The damned phone went again – it was him.  I told him that after today he wouldn’t be able to pester me anymore because my number and locks would be changed.  I told him we were through for good this time and that whatever meaningless words of remorse he now came out with he could shove them up his a….  I called him all the names under the sun as I referred to my stolen valuables. I told him he’d better return them – and quick, as well as all the other things that belong to me and my family: dad’s ladders and his two and a half thousand pounds, the kids’ toys, baby stuff [bath, cot, bedding….] tapes [squash and ‘999’] certificates [aikido dan grade and parachute jump.]  I screamed at him, “How would you feel if I swiped your daughter’s birthday present?”  “Sorry,” came his feeble reply, followed by, “Don’t you touch those baby car seats – they belong in my car.  If you take them I’ll have the police on to you for theft” and “I’m going to see to it there will be a gruesome accident when you go to Geronimos on Shell’s birthday and you will die a horrible death.”  I boomed back, “God I should have spoken to your ex-wife  – I bet she could tell me a thing or two about you.  ‘Course I should have sussed you out after meeting that family of yours.  You are a two-faced, lying, idle, drunken, gossip mongering, hypocritical lot.  I wished I’d smashed up that car of yours for you – by accident of course.” 

I slammed the phone down and marched out to retrieve my baby seats.  I must admit tho I did hesitate – I was worried he might carry out his threats.  Then I remembered Andrew’s words of support and encouragement in recent weeks.  He’d tell me to do just what I want, that I don’t need his permission and that I have just as much say in things as he does.  The kids knew that I always worried about provoking him and making matters worse.  But they were right in their reasoning that “whatever he wants to do he’ll do anyway – it doesn’t matter what you do or say.”  I examined his pride and joy and for a split-second an evil thought popped into my head – ‘What if I just slashed those tyres or ran a screw-driver….’ Then I thought better of it.  The psychopath would just do something sinister to me in retaliation.

However the truth was that I was sufficiently ruffled enough to warrant some comfort from an authority law-enforcing figure, so I called the police.  A sympathetic and no nonsense PC reassured me that I’d put up with three years of bullying, that he was only the biological father and didn’t have any automatic rights as regards to my children and that it would be a civil matter whereupon it is the mother who almost always gets custody unless it can be proved that she is a grossly inadequate mother.  “And from where I’m sitting,” he said, “you have absolutely no worries in that department.”  He went on to say that I didn’t have to tolerate any more of Gareth’s vile behaviour and that I could have him arrested for harassment if he so much as: drives continuously down my road, bothers me or my kids in the street, trespasses or shouts any kind of abuse at me.

I was starting to feel slightly more relaxed, optimistic and confident until some letters plopped through the letterbox.  My pathetic nervous reaction surprised me.  The PC grinned.  His parting words were, “Get witnesses if he starts pestering you; tell people – neighbours, shopkeepers, friends….”

Dad was over the moon that I’d got rid of idiot features.  He came round to help me change my locks and gave me a peptalk on men.   He said he’d vet the next one for me.  I said, “No need.  There won’t be any more - NO WAY.  I’ve got no time, no interest, no inclination.”  He asked if he could have that in writing!

That nutcase has driven past my house so many times I’ve lost count.

OCTOBER 7^TH 1998

I thought a lot about mum today.  She departed our world on June 14^th 1997, after suffering malignant melanoma of the brain.  Even when she was very close to death she told me not to marry that man.  Funny how mums know these things!  She hadn’t liked him for a while.  I can picture her now looking down on me with a gi-normous beam on her face.  She’d told me to leave him lots of times.  “Think of the children,” she’d say.  “Put yourself and your kids first. He doesn’t care about any of you – he only cares about himself.  He’s only using you for what he can get from you and your dad.”  She was right of course, and despite the fact he did have his loving, caring moments and was pretty nifty at such things as: dismantling and repairing my washing machine, tumble dryer, toilet…. he was really lousy when it came down to the kids.  He just couldn’t be bothered, didn’t have the patience, preferred his can of lager and yacking for hours on the phone to his mother…. He was pathetically childish and downright irresponsible when on the booze [which was almost every day starting around lunchtime and sustained until late evening where he’d drop off inebriated.]  It seems some men just fall apart when little people come on the scene.  A hell of a lot just can’t seem to hack it.

I dropped in at Women’s Aid this afternoon in desperate need of moral support.  A lovely lady there, Henri, made me feel so much better; so less isolated.  She made me lighten up and had me laughing as she recalled tales of other women in my predicament and how the worm eventually turned.  She told me that women suffer mentally and physically at the hands of their men folk and that the physical scars heal quicker than the emotional ones.  I could relate to that.  For a large part of the latter part of my relationship with Gareth I was in tears – I suffered frustration, confusion, doubt and anxiety.

Henri said that I was wise getting out now, that it was a relatively short time compared with the many years some women tolerate abuse.  She said that the longer you stay, the worse it gets and the longer the road to recovery when you finally do break free.  She commented that I was strong right now; that he hadn’t broken me – yet.  She also told me about someone she knows who has been and still is verbally assaulted by her boyfriend of seven years.  This woman has changed from a bubbly, confident, outgoing person to one full of self-doubt, depression and introversion and is now too scared to walk away, is a prisoner inside her four walls and has suicidal tendencies.  Amazingly she denies there is anything wrong defends her man and will not be persuaded to leave. 

I sat with my mentor for over an hour.  By the time we’d finished we’d declared world war three on all men folk!  Thank goodness Jordan and Melissa were patient in their pram.  Jordan grinned mischievously every time Henri poked him playfully with her pencil.

As I was leaving I told her I never wanted to be a single mum.  I wanted a good role-model male in our lives, but since I can’t find him I’m going to be happy with what I do have.  I said I’ve read all the ‘parenting’ books, listened to all the professional advise on baby/child care and now I intend to raise my children to feel safe, secure and loved – to the best of my ability and for us to be friends and happy.  She encouraged me to keep up the healthy attitude.

After tea I sat nursing Melissa whilst watching Jordan busy himself with his stack of beakers.  Andrew and Shell sat engrossed at something on the goggle box.  I look at them all with such love and devotion.  I feel so blessed and honoured to have them and to be the beneficiary of their unconditional love.  To me they are treasured gifts.  Lots of people have commented on what great kids I have – so well behaved, happy and intelligent.  Some even ask what the secret is and they joke that I can have their kids to train.  That makes me feel so proud.  But it isn’t all rosy.  Quite often they play me up and I’m reduced to screaming and swearing my head off, although I do try very hard to control myself.  But on the whole I must be doing something right.  My kids are my life.  They are my greatest teachers and my biggest influence and inspiration.  I’d die without them.  I reckon I could cope with almost anything that life threw at me but I know I could not cope if I had to be parted from them or if any of them were seriously ill, hurt or God-forbid, the unthinkable happened.  Their innocence, wonder and spontaneity is so magical and irretrievable that sometimes I feel in awe.  They trust me with heart and soul and they look up to me for guidance and protection. What a heck of a responsibility.  I could not bear to let them down.  My children are precious gifts.  They give meaning to life and transform my world – daily.  If I’ve learnt anything of any real value from having children it is that the self centredness that I once had has been dislodged by them.

That lunatic has driven slowly past my house – ten times that I saw.  Andrew counted a further fifteen times that he passed a bit later on.

OCTOBER 8^TH 1998

Jordan trundled around his new playroom today – he’s a demon explorer.  I’m glad that Andrew suggested we turn the dining room into a rummage room for roamers.  It’s funny how the smallest members of the family have the most personals.  Their toys invade virtually every room of the house.  I’ve come to the conclusion tho that the more tot-friendly a house is, the less stressed out mum is.  All my ornaments and valuables are out of reach for little hands.  Not that I’m an ornament enthusiast – can’t stand the hassle of dusting the damn things, but I did inherit them from mum and that in itself is significant and they are quite appealing and expensive.  It’s just as well that I only dust once a month or so and that they are out of eye-level.  Shell doesn’t mind profiting from periodically polishing them!

I have a lock on the lounge door so that the inquisitive wanderers cannot toddle in unsupervised – it enables me to relax when I’m busy in the kitchen [which seems to be a large percentage of my time.] I’ve erected a temporary door [with lock] on the under stairs area which serves two purposes.  1: To hide all the junk that gets slung in because it’s a useful storage spot.  2: To keep out little surveyors.  I’ve also assembled a metre-high door [with lock] on my utility room, which is an extension of the kitchen.  This serves to keep prying fingers out of my: tools, paints and varnishes, other poisonous or harmful substances and various odds and ends that I don’t want disturbed.  When I do allow myself the luxury of lounging in the living room, I ensure that the kitchen door is shut [fortunately the handle is out of Jordan’s reach] so that he has the run of the hall, playroom and lounge which are relatively safe.

I sat for about two hours on a comfy armchair in the playroom this morning.  Jordan repeatedly stacked his coloured cubes with concentrated precision then promptly dismantled them with one swift swipe.  He bimbled up to me every so often with a very serious expression on his face.  I’m sure he was coming to check on me, to make sure everything is ok.  His vocabulary is virtually non-existent yet but he does come out with “mum,mum,mum” quite a lot of the time while he goes about his daily business.  He also says “ba” while pointing to Mel and he says “Dougie, Dougie, Dougie,” but I have no idea who Dougie is!

Melissa snuggled close as she suckled.  I love her smell and look of contentment.  I adore the little noises she makes.  Her tiny hand cups my breast.  She fixes her gorgeous big green eyes on my face.  Sometimes she grins at me while still gripping my nipple.  Sometimes she half looks at Jordan to see what he’s up to and then she’ll quickly come back for a few more gulps of milk.  She then might break into a fully-fledged smile, which lights up her whole face.  Then she might make some satisfying muffled sound while she nuzzles her whole face into my breast.  When she’s done with playing, her eyelids will get heavy and she gives up the struggle to stay awake.  

I think breast-feeding is one of the greatest pleasures a woman can have.  I’m reluctant to relinquish it and will milk it for all it’s worth yet.  I’ve always fed on demand – all of my babies, and never ever felt it any hardship.  The babies fit in with my plans.  I never burp Melissa – never feel the need.  She takes two naps a day and sleeps from 7.oo pm until 8.30/9.00 am.  Sometimes she wakes at night.  Then I just change and nurse her while I read or watch the late night movie or heated debate until she drops off again.  Jordan takes a nap from 2.00-4.00 pm daily and sleeps from 7.00 pm until 9.00 am.  He needs his afternoon nap or he gets unbearably irritable by about 3.00 pm.  I need that break from him too – for the sake of my sanity.  I don’t fuss as much as I did when Andrew and Shell were babies.  I’m not frightened to leave Melissa cry sometimes - I recognise the different cries and know when she needs immediate attention or if she’s just whingy through tiredness.

I recall that it was mum who drummed into me the importance of a strict routine and regular nap times when Andrew and Shell were babies.  It is so tragic she was taken from us so suddenly – she got so much pleasure out of Andrew and Shell and loved to see them growing up.  I miss her support, advice and words of wisdom and I’m sad that she hardly knew Jordan – she was too ill - and she never even knew about Melissa.

I forced myself to stop the melancholic thoughts of the past and to now focus on the future.  What now?  Where do I go from here?  All the plans I’d made with him can now be disregarded.  We had discussed starting up a business – breeding and selling locusts.  I might still be able to do it on my own – dad would give me a hand erecting a shed, fitting insulation, building a frame for the cages etcetera.  He’s brilliant at that kind of stuff, but it is all a bit out of the question until Jord and Mel are a little older as it is such a filthy job and right now they’re my full-time responsibility.  I could ask for my old job as a bank clerk back but that’d mean putting the kids in nursery.   I’d be better off going back to my more recent job of caring for ‘special needs’ children as it is done in the home, which means I do not need to find someone to care for Jordan and Melissa.  I like working with children – they are more realistic and less pretentious than most adults.  But that too is impractical at the moment.  I certainly could do with some extra pennies.  I can’t imagine him ever helping me out financially or any other way – FAT CHANCE.  His only aim in life is to wreck my life.  For now I’ll just be a full-time mum, which is very demanding and difficult in itself but is extremely rewarding – and I wouldn’t swap it for the world. 

I could make use of the local leisure centre crèche – it’s open three mornings a week.  That would take care of the babies’ social interaction and I can get fit [and slim] again.  I’ll have to contact a couple of my old squash partners.  I can’t really re-join the squash league yet as games are played in the evenings and I’d need a baby sitter.  Sitters cost too much and dad wouldn’t oblige unless it was an emergency or a one-off.  For that reason I can’t return to aikido just yet either.  Thinking back, while I was with him I wasn’t allowed to join any club or league.  He always insisted that I take the babies with me everywhere I went because he had no intentions of looking after them.  Come to think of it, he even stopped me returning to my old job [which I intended to do to help pay off his debts] because he was convinced that I had ‘ulterior motives’.   

I could jog during crèche time; but that’s boring – unless there’s a goal.  Well I’ve always fancied having a go at the London marathon…. The training would certainly be good for my physical and mental health and I desperately need to slim down into my pre-pregnancy size ten.  I get depressed when I think of all the trendy clothes that are in my wardrobe but that I can’t now wear.  Some of them have now discoloured and have a musky odour.

That pest has driven down my road again on and off all night – about twenty times.  He even stopped the car, walked up to my driveway, peered down it for a couple of minutes and went away again.  Weird!  I’m certainly not going to have a confrontation with him.  God knows what kind of mood he’s in and I don’t trust the maniac.

This evening I wrote out a rough timetable for my intended new daily life.  It now looks a bit more organised and orderly.  I feel a bit more secure now that I have some direction.

OCTOBER 9^TH 1998

I spent the morning in the kitchen [as usual.]  Melissa gurgled and chortled contentedly in her moses basket.  She has a cute play frame that has Mickey, Minnie and Pluto dangling down at her disposal, which she kicks and thumps the hell out of.  She shrieks in glee at their disposition.  Jordan got himself scientifically involved with my: pots, pans, bowls and boxes.  He gets so engrossed in his very important work that if something doesn’t go according to his plan, he’ll poker-facedly utter “tut”.  That just creases me up with laugher.  He’ll then look at me with an expression of disbelieving disgust – which make me howl even harder. I’ve twigged through experience of Andrew and Shell not to bother wasting money on toys until the kids are around five/six years old.  I bought a few toys for Jordan and Mel but they’ve been cheap items from car boot sales, mainly of the larger object-on-wheels variety.  Jordan much prefers to rummage through my kitchen cupboards.  I remember one xmas spending over three hundred pounds on ‘educational’ toys for Andrew and Shell when they were toddlers.  To an adult they were indeed impressive little gadgets – one could appreciate their learning capacity.  But you couldn’t deceive Andrew and Shell.  Such worthwhile toys were swiftly cast aside and ignored or dismantled and used for some other purpose – for their own inventions. 

Jordan knows the items that he’s allowed to relocate such as plastic, aluminium and other baby-friendly contraptions and the ones that he mustn’t touch such as glass, crockery and other breakables.  He understands quite a lot and will put things in the bin when asked – he’ll even dispose of his own nappy without any prompting.  He shuts doors when asked [providing he’s in helpful mood] and is always the first to slam the doors when the smoke-alarm goes bananas [as is often the case during cooking.] He’ll even point to the window as if to say, “Open that, you twit.”  He’s affectionate and protective towards Mel and will cry in empathy when she’s upset.  Their moods change at the drop of a hat; but then so does everyone else’s.

They both love it when I burst into spontaneous song.  Melissa stares at me wide-eyed, whoops and waves her arms wildly as if suffering a psychopathic seizure!  Jordan performs an impromptu rain dance and the three of us engage in a skirmish for sonic supremacy.

I love to just stop what I’m doing wherever and whenever I please and spend a few moments; maybe minutes larking around with the little uns.  I cherish our moments of pure unadulterated pleasure, which is instinctive and never forced.  They appreciate and respond so gleefully and wholeheartedly to genuine play.   Such displays of natural, uninhibited delight is priceless and unique only to babies and small children and is sadly lost on maturity, never to be recaptured.  I’ve noticed that if I grudgingly make an effort to play with Jord and Mel, they recognise my insincerity and falsehood and are uninterested, even insulted.  Youngsters don’t lie about their feelings and will freely demonstrate their true emotions.

I couldn’t believe what I witnessed this afternoon through my living-room window.  That psychopath spent two hours and twenty minutes fixing his car right outside my driveway.  He fiddled about under the bonnet, disappeared to Motorworld for a few minutes, returned, eyeballed my house, fiddled some more, studied my gate, dawdled to the boot, removed some rags, shuffled to the driver’s door, threw a glance in my direction, stared at my upstairs window then offensively basked in the aura of my property and presence.  The nincompoop then repeated the procedure several times more until the scenario was completed with the deposition of soiled spark plugs, distributor lead and oily rags on top of my refuse bin.  He is definitely desperate – and dangerous. 

I wittered on the phone for a couple of hours with my mate Mandy tonight.  She informed me that my creepy ex has been stirring again.  Mand told me that he wasted no time contacting her [and God knows how many other friends and rellies of mine] to say that he had no choice in finally being forced to leave me because he could not tolerate my behaviour any longer.  According to him I am depressed, destructive, an alcoholic, a schizophrenic, a nymphomaniac, an adulteress, a thief, liar, baby- batterer and petty criminal.  I’m supposed to have fled his house in a manic drunken state after stealing money from him and items from his house.  Curiously, most of the things he’s accusing me of being fit the description of him to a tee.  Mandy says that if she didn’t know me as well as she does his version of it would chillingly be quite plausible. She says she told him that he’s an “incredible bare-faced liar.”  She then advised me, “You don’t want to bother with anyone else – for a while; you’re better off on your own.”  I assured her that the only men in my life from now on and for a whopping length of time are the two that I’m bringing up.  I also remarked that if and that is a monumental IF cupid did miraculously strike again, the bloke would need to have a lot [but not all] the qualities of my dad.  He’d have to be: loving, intelligent, dexterous, self-assured, shrewd, dependable, supportive, caring, considerate, sensitive, softhearted, witty – and loaded.  That just about disregards most potential contenders.  Mandy quipped that he’d also need to welcome a challenge.  We then proceeded to discuss her lovelife but since she’s also anti men right now, the conversation swiftly shifted to her job and our get fit plans….

It is now 2.00 a.m.  From about 7.00 pm onwards, that sociopath has driven like a bat out of hell past my house – thirty two times.  I counted them while I was yakking to Mand.  On three occasions he pulled up right outside my house, strolled up to my driveway, surveyed it for several seconds then slithered off to resume his mission.  I don’t know whether to feel sorry for him or scared of him.

OCTOBER 10^TH 1998

Every morning I get up – sort of mechanically, dress respectfully and put on my ‘face’.  It’s all a bit of a coping ritual.  I figure if I look presentable and operational on the outside, I should feel healthy and optimistic on the inside.  To be honest it’s a bit of a cover up, a confidence booster.  But if it works and it gets me through the days, that’ll do for me.  Anyway it’s just an illusion really.  Someone once asked me, “What are you really like?”  At the time I was puzzled, but not anymore – LIFE is an illusion.  The world is a stage with actors upon it.  We are all two people or more.

Dad phoned this morning to say that it looks as if we’re going to have problems with “that imbecile family.”  He said he’d had his aunty on the phone whinging on about rumours that I’m blackening her son’s name - something about him taking drugs.  For crying out loud, I’ve never met her son, I’ve no idea what he gets up to and I wouldn’t know him if I fell over him. Dad gave her a polite understatement that it is well known in this community that Gareth Williams is extremely economical with the truth.  What with her and her nutty sister [his mother], no wonder he has problems.  He always did hang on to his mum’s every word; told her everything.  He must be in awe of her.

The kids and I trudged around Saturday’s market.  Everyone needed clothes.  On the way home we took the scenic route.  Thankfully, Andrew and Shell are so much more relaxed now. We prattled on about: the choppy sea, the swooping seagulls, the dog-dirt infestation and the graffiti-strewn ice-cream huts.  This led to a chat on vandalism, which progressed to the wanton destruction and bullying that occurs in schools and of which decent well-behaved pupils have to put up with.  Andrew and Shell spoke about some of the goings on at school of which education chiefs refuse to acknowledge.  I heard tales of unruly classes, where kids get away with: chucking screwed up messages such as f…off at the teacher, stealing chocolate from a locked drawer and remaining undetected, arguing with teachers, refusing to do their work, falling asleep in class [of which some teachers are also guilty], using fowl language such as “shut the f…up” and widespread unyielding molestation – during playtimes and after school.  Andrew used to return with filthy clothes.  I once had to wash his uniform daily.  Shell frequently came home with blobs of school dinner down her cardi.  Andrew would tell me that thugs and idiots dragged him through the mud.  Shell said there were always some kids chucking food around the dining room and that she and her pal were caught in the firing line.  I’d go to the school to confront various authority figures [most of whom represented ostriches] and was told ever so politely and pompously that, “Our school does not have a problem with bullying; we do not tolerate it; we have suitable combating measures” and “Food is not thrown at lunchtimes – the children are supervised effectively.”  I once questioned officials about the disappearance of my daughter’s coat and on another occasion, her watch, to be disdainfully informed “We do not have thieves here,” to which I retorted “Oh yes you do.”  In exasperation I would tell Andrew and Shell to give the bullies “what for back.”  So they did and together with their mates, the good guys were dumped in detention.  And what about the perpetrators?  Well they were let off – scotfree of course because they said they “didn’t do it.”  So school bullies learn that their behaviour is tolerated when they are kids and nothing is going to stop them when they reach adulthood either.  The good ones learn injustice in school and experience it in society and throughout their lives.

The kids and I have always been close and able to talk openly about virtually everything and anything.  I do not censor their TV viewing [unless it is porn] because I think it is useful to be aware of the harsh realities of life.  I encourage them to view programmes such as Crimewatch and also documentaries – most of which portray violence and injustice.  I let them watch horror movies because many are based on real-life stories and I’d rather they be aware of and wise to mankind’s evil doings than innocent, naïve and thus victimized.  The news is practically dominated by crime in one form or another, which prompts many of our peptalks and discussions.  I’m always on at the kids not to trust strangers or to be impressed or taken in by others who may have only harmful intent.  Periodically we watch ‘999’ survival programmes, which help me refresh my memory of steps to take in an emergency and for the purpose of teaching the kids in case I ever need first aid!  [They know how to turn off the electric and gas and how to call for urgent help.]  Some excellent programmes such as Panorama reveal the truth regarding many world issues which disturbingly disclose the corruption, incompetence, abuse of power, arrogance and greed that some of our politicians and leaders are shamefacedly guilty of.  

The kids and I frequently discuss the importance of doing the right thing, always standing up for what you believe in and sticking firmly to your principles.  We chat about the value of honesty and strength of character.  I admit to them that I’m only just finding the strength now to do what’s right and that I’ve been indecisive and intimidated in the past.  I’m riddled with guilt; that I put them through the torment of him and his overbearing family and I tell them so. But they light-heartedly insist that I must not worry and that “everything’s fine now.”  I tell them not to make the same mistakes as me [I remember my mum telling me the same thing] and that I hope they’ll be better than me – more successful, cleverer, stronger, happier and better at forming relationships.  They reply, “We think you’re perfect – the best mum ever” and “We love you just the way you are.”  Such reassuring words give me a lump in my throat, hope and the will to carry on.  I really pray though that they haven’t been damaged by the destruction they endured.  Thank God they had the sense to scarper from under his feet when he was in vile mood.  Of course he did have his good moments and he did occasionally take my kids fishing, but that loving good-natured side of him did become more infrequent as time passed. 

We were all subject to his outbursts of ugly brutality.  Andrew and Shell have witnessed shocking scenes of violence unleashed by him.  On one awful occasion [when I was nine months pregnant] he horrifically attacked Andrew during a drunken binge.  He forcefully hurled Andrew into a door and wall just because Andrew had carried tales to me about him.  Then he threw my son into the fireplace, banging his head repeatedly on the stone surround.  Andrew suffered a large lump on his head and emotional trauma.  We fled that night, but soon returned because of the imminent birth and because he solemnly swore never to lay one finger on any of my kids ever again.  Thankfully after that episode I didn’t see him smack the kids but he did often growl at them.  He also once lay a heavy dining table on top of Shelly whilst she slept; this was after he’d yelled at her to get to bed and had not allowed her to kiss me goodnight.  There was also the time when, in a temper, he threw Andrew’s shoe outside – it was never recovered.   The on-off pattern of our relationship was set.  I was reluctant to end it conclusively because I was simply too terrified to leave.  I worried about the threatened repercussions and so I desperately tried to keep the status quo.  Gareth’s daughter also witnessed his vehemence and has even seen him strike his own face to make it look as if he had been attacked.  She has not been on the receiving end of his wrath to the same extent as the lads but has suffered emotionally as a result of her father’s possessiveness and tyrannical behaviour.  Consequently she used to unburden her frustrations on Andrew and Shell.  At times I’ve even had to stand in front of Gareth’s own son to stop him savagely kicking and punching him.  No wonder he ran away from home – three times that I know of.  

I must admit I did believe that the kids’ submissive and obedient behaviour in his presence was a sign of respect for their step-dad to be and I was thankful as it made my job of disciplining them so much easier.  But looking back on it all now, I’m horrified and ashamed to realise that I misconstrued the seemingly kind and necessary chastisement.  He overplayed the castigation – it was abuse.  He was in fact little more than a tyrant, dictator and bully to them.  They were oppressed, helpless and in despair at times.  Only now when we discuss that family is it becoming evident just how much they did despise, hate and fear him.  I hope time and talk will help ease their pain.  They do seem to be a bit more ‘normal’ now, more outspoken and cheeky even.  In fact I now have to force myself to resist the temptation to reprimand them with,  “Don’t speak to me like that – you wouldn’t dare if Gareth was here.”

Children have a right to free speech, to be treated fairly and to feel angry.  Children are truth.

After lunch the babies took their nap, Shell began keyboard practice and Andrew nipped to the corner shop.  I momentarily let down my guard, didn’t check the front door - and there he was, peering in at me.  I startled and he started his usual pleas of forgiveness.  He swore he’d never bark at me again, let alone strike me, and he begged me for “just one last chance.”  “Get lost,” I said, followed by, “I don’t suppose you thought to bring back the things you stole and my other belongings and dad’s ladders.  Why did you take Shell’s birthday pressie and money or are you going to deny it?”  “Sorry,” he said, and, “I don’t know why I took it – I promise to return everything.”  “Why tell me such whopping lies?”  I asked.  “I’ve been finding out things.”  “I don’t lie all the time,” he whimpered.  “What the hell are you doing continually driving past at all hours and snooping around my house, and why do you involve your daughter in your relentless manic mission?  She is sixteen; let her go and get a life of her own,” I urged.  “I’ve only been down your road a couple of times and if I want to park outside your house, and fix my car there, you can’t stop me,” came the reply.  He continued, “Let me see my kids.  I’m their daddy – they need me.  You have them for a week and so on.  You can’t stop me seeing them.  You always said you wouldn’t deny me my kids.” 

“Hang on a minute,” I replied, “I used to say that ages ago – before I realised just how irresponsible and dangerous you are.  You are totally dependent on the bottle.  You drink all day – often into oblivion.  You lose your rag so easily and just lash out and you are a control freak.  You are using the babies as an excuse to carry on manipulating me.  You are a compulsive liar and a schizophrenic.  How could I trust you?  You never looked after Jordan or Melissa before.  You did very little with either of them.  Why now?  You never changed Mel.   I could count the times on one hand that you changed Jordan.  I’d ask you to check on the babies but you’d say that you couldn’t be bothered and that it was my job.  You never once got up to either of them at night – the booze knocked you out cold.  You always insisted I take the babies everywhere with me.  You admitted you haven’t got any patience with them and that you are incapable of caring for them.  You are too self-centred, vindictive and violent.  You’ve done absurd things under drink.  You’ve threatened to shoot me, Andrew and Shell.  You are irrational and insane.  How do I know that you won’t get stressed out with Jordan and Mel and hit out at either of them or worse…. just to get me back?  You’ve threatened revenge anyway you know how and you know the only way you could ever hurt me is via any of my kids.  From what I’ve seen of your venomous behaviour lately and in recent months, you are capable of ANYTHING.  You are like a demon possessed.  You’ve got some damned nerve coming here demanding to see Jordan and Melissa when you didn’t care about them one iota before.  In fact you proved that Jordan is of little importance to you when you rammed him in his pram into me – causing cuts, bruising and swelling on my ankles and Jordan to scream hysterically; and all because you’d unjustifiably worked yourself up into a jealous rage. Or have you forgotten that day?  We’re not talking about dolls here you know.”  

To which he announced, “Right, I’ll see you in court.  I’ll be getting custody of Jordan and Melissa and you will never see them.  You are an alcoholic, an unfit mother, a thief, prostitute…. I will see to it that Gaven gets your two little brats too.  By the time the court has heard exactly what you are and what you’ve done, you’ll be banned from seeing any of your kids.”  I retorted, “The court will also know what a bare-faced liar you are.”  To which he snarled, “Prove it – your word against mine.”  I shut the door in his face.  He pushed the letterbox open and bellowed, “And you’re a f…ing little shit-headed lesbian.  I’ll be round later to snatch my kids and I’m going to kill you.”   Eventually he left.  I was unnerved.

That raving lunatic is at it again.  He’s driven past about twenty times tonight.  That’s a bit of an improvement on last night.  I wonder if that is a sign he might concede.  I wish!  Then my confident front quickly turned to doubt.  Why won’t he leave me alone?  What’s the point in driving past and loitering?  What the hell’s he going to do next?

OCTOBER 11^TH 1998

Car boot day today.  The place was heaving – I could only stomach it for half an hour.  Managed to pick up some baby books for Jordan – five for forty pence – not bad.  Andrew and Shell took off on their own, disappeared into the masses and resurfaced a couple of hours later.  They’ve now got their eyes on various items: radios, tape recorders, torches, batteries, and the like.  However, on account of the fact that their weekly pocket money is no king’s ransom, the question of Christmas was swiftly brought to the fore.  They decided that as they no longer believe in Santa, would it be ok if they had money this year so that they could buy their own Christmas presents.  My reply was, “Oh, so how long have you been pretending to believe that this generous guy Santa exist?”  “A few years but we didn’t want to tell you because we thought we wouldn’t get anything,” came the reply.  I thought about their proposition and figured it did make sense especially as the dilemma of what to buy them is just one big headache for me.  They said they wanted to buy things from the car boot sale because they’d get more than if things were bought new from a shop. “Fair reasoning,” I thought.  “Ok, here’s the deal,” I said.  “You can have a few quid every other week to spend but you give me everything you’ve bought so that I can keep it for you until Christmas.  The total you can have is sixty pounds – that is thirty pounds from me and the thirty pounds that you always get from granddad.”  Then I said, “Aw, what the heck, you might as well keep and use what you buy now – no point in saving it until Christmas when you know exactly what you’ve got.” Then I added, “But don’t expect anything else on the day – because I just can’t afford it.”  They were well pleased with the offer and began to plan their future produce.

In the afternoon, the idiot fronted up again.   I ignored the doorbell and tapping on the glass and figured he’d eventually get fed-up with a zero response and just clear off.  Next minute though, he pushed open the letterbox and boomed, “Why won’t you answer me?  You’ve got a bloke in there, haven’t you?  Your neighbours told me you’ve been seeing someone else.  So that’s why you dumped me – isn’t it?  Well you’d better keep him away from my kids – or else.”  “GO AWAY,” I screamed in exasperation at him.  “There is no-one else here except me and the kids.  As if I’d have the time or the energy even if I did have the interest – which I don’t.  Right now the kids are my full-time commitment.  I have very little time for me.  Now sod off and don’t bother me again,” I ordered, as fear and loathing began to overwhelm me.

After what seemed like an eternity of nonsense, he went and in desperation I rang Women’s Aid.  I was shaking and crying.  “I don’t know what to do,” I babbled, “he won’t stay away.  He comes around; he drives down my road at all hours, every day.  He won’t accept it’s over. He parks on my road and stands peering down my drive and at my house.  I’m really worried he may come around one day all tanked up and in a desperate mood – he might kick the door in and carry out his heinous threats.  I’ve never been in this type of situation before and I feel so insecure and unsure of myself and how to deal with what’s happening.  He’s sapping all my inner strength.” 

The reassuring voice on the other end explained that this was typical harassment and that it could continue unabated for months, years even, as has happened to some women.  She said that the world is full of arrogant male chauvinists whose main occupation is to control and intimidate women. But they do retreat when they know they’re not getting the desired response - of mainly fear and surrender.  She asked if I could move away for a while – just to let the dust settle; but that was not an option.  She offered me and the kids refuge at the aid centre, but I politely declined.  “Why should I let him bully me out my home?”  “The only other alternative,” she advised, “is to lock and chain-lock your doors and windows and to phone the police every time he comes to your house, then he will know that you really mean what you say.”  She added, “Carry around a burglar alarm with you so that if he bothers you in the street, you can activate it in his face.  Also, scream your head off  – he’ll probably leg it. And see your solicitor about an injunction.  Oh and above all else, remove that power from him; he no longer has any over you.  You’ve left him; you do not intend to return to him – ever.  Get that message across to him – by not communicating with him in anyway.” 

I thanked her for her enlightening words and for my new found positive attitude.  Thank goodness for organisations like Women’s Aid.  I reasoned to myself that moving away did seem a welcoming proposition and a solution but it would only be temporary and that’s like trying to run away from the problem, which is a sign of weakness and renunciation.  I’m not going to give him and his family the satisfaction.

My heart felt lighter.  I found myself singing as I got the babies up from their nap.  Jordan and Melissa responded with shrieks of delight.   Melissa received her milk first.  She snuggled up to me and guzzled to her heart’s content while Jordan perched himself on the couch next to me and fixed his gaze on his teletubby tape.  He loves the theme tune and the little blonde baby with the big blue eyes whom he bears a striking resemblance to.  When Melissa had finished I lay her on her baby quilt on the floor.  She kicked and punched the air and chortled with glee when Shell appeared and amused her.  Andrew and Shell think the world of their baby siblings and are a big help to me with them.

I left the two girls frolicking.  Andrew was busy in his bedroom gathering some items for his science lesson.  His class are apparently doing a project on electricity and have been asked to produce: batteries, torches, wires and the like.  Andrew’s taking his circuit board in too.  Jordan followed me into the kitchen to ‘help’ make tea.  He is like a little lamb following me everywhere.  It feels like I have a miniature shadow that grunts and babbles.  I can’t even sit on the loo in peace because a little blonde head almost always pokes itself around the door to peer at me!

Decisions, decisions – what to have for tea tonight?  I remember when I used to enjoy cooking.  I used to spend ages in the kitchen just preparing one meal!  I’d have my head stuck in a cookery book and I’d enjoy experimenting with ‘cordon bleu’.  But that was all before the kids came along, in the days when I used to impress my boyfriends with my gourmet dinners.

Nowadays I spend ages in the kitchen just plodding through three basic meals a day – what with preparing, eating, feeding and washing up.  It is a rare luxury now if I get to sit down and eat a meal uninterrupted.  I figure if I manage to include the necessary daily nutrients that are contained in: milk, eggs, cheese, yoghurt, rice, pasta, potato, wholemeal bread, cereals, meat, fish, beans, fruits, salads and veg in as simply prepared and as appetising a meal as possible then I’m on the right tracks.  So tonight we’ll have one of Andrew’s favourites – mashed spuds mixed with cauli and sprinkled with cheese, sausages and baked beans.  Followed by bananas and custard.

Jordan used to be a wizard eater.  He’d eat virtually everything I gave him, even chopped cucumbers and tomatoes but lately he’s been a bit picky.  I don’t worry about it though and I never try the ‘aeroplane’ tactics.  All the baby/child care books that I’ve read bring me to the same conclusion that if you offer a varied, wholesome, nutritious diet then children will thrive – even if the child refuses a food or even a meal or two.  Babies and kids have a truly remarkable inborn mechanism that guides them as to how much and which type of food they need for normal growth and development.  Books stress that it is important not to offer an alternative or to bribe, beg, coax the child to eat because that just sets yourself up for a battle of wills and one that the child is guaranteed to win.  It also sets up the likelihood of a lifetime of poor eating habits.  Child-care experts advise parents to simply remove the meal and child form the table until the next mealtime.  Then offer something different.  Never give the same meal again and never force a child to eat.  I certainly learned this lesson the hard way when Andrew and Shell were very young.  If they refused their food I’d sometimes give them something else, or I might ‘play’ for hours with them trying to get them to eat just a few mouthfuls.  I’d even try to force them or would punish them by sending them to bed early or I’d make them sit at the table for hours until they finished but they’d just rearrange the food on their plate, cry or even vomit.  Where did it get me?  Nowhere - just as miserable as them.  In fact the problem would just get a whole lot worse and they’d starve themselves then for a day or two or they’d complain that they were ill.

When I stopped making such a big deal over food, their appetite returned to normal and they’d eat most of the nourishing foods I gave them - as long as I didn’t overdo the veggies [of which I became quite good at disguising.]  I now have two rules regarding food.  Puddings are of the yoghurt/custard/rice/fruit type variety and high sugar/fat foods such as biscuits, cakes, fried foods and takeaways, chocolates and sweets are strictly limited to occasional ‘treat’ times i.e birthdays, Easter, Christmas and special days out.

After tea, as we were cleaning the kitchen up, I had a horrible feeling that there were ‘eyes’ on us from outside.   I told Andrew and Shell to go and play in their bedrooms while I wiped Jordan and removed him from his highchair.  I then turned the kitchen light off and quietly walked into the dark lounge.  Jordan stood in the hall.  Just as I suspected, there he was with his face pressed up against the lounge window, peering in.  I froze in shock and an eerie chill ran down my spine.  I wondered how long he’d been watching us through the kitchen window – probably the whole time I was in there preparing tea, throughout our meal until now.  I was just about to phone the police when I realized he’d moved away and was now grasping Jordan’s hand through the letterbox.  Gareth Williams cried and whimpered, “It was lovely to watch you son – you’ve really altered since I saw you last.”  I pulled Jordan into my arms.  Still crying, he spluttered, “Sharon, thanks for that performance – you’ve really made my day.” I stammered, “You’re sick,” then I screamed, “Go away, go away – just leave us alone.”  I heard him go and then, as I watched him through the lounge window, I saw him look menacingly in my direction before he got into his car.  I stood rooted to the spot for quite a while hugging Jordan and sobbing uncontrollably.  There was no point calling the police – he’d be at home and they’d call me neurotic.

Much later, after I’d calmed down and as I was checking that everything was locked and safe before retiring to bed I found a note by the front door.  It read, “My love – thank you for the glimpse of you and Jordan – I feel so much happier now.”  My heart sank and my blood chilled.  So he’d been back again HERE…. TONIGHT.  When?  I had no idea.  Was he out there now somewhere?  Oh God I couldn’t stand much more of this.  Finally, I got a grip.  I made sure all the doors and windows were bolted and I checked every nook and cranny in the house – I had no idea what I’d have done had I come across anything untoward though!  Satisfied that all was safe and ‘normal’ I took the phone to bed and made a mental note to make an appointment with my solicitor regarding an injunction.  That note would be useful evidence against him in court.

OCTOBER 12^TH 1998

I nipped out this morning for some necessary supplies.  I shared my sad story with lots of women – some familiar sales assistants, some unknown members of the public.  I was surprised to receive so much sympathy and I was flabbergasted to discover the sheer scale of domestic violence.  Everyone I spoke to had either endured it or is exposed to it now.  Many of them have friends and/or female relatives also suffering alarming abuse at the hands of their men-folk.  When I asked why they stay, most said it was because “I don’t want to be alone” or “I don’t want to lose my kids” or they are quite simply too frightened to go because of the real and threatened consequences.  Some are not even aware that they are being violated – many are in denial.  A few of us joked that it makes sense to change your boyfriends every six months because up until then they treat you like a queen!  We agreed that at anytime thereafter, the bizarre male species change into demons, goblins or back into nappies.

It is early afternoon.  Jordan is in his cot in slumber land, Mel is zonked out in the pram [she hasn’t awoken yet from this morning’s excursion] and I’ve decided to surprise Andrew and Shell on their return from school with one of their favourite hearty stews – now that the cold weather is settling in.  BUT when I scan the freezer for the meat I discover that it’s all gone.  I know without doubt that the meat compartment was full.  That insufferable, unimaginable, despicable b.… must have nicked it.  I dread discovering anything else that the selfish swine might have swiped.   Oh well, boiled eggs and soldiers it’ll have to be.

I decided to tune into talk radio and eavesdrop into Anna Rayburn’s slot – it’s sure to cheer me up a bit.  I love her show – she’s never short of an entertaining line of patter and always full of sound, shrewd, no-nonsense advice for the throng of callers who entrust her with their problems.  By the time I’ve listened to everyone else’s woes, I don’t feel so despondent.  Mum always used to say that the quickest way to forget your problems is to listen to someone else’s.  BUT just as I was about to curl up on the couch with a comforting cuppa, the doorbell rang and Melissa began to stir.  My caller was a representative from the NSPCC no less.  ‘Oh hell, what now?’ I wondered. 

Fair do’s the man did apologise for doing his duty but he informed me, “We have to investigate every allegation of child abuse…. and neglect.”  ‘For Chrissakes,’ I thought to myself, ‘Why don’t they go and question GARETH WILLIAMS about child abuse…. and animal abuse…. and abuse of women?’  The rep told me that they’d received an anonymous call stressing serious concern about the welfare of Jordan and Melissa.  I told him that his visit didn’t really surprise me and that my ex or one of his clan would be behind the call.  The accusations are:

1. That I leave Jord and Mel in their cots all day.
2. That Jord rocks rhythmically as a result of boredom.
3. That I leave my older children in charge while I go out drinking.
4. That I overfeed Jord and let him eat rubbish off the floor.
5. That I leave Mel crying for hours.
6. That I’m an alcoholic, lazy and uninterested in any of my kids.

My private reaction was, ‘The lying, slanderous, spiteful, ugly, son-of-a-bitch.’  My disclosed reaction was, “My ex-fiance is a compulsive liar, malicious, vindictive, violent and threatening.”  I invited my guest to see for himself that he’d be hard-pushed to find better cared for, happier and more contented babies than Jord and Mel.  I then proceeded to nurse Melissa.  He thanked me for my time and said he was satisfied that the allegations were as he’d suspected - unsubstantiated.  I remarked, “Can you imagine a VIP like Prince Charles getting a visit from the likes of you with accusations of him neglecting his boys.  Not on your nelly!”  I also said, “If Gareth was genuine in his concerns for Jord and Mel, he’d be supporting me, not putting me through all this nonsense, provocation and war of attrition.  He wouldn’t be wasting my time and yours.”

After a mere halfhour had elapsed, I was graced with the company of another uninvited, unwelcome guest – my Health Visitor.  She came with the news that Gareth had took the trouble to visit her and express his concerns for Jordan’s and Melissa’s welfare.  Her list of incriminations was practically the same as the NSPCC’s.  My immediate undisclosed response was unprintable.  I asked her, “Does that creep want a medal for being the master of persecutors?”  My message to the H/V was that my ex is simply harassing me with his vicious lies.  She wasn’t happy with just a home visit and [just to miff me off] insisted she needed to see the babies in the clinic.  So just to humour her I made an appointment.  I seriously suspect that half of our public sector workers do not have enough essential work to keep them busy and the other half are incapable of recognising and dealing with the complex cases concerning child abuse where it is obviously evident and where outside intervention is most definitely required.  Or they know about abuse but are too scared to deal with the abusers.

We often hear the feeble excuse, “Oh, the odd few slip through the net.”  More like too many do because the ‘officials’ are too incompetent or fond of a fudge-up.  With the army of state workers that we have in our country, there is absolutely no reason why any child should suffer abuse, but when we the general public hear stories of corruption and government cover-ups in various children’s homes and in the wider community, and no-one is brought to book….  In my opinion, social/health workers are only happy hassling easy targets.

Andrew and Shell arrived home to tell me that GW has been speeding past their school during break times and that he stopped a couple of times to watch them.  They told me he’d done it a few times last week too.  I was livid.  What kinds of spineless nutter was he – stalking two defenceless, innocent little kids?  What if he grabs them after school?  He’s made it clear he can’t stand them.  He’s threatened to “duff-em-up.”  He would too; he hasn’t got the guts to pick on anyone his own size.  If he’s been on the grog, he could half kill them and there’d be nothing the police could do.  He knows that’s one easy way he could get to me.  Maybe it’s time to pull them out and home-educate them again. 

Andrew and Shell were a lot happier and much better educated when I used to teach them before Gareth came into my life.  Home is a much more natural, flexible and pleasant environment for them to learn than school.  Here they don’t have to tolerate bullies, idiots, peer-group pressure, thieves and teachers who don’t like them.  They are not treated like sheep; they are treated as mature, intelligent individuals and respected for their opinions.  They no longer get: head lice, everyone else’s virus, bored and frustrated.  They learn about things that interest them and not by drill or rote.  They don’t have to learn quotes or anything ‘parrot-fashion’.  They have more time for various clubs, sports and play and they have a wide variety of friends of all ages.

School is like a prison.  Kids are cooped up more than six hours a day, surrounded by thirty odd other kids [some of whom smell, spit, swear, scrap, smoke, do drugs, sniff solvents and drink grog.] They are also oppressively ordered around.  It is a form of child abuse and is a recipe for disaster for the individual and for the entire human race.  When I look back now I notice that my reasons for home-educating have changed and expanded over the years.  It all started when Andrew had been in reception class for a few months.  There were more than thirtyfive kids in the class.  I used to help out occasionally as did a few other mums and I had a battle ‘teaching’ a group of six.  The teacher had an even worse time trying to control so many screaming, crying, excitable and impressionable youngsters.  I soon became aware that the children who actually learned anything of benefit, that is to read, write, spell and do sums were the ones who were getting extra help at home from a member of their family.  The teacher would actually ask parents individually if they would work with their child after school because, “you wouldn’t want your child to get behind.”   I therefore reasoned that the hours between 9.00 am to 3.00 pm were a total waste of time.  I’d also go further to say that those hours at school had a negative influence of varying degrees on all children.

I had always intended to put Andrew and Shell in high school because I assumed the class discipline problem would improve as kids matured.  I also used to doubt my own ability to continue teaching at high-school level but now I seriously question the ability of any school – at primary, junior or high level to deliver their aims and for any child to gain any real benefit.  In fact I think most kids suffer as a result of school and many fail in life because of it.

I have a sneaking suspicion that our government doesn’t really want a well-educated, well-adjusted nation at all.  It does not believe in equality and freedom for all.  I’d go as far to suggest it actually wants the majority of people to be uneducated, inferior, emotionally screwed up and slaves to: work, alcohol, drugs and ciggies.  The government just wants the protected few to have education, wealth, power and ivory towers.  Many teachers are dedicated, well intentioned, hard-working, admirable, honest folk trying to do a good job in impossible circumstances.  I believe it is the school system that is failing our children.  School only teaches you how to cope with school – in fact it even does a pretty lousy job of that.  School does not prepare you for life – it sets you up to fail.

Andrew and Shell have always preferred working at home so I’m prepared to support their home-education for as long as they wish; even up to their GCSE exams if it is working out well for all of us.  I feel confident that I can do a better job of it than school and it will be a good learning experience for me. I remember going to parents’ evenings after various spells of home tuition.  Some teachers and heads gave me the “you’re doing your kids an injustice” and “you should keep them in school and support the way we do it” routine.  They almost convinced me that I was incompetent and that I should leave my kids’ education to the experts.  But when I complied, I found that Andrew and Shell failed to learn the basics - reading, writing and maths and that little or no science was done.  In fact their work deteriorated at school.  I also noticed that to survive school they had to become “one of the crowd.”

Looking back on my own school life I was considered ‘successful’ with my handful of O-levels and my “quiet, polite, friendly, conscientious nature.”  In reality I learned sod all at school.  School taught me to feel inferior, lack confidence and have a strong dislike for learning.  My interest in higher education, confidence and motivation only came long after I’d left school, when I’d turned thirty, at which time I actually enjoyed studying for A-levels.  I found the work interesting and useful and I actually began to learn.  This was because I was studying, free of the time wasting, nonsense and indoctrination that you have to put up with in school.  At school I hadn’t thought myself capable of doing A-level maths.  I now believe that the majority of pupils are capable of far higher standards than they produce at school.  With this realisation, I became resentful of the failing school system.  At school I remember getting a respectable grade B in literature only because I had a very vague outline of the stories [although I never read any books] and I threw in a few appropriate quotes.  I passed my other O-levels simply by swatting intensely, two weeks before the exams, the notes that I’d taken down [but hadn’t taken any interest in] during the preceding couple of years.  I remember going on a school trip to a castle.  The whole class of us spent the entire session in the ground’s café queuing for a chocolate bar.  Although I gained grades B and C in maths and science, I had in fact understood very little.  I have learned more just by reading up science books with Andrew and Shell and by doing some experiments with them.

The teachers in my day even acknowledged that pupils were ‘spoon fed’.  At least in those days we respected our teachers and were disciplined.  Kids these days get away with such violence towards their peers, teachers and their school.

I’m kicking myself now that I allowed outside pressure such as my ex to persuade me to send my kids to school.  Gareth’s reason was that I didn’t have the time when Jordan came on the scene.  The truth was he just didn’t want my kids under his feet.  Andrew and Shell worked largely unsupervised anyway through various workbooks.  I was only really needed to check their work and to assist them occasionally.

I asked Andrew how his science lesson went and what equipment others had taken in.  He said he was the only one who had bothered to take stuff in and was thus placed in the “good book” but he wished he hadn’t because everyone just grabbed at his circuit board and now some things are missing as well as the extra batteries, wires and bulbs.  I asked what the teacher had to say about that.  “She just watched and didn’t care,” came the reply.  He said that the class just messed about putting batteries onto their tongues and that that was their science lesson.  He said that they are just left to do as they want and that if they are tired they are allowed to take a nap. 

Shell agreed that kids often nap in class or are allowed to just talk between themselves.  Andrew and Shell said that sometimes they are told to read alone but that no one does – they just send notes to each other.  They both said that sometimes their teachers drop off in class and they informed me that most kids don’t read their reading books at home – they forge their parents’ signature.  I asked how often the teachers listen to them reading.  “About once a month for around two minutes,” was the answer.  “You don’t learn much at school, do you?” I queried.  “No-one does,” they both echoed.  “Everyone just messes about or plays football or does naughty things.”  “So you wouldn’t mind dropping out of school then – for good this time?” I enquired.  “Wow, brill, can we?” came the emphatic response.  Andrew added, “We learn more with you in half an hour than we do at school all week.” 

I told them I’d have a word with their teachers as soon as possible, have a nosey at their schoolwork and then I’d make a decision.  I said that if they do work at home it’d be for about an hour a day, four or five days a week; that they’d have to do a page of maths and English daily out of their workbooks and that they’d read and discuss science daily.  I told them that sometimes we’d substitute science for geography and occasionally we’d do some experiments.  I also said that we might read up on something historically important and that they’ll be expected to watch ‘educational’ programmes periodically.   They were more than happy with the deal.

This evening I flaffed around for over an hour fixing up a curtain rail at the kitchen window.  I couldn’t help thinking wryly that Gareth would have had the damn thing up in five minutes flat.  It was an awkward job though and I had to balance precariously on the stepladders to reach.  In the doing I couldn’t believe what I found perched on top of the food cupboard – his mouldy, funghi-smelling curry.  I’m just relieved that it isn’t summertime and that there are no flies around – or maybe that was his intention.  He was probably hoping that I wouldn’t discover it and then one day I’d be greeted by a mass of writhing, wriggling maggots plopping down onto my head and food preparation surface.  The thought makes my stomach churn.

I’ve no idea if he has been watching us tonight.  The kids informed me that they’ve seen his car go past a few times.  I didn’t particularly feel uneasy, just narked about the events of the day.

OCTOBER 13^TH 1998

I managed to get an appointment with the kids’ teachers at 5.00 pm tonight.  The secretary said that I could have a quick word with the head at about 5.30 pm after his meeting.

My morning was spent creating some kitchen drapes out of a pair of old curtains.  They’re not brilliant but they’ll do the job.  Jordan amused himself unravelling the cotton but most of it ended up in a mangled heap.  Melissa cooed and kicked fervently as she lay on her quilt contemplating the fiasco.

At lunchtime, dad turned up with his old computer.  He has now treated himself to the latest state-of-the-art model that boasts of bags of memory.  I’m always happy to receive his cast-offs.  The kids will have to teach me how to make the thing work though – they were always glued to it every time they went to their grand dad’s.  I think they’ve worn out the skiing and chess programmes.

This afternoon I curled up on the couch with my nose in Windows For Dummies.  I thought it was going to be all too hi-tech for me but with phrases like “you probably won’t find a cockroach in your windows” and “if it burps” and “it might give you a rude reply,” I was soon engrossed.

All the kids and I trooped off to school.  I was surprised to discover that Andrew and Shell are only now doing work that they did with me at home three years ago.  The presentation of both their work is diabolical – it’s about the standard of a four/five year old.  I don’t know if it is because they are just sloppy and bone idle at school because they lack motivation, feel cheated, bored and frustrated and are allowed to produce inferior work due to the school’s lack of concern or incompetence.  Or maybe it is because they are being part of the crowd, everyone has substandard work and school doesn’t care, is incapable of enforcing acceptable work or is ruled by the kids.  I do know that it isn’t because Andrew and Shell aren’t capable of a higher standard.  I also know that such work is unacceptable and I know that I don’t like it.  Andrew’s teacher remarked that she wished she’d met me earlier.  I wondered why – would he have been treated more favourably?  Would he have got more encouragement and more attention from her?  If so, that is being selective and I’d always hoped that no school adopted such a policy.  She joked that she was fed up with him always choosing a weather book to read.  I found that strange.  I would’ve thought a teacher would be pleased that his/her pupil had a scientific mind and took an interest in a serious, factual subject and not just make-believe stories.  My suspicions were confirmed.  My mind made up.  I informed her that since Andrew and Michelle are sitting targets for my terrorist ex and since my kids do not seem to be achieving anything like their true potential at school because of the failings of the school system, then it would be wise for me to educate them at home as of tomorrow.  She seemed a little ruffled and narrow-mindedly insisted that throughout her long and commendable teaching career, she hadn’t received any complaints and hadn’t failed any of her pupils.  With such an attitude, I was glad that I’d made the decision that I had.  I politely made my goodbyes.  I hadn’t intended any disrespect or to bruise her ego.

Michelle’s teacher seemed more in the real world.  He humbled himself to my wavelength and agreed that work standards of all kids could be higher and that the issue of class control was a big problem.  He also felt that classes of even thirty children were detrimental to an effective education for all.  He told me about friends of his who successfully home-educate.  Ironically they were teachers themselves.  I admired him for his honesty and thanked him for being frank.

The head’s response was, “Do they have special needs?”  I forced myself to refrain from a sarcastic reply.  He ostentatiously informed me that he regularly taught a class of thirtynine.  “Yes, but did they learn anything?” I quipped.  He didn’t comment.  His prejudiced opinions prevented him from considering the possibility that ‘school’ and ‘education’ may not be compatible.

In the evening I began to plan my teaching strategy.  I’ll probably contact Education Otherwise again as they are very supportive and have useful reference texts.  Although the curriculum is not compulsive for home-taught kids, I’ll probably follow it in maths and science.  Assuming Andrew and Shell never go to school again, I’d like them to take some GCSEs one day, so I’ll have to find out from E/O about the exams.  There will be no ‘continuous assessment’ so I wonder if there is a different paper for them to try.  I began to feel happy and optimistic about the prospect of Andrew and Shell learning at home again.  I wish I’d had the courage of my convictions in the past and had not listened to outside opinions and pressures.  Most people can only point out the ‘social’ aspect of school that they might miss.  My answer to that is Andrew and Shell have friends and peers of all ages in our area and in the clubs they attend.

Much later all the kids were tucked up in bed.  As I was brewing up my bedtime cuppa I distinctly heard a knocking sound on the kitchen window, followed by the sound of someone running away.  I momentarily froze in panic then I bravely grabbed my torch and scurried outside – to find nothing untoward.  I grabbed a fist-sized rock, stuffed it in a sock and placed it at my bedside.  I dropped off that night dreaming about an unlikely ferocious rottweiler in my backyard and Rambo at my side.

OCTOBER 14^TH 1998

I doodled around with my vision of an appropriate schooling system for all children.  I think schools should just teach English, maths, and science daily.  History and geography could substitute science say once a week.  Homework should be set once or twice weekly for kids aged around eight.  At around eleven years, a language could be studied.  It could substitute English say once a week.  Homework could be increased to two/three times per week for eleven year olds.  I believe that an acceptable class ratio of six children to one teacher is attainable if statutory school hours are reduced to around one hour a day, building up to two hours for high-school pupils, bureaucracy is reduced, head teachers are obliterated and teacher training days are scrapped.

I think it unnecessary that teachers need a degree and post-grad training.  Six months on-the-job training is adequate.  I believe teachers of children aged up to ten years should have good grade GCSEs in English, maths, science, history and geography.  Teachers of kids aged eleven years to sixteen years should also have good grade A-levels in English, maths and science.  Teachers of A-level pupils should possess a degree or higher education certificate.

It will be said that many parents require that their child be suitably supervised between the hours of 9.00 am to 3.30 pm.  Therefore I suggest that such children could be ‘entertained’ by less qualified staff in larger groups of say forty, during non-school hours, for ‘fun’ periods.  For example - for play, TV or video, reading or computer games.  It could be called a youth club.  Volunteers – perhaps leaders from various groups such as brownies, scouts, army cadets, parents and the unemployed…. could be encouraged to take groups for: sport, drama, art and craft, home-economics etcetera.  Professional people such as the police, firefighters, counsellors in alcohol and drug abuse etc could visit during these sessions to lecture on important issues.  Perhaps the government could extend the hours of this ‘youth club’ until 5.30 pm or even 6.00 pm for the benefit of working parents.  A small charge could be levied.  [It should work out cheaper than ordinary child-care.]  It should be made clear that the after hours youth club is available primarily for working or student parents.  Parents not in this category may use the youth club but they will be charged more.

This evening I had a bit of a play on the computer and for a laugh I decided to type out a letter to the Prime Minister expressing my concerns that our education system is failing our children. I told him about my idea for an alternative method, which I believe will be of more benefit to the children and society and that teachers will probably prefer.  I suggested a teacher’s timetable as follows:

9.00 am to 10.15 am – six children learn English, maths and science.

Fifteen min break.

10.30 am to 11.45 am – six children learn English, maths and science.

Dinnertime.

12.45 pm to 2.00 pm – six children learn English, maths and science.

Fifteen min break.

2.15 pm to 3.30 pm – six children learn English, maths and science.

Fifteen min break.

3.45 pm to 5.00 pm – six children learn English, maths and science.

At about midnight I packed it in.  I flopped into bed with a cuppa and heard GW’s car go past five times.  I hadn’t bothered counting the other times I’d heard that car tonight but there’d been a few.  When’s it all gonna stop?

OCTOBER 15^TH 1998

After breakfast I settled Jordan in front of teletubbies, Melissa sat in her bouncy-chair clanging her bunch of keys and Andrew and Shell started work writing a story.  I drilled them about producing neat work and using a dictionary if they’re not sure of their spellings.  Andrew said he was going to write about the fights that he used to witness in the school playground when there would sometimes be a gang of kids grappling and occasionally a teacher would get hit.  That’s mind-boggling.  I’d seen violence in the classroom on the news but I’d assumed it only happened in run-down inner-city schools.  I hadn’t realised it occurred in my own kids’ schools.  The more I hear about the real goings-on in schools, the happier I am that Andrew and Shell have opted out.

In the afternoon I had another unwelcome visitor.  A woman from GW’s solicitors’ visited to serve me with legal papers.  He didn’t waste much time.  He’s taking me to court now for residence of Jordan and Melissa.  He can whistle!  Good job I have an appointment with my solicitor tomorrow. He’d threatened all this so it’s no real surprise. He’s promised he’ll take Jordan off me even if he has to wait until Jordan is ten.  He’ll come out with all the amazing lies under the sun to substantiate his case; that is that I’m an unfit mother, a schizophrenic – the same accusations he bestowed on his ex-wife.  Incredibly he won custody of his older children when they were around Andrew’s and Shell’s age.  His sister once told me that GW promised his kids the Sun, the Moon and the Earth if they agreed to live with him.  He told me that his ex wife didn’t want them and that she was unstable…. etcetera.  I used to find that hard to believe and began to take what he said about her with a pinch of salt when I realised he is a compulsive liar.  I always suspected that he’d despicably poisoned his kids’ minds against their mother because they’d say such dreadful things about her.  I think he’s been terrified that one day they might choose to live with her and that he’s bullied or blackmailed them into submission.  I have a horrible feeling that his ex-wife has been fully denied any access to her children by him and the authorities – against her will.  Maybe I’ll try and track her down one day and we can compare notes.  I strongly suspect history is repeating itself and if I do get a chance to talk to her, I’m sure her story will parallel mine.  He once showed me the impressive character reference that he got from the police [who he said he worked for occasionally] that clinched his custody application.  Convincingly and cunningly he’d conned the social workers, welfare officers and judge.  How he obtained such praiseworthy police credentials in spite of the fact he is a known abuser of women, children and dogs and a motoring offender and small-time criminal is beyond belief.  Maybe they were as scared of him as I was at times [and still am.]  Or maybe he bribed them.

His cousin and her boyfriend are dubious characters – into the seedy world of drink, drugs and stolen goods.  I’m beginning to wonder if GW is part of the evil underworld and is being protected.  He always managed to get his hands on money whenever he needed it and always had enough to support his thirty cans of lager a night habit.  His children often seemed troubled.  His son was disobedient and disagreeable.  He ran away from home a few times and has been in trouble at school and with the police.  At the time we put it down to him being a typical teenager – trying to find himself and being in with the wrong crowd – the troublemakers of the town.  Now I realise he feared his dad and was feeling inferior.  His daughter had a non-existent social life and problems at school.  I tried to help them both but they’d become defensive and in denial.  I was once told that social services were informed and that educational social workers were called in but that nothing came of it.  Looking back on it now I can see that Gareth Williams has been controlling and damaging them just as much as he did me and my kids, but his kids don’t realise the harm he has done them.  They are both of age now and are still loyal to him and protective of him – or maybe they live in fear of him.  I was quite surprised and shocked to find out only fairly recently that the daughter of GWs cousin hates her home, is hit and spat at by her mum and granddad and that she wants to live with me.  My hands are tied tho – she begged me not to tell the authorities because she dreads being placed in care.  Under the circumstances there is little I can do for her right now but later on if she still desperately wants to move out and live here, I’ll seriously consider it and will set the wheels in motion.  She has numerous epileptic fits but considering her home-life, that’s not surprising.  I’m already a registered foster mother and ‘special needs’ carer so there’s no problem concerning the necessary criteria.  

Gareth Williams had promised to make my life hell.  He doesn’t care tuppence for the babies – they were too much trouble for him when we were together.  He’d never cope alone.  He’s addicted to pills and booze and has a zero stress tolerance.  He might just snap one day and lash out at them.  He could even kill them.  You hear it on the news.  It happened in my own family a few years ago.  GW is so bitter, depressed, determined to regain some control over me and hell bent on revenge that I’d worry sick about my little uns even if he had them just for an hour without any kind of supervision.

Andrew and Shell were very reassuring.  “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure Jordan and Mel know exactly what he is as they grow older.  We’ll keep telling them the truth; that he lies all the time, is nasty to us, hits our mum, throws things at us, drinks every day until he can’t stand up, steals money, hurts the dog and his kids are horrible,” came the message.  Andrew said he fully intends to “get that cowardly thug back” when he’s old enough to fight him.  He said, “That wimp doesn’t dare pick on anyone his own size.  He’ll be begging for mercy by the time I’ve finished with him when I’m a bit bigger.”  I told him the best thing he can do is take studying seriously, join the police if that is what he still wants to do when he’s older and become the outstanding police officer that he could only dream of being.  I told him not to waste his life plotting revenge – GW isn’t worth it.  Andrew replied, “Oh, don’t worry I’m going to be a brilliant cop – you’ll see – and I WILL duff ‘im up one day.  He needs a good smacking…. and if he keeps on bothering you, I’m sure Jordan will sort him out too.”  There was no answer to that.  My heart was just bursting with pride.

As I prepared the tea, Andrew and Shell played outside with the kids next door.  During tea, Andrew told me that he’d just been chatting with two of his old school mates who’d informed him that his teacher had told the class that they were off school because of illness.  If that’s true it is unbelievable.  I know I’ve ruffled some feathers at the school but I do expect a bit of honesty from authority figures regarding my kids’ exit.

A little later, while we were eating, we heard tapping noises on the kitchen window that sounded like pebbles being thrown.  I shone a torch through the window but could see no one. Andrew shone a torch from Shell’s bedroom window, directly above the kitchen but found nothing unusual.  I didn’t feel brave enough to venture out so I prayed we’d all just imagined it.  Thankfully I didn’t hear any other suspicious sounds but I was very edgy all night and couldn’t face the thought of going to bed, so I stayed up until 3.00 am worrying.  I never heard GW’s car once tonight but I had a sinking feeling that he’d been outside some of the time just hiding and watching.  I left the hall light on all night – it gave me a false sense of security.  I then endured a tormented, restless night’s sleep.

OCTOBER 16^TH 1998

All the kids and I trooped down to the solicitor’s office.  Thank goodness Jord and Mel sat ever so patiently in their pram – for over an hour.  It was as if they knew I was attending a very important meeting.  They sat solemn-faced and quiet and watched me gabbing on about my last three years of hell.  My solicitor told me to get it all down in a statement, that we’d be resisting his residence application and that we’d only settle for supervised contact – very reluctantly.  As regards to the harassment, she said to keep notes and dates of everything and that if he continues to be a pain in the neck we’ll have to go for an injunction.  She was confident that “he who laughs last, laughs loudest.” 

Later on amongst an assortment of questions, Shell asked who my best friend was.  My instantaneous answer was, “My solicitor.”  She said, “You’re my best friend.”  I positively glowed.  Andrew piped up, “Mine too.”  I queried, “I thought Shell was your best mate?”  “Ugh no,” came the reply.  “She’s a girl.”

This afternoon Andrew and Shell went to their granddad’s for their game of chess.  Well they alternate between chess and dad’s new computer.  He keeps himself so busy despite being sixtyfive and ‘retired’.  He happily lives the bachelor life and goes off all over the show playing bridge, snooker, bowls and he does gliding and swimming.  The kids have been going to him weekly for chess [or maybe they go there just for the ice-cream and pop.]  Andrew in particular enjoys taking lessons and is always keen to apply his new knowledge in his games against me.   So far though I still manage to beat him – but only just.  These days the old grey matter has to work harder.  Dad’s promised to coach the kids in bridge in a couple of years.

I gave the kids the choice of which two days they wanted off every week from their ‘school work’.  They chose Mondays and Fridays.  They prefer to work weekends and have two/three days in the week off because they enjoy playing at the park and beach when it’s quiet and the “riff raff” are in school.  They say that all the troublemakers hang out at weekends just looking for a fight.  I’ve promised them the same amount of holiday time that they’d get at school but that they don’t have to take it at the same time.  They’re happy with that, especially as they know they don’t have to do any ‘homework’.  It amazes me the amount of people that ask me if I set them homework!

I decided to find out the truth about Gareth’s claim that he is qualified as a Reverend.  He’d stated that he is now Rev G Williams and that Cannon T Davies sat on the examining board and had congratulated him afterwards on his achievement.  He’d even managed to prove to me [just as he had done so often and so skilfully before] that he was telling me the truth, by showing me his driving license.  There it was!  His title was Rev.   DVLC must’ve done their own checks before they bestowed this honour on such an important document.  That was proof enough for me.  However the Cannon told me a different story.  I gave him a summary of the background and of my situation now and I explained my fears.  He informed me that he: is retired, doesn’t know Gareth and has never sat on an exam board.  He said there is a heck of a lot of study involved in gaining a theology qualification.  He was very annoyed and unhappy about Gareth using his name in this way and that he has some nerve trying to move in such high circles as the church and the police.  He agreed that it would be unwise to expose Jordan and Melissa in any way to the influence of deceit and violence so characteristic of their father. 

The kids arrived home from their chess all breathless and red-faced because they had run the last leg home.  They told me that GW had been trailing them in his car.  He’d driven slowly past them, twice, and had glared “menacingly” at them but had said nothing.  Alarm bells started ringing.  Oh God.  What can I do?  He didn’t stop them; didn’t talk to them; didn’t hurt them – but he did scare the living daylights out of them.  If I call the police they’ll brand me a hysterical, overprotective, neurotic mother.  Maybe I should keep the kids in for a while until that nutter backs off.  But that’s giving in to him; that’s showing fear to him; then he’s won and that’s what he wants.  Anyway it’s not fair on the kids that they should miss out on their outings.  But what if he does grab them?  What if…. Oh I wish some superpower of infinite wisdom would give me some guidance.  If I don’t stand up to him now, he’ll know he can bully me forever – I’ll have to call his bluff.

During the night I started the laborious task of writing my statement.  I wrote down everything that he’d done during his obscene drunken rages.  When I look back now at all the incidents, I’m horrified that I actually stayed with him for so long.  There must’ve been something wrong with me to put up with it all and to actually believe his promises of change.  I must’ve been weak and desperate.  Not any more tho.  I guess deep down I really didn’t want another failed relationship.  Despite everything and incredulously I still saw so much good in him.  I must’ve still loved him – or feared him. 

I wrote about the times he’d hit me – he once punched me on the nose, locked me out of my own house, squeezed my throat and arm and bent my fingers back.  He’d broken my handbag, sports bag and other personal items, he’d ripped some of my dresses and coats and he’d stolen my: tools, money, freezer food and personal belongings of mine and my kids.  He chucked umpteen household things at me and he even threw out some edible ‘treats’ that belonged to my kids.  My ugly ex used to sling out some of Andrew’s and Shell’s toys and hide their bikes and then he’d claim that my kids were irresponsible with their things.  If anything went wrong, he’d blame my kids.  He called them liars, brats and bullet shooters.  The hate between him and my kids was mutual.

While I was getting the gist of all this down I heard a scraping sound on my outside wall and then someone ran down my driveway.  I gingerly grabbed my torch and ventured out to investigate.  I saw no one, but I noticed that a load of pebbledash had been removed and was scattered all over the floor.  There were unsightly patchy areas on the wall.  I stood there fuming.  I knew the police would tell me there’s nothing they could do because I have no proof it was him.  I decided that I’d have to consult my neighbours tomorrow and ask them to keep an eye out for GW loitering.  I need witnesses otherwise none of it will stand up in court. I gave dad a quick call.  His reaction was, “B … stard, make a note of everything and we’ll put our trust in the legal system but if that fails I’ll have to get hold of some heavies.”  I told him I felt the same way but I warned him not to be too hasty with the heavies because with my luck, “You or I would end up in the nick.”  I said, “I have a feeling he wants you or someone else to go up there and beat him up.  I don’t really think that’s the way.  Let’s not give him the pleasure.” 

I dropped off with my thoughts racing all over the place and with my stomach all tied up in knots.

OCTOBER 17^TH 1998

This morning I called on my neighbours.  Thankfully they were all very sympathetic and supportive.  They assured me that if they saw him on or near my property, they’d call the cops.  One of my neighbours noticed that some weeds had recently and unexplainably been trampled down in her backyard – proof that he had been hiding and spying on me.  Footprints were evident in another neighbour’s flowerbeds.  He’d probably fled across there one night – it looks like his son or daughter had been his accomplice.  Another told me that her cousin had suffered domestic violence for ten years at the hands of her husband and that it was a few years ago yet he’s still a thorn in her side.  Another neighbour said that her ex managed to put her in a ‘loony bin’ for a while because the constant mental abuse that she suffered eventually took its toll.  She said the worse thing about it all was losing her toddler daughter for that period.  She then added with a wry smile that now her three year old flatly refuses to go to her dad’s.  Her child just slams the front door in any social worker’s face and she’ll hide her shoes, then pretend that they “got lost.”  Little kids are a heck of a lot smarter than so-called officials and experts.  Yet another neighbour promised to keep and eye out for him or his car on our road and that she’d inform me and the police if he was spotted.  To my surprise she told me that her mum is living with a ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ boyfriend and that she no longer bothers to leave him because at such times her life is made even more hellish than the suffering she endures from his insults and degradation while she stays with him.  I hadn’t realised that domestic abuse is such a widespread evil.  It seems nearly everyone has been affected by it in some way at some time of their life but many don’t talk about it – they feel ashamed and find it easier to keep the status quo.

Andrew and Shelly went to keyboard practice.  They returned all eager to show me what they’d learned.   I was just about to make all the usual “I’m tired, too busy, not now” excuses but they were persistent.  Shell got me quite involved and I found myself starting to learn how to play and how to read music.  I was chuffed to bits.  I’d always had a secret desire to play piano but had never got round to it and I’d decided lessons were too expensive.  Now I have no excuse – I’ll learn from the kids.

They told me he had passed them down town a couple of times in his car but hadn’t done anything.  I can’t hang him for that.

In the evening, I got my mind focussed on my statement again.  Engrossed and oblivious to anything else, I jumped when Andrew ran in clutching an envelope shouting, “It’s just come through the letter box.”  I grabbed the torch and bolted out, but again there was no one to be seen.  I then surveyed the driveway and yard.  Amazingly the scattered pebbledash had been swept up and left in four neat piles.  I stood there in awe and muttered quietly, “That psychopath is playing games with me – what am I gonna do?  I’ll just have to ride it out – hope he gets bored.” 

I read the letter with trepidation.  Gareth Williams is going on about being “really sorry – for everything.”  “Please forgive me,” he pleads.  “Let’s go to relate or some sort of counselling.” All the phoney words and phrases were there.  He says, “ I love you…. I can’t live without you….  I’m hurting so much – my life has ended.  I promise I’ll never even say boo to you again and I’ll never stop you doing what you enjoy doing.  I’ve just been so scared of losing you but I’ll never, ever, be possessive again – honestly.  Please give me just one more…. just one last chance.  I’ll really make it up to you.  Please let me get you to love me again.  All I want is for us to try again.  I haven’t drunk one drop of alcohol since the night you said goodbye – you have my word on that.  Please Sharon, please don’t throw it all away.  I know I’ve hurt you – physically and emotionally.  I don’t know why I did – I just get so het up and you, being the closest person to me always gets on the receiving end of it.  You say you’re scared of me but the truth is I’m scared of you.  I’m just a timid little thing with a loud bark, but you’re not.  You’re strong, intelligent, capable…. You always do the things you say you’ll do and I guess I’m just jealous.  But I can’t bear to be without you.  Please don’t leave me.  I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”

I actually pitied him there and then.  But not for long.  He’s had his ‘last chance’ too many times.  I’m going all the way this time, no looking back.  I’m thinking of me and the kids for once.  He’ll never be able to stop kidding himself and lying.  He’s got to be Britain’s biggest bullsh … ter.  For once he’s actually done me a favour.  This letter might be useful in court.  Wish I’d kept all the others now.

I continued with the statement.  Much later I yelled up to the kids to get ready for bed.  Next minute, Shell tore downstairs.  “Mum,” she gasped, “I just looked out of my window and I saw rocks and pebbledash on the shed roof.”  Again I darted outside armed with my torch.  I was horrified.  All the stones had gone – the four piles had disappeared.  My whole body chilled.  I fled up to her bedroom.  Shell was right.  There was pebbledash splattered on top of the shed and rocks had been strategically placed around the edges.  I felt disgust, dread and disconcertion.  “He’s trying to send me insane,” I uttered.  “He’s really taking the p…. now.  He must’ve done that sometime between me reading the letter and…. Now.  He’ll stop at nothing.  He’s deranged.  He could still be out there – somewhere – just watching and waiting and…. sneering.”  I decided there was no point calling the police – they’d call me a loony. 

It was almost dusk when I dragged myself reluctantly to bed.  I barely slept.  My heart was pounding so loud I had a headache.  Tears of defeat trickled down my face.  Then I thought about the kids – all of them.  I vowed to stay strong and to battle on – for their sakes.  I told myself that if he’s planning for me to crack up, he’s got a big fight on his hands.

OCTOBER 18^TH 1998

The kids had their noses in books, I was finishing off the pots, Jordan toddled around my feet and Melly took a nap.  Then he turned up, standing boldly at my back door with my two old mattresses in his clutches.  I told him to leave them by the back door.  I wasn’t bothered about them but I did want my other things back.  He said he’d go back now for them.  I told him to forget it, that he had no intention of bringing anything of any value back, he’d have done it by now and that he was just being a menace.  I yelled at him, “Go away and stay away.”  So he did, but then he reappeared at my front door to pester me through the letterbox.  I picked up the phone and told him I was phoning my dad, but I dialled 999.  I pretended to talk to dad at the same time as keeping him yakking – so cops would catch him red-handed.  He babbled on and on about his favourite subject – himself – for the next fifteen minutes.  Then the Old Bill showed up.  “Bitch,” he hissed,  “You called the pigs out.”  “No, I didn’t.  It must’ve been one of my neighbours – they’re all looking out for me,” I retorted.  He was threatened with arrest if he bothered me again – at my house or anywhere else. He protested, but was told he had no excuses.  He then left, promising me he wouldn’t come near me again until court.  I glared at him poker-faced and thought, ‘Yeah, fat chance.’

In the evening Andy and Shelly went off to their weekly swimming club.  Usually they walk up with the kids next door but tonight they didn’t.  After class they arrived home out of breath and in distress.  They told me that GW was at the leisure centre on the balcony with his daughter, watching them for the whole session.  He even called Andrew’s name a few times and waved but Andrew said that the look in his eyes frightened him.  On the way home GW drove at crawling pace alongside them so Andrew and Shell ran. Then he drove faster, pulled up at the service station and got out to stalk them on foot.  At the top of our road he turned back and headed for his car. I hugged them both so tight; so grateful that he hadn’t touched them.  Then I began to tremble.  “That ugly b … stard is slowly carrying out his threats and he’s targeting my two innocent, defenceless kids,” I muttered to myself.  “What kind of pathetic, cowardly, desperate, low-life is he?”  I was furious.   I decided that from now on, for as long as it takes, dad or myself would have to accompany them to clubs and if that wasn’t possible – they didn’t go.  Also, if they went to town at any other time, they were going to take a high-shrilled burglar alarm and a weapon – an iron bar or a rock in a sock.  I told them that if he or any of his family come near them they must scream, yell, use the alarm, make as much commotion as possible and use the weapon if they have to.  I said, “Remember Andrew it was you who gave me the courage to stand up to him and to fight back; to take the attitude that if he really intends to carry out his threats he’ll do it anyway regardless of what I do.  So we might as well give him a fight and show him he cannot control us anymore.”

I called police and was told that if my kids are stalked again they should dial 999 wherever they are. They then took off to track GW down and “give him a stern talking to.”  They said they’d pop back to see me or phone to let me know the outcome.  They didn’t and I went to bed feeling alone and even more uneasy than I’d felt previously.  God, I wish Steven Seagall lived with me!

OCTOBER 19^TH 1998

I dutifully took Jordan to the clinic so that my health visitor could examine him and satisfy herself that the previous referral by social services regarding my alleged child abuse and neglect was unsubstantiated and purely of a vindictive nature.  Andrew and Shell came too.  They are both my little rocks – so supportive and very helpful – always have been.  They both do just about everything with the babies including nappy changing [even the really smelly ones.]  They’ve always been my little helpers even when Jordan and Mel were new-borns.  It’s a good job I have my ‘little angels’.  I got virtually no help from GW or his kids.

On route, a panda car stopped and out strode last night’s PC.  He said that he was sorry that he hadn’t got back to me last night but that they were called on another job and by the time they eventually caught up with my ex at his house, it was quite late.  He said that Gareth admits to being at the leisure centre but that he hadn’t seen Andrew or Shell at all.  “He’s lying,” I exclaimed,  “He lies all the time – to anyone.”  PC said he’d warned him to stay away from me and the kids or he’ll be arrested.  I thanked him but I wasn’t feeling very optimistic.

The clinic visit was a total waste of time.  Jordan was bemused and wasn’t going to ‘perform’ for anyone.  My health visitor tyrannically fulfilled her ‘necessary’ checks, wrote down her notes, politely thanked me, apologised for doing her job and sent me on my way.

Back home I found a candle on top of the dividing wall between my neighbour and myself.  It was of the type GW uses.  I reacted with, “Ruddy imbecile, wonder what the police would think if I called them out to this!”  It went in to my ‘notes for solicitor’ portfolio though.

This afternoon I tuned into talk radio to hear Anna Rayburn saying, “Life is not a rehearsal – you only get one crack at it.”  How apt.  Just wish mine would brighten up a bit – everything is such a struggle.  I thought things would improve once I left Gareth.  How wrong I was, now I’m more controlled by him than ever.

Now that the kids are ‘schooling’ at home, my routine has changed.  I decided to write out a new daily timetable.  If I have a structured day, I figure I’ll get more done, all the kids and I know where we stand and there’ll be no time for me to feel self-pity or depressed.  I suppose I’m running my household like a business really, but I hate being disorganised.  I’ll put down all the things I intend to do once my life gets back to somehow being ‘normal’ – that’s if it ever does.  That’ll depend on when GW stops playing sick games with me and my kids.  I’ll feel a bit stronger [mentally and physically], happier and healthier when I get back to doing regular sport.  I should start to slim down then too.  I reckon I need to lose about two stone.  I’m not going to climb on the scales yet though – I’m not feeling very courageous!  I’ll have to dig out my old faithful diet book and stick to it religiously again – but not yet.  Melly and her milk come first.

Despite being a single mum of four [two of them babies] and being a schoolteacher to my kids, I still have quite a bit of time for me – on paper, that is.  I now have the luxury of deciding for myself how to use up my time.  I no longer have to put up with Gareth telling me what to do [as used to be the case] and wasting precious time arguing when I tried to resist his over-bearing control.  My newfound freedom is glorious.

In the evening the kids and I watched some of my aikido videotapes.  They reminded me of when I used to be a martial arts freak.  The tapes began to whet my appetite for practice again, but I’m too busy right now and I can’t afford a regular babysitter.  In time I’ll get back to it.  Andrew will be smitten with it too.  I also miss the meditational side of it and the people – they’re a specialbreed.  As we sat there absorbed, three clear knocks came on the lounge window.  We all looked at each other wide-eyed and ashen-faced.  Being the closest, Andrew peered out of the window – to see someone scarper.  I ran out with a torch…. to see…. No one!   He’s really perfected that move now.  He ALWAYS manages to HIDE from me.  I scanned the driveway and yard and discovered my bins had been moved a few metres up my road and that the candle is now jeering at me from on top of my wheelie bin.  I found myself laughing.  It was midnight, cold, raining…. I was stood there in gown and slippers with dripping hair and I was watching a…. Candle.  I boldly disposed of it and went to bed, happy he wasn’t damaging my property and secure in the knowledge that he must be sufficiently scared of me because he scurries off and hides.

Andrew said he was too scared to go to bed because Gareth might still be out there.  I told him not to worry because Gareth and his doting daughter are scared of him.  I pointed out, “You only have to look at them and THEY shrink from you – they crawl into next door’s overgrowth like slugs or they leg it like frightened rabbits.  And anyway he wouldn’t DARE break in to the house – he knows I’d be waiting for him with a cast-iron saucepan.”  “Yeh, you’re right,” came Andrew’s cheerful response.  Minutes later he called out anxiously from his bedroom, “Mum, I just heard Gareth’s voice – he’s out there now.”  I yelled back, “Andrew, I don’t care how many Gareths are in the garden.  They can rot in there for all I care, but they can’t harm any of us - mum will see to that, so go to sleep – NOW.”  The kids’ bedtime routine has all gone to pot with all this nonsense going on. I’ll have to regain some order starting tomorrow.

OCTOBER 20^TH 1998

I took Shell and the babies to see my pal and squash partner Lauri and her newborn baby Jamie.  We exchanged horror stories about giving birth, I prattled on about the dos and don’ts of baby care and then we began making plans to get some games of squash in before she returns to work in Feb. My next port of call was WHS.  I decided to buy the kids some early Christmas presents – school curriculum workbooks in maths and English!  I’m not bothered about ‘curriculum’ science and geog yet.  I have a good ‘question and answers’ book that covers all subjects, a good junior encyclopaedia and two different ‘experiment with science’ books that’ll keep them going for quite a while yet.

At lunchtime I argued with the corned beef – and it won.  Those cans are so ridiculously designed – you have to fiddle around with a silly key, align and roll the strip of tin so that it is flush and then delicately bend back the lid.  Anyway, in the doing I sliced my finger and thumb which put me in a foul mood.

It was an unusually quiet night.  I’d seen Gareth’s car go past a few times earlier on but apart from that there was nothing untoward – that I knew of.  I certainly didn’t fancy sneaking out looking for trouble.  Non-the-less I didn’t get off to bed until my usual 2.30 am.  I tossed and turned until about 6.00 am.  When I finally dropped off, I had nightmares about him pounding on my front door with a sledgehammer.  I awoke – sweating.

OCTOBER 21ST 1998

I had to visit my favourite place this morning – the clinic.  Melissa was due for her vaccines.  Like Jordan, she was in no mood to ‘perform’ for any doctor or health visitor. I robotically answered the ‘developmental’ questions: Yes, she smiles and gurgles at me, yes she holds her head up, yes she’s started on solids and no I’m not worried about her – she’s a gorgeous, contented baby.  My health visitor then enquired about my health.  “Oh fine,” I said.  “My ex is being a pain in the neck harassing me and the kids virtually every night but it seems there’s not a lot I can do a bout it except log it all down for my solicitor and try for an injunction.  The police have told me I need witnesses.  Gareth make sure that no-one sees him except the kids but we all hear him and know what he’s up to.  He’s been down this road before – with his ex-wife.  He knows how to play the system and he makes a mockery of the law. But apart from all that – I’m fine.”  The H/V handed me a card giving me the name and tel no of an outreach contact at women’s aid that I can call when the chips are down.  She also informed me that she has quite a lot to do with domestic violence victims as she sits on the forum.  That was welcoming news and I began to feel that she was supporting me.

On the way home, we stopped off at the park.  Jordan was in his element climbing and sliding in the toddler section.  We were the only ones there.  The peace was bliss.  Andrew and Shell had a whale of a time too, just messing about on everything.  Shell made the remark that it was nice to be “out of prison – er school.”  We passed the local comprehensive and couldn’t help but notice the high wire mesh surrounding the building and even the coils of barbed wire on the top of the gate – it was a shocking sight.

After lunch, the babies had their two hourly nap, Andrew and Shell began to tackle their new workbooks and I began to demolish the selection of photographs that I’d previously proudly displayed on my walls.  I removed with glee the ones that showed him or any of his lot.  The kids then jubilantly threw darts at them.

Afterwards I received yet another uninvited and unwelcome caller – another social worker who said she had received an anonymous referral.   Inwardly I seethed.  Some spiteful, evil, lying, vicious person has reported me: being angry and aggressive towards my kids – often hitting them; neglecting the babies – leaving them to howl for hours; and leaving the kids alone every night while I go out drinking.  I was just gob smacked.  I asked her if she believed any of this rubbish.  She tried to convince me that social services have to investigate all allegations and that it is their duty to prevent child abuse and to protect children.

It was no use protesting.  I just simply told her that my accuser was telling a pack of nasty lies and that Gareth was obviously behind this either directly or indirectly.  “Look, I’m the flipping victim here you know,” I screamed at her.  “Why don’t you go and investigate him.  He’s the criminal, the wife and child batterer – the one who stalks, molests and controls.”  I was starting to warm up now.  “I’m beginning to think you people are controlled by the Mafia or indeed ARE the mafia.  Why do you insist on hassling innocent lone mothers – easy, vulnerable prey who are battling against all the odds to provide a safe, loving, nurturing environment in which to bring up their children?”  I continued, “When I was going through the process of becoming registered as a foster mother and ‘special needs’ carer, one of your lot commented that I had “rather strong views regarding education” such that my application almost failed.  Doesn’t everyone have strong views on such an important issue?  Surely I should have been admired for that, not criticised.  I fail to understand how you people work.  Your intentions, methods, priorities…. are shamefully and diabolically dubious.  You people are public enemy number one and are a drain on the public purse.”  As I showed her the door I barked, “You don’t even know who this slanderous individual is.  There’s obviously not a grain of truth in it if the coward must be protected by anonymity.”  With that she left.

I had a phone call from the local education authority regarding my proposals to home-educate Andrew and Shell.  He called himself a ‘link officer’.  I couldn’t resist commenting on his trendy title. He said I’d need to fill in a form regarding my intended schedule and subjects studied, that I’d need to produce two references and that I’d be visited by an educational social worker and an ‘educational expert’.  Terrific, can’t wait.  Well I’ll impress them with my programme of study and powerful PHD referees.

During the evening as we rotted in front of the TV the invisible prowler[s] was/were at large again.  I heard an almighty thud at the back of my convection heater and loud footsteps on my driveway.  Immediately Andrew and I gave chase but ‘it’ had disappeared.  We surveyed the damage.  The flue had been flattened in a concertina effect.  “Oh for chrissakes…. That…. f…. b … stard has damaged my fire…. What next?  A brick through the window?” I screamed.  Although I knew it was pointless, I phoned the police.  They were sympathetic but insisted I need witnesses.  They gave me an incident number and details of their crime officer and asked if I wanted him to visit me.  I asked if he was going to be able to stop my despised, crazed ex.  The answer was, “He’ll give advice on crime prevention.”  “Big deal,” I muttered.  “Don’t bother sending him.  I don’t think he can help me tackle Gareth and his henchmen.  Glossy leaflets are pretty, fighting words are fine but they are pretty useless at fighting crime.”

I managed to prise the flue open again.  It doesn’t look perfect but it’ll do.  I can’t afford to replace it.  I racked my brains for a way to trap him so cops could catch him on my property or to have concrete proof that it is Gareth Williams harassing me.  I drew up a contingency plan with the kids – I’ll nip out at random during the evenings and if he is there I’ll try to keep him talking while they call cops.  At least then he’ll be arrested.  But even then I knew in my heart it wasn’t much of a deterrent for a psychopath like Gareth.

I got to bed at 3.00 am.  All I could think of was that we were all prisoners in our home – and a home that was gradually being eroded away and I was frustratingly powerless to stop it.  I’d tried to put on a brave face.  I’d hoped he would get fed up and give up the sinister games.  But the truth was I feared him and I feared that he would somehow win.  I was reluctant to let the kids out alone. I was losing hope.  I felt despair, lonely, weakened.  Dad was angry too but he had no answers and I felt upset that he was shouldering my burden.  I thought about mum.  What would her advice be?  My thoughts drifted back to my childhood.  It was a happy one.  We were a close family but my brother Malcolm does not think so anymore.  He fell out with me and mum when I was pregnant with Andrew.  He blamed mum on something trivial about upsetting his wife and everything was blown out of proportion.  Over the years mum and I tried hard to make the peace but he wasn’t having any of it.  I foolishly thought we’d made friends at mum’s funeral but only days later he blatantly told me on the phone that he wanted nothing to do with me anymore, but he couldn’t tell me why.  As my mind raced I found my body all curled up; my knees almost touching my chin; in fact I was in the fetal position and I felt slightly comforted.  As I dropped off, I could’ve swore I got a whiff of mum’s flowery perfume.

OCTOBER 22^ND 1998

We all trudged to kwiks this morning.  We have a system where we all do the shopping [usually two trolleys are required], the kids take the groceries home in a taxi and I follow up with the babies in their pram.  As we awaited the taxi, we saw three middle-aged blokes sitting on a bench swigging bottles of cider.  They were rolling around, burping and farting.  You wouldn’t have seen such a sight in broad daylight in an ordinary quiet town a few years ago. 

This afternoon Andrew confided in me something that made my blood boil.  He said he only felt confident about opening up now because he had been worried that I might go back to Gareth.  He told me that Gareth had been bullying him for the past year and a half or so.  He’d also bullied Shell but to a slightly lesser extent.  He told me he’d been threatened to “shut up, don’t tell your mum or you’ll get another good hiding.”  I hugged Andrew and cried.  I felt livid, repulsed and annoyed with myself that I’d been unaware that my children had suffered so much at the hands of an evil monster; the person I once thought was my hero, my best friend, my lover.  I listened in horror when Andrew spoke of the times that Gareth had severely punished him just because he hadn’t eaten his veggies.  He’d punched Andrew so hard that he was winded and then Andrew had been sent to his room. Most of the time Andrew was attacked just because Gareth was in a filthy mood.  Andrew was often pushed – so hard that he’d always fall over.  At other times Gareth smacked Andrew’s head – once against a rock.  GW’s daughter witnessed one assault, was shocked and to her credit helped Andrew to recover.  Gareth once squeezed Andrew around the neck – he was forced to stifle his cries and ordered to “shut up and get to bed.”  Andrew also suffered similar torment at the hands of GW’s son.  Shelly too had been slapped and pushed around by Gareth.  She’d also suffered the torment of witnessing Andrew’s plight, being powerless to protect her brother and being so petrified that she too was unable to tell…. anyone.   She was even so fearful of him that she urinated on the bedroom floor and then tried to mop it up with a blanket because he had ordered her not to get up again to use the loo.   I learned that my children were put through so much hell during the times that I wasn’t there – when I looked after my sick mum, when he sometimes collected them from school, on the odd occasion he took Andrew fishing, even during times when I ran errands for him because he claimed he was too ill to go out.  I asked how come I didn’t see any marks on them.  Andrew said, “We got very good at hiding our cuts and bruises but sometimes you did see them but we told you we’d been scrapping with our friends because Gareth made us say that.”  Looking back I remember that Shell went through a stage of fainting and of wetting the bed when we were at Gareth’s house.  I hadn’t realised then that it was because she was terrified of HIM.

I cuddled them close and kissed them and I kept saying over and over, “I wish you’d told me, I wish you’d told me.  Now I know why you want to get him back so much.  Gareth Williams is an evil coward, a wimp, a scumbag – picking on you two.”  Andrew eyeballed me and with a stern look vowed to “beat him senseless – one day – however long it takes.”  I replied, “I know you will.”  They both agreed that they felt better now that they’d told me everything.  I told them we could press criminal charges against him.  I should even press charges for what he did to me, but decided not to because I’m the adult and I had choice and stupidly I chose to return to him and to the violence.  I phoned police.  They said a domestic violence councillor will visit me tomorrow or early next week.

Much later Andrew was busy rummaging in the shed.  I was busy peeling spuds and Shell was busy teaching Jordan to play ball.  Jordan would pick it up, throw it at Shell and say, “Ca….”.  I heard a knock on the window so I yelled, “Hang on a minute.”  After about ten minutes I went out to Andrew to ask him what he wanted.  He looked puzzled and said he hadn’t called me. I said, “Yeh, you did – you knocked on the window, a few minutes ago.”  He said, “No – I didn’t.”  Then we both blurted out, “HE did.”  My heart sank, my face paled.  “He’s been here again – tonight – watching you in the shed and us in the kitchen,” I gasped.  We looked around the yard and driveway and peered into nextdoor’s garden; but we saw no one.  There were lots of dead snails that had been carefully placed on top of my wall to form the words “I love you.”  My bins had again been rearranged.  “What the hell am I gonna do?” I asked Andrew in desperation.  “No point calling the police,” he remarked.  We went in.

A few hours later we heard the sound of stones splattering the lounge window.  I ran out in my slippers in hot pursuit screaming, “Oi Gareth, come back, I wanna talk.”  But no one came and no one could be found.  It was cold, dark, silent and…. Eerie.  I caught sight of a neighbour who had her nose squeezed up against the window, so I popped over to ask if she’d seen or heard anyone prowling around or chucking stones.  She said she hadn’t but she said she’d ask her son to peek out of his bedroom window periodically to “keep an eye out”.  I expressed my gratitude and retired to bed.

I suffered recurring nightmares all night…. about Gareth standing in my bedroom doorway pointing one of his loaded shotguns at me.  I kept waking with palpitations and heavy sweating.  Heaven knows how I manage to get on with the routine daily chores as I’m constantly tired and often anxious and irritable.  But I’ll never visit my doctor for emotional support.  I’d only be prescribed sleeping pills, tranquillizers or a psychiatrist.  Such aids will do me not one iota of good.  We need a bodyguard.

Mum used to get very depressed, very tearful and troubled.  She’d confided some of her deepest anxieties and doubts with me, but not all.  She had her marital problems and personal inner turmoil, which had been made a thousand-fold worse from the betrayal of her son.  I swear he was a major contributing factor in her illness and death.  She’d turned to drink, as I once did and as dad still does.  Yet despite her problems and self-diagnosed weaknesses, she battled on, never hurt anyone, had a heart of gold, and was an excellent mum and an honest grafter.  She turned to the ‘professionals’ for help and even tried the wonder pills but she knew such things were of no help and were dangerously addictive, and she had the strength to resist them.  Her own gentle, caring, decent mum was of a similar disposition.  My nan had suffered life’s hardships – mainly at the hands of a selfish, alcoholic, womanising husband.  But despite her ills she too had successfully brought up five children almost single-handedly in harsh conditions; but it was at a price, for she suffered a nervous breakdown.  Funny thing is, nan’s happiest, most stable ten years or so of her life came after my granddad died…. when she was in her twilight years.

OCTOBER 23^RD 1998

My ‘domestic violence’ counsellor turned up this afternoon.  She listened to my summary of our suffering and then to Andrew’s and Shell’s account of the abuse they’d suffered from GW. She was sympathetic – made all the right noises but, as expected, she was of very little help.  She informed me that Andrew and Shell could press “child abuse” charges against him but that it might mean a load of police interrogation and much prying that could drag on for ages and at the end of it is the strong probability that GW will escape a conviction.  She seriously advised me to “just be there” if either of them wants to “open up more.” 

Then she let me into a little secret.  She told me she’d suffered more than ten years of ugly violence at the hands of her now ex.  She described some of the degrading, vile things he’d done to her and her son but although he was convicted of actual bodily harm, he did not get a prison sentence, which was warranted.  Instead he escaped with a paltry one hundred pounds fine.  Later he was awarded every weekend with her son with the judge’s blessing.  The boy feared and loathed this man, yet was forced to comply.  My jaw dropped.  I was at a loss for words.  “But…. That’s…. Not fair,” I stammered.  “That’s damaging to you and your son.”  She agreed and told me that people [usually men] commit the most heinous of crimes against the weaker members of their family; yet, and incredibly, when it comes to the children, the courts always rule that “it is important that both parents play a major role in a child’s life and a child will always benefit from this.”  “Yes, but surely not if the father is dangerously violent and the child is terrified of him?” I queried.  She assured me that it doesn’t matter what the father has done to his partner or child, he will always be awarded generous contact – even if he doesn’t really want the hassle of seeing the child.  Such men just grasp the opportunity of further bullying the family.”  “But the father might still be abusive.  Leopards don’t change their spots.  In fact he’ll probably be worse.  He’ll be all out for revenge.  The youngsters just end up as punching bags – an excuse for him to continue to violate,” I remarked.  She sighed, “It happens.  I’ve been through it.  If I refuse my ex contact with my son, I’m threatened with prison!  My solicitor says that even men who sexually abuse their kids get regular contact.  I’ve counselled hundreds of other victims – all in the same boat, all with the same fears – the safety and well being of their children.  But the courts offer no protection.  The manipulating monster you tried to escape is given a license to continue terrorising you and your children.  There is no one protecting them.  It is an outrage.  It’s no wonder many women stay in destructive relationships.”  “The judge should be held accountable,” I hissed.  “Where’s the justice?”

In the evening I nipped out sporadically to try to seek him out.  I felt a bit like Columbo.  I didn’t find him, of course – he’s cleverly perfected his vanishing act.  But he always leaves little clues as to his earlier presence.  Tonight I discovered that the ugly son-of-a-bitch has taken some wire cutters to Andrew’s bike lock that was supposed to be securing the gate shut.  I’ll have to buy a heavy-duty padlock for the job now.

OCTOBER 24^TH 1998

It’s Michelle’s ninth birthday celebrations.  Her birthday is tomorrow but her day out with her mate is today.  I’d promised her an afternoon in Rhyl’s Geronimos, followed by a Kentucky tea.  Normally it’d be a straightforward procedure – I’d just nick Gareth’s car and everyone would pile in, but now it’s a different story.  I had to carry Melissa in her baby-sling; Jordan went in his buggy.  We caught a train to Rhyl then, because of the torrential downpour, took a taxi to Geronimos.  Andrew, Shell and her pal Amy then spent nearly two hours messing about in a mystery maze, on super slides and on massive climbing frames.  Jordan played contentedly with rubber balls/shapes, a police car and the contents of a Wendy House.  Melissa suckled and slept for the best part of our visit.  We struggled home at teatime, gobbled our chicken and I collapsed in a chair.

Much later I repeated last night’s ritual, but, as expected, discovered no prowlers, just evidence of some unwanted idiotic trespasser.  He’d been playing around with my gate and now the damn thing has bent and doesn’t shut properly.  That’s proof he doesn’t give a fig about Jordan – he doesn’t care that Jordan could easily toddle through the gate now.  Maybe I should shove some electric fencing on top of the gate, walls and shed roof; or deposit some wet concrete all over the floor.  But that’s just more expense, more mess, more hassle and…. He would just love me to go to all that trouble. 

As I lay in bed all agitated I heard a thud on my bedroom window.  I peered out – but saw nothing. Ten minutes later I heard the same thud, so I tore outside to investigate.  As usual, no one there, but I found two of Andrew’s tennis balls – the ones GW had swiped for his dog’s pleasure.  I looked up to the heavens and asked in despair, “When is that numbskull going to give up his relentless manic mission?”

OCTOBER 25^TH 1998

Clean up and polish day today [my five/six weekly routine.]  I flew around the house with duster and polish.  Every little ornament was attended to and every room was dealt with ruthlessly.  Andrew and Shell had the task of wiping all the baby toys with disinfectant and jif and then they scrubbed down the kitchen table/chairs and walls where little ‘sticky fingers’ had left his mark.  [It was worth a quid each for them.]  I then bleached and scoured the whole kitchen, bathroom and loos.

In the evening I did my regular MI6 procedure but all is thankfully uneventful – no unusual sightings, sounds or smells.

OCTOBER 26^TH 1998

I managed to do some keyboard practice.  Andrew and Shell argued over whether they’d play minesweeper or go skiing on the computer, so I banned them both and sent them to their rooms to occupy themselves quietly – alone.  Much later I tinkered about on the computer until about midnight. 

The evening passed relatively acceptably…. Until I began checking everything was locked up and safe for retirement.  I ventured towards the back door and came face to face with him peering in at me through my porch window.  I startled, then scurried off to the phone.  I screamed at the police operator, “Don’t waste time calling at my house – chase after HIM.  HE’s just been standing in my back yard, staring at me.”  Fair do’s, the police sent one panda car up to his house and one to my house.  They did commiserate and express bemusement at GW’s antics.  When they learned of his aggression, the second car also took off after him but the message that I later received was that Gareth had been at his house all night and that I’m just a potty female trying to cause trouble for him! The police also told me that he is making similar claims of harassment about me.  They wouldn’t give details but apparently Andrew, Shell and I have “been seen snooping around outside his house.” Incredible.

OCTOBER 27^TH 1998

My pal Linzi dropped in.  She’d just been to the gym.  Sport and fitness is what we have in common [or should I say had.]  She’s decided she’ll start jogging with me.  She’s a bit of a tennis freak too, so I’ve threatened to give her a game in the summer.  She is also a black belt – in karate although she used to practice aikido.  We nattered about kids, education, her new house, mutual acquaintances, the price of onions…. She married well – into money – quite handy really because my kids get her kids’ designer clothes hand-me-downs.  She always said her fifteen-year marriage was reasonably happy although she and hubby weren’t terribly close and he preferred to spend most of his time out with mates.  She figures her husband compensates by providing well for her financially – they get foreign holidays, posh cars and their three children attend private school.  Her house sounds a dream.  It’s a two hundred and fifty thousand pounds detached dwelling surrounded by acres of land and fields situated at the top of Penrhynside and affording panoramic views.  It sounds ideal – roomy, comfortable and stylish.  She has the luxury of no neighbours, has peace and quiet and is ten minutes out of town…. 

Linzi and I ended up planning a theatre night out to see ‘Rocky Horror Show’.  Trouble is I’ll have to scrimp and save for it and I’ll have to seek out a babysitter – I no longer have the luxury of my mum to baby sit and dad wouldn’t relish the job.

Andrew and Shell decided to put photosynthesis to the test and conducted an experiment to produce oxygen.  They put some pondweed into a bowl of water.  An upside down glass beaker was placed over the weed supported on cotton reels.  They then placed the bowl on the windowsill.

During the evening I periodically nipped out to check for undesirables but fortunately there weren’t any and amazingly there was no mysterious movement of anything outside or the sudden appearance of any unwanted extra objects.  Nevertheless sleep came in shallow bursts and during my wakeful periods I worried about what his next move was going to be and I pondered over why he seems to get away with all his outrageous lies and vicious claims.

OCTOBER 28^TH 1998

Linzi took us around her new pad. It is gorgeous.  There are two sumptuous bathrooms, a huge kitchen boasting all mod cons, a spectacular ‘L-shaped’ lounge/diner, four perfect bedrooms and a massive basement/games room.  She has so much land that there is talk of them erecting a tennis court.  Andrew and Shell are well impressed too and are pestering me now to let them play with Sasha and Jamie more often. 

This afternoon Andrew and Shell discovered that plants do indeed produce oxygen by photosynthesis.  They were well pleased to find that bubbles of gas had collected in the beaker above their pondweed.  They also discovered that their lighted match glows brighter and for longer when immersed in the oxygen bubbles.

I repeated my now nightly ritual of sneaking out to spy on my loathed and feared trespasser[s]. I ventured out about six times and was relieved to discover nothing sinister. I then relaxed, forgot all about him and his crazed family and settled down to read the local rag.  After a half hour or so I heard something wallop my flue again, followed by quite loud footsteps bolting down my drive.  ‘Oh no, not again,’ said the voice in my head.  Somehow I didn’t fancy any attempts to give chase.  What’s the point?  I never see the toad and anyway at that particular moment, I felt very uneasy about any confrontation – with anyone.  He seems to be watching me virtually all the time….  and smirking.  So I sat still, silent and subdued.  I told myself somewhat unconvincingly that the arrogant bucket of slop has got to get bored of his warped teasing and ruthless torment soon.  Despite my shattered nerves and deep down doubt, I resolved never to let him spot even one tiny speck of fear or frustration on my face.

OCTOBER 31^ST 1998

I decided to convert my boiler cupboard into a clothes-drying area.  It used to be a useful spot to ferment my wine in my days of home brewing but now it’s been thoroughly scrubbed out and I’ve erected rows of bars and clotheslines.  This way I don’t have to face masses of   unsightly laundry dangling all over my radiators.  My condensation problem is sorted too now.  In the summer I can hang my laundry in the porch as it’s surrounded by transparent corrugated plastic and is a brilliant heat trap.  I hate hanging washing out on the line – no sooner as it’s out and it ruddy well rains and since I seem to wash virtually every day, the whole procedure would send me round the bend.  Not only that; when I used to hang out washing, the local yobs would interfere with it and/or swing from my rotary.

Andrew and Shell spent their pocket money on ghoulish masks.  They then set about converting my bin bags into witches outfits and the like. As the witching hour approached, they accompanied the throng of local ghosts and ghoulies to bug me and other neighbourhood victims and menacingly chant “trick or treat.”  The monster mob are pretty adept at forcing folk to part with their readies!

I have no idea if his lordship has been snooping around.  One look at the teeny-terror tearaways in the vicinity and it’s enough to send any prowler packing.