A Family Secret Read online

  Copyright

  Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect privacy.

  HarperElement

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  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  First published by HarperElement 2021

  FIRST EDITION

  © Maureen Wood 2020

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Cover photograph © Stephen Carroll/Trevillion Images (posed by model)

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  Maureen Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  Source ISBN: 9780008441562

  Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008441579

  Version: 2021-01-13

  Note to Readers

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  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008441562

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my angel baby Christopher and to all the silent victims of abuse. I hope it helps them find their voice.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Moving Memoirs

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  No doubt about it, this was how the other half lived. Leaning back in my seat, feet up, sipping my drink, I felt on top of the world. Which, of course, I was.

  Peering through the gap beside my seat, I watched my children, almost all my children, in the row behind, chatting and buzzing, intoxicated with a mix of holiday euphoria and that peculiar strain of exhaustion that travelling brings.

  ‘I can’t wait to go to Harry Potter World,’ Naomi was saying. ‘Imagine walking down Diagon Alley!’

  I smiled. They deserved a treat, that was for sure.

  And then, with a sudden whoosh, like a wind beneath the plane, I was hurtling back through time, peering through another gap, watching another of my children. The one who had made all this possible. The one who was missing today.

  It was already sunny at 5.45 a.m. that July morning when Louise arrived to collect me. I was ready, pacing the living room, my nerves stretched and taut. I didn’t say a word on the journey there; it felt respectful to travel in silence. And then, as we pulled up, I saw the glare of floodlights and the white tent around my baby son’s resting place. We had been given strict Home Office instructions that we were not allowed inside the cemetery. But there was no way I could stay away. He was mine, my boy.

  We had been instructed to park across the road, so that we didn’t draw attention to the cemetery. But I had a good view from out of the car window and I watched, appalled yet transfixed, through a gap in the cemetery railings as the digging began. Forensic officers in white space suits waited, like Martian pallbearers, for my Christopher, my baby, to surface. And then, there he was; his tiny coffin looked almost like a toy from where I was standing.

  ‘Mummy is sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, Christopher.’

  As his coffin was lifted into a plain grey van, I remembered the innocence in his wide blue eyes, I smelled the newness of his skin, I felt his tiny, delicate fingers curling around my thumb. And I was overwhelmed with a tsunami of loss and despair. My poor bruised heart ached and wept to see him again. Off went the van, carrying my precious cargo. Carrying my hopes, my heartbreak and the distant promise of peace.

  Christopher had saved me once, and now, twenty-five years on, I was asking him to save me again. My guardian angel was risen from the dead, bringing with him my chance for justice.

  Chapter 1

  ‘This,’ said my mother Maureen, ‘is your new stepdad.’

  She took a step back on the station platform to admire him herself before singling me out for a glare.

  ‘Well?’ she snapped. ‘Where are your manners? Say hello.’

  But I took one long look at his orangey-brown hair and his thin, mean face and I recoiled. My knuckles were white as I gripped my suitcase, my eyes staring, downcast, at the chewing gum ground into the platform tiles.

  ‘Hello,’ I mumbled.

  My mother slipped her arms around him and smiled, and we all trailed behind them, dragging our cases with aching arms and aching hearts. Away from the station, away from all we knew, and off to yet another new life.

  I could barely remember the last time I’d seen my mother before this. She and my biological father, John Donnelly, had separated when I was just a toddler. And on Boxing Day 1975, Mum dumped my older brother, Jock, and me, with our paternal grandparents, William and Eliza Donnelly. She didn’t visit us, as far as I know, and she didn’t even check on us. I was just five years old. And yet I was quite happy without my mother; my grandparents were warm and kind and made sure we wanted for nothing. I have vague memories, too, of an aunt painting my toenails and playing house with me. Because I was the smallest, the whole family made such a fuss of me.

  But later that year we were taken into care, to live in a Catholic children’s home called Nazareth House, in Glasgow. There we were reunited with our other two sisters, both older than me. It was nice to be back with my siblings, but I missed the easy affection of my grandparents’ home. The timetable at Nazareth House was strict, almost military. The home was run by nuns who, it seemed to me, chatted very little and smiled even less. We were up early every morning to say prayers, then we had to be dressed, fed and in chapel, on our knees, by 8 a.m. By the time we got to school I was already exhausted. After school there were more prayers, food, chores, then bed. We were woken at midnight for a last trip to the loo, to ensure we didn’t wet the bed. Nobody misbehaved or stepped out of line – there was simply no scope for it in a place like that. We were under the watchful, beady eyes of the nuns all the time.

  I was in a large girls’ dormitory with my sisters. We had a narrow single bed each with a miserably thin mattress, and a small bedside cupboard to store
all the possessions that we didn’t have. The boys’ dormitories were along another corridor, and they sat in a different area of the dining hall, too, so we rarely saw our big brother, Jock. We saw Mum very rarely at the children’s home, nor our dad, apart from one single visit, who now seemed consigned to history. We wouldn’t see him again for many years.

  As I recount the facts now, it sounds like a pitiful and wretched existence, and yet it was quite the opposite. I liked being in the home. Perversely, I preferred the rigidity and the predictability there to the uncertainty and chaos I associated with my mother. At Nazareth House I was at least fed and warm. The nuns were firm and austere, but as I settled in there I realised too that they were always fair and reasonable. I never felt as though I was singled out in any way. I never felt picked on or ostracised or bullied. Life was tough, of course it was, but it was tough for us all. We were all in the same boat, and there was a comfort in the collective hardship. There was a togetherness and a camaraderie with the other girls, and though we didn’t have birthday cakes or bedtime stories or new shoes we had each other. There were plenty of giggles; chasing each other down the long corridors, tickling each other when we were supposed to be praying in Mass, or telling ghost stories in the midnight gloom of the long dormitories to scare each other half to death. I really was happy enough, day to day, in my little routine. There was a security and a feeling of safety about the place that I clung to. And though I didn’t know it then, the children’s home, with the chilly dormitory and the strict and distant nuns, would be the last place I would feel safe for a very long time. I knew where I was with the nuns. I knew where I was supposed to be at every hour of every day. And for a small child, such certainty is golden. I would only appreciate that, of course, after it was snatched away.

  Three years later, in 1978, my mother arrived, without warning, to take us back out of care and into the new life she had fashioned for herself, and which she expected us to fall into without complaint.

  ‘Come on now,’ she said, clapping her hands as we walked out of the children’s home and into the sunshine. ‘We’ve a long journey ahead.’

  Stepping onto the train at the station in Glasgow, I felt a ripple of both excitement and anxiety. The train itself was thrilling – whizzing past towns I’d never even heard of, giving me snapshot glimpses of what life I had been missing whilst I had been cocooned behind the huge doors of Nazareth House.

  When we got off the train, in Stoke-on-Trent, our new stepfather, John Wood, was waiting. We had a little brother, too. It was all change, all different.

  Our new home was a three-bedroomed semi on a long and busy street in a suburb close to the town centre. We settled in quickly because we had to. We soon picked up that Mum was not someone who liked her patience tested. She worked in a pub and John Wood was a miner, so they were often out of the house until late in the evening, and this gave us the perfect opportunity to run riot.

  It was the summer holidays of 1978 when we arrived, so we had no school. All structure, all routine, was abandoned, and we went wild. The feeling of having nothing to do and nobody to answer to was at once exhilarating and frightening. I was seven years old, and I felt like I’d broken free.

  At first, all five of us kids slept in a double bed until the new furniture arrived. Then I shared a bunk bed with one of my sisters – I had the bottom bunk, and though it got me into trouble, my blankets were always crumpled and messy.

  ‘Why can’t you keep yourself tidy like your sisters?’ Mum complained. ‘You’re always the problem. Always.’

  I loved to pull threads out of the pink bedspread that covered my blankets. It earned me a thick ear from Mum when she saw the strands all over the floor, but it was a nervous habit and I just couldn’t help myself.

  We each had a set of rosary beads on the bedside table and we prayed every night. I looked forward to Mass on Sundays; Mum didn’t go to church, but I would happily go by myself. I enjoyed the familiarity and the reassuring routine of the service; it reminded me of Nazareth House.

  Mum worked long hours, but when she was home there was discipline and order. We all ate together, in a heavy silence, around a large pine table. After tea we were allowed to go out to play in the street.

  ‘Until the streetlamps are lit!’ my mother would shout. ‘And no later!’

  There was a load of local kids our age, and we formed straggling, giggling teams, with mass games of tig and football. We played rounders on a big field behind the estate or ‘two ball’ against the back wall of the house.

  ‘If I hear that ball one more time, I’ll slap you so hard you won’t sit down for a month,’ Mum would yell.

  We couldn’t see her, but we could imagine her, hand on hip, waggling the obligatory finger, her face screwed up in anger. We sniggered, with the safety of a brick wall between us, and waggled our fingers back for good effect. I made a best pal, Joanne, who lived just across the street. She and I would play skipping or hold imaginary tea parties for our beloved dollies on the pavement. As we grew more adventurous we’d play ‘Knock-a-door-run’ on houses further up the street. It would take us ages to pluck up courage to tap on the first door, but after we had done so it was strangely addictive and we would run along the entire row of houses, knocking on each door and then running away, helpless with laughter, as the occupants swore and shouted after our disappearing heads. There was one occasion when a woman chased us along the street in her slippers, and we hid behind a hedge and chuckled as she shouted furiously for us to show ourselves. Another time, one of the neighbours set the hosepipe on us for knocking on his door. Again, we ended up guffawing in a heap behind some dustbins. I was never the ringleader; I was a shy kid and I would generally follow the older ones into trouble, but I enjoyed every minute of it. There was nothing funnier to us kids than winding up adults and watching them blow, like fireworks.

  The days were long and sunny, and we had lots to be happy about. We were well fed and well dressed – Mum always made sure of that. We had a little dog, Nipper, and a cat called Toots. To the outside world we were a run-of-the-mill, average sort of family. Later in the evenings, before bed, we’d all gather in the long living room that ran the length of the house, with a coal fire in the middle. Coal was free and plentiful, because of John Wood’s job down the mine, so we had physical warmth, at least. The rest, we could do nothing about.

  Starting school that September was tough. That first day my stomach swirled with excitement and trepidation. We had strong Scottish accents, which I’d already discovered were not always that popular in Stoke-on-Trent. And when I stood up in class to say my name, I might as well have been speaking in Swahili.

  ‘What did she say?’ shouted one kid. ‘Sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me.’

  The teacher, probably trying to help the situation, asked me where I was born. But she would only make matters worse.

  ‘Germany,’ I replied. ‘My dad was in the army.’

  There was a chorus of jeers and boos around the classroom.

  ‘So you’re a Kraut!’ they shouted in delight. ‘A Nazi!’

  I tried to explain that I’d moved to Scotland when I was a baby and had no memory at all of my time in Germany. But that didn’t make any difference at all.

  ‘We’ve got the enemy standing here in Stoke-on-Trent!’ they laughed. ‘Lock her in the cleaning cupboard.’

  Most of the kids let the joke go after that first day, but one boy in particular was vile. He nicknamed me Hitler, and it lasted all through school. Every time I walked past him he would dig me in the arm or do a Nazi salute.

  For months I kept myself to myself and I had very few friends. Instead, I sought solace in books. I spent my playtimes and lunchtimes reading Enid Blyton and Clive King. Even in the playground I’d sit on the tarmac, with my face buried in a Famous Five novel. I could lose myself completely in a far-fetched adventure, slipping into the role of my favourite characters, transpor
ted to another town, another story, another life. My favourite character was George, a tomboy who was always getting herself embroiled in trouble. She was brave and fiery, too, and probably a little bit of me was envious of her. As I turned each page I felt every victory, every disappointment, everything. I was a loner, quite a solitary kid, and it wasn’t just because of the bullies and the new school. By nature I enjoyed being on my own. I was quite happy with my own company. And, of course, there was nothing wrong with that. But I look back now and wonder whether that is why I was targeted. Whether that is why it all began.

  My mother and John Wood were married at Newcastle-under-Lyme register office and afterwards they had a reception in the local pub where Mum worked. It was a great party; I remember I had a new dress and I was allowed to invite some of my pals from the street. I stayed up later than I’d ever been allowed. From that day we all called John Wood ‘Dad’. It was expected, and we didn’t question it or object. We fell into line. All, that was, except Jock.

  ‘You’re not my dad,’ Jock told him angrily. ‘And you never will be.’

  Jock was twelve, five years older than me, and already surging with hormones and aggression. He made it clear, right from the start, that he hated Dad. Jock was fiercely loyal to our natural dad, whom he remembered far more clearly, and with much more affection, than I did. There were regular flare-ups between Jock and Dad. Jock refused to do what Dad said and regularly swore at him, and unless Mum was in the house he did just as he pleased.

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ he said angrily. ‘You’ve no right.’

  Dad was only 5 foot 7 and not particularly well-built, and although Jock was not yet taller than him he seemed to tower above him. Mentally, at least, he had the edge. In one argument, Dad broke his own hand trying to punch Jock, when he ended up hitting the wall instead. Mum punched Jock black and blue for his bad behaviour, so violently he probably wished he had the broken hand instead. To the rest of us it was seen as quite a comical incident, and we would snigger every time we passed the dent in the wall.