Protecting my Assailant

When I read this week about the murder of Ellie Gould, I was reminded yet again, of my own experience of a bullying, threatening, possessive, aggressive boy when I was Ellie’s age.

Ellie was seventeen, and studying for her A levels. She had finished her short relationship with her boyfriend and was alone one morning in her parents’ house revising when the boyfriend attacked her. When her father came home at lunch time he found her dead in a pool of blood, stabbed multiple times.

Ellie Gould

Considering the level of violence with which she met her death, I imagine her boyfriend had attacked her before and, in finishing with him, she had hoped to be free of his attacks.

Getting free of attacks and violence is not though so easy. And even if, like me, you are offered help by a friendly policeman, accepting it might not be possible.

I didn’t know it at the time but I was the typical vulnerable girl ripe to be picked up by any opportunistic bloke with an obsessive and controlling nature.

My mother had recently died after a very long debilitating illness which had more or less destroyed the family. My father was preoccupied with a heavy work-load and seemingly unaware of what was going on with his daughters. My older sisters had left home and my younger sister was described as ‘sadly neglected’ by her school and, as for me, I kept out of the house as much as possible, especially when the woman who would become our step-mother was visiting.

It wasn’t a bad time, though, to be out of the house. Beatlemania was still raging and music was everywhere.

This chapter from my memoir describes ‘abuse’ but it also describes the impossibility of protection from it.

Jim pursued me wherever I went. There were many times I said no to him but it made no difference. Even when I told him I wanted nothing more to do with him, he assumed the right to enter my home, to throw me around, to interfere with my friendships, to prevent me from getting on with my work and to block my ambitions.

This is an extract from my memoir, Primed:

My father would be marrying at Easter and I would be leaving home at the same time. I would go to Switzerland and then travel in Europe before returning to start my course at art school in the autumn.

Since I was giving up A levels, there wasn’t a lot of point in making the effort to get into Winchester for school. It was not even worthwhile going all that way to sit in the Two Bare Feet for an afternoon. The only place it was still worth going was the Lido.

The bands kept on coming – the Pretty Things, the Searchers, the Seekers, Georgie Fame, Alan Price – and the atmosphere remained relaxed with little division between performers and audience.

Manfred Mann was a local band named after its founder, the pianist. They played each week at the Concord jazz club in Southampton and sometimes I hitched there to see them and other regular visitors like Ginger Baker, Graham Bond and John Lee Hooker. When Manfred Mann played at the Lido, it seemed only natural for him to go on playing his piano after everyone had left and for the rest of his band to hang around with us punters. This was sophistication!

But most evenings everyone turned out on to the streets as soon as the gig was over and dispersed pretty quickly.

Since the occasion when Jim had bashed down the front door, I had tried to keep my distance. This wasn’t easy since he went on phoning and calling round and following me, keeping a close watch on what I was doing and who I was seeing. One evening I went to the Lido on my own, avoiding even acknowledging Jim.

It wasn’t until the place had emptied out and I was preparing to hitch home that Jim made his move. I was in a hurry. Hitching at night was not only dangerous, it was also unlikely to produce results since few cars passed down my road after midnight. I had to get onto the road and put out my thumb before the crowd from the Lido had all left. There was a good chance that somebody who had been at the dance would give me a lift. It might even be someone I knew and I might be lucky enough to get dropped at my front door.

But as I was heading down the alley towards the main road, Jim emerged from nowhere and grabbed me, jerking me back towards the closed doors of the Lido. He threw me against the wall, shaking my shoulders and banging my head against the wall. There was to be no escape and there was nothing I could do.

I knew the routine and knew that it might be an hour or even more before I regained my freedom. I would be the worse for wear, that was for sure. But there was nothing I could do. Fighting, shouting, resisting only made it worse. And no-one would come to my aid. I had tried calling for help before: it didn’t work. I just had to put up with whatever was about to happen.

Jim’s assault was getting underway when suddenly there was an intervention. It was a policeman. He was pulling Jim off me and arresting him.

The assault I had just been experiencing was shocking in its own way but it was not unusual. This intervention, though, was so unusual I could not respond. No-one had ever tried to help me or to stop Jim from his violent attacks.

No-one had even acknowledged them for what they were. But this very young, mild-mannered policeman, was saying that he had seen the whole attack and was arresting Jim on the spot and charging him with assault.

I am not sure what happened next. I think I made a provisional statement there and then in the road and I think I was given a lift home.

I do remember that next day I went into the police station to make a full statement. I didn’t tell any lies but I played down what had happened and my own response to it.

But the young policeman was not going to give up. Jim had been charged, there would be a court case, the policeman and I would be the only witnesses.

The policeman and I, though, were in rather different positions in relation to the alleged culprit. To the policeman the case was black and white and the facts were clear. In giving evidence, he was doing his job and would receive no negative repercussions. He might even get approval and praise.

To me, the case was just part of a long ongoing situation which came in all hues of colour. It wasn’t just that I knew Jim, had been out with him, had eaten his mother’s meals, had accepted his presents, had been the alleged cause of his giving up his career in the merchant navy, had been at the receiving end of his violence and his threats.

Everything in my upbringing told me to be loyal and faithful. Even among groups of school children the rule was never to snitch. To report on your boyfriend’s violence was a serious betrayal. And in any case you probably wouldn’t be believed.

Domestic violence was a big secret that everyone colluded in. You would probably not be believed and if you were, you would be blamed. Blamed not only for the violence but for having the temerity to report on it to the police.

The young policeman, though, would not only believe me, he had been a witness to everything I had written in my statement. It should have been so easy; I had, at last, all the help I needed to get rid of my oppressor for good.

But did I really? Would it be for good?

I was not given a lawyer or asked for any background information – like how long this violence had been going on, why I was alone so late at night, how was I intending to get home, what did my parents think about me being out so late… There was no social worker to give me any advice or help and no counsellor to find out more about my situation.

There was no-one to tell me what would happen if I told the truth about the incident and no-one to tell me what would happen if I didn’t. It seemed to me that either I told the truth and Jim got punished, either by being sent to borstal or prison or by being cautioned and maybe fined. Some boys I knew had just been sent to borstal for six months for smashing the station clock by throwing milk bottles at it one dark and boring night.

But how long would someone get for attacking his girlfriend? I had no idea; I had never heard of anyone being prosecuted for such an offence. It wasn’t even clear that it was an offence. The phrase ‘domestic abuse’ was not in the currency. It seemed very unlikely that Jim would get even six months. It would be safer for me to disguise the truth and allow him to get off scot-free. At least he would then be in debt to me rather than be seeking vengeance.

In the statement I was truthful about the facts but I played down the seriousness of the event and its effects on me.

But the young policeman was not going to let it drop. A date was set for the hearing and I was required to attend. I can’t remember if I saw Jim in the intervening time. It is possible that he called round with flowers, chocolates, apologies and promises.

And also possible that he called round with threats and further abuse. It could have gone either way.

In court, he was sitting with a lawyer, watching me closely and making a mental note of everything I said. At the end of this hearing he would either be taken away and not be back in my life for a few months or he would be home that same night and back in my life next day.

No-one had offered me a lawyer or suggested I get one. Whether my father knew about this court case, I’m none too sure. I think he did but made no effort to attend it with me. I had come to hate hitch-hiking, especially on my own, but the bus service was practically non-existent and I had given up asking my father for lifts. I probably hitched in to the court house.

Whatever happened, I was vulnerable. And not only vulnerable, I was also guilty. It would be my fault if Jim were sent to prison. His life, or at least his freedom and his future reputation, were in my hands.

Jim’s lawyer worked hard in his defence; the policeman set out the facts clearly and objectively; I behaved like a well-mannered young lady, polite, self-effacing and unassuming.

Jim was given a six month suspended sentence and was home that night and back in my life.

I was the one who needed to get away.

I did get away a few months later. I went to university. Jim pursued me but I had friends to protect me. It wasn’t long before Jim did get a prison sentence, not for beating up a girlfriend but for stealing a car.