* Warning: This story contains a single incidence of swearing *.
I stood in the wings of the large auditorium, about three times the size of my lecture hall in Newcastle, listening to Dr. Mathews finish his talk. My eyes ranged across the audience, all entranced by his presentation. I’ve listened to Angus many times over the years and he’s a proper pro.; experienced, interesting, amusing; everything I’m not.
My first TED talk. My first outing into the international limelight. Streamed all across the world, uploaded onto their website and YouTube forever. Me. The lass from the rough end of the industrial north east. Jesus!
I was floundering, I could sense it. Coughing, fidgeting, the occasional flash of a phone being checked. I was also gushing, thus I finished five minutes ahead of schedule. So, the lecturer’s great get-out—ask for questions.
“What made you want to be a psychologist, Professor?” The young woman paused for a moment. “You began your career quite late, didn’t you?” Even at this distance I could see her blush. I’ve been asked this before of course; in class, book signings, radio interviews, but I’ve always mumbled a non-committal answer; batted it away.
I stared back at the young, eager face.
Why not?
“I was born in a little town on the outskirts of Sunderland. I left school at 16 with three O levels and very limited expectations. My father worked in steel manufacturing, my grandfather worked in steel manufacturing. My mother raised children, my grandmother raised children. When I left school girls were not meant to have”—air quotes—”careers.”
I smiled up at the lady who smiled back.
“I met Brian at a CIU disco, that’s a working man’s social club, when I was 17. Married at 18, had a daughter, Natalie, at 19. I was happy, we were happy, and I thought that was all I needed from life. All around me I saw girls that I’d been to school with and I thought this was it. My life.”
I snorted.
“The idea of being a psychologist was like another universe. Like a different species.”
I paused. I doubted myself. But, as I glanced up at the lass who had asked the question, and who was now leaning slightly forwards in her seat, I decided that it should be told.
“I was 28 when I started my psychology degree. It was a big step, having just O’ levels to my name. It took me a couple of years for my A levels, and then six years, part time, then post-grad work. All the while whilst trying to earn a living, and whilst balancing being a mother. It was a long, tough slog.”
I walked over to the small table at the edge of the stage and took a sip of water.
“But, what made me want to be a psychologist, you asked?” I licked my lips. “To understand that, I need to tell you a story about Tuesday 23rd July 2002. At about 10.30 in the evening. The tipping point. The turning of my wheel of life.”
The audience stirred.
“Brian worked as a spot welder, making the big containers that were stacked on ships. When we first got married it was all good. Plentiful work. But the orders were dwindling, rumours raged. China was making the same containers, you see, but with robots, for a fraction of the cost. Brian had always liked a drink, and had always had a sharp temper, but he was never one for stress.”
You’re making excuses lass. I thought we were done with that.
“OK. On that particular day, Tuesday the 23rd July 2002, he was on mids. His shift ran from seven ‘til three. He was in the pub by three fifteen.”
I wandered across the stage and took another sip of water. This time I carried it back to the centre of the stage, scratching at the point on my forehead where my prickling perspiration was causing the microphone headset to itch and chafe.
There was silence. Utter and complete silence. All I could hear was my own breathing feeding back through the speakers dotted around the auditorium. I chuckled inside—I wished my lecture students were this rapt at my every word.
“I’d been his,” I snorted, “punch bag for some years. And, as many sufferers of domestic violence will tell you, I believed his promises that he was sorry, that he’d change.”
The audience murmured, and I could feel the shame emanating from me. And I could hear their thoughts. What a mug! No argument there, but as I’d taught many, many times, unless it had happened to you, then you simply couldn’t understand. An important lesson that I attempted to ingrain into all my students, especially those going into a therapy session with a victim. Listen. Accept. Don’t judge.
“Brian rolled in at about six thirty. He wanted dinner. Natalie ran down the hall. She was waving a colouring book that she’d been bent over ever since she’d finished her tea at five.” I sighed. “She’d always loved her colouring. She’s an amazing freelance graphic artist now.”
A sip of water. A puff of the cheeks. And a long, deep breath.
“Daddy Daddy,” she cried, “look at what I’ve done.”
“Not now Nat.”
“But I drew an elephant.”
“I was standing at the kitchen door, watching. I was smiling at the scene. Natalie was insistent. Brian was insistent. And then.”
I swallowed, my whole body had tensed, as if, in an auditorium in Glasgow, I was about to repeat that dash after 22 years.
“And then he raised his hand. I can see it now in my minds eye, and even back then it seemed to happen in slow motion.”
I was blinking rapidly now, my throat a strip of desert road.
“Just fuck off will ya”, he said, not even loudly. And then he hit her.”
There was a gasp that flowed, like stereo, around the long sweeping bank of seats in front of me. I saw many hands go to faces. And then a murmur, a rising crescendo, almost a growl.
“I was down the hall like a bullet, swept Natalie up and dashed upstairs with her. She was bawling in my arms. I was incandescent. At that moment I would have killed him. I locked the bathroom door and sat on the closed loo, Nat in my arms, still sobbing. Me cooing. We were sat there for ages, until we had both calmed down. I washed her face. There was already the bloom of a bruise starting on her plump, pale cheek. I cleaned her teeth and we both went to her room. I changed her into pyjamas and put her into bed. She was silent, docile, still.”
I took another sip of water and looked up into the audience. I hadn’t realised that I’d been addressing my shoes. Every single pair of eyes was glued on me. There was silence. And then someone sniffed.
“I couldn’t leave her. So I lay with her on her small bed until my legs cramped. Then I sat on the floor, my back to the wall at the foot of her bed. I stared across the Little Mermaid duvet at the small bundle curled, foetal-like, under the bedding. I could just make out the rise and fall of her breathing.”
I could hear a few more sniffs now. I sniffed.
“And at that moment. About 10.30. I remember saying to myself, and I believe that I even said it out loud; ‘this cannot go on’. And then I also remember thinking, why? Why does this happen? Why do some men beat women? Why do some women put up with it? And I had an overwhelming urge to find out.”
Again, I realised that I was staring at the floor. My eyes roamed the audience.
“To help, you know. Not just the abused, but the abusers. It was a epiphany.” I spread my arms. “An almost spiritual sense of a calling, if you like.
“Anyway. The next morning I went downstairs at the usual time, leaving Nat sleeping. I made breakfast. No sign of Brian, but I didn’t expect to see him. He was on lates from that morning, and could lay-in, hence the bender the night before. I took Nat’s breakfast upstairs and woke her. Normally she came down, of course, but I wanted to do everything in her room so that I could get her off to school before Brian appeared.”
I paused for a moment, and sighed.
“I took Nat to school and then sat in a coffee shop until 11, when I knew that Brian would have left for work. I went home and packed two bags; one for me and one for Nat. Just the essentials for the moment. And I waited for school to finish. A long, long wait, doubts after doubts after doubts. But I kept going back to the previous night, and the bruise on Nat’s cheek this morning. And my vow. ‘This cannot go on’. When school had finished I picked Nat up in the car and drove round to Janice’s, my best mate. Still my best mate. Her and her husband also had a little girl, a year younger than Nat. They knew the score. They had for years. And they put me up.”
I chuckled and raised my arms.
“And the rest, as they say, is history.”
I glanced around the auditorium, and then focused in on the young lady that had asked the original question. She was nodding slowly.
“And, as you all know, I now specialise in the psychology of domestic violence. And it began then.”
The lady put her hand up. “Do you still see him?”
“Brian?”
She nodded.
“No. I have had to talk to him, over the years, about financial stuff, and for a while about Nat, but no. Since I left that day I’ve never talked to him socially. In fact, it’s Brian that doesn’t want to talk to me. He can’t ever forgive me for leaving him.”
I shrugged and spread my arms. “And there you have it. My story.”
I was being waved at by the stage director. “And it appears that I have overrun. Thank you all for your time in listening to me.”
The whole audience rose, and were still applauding for a few minutes after I walked, shakily from the stage.
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