Loss* Love*Light: From the Murder of a Child Comes Illumination.

By Celestina Giblin

February 1993.
Two boys with evil intent.
One innocent toddler.
Wrong place, wrong time. Murder the result.
How can light come from such darkness?

The day Helen called the BBC to contact a group of mothers outraged over the murder of James Bulger, she was catapulted into an alien world of media, politics, and royalty. From her dining table, she created a charity to rescue the little ones, but in the process lost herself. Marriage falling apart, health collapsing, suicidal, she clung onto the teachings of Louise Hay like a lifeline.

A true, fast-paced, and inspiring memoir taking you from the back streets of Bootle to the golden temples of Bangkok, Loss*Love*Light is a gritty illustration of how you can transform your own inner darkness into joy but also play your part in illuminating the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jan 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452591414

Celestina Giblin

Celestina is the founder of Parenting 2000, a charity which supports parents and caregivers in a very practical way to prevent the cycle of child abuse. An avid follower of Louise Hay, she works as a holistic therapist promoting mind, body, spirit health, and a can-do approach to life!

Book preview

PART 1

The External Child

32563.png

CHAPTER 1

I Will Not Turn Away

D uring the harrowing weeks which followed, I came to realise that I was not the only mother who had sat numbly in an armchair feeling that the world had suddenly reached a terrible, terrible turning point. I was relieved to learn that many people had wept for what we had lost that freezing February day: the innocence of babes, our sense of community, our feeling of safety. Children were becoming murderers, toddlers their victims… victims, murderers, murderers, victims - it was all the same. They were all tragic victims. What the hell was goi ng on?

My sleep was haunted by those ordinary, everyday images which, to me, symbolised warmth, cosiness, safety, community: a busy shopping centre on a cold winter afternoon packed with people bustling, browsing, sauntering to the bland Musak; shopping trolleys, familiar names – Mothercare, Boots, Smiths - and cutting through it all, the blurred shapes of two young boys with evil intent leading a trusting toddler to his subsequent torture and death. Why?

In my own small village, I was shocked by the reaction of most people to the horrific murder of James Bulger. It varied from total apathy to aggressive condemnation of the mother: He shouldn’t have been left alone!, If he had been wearing reins this would never have happened! They all seemed to miss the point; the murder of a toddler by two children was a symbol of something much deeper and more sinister. It was the symptom of a sick society. Somehow I felt a dreadful sense of shame and anger. We were all responsible for his death. We had created the society which killed him. Something deep within me was profoundly disturbed. I had been dragged into this nightmare through observing the images on television like some sick voyeur watching a victim’s last hours and I didn’t have the resources to cope with the feelings it provoked in me. I needed to talk to someone. My husband didn’t understand. I would catch him observing my grief with, what I perceived to be, incredulity and growing irritation and yet, he was a sensitive, compassionate person working with people with learning disabilities.

Where was all my rage coming from? Had this murder touched a raw nerve and awoken buried emotions within me?

It was while trapped in this state of isolated bereavement that I eventually got to talk to Lorna. Shortly after the event, I happened to glimpse some mothers being interviewed with their children on the six o’clock news. They were sitting in someone’s comfortable lounge, coffee cups in hand, carpet littered with toys, talking about how distressed they were over the tragedy. They were passionate and moving and my ears pricked up. Damp tea towel in hand, I turned up the volume and knelt in front of the screen so as not to miss a word in the tea-time din.

We have called ourselves MAMAA, explained a pleasant-faced woman bobbing a chubby-cheeked toddler on her knee. This stands for mothers against murder and aggression. The words were spoken with a casualness which seemed almost shocking. The tenor of the name seemed totally at odds with the cosy domestic scene. She continued calmly: We will be holding a vigil on Saturday at two o’clock outside Saint George’s Hall in Liverpool city centre.

She let the restless toddler slide to the floor, handed him a couple of toys then turned to face the camera full on. Her voice and her eyes filled with sadness: Please come along if you want to share your grief and pain with us. If you cannot come, there will be vigils held all over the country. Watch the local press for details. Even if you can’t get to a venue, we ask you to join us wherever you are in a one minute’s silence at two o’clock to remember not only James but all victims of murder and aggression.

‘Good God,’ I whispered to myself. ‘What’s the world coming to when a group of mums have to form an organisation with a name like that?’

But the name did have a power to it, a defiance, an anger - and I slowly realised that it actually encompassed the rage I was feeling inside. How wonderful to discover that I wasn’t the only mother who was traumatised and wanted to change things. I was relieved and intrigued.

‘I must go,’ I said firmly to myself and looked over my shoulder at Greg and the children eating a noisy tea completely unaware of my powerful emotions. Even as I looked at them, I knew in my heart that I wouldn’t go - it was just one more instance in my life when I felt at odds with everyone around me, feeling feelings no-one else seemed to feel. The familiar emptiness and isolation welled up inside me. I didn’t want to have to sit my husband down and explain to him why I wanted to share my grief over a little boy’s death with a crowd of strangers. It would be like trying to explain the very essence of my being. It would be easier to just let it go. What difference would it make in this God-forsaken world anyway? Sadly, I switched off the television, forced a smile and joined my family for tea.

Saturday came and went; I did my best not to look at my watch. I so wanted to be at the vigil. Over the weekend, thoughts of James and MAMAA percolated away; I couldn’t stop them. By Monday, I had reached a decision; I had to track down one of those mothers and offer to do something in my local community to protect children. It was like animal instinct; a tigress protecting her young. I knew these women would understand, but that was my first mistake, not to consider my husband in all of this. The moment I made that phone call, my life and my marriage were changed forever.

‘Where do I start?’ I thought pacing the lounge, having dropped Peter off at school and Charlotte at playgroup on the Monday morning. I looked at the phone; it looked back at me menacingly. My heart started racing. Oh God, how I hated phones. You couldn’t see people; you couldn’t sense their reaction; you couldn’t look into their eyes. What if I made a complete idiot of myself? What would I say? No, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. Shit, shit, shit. I needed a fag. ‘Must have a fag!’ I wondered if Greg had left any at home.

I raced into the kitchen and took the lid off the earthenware pot. The smell of nicotine wafted up my nose. Heaven. I peered inside. Yes!! There lay a packet of ten cigarettes. I flipped the lid open. Thank you Greg! Thank you! One left!

I grabbed a box of matches and opened the back door. I positioned myself carefully. No one must see. How could I sell a holistic lifestyle and be seen smoking! It was an emergency I told myself. I could go for years without thinking of cigarettes but, today, I needed one and, boy, was I going to enjoy it!

‘Bliss!’ I whispered and took great pleasure in striking the match and lighting the tip. Inhaling deeply, I could feel myself relaxing. A little cloud of smoke drifted up from behind the door where I leaned against the wall looking up at the clear blue sky. Oh, it wasn’t so bad, I breathed. I could do it! Go for it, girl! Just go for it!

I only needed a couple of drags and then stubbed the fag out against the wall and put it back inside the carton, replacing it in the earthenware pot with a soft clunk. Right! Here we go. I wafted the door to and fro to get rid of any traces of smoke and then made my way purposefully to the phone.

Buoyed up by the nicotine, I made the first of many phone calls to track down Lorna starting with the television centres and studios. These were glamorous places I never imagined having any contact with. They were far removed from my life in a quiet Lancashire village looking after two small children, running a home and working a couple of evenings as a mobile Reflexologist.

After three nerve racking calls to exotic creatures called BBC researchers, I was finally put in touch with the owner of a coach company who had offered his services free to take the mothers to the vigil in Liverpool. He gave me Lorna’s phone number.

‘At last!’ I whispered.

A pleasant voice answered. I knew immediately that this was a kindred spirit.

Hello? I smiled into the phone trying to imagine her face. Is that Lorna Sumner?

Yes it is, she answered softly. How can I help?

I took a deep breath: My name is Helen Fairhurst and I live in Lancashire. I saw you and your group on TV and I wanted to find out how I can do something to improve child safety in my area. I paused for a moment and then blurted out: I have been very badly affected by this James Bulger thing….. I have to do something…

I know, I know,’ Lorna said with feeling. We all feel the same…"

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it…..my sleep’s been affected, I interrupted, unable to stop myself from unloading my emotions onto this stranger. It’s been terrible. My husband thinks I’m going mad ……so do I, come to think of it!

We both laughed.

Join the club, Helen, Lorna said wryly. My husband’s not talking to me at the moment. He’s sick to death of the phone going all the time.

Oh dear, I sympathised, adding quickly: He’s not there now is he?

No, Lorna sighed: He’s escaped to work, adding, with passion: Do you know, we’re all having trouble with our other halves at the moment because we’re on the phone, giving interviews, going on radio and TV and we’re not home to iron their shirts and make their tea. They don’t like it!

Yeah, I replied sympathetically, although those complaints didn’t apply to me. Greg always shared the household tasks and didn’t complain. It was just that he didn’t understand the depth of my emotional trauma. Was it just a mother thing?

You know, I suddenly added: Imagine what we women could achieve together if we didn’t have to rush home to iron shirts and make the tea!

Lorna groaned: Yeah, I think that’s half the problem with the world – that we’re not more involved in the important decisions. A female perspective – particularly a mother’s is so important don’t you think?

Absolutely Lorna, absolutely; this is what I’ve been thinking! I cried eagerly, delighted to be talking to a kindred spirit. I’ve thought this a long time, that policies aren’t family, mother, children friendly, that parenting, creating a home isn’t seen as valuable to society. I mean, look at Thatcher’s philosophy: you have to be out there looking for work on your bike. What message does that send out to our children? They’re not as important as making money. No wonder we have so many dysfunctional children out there. They’re being farmed out to every Tom Dick and Harry so that mothers can earn a crust….!

Yeah, yeah! As if raising children and caring for the home isn’t work! cried Lorna. I have to go out to work, raise my family, do the housework, be a teacher, nurse, friend, wife, look after my elderly parents, still be a vamp in bed and have my own teeth!

We both laughed together.

It’s good to talk to you, Lorna. Already, I feel so much better.

Me too, Helen. Me too.

I’d love to talk more but I’ve got to watch the phone bill, I said apologetically.

Of course of course, Lorna immediately snapped to attention: Hey, do you want me to ring you back?

Oh no, no, but thanks; can you just tell me quickly what’s happening with you in Kent and what I can do up here?

Right, well, the vigil in Liverpool was very well attended; all the national and some international press were there. A few hundred people joined us and there were mini-vigils all over the country. We’ve been swamped with interest and support, Lorna told me enthusiastically.

Hence the domestic unrest? I added grimly.

Yeah, right. Did you manage to get to Liverpool on Saturday?

No…unfortunately, I replied, not ready to expand.

Oh, that’s a shame. It was very moving.

I’m sure.

There was a comfortable silence between us.

So, what can I do?

Well, Lorna was jolted out of her thoughts then continued briskly. We had an initial meeting, the five of us who got together at the start – that’s me Sacha, Jane, Denise and Cathy. We’ve put the aims and objectives of MAMAA together. Sacha’s a newspaper editor and is getting the first newsletter done free. I’ll get it out to you as soon as poss. In the meantime, I suggest you collect names and phone numbers of parents at your local school who are interested in taking action locally to improve child safety. You could meet once a month. Contact the local press and let them know what you’re doing. That will raise your profile.

She talked about it all so breezily that my hand clenched the phone tighter and I felt panic rise inside me. What was she expecting of me? I’d never dealt with the press before. I even hated using the phone. What about our phone bill? We were living on the breadline as it was. There was no extra cash. Oh I needed a fag. Oh boy did I need fag. Then suddenly playing silently across my mind was the security video image of James being dragged along the pavement by his little arms, probably crying for his Mum with no-one to save him and I felt ashamed. I could not turn away from his suffering and pretend everything was fine. I had to do something no matter how scared I was. We were talking about the future of my own children. How could I look them in the face if I didn’t use this opportunity to make their future safer?

Okay Lorna,’ I’ll make a start in the morning, I said firmly. This was not going to be good for my health, I thought, as the earthenware pot with the half-smoked fag loomed large and appealingly in my mind.

In the morning, after the school run, I sat on the windowsill with a glass of water trembling in my hand.

‘Oh God, give me courage!’ I whispered, as I placed the glass carefully down, rubbed a sweaty palm on my jeans and picked up the phone.

Morning, Ormskirk Advertiser? the voice was female, cool and professional. I could hear a buzz of activity in the background. Important people doing important things - what was I doing bothering them? ‘For God’s sake, Helen!’ I scolded myself. ‘Just get on with it!’ I plunged in trying to sound breezy and confident like Lorna: Oh Good morning, this is Helen Fairhurst of Hesketh Bank. I’m ringing up with some local news. Who should I speak to?

I’ll put you through to one of the journalists. One moment.

There was silence. I gripped the phone even harder, my heart racing, my face burning with anxiety. I sipped the water quickly as my throat began to tighten. What the hell was I doing? What was I going to say? It wasn’t too late to just put the phone down.

Too late.

Hello. Sandra Holmes speaking.

Oh good morning; my name is Helen Fairhurst from Hesketh Bank and I have some news which might be of interest to your paper. I am forming a local group of MAMAA….

I didn’t have time to continue before I was interrupted.

Oh right, right, yes……they were formed after the Bulger murder…yeah?

I could sense her excitement, her scenting blood, the hunt for a sensational story in the making. It felt unpleasant.

Yes. That’s right, I said slowly.

Can you tell me what you aims are?

I could sense her intense interest and hear the tap tapping of her computer.

The national group is currently putting together the aims and objectives and our first newsletter will be coming out shortly but basically we will be looking at child safety issues in our local community.

Yes, yes. Tap. Tap.tap. Can I ask you what your motivation is Mrs. Fairhurst? Have you lost a child through murder?

Oh no, no, no; nothing like that,’ I replied quite shocked at the question. No, I am simply a mother who feels passionately that we have failed our children. We are all responsible for his murder. We have created a society where children are growing into murderers and toddlers are becoming victims. We have to change. It’s up to each one of us. We can’t just say it’s the job of the police, the social services, the NSPCC….we have to start on our own doorstep…" and I plunged into twenty-odd years of pent-up concern over the breakdown of communities, the increasingly violent images being fed to children through TV, video, computer games, the lack of parenting skills, the ‘me first, sod you attitude’, the disintegration of families and particularly the lack of recognition for mothers and the hard work they do bringing up the next generation. God knows I had struggled bringing up Peter and Charlotte.

As a trained nurse, I had always thought that working in hospitals and nursing homes had been the hardest job until it came to being cooped up with two pre-school children. It had been incredibly tough with no help or support and there had been times when I had been close to throwing the children at the wall in my utter frustration and exhaustion. What was worse was the casual expectation of Greg and everyone else that it would all come naturally to me and that I would cope, especially as caring for children wasn’t seen as work! Greg would have his shirts ironed, tea on the table, house clean, children fed and watered then I would have to go out to work a couple of nights a week almost falling asleep at the steering wheel. I suddenly remembered a time when I had stopped the car on the way home from work one evening because I broke down in tears when the record ‘Woman In Chains’ by Tears for Fears had come on the radio. That is how I had felt.

Thank you, Mrs. Fairhurst.

The voice jolted me back to reality.

Can I send a photographer around in the morning to take a picture of you and your group outside the school?

"Yes of course,’ I replied confidently, pleased that she had taken what I had said seriously enough to warrant a photo as well. She took all my details carefully.

Is nine o’clock okay, then?

Yes, that’s fine, I replied and put down the phone with a huge sigh of relief. I had done it! I suddenly jumped back like a scalded cat. Oh no! How was I going to drum up bodies to go on this photo when I hadn’t even got anyone interested? I had done it all the wrong way round. This meant that I would have to get to school early and accost people before they had a chance to go home. Already I was starting to feel the pressure.

I needn’t have worried. The mention of their picture in the paper was enough to ensure over twenty mums and their children outside the school the next morning. While we waited in the freezing February sunshine I took the names and phone numbers of everyone there. I prayed that the photographer wouldn’t be late. The toddlers and babies were cold and mums pushed for time and eager to get home for a hot cup of coffee.

Fortunately the photographer was on time: a middle-aged, bespectacled man, efficient and brisk, as he positioned us all in front of the school entrance.

Who’s the chairman? he shouted to the group.

We all looked around until I realised he was referring to me. I laughed inside and held up a hand.

Can you stand in the middle with your clipboard showing? It looks more official.

He leant back: Everyone ready? Look serious!

Click.

CHAPTER 2

Deeper and Deeper

H ad a good day? asked Greg as he threw his car keys on the table and reached down to pick up Charlotte who was lovingly hugging his trouser leg. I could hear Peter come running down the stairs at the sound of his dad’s voice.

The lounge door burst open. Daddy, Daddy! Peter yelled and launched himself at Greg’s groin. He moved deftly to protect himself then pretended to be wounded as his six foot three body collapsed on the floor like a felled oak tree. There were squeals of delight as they all rolled around on the floor for a mad five minutes while I served up the spaghetti bolognaise.

Come and get it, you lot! I yelled above the noise and Greg’s flushed face appeared above the tangled bodies.

Okay you guys. Tea’s ready! Greg gave them both a piggy back ride to the table and we all sat down to eat, the children still giggling and breathless.

We chatted about our day while we ate and it was a warm, perfect, cosy family scene. At the back of my mind, however, I was wondering how I was going to broach the fact that I had joined the organisation of MAMAA, started a local group, contacted the local media and got our photo in the paper. Even as I ran the facts through my head I could see how it would look to Greg: ‘Oh hell!’ What’s she started now?’ I inwardly cursed myself for not talking it over with him. He deserved better but, then again, he knew when we first met that I was a crusader without a cause. He would joke about marrying me in order to stop me flying to some God-forsaken corner of the world to heal someone of something.

If only I could switch my brain off and not feel everyone’s suffering then I wouldn’t get into bother like this. I wondered why I couldn’t be like other people….why I couldn’t be like Greg. The first time he held me I had felt my rawness to pain soothed at last. His massive frame had enveloped my small body and I had felt warm, safe, comforted like never before but now it was suffocating me..……

There was a convenient gap in the conversation as we tucked into steamed chocolate pudding and custard.

Hey Greg, do you remember that group MAMAA I saw on the telly the other night….you know….the one who organised that vigil in Liverpool?

He looked up: Yeah?

Well I was thinking about it and I really want to start something up here. You know, a local group looking at how we can improve child safety and stuff.

Oh right! His face was open but I could sense from his eyes that he was heartily sick of hearing anything about James Bulger. He was waiting for what was to come.

I didn’t have the courage to look at him as I continued. I felt like a naughty girl who was confessing to stealing the cookies. I managed to track down one of the women from MAMAA; her name is Lorna Sumner. She’s one of the founders of the group. There are five of them. I put down my spoon and looked across the table at him. Do you know they have all been really badly affected like I have? I know I’m not going mad now after talking to her; it has made me feel so much better.

Oh, that’s good Greg responded, evenly.

Empty words. No empathy. No warmth. No connection. Was I imaging it? Was I being too hard on him? Oh, to have someone who understood…. who felt as passionate about it as I did. To look into eyes that fed me, eyes which responded to me, eyes that saw me. Do you know I feel really awful about what I’ve done, Greg I suddenly confessed.

What have you done, Mum? asked Peter, looking up with concern.

Greg grinned wryly: Come on, spit it out. I knew there was something.

Well, after talking to Lorna, she suggested I get the names and phone numbers of parents interested in forming a local group. She also said I should contact the local newspaper and tell them what I was doing.

And?

Well, I rang the Ormskirk Advertiser and they’re doing an article on us. They took a photo of a group of us outside the school this morning.

Peter clapped his hands: Oh Mum, you’ll be famous!

Charlotte joined Peter clapping her hands. Greg looked at me and gave nothing away. He went back to his pudding and said lightly: We’ll have to get the paper on Thursday then.

We carried on the normal routine. Washing up. Playtime. Bath time. Story time. All our unspoken thoughts hung in the air between us. The perfect family scene was still there but it felt like an empty vessel to me. Who was he? Who was I? We didn’t communicate any more. Had we ever? Had we ever stood a chance, me becoming pregnant on our honeymoon and being launched straight into parenthood. We had hardly taken a breath since getting married.

I looked at his profile as he slumped in the armchair watching TV. We were from different planets. We talked a different language. We wanted different things from life. I had known all of this when we got married but I had sold myself out to pressure from Greg and from family to settle down, to conform. It felt like I was starting to wake up, to rediscover myself and it was shedding a harsh light on the reality of my marriage.

On Thursday morning, I cycled down to the newsagents after dropping the children off. As I was parking my bike, I was stunned to see a huge picture of me and the group of mums with their children plastered on a sandwich board underneath a headline screaming out: Hesketh Bank Mums take action over child safety!

I felt a mixture of pride and embarrassment as walked into the shop.

The bell dingled and Maureen looked over as she served a customer: Eh you take a good photo Helen. Have you seen it?

Yeah I replied, a bit flustered: Got a bit of a shock seeing it outside like that. You can’t really miss it!

I was aware of people looking sideways at me from down the aisles and from over shelves. I picked up the Ormskirk Advertiser and some sweets for the children and went over to the counter to pay for them.

Terrible thing that James Bulger murder. Maureen shook her head as she gave me my change.

Dreadful, dreadful I agreed. We have to try and make the streets safer for our children. If we save one life, all the work will be worth it.

My words seemed to sound ridiculous, melodramatic and out of place in this sleepy little village and I wanted to grab them and stuff them back in my mouth. Maureen looked bemused and I felt embarrassed. Over the phone to Lorna it had been perfectly normal; here, it seemed inappropriate. People didn’t want to hear; it had nothing to do with their lives. Wrong.

I walked out of the shop and plonked the newspaper and sweets in the basket. I felt uncomfortable opening the paper outside in full view so I cycled home as fast as I could. I leaned the bike against the fence and opened the front door, the cat doing its usual trick of trying to trip me up on the doorstep as he scooted through my feet and into the hall. Once inside, I dumped my purse and sweets on the settee and spread the paper out on the dining table. Oh my God, the whole front page!

32129.png

The children looked so breathtakingly beautiful while asleep. Greg and I held each other as we looked at Peter and Charlotte breathing softly, so peaceful, warm and safe. At moments like these, I felt Greg respond to my concerns from the heart.

They’re so precious, he whispered. God, if anything ever happened to them I don’t know what I would do…

I know, I know, I breathed after a long silence. I’m doing this work for their future, Greg. I have to be able to look them in the eyes knowing that I have tried to make life safer for them. I can’t turn away from this. You do understand, don’t you? I pleaded and looked into his eyes. They were soft with concern.

Yes, yes, I do. I’m proud of you. That article was brilliant. The whole front page as well! Well done. You know I’ll support you in any way I can.

I glowed and gave him a big hug. I needed reassurance so much. I knew he was justified in thinking that I hadn’t thought things through. He had every right to be angry but he had just been quiet. I knew I had a tendency to plunge into things. I knew I didn’t have the time; we didn’t have the money. I didn’t have the stamina for this battle but something inside just kept pushing and pushing.

Maybe it was because my involvement in the campaign was an expression of me, Helen; not the wife, mother, housewife or nurse, and I was reluctant to let that