Wendy Beasley

I hear the key in the lock; I pretend to be asleep, close my eyes tightly, hold my breath, keep quiet and keep still. I look at the baby fast asleep in his cot next to the bed, and feel a moment of terror, he mustn’t wake, he mustn’t cry, nothing must make his father angry. All is quiet and then the shout:

“Lydia, get in here now!”

It was strange how my own name filled me with so much dread. I can remember being secretly pleased when, as a very little girl, I realised that someone who loved me had given me that name. No matter why they had given me up or let me be taken, they had spent time a picking name that was both beautiful and quite unusual, so they must have loved me if only for a short while. Now the sound of my name on his lips just filled me with terror.

I had long since given up trying to think what I may have done to displease him, as I knew now that it needn’t be anything real. It could just be an imagined fault or neglect that I was totally unaware of, but it was useless trying to apologise as that just made things worse. No point in pretending not to hear, no point in delaying and fuelling his anger, then he would come and get me and I couldn’t risk him waking the baby. I turn back the covers and climb out of bed, I feel a twinge in my shoulder from the last time this scene played out. It was still quite sore, but then why wouldn’t it be? It had only happened yesterday. I move silently but slowly towards the bedroom door, desperately trying not to wake the baby, and wondering if this would be the last time. Recently he had added a new element to the onslaught, partial strangulation had become the finale of the abuse, and the last time it happened I remember thinking, go on then, finish it, but was then overcome with guilt for my innocent baby boy, and fought hard for that one breath to stay alive for him. Now it would happen again, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I walked slowly through the door and towards him and the pain and humiliation that awaited me.

That time was no better and no worse than any other, so I have no idea why that particular beating on that particular night was the catalyst that brought about my decision to leave. Lord knows I’d had reason enough for a very long time, even before the baby was born. The puppy he gave me for company and then kicked and stamped to death when I became in his words ‘unnaturally fond of it.’ The beating I endured for getting pregnant, and the subsequent attempts to ‘get rid of it,’ culminating in the battering the night before he was born. So brutal was that attack that the medical staff believed the story of the head over heels fall down the stairs, and it was easier to let them believe it in the face of his constant presence and feigned concern. I could still feel the unimaginable pain of that night when my poor baby boy took his first breath and by some miracle clung on to life, while I was gripped with fear as to what would happen to us both.

Things didn’t improve when I brought the baby back home. After one restless night he told me I would have to put the baby in another room as he was disturbing him. I said I would go and sleep with him but was told that my place was in bed with my husband. Somehow I persuaded him to let the baby stay in our room, but I would leap out of bed at the slightest sound and take him out of the bedroom. I don’t think he was a particularly difficult baby although I had nothing to compare him with. He just would wake, cry and feed and then go back to sleep and, as far as I could tell, that was what babies did. I didn’t know any other mothers or belong to any mother and baby groups so I was very much working on instincts, but other than his father’s complaints I think things were progressing normally.

However, the constant ridiculing at my attempts at motherhood undermined my confidence and ensured that the feeling of inadequacy became a permanent state of mind. I thought the beatings might stop now the baby was born, and really hoped that he would develop some sort of fatherly love and concern for his son. I have no idea why I came to this conclusion, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Just a few days after the birth the crying baby in my arms drove him to such anger that he tried to wrench him from me, and only stopped when I dropped to my knees to shield him, and he resorted to kicking me instead. I was so afraid that one of his kicks would connect with the baby that I almost smothered him in my attempts to keep him safe. It was clear then that the baby had changed things but sadly not for the better; now I knew without doubt that both of us were in danger.

The sex, which always followed the beatings, was another form of abuse. It could go in one of two directions, a punishment rape to inflict even more pain and humiliation that the preceding battering, or very occasionally, the snivelling apologies and declarations of undying love. Lately the former had taken precedence, but both sickened me beyond belief, but there was no alternative than to endure, and desperately hope that neither type of coupling would result in another pregnancy, which I could do nothing to prevent. I was never allowed out to visit any sort of family planning clinic, so no hope of the pill for me, and yet should I fall pregnant again it would be entirely my fault, and I must expect to be beaten for it. So why, I wonder, did this almost everyday occurrence bring me to the momentous decision that I had spent so long avoiding?

I had of course thought about it before, but unfortunately not until after I was pregnant. Up until that point, although Leo could be surly and demanding, he was never violent and I was still naïve enough to think I could change him or do something to get back the Leo I’d fallen in love with. I knew now that everything he did was leading up to this total control and dominance that summed up my present life, and I also knew that if things continued as they were he would eventually kill me, but back then the optimistic part of me believed it would all somehow work out. Now today the thought had returned and I knew I had to overcome all the familiar negative arguments that formed in my mind. Where would I go? What would I live on? How could I support the baby on my own?

I had never known the love that I felt for this small human being, and when his father wasn’t there our time together was so precious. He had started to really smile and could focus on my face with his huge blue eyes, which could only have come from me, gurgling and smiling and making me so proud. I could see nothing of his father’s darkness in him, he was pink and round and perfect in every way. Despite Leo making me feel I was not good enough, when I was alone with my son I felt like a proper mother, and knew I would do anything for my precious baby boy. So perhaps I could leave, perhaps I could start a new life and give him the life he deserved.

The following morning I dared to plan, but first I let my mind drift back. Where had it all gone wrong? When Leo walked into my life he was handsome, clever and a brilliant sportsman as well, which was an irresistible combination to the naïve university student I was then. So flattered by his attention, I found it hard to believe that this gorgeous man that all my friends were drooling over could, in any way, be interested in me, but it seemed that he was and when, with the intense look that saw into my very soul and took my breath away, he asked me to go for a drink I was thrilled to accept. He was in his third year of an education degree, but unlike me who just wanted to teach, he saw himself as a Head Teacher and eventually as a part of Ofsted or some other governing body.

Back in those days I was in awe of his ambitions and didn’t see it as anything other than a tremendous desire to do well. However, now I could see that it was in fact another example of his need for power. He would never have been happy being told what to do or criticised in any way, so he had set his sights on being the one giving the orders and finding the faults.

Getting to university at all had been quite an achievement for me after all the foster homes that didn’t work out, and placements in an assortment of children’s homes, I became well used to rejection; the one constant in my life was a love of learning. Even changing schools several times didn’t dampen my enthusiasm and I was a pleasant surprise to teachers, who expected nothing and were amazed by what I produced. Had I been a normal child, living with normal parents, they might have been recognised that I was bright, but with the disrupted home life there was very little interest in what I was capable of. Even without encouragement I was clever enough to realise the only one who could help me was me.

By the time I was fifteen I had been placed in my final foster home which turned out to be the best I’d ever been in. These people were not only kind and loving but took a real interest in my school work which no-one had done before. I was only supposed to be there for a year and then expected to make my own way in life; I had decided I really wanted to be a teacher and they were the first people I told, but explained that I would need to get to University and that would not be easy. They encouraged me to follow my dreams and told me I could stay with them for as long as I needed, and promised that if I stayed on at school and studied hard to get the grades they would give me all the help they could. True to their word they set me up with a laptop, bought the books I needed and encouraged me with my studying and revision for exams. They liaised with the school to see what help I needed just like proper parents, and for the three years I was with them that is just what they were. I don’t think they received any allowances for me after the age of 16 so everything they did for me was out of their own funds and generosity, which made me even more determined to get to University and reward their faith in me.

Deep down I was sure I could do it; I worked very hard both at school and at all sorts of part time jobs and kept all the money I earned to put towards driving lessons and my own little car. Once again my foster parents helped me with this finding me an old but still serviceable car, and even put a little money towards it for me; so the little blue Micra came into my life and was my pride and joy.

That had been the beginning and what a magical beginning it was. When the time came to start looking at where I would do my degree, The University of Brighton came at the top of my list. Brighton had been rated as outstanding by Ofsted but their entry requirements were quite high, so I would need grades as good as, or better than predicted. I was determined to make this achievable but, just in case, I put the University of East Anglia as my second choice. This was in Norwich, so much closer to my present home in Norfolk, and I had received an unconditional offer from them, so at least I knew I would be going to University. The UEA was a good university with good reports but somehow it didn’t seem as exciting as going to Brighton, and in those heady days I was only interested in the best, so I worked very hard to reach the standard they required, and was thrilled to get the grades that guaranteed my first choice.

When the time came, with no barriers in the way of my ambition, my resolve deserted me. Who did I think I was? Kids from care like me didn’t get to University, and although I knew I had the grades and had been accepted it still felt alien. So far nothing in my life could be relied on and my present foster carers were the only ones who’d hadn’t let me down, well at least not yet. I had never been ill-treated, starved or beaten and judging from the tales I heard from some of the other kids in care this was a bonus, but I had never known genuine love either. Kindness, yes, lots of people had been kind, and my welfare had always been of genuine concern.

I didn’t give anyone any trouble, nor did I complain when I was moved from place to place to make way for other more needy kids, but I soon learned that people, adults and kids did not hang around for long. Social workers left or were promoted, kids were moved without any rhyme or reason, and foster parents were oversubscribed so children in the greatest need always had to come first. I was never one of these; I was just good old Lydia who never made a fuss and went were she was put without any argument.

Sometimes I wondered about my real parents, for no-one could deny I must have had real parents, a mother and a father, so where did they go? I was never told, and I could only ever remember being either at a children’s home or with foster parents, so I had no idea how or why I had ended up in care, but I was resigned to the fact that I probably never would know. I did quite a lot of imagining though, and invented a mother that died in childbirth and a father that died of grief, or perhaps a mother and father that both died together in some freaky accident, somehow I could not face the fact that my parents were still alive, for that meant they just didn’t want me. My imaginary parents changed each time I thought about them, from very rich professionals to farmers and from British to deposed foreign royalty, although that seemed unlikely as there was nothing in any way foreign about me..

I had now been longer with these foster parents than with any others, or in fact in any one place, so it was really the most like a home I’d ever known. When the time came to say goodbye it seemed worse than any of my previous moves, but in the end it was just moving on again, which was something I had long ago learned to accept. As I packed my few belongings into the Micra and said my farewells, I was sad to think I may never see this lovely couple again, They were the nearest thing to parents I had ever known, and I was close to tears when they told me I could come back at any time and, if I didn’t like it, there would always be a home for me with them.

It was a very long drive to Brighton and, for me, having not long passed my test, quite a scary one too; but it was a baptism of fire in the way of experience and once I’d arrived at the University campus I felt I could drive anywhere. I soon found my allotted lodgings and discovered I was one of six students sharing it, two other girls and three boys. We all had our own room but shared a bathroom and a kitchen, but that didn’t bother me, I was quite used to sharing I’d done it all my life. I’d also learned how to instantly fit in with others so just dropped into my new kid in the children’s home routine and soon got to know them. Two of the boys were from abroad; Choy from Hong Kong and Dusan from the Czech Republic, while the other boy Will was a Brightonian so hadn’t come far at all. The two girls, Amy from Surrey and Emily from Northumberland, both seemed very friendly.

My overall impression of the Falmer campus was light. There was an abundance of glass in every part of every building and light flooded in. The restaurant, library, science labs, art rooms and lecture theatres were all were bright and modern but still welcoming and comfortable, a combination difficult to achieve, but from the moment I arrived I felt at home.