Silent Sisters

by Jenny Tomlin

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

For years, Jenny and her sister Kim suffered horrendous physical and sexual abuse at the hands of their father. They survived in part because of their closeness and their determination to be there for each other. Both sisters left home at the earliest opportunity to escape, but before long Jenny was embroiled in a relationship with an abusive man that kept her locked in a cycle of violence and fear. Their lives followed parallel paths, and eventually they helped each other climb out of the pit of despair and truly free themselves from the legacy of the past.

Release date: May 1, 2006

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Acknowledgements

Jenny

It’s not often I get the chance to express love and thanks publicly, and my first thoughts are of my amazing family.

Martine, you are so wise and have given me advice and help all the way. My love for you is for ever and always. You have been there from the start and are the only one who really understands it all. You are an amazing, beautiful person, and I would be lost without you. You truly are the wind beneath my wings!

LJ. My special boy. You are everything I could ever want from a son. I love you so very much and you bring me so much joy. If only others had your wonderful big heart.

Alan, you are the reason for everything. My heart and soul are with you for ever. We know what we have together, and no one will ever change that. I love you.

Jonathan. Well done.

Kim, you nutty, crazy friend and sister. We are as one! You can’t get rid of me.

To the Battys, Carrine, Howard and especially little man Lewis, thank you for letting me share your lives in this book. To Graham and Daniel in Switzerland, thank you.

To Jaine Brent, my manager and friend. Well, what can I say? We’re here again and I am so glad you’re here to share it all with me. Let’s continue the dream!

To John McCutcheon. Hope you are happy. We had some great years.

To all my wonderful and amazing friends, you all know who you are.

Antony, my friend and confidant, you are always at the end of the phone for me. I love you dearly. Please live for you!

Jackie, my old mucker, Sylvia in Torquay and all my new wonderful friends in France. Love you all, especially Sam and all at La Famille, and Wayne and Dawn, and Isabelle.

To all those that are watching over Martine whilst I start my new life in France, thank you. Love you Gorgeous George and Karaoke Kim! Rachel and Sara and Macky.

Mum, Carole and Laurence, wherever you are, I hope you are OK.

Pam, hope you and yours are all well.

To my wonderful publishing house for allowing me to continue my story and to Caro Handley for helping me to put it all together. To Rhian and Laura and all the support staff who work behind the scenes.

To the lovely Bridie and family. You are a wonderful woman and we love you dearly. To Sandra and Yasmin, miss and love you, too. Good luck in all you do.

As always, thank you to all who have supported me in what I love doing. Writing!

Finally, Chris, I love you still, and Auntie, you are immortal and your love and kindness are the qualities I try to teach my own. You will stay with us for ever.

Kim

When Jenny and I sat on the window-sill in our bedroom at Monteagle Court, aged nine and seven, we wished for a better life or just a chance of a life.

We made it. It was a long hard struggle, lots of heartache and pain, but along the way we learned to laugh. We never gave in. Every time we got knocked down, we bounced back stronger and wiser.

Jenny, remember the saying you sent me? ‘I’m smiling because you are my sister, I’m laughing because there’s nothing you can do about it.’ It’s true but there is nothing I would want you to do, I’m proud to be your little sister.

This book was not achieved without the love, friendship and companionship of all those nearest and dearest to me and in particular Carrine, Daniel and Martine, and for this I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

My love for my other family members is just as strong. Howard, Alan and LJ, I love you dearly. And my love is unconditional for the two newest men in my life: my grandsons Michael, aged seven, and sweet innocent little Lewis Howard Batty, aged three. You both make Grandma so proud! My wonderful friends Chris, Paul, Yaz, Sophia and Leanne, who have been there for me when my relationships started, blossomed and then faded, thanks for everything, especially the shoulders.

Not forgetting the lovers in my life: Graham, Eddie, Stuart and Gary, without you life would have been a trifle boring and I might never have discovered my true friends.

Virgine – Merci beaucoup!

And finally I don’t think I’d be here telling our story without the love, strength and courage of Auntie, an amazing, wonderful woman. I am privileged to have been influenced by you.

He was in the room, touching me, grabbing my hair and forcing himself on me. I could smell his odour and could feel his rough hands grabbing me under the blanket. As he peered down at me, beads of sweat were all over his face and his mouth was soaked with spittle. Droplets fell on to my face and I grimaced. His hands moved from my groin to pin down my small shoulders and his heavy body fell on to mine.

My arms flailed out to try and stop him, but I had no chance against this man. He covered my mouth with his and his tongue forced my lips apart. I began to gag, but he ignored me, intent on pleasuring himself. He slowly moved one hand away and undid his trousers. His other hand moved to my neck and his grip tightened, I could hardly breathe. He looked down at me with a sickly grin on his face.

‘Now you’re really gonna git it, girlie, it’ll hurt more if you don’t relax.’ I knew this was really it. He had never managed to penetrate me with his penis before. Panic set in and I started to scream and try to force him off me. I began to punch and kick as hard as I could.

Suddenly, I felt warm soft breath on my neck. John held me tightly and whispered slowly, ‘It’s OK, Jen, he’s not here. You’ve been dreaming again.’ I started to cry and he pulled me close.

‘It’ll never go away, John, he’ll always haunt my dreams.’ John tightened his grip. He didn’t know what to say.

As he rocked me gently in his arms, I thought of my little sister Kim. She was at home with our younger brother and sister, Chris and Carole, and they continued to experience the mental abuse that Dad dished out. I knew he would never touch Kim sexually again, but she was still there, trapped in the hellhole that was 3 Monteagle Court, the filthy, run-down maisonette in Hoxton where we’d grown up. I tried to get her out and away from Dad whenever I could. I would often go round there to pick her up, or she would come round to my place and stay the night. John and I never minded her tagging along; we both worried about her. Just fifteen, she was terribly thin, her face had erupted in sores, and she was deathly pale. Her appetite was non-existent and she would often sit and just stare into space, not speaking a word. Many an evening, we would just sit, listening to music, both of us silent. When I tried to talk to her the words just wouldn’t come out. Neither of us could talk about the past, we were both so fragile from the experiences of our childhood.

It was still very early in the morning and I knew I would never get back to sleep. I got up and went to run a bath, hoping that the hot water would cleanse my body and mind of all thoughts of my father.

Throughout our lives we’d suffered at his hands. His cruelty, beating, humiliation and sexual abuse had been part of our daily lives as far back as we could remember.

Our older brother, Laurence, had left home to live with our beloved Auntie, and I’d followed soon after. Now Kim, Carole and Chris were left to fend off Dad’s abuse. And Mum? We’d long ago learned that Mum wasn’t going to help us. Terrified of Dad, cowed into submission, she got the worst beatings of all and turned a blind eye to what was happening to her children in order to survive.

The only respite we ever had was when we went to stay with Auntie – actually our great-aunt – the only person who ever showed us love and kindness. When Auntie died in 1972, soon after my sixteenth birthday, it had affected us all very deeply. For Kim, who’d been fourteen and had worshipped Auntie, coming to terms with her loss was taking a long time.

Then there was the court case which had come only a few months later. Dad had been arrested and taken to court for sexually abusing Carole, who was just nine at the time. Kim was the one who’d caught him and reported him, and she and I were both due to testify against him. We waited months for our chance to tell the world what a monster he was. Then at the last minute the case fell apart and Dad walked out, a smug grin on his face, free to carry on abusing, tormenting and battering his family.

I could still see Kim’s little face, tearful with disbelief as we walked away from the court, neither of us quite able to fathom what had happened. An acquittal was the last thing we expected and it had hit Kim harder than the rest of us. In the months that Dad had been remanded in custody, things had changed at home. Kim had cleaned and scrubbed away the filth of years, and for the first time there seemed to be a chance of some happiness. Even Mum had cheered up and found herself a new boyfriend. But Dad’s release had put paid to all that.

The bath was growing cold. I wrapped myself in a dressing-gown and went through to the kitchen, where John was making coffee. He looked up and smiled. ‘Hi beautiful, feel better?’ I walked over to put my arms around him and as my face snuggled into his neck I could smell his warm skin and a hint of aftershave and I felt so safe.

John Falconer was six years older than me and was a trainee structural engineer. We’d been together for over two years and he’d been there for me no matter what. He had been my first and only boyfriend, and his patience and sensitivity had helped me to survive the nightmare of Dad’s abuse – although he was unaware of the extent of it. As a young girl I’d been afraid that sex would always seem dirty and frightening, but with John I learned that making love with someone special could be very different.

John was kind, loving and dependable – everything I had ever wanted – yet at the same time there was a feeling of emptiness inside me that I couldn’t tell him about. I couldn’t understand it myself, and despite loving him so much, this feeling kept creeping back. It was a feeling that told me to run away, to go somewhere different and to escape. I couldn’t explain it, not to myself and certainly not to John. I said nothing, smiled and kissed him as I went to get ready for work.

I had always worked and I was proud of myself. I’d left school at fifteen and got a job in Marks and Spencer’s, along with one of my best friends from school, Sherri. We’d been so pleased with ourselves, in our smart blue uniforms with our silver till key chains and our photo passes dangling from them. Before Auntie became ill she had taken to popping into the store where I worked just to watch me. But after a few months I’d wanted to move on to something more challenging, and after spells in a couple of other jobs I’d landed on my feet as an assistant consultant in a well-known employment agency. My boss, Sue, had met me when I worked as a temp for another agency and when she got the job as manageress at Alfred Marks she’d taken me with her. I’d been determined to prove her faith in me was justified. I worked hard and found I was good at dealing with customers. The agency was in the Strand, in the West End of London, and it gave me a buzz every time I walked from the bus stop to work past all the glamorous theatres and restaurants.

I had a long journey to work each day, but I didn’t mind. I’d been lucky to find a good flat with two lovely flatmates from Torquay called Jenny and Sylvia. Jenny was the quiet one, but Sylvia was outgoing and bubbly. She loved John and the three of us had a great relationship. Both the girls were excited to be in London. We spent lots of time together, shopping or going out for drinks, and we often talked about our childhood, though I never said very much. Their upbringing sounded so wonderful, the last thing I wanted was to tell them the truth about mine, so I just pretended that it wasn’t great, but not terrible either. We were three young girls out to have a good time and enjoy life, and I kept my demons to myself.

Our flat was in Grantbridge Street, tucked behind Camden Passage market in Islington. It was in a row of renovated Victorian houses, a good place to live and very trendy. The antiques market on a Saturday always attracted the crowds, and people would cram into the local pub, the Camden Head. I worked several evenings a week behind the bar there and when I introduced Sylvia to the landlord he took her on too. We were both blonde and buxom and he was only too pleased.

It suited me to work evenings, as John was busy studying for his qualifications and it gave me a social life and the opportunity to earn extra money.

One night Sherri turned up in the pub. She wanted to talk to me and I managed to slip away early. We went back to the flat, where Sherri told me she had split from her long-term boyfriend, Patrick, and was thinking of leaving London and looking for adventure somewhere else. She told me about job opportunities in holiday camps, and by the end of the conversation I was ready to go with her. It seemed like the escape I was looking for. There was just one problem: John.

That night I lay in bed thinking about all that Sherri had said. I don’t believe I really knew what I wanted or needed. I just felt this terrible urge inside to be free and to run away from everything. I truly believed that if I ran, I could leave it all behind me. In a new place no one would ever know the truth about me or my family. By the time morning came, the idea had become a drug, and I just had to keep taking it.

I went to work as usual, and sat on the tube contemplating what my next steps would be. It was 1974, the time of the three-day week – when government and union disputes led to the rationing of fuel and electricity – and we had candles scattered around the office. The Strand was strewn with rubbish and it seemed as if London had virtually come to a halt. The IRA was launching major attacks on the city. It was a scary time, but life was too exciting for me to worry very much.

I loved my job and it was going to be hard to leave. I spoke to Sue and she was her usual sweet self. She accepted my resignation and said I could go at the end of the week. In the meantime Sherri had sent off our application forms to Butlins and they’d replied to say jobs were waiting for us at their Barry Island camp in South Wales. Within a few days a new girl had been found to take my place in the flat, and I had even been round to speak to Kim and explain where I was going and why. I felt bad leaving her and the little ones. Thankfully, Kim had met a boyfriend, Graham, who seemed like a good person, and she was beginning to spend a lot of time at his place. Laurence would keep an eye on her too. As for Carole and Chris, who were now ten and nine, there wasn’t a lot any of us older ones could do for them. Hard as it was to accept, they were stuck with Mum and Dad, just as we had been, until they were old enough to leave.

Sherri and I were due to go in a week and I still hadn’t told John. I knew I had to face it. That evening I was trimming his long hair for him, as he sat at the kitchen table. I stood behind him with the scissors, took a deep breath and told him of my plans. I tried to explain that although I loved him I needed to have this adventure. But John couldn’t understand why I wanted to go. He was angry and hurt, and my heart ached for him. I loved him, and had no intention of hurting him, but I knew I had to leave and break away.

The next week was terrible. John followed me everywhere, and would turn up at my workplace and at the flat, begging me to change my mind. He spoke to Kim and my flatmates, trying to get to grips with what was happening, but no one could help him.

I hated myself. I barely slept and I lost a lot of weight. I questioned myself the whole time. But I was young and selfish, and the world was mine for the taking. And deep inside I truly believed that no matter what I did, John would be there when I returned.

When the day came for us to leave, Sherri and I got on the train at Paddington, clutching a suitcase each and feeling petrified. For most of the journey to Wales I stared out of the window, watching with a mounting sense of excitement as we passed green fields, woodlands and small towns.

I wondered what Auntie would have thought. Would she have been proud that her Jinnybelle was off to explore the world? She’d certainly have made me promise to clean behind my ears, say my prayers and write every week. I smiled as I thought of her small, bustling figure, red hair piled up in a doughnut on her head, fussing over her three treasures, as she called Laurence, me and Kim. She was our mother’s aunt and, without children of her own, had doted on Mum and then on us. Our visits to her clean, warm, welcoming little flat had provided our only escape from the horrors of life at Monteagle Court. How I wished she was still around, with her loving, sound advice. Was I doing the right thing? Would I regret leaving John? Or was this going to be the adventure of a lifetime?

When Jenny left home and moved into the flat I was pleased for her. She deserved it, and I was glad she’d found such a nice place to live and a good job too. But being left behind at Monteagle Court was very hard. Life there had been even worse – if that were possible – since the court case.

Whilst Dad had been in prison things had begun to look up. I had scrubbed the house, got food in and cleaned up the two little ones. Mum had befriended an Irish couple, Jimmy and Mary. Mary was severely disabled, and one day Mum came home and announced that she had a job as her cleaner and home help. This was the woman who had never once cleaned our house in all the years we’d been there – I doubted she even knew the meaning of the term ‘elbow grease’.

She took me to meet Jimmy and Mary at their home, which was on a council estate in Dalston. The house was very clean and tidy, with nice little ornaments and photos dotted around – very different from our neglected flat with its tobacco-stained walls and dirt everywhere. I remember this overweight lady who had several fingers missing and who wore her wedding ring around her neck. She couldn’t walk and sat propped up on cushions and pillows in an armchair that had seen better days. Many of her teeth were missing and her Irish accent was so heavy that I found it difficult to understand her. Jimmy was a large man with a huge bulbous nose and tiny red protruding veins all over his face. Mum’s background was also Irish, and she, Jimmy and Mary talked a lot about Ireland.

Mum had endured so many years trapped in our house and terrified of Dad that I was pleased she’d made friends. After some weeks, though, I began to suspect there was more to the friendship. Jimmy would turn up at our house and give Mum money, and if he saw me he’d say, ‘Give your uncle Jimmy a kiss hello’ and he’d reward me with two pounds. I would sometimes walk into a room and see him and Mum part from each other quickly, as though they’d been kissing, and I heard them talk of going to Ireland together.

Although Jimmy wasn’t a good-looking or a clever man, I thought he and Mum were well suited. I half hoped he would take us away from everything and leave Dad behind to rot in jail where he belonged. But unbeknown to me Mum had continued to visit Dad in prison. She had told him of her new ‘rich’ friend, and they had made plans to swindle as much money out of him as they could.

Dad must have known that Mum was sleeping with Jimmy for the money, but that wouldn’t have bothered him. When we were kids, men had often come round and disappeared into the bedroom for a ‘chat’ with Mum. It was a long time before we understood that she was prostituting herself for money. I’d like to have believed this was to put food on our table, but sadly it was primarily to pay for Dad in his addiction to cigarettes and expensive treats.

One day Jimmy arrived at our flat to tell us that Mary had died. He didn’t appear sad or distraught; I think he saw his way open to a new relationship with Mum. He was a good man trying to help a family out of a bad situation, and I know Mum enjoyed the attention he gave her. But Dad’s hold over Mum was to prove their downfall.

In the weeks leading up to the court case – which I knew nothing about – I had been sent away to Bognor on a council-run holiday for underprivileged kids. The bus we travelled in was packed with children of different ages and being fourteen, I was one of the oldest; the only common denominator was poverty. The smaller children cried and didn’t even have hankies or tissues; they just wiped their tears on to their sleeves. I tried to cheer them up by playing ‘I Spy’ and singing silly songs that Auntie had taught me.

We were told there would be funfairs at Bognor, as well as a swimming-pool and games. We certainly had fun, and not just in the camp. We were all given pocket money and allowed to explore the Bognor sea front but we had to be back by the curfew time of eight each evening.

At the end of each week the holiday camp held a teenage disco which was also open to local families. At the first disco I was asked to dance by a ginger-haired lad of about the same age as me. I kept saying no, but he persisted and eventually I agreed. His nickname was Carrots and over the next few days we became friends. I was flattered that he gave me lots of attention and grateful that he knew nothing about my family. It made me feel so good to know that with him I could be anybody I wanted and make up the family he would never meet.

When the others I had arrived with went back to London I was kept at the camp. I was there for three weeks in the end. It was only later that I understood they were keeping me there until the day of the court case. With no warning, I was woken early one morning by one of the carers, who said I was returning home. I threw everything into my holdall and ran round saying my goodbyes. On the journey back to London I was told we were going to the courts. I wasn’t aware of it, but one of my escorts that day was a woman police officer who attempted to talk me through the procedure and explain what was expected of me. Her words were lost on me, because as soon as I realised where I was going and that I was going to see my father I went into my own little world. I could hear her talking, but I couldn’t absorb her words at all.

My thoughts were with Auntie. She always gave sound advice and I missed her so much. I would have given anything to have her sitting with me holding my hand. I prayed to her, asking her to help me if she could. As we neared London I felt my heart begin to beat faster. My palms were sweaty and I stared out of the car window. This was it. Once I had believed that I had caused all this trouble and that the guilt was mine. Now my chance was coming to tell everyone what my father really was and that the guilt really belonged to him and him alone. I was certain they would believe me, because it was true. My mind was going over and over the day, several months earlier, when I had confronted a nightmare.

I had been off somewhere with my friend Stacey and we’d decided to go out that evening, so I nipped back home to get changed. The flat was silent, and at first I thought no one was in. I took the stairs two at a time and as I reached the top step Carole appeared from the doorway of Dad’s darkened room. He was behind her, tucking his shirt into his trousers, his hair all messed up. I froze as I took in the sight before me. Were my worst fears now confirmed? After all, I had once been his victim, it used to be me coming out of the room with him. I’d been so glad when I grew old enough to stop him. But suddenly the realisation hit me: he hadn’t stopped abusing, he had simply changed his victim.

The sight of Carole brought the memories flooding back, along with the fear and pain that I had once felt. My anger was not only for Carole, it was for all the times Jenny or I had walked out of that room sad, scared, hurt and alone.

I felt so guilty that Carole was going through the same nightmare Jenny and I had suffered, and that I hadn’t seen this coming and had left her alone with him. Why hadn’t I realised he would pick on her next? How stupid I had been.

I screamed at the top of my voice, demanding to know what he’d been doing. He attempted to say ‘nothing’ and Carole began crying. I screamed at her to tell me what he’d done. She couldn’t look at me; even at her young age was she feeling the shame that he’d inflicted on all of us? She bowed her head and continued to cry.

I remember being in such a rage, spittle was coming out of my mouth and veins must have been near to bursting in my neck. I screamed at the top of my voice through tears of fury, ‘I’ll get you for this, you fucking cunt, you’re not going to hurt anyone again, ever.’ I never swore like that, I hated it with a passion, but on that occasion nothing less could have expressed the horror I felt.

Now in the car the policewoman was still talking to me about what would happen, and suddenly I looked down and realised I was still wearing the trousers the other kids had written and drawn all over when we left the camp. It was a tradition that when you left everyone wrote their numbers and addresses on your trousers so that you. . .