A Family Secret Read online

  Epilogue

  And so while my life was reaching new heights of euphoria, what became of the people who had tried to destroy it? The date 6 September 2012 was marked on my mental calendar and ingrained in my mind. I had been in court when the judge said that Jock would serve exactly twelve months in prison, so I knew his release date and it might as well have been tattooed onto my memory. The day came around and I was strangely jittery and afraid, as though he might come straight from prison to give me a piece of his mind – or worse. I remembered another surprise visit he’d made to my house:

  ‘Fancy one for old times’ sake?’

  Even now the memory repulsed and enraged me. And a small part of me, though I did not want to admit it, was still very frightened of him. That day I kept both front and back door locked, and I carried my mobile phone from room to room. I could not shake a sense of impending doom. As it happened, I heard nothing. The day passed just like any other. And I didn’t even get the letter that he was being released until three weeks after the event. It felt a bit like the day Mum had walked past me as I was Christmas shopping at Primark. There had been a huge build-up that had simply petered out, into nothing.

  That December, three months after his release, I thought that I saw Jock at the Christmas lights switch-on in Stoke, I felt sure it was him, striding past me in the dark. I couldn’t be absolutely certain, it was gloomy and drizzly and his head was down. But I would know that walk anywhere. And again, like the Christmas shopping trip, it floored me and left me reeling.

  ‘I’m heading home, I’ve got a headache,’ I told my kids.

  I scurried away with a sick feeling in my stomach. I didn’t want any reminders. I heard later that Jock still lived in the city and so I was always careful to avoid his area. I wasn’t living in fear of him, but neither did I want a show-down. Over six years later, in February 2019, I got a letter informing me that John Wood would soon be up for release and asking me for my response. I had so many churning through my mind that I really didn’t know where to start.

  ‘Please don’t let him live anywhere near me,’ I wrote back. ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  In the weeks that followed, I was plagued by nightmares and flashbacks. I could see John Wood, stroking his goatee beard, fixing me with his watery stare, threatening me with his cold voice.

  ‘Tell anyone and I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you, Maureen.’

  But these were not on the scale of the nightmares before the trial and I knew they never would be. The horror was still there and it always would be, but I had learned that talking helped to dilute it. Getting my memories out of the locked box, and setting them free, had not only secured justice but had also helped me to cope. I had been set free myself as a result. John Wood was released from prison in April 2019, and soon after, a friend called in to see me.

  ‘He’s living around five minutes away from you,’ she confided. ‘I’ve seen him going in and out of his house.’

  It was a spine-chilling thought. I wished desperately that it could be further away, and I felt angry that it wasn’t. But I was also determined not to be cowed by him. I had lived in fear for most of my life and I was not prepared to go back to that. One day, Ben came home to tell me he had spotted John Wood whilst he was out shopping.

  ‘Honestly, Mum, it was all I could do not to go over there and shout in his face,’ he said. ‘I wanted to kill him, to hurt him the way he has hurt you and all of us.’

  But in the end Ben had shown great dignity and simply walked past with his head held high. I was so proud of him.

  ‘You’re a good man,’ I told Ben with a smile.

  Three months later, Mick, my ex, sadly died at the age of 67. He had suffered a catastrophic brain bleed. He was the children’s father, and we’d shared some great times together. I knew I would miss him, especially at Christmas, which we had always shared as a family. He had been brilliant throughout the court cases, too.

  The months have passed and I’ve not bumped into John Wood or Jock yet, but in truth I do avoid going into the city centre, and around the areas where I know they live. I like to think that if I ever saw them I would be brave and confrontational and I would hold them to account. But the more realistic part of me thinks I would run away and panic. I don’t ever want to find out. I’ve done my bit, after all, in bringing them to justice. And I don’t need any more reminders. If I never see them again it will be far too soon. I am trying, and I will always try, to spend less time thinking about them and concentrating more on the future. My next project is to study sociology and psychology through the Open University. I’d like to help other survivors of abuse. Like Mary, like Louise, I want to be there for people who have completely given up on themselves. I think I understand a little of what it means to feel utterly abandoned. And I’d like to pass on that experience.

  Right from being a little girl, I objected to sharing a name with my mother. She, like me, was Maureen Wood. I’d see her name on letters, and shudder. I hated that our names connected us. Did that make me the same as her, I used to wonder? Did that mean I was cruel and wicked and heartless? Would I grow up to be violent and deranged too? As I grew older, I resented it even more. I didn’t want to be a part of her family and I certainly didn’t want her name. In court, when I heard her name called out, it made me cringe. We were on opposite sides. She the abuser, me the abused. I wanted justice and truth. She wanted secrets and lies. So why should we share the same name? And at her funeral, too, when I saw her name on the coffin, I baulked. I no longer wanted any association with her. I loathed everything she had stood for. When the coffin moved into the furnace, I imagined the plaque burning in the flames, and for me it was a fitting end for the name. I wanted no more association with Maureen Wood.

  ‘Good riddance,’ I told myself.

  There was no maternal bond. I doubt she even understood what that meant. Yet we were bound together. I was manacled, like a slave, to the woman I despised more than anyone else in the world, to the woman who had betrayed me and snared me and abandoned me to evil.

  ‘No more,’ I said firmly.

  And so I decided to take control, and to change my name.

  ‘But to what?’ I wondered.

  I could have chosen Donnelly, after my birth father, but he had done nothing at all for me. I honestly wouldn’t have recognised him if I’d met him in the street. It seemed ridiculous to choose his name; we had no real connection. But naturally, one name sprung to my mind.

  ‘Johnson,’ I said, with a smile.

  And I heard a little voice, at my shoulder, saying:

  ‘Yes, Mum, that’s a lovely idea.’

  My bond with Mary was precious; visceral and real. She wasn’t a blood relative; no, it was stronger, much stronger, than that. Our relationship had grown and flourished, not through genes, but in our hearts. Mary had put up with my teenage strops during that first year of counselling. I’d been a grade A pain in the arse, desperate to push her away, but it hadn’t worked. She hung in there. She had brought me a cooker when I got my first place, and a bed for Ben, too. She’d been round with polish and a duster. Other times, she’d brought me a bag of shopping. She was my shoulder to cry on and she was my kick up the backside when I needed it too. She was quiet and calm and a constant support. To my children, she was Aunty Mary. To me, she was a surrogate mother. Secretly, as a young mum, I used to wish that Mary was my real mother. I remembered one occasion vividly, a meeting at the Christian fellowship, and Mary had invited me along. She was there with her own daughters. As I watched them, with their easy, unconditional relationship and their small signs of affection, I felt a surge of jealousy. I wanted that. I wanted what they had. Mary was incredibly intuitive and she recognised what I was feeling.

  ‘I realised that day that I wanted to do more for you, to be someone for you,’ she confided.

  The maternal relationship was there, far deeper than it could
ever have been with my own mother. After I went to the police, Mary was a daily support. And when my children lost their own grandparents, after I told them about the abuse, Mary became their Nanna instead. She just slotted into the role. It was their choice. And for Mary, it felt like an honour. So I began using Johnson as my surname. It was just on social media at first, but as time went on I started using it day to day too. I liked the sound of it. I liked the way it looked on letters. It was another step towards the new me, another piece of the jigsaw to making me whole.

  Next, I decided to drop Maureen. Maureen, Dozy-Mozy, Mo-Jo; I hated them all. The names stuck in my throat and made me gag. To me, Maureen was vicious. She was cruel. She was my mother. She was everything I didn’t want to be. I began calling myself Tori instead. Tori is short for Victorious and needs no more explanation. For me, smiling and surviving, and having the love of my children, is the biggest victory of all.

  I feel so blessed despite what I have suffered, because my children have supported me every step of the way. I have many regrets that I let my kids down at times. I am not the perfect mother, but I am always trying to improve. I’m not in a relationship and haven’t had a serious partner since Josie, all those years ago. I haven’t given up on love, but I do accept that perhaps I’m not cut out for long-term commitments. And now, at nearly fifty years of age, that really doesn’t bother me one bit. My life is all about my kids – and their kids, too. I have three little granddaughters now, who bring me so much happiness and keep me on my toes. The last word must go to my eldest son, Christopher, my guardian angel who saved my life not once, but twice. He taught me how to love and how to be strong. I can feel him here today, with me, guiding me through life.

  ‘Well done, Mum, well done, I love you.’

  His light shines on.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my children for their unwavering support during the whole process of fighting for justice and then while doing this book.

  Hilda Hollinshead, for being my substitute mum. You have always supported me throughout every step of my journey since we first met as counsellor and client in 1990. I would not be the person I am today without your influence. Also Jack Hollinshead, for being my substitute dad.

  Sue Sharp, for being my sounding board and confidante. You were there for me during my darkest days, and I shall be eternally grateful.

  Janet Coope, thank you for believing in me and restoring my faith in the police and the British justice system.

  My writers Joe and Ann Cusack, thank you for all the hard work that you both put in to get this book together for me; and to Joe, for being persistent – it only took you eight years of waiting until I was ready to do this.

  To Kelly Ellis and her team at HarperCollins, thank you for taking my book on and for all the hard work you have put in to get it to a finished product.

  And finally thank you to Kevin Pocklington at the North Literacy Agency.

  Moving Memoirs

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