Let the train take the strain - I don't think so!

One dark and cold March night, well last Friday to be exact, my youngest son and his mate were standing on a desolate station in Shropshire.

                Here at home in sleepy Clunbury, the phone rang.

                ‘Hello.’

                ‘Mum,’ I recognised the voice instantly it was no 3 son, not exactly hard to deduce as no 1 and 2 were home.

                ‘Yes son.’

                ‘What time’s the train?’

                I looked at the clock on my computer, it read 19.20. ‘It will be there in a minute, well actually two, the train is due in at 19.22.’ My voice sounded confident. I had faith in National Rail, a faith borne out by someone who hasn’t used a train in years. ‘You’ll soon be back,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Talk to you soon.’

                I put the phone down. Soon they would no longer be standing on the cold platform but would be warm in the plush carriage provided by Arriva Trains Wales.

                I made a coffee. Images of a hostess trolley pushed by a kindly member of staff flashed before my eyes, ladling out national rail coffee and sandwiches complete with a national rail smile and I was content.

                In the meantime on the cold, desolate station in Shropshire 19.22 arrived heralded with a passenger train hurtling through the station at something akin to the speed of sound. My son, well lubricated by Carling’s finest, giggled ‘were we supposed to get on that?’ He asked his friend. But as the train hurtled into the darkness the answer was obvious. It was not stopping and the lack of reversing lights proved the driver was intent on continuing his journey, regardless of what any timetable said.

                Oblivious to all of this, I settled down to watch Corrie. Relieved that my son was catching a train and not a tram that would venture over the end of Coronation Street, although the slight slurring in his voice did make me think he could well have ventured into the Rovers Return.

                The adverts heralded a break from the doom and gloom of soap land just as the phone rang.

                ‘Hello.’ I said.

                ‘Mum,’ again I knew it was no 3 son seeing as no 1 and 2 hadn’t moved since the last phone call.

                ‘Yes son?’

                ‘Mum the train hasn’t arrived.’

                All the images of hostess trolleys and kindly National Rail staff faded.

                ‘’Oh!’ I said in my best concerned motherly voice.

                ‘What time did you say it was due?’

                ’19.22 but it’s now 19.45.’

                ‘Oh right,’ he said in his best bravado voice, which wasn’t nearly as convincing as my motherly tones.

                ‘I tell you what, I’ll ring National Rail and find out what’s going on.’

                He seem happy at this but I recognised that he’d inherited my naïve belief in National Rail. He voice conveyed his belief that a phone call would sort it out.

                ‘I’ll call you back darling.’

                ‘Thank you.’ The line went silent now it all rested on my shoulders.

                I dialled the number and waited. Finally a voice answered.

                ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘I’m enquiring as to what has happened to the 19.22 service from Albrighton, Shropshire to Shrewsbury.’

                ‘Brighton!’ A harsh male voice shrilled back at me.

                ‘No!’ Instantly the confrontational little sod that lives deep within me sprung to life. ‘Albrighton. That is A L B R I G H T O N and just for good measure I reiterated Shropshire.’

                ‘And where do you want to go to Madam?’ Now one thing this confrontational little sod that lives within me hates, is being called Madam but somehow I managed to suppress its urges to yell and scream.

                ‘Shrewsbury. That is S H R E W S B U R Y again I added Shropshire, I didn’t want the guy on the other end to suddenly have to worry about cross channel ferries.

                ‘Ah the next train for Albrighton to Shrewsbury is the 20.40 which is currently running on time.’

                ‘I know what time the next train is but what I want to know is what happened to the 19.22?’

                ‘I will have a look for you Madam.’

                ‘Down confrontational little sod,’ I muttered under my breath, desperately hoping the guy on the other end didn’t hear me.

                ‘The 19.22 from Albrighton to Shrewsbury is running two minutes late.’

                Confrontational little sod is now howling with laughter as his mate hackles begins to rise.

                ‘Well it is now 19.48 and the 19.22 is running considerably later that two minutes because my son is still standing on the station waiting for the train and he was there before the train was due.’

                ‘No madam the train is just two minutes late.’

                By now confrontational little sod and his mate hackles were having a party. I could hear amongst all their jollies they chorused together ‘go for it girl.’

                I could resist their calls no longer. ‘Forgive me for asking but can you tell me where you are based?’

                ‘I’m sorry Madam?’

                Now confrontational little sod and his mate Hackles had brought in a brass band.

                ‘Which part of the world are you in? My question was asked slowly and very deliberately something that Mr, I know what time the trains are running failed to pick up on.

                ‘Oh I am in India.’

                ‘Well how the hell do you know what is happening to trains in a sleepy part of England?’

                Obviously he’d been asked this before because without even thinking about it he came straight back at me. ‘Oh all the information about trains are fed through to us. We know what is happening.’

                Well the information you have is bloody wrong. The train is not two minutes late, it is now nearly 30 minutes late.’

                ‘Oh no Madam, you are wrong.’

                All attempts at suppressing confrontational little sod and hackles had gone out of the window by this point.

                ‘My son is waiting on that bloody station and the train has not arrived. You can not tell me that the train is two minutes late from India when he is there. The information you have is incorrect, you are being fed a load of bollocks by incompetent idiots. The train has not arrived and I’m not going to waste my time trying to relay the facts to you as witnessed by someone who is actually present.’

                ‘Very good Madam, is there anything else I can help you with.’

                I put the phone down in total disgust and rang no 3. I told him what I’d been told and then said the time of the next train – which unlike the one before did actually turn up but not before he’d had a hour and twenty minutes wait on a cold, dark, desolate station in March.

                And they want us to use public transport – huh!

Scared

I've just had the fright of my life. I went to Craven Arms (den of iniquity, even Job moved out) to pick Robin up and then driving back home, along a quiet country road, a car came up behind me with headlights on full, overtook and pulled in straight in front. I jammed on my brakes and how the hell I kept the car on the road I don't know. Good news is, I did and I also got the registration number of the car that did it.

I've reported it to the police but I don't hold out much hope. It's scary though when the unpredictable happens and you have to fight for control of the situation. Thank God for ABS because I could have ended up in the hedge plus....

That's what happened with my story yesterday. I didn't intend to write it when I sat down at my computer. In  fact it's a story that I thought I could never write. But, from somewhere came the word 'obsession' and the story tumbled out. It wasn't brave or courageous of me to write it, I had no choice, it wrote itself.

I'm glad it did and I'm glad I posted it unedited because reading it again today I would have changed bits of it that revealed so much about how I feel. But that wouldn't have been honest and although what I wrote scared me it was the truth.

As I've said before, it's been a rough ride over the past few years and it's taken its toll. I start counselling on April 1st, yeah all fool's day, but I'm looking forward to it. I know there is so much stuff in my head that needs sorting and to be given the chance to do that is fantastic. It's going to be hard, I know that talking it through, sorting it all out, I hope will give me my life back.

And you know something else - I don't hurt so much either, in fact I feel so much better and even the pain isn't so intense.

Oh and the weather, isn't it gorgeous! And you know the best time to see the daffodils, is in the half light as night begins to fall. They shine like beacons, promises of summer and good times.

Unanswered Questions

I admit it. I’m obsessed with you. I want to know everything you do. I want to know everywhere you go. I need to know everyone you see.  I watch you from a distance, even though you don’t see me, I am there watching you, waiting and when you least expect it I will appear and then you will know exactly how I feel.

                Lifetimes ago, I thought we were happy. I was. Do you remember when the children were small? The holidays, the fun, the laughter, the caring, sharing times we had.

                You were perfect, as perfect as I could ever hope for but it was all a lie, pretence, false, fake because unknown to me, you had an ulterior motive. We’re you aware of it? Was it a conscious decision to change or was it, is it part of your make up? I’d love to know, maybe then I could understand, just a little. Who am I kidding? I will never understand. No, I can never understand the depravity of your sick mind.

                Looking back I know now when it changed. It changed when my two eldest boys started to grow up. The older they got the worse the beating were. At first it was a slap, then it went to slaps around the head, then your fists were pummelled into them. But you were clever, you hid a lot from me and you told them not to say anything. They didn’t because although you weren’t their biological father you were their Dad and they loved you.

                You’d take their belongings and hide them and when they took them back, you’d beat them again and again. You’d ridicule and mock them and tried to take every bit of self confidence they had, fortunately you didn’t manage that, not quite but recovery for them has been long and slow.

                And all the time I asked myself why?

                I thought you were jealous of their youth but that didn’t make sense. You hated them and took every opportunity to let them know, without actually saying it.

                In the meantime you showered my youngest with love, gifts and your time. I remember the Christmas you wouldn’t take me out. I couldn’t go out on my own because of the cursed wheelchair and you did the Christmas shopping. It was pathetic what you bought for the eldest two and yet the youngest, he had it all. Your excuse, they’re not children any longer.

                Should I have known then?

                I didn’t understand.

                I understood even less when you changed towards the little one. The change was gradual, you’d play good guy, bad guy until none of us knew what was going on, we were scared of your mood changes and my little one remained silent.

                He was ten years old when you slapped him around the head, causing him to cry and when he cried, you punched him the stomach. For God’s sake, he was a child and you a grown man. Yet you felt no remorse, you hated him too.

                Why, why, why? I asked myself. I asked you too. You blamed him, you said he was naughty. He deserved it. He made you do it.

                How can a child make you hit them, I asked? But you never replied because to me there wasn’t a reason and I said so. You retaliated by giving me the silent treatment and punishing the boys even more.

                Then you decided to get rid of them. On the first of January you wrote my eldest son and eviction notice ordering him to get out of the house. He didn’t. I stopped it and your response was to make life even more unbearable for him, for all of us. He moved out a few months later, happy to go but frightened to leave us with you.

                Unsurprisingly you turned your attention to my second son. There was no letter this time, you told him to his face and he too had no choice but to go. Again, scared for his mother and little brother’s safety. I tried to reassure them both that we’d be all right but how could they believe me when I didn’t quite believe it myself.

                Foolishly I thought that was it. But no, my youngest, my little boy had to go too. Eleven years old and he was packed off to boarding school. I didn’t want him to go but he did. At the time it hurt but now I know why.

                I remember watching him as we dropped him off, running free towards his boarding house. Running free was what went through my mind as the tears brimmed at my eyes threatening to tumble down my cheeks but I knew they couldn’t, he would never have stood for that.

                The silence was unbearable. I longed for a Friday when my little one came home. I’d pick him on a Friday afternoon, rush home and we’d watch The Simpsons together, his head tucked under my arm and I’d kiss and hug him, constantly whispering I love you.

                But you hated that, you hated that time we had together. You’d yell at him to get changed, to put his bags upstairs, to sort his laundry out anything but to have a cuddle with his Mum. I thought you were jealous, were you? If so why? God how stupid was I?

                I hated Sunday evenings when he had to go back. I hoped he’d turn around and say he didn’t want to go but he never did. He was happy to go back to school, eventually he told me why. He wanted to get away from you.

                At the time, I thought understood why but I didn’t.

                I’d also spend time with my two eldest sons. I missed the sound of their voices, their laughter, their presence. I wanted them to come back too but they were so much happier than they’d been at home and who was I to take that away from them?

                They did visit but when they came, there was little laughter. You didn’t want them there and if they stayed for a meal, you stab them with your fork, if you cut the meat up you’d give them the fat and the gristle and then tell them to piss off. They’d go but not before giving me a hug and telling me they loved me and to be careful.

                But our time was running out although you, in your arrogance didn’t realise it.

                It took one too many clenched fists against my little one’s face on evening and I called the police. Oh and how you ran. You didn’t appear until the next day and when you came back you were full of bravado. I’m going to, you shouted and then the lies started. You’d never done that, I was lying, the boys were lying, you were a good, honest, upright citizen and we were making it all up.

                Your lies scared me. How competent you were at it and yet all the things you claimed not to have done, we bore the scars, some physical the rest leaving indelible marks on our minds, our pasts and who we are now.

                The beatings stopped but the mind games reached a new intensity. You weren’t content with driving my children away, you now wanted rid of us. We lived in constant fear until eventually it could go on no longer, both the police, my solicitor and friends were begging us to go for our own safety and we went.

                Do you know but in a very silly way I tried to kill you or rather as a result of my actions I hoped you’d die but you didn’t. However, it did make people laugh and yes the police knew what I was doing. Every night before I went to bed, I’d clean the toilet with your toothbrush, sometimes I’d use bleach and then I’d put it back but you probably never used that toothbrush when you deigned to spend the night in the house you claimed to the courts you had live at when in reality that again was part of your sick, pathetic games.

                In fact that was last thing I did before I closed the door on our home for fourteen years, your toothbrush went round the toilet bowl for the last time and then we vanished.

                Oh God, it was funny how you tried to find us. You did ask but I wouldn’t tell you. You even asked others but they wouldn’t say either. You found out we were living in Mid Wales but that was as far as it got. We finally had peace, or so I thought and my sons were back home.

                Four years past and then you reappeared, not as a threatening monster, which at first I thought, but as a rat trying to slink in the back door. You were a coward, you didn’t even put your name to the magazine subscription you sent but we all knew it from you. Why was what we didn’t understand, at least not all of us.

                I reported it the police who as usual, couldn’t do anything unless you did it again              but then, three months later all the unanswered questions of many years were answered.

                It was fairly typical, quiet Sunday evening shattered by two of sons squaring up to each other, tears running down their faces yelling, ‘fucking tell her.’

                ‘Tell me what?’ Three simple words that changed everything for ever.

                I watched as tall, beautiful youngest son, no longer a child but a man, crumpled before me and cried ‘he abused me Mum, he sexually abused me.’

                I wish you’d been there because I would have killed you. I still want to kill you. He was nine years old when you ruthlessly took his childhood with your own bare hands to satisfy your own perverse cravings. He was little more than a baby when you touched him and forced him to touch you, when you forced him to know things which at the time he didn’t need to know.

                When you killed the little boy in him!

                You may have thought you got away with it. Insufficient evidence the Crown Prosecution Service said as they let another paedophile go free.

                But you haven’t and you never will because as long as I hate myself for not protecting him, I shall hate you and I can never forgive myself. Payback day will come, as I said, I admit it. I’m obsessed by you and I’m watching you and God help you if I hear you’ve touched another child.

                Then I will kill you.

               

                

Catch up and it's only lunchtime

Where have I been? Not hiding but reading and sleeping, well at night anyway. I've rediscovered the joys of a comfy bed and a good book, or not as the case is at the moment.

I'm trying to read something different from what I normally read. I finished Lynda La Plante's Silent Scream which I thoroughly enjoyed, except for all the names beginning with A that I've moaned about before. It was an easy read and had a satisfactory conclusion but I did feel a bit that she waffled on at the end - but hey that's only what I think.

At the moment I'm trying to read Harlan Coben's Hold Tight and it's a struggle. He's a best selling American author who doesn't write in English, well not the English I speak anyway and he also jumps about too much. I'll persevere for a bit longer but it does look like one of those books I won't finish - life's too short.

Right now what I've been upto. Thursday night was Ludlow Writers. Loosely described as a writers' group (lol) we rock the foundations of Ludlow library with laughter but we also do write, well some of the time anyway. The homework for the last week was a 'restaurant review'. It was lovely, within the space of a hour and a half we literally travelled the world. Helen took us to China, Sally to France, Ann stayed at home, Simon took us up a mountain and me, well I made up a place but it was fun.

Saturday was Wrekin Writers and a fantastic workshop led by Julie Phillips she took us back to our childhood by providing us with games and activities and allowed us to play for half a hour. Memories of Di Perry, Bryan and Joel playing 'twister' will stay with me for a long time. The purpose for the workshop though was to use your senses, to reconnect with childhood memories (well that's what I did) and to use different experiences for inspiration. Julie was absolutely brilliant, I haven't laughed so much in ages.

Following the workshop Simon Whaley, Mike White, his wife Susan and me all went for lunch in Ironbridge. I missed last month's meeting so it was good to catch up with friends again and to have lunch out. Got home finally and was shattered, so spent a quiet Sunday, if by quiet with Chris and his sax.

And today, the weather is absolutely glorious. Warm and sunny, even this morning when I went to the car the sun was shining - bless it. Hmmmm, it reflected my face in the window of my car and somehow managed to highlight every grey hair I have -  a gentle reminder that though spring is here I ain't no chicken.

Do you remember the snow and the cold before Christmas?

I do. There was one morning I took the lads to work and the outside temperature gauge in the car didn't read above -15. That is cold but it was beautiful morning, clear, crisp and when I got home, the house was warm and I switched the kettle on and it worked. A hot cup of coffee soon wiped away the bitter winter chill.

But did you see the snow today? No not here but in Japan. Those people picking through the remains of their homes, while the snow fell. There was little shelter for them. They couldn't close the door, put the kettle on and feel the warmth of a hot drink.

I know what's happened has been wall to wall news since Friday but it seems each day it is getting worse for some many and it's not just today and tomorrow they're affected but for months and years to come. I know how desperate I felt when we lost our home in the floods of 2007 but that was nothing, nothing to what these people are going through and yet they remain dignified, respectful and so gracious - they're helping each other out on a scale we can't imagine.

Tonight I caught the tail end of a piece from Japan which showed a young father with his children living in a car garage, the kids all wrapped up and there was a photograph of Mummy, who they haven't seen since Friday. They are still looking for her - I really hope they do find her alive but as time goes on the chances of that happenning are lessening by the the hour but the kids still believed she would come back to them. One snapshot of one family of the thousands that have been affected.

Yes muddled post tonight but what I'm trying to say is 'count your blessings' but also 'there but for the grace of God.'

Tonight my thoughts and prayers are with those who are suffering - I hope in time they find peace.

Woo-hoo or how a wee can help

For the first time in I don't know how long I've written a story! That's the woo-hoo bit. I woke up this morning with an idea on the topic for Ludlow Writers on Thursday, half wrote it, wasn't happy about it but plowed on and then....

This is the bit where a wee helped. Mother nature called so while answering her call and churning the story around in my head, I suddenly realised where I was going wrong. I was writing the story back to front. What I was doing, was starting it at the beginning, whereas the story actually starts at the end and sort of ends at the beginning.

I know that probably doesn't make much sense but it was a different way of looking at things which made the impact (well I think it does) that I wanted to make.

So a tip - look at things differently and ask yourself, will it work better that way? And if inspiration is found in the smallest room, go for it, or something like that.

I didn't post last night because I went to bed with my book, which incidentally is getting very close to the end and I am thoroughly enjoying it (more about that when I've finished it). But yesterday I had a very strange experience - aren't I the lucky one?

Tuffins in Craven Arms (my local supermarket) is little more than a shack with no air, no window and full of bright, un natural light. However, it does come in useful and yesterday was no exception. I only wanted some crisps. So there was I standing there contemplating whether or not I was going to pay their ridiculous prices when all of a sudden the lights went out and I was plunged into darkness. There was nothing, no light, no sound and for two seconds it was perfectly still. There wasn't even time to panic before the lights came back on again but the funny thing was, everything instantly returned to normal. The gentle sound of people talking, the bright lights it was as if nothing had happened. I didn't even hear anyone mention it. I did ask the woman on the tills if it had affected the tills but no it hadn't and I think the only reason I asked was just to confirm that yes it did actually happen.

Very, very weird.

Oh and the latest on the Saab liveth - it doesn't. Head Gasket gone, so it's going to the big open roads in the sky. Anyone want a Saab turbo, engine, gearbox etc....

Loneliness

Depression is isolating, seemingly self imposed but it stops you reaching out but in time it becomes your own little cocoon, you're safe in your isolation but it's so destructive. It takes the energy out you, it sucks life away until you become almost nothing. You don't care, what is the point because because no matter how try, others' laughter can only makes your misery even worse.

Yes you smile but that smile never reaches your eyes. You laugh but to your own ears the laughter is hollow. You do go out, you socialise and then run for home, back to your safety.

You don't live. You exist.

And you know even writing this I'm hiding. Why? Because it's written in the third person. I'm cheating what I should have done is every you, your should read I feel.....

But this afternoon I read an blog post by Sally Zigmond which made me feel not alone. I'm not the only one who feels the way I feel. And to Sally, thank you.