here once that's his argument regarding her fear and loathing of coming here in a hand basket. As we ate lunch I asked again about August. It's like a bad tooth, I keep fussing with it. She told me it had nothing to do with her. She had packed a backpack with a couple of Barbies, toys, colouring pencils etc to use on the train and then Simon informed her she wasn't coming to us! My poor baby. She's confused, I'm confused. Mark isn't. I think part of it is Simon's upcoming anniversary regarding his ordination. He 'phoned in April to say he wants Flavia to be confirmed on his 20th Anniversary. It was disturbing listening to him. He wasn't interested in whether she wants to be confirmed or that it will be her experience - it was all a reflection of him. Adding to his glory. I suspect he doesn't want Mark and I to be there, hence he's pushed his desire to get us out of her life altogether. I feel so sorry for her, so terribly sorry. She's being damaged. I wish he would be sensible, but I know he can't. For nearly 20 years I listened to him, and watched him conspire and plot to 'destroy' those who went against him. Why on earth should I think he's not going to try to do the same thing with me? Crazy. My betrayal is so much greater because I was his wife and thus the loyalty demanded was so much greater. It's very wearing being the target of so much animosity, so much hate. The solicitor we saw said it will never be over, he will always be attacking, trying to undermine. She was right. It's amazing how many professionals look at the case and tell me it's personal. It has absolutely nothing to do with Flavia. Yet she is the one who will suffer the most. I don't know what to do about it. If I did what he wanted, she would be totally in his power and damaged that way. If I stay and fight him for my right to have contact with her, she'll be damaged by the battle and the bitching he uses against me (I do my best not to criticize him to her, although I had to laugh this afternoon when she described him as a 'jerk'. Hell, I couldn't but agree - although it was silent!) So, I saw her. Spent five hours shopping with her and returned home with sore feet and something of a sore heart. She should have been coming home with me, decorating with us, living with us, sharing our Christmas morning. Instead she'll be with her father and although I have no doubt she'll have plenty of presents, what about the love and companionship? Will it be as before? Allowed in to the sitting room for two or three hours in the morning before being banished to a bedroom and the tv? Told not to make a mess, not to make a noise? Okay our house is messy and sometimes noisy (depending on whose music we're listening to - and what the music is. Tell me you can listen to the 1812 Overture at p or pp and I'll call you a liar) but it is full of love and we don't care if Flavia is helping to make the mess as long as she also helps to clear up. I asked her to 'phone on Christmas Day. Is there any point in my calling her? He's refused to allow me to speak to her on Christmas Day before, making me wait until New Years and she was at the pantomime. I'll see. The desire may be too much. I wish she were with us now.

Saturday - the Truth is out there Somewhere

Saturday was – how can I describe it? Confusing, elating… maybe best described by filling me with incredibly conflicting emotions. I caught all three trains, thankfully they were on time. Up to Clapham Junction, next train to East Croydon and then discovered there was a problem with the signals on the Uckfield line. Was the train going to run and if so, would it be on time? An anxious few minutes, since I knew full well that, even if Simon did turn up, he certainly wouldn’t wait. It was, apparently, my lucky day. The train had just left London Bridge. I raced over to the Platform and waited. It was crowded, vaguely uncomfortable but on time and I got there 40 minutes before I was due to see Flavia and Simon. It was cold but, thankfully the sun was shining. Since I didn’t really trust Simon to turn up, merely say he had but I hadn’t we had determined that I would buy something to prove my presence. I waited until the train left, before I went in to Somerfield. My idea was to buy a bread roll. First problem. Their bakery section wasn’t working and so I had to improvise. Receipt safely tucked away I wandered around the twenty or so shops that make up Uckfield and waited. At ten to two I walked the few hundred yards back to the railway station. If Simon did turn up I had no doubt he would wait less than 30 seconds. At five to two I was there. Waiting. Wondering. Watching the road. One minute to two and I saw his car. I hated the fact that I wasn’t excited to see her. Did she want to see me? How would she react? Part of me wanted to turn around and run, but there was no where to go. The next train didn’t arrive for another half an hour. I walked towards the entrance, wary. I stood ten feet away and looked at her. She half smiled at me, hesitant and I knew how she felt. I was just the same. They got out of the car and I wondered whether Simon would say anything to me. Mark was no where around and so he could verbally abuse me with impunity. Flavia held out a little present and eagerly described it to me. I looked at it. We hadn’t touched, hadn’t kissed or hugged and I wasn’t sure if that was because I was unsure whether she wanted to or if it was because she was nervous of me. Simon stood, as though guarding, listening to our conversation about her gift. I refused to either look at or speak to him. I loathed him for what he was doing and how he made me feel. I despised him. Finally, after what seemed an age, he got back in the car and drove off. We were alone for three hours. Flavia was dressed simply. A shirt I had bought her a couple of summers before, a pair of dungarees and a thin zip up top. I had three layers on under my thick coat and I could feel the chill of the air. Why on earth had Simon dressed her so inappropriately? He knew we were going to be outdoors for the next few hours! We started wandering around the shops, Flavia proudly brandishing three pounds in her purse. I was desperate to ask her about Simon’s allegations but didn’t want to just launch in to it. Get some good relations going first. We walked in to one of her favourite shops and she bought me a present, then asked what Mark would like for Christmas. I could hardly speak, I felt so choked. Finally I couldn’t stand it any more and led her to the local park. I needed to know. I had to know. It might damage the rest of the time we had together but I couldn’t wait any longer. I was going mad, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. It consumed me. We sat on a bench. The sun shone and the occasional shopper walked past us, laden with bags. Otherwise it was quiet. I glanced at her, uncertain. How the hell should I broach it? I tried, ‘What’s happened?’ It seemed non-confrontational enough. ‘Jack died.’ I made sympathetic noises, all the time thinking, ‘I don’t care about the bloody guinea pig!!’. I tried again, again non-confrontational. For the next few minutes we talked our way through the points raised by Simon. In some ways it was enlightening but in reality it wasn’t. she had no idea what was happening. She thought the suggestion that she was scared of Mark was ridiculous, laughing that he was a ‘big softy’. Had Daddy had to force her to come to us? Did she say she didn’t want to speak to us again? To see us again? Throughout it, I kept my tongue firmly between my teeth and never accused Simon. I wanted to. I wanted to tell her how much I loathed him, but I couldn’t. He was her father. How could I do that to her? Each time the answer was in the negative. She was as confused as I had been. For the rest of our time together we were far more at ease and, as it happened, certain things emerged. Time and again she begged me if she could come to our house. It became evident that she thought we didn’t want her, rather than the other way around. She also begged to be with us at Christmas, as we had previously arranged and kept suggesting wild schemes for her to see Mark. At one point she asked whether we had thrown all her belongings out. At four fifty-five we made our way back to the railway station. It was dark and bitterly cold. I pitied Flavia. I had lent her my gloves and scarf but there was no way my coat would fit on her. My poor baby was freezing thanks to her father. For the last time I checked that non of Simon's accusations were true. Then we were at the railway station and he was there, the engine running, eager to leave. We hugged and kissed and said goodbye. She said she was going to ask her father if she could 'phone us on Thursday and spend Christmas with us. I didn't state the blindingly obvious, but knew the answer. I got home three hours later. Very cold, extremely tired. Exhausted, almost. Mark greeted me with a bear hug and a kiss, closely followed by a hot meal and a shot of Southern Comfort. I sat on the sofa, drained, repeating myself whilst Mark refused (nobly) to say 'I told you so.' Maybe we would deal with the last telephone call she had made at some point but for now it was enough. Simon had lied. Again. Flavia didn't fear Mark, didn't dread coming to us, did not say she didn't want to see or speak to us. She did. He had done what had succeeded all those years ago with my family. Told me they didn't want anything to do with me and told them I didn't want to see or speak to them. Not being a close family, that time it had worked. This time, to his surprise and fury, it hadn't. I had no doubt the pressure he had been exerting on Flavia to say what he wanted was incredible. She must have been subject to terrible mental trickery by him, yet when she saw me the truth came out. Those who haven't been abused have no idea of what it's like. I'm not talking the physical stuff. People can imagine that. They can even imagine the sexual abuse. It's the other stuff. The mind games, the wearing down. They have no idea. You end up believing them. You doubt yourself, your perceptions. They can convince you black is white and that one plus one equals 3. I know. It happened to me and now it is being visited on my daughter. Please God (and I doubt he cares, but I'm desperate) that we can save her.

Scared and fearful near Woking!

The thing is, I’m scared. Or if not scared, certainly worried and a bit (a lot) unsure. Crazy, but it isn’t. Not really. What I do know is that I’m not looking forward to next Saturday. I should be. Seeing Flavia after 126 days (more by that time) should fill me with excitement, happiness, euphoria. But it isn’t and that upsets me. I am scared/worried/unsure. All that time ago, in August, when Simon telephoned to say she didn’t want to see me or speak to me again I questioned it (obviously. I mean, who wouldn’t?). I told him I had to hear it from Flavia – he’s put words in to people’s mouths before, why not now? He told me I couldn’t speak to her right then but should ‘phone back five hours later. I did. To the second. I waited all day, anxious, worried, fearful. The ‘phone was engaged and I had a nerve wracking half an hour wait before I could get through. When I did, he told me Flavia didn’t want to speak to me, but I insisted. I had to. This was my life, my baby we were talking about. I could feel myself crumbling as I made my demand; terrified he was telling the truth. Finally he walked up the stairs, so slowly it was incredible and in to her bedroom where she was watching television. He said, ‘it’s Mummy,’ and I could hear that she was unwilling to say anything. She was reluctant to speak, which made me start to believe that Simon was actually telling the truth (please note, I didn’t say, ‘for once’). I spoke to her (you have no idea how difficult it was to keep my voice level and non-accusatory - I was shaking) and said I gathered she didn’t want to come to our house the next day. She took the ‘phone away from her ear and I heard her say, ‘You said you’d tell her. You said you’d tell her,’ and heard Simon say, ‘I did.’ I cannot describe how I felt. I could see the structure of my world collapsing as I listened to her. She passed the ‘phone back to Simon and that was it. Almost. I tried fighting my corner, difficult when all I wanted to do was creep somewhere dark and safe, curl up in to a ball and cry forever. I told Simon that, if Flavia refused to see or speak to me I needed a reason, needed to hear it from her and we needed to meet in a neutral area, suggesting Guildford. At first he agreed; then changed his mind. We argued (or at least, I tried, but I’m a terrible coward where he is concerned, trembling when I counter him) and I pointed out Flavia had made accusations against him and said she wanted to live with us (which he knew, since we discussed it in depth last Autumn before he made her change her mind, telling her she was all he had), yet we had insisted she return to him to assess how she really felt. He should return the compliment. He refused and told me he had no intention of helping me see or speak to Flavia ever again. Then hung up. Later that evening I had a telephone call from Flavia. I can remember it now, in every painful, excruciating detail. She called me a liar. Repeatedly. Told me she had never said she wanted to leave Simon and then chanted down the ‘phone, ‘Liar, liar, Freya. Liar, liar, Freya.’ She hung up. Mark had been listening on the extension and he couldn’t believe his ears. Neither could I. I stood, the receiver in my hand, unable to move, unable to breathe. Was this what my daughter thought of me? When I did manage to move I did jerkily, as though I had forgotten how to co-ordinate my limbs. I was broken. So, I’m not sure whether I really want next Saturday to happen. How can I when one considers what has gone on before? Mark thinks she was put up to it (or at least he SAYS he thinks she was put up to it) and that Simon was egging her on when she made that sneering telephone call. Whether he was or not, it happened and the pain is still there, still inside me, still with me. My trust, my belief in her has been badly shaken. Mark tells me I have to remember what my life was like with him, how it felt to be manipulated, the mind games he played: and I was an adult. Yet the fear persists. She need not have been quite so cutting, quite so horrible to me. So, I feel sick, nervous and not at all happy about our forthcoming meeting. The child I knew, the child who kept telling Mark and I how much she loved me has gone. I sometimes doubt her veracity. Simon always commented on what a liar she is. As well as lying about Mark and I was she also lying about her feelings about me? Mark says I’m daft (not in so many words, but you get my drift), that I’m letting my fears get the better of me. I shouldn’t fear seeing my ten year old daughter for the first time in what will be 134 days – but I do. What will it be like? What will she be like? I cannot imagine the usual scream of ‘delight’ and hug. Caution (certainly on my side) and wariness. I am deeply hurt by her claims and behaviour. Maybe I do dwell on it too much, but she was the only happiness in my life for so long that to have her deny it is (to be crude and rather blunt) gut-wrenching. I have already warned Louise that I shall not be good company for the next week. I seem to have lost my capacity for humour. Fear does that. Excuse me whilst I go somewhere and lick my wounds.

The first time back in Court

Well, the first shot has been fired, so to speak. Mark and I went to Court this morning and faced Simon and his solicitor. We had to wait ages. I fairly quickly found my fear was giving way to boredom. Have you noticed how difficult it is to be scared and bored at the same time? Trust me, it is. I finally realized I recognised one of those waiting with us. It was Ron, erstwhile Vicar of Simon’s last Parish. He looked bored as well – and uncomfortable. I found it vaguely amusing that Simon needed his companionship – again. Ron tagged along at the last Court hearing in Eastbourne too. Poor Ron. If he only knew the contempt Simon has always felt for him. He doesn’t, of course. So he sifted through the old magazines in the waiting room and then fell asleep. At least he didn’t snore! Finally we were called. I saw the Judge raise a slight eyebrow when Simon gave as his reason for denying me all contact the fact that Mark had lost his temper with Flavia on one occasion. Simon’s solicitor (not Roger The Shark) gave their reasons as to why the case needs to be moved to Eastbourne. The Judge kindly pointed out that the argument regarding expense would be equally valid for Mark and myself if the case were moved to Eastbourne. i have to admit to feeling hopeful at that. The solicitor also stated that there was no basis for Mark being part of the application since he has no parental responsibility. Well, stop using him as an excuse for being difficult and spiteful then! Obviously we didn’t have a solicitor. Can’t afford one. I tried speaking on our behalf, countering a timeline the solicitor gave the Judge which included the fact that I had agreed to every other weekend with Flavia. The Judge didn’t look terribly impressed with Simon’s argument regarding Flavia being ‘condemned to a state education' if I moved her with me to Surrey. However, the end result was that the case is being moved to Eastbourne. That’s a 30 minute journey for Simon and a 3-4 hour one for us. If the next hearing is at 10.00 in Eastbourne it means we have to leave the house at 6.15. Six fifteen! My stamina needs to improve, that’s for certain. The Judge was not impressed by Simon’s claim that, because Mark had shouted at her that once, he did not feel he should make her come to our house. Instead he said we should have contact and, if we couldn’t come to an agreement, he would make an Order. Simon argued it, claiming I had never tried to have contact with her (liar, liar pants on fire – as a certain person would say). Out of the Court Simon’s solicitor was running around, back and fore. I suggested meeting in Guildford – Mark is, obviously, to be nowhere around. Too violent, vicious and scary. Looking in the mirror again? Simon refused, suggesting Eastbourne. What? He expects me to travel 7 hours for a three-hour meeting? Yes, she’s my daughter but I don’t need to go south for all that time, especially when one considers he lives 25 miles to the north of Eastbourne!! He then suggested we alternate. Two Saturdays we meet in Guildford (40 minutes travelling for me, 60 for him) and two Saturdays we meet in Uckfield (5 minutes for him, 3 hours for me). No. If he wants me to travel all the way to Uckfield then he comes closer to me. So, we agreed two times in Uckfield, two times in Woking. Uckfield is going to be fun for me, anyway. A forty-minute wait before they turn up and a forty minute wait after they leave. I will be frozen. Trust me on this one. Moreover, there’s nothing to DO in Uckfield. Check out the few shops and spend some time in the Tesco café I suspect. However, I half expect to find Flavia will be too traumatized to make the meeting anyway. Amazingly. I’m feeling rather low. I miss her, I’m worrying about what it will be like to see her again after all the claims Simon has made regarding not wanting to see me or speak to me. I’m worrying about the money regarding journeying to Eastbourne and the need for a solicitor. We need one. Desperately. Even Mark says Roger will eat us alive without one. Yet how do we pay? All the websites say one should hire a solicitor immediately. How without money? And even if we had the cash, how do we find one that won’t roll over and beg when Roger sends his first salvo? That requires interviews and we are too far away. Arghhhh. I have Parent’s Consultation this evening (four interviews…there are advantages to teaching a subject no parent cares about) and then my worst day tomorrow, including the Class from Hell. And Mark has been very naughty (again) and not won the lottery. I don’t know. Can’t trust anyone. Social Services still haven't been in touch. Two 'phone calls and one email later. There's power in that there collar. Note to the gullible. Miracles DON'T happen and the good will not inherit the earth. They will just be booted around until they give in. Just thought I'd share that with you.

An open letter to my daughter

Dear Flavia I don’t know if you will ever get this, but I have to try. I’m so confused. in August Daddy told me on the ‘phone that you don’t want to speak to me or see me again. I don’t understand. He also said you were scared of Mark, that he shouted at you. He did. Once. I remember. He opened that packet of sweets and pretended to eat them. You know he was only pretending because there was no way he could actually chew them. You saw what he was doing, got up off the sofa, snatched them off him, screaming, threw a handful in his face before running in to your bedroom. You then climbed out of your bedroom window. That’s when Mark raised his voice to you. He sat you on the sofa, told you off for a few minutes then went in to the garden. We sat on the sofa together and you said you understood. That you knew we were worried about what might happen if you made a habit of climbing out of your bedroom window. Daddy has told the Court that you hated coming to us, that you used to cry and he had to force you to come. I don’t understand. I thought you liked seeing us, liked being with us. You said you did. You were always telling Mark you loved him. You bought him presents for his birthday and Father’s Day. You used to cuddle up next to him to watch films or wrestling and wanted to help him in the garden. When we were on the ‘phone you always asked me to pass you over to Mark. Sometimes I felt you wanted to speak to him more than me. The day Daddy ‘phoned and said you never wanted to be in our home again was a terrible day. My heart – it shattered. We had bought you three new Barbie’s to welcome you home and Mark had just opened the post – he had bought three Sims 2 extension packs for you and I was on the computer booking tickets for the pantomime in Woking for Christmas. Then Daddy ‘phoned and my world fell apart. I told Mark what Daddy said about always shouting at you and he sat on the sofa for ages. He just kept saying, ‘she said she loved me. She sat here, right here, and said she loved me.’ Then he got up, went to the French window and opened it. Just before he went in to the garden he looked at me and said, ‘I should never have cared about her. If you don’t care, you don’t get hurt. All I tried to do is make her happy.’ Then he went in to the garden. He spent a long time there. Pacing. Back and fore. That’s what I don’t understand, you see. You’ve made Mark out to be this terrible person, this bully. This is the man who asked you what meals you wanted and then cooked them. Who spent hours making your book for you; who made you your pearl necklace. Who let you play his computer games; who tried to make our last Christmas together magical; who bought fireworks for you last Guy Fawkes; who went shopping for Barbie with you when I was ill; who refused to take the climbing frame down when the neighbours complained and built a den in the garden for you when Lizzie and Rhys came to visit. Who was happy to let you take his DVDs and play them, even take them to Daddys; who told you that you were family and he would protect you. I miss you. I wake up in the early hours of the morning and cry. I remember how soft your hair is, the way you used to want me to wake you up at seven in the morning so we had time together before I went to work. How you used to scream, ‘Mummee’ and race towards me to give me a hug. The softness of your cheek. The way you used to try on all the clothes we bought you, preening as you performed a fashion show. I know we didn’t do wildly exciting things together but you knew money was tight. I thought you understood. We were trying to make a better life for the three of us. I cry in work you know. Sometimes I manage to hide it and sometimes my friends comfort me. I’ve even cried in front of a class. Can you imagine one of your teachers doing that? We had plans for when you got back to us in the summer. Sounds silly, but we were saving collecting cherry tomatoes from the garden in case you wanted to do it. Mark wanted to take you fishing and we were going to go ice skating in Guildford – okay, not Mark since he hates ice. We were going to go fruit picking, try out a few activity days nearby and go for picnics along the canal. I even had the telephone number of a riding stable and we were going to go to the cinema a few times. Mark and I never did see Pirates of the Caribbean 2. We were going to see it with you and somehow, without you there we couldn’t. Even though The Black Pearl is one of Mark’s favourite films. I sometimes wonder if I will ever see you again, ever hear your voice again. We sent you a birthday card and a present. I used to ‘phone but Daddy would hang up. I text you every week but don’t hear anything from you. Is that because you don’t get the messages or because you don’t care? If Daddy is right then it is because you don’t care. I count the days since I last saw you. Even now, as I’m typing this I’m crying. I see the bottle of dandelion and burdock we bought just for you still in the kitchen and my heart lurches. Silly, isn’t it? So many things make me think of you. Yellow cars, my backpack, the drinks machine in work, Spongebob Squarepants. Even the Boogeyman on Raw. So many times I think or say to Mark, ‘Flavia would like that,’ and then remember Flavia doesn’t want to be with us anymore. And it hurts all over again. We’re going back to Court. I don’t know whether Daddy told you, but Mark and I have applied. Sometimes I think we’re doing the right thing and then, in the middle of the night I start having my doubts. Maybe Daddy was telling the truth and, if the Court suggest you see us again you refuse and tell them you hate us. Can I bear that? How will I cope if that happens? I don’t know. What if my daughter, whom I would die for, doesn’t want to see me or speak to me ever again? If it’s true, if that’s what you want, I’ll have to accept it. I just hope you know how much I love you. How much I will always love you. Mummy