Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (34 page)

              Phillip was still working hard on my appeal and had meantime put in an application for me to be bailed until the appeal.  I waited daily for news of a court date.

              The first days passed in a blur, each one replicating the next; day and night merging into one.  On the first week my father visited with two of my school friends and my friend Liz who was looking after the puppy.

              Coco was now famous.  He'd been in the
Times
.  My friend Liz had sent in the article to show me.  I had held him up over my face to disguise my identity when the press had photographed me.  We tried to make light of this as we talked about the dog to avoid talking about the more serious matters.   It was not wise to talk too openly with so many ears around and the guards wandering among us. 

              Liz told me that her boyfriend had come home to feed her dog and mine on the day of my trial, whilst she herself, was in Court with me.  He said that at exactly 11.50a.m when I'd been sentenced, Coco’s tail had stopped wagging, and had drooped and he'd put his little head down at the very moment my guilty verdict was read out.  I'm not sure whether this was really the case.  It seemed most likely co-incidental, but perhaps Liz's boyfriend had given off a vibe that he'd picked up on. 

              Liz certainly believed the dog had sensed my fate.  Whether he did or not, I certainly missed him.  His little warm body curled up on the bed next to me had comforted me through many a difficult night grieving for M. 

              Dad looked as if he wasn’t sleeping.  He was almost eighty-one, but had always been so vital.  He now seemed broken and so much older.  I knew he missed M too and was frustrated that despite so much money having been poured into the lawyers' coffers, the result had been me in jail and M in Foster Care.  I tried to encourage him to think positively and believe M would still come back.  The Family Hearing had yet to take place and so had my Appeal.  I urged him to keep strong, whilst inside I had little strength left.

              Liz was full of fight and angst.  She knew from her own bitter experience  that the Island was cruel, unforgiving and unjust and had learned as a child that mothers and children had no voice in what was still a Patriarchy. 

              Liz, having been kicked in the back as a child by a teacher as she bent down to tie her shoelace, before getting on to the school bus, had been fighting and petitioning for the long term damage this had caused to her spine, for most of her adult life.  But as they had already labelled her with a borderline personality disorder, whatever that even meant, no-one took any notice.

              She always seemed perfectly rational, intelligent and personable to me and I suspect the label  protected the system from scrutiny - a way of ensuring she would never be taken seriously, no matter how much evidence she placed before them. 

              Since time immemorial, our most beautiful, artistic, creative and gifted women are those on whom society has turned most and tried to silence.  But in art and literature the pain can be communicated much more subtly and far more vividly – the maternal creative, always a force to be reckoned with, was one that can never been quashed entirely.

              At least, so far, no psychiatric label had been put on me, although both the Department and R’s lawyer had tried

              When the Department had tried to say I was crazy as a way of ensuring M be taken in Florida, they hadn't had to prove anything.  One phone call to a Social Worker thousands of miles away, was all it took.  That was the power of Social Services - These were the times in which we now lived.  Children stolen by the state to grease the wheels of the legal system.  One hand washing the other whilst they committed the sin of child snatching, passing the crime from palm to palm.

              In the historical past, single mothers were often considered to be suffering hysteria – womb – woman – the Greek word for the source of motherhood being at our very core.  Now they were hell-bent on a hysterectomy, to cut out the source of the womb, the seat of childhood, the place where the bond begins and all that is left is the empty shell of woman – a ghostly silhouette.

              I still had my womb, but I lacked the child I'd harboured inside me for nine months, the most vital central core of my being - absent - without leave – or consent – absent and yearned for.

              "I love you the world and back", I told M over and over in my mind, until I could once again say it to his beautiful innocent little face.  I could only hope he heard me in his heart.

              When it came to the end of visiting time, I hugged my father tightly.  We were both close to tears.  The hour had passed quickly, every minute being precious.   It was the only contact I had with the outside world. 

              Dad had no news of where the lawyers were up to with my Appeal.  It was only just over a week since I 'd been convicted but each minute seemed to last forever as I thought of the months that still lay ahead of me. I urged Dad to keep pressurising Brian and Phillip to get on with the appeal, but I knew these things took time and no one had the sense of urgency that I did.

              Father Shaun came in to visit again at the beginning of the second week.  Despite not being Catholic, nor deeply religious, I found him more comforting than the Anglican Vicar who seemed a rather nervous man and unlike the priest, hadn't understood our predicament and could only see that I'd broken the law and not my reasons for doing so - so easy when you lived in a black and white world.

              “Well you did abduct your son,” had been his parting words.  I decided then and there, not to see him again.

              Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised at the typical Church of England attitude.  After all it is a deeply Patriarchal institution that places the male figurehead above all – whereas the Catholic Church sees the Madonna as the most important icon, placing her on the highest pedestal – from which she can only fall.  At least she started from a vantage point.  Perhaps this gave the Catholic Priests a greater respect for women and despite the horrors that have been exposed of abuse in the Catholic Church, one cannot particularize this to every priest.  As with all factions of society, there are good and bad in all.  Father Shaun was certainly of the good variety and looking past his dog collar, I liked him as a person.  He was also one of the few people I met in jail who truly grasped unquestioningly, what had happened.

              Amanda was due to go to Court and possibly be bailed the next day and whilst I hoped for her sake that she would get her freedom, I dreaded her leaving, being the one person I could relate to.  We had other things in common too.  She'd also lost a sibling, as I had, at an early age and our children were around the same age and in Foster Care.  We also shared our creative ability.  I knew my sense of isolation would increase were she to go.  Irene was the only other person who spoke to me at the start, but I couldn't always understand what she was saying, as she struggled with her speech through her broken front teeth and was very softly spoken.

              I was, at last, given an opportunity to go to Art and the gym, where I could at least run off some of my pent up frustration.  Naturally as soon as the other girls realised I liked to run, they made sure I never got on the machine. 

              My moods vacillated.  Sometimes I felt I could cope and other times I was gripped with fear and feelings of panic. Night time darkness descended in more ways than one.  The long hours behind the cell door stretched endlessly ahead of me as winter drew in.  I felt the chill deep in my soul, my heart and running through my veins.

              Letters arrived daily from friends and strangers alike and meant so much to me.  The words of hope, inspiration and love helped me through the interminable days and I would reread them at night to feel less lonely.  Still the Social Services hadn't arranged contact and I quizzed the wardens daily only to have my heart sink as they told me that there was still no news.

              I thought about M constantly, longing for him, to hold and cuddle him and laugh with him as we used to.  He'd always been a joyful child with a sense of fun and I craved his giggles and mischievous smile as he teased me.

              I had photos of happier times on my notice board, all stuck up with toothpaste.  It was a whole new world  - a world of rules and routines – strange experiences – none of them good – all of them painful.  Acute isolation and fear pierced my nights and the burden of loss filled my every waking moment.

              I first encountered serious bullying at the end of my first week.  Charlene had come from a background of care and was ill-educated and what some might term - backward.  She woke up angry and went to bed angry.  Her vocabulary was limited to words of one syllable, mainly four letters.  She abused the wardens and anyone she saw as vulnerable and she saw me as a soft target, representing everything she hated.  Her jealousy was palpable and she was determined to make me suffer.  I'd already sensed her hostility, but had managed to keep out of her way at the beginning.   

              After a few days, she upped her game and began coming after me with a vengeance.  She followed me around calling me “Posh bitch” and “Miss Prim” and saying I fancied Nigel.  This was completely untrue and quite laughable as Nigel was in his seventies, but she used whatever she could to taunt me.  I decided silence was the best weapon and stayed in my cell as much as possible.  She'd even made threats about knifing me if I went to cookery classes, so after the first one, I never went again.  I stopped going to Art for the same reason, but I did at least secure some paints to keep in my cell. I quickly realised that it was best to keep to myself.  Since Amanda had now been bailed. I was completely alone. 

              Sometimes Charlene would come and stand at my cell door just staring at me, trying to intimidate me.  It was horrible, but I knew that it was important to stand up for myself too and so I made flippant remarks, such as, “I guess you must find me really interesting to want to spend so much time with me.”  This only incensed her more, but I wasn’t prepared to roll over and die for her.  I knew that I was an easy victim and if I reacted badly, she would only torment me more.  

              In the end, I tried to confront Charlene and ask her what her problem was and why she didn’t like me.  This was naive on my part because she obviously didn’t know herself.  She just said, “I dunno,” and that was the end of the conversation. 

              I simply wasn’t one of them.  Neither a drug user or in for ABH or GBH, like most of the other girls. - my face didn’t fit and I lacked the necessary kudos of a more serious crime.  Being a concerned mother made me a misfit, an outsider. They didn’t see that I was as much anti-establishment as they were, even if our reasons were different. Having said that, most of them were reliant on Social Services for their benefits when they were out and for contact with their kids and in reality they were less against the system than they pretended to be and far more institutionalized. 

              The women who weren't facing long terms inside, would leave and no doubt end up back again - inside a few months.  The appalling reality was that no one did anything to rehabilitate these girls and give them any chance of life beyond the never- ending chain of offending and reoffending.  There was no form of counselling, AA or proper support.  It was bring them in, keep them quiet by feeding them Valium, keeping addiction alive and then release them so they could repeat their former behaviour. 

              Ironically, other than Amanda, none of the girls seemed to have lost their children to care and I was reminded again of the girl I'd met in custody, who was a drug dealer.

              In a strange way the inmates were on the same side of the fence as the system because they depended on it - allowing them to go on living as they always had - safe in the knowledge that what they saw as the relative comfort of prison, benefits and freedom from responsibility would allow them to keep addiction alive.

              I believe that like the inmates, the system bullied me hardest because of my background.  The Social Workers were often badly spoken, ill educated and very left wing, as one would expect and I represented everything they most disliked. This, in itself seemed to be justification for giving me the worst time possible, but it was M who suffered most and they gave no thought to how their narrow- mindedness affected him. 

              I offered to put my teaching skills and creative writing to good use by suggesting I run a writing class.  Annabel, I knew was writing her story and was keen to have some help.  It was a mistake to have made this suggestion though as it only brought more jibes from Charlene and inflamed the others jealousy even more.  They saw my offer as patronising and looking back now, I can see that I made a lot of mistakes in those early days in prison.  I'd no idea of what the unspoken rules were or how to survive and I think I made life harder for myself by my complete ignorance. 

              I soon realised that keeping as low a profile as possible, was my only chance of survival. There was no point in trying to befriend people who were determined not to accept you.  So I kept my head down and other than Annabel, who remained quietly supportive towards me, I really didn’t talk to anyone.

              A dark cloak of depression and oppression was slowly enveloping me.  Without contact with M, it was all I could do to go on breathing, but breathe I must do and somehow keep fighting and hoping that we still stood a chance of getting M back.