12

THE LOST YEAR

My memories of the early period after leaving Gloucester have never been crystal-clear. My experiences with Stuart still crowded my head. That year, 1976, was my lost year. I’ve tried hard to piece the bits together, asking questions and using events to jog my memory, but my recollection is still sketchy. I remember some things clearly, but other memories are permanently out of reach.

In the months I spent at home in Mayfield, I can’t recall Sarah going to school, yet I know she attended Islington Public and later Newcastle East. I do remember Brendan refusing to have a bar of pre-school. He wanted to be by my side, and I was more than happy for that.

Sometimes a family member or close friend will recall something I’ve buried deep in my subconscious. They’ll say, ‘Helen, remember the time when…?’ But I don’t. I haven’t related the events other people have recalled, because they aren’t my memories, though I have no doubt these mostly unpleasant events did occur.

As we all expected, Stuart showed up a few days after I’d left Gloucester. He didn’t ask about the children or make arrangements to see them. He mainly seemed angry with me for having taken the car. He demanded the keys immediately and threatened to make me sorry. He told me he was going to wind up the practice and had plans of his own.

I didn’t really care about the car. I was safely out of Gloucester, and having a car wasn’t a big priority. I didn’t think about our beautiful home or our two new cars or any of our material possessions. All I cared about was our safety.

Shortly after the break-up, I borrowed a car and returned briefly to Gloucester to pick up some belongings, including my precious guitar. Another doctor and his wife happened to be visiting Stuart, and I was able to leave before they did without any drama. Stuart easily controlled his anger in situations when his reputation was at stake.

We muddled through the months, and Stuart dropped in from time to time. Sometimes he’d be cavalier about his plans and raise my hopes. At other times his guard slipped, and we all keenly felt the menace. Feeling responsible for my friends and family, I did my best to avoid confrontations, even though people were strong-minded about protecting the three of us.

Around this time, I started having a recurring dream that Sarah, Brendan and I were adrift in a tiny boat without oars. We were in the middle of a dark ocean, too far from shore for anyone to reach us with a lifeline. It was an awful dream, and it wore me out.

Those months were frightening for everyone. It was hard for Mum and Dad to witness me trying to rebuild my life as a single mother and deal with Stuart at the same time. I was afraid for my family, because I knew that Stuart wouldn’t leave us alone. I was always on the lookout for an escape route or place to hide, working out a life-saving strategy if an emergency arose. I felt responsible for the safety of everyone who was supporting me. No-one in my family doubted for a moment that the situation we were in was critical. We were in danger and we knew it.

Above all else, Stuart’s abuse posed a danger for Sarah and Brendan, and it was my duty to protect them. They could have been hurt or even killed. I’d already witnessed at first hand the harm inflicted on them by their father’s violent and frightening behaviour towards me. In Gloucester, they’d been hyper-vigilant and fearful whenever he was on edge.

For a long time after Stuart and I separated, the children were insecure. Dr Geoffrey Rickarby, a psychiatrist from the child and family team in Newcastle, began seeing the three of us through the trauma.

Brendan spent many hours sitting in a car in the driveway of Mum and Dad’s home, strapped in his car seat, because he felt safe in that small space. He knew we could see him in the car, and he was content to be there. We tried to handle this situation with great care, knowing his future emotional development, self-confidence and self-esteem were all at stake.

Sarah became panic-stricken whenever she saw a car similar to the one Stuart drove. One day, she hid in the toilets at her local primary school. When the teacher asked why, Sarah confessed that she’d overheard Stuart threaten to kill me if I took him to court. There are serious consequences for children who witness violence. The effects can last a lifetime. My children and I know this for a fact.

These days I accept that being upset or angry is a normal emotion and doesn’t necessarily lead to violence. Still, I don’t like being in the company of moody or angry people, and my antennae are acutely attuned to any hint of violence. I also know that people who wear suits and go to church and sit in judgement are just as capable of violence as any criminal.

It soon became evident that Stuart had plans of his own. He didn’t try to take the children away from me or demand time with them. Our marriage break-up enabled him to extricate himself from the Gloucester medical practice, which had become a burden to him. He wasted no time in winding up his share of the partnership. Eve, his mother, told me that he’d placed an advertisement in the paper for a family willing to care for our dog Oscar. It wouldn’t have been right to sell him. I remember feeling pleased about this solution to our pet. There were moments when I thought that Stuart and I might even become friends. Perhaps he’d get better without me.

We never spoke about the division of property. To this day, I have no idea how much our home in Gloucester was sold for. Most of the furniture came back to Newcastle. Stuart set up an account to provide child maintenance for Sarah and Brendan, and then went on an overseas trip. He’d worked long and hard for many years, and I like to think he gained some joy from his visits to the British Museum and travels around Greece. While he was away, I could relax for the first time in years. I went to meetings with Mum and caught up with my sister Margaret, who was also separating from her husband.

Leaving the marriage had lifted an enormous load off my should-ers. I wasn’t exactly happy, but I felt lighter. For now, I concentrated on being a good mother. My first priority was to provide a big, peaceful, physical and emotional space for Sarah and Brendan to live in. If I was free from Stuart, I could survive any hardship. Not having a job, a car, a home or money didn’t bother me. Being free from the madness of living with a violent, controlling personality mattered a great deal.

At the same time, there was a price to pay for my time with Stuart. I still felt like a shell of the person I’d been, as if I’d lost my personality and identity. Over all those years of trying to suppress whatever it was that made Stuart angry, I think I ended up losing myself. I don’t think I’ve ever returned to the person I was before. Those few years of marriage permanently damaged something in my personality.

I’d retreated too often into myself and lost confidence. I no longer believed I could contribute anything much, even though I tried. I must have become boring, but it was safe. I’d become expert at keeping people at a safe distance. Having three siblings who were wonderful talkers and storytellers helped. Life had become unbearably lonely, but by that time I’d conveniently forgotten how to be me.

Now, I grieved for what could have been. For the dreams that were now no more, for the failure of my marriage and for the love I desperately wanted Stuart to show for his children. ‘How can anyone else love you when you don’t love yourself?’ a good friend asked me at the time. But I didn’t know who ‘me’ was.

When others asked how I was, I’d brush it off with ‘I’m OK.’ I didn’t want anyone to look deeply or ask questions. I remember thinking that if I brought myself to tell someone what had happened in our marriage and how it affected me, they in turn would feel the despair and sadness that engulfed me. I didn’t wish that on anyone.

I was sick with worry whenever my children weren’t with me. A telephone ringing signified bad news. There was danger around every corner. To compound the difficulty, I had to ensure that Sarah and Brendan stayed blissfully unaware of my worries. Ultimately, though, I felt confident that the three of us would be all right. With the love and support of our family, we would work through any future problems.

Music brought me comfort and provided an escape from my fears. Songs have always come easily to me. The part of my brain that stores the lyrics is very well developed, and I have no trouble at all recalling them. Even now, hearing one of the songs that filled me with hope in those dark days can tap back into my emotions and make me sad.

When Stuart returned from his trip overseas, he enrolled in a course in classical Greek at Newcastle University. He rented a flat not far from where we lived, and started seeing a psychiatrist at Watt Street, a mental health hospital in central Newcastle. Free of the responsibilities of the medical practice and the family that caused him so much torment, he appeared to set about working on his mental health issues – or so I thought.

He told me he had little faith in his weekly psychiatric sessions, because he felt he knew as much about psychiatry as the specialists did. I remember him using the words ‘playing their game’. He’d once considered studying psychiatry and would have been up to date on the latest drugs and treatment, though in the late 1970s the better drugs were yet to come. Could drugs or long-term one-on-one treatment have helped Stuart? It doesn’t help me to dwell on this possibility.

Even though we were no longer living together, he still managed to have a hold over the whole family. Every now and then, when a black mood overtook him, he’d phone and make threats, or call in at the house. During this period, I met a young solicitor who advised me to take out an Apprehended Violence Order. The prospect caused me enormous anxiety, as I knew it might set Stuart off. He owned guns. Was it worth the risk? I eventually took out the order, and in the process realised for the first time that Stuart was intimidated by the police and other figures of authority. The order worked to a degree. Perhaps it showed him I was willing to expose him.

Around this time, I did something I came to regret. Stuart was driving around Newcastle with guns in his car, phoning and frightening us. I was beside myself with worry, and I also suspected that he hadn’t been totally honest with his doctor about his threats and violent behaviour. Out of desperation, I decided to phone the psychiatrist he was seeing. When I made the call from my parents’ house, I was nervous and apprehensive, as I knew it would be difficult for me to verbalise my fears.

I believed that if Stuart had told his doctor what he was doing, the two of them could confront the behaviour head-on. Why did it happen? Where did it come from? How could he control it? Why was he violent at home and not at the hospital where he worked?

His doctor listened to me. At the end of the conversation, he told me that he’d have to tell Stuart that I’d phoned and outline what I’d told him. I was shocked and pleaded with him not to do it, as it would put us at more risk. I didn’t make the phone call out of malice. It was in our interest as well as Stuart’s for him to get better.

A couple of days later, Stuart phoned and informed me that the psychiatrist had told him about the phone call. He was furious that I would do such a thing. How dare I! I’d be very sorry for what I’d done, he said.

By this time, Stuart had begun having a relationship with a patient in his group therapy. Although it wasn’t ethical, it at least took the pressure off. I met the lady in question during their short courtship. Again I felt that lingering doubt: maybe there was someone out there who was a better match for him than me. I wanted so much to believe he’d recover from the madness that had taken control of him.

I rented a unit on Memorial Drive in Bar Beach. The owners had gone overseas, and the unit was new and clean and warm. We felt safe there. Mum and Dad were reluctant to let us go, but we needed to find our own lives as a family. At the same time, I needed to be very careful. Just having friends of my own choosing posed a risk.

Still, I began to embrace life again. Around this time, I met a handsome young art student named Tony, who took me to a Greek ball. I was like a teenager on a first date and had the time of my life. He visited me a few times after that, but I became frightened that Stuart would find out. I decided I had to warn Tony. At least my heart was opening up again to the prospect of love, but romance would remain risky for the time being. Tony was too soon.

I met new friends and had brief flings that couldn’t go anywhere. I thought I was living, but I wasn’t. There was always the shadow of Stuart bearing down on me.

All of this eventually took its toll on my health. One morning, soon after I got up, I became quite ill. My heart began beating rapidly and I had trouble breathing and walking. It was a terrifying experience, as I was only in my mid-twenties. I phoned my younger sister Kathy to tell her I was unwell, and she came over.

Perhaps it was the thought I was dying that led me to do it, but I phoned Stuart. I can only guess that I was appealing to the doctor in him. This was the dilemma I faced daily. We had every reason to fear him, but even at the worst times I felt deep in my heart that he probably loved us. At the same time, I knew it was a dangerous, bad love, and one that was impossible to reciprocate. Did he realise this? In other areas of his life, he was intelligent, compassionate and professional. Could he kill the things he loved? The knowledge that he could do so sapped my energy. Still, I trusted the doctor in him when my heart played up.

He came over, took one look at me and drove me straight to the hospital. I ended up in coronary care at the Royal Newcastle surrounded by a lot of very old people with heart problems. They put a cannula in my hand and an oxygen mask on my face, and gave me a big dose of something to slow my heart down and stabilise the rhythm. A cardiac specialist diagnosed an episode of acute atrial fibrillation.

Stuart was well liked and respected by the medical fraternity in Newcastle, a fact I had to bear in mind. I always considered his reputation. Only my family and close friends were aware of why I’d left him. The night before this episode, I’d been out with friends. Though I’ve never been a smoker, I’d foolishly puffed away on a few cigarettes over dinner. I blamed this for the heart predicament, but my friends and family weren’t so sure. Mum had no qualms about letting the hospital know the cause of the stress I was under, but I doubt any of them believed her.

I remained under the care of a cardiac specialist and continued taking medication for about twelve months. For years afterwards, I was acutely aware of my heart beating inside my chest. It was sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes all over the place, but always noticeable. These days, I am oblivious to my heart’s antics, although it is my Achilles heel.

My family were very vigilant during this period. There were times when Stuart visited, not to see his children but to vent his anger. I remember my gentle, soft-spoken brother Ray, who had never raised his voice or lifted a finger to anyone, standing in the doorway at Memorial Drive to set up a barrier between Stuart and me. It was very brave of him. Another time, my larger-than-life friend Su did much the same thing, letting Stuart know he’d have to get past her if he wanted to get to me. I was the target, but in those volatile situations no-one was safe.

Nights were the hardest. I was frightened of the dark. If I heard anything, I got up to check. Convinced someone could harm us, I’d lie awake for hours, just listening. It didn’t matter how ridiculous it sounded in the morning; at the time, I was at the mercy of my fear.

After six months, when the lease ran out on our sunny apartment in Memorial Drive, I found a small three-bedroom terrace for sale in Laman Street, Cooks Hill. The house cost $23,000, which seemed an awful lot at the time. I could only take out a loan if Stuart’s name was on the mortgage, but in a generous moment he obliged. So Sarah, Brendan and I settled into our little terrace, within walking distance of the town, school and beach.

My sister Margaret and her daughter Meghan came to live with us for about a year. I remember this as an extremely happy time, with us two sisters supporting each other and our children. All five of us in that small terrace! Meghan slept in a double bed with Sarah, Margaret and I had my double bed, while Brendan slept in the third bedroom. It was luxury compared with the old days in Mayfield, when as children three of us had shared a small bedroom. Margaret eventually moved to a place of her own close by. We missed her and Meghan terribly, but the two of us continued to watch out for each other and our children.

After Margaret left, a beautiful young girl named Louise stayed with me for a short time. She’d been living a couple of doors away but came to play my piano, which was in the front room of the terrace. She played for hours and kept staying longer each day, until eventually she just stayed. She was a gifted musician and wrote amazing poetry. I’d never met anyone quite as lovely and fragile. It was only later that I discovered she was struggling to recover from a serious drug problem. I was happy to share our food and give her shelter.

Still, there were times when I was too scared to stay at our home in Laman Street. Perhaps it was gut instinct. The fight to save my children was the only fight that I had in me, but I was determined to succeed.

Stuart was very fit and physically strong, which is why I never fought back. Physical resistance was useless; I had to rely on out-smarting him.

A friend who understood our predicament lent us his home in Cooks Hill when he was away on business. I expected this would give me a break from my vigilance, and hoped to relax and muster some energy. But it was not to be. Night after night I jumped from my bed to the window, looking out for the maroon station wagon Stuart drove. The slightest noise would wake me and get my heart racing. Years later, a colleague of Stuart’s told me that at this time Stuart had been driving around with guns in his car. The friend knew, because Stuart had shown them to him. He’d joked about getting rid of a rival.

If Stuart had succeeded in killing us, someone else would have written this story and it would have had a different ending. People would have thrashed about discussing what could have been done to prevent our tragedy. We would have merely been another domestic homicide statistic. But I knew we had two choices: either we became victims or we survived, and I was determined that we’d survive.