Love That Lasts Forever Read online

  Love That Lasts Forever

  Pat Barrow

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  Love That Lasts Forever

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Copyright Information ©

  Acknowledgements

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11Carol

  Ceri’s Story

  Jeremy’s Story

  The Family Dynamics

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27Carol 1

  Chapter 28Carol 2

  Chapter 29Carol 3 – analysis before court hearing

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  About the Author

  This powerful debut novel draws on Pat Barrow’s extensive experience as an independent social worker in the family courts working with families enmeshed in high conflict separation and divorce. She has expertise with the many guises of parental conflict and the far-reaching consequences for children who have become the focus of their battles. Her skill is in hearing the voice of the child and understanding their pain and the dilemmas they face; and then promoting practical child centred solutions which encourage parents to put their children first. Now retired, Pat and her partner enjoy the countryside of the Welsh borders and spend a delightful time with their grandchildren.

  About the Book

  Everything was happy and carefree in the Taylor household. Hettie and Jonty enjoyed a privileged life in the Welsh countryside. Then everything changed, arguments and recriminations led to separation and divorce and in a flash, lives and dreams were shattered. As their parents' conflict intensified, Hettie and Jonty were plunged into ever-more desperate situations, struggling with divided loyalties and powerful and conflicting emotions. How can they hold on to a loving relationship with both their parents? What does it take to maintain a bond when someone is trying to tear it apart? As Hettie relives her childhood and adolescence through adult eyes, the truth of her past emerges. What price has she and Jonty paid? Is true love unbreakable? Can love last forever?

  Dedication

  To my grandchildren with love.

  Copyright Information ©

  Pat Barrow (2019)

  The right of Pat Barrow to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781528974400 (ePub e-book)

  www.austinmacauley.com

  First Published (2019)

  Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

  25 Canada Square

  Canary Wharf

  London

  E14 5LQ

  Acknowledgements

  My heartfelt love and thanks to Anni for her encouragement, words of wisdom and endless patience typing and retyping.

  Disclaimer

  Whilst I have drawn on my extensive knowledge of the family court system and my experience of working with families involved, this story and its characters are wholly imaginary.

  Chapter 1

  The blue velvet curtain slowly closed and Bette Middler’s ‘Wind beneath my Wings’ filled the lofty crematorium. I felt a lump in my throat and surprisingly, my eyes prickled with tears. I sniffed and glanced around at the sombre black clad individuals; where had they all come from? Who were they? I had a sudden urge for fresh air and freedom from the stifling hypocrisy of this place. Without a second glance, I hurried down the aisle, through the open door and across the stretch of grass to sink onto a bench under a weeping willow tree. As I cupped my face in my hands, my whole body shook, a million thoughts cascaded around my head, a whir of emotions too fast to make sense. The tears streamed down my cheeks, I sobbed big noisy sobs. I can’t say for sure how long I sat there but suddenly, I was engulfed by an enormous wave of relief. It was true, my nightmare was really over and yes, I could be glad that my dad had gone. For the first time in twenty-one years, I was daring to really face the reality of the manipulating, controlling man he had been and to see the damage he’d inflicted upon me and my little brother, Jonty.

  My mobile vibrated in my pocket; I pulled it out, I smiled, a text from Jonty. He was in Durham, probably between lectures, there with me in spirit if not in reality. It was his way of giving me his support. ‘High five kiddo, speak later x’. I realised I had better get myself a taxi to Cardiff Station or I’d miss my train to Birmingham and the connection to Newcastle. I hailed the taxi waiting by the gate and in minutes, I was whisked to the station. I grabbed a chicken wrap, an apple and a coffee, guessing that in spite of nausea and a griping stomach that I might feel hungry during the long journey home. It would be midnight before we’d get back to Newcastle.

  It was 5.45 before I finally settled into my seat giving a brief hello to the adjacent passenger, a bright smiling woman, perhaps in her early fifties. She seemed keen to chat but I wanted my own space. Time to think and to make sense of my whirring thoughts, the game playing, the deception and the immense pain and sadness that had dominated our childhood and had gone on to blight our adolescence and beyond for both Jonty and me. I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes feigning sleep as we gathered speed, the countryside flashing by in the gathering dusk.

  Mum and Dad, they had always had a stormy sort of relationship. They were both forceful characters and although physically Dad towered over Mum, she was no shrinking violet, well not in those early, carefree days that I remember so well. Life was good – we had a big Welsh longhouse just outside Welshpool. Mum worked part time in Shrewsbury but was always there for us – she was the one we could depend on if we weren’t well and she’d be the one cheering us on at school events. And Dad, well he was the joker, the fun maker – always ready for a laugh. I guess I was about nine when things began to change – well rather, Mum did. She became noticeably quieter, subdued, serious and I can see now that her confidence and belief in herself slowly ebbed away, as Dad asserted his authority and took control of us all.

  I vividly remember the first time he hit her. I was ten and they had been shouting at each other, something which often seemed to happen. I don’t recall what it was about but suddenly, he pinned her against the wall. Then slap, his hand struck her across her cheek. I was horrified. I screamed and Mum quickly grabbed me, hugged me close and then Dad had his arms around the two of us bringing instant relief. Th
e incident vanished as quick as it came and I expected to erase it from my mind but it stubbornly remained indelibly printed in my memory.

  For the next twelve months, life continued much the same as ever. On the surface, we were a typical, happy professional family. Jonty and I both went to a private prep school in Shrewsbury. He was two years younger than me and he pretty much thought that life was perfect, but I had a nagging doubt that things were different at our house. Something was not quite right, life had changed and it was different from how it was at my best friend’s home. Her mum and dad were all touchy, feely and laughed and joked with each other. Somehow, my mum seemed anxious around Dad, as though she wasn’t sure about something. They were always arguing but after the time he hit her, she backed off as if she was afraid of provoking him.

  Our bedtime routine was set in stone with Mum and Dad each playing a part, there would be smiles and cuddles, fun in the bath, then Jonty and me snuggling up together as either Mum or Dad read us a story. I especially loved it when Dad used different voices, it was such fun. Then we were tucked up in our own rooms, the light would go out and I would lie there trying desperately to fall asleep but wide awake and holding my breath listening for my dad’s loud voice and my mum’s shrill response. Then came the endless shouting; angry, loud voices and the occasional slam of a door or bang of something on the table. I used to hold my breath, “If I count to twenty, they’ll stop, well maybe thirty, forty.” With my hands over my ears, I would eventually fall asleep, often as I listened to my mum’s sobs.

  The next day, I would anxiously scan Mum and Dad’s faces for some clue as to what was happening. Dad, as usual, was especially loving and affectionate, playfully ruffling my hair and joking with Jonty and me. Mum seemed quieter and over the months, she sort of shrank, visibly became smaller, less significant. I loved her just the same, but she seemed, well, sort of miserable. Until then, we’d always enjoyed girly chats and she’d put my hair up or paint my toenails – just Mum and me times. Now it was like she couldn’t be bothered. Dad was the fun one, the one who slipped us forbidden sweets if Mum was out. The one who let us stay up and watch our favourite DVD, “Shush, don’t tell, it’s our secret.” I can see now how he manipulated us, encouraged our bond with him, oh so subtly excluding Mum. Jonty and I just didn’t have a clue.

  Slowly over the following months, the rows between Mum and Dad escalated. No longer just after bed time, but in the day time too. I can see now how Dad would provoke Mum and she would retaliate. Yes, he knew how to push her buttons, get her mad. Then he’d step back and somehow it was Mum and me arguing with me screaming at her. “Why do you hate my daddy, I hate you, I hate you!” The rage inside me, it just tumbled out; where did it come from? What was happening to me?

  Dad would come across, take me in his arms, pull me tight to his big solid chest, he’d stroke my hair and calm me. “Now, now, my darling.” And to Mum, “Why do you have to upset her, you bitch?”

  Those insults, those undermining comments that Dad hurled at Mum. I heard them but at the time didn’t realise how they were designed to slowly but surely chip away the respect I had for my mum. I watched my dad, my hero, my champion, the one with the calm exterior, blaming Mum. Demanding that she saw that she was hurting me that she was to blame. Of course, I just lapped it all up, followed his example. He was there for me, made a fuss of me and reassured me that I was his ‘little angel’. But when he’d gone out and I was with Mum, I’d fling my arms around her and we’d hug and she would gently stroke my hair. I just didn’t have the words to express my fears, my confusion. I couldn’t even tell her I loved her and that I missed the life we used to have.

  Chapter 2

  9 September, I was twelve years old and that was the day my life changed forever. We had had a barbecue, the first since the new school term had started. It was a family do and it had been fun. Dad had worn a striped apron and a chef’s cap and had been in charge. The sun was just sinking and it was a super warm evening. We’d had the hosepipe out with the sprinkler on and although we were supposed to be watering the garden, of course Jonty and I had got soaked amid squeals of indignation and laughter. Dripping wet, I had rushed over to the table and reached across for a towel and somehow as I grabbed it from Mum, Dad’s beer got knocked over. He turned on her. “Clumsy bitch!” he screamed, as he grabbed me.

  “Dad.”

  “Shush, keep out of it.”

  “Dad.”

  I knew it was me who had knocked the drink over. Mum pushed me away and screamed back at Dad and with a flash of her hand, swiped the glass off the table. It shattered as it hit the patio. Jonty was crying and I hugged him, fighting back my own tears of terror. After what seemed ages, Dad came across and caught hold of me and Jonty.

  “Come on, kids, we’re not staying here, we’re going to my sister’s, to Aunty Nicky’s where we can be safe. Your mum she’s lost it, she’s mad, I’m not taking it anymore.” He marched us indoors and flung a few things in a bag together with our school uniforms. We each had our school bags and as we bundled them into his car, I turned to take a fleeting glance at Mum, standing there on the patio, so small, so fragile, so seemingly lost. I longed to leap out, to hug her and be hugged back, but ‘we’re safe now, we’re away from her’ from Dad brought me back to reality with a jolt, of course he was right, he always was. He was my big strong hero.

  For the next few weeks, life was very different. I was used to a Welsh longhouse on the outskirts of Welshpool with the hills and woods on my doorstep. Aunty Nicky’s modern town house was much smaller than ours but the advantage was that it was very close to our school in Shrewsbury. She lived there with Uncle Colin but he was in the Merchant Navy and so he was away at sea for several months at a time. I guess that’s why she welcomed us with open arms and seemed genuinely pleased to see us. Aunty Nicky and Uncle Colin had no children and although she thought the world of us, I could tell after a few days that she didn’t really like the mess that Jonty and I made. To tell the truth, it was a bit boring there because we didn’t have our own stuff, or the large garden with a rope swing and the old outhouses to make dens in, but at least there were no more rows between Mum and Dad.

  Dad continued to be light hearted and loving. He would bring us sweets and puzzle and joke books and was always ready to hear about our day at school. I kept wanting to ask about Mum but somehow, I didn’t know how to. He never mentioned Mum, so how could I? Jonty did though. “I want Mummy, where’s Mummy?” he’d sob each night. The promise of extra time watching his favourite TV programme or more sweets invariably brought temporary peace. I know now just how Jonty and I were hurting, mourning the loss of our mum.

  As neither of us had the words or the confidence to say how we felt, Dad and Aunty Nicky interpreted our silence as our ambivalence towards Mum. Far from it, I hurt so much and wanted her so badly, but over the coming weeks, a subtle change occurred. I can see now how Dad encouraged us to dwell on bad times, and oh yes, there had been plenty of them. The arguments which somehow always seemed to be Mum’s fault – “Do you remember when Mum shouted at you in the street when she thought you’d run off and you were with me?” The mention of good times always brought a ‘but’ and then another example like, “Remember the time when she drank too much wine at that party and fell over and embarrassed us and spoilt our fun,” or the caravan holiday when, “She forgot to pack Jonty’s teddy and he sobbed half the night.” And then, Dad’s remarks, “I know you wanted to love her but she really only cared about herself, she couldn’t put you first, it was always about her. You know how it’s been with her. She got so miserable lately and never wanted us to have any fun together, she was always spoiling things. I know she’s your mum but you’re better off with me.” I couldn’t help but agree, my warm, cuddly Dad made me feel safe and brought a delightful glow all over me. We believed him when he said it was best if Mum got some help and then maybe we could see her sometimes. Aunty Nicky always agreed with Dad, she’d hug us and tell us h
ow brave we were and how she and Dad would always be there for us and keep us safe.

  Dreams which vanished before I could catch them would wake me in the night, sweaty and scared. I would instinctively call out for Mum. I’d remember how in the past it had always been her who had come if I was upset. Now I would bury my head in my pillow and the tears would soak the soft cotton. At those desperate times, I did so want her.

  Dad would hear my sobs and come in and wrap his arms around me, hold me tight and gently soothe me with his ‘there my angel, it’s only a bad dream. I’ve got you tight, you’re safe with me, don’t be scared any more’. Of course he was right, he was the one there for me; he kept me safe, not Mum. I fell back in to a less troubled sleep. I was so sure of Dad’s love for me and oh so slowly realised that we never could be quite sure about Mum. Jonty and I didn’t question Dad’s suggestion that our school didn’t need to know what was going on with Mum. “It’s our business, we don’t want other people being nosey,” he’d tell us.

  Mum worked part time at a bank in Shrewsbury and had always adjusted her hours so that she could drop us off outside school each morning. I guess that was why Mum and Dad chose a prep school in Shrewsbury. Dad was an accountant and had his own business in Welshpool and he had always been the one to collect us from school and come in and have a word with the teachers or attend to anything else that needed to be sorted out. The only thing that changed was that now either Dad or Aunty Nicky dropped us off every morning.

  School life wasn’t that easy though. We were doing a project this term on families, working out our own family tree; something which in the past I would have loved researching. Now I felt as though I was drowning in a sea of emotions. Nothing made sense, thinking of Mum and her side of the family triggered such a mishmash of feelings, mostly anger, but an unbelievable sadness too. I would concentrate really hard on Dad and his family and then I’d feel this huge sense of relief and know that he was the one that I could really trust. I struggled with the project and my form teacher Mrs Beddows was surprised that I didn’t show my usual enthusiasm. Only that didn’t help. On a couple of occasions, she tried to draw me into conversation but I just clammed up, remembering what Dad had said to me about no one needing to know our business. So I didn’t talk to anyone, not even my best friends. In the past, Jonty and I had always been close. He’d sort of looked up to me, expecting me to look after him. It was different this time. My own emotions got in the way of me helping him so I’m ashamed to say I pushed him away, scared that if I didn’t, my tears would never stop and I would drown as they overflowed.