Father Provoke Not Your Child

By Kerri Ferguson

A young girl stringently trained for a career in sport in her youth and always striving for perfection, found her objectives diverted by unforeseen events. However, she soon found that her early training as an athlete and the fighting spirit of her Irish ancestry, would sustain her throughout her life from unspeakable bullying and abuse by others. Unwilling to capitulate to failure she was not prepared to allow her innocence, her spirit or even her soul, to be stolen by individuals or those acting corruptly in governments, police forces or other powerful organisations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781387360680

Book preview

Introduction

When I was first approached by a publisher to write a book during my dispute with the Trade Unions in the 1970’s, I refused the request thinking that such a story would be of little or no interest to anyone. Little did I know that my life was to unfold in such a way that the story of my life would eventually be written and would include not only that course of events but many more chapters of my life which were yet to unfold.

This book had its inception due to the urging of a medical professional. Though I began to write with the intention of only recording the events of the police investigation, which began in the 1980’s, it soon became very clear that the story started long before then and involved a myriad of other issues. What makes one person react to events in a certain way and another react differently is, in many ways, dependent on prior events and the experiences in each individual’s life. Feelings and emotions are deeply personal, and each person will have different reactions to similar events. My original manuscript did not mention members of my family in my childhood years, but over the years, as my experiences, achievements and my life events were used by others to promote themselves, I had no choice but to extend the parameters of the book in order for there to be a complete understanding on the part of the reader of a factual record for history.

This is not a story about being a victim, but it is rather about how our poor choices can impact a myriad of other events in our own lives as well as in the lives of others. There are many stories of injustice and abuse which people in the world have to tell; however, this is only one story. It is up to others to tell theirs.

Most of all, this is a story of FAITH. However flimsy or fragile, faith can wondrously survive through many trials and tests. It is important to never turn our backs on the One who created us because He never turns His back on us, even though it often feels sometimes as if that is the case.

This is a true story, and it has been written with the assistance of personal diaries, letters, documents, and notes taken as events unfolded. Some people’s names have been changed for specific reasons, which were taken into account in each individual case. Pseudonyms have been noted when used. Where real names have been used, it has been done only after careful consideration of each individual case.

All conversations are as accurate as possible and recorded from diary notes etc., written around the times of the incidents. All descriptions of encounters between Jason and Stephen are written from Jason’s accounts to me of the events.

There may be much-flawed Theology in this book, but it does not in any way profess to be a book on Theology. This is simply a relating of my story, feelings, thoughts and the actual facts in order to chronicle certain situations and events which may have appeared in false accounts of others over the years.

Obviously, there are many events of my life which have not made it into the pages of this book. It would be impossible to record them all. There are so many events in my life which were not included because there simply has to be a line drawn as to how much information one can include in such a work. They have been omitted for no other reason than they would require backstories etc., and explanations of situations that simply would require too much space. Should it become necessary to address any of those at a later date, I am willing to do so. As I have done with the events I have included, I am more than willing to produce source documents for those events which have been omitted also.

In an act of good faith and of my own volition, I supplied the New South Wales Police with a copy of the manuscript of this book in 2013, written up until that date, in the hope that it would assist with their then newly-opened investigations. The Police, subsequently, demanded to know who had already read it, as well the names of those to whom I had shown a copy of the manuscript. I was instructed by the Police that I was under no circumstances to show it to any other person. The NSW Police stepped beyond the boundaries of their authority in trying to prevent my showing anyone the manuscript. I will no longer be intimidated by bullies and those people operating out of self-interest to prevent me from telling my story.

During this investigation which was opened in 2013 and eventually lasted for five years, a Detective was sent to Tasmania in March 2014 to interview the person who had been one of the three people present on the night when it was disclosed that Pastors of a church had covered up a felony. This witness had never been questioned by police before, not even during the initial investigation of the crime and the cover-up in 1988! Detective Senior Constable Melissa Horvat, in taking a statement on this occasion from the witness, asked if he was aware of a book I had written and questioned him regarding details of his knowledge of the manuscript! His responses were recorded, and his knowledge of the manuscript was considered important enough by Police to become part of his official statement! The Police have appeared to exhibit, time and time again, much more interest in who knew, or might learn of, their own behaviour than they have in attending to investigating the circumstances of any crime that might have been committed.

Domestic violence is at a peak in this country and in many others. At the time of publication of this book, one woman a week is being killed by a partner or an estranged partner. Each such event impacts so many lives. Though we don’t see such shocking statistics when it comes to males, domestic abuse is most certainly a crime committed by females against men also, though such events do not often capture our attention in the same way.

Many incidents of abuse by a spouse also involve the abuse of children. Child abuse is more likely to occur in families where domestic violence towards a partner is occurring.

Consider these facts:

From: https://www.whiteribbon.org.au/understand-domestic-violence/facts-violence-women/domestic-violence-statistics/

On average, one woman a week is murdered by her current or former partner.

Bryant, W. & Bricknall, S. (2017). Homicide in Australia 2012-2014: National Homicide Monitoring Program report. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology. Retrieved from https://aic.gov.au/publications/sr/sr002

1 in 4 women have experienced emotional abuse by a current or former partner since the age of 15.

Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2017). Personal Safety Survey 2016. ABS cat. no. 4906.0. Canberra: ABS. Retrieved from: http://www.abs.gov.au/ausstats/abs@.nsf/mf/4906.0

Almost 40% of women continued to experience violence from their partner while temporarily separated.

Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2017). Personal Safety Survey 2016. ABS cat. no. 4906.0. Canberra: ABS. Retrieved from: http://www.abs.gov.au/ausstats/abs@.nsf/mf/4906.0

Intimate partner violence is a leading contributor to illness, disability and premature death for women aged 18-44.

Ayre et al. (2016). Examination of the burden of disease of intimate partner violence against women in 2011. Sydney: ANROWS. Retrieved from http://bit.ly/2W1LzfV

Children of mothers experiencing domestic violence have higher rates of social and emotional problems than other children.

Shin H., Rogers H. & Law V. (2015). Domestic violence in the Longitudinal Study of Australian Children. Canberra: Department of Social Services.

1 in 3 young people don’t think controlling someone is a form of violence.

Hall and Partners Open Mind. (2015). The Line campaign. Summary of Research Findings. Melbourne: Our Watch. Retrieved from: https://www.ourwatch.org.au/Media-Resources?c=TheLine

1 in 3 young people presenting alone to homelessness services have experienced domestic violence.

Source: AIHW (2018). Specialist Homelessness Services Annual Report 2016-17. Retrieved from: https://bit.ly/2RHwr6h

Domestic and family violence is the leading cause of homelessness for women and their children.

AIHW. (2017). Specialist Homelessness Services 2016–17. Canberra: AIHW. Retrieved from: https://whiteribbon.org/2WDrP6u

Most women leaving a violent relationship move out of their home.

Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2017). Personal Safety Survey 2016. ABS cat. no. 4906.0. Canberra: ABS. Retrieved from: https://bit.ly/1OgLEWS

These statistics should also be viewed as underestimates. Many women will never share their experience of violence, either with the Police or with researchers from the Australian Bureau of Statistics. So the statistics we get from these sources will always be an underestimate of the extent of the problem.

Domestic abuse is not confined to any particular demographic. It occurs in the homes of the rich and of the poor, the well-educated and of the poorly educated. Upon the reports of each event where an individual, or even several individuals, die as a result of domestic violence, the Police, the politicians and the media shout cries of foul and call for more money and services to be thrown at the problem. But sadly, nothing changes. So many times, helpless children also become targets for the monsters who think they have entitlement or ownership over someone else’s life. Royal Commissions are established, and people sit around at desks and discuss the problem and decide what measures they believe will solve it.

The Police always claim they are doing all they can to avert tragedies. The pages of this book will reveal that very often, this is far from the truth. There are many women who claim their complaints to the Police have resulted in that bland comment, There’s nothing we can do. The Police also will quite openly admit that the Domestic Violence orders and Apprehended Violence Orders issued by courts are not worth the paper they are written on.

When a tragic situation finally occurs, Police are very often seen standing on their platforms and decrying the shocking acts of the offenders and expressing sorrow for the victims. The Police often blame the court system but are not heard taking any responsibility for the way in which they many times attend to incidents. The Police often claim that they are badly under-resourced and have so many complaints about this issue of domestic violence each day that they are just incapable of dealing with the matter effectively.

However, even in this day and age, and after all the rhetoric of the past, many Police still have a problem with the attitudes of their own officers. Nothing more clearly displays this than the comments of a Police detective in February of 2020 upon the report of the tragic death of Hannah Clarke and her three children, Laianah, four, Aaliyah, six, and Trey, three, who were incinerated in a car in which Hannah’s estranged husband had doused them all with petrol and set them alight, and who himself died from self-inflicted wounds on the same occasion. The senior Police detective of the Queensland Police Force stated to news media at the time that police were keeping an open mind as to whether the deaths of Hannah Clarke and her children was a case of a husband being driven too far. The senior Detective of Police was quickly stood aside by Queensland Police.

It is acknowledged that many times it is the case that people can make inappropriate comments in the aftermath of such a tragedy and before they have had time to consider their words. This particular Detective was ultimately very distressed at the fact that he had uttered such careless words. However, this instance clearly indicates that there is a deeply ingrained way of thinking in some men, which exists despite all the conferences, commissions, talkfests and training in which society indulges. And it goes deeper than a failure to have a respect for women. It is a failure to respect others, regardless of their gender, in society as it is evolving.

But we were left with a blueprint of how to treat other people. It is not as fashionable to look to this as it is to look to the latest paper produced by some organisation. The blueprint we have is a book called the Bible.

It would be understandable to a degree if this book was dismissed by society in general. Still, the real tragedy and concern is that it is now dismissed by the very people who claim to be those in leadership in churches themselves. We are now seeing the demise of the visible Christian Church as it was established on earth and are witnessing, instead, a group of fakes and fraudsters standing and preaching to others about signs and wonders and miracles and never even daring to call people to repent and turn back to the blueprint and obey the instructions about how we are to treat others, including our own families. There are thousands of families sitting in churches each Sunday, being entertained by those who are seeking celebrity status and making all manner of false claims in order to reel in the fish with the intention of creating wealth for themselves. Many of these leaders even cover up for abusers.

Some of these fraudsters are named in this book, having come in contact with them through my personal experiences. I fell victim to many during my lifetime. And there are many people who are sitting listening to their irrelevant anecdotes and being entertained and are returning to their homes only to be abused and violated by those in their own families and Christian communities. Some Christian leaders are named in this book and have been, in fact, named many times before in media reports. And yet, STILL, people ignore the warnings and return to admire and applaud these leaders, week after week, too caught up in the admiration for the leader and, sadly, too cowardly to face up to the truth and walk away.

The pages of this book and the facts of my story will reveal that those calling themselves Pastors are even willing at times to be eyewitnesses to domestic violence and blame the victims. As shocking as this story is in parts, nothing changes, and people are far more intent, it would seem, on fawning over their Pastor and ignoring the lies these leaders expound than they are on actually loving and obeying God as they should be. We hear of this every day in the media. The abusers are defended by colleagues, other family members, friends, and all those who want to keep their own lives comfortable and unchanged, however perverse these abusers’ behaviour has to become in order to do so.

People sitting in conferences and churches which claim to be Christian are promised encounters with God and hungrily seek after such vain promises. It is confounding that we have people who call themselves Pastors who spend the best part of their time giving talks on total nonsense and telling people how to have encounters with God etc. The fact is that they should spend more time speaking about how to deal with the violent encounters so many people in society are experiencing here on earth and even within their own homes. Many are putting aside the care for their family and instead are searching for having an encounter with God as promised by these charlatans. So many of these untrained Pastors have put aside all Christian teaching to lead others astray and make false promises that are designed to bring attention to themselves and to pad their own wallets instead of speaking of the One true God and what He did for us in sending His only Son to die for us in order to save us from our sin. If people would only open the Bible, they would very quickly have an encounter with God.

It is my fervent hope that the pages within this book will give real hope to those who have ears to hear. The reader will find no promises of magic solutions, miracles, encounters with God, the finding of solutions in dreams, prophecies, mystic advice or in any other occultic practices. The reader, however, will find evidence of an unchanging God who is always there with His arms outstretched to forgive us regardless of our sinful behaviour and who is always working in our lives no matter how distant we may feel He has become. The words of a little boy who taught me about God’s ice creams I hope will be words remembered by others who read on.

May God’s love and faithfulness touch you as you read, and may you come to know of His loving-kindness and mercy available to all no matter how far away we have drifted.

Prologue

Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dares not vindicate them, let no prejudice or ignorance asperse them .....

- Robert Emmet

The prisoners, surrounded by members of the Irish Police force and dozens of Dragoons, were loaded onto drays to be taken to Cork Harbour on the Irish coast for transportation to the colony of New South Wales.

Patrick was pushed onto one of the drays along with his fellow prisoners. Some of these men had been present with him in the gang of sixty activists on the night he had stormed the house of his neighbour, menacingly aimed a gun at the farmer and thrust a book in his face demanding that the terrified man swear that he would not assist those bloody wretched English any longer. He knew, as did they all that swearing such an oath, was unlawful and carried the penalty of transportation beyond the seas. Any such penalty, however, was far from Patrick’s mind on that dark and drizzly Irish night, his only aim being to stand against what he saw as the tyranny of the British.

1830 Ireland was a harsh environment in which to try and survive, and the English had become so despised by some that they had decided to take up arms and fight against them, by whatever means, in order to try and stop their oppressive acts. Law and order were of serious concern to the British governments and to some Irish who did not share the fervour of men such as Patrick.

Sware it! Sware it, ye dirty English sympathisin’ dog, orr we’ll finish ye off here and now! screamed Patrick.

The farmer trembled on his knees, begging for mercy.

Ay’ll show ye no mercy! shouted Patrick as he took the man’s hand and thumped it hard down on the book.

Sware it before I kill ye!

Their job done, the gang left the small cottage and made its way back into the black of night, guided only by makeshift flares to take them back from wherever it was they had first agreed on what they would do to the farmer and his family that night.

Patrick cut an imposing figure as he strode along in front of the group, with his red waistcoat and greatcoat topped by a black velvet collar, clothing not much seen in this part of the county. Unlike the humble farmers and labourers who followed him, Patrick was an accomplished tailor and had chosen his grandest self-made outfit in which to appear that night. It somehow set him apart from the others and, although still yet only 24 years of age, gave him an aura of being a formidable leader.

When appearing at trial a short time later, Patrick had time to lament his vanity when a prosecution witness claimed that he had recognised Patrick at church on the Sunday after the attack. Patrick had worn that same showy outfit to prayers that week.

The Court’s verdict had come swift and brutal.

Transportation beyond the seas for life …………………….

Patrick’s resolve did not wane at all, however, as he stood proud and strong before these ruthless dispensers of English justice. Expressionless, he allowed himself to be led away along with his conspirators, and he threw a look of disdain at the British Dragoons as he climbed up onto the dray.

Crowds of onlookers had spilled out of the courthouse to watch the prisoners be loaded up and taken away. They were joined by hundreds of spectators who had been waiting outside on the streets to hear the verdict, unable to fit inside the room where the trial took place.

The wailing of women could be heard above the crowd’s cheers, and shouts of support, and children ran beside the three drays as they pulled away, headed for Cork Harbour.

Patrick shot a sympathetic look at some of his fellow prisoners as he watched them trying to grab one last touch of the hands of their wives and children. He was glad he had no such ties to be broken by these English rogues and what he saw as their manifestly unjust laws; to leave one’s wife and children, knowing that one would never see them again, would have been too painful even for him to contemplate.

As the drays shuddered and shook their way along the rough Irish roads, thousands of people gathered, and the crowds swelled at every turn as they tried to catch a glimpse of the prisoners as the drays rumbled by.

Patrick looked at the poor wretched convict sitting across from him, and his demeanour was momentarily weakened by a feeling of sympathy for his friend whom he had just witnessed cry out Farewell to his beautiful young wife of just three months.

‘Don’t worry lad, she’ll be well car’d fer", offered Patrick under his breath.

Nay, sobbed his friend, she’ll not be able to survive wi’out me. How did I get caught up in this mad plan o’ yours, Paddy? Why did I list’n ta ye?

Patrick scowled, feeling contempt for the faintheartedness of his friend.

How c’ud we let those British dogs get away with ruinin’ ‘ur livin’ plaices? How! Me Da’ always taught me that we must not bend under any man’s yoke! spat Patrick.

But what’ll become of ‘ur families? wept the friend.

We’ll make other families, lad……….. new families, in New South Wales. And we’ll teach ‘em too, as me Da taught me………….we’ll not bend under any man’s yoke!

Then in one last show of defiance, before he and his fellow Irishmen were to be loaded onto the ship bound for the penal colony of New South Wales on the other side of the world, Patrick stood on the back of the dray, raised his fist to the sky and shouted into the Irish mist …………………...

Da ya hear me! Me an’ mine will ne’er bend under any man’s yoke……….

—oo0oo---

Patrick was my great-great-grandfather – I carry his genes on my DNA.

"If men could learn from history, what lessons it might teach us! But passions and party blind our eyes, and the light which experience gives is a lantern on the stern, which shines only on the waves behind us!

COLERIDGE 18 December 1831

This is an actual photo of Patrick Mulry.

It was taken by a photographic studio in Sydney, and that would have been quite a trip on horseback for Patrick in the late 1800’s. Since such a studio shot of his wife, my great-great-grandmother Mary Ryan, does not exist to the best of my knowledge, I can only muse at what drove Patrick to undertake such a trip and for such a puerile reason. Was it perhaps in celebration of his obtaining his Conditional Pardon? My very strong suspicion is that the coat he is wearing was made by his own hands. Patrick’s farm in NSW is stated in one book as being noted for its marvellous crops of maize. So, he turned his hand from tailoring to farming out of necessity and succeeded. Very interesting character, even if more than a trifle annoying from what I can ascertain from the documents available.

Foreward

This book breaks all the rules. In the case of this story, breaking all the rules established by the publishing industry is absolutely necessary.

What is this book about? It is the memoir of Kerri Ferguson and the lifetime of abuse she has suffered at the hands of all the people in her life who were supposed to love, support and care for her. Unfortunately, far too many people today have similar stories. But Kerri never plays the ‘poor me’ victim card. This book is not about wallowing in victimhood and calling down curses on the ‘evil patriarchy’. Instead, this book is about slow and painful growth through the turmoils of our existence. Kerri’s story reminds us of an unpopular truth; suffering produces perseverance, and perseverance character and character, hope.

Kerri has not only been abused physically and emotionally, but this book also recounts the spiritual abuse she has suffered. From the abuse she suffered in Roman Catholicism as a little girl to the abuse she suffered from predatory pastors and narcissistic Pentecostal preachers, Kerri’s life painfully demonstrates that false doctrines have devastating consequences.

You, the reader, will have the unique opportunity to vicariously suffer with Kerri and experience the pain and confusion of her life and find the meaning within the mess.

Pack up, the journey of this book is a long one. You are headed on a voyage and the ride will be very bumpy, but well worth it.

Pastor Chris Rosebrough

CHAPTER 1

……… a time to keep and a time to throw away.

Ecclesiastes 3:6

An unseasonably chilly Sydney wind bit into my skin as I stepped outside the courthouse into the sunshine and eagerly scanned the street for the faces of my three little boys. The traffic seemed to speed by, and crowds of people jostled me as they hurried to the nearby entrance of the underground railway station. My solicitor held my arm to steady me as he spoke of the day’s events to the barrister. On the whole, it had all gone exactly as planned, and the two shook hands vigorously as they congratulated each other. It struck me as ironic that such a celebratory atmosphere existed between the two men when they had just engineered the dissolution of a marriage. I began to feel faint, but neither seemed to be aware of the fact that I had begun to sway like a tree in the breeze.

Suddenly, my legs gave way, and my body pitched towards the roadway. The barrister lunged towards me as the solicitor tightened his grip on my arm. The combined effect was to steady me sufficiently to allow me to make my way falteringly to a small brick wall near the path. As I sat down, the concerned look on the faces of both of them reassured me that they were conscious of the fact that I was a person after all and not just part of a busy caseload.

Are you okay?

One of them had spoken, but as I watched the glittering specks in the dark grey path beneath my feet, I wasn’t aware which of them it had been.

Yes, thanks. I replied feebly. I guess I forgot to eat lunch .... come to think of it, I didn’t eat breakfast either! It’s been a rough day!

They nodded sympathetically. The barrister said goodbye and disappeared into the crowd, his wig and gown becoming part of the scene in front of me. The Supreme Court building loomed tall behind me and cast a shadow across the place where I sat, causing me to tremble slightly. The combination of the cool afternoon and the shock was beginning to have an impact, and the young legal man caught me unaware with the warmth of his smile as he sat down on the wall beside me.

Is there anything you need to have me explain? he inquired.

I looked at this young man, wondering if the endless sordid stories that made up the bulk of his work ever soured his own emotions. It occurred to me that professionals who worked in the area of divorce must develop a high degree of cynicism about marriage and family relationships. This young man had probably been tainted already.

Yes. There were a couple of things that I wondered about. If you have a minute……

Answering my questions patiently, the lawyer went on to explain to me that a Judge taking on the task of personally questioning witnesses in a divorce case was not unusual and that often Judges simply wished to ensure that the parties understood fully all that was occurring. He reassured me that in such circumstances, Judges often simply want to be confident that children, and the spouse who will be left to care for them, will be sufficiently taken care of.

Apparently, claiming maintenance for the boys but not for myself was an unusual enough circumstance to alert a Judge to take special precautions when making any orders and even to take steps to leave things open for change at a later date in case the circumstances or feelings of the petitioner changed.

No chance of me changing my mind and claiming maintenance for myself later! I answered quickly. "Not under any circumstances. I’d starve first! Richard should pay to help raise the boys; after all, they’re the responsibility of both of us. As for me …. I don’t want anything from him …. ever! I’m healthy, and I’ll work, but I won’t take his money for my upkeep. I never want anything from him again."

A wry grin crossed his face. Can’t eat your pride, you know! he quipped.

My head fell back as I smiled at what he said, and I stared at the vacant expanse of sky above me.

My father always said, ‘Kerri, you can’t eat your principles!’ You sound just like him!

His lawyer’s response was swift, and he continued. Richard should pay, though! Your husband’s treatment of you constituted significant cruelty. You should not feel any guilt about leaving a situation like that. Your instigating a divorce doesn’t negate your right to maintenance. When it comes to personal safety, there’s often no choice for women.

My eyes began to fill with tears as my mind retraced the events of the afternoon. At that moment, the austerity of the courtroom, the wigged and gowned members of the law fraternity and the clerks and curious onlookers who regularly seek their entertainment at the Supreme Court came together to create a setting so imposing as to fill me with trepidation at its very memory for years to come.

I forced my mind to return to the conversation.

Look, I’m going to be seeing Richard on his access visits, and I really don’t want to antagonise him any more than I have to. If he pays maintenance for the boys, I’ll be okay. After all, ten dollars a week for each of them isn’t much. I think even he would appreciate that my asking for such a trifling amount is good fortune on his part. No point in getting his back up! I have asked for ten dollars for each of the boys, and that’s the end of the story.

The young lawyer became quite serious. Not altogether.

What do you mean?

He reasoned cautiously. I handle these cases every day. I guess I consider myself a reasonable judge of human nature by now. If you have any trouble, get back to me straight away.

You don’t think he’ll pay, do you?

He went on. "Look at reality. He hasn’t paid anything since you left six months ago, and he hasn’t made any attempt to contact you. He’s shot through, and no one, least of all you, has a clue as to his whereabouts. My firm’s best efforts have failed to turn up anything. He’s shown no interest in his kids up until now. I’m pessimistic about your chances of him actually having a pang of conscience at this stage. Since we couldn’t even find him to serve him with papers, he’s unaware that he’s even been divorced. If I were you, I’d prepare myself for him to be pretty annoyed when he finds out. Don’t forget; the Judge has taken the unusual step of reducing the waiting time for the decree nisi to become absolute. He shortened it considerably in order for you to be able to get help should you need it."

I don’t understand why he did that!

"Well, in cases where cruelty is involved, if the partner gives any trouble and the decree has not become absolute, the police may just treat it as a domestic incident. If the decree is absolute, they will have more power to help you, should you need it."

Oh? Well, I guess that should make me feel more secure, huh?

I relaxed my shoulders a little, and it dawned on me how tense I must have been all afternoon.

The solicitor grinned. Too bad your husband didn’t turn up today. No doubt, the Judge would have issued a reprimand from the bench for the cruelty. I’d have enjoyed hearing him get ticked off. These bullies need dressing down. Never mind, I guess you’re better off not having had to face him."

There was a pause. Sounds of traffic filled the space in the conversation, and we both stared absent-mindedly ahead of us. I was searching for three small faces, and doubtlessly, he was already pondering tomorrow’s case.

Well, he said lightly as he slapped his knees with both hands. I guess I’d better get back to the office …. still have piles of work to get through and some appointments before I can call it a day. He placed his hand lightly on my shoulder. You take care, and don’t hesitate to call if you have any trouble.

I’ll be fine, but thanks. I really appreciate what you’ve done.

Sure. My secretary will be in touch. With a nod of his head, he placed his files under his armpit before he, too, disappeared into the crowd.

I looked around as a slow and familiar feeling of anxiety began to come over me. This was it! I’d done it! It was hard to believe that I had actually gone through with it. Slowly my thoughts rushed ahead to try and plan the next phase of my life. In reality, nothing much would change. I had been on my own with the boys for the last seven months and, along with my job and the help of my friend and professional babysitters, had managed to cope.

Memories rolled in as I thought about Richard and our short marriage. We had married in September 1968. It had been a sunny Saturday afternoon. It also happened to have been both our birthdays. I was twenty-one, and he was six years older. It was difficult to recall any joy I may have felt then …. perhaps there was none. I pushed aside thoughts that began to surface, which I had long since learned to hide. No! I was not about to let those thoughts surface now. It was too dangerous. My reasons for marrying would have to be analysed at a later date. This was definitely not the time. Instead, I allowed my mind to go back to the day I left the marriage. Piece by piece, I would put my life together. But, to go back today would be too difficult. This afternoon I could only deal with what I knew and with what was familiar. To dig up painful memories would not be appropriate now. How expert I had become with controlling my mind and my feelings. I smiled slightly as a comfort to myself. I felt a self-satisfied sensation waft over me as I congratulated myself on the fact that despite all that happened, I was still able to take control of my circumstances.

The morning I had escaped from Richard, and the prison of my marriage was vividly stamped on my mind. The planning had been short but expertly carried out. It was a Doctor who had been the first to plant the seed in my mind. Up until my last visit to him, I never contemplated that there was another path I could take. The drunkenness and the assaults had become commonplace, and my belief that I was getting what I deserved was by now firmly rooted in my very being. The last few weeks had been almost more than I could bear, and the pressure was building daily as I tried to hang on rather than to concede defeat.

At the beginning of the summer, Richard and I had taken out the lease on a country swimming pool. I had also obtained coaching rights, which involved early morning starts and late evening finishes at the pool in order to look after my squads of swimmers. As well as my duties at the pool, I was still running a herd of dairy goats on our farm some miles away. With Richard having long since lost interest in the farm, as he had in every other project he had ever begun, the milking now had to be done by myself twice daily.

A disturbing pattern had become evident very early in our marriage. Richard would develop an immense enthusiasm for an idea, do whatever was required to set it in motion, and then quickly dispense with it as his attention and energies moved to something else. Being a person who had been stringently trained to commit myself to finish anything I undertook, I often found myself left with the residue of his schemes pervading my life. That summer, I found myself coaching a squad of swimmers, serving in the pool canteen and driving back and forth to the farm several times each day to milk and feed the animals, all of which I had to arrange around the mothering of my three boys. The children, one our biological child and two adopted, were a full-time occupation in themselves. All under three years of age, the two eldest were more energetic than would have been acceptable in any society not actively engaged in World War III. The youngest (just ten months old) was still unable to move around due to a birth defect. In fact, this little baby was in need of constant supervision and therapy, having been diagnosed at birth with suspected hydrocephalus. Day after day, he lay motionless on a blanket, with his enormous, oversized head anchoring him to his square foot of the world. The weight of his skull prevented him from sitting up, crawling or even undertaking any activity normal for a baby of his age.

My ability to handle the pressure was waning as my self-confidence became eroded. My husband’s philandering had lately included some disconcerting flirtations with the schoolgirls at the pool. Whilst at the same time claiming to these girls that he was much younger than he really was, he delighted in firing constant jibes at my appearance, my behaviour and my nature. I had already succumbed to the surgeon’s knife some months earlier when I underwent rather drastic cosmetic facial surgery in a feeble attempt to comply with Richard’s idea of what was attractive and what was not. This was an attempt to eliminate at least one area of his disapproval of me. Having never experienced a relationship in which I felt I had any value, I accepted this treatment of me as my due. As the criticism continued over my body, my personality, my capabilities and anything else that laid open my sensitive core, my inner self became so raw that anyone or anything touching me caused me unbearable pain. I was afraid and alone, with no way out and no apparent way to continue.

The last week in which I had planned my escape was fraught with danger. I had been Richard’s prisoner for so long that he had become over-confident and, as he toyed with me like a cat with a mouse, I played along, giving no indication that my flight was imminent. I recalled the confident smirk on his face when, some weeks earlier, during a particularly torrid argument, I begged him to let us separate with as little upheaval as possible. He sat on the arm of the sofa with a glass of scotch in his hand (and quite a few under his belt), drooling like a crazed animal playing with its prey. I sobbed as I pleaded for my freedom and that of my children. He had jeered at my feeble and childish attempts to extract an answer from him as to what was wrong with me. (It never occurred to me that there could be something wrong with him!) The frustration I was feeling at not being able to reach him, or alter his feelings for me, was so obvious that he amused himself almost daily with the game.

Fate had dealt a number of wild cards into my hand in those last weeks that were also to have a bearing on my ultimate decision to go. The first came when I attended a country-swimming meet with my swimming squad. These meets were a regular occurrence, and I had no need to suspect that this particular one would be any more eventful than any other.

A colleague introduced me to a fellow coach, and it was with a good deal of amusement that we realised that he had been one of my idols during my years as a young swimmer. I had followed his career fervently at a time when he was an Olympic medallist, and I was still coming up through the ranks. This man had noticed me at the side of the pool and asked for an introduction to me. The irony of the situation amused me somewhat as I recalled that our previous encounters consisted of hastily scribbled autographs or a short word of encouragement, and it would have been I who would have been delighted to have an introduction to him. Here I was, face-to-face with a childhood idol with whom I was now on a level professional playing field and who was now seeking my attention. Such a chance meeting at a time in my life when I was feeling so unattractive took on much greater importance than it normally would have.

Over the next months, I spent many hours at the meets reliving old times and sharing memories from our younger days. It was so long since I had been spoken to with anything but contempt that I treasured those times greatly. They provided some relief from the torment I was enduring at home. With typical small-town mentality, the tongues of the town’s gossips began to wag. Those with most to say, ironically, seemed oblivious to the unsavoury relationships that had developed between my predatory husband and their own flirtatious daughters!

The second incident that was to help instigate my departure was also to involve a chance encounter with someone from my past. Out of the blue, a childhood friend from my old church had contacted me. Now a freelance journalist, he had wanted to interview me for an upcoming magazine story he was writing. After the publication of the story, he called back to thank me for my contribution. As Richard walked through the house and saw me speaking on the telephone, he reached out, pressed the button and disconnected my call. Then, after pushing me to the floor, he proceeded down the hallway, chuckling as he went, reminding me that it was he who would decide when and to whom I spoke.

The resentment inside me was growing daily, and as he disappeared from sight into the bedroom, I picked myself up, dialled my friend’s number and continued my conversation. Somewhere in those few moments, I had somehow regained some of the power I had been handing over to my tormentor so willingly. Inside me, something stirred ……… perhaps a survival instinct, long ago buried amid all the emotional garbage of my past.

As the violence escalated, so my dreams of being free to live alone with my boys began to formulate. Almost daily, we engaged in an endless game. I would beg Richard to let me go, but he would flex his emotional muscle by refusing while at the same time saying he no longer wanted me to be his wife. He taunted me further by saying, but if you want to go, then go! On one particular evening, as he attempted once again to provoke me this way, I seized the opportunity to ask him if he would consider leaving the house. I cited the ease with which a man alone could find accommodation and the difficulty a woman with three small babies would have doing the same as reasons for my proposition.

"I’ll never leave my house!" he roared with such ferocity that I was left with no doubt as to his intentions. The price of freedom would be high, but whatever it was, the time had come to pay. When he assaulted me during one of his drunken bouts some nights later, the last vestige of whatever had tied me to the situation disappeared. Now the reasons for staying with him, the home, the farm, the animals, the personal possessions, and even the duties and responsibilities of my life, were gone. Instead, I drifted, not anchored to anything except my children, and was ready to catch the wind to some other life.

I mentally tied each of the boys to me with a life rope and waited. They alone meant everything to me. Richard had made a grave miscalculation. His arrogance had led him to believe that I would never attempt to leave with three such small children, and his game was to keep me around for his own sadistic purpose. The emotional and physical abuse continued.

In the Doctor’s surgery on the morning following a particularly nasty drunken attack, I had my injuries verified and noted. I now listened as the Doctor urged me to consider what effect this was all having on my boys. He requested that I contemplate leaving the marriage for all our sakes and endeavoured to instil in me some confidence, pointing out that this change was not only possible but preferable to the possibilities that lay ahead if I stayed.

Any money I had earned from coaching had been placed into a joint account and dissipated by Richard, and I had no other income at all. Part of the power play was to keep me dependent on him for everything the children and I needed. Carefully I began to look for opportunities - $2.00 here and $5.00 there - nothing that would be missed or alert him. There was an unexpected bonus when a visit from my parents one weekend resulted in my father pressing some money into my palm as he left. Deep in my spirit, I took this as a tacit confirmation that my plan was on track. I was astonished as no one knew anything of my plans, and I had kept it that way lest someone should unintentionally let a careless word or action forewarn Richard of my impending escape.

With some effort and ingenuity, I finally amassed what, to me, was a small fortune. I phoned a removalist and made plans for the following day. Almost as soon as Richard had left the next morning, the truck drove up and taking only what I felt I could move quickly; I finally bundled my three babies into the front seat of my old van. Then, slowly following the removal truck, I left for the nearest big town. I knew I would never return and refused to even cast a backward glance towards my home. I wept for my lost dreams and all that I was leaving. Still, as the three little bodies snuggled next to me and displayed the trust they had in me, obvious in their unsuspecting eyes, I felt an overwhelming sense of freshness move inside my spirit and a comfort in knowing that I was about to have the opportunity to wipe out my past mistakes and begin again.

As is the case with most impulsive moves one makes in life, the lack of planning was about to cause me some serious problems, not the least of which was how I was going to care for myself and the children once I arrived in a strange town. Before the afternoon was over and with the help of the sympathetic removalist, who had wasted no time in figuring out that he had become a co-conspirator in my escape, I had found an old but neat little brick cottage that the owner was willing to rent until such time as he found a buyer for it. Because I had not been able to take any large items with me (such as the refrigerator etc.), the move itself was relatively quick, and it was not long before we were installed under our new roof, the boys treating the whole episode like some exciting adventure.

As night fell and the boys crawled beneath the covers and happily fell asleep, an old enemy came to keep me company. The fear I thought I had left behind had returned. At first, I didn’t recognise it, confident as I was that I had left all the ghosts behind me. However, it soon became apparent that they had followed me disguised as other monsters. With no electricity connected (yet one example of my poor planning and hurried exit) and no food in the house, I was at least grateful that the children had all fallen asleep long before. The house was full of unfamiliar noises. With no illumination other than a slim flash of light from the occasional car headlights of passing traffic outside, I had no way of comforting myself with a book or a radio. An involuntary shiver ran through my body, and I pulled an old coat over my body and face, curled up in a tight ball and lay still in my cocoon. Tears began to form and slowly washed down my cheeks. I let them, as my mind began to plea, Please God, if you are there, please help me ……. please.

When the sunlight streamed through the window the next morning, it, combined with the laughter of my three small charges, gently woke me and reminded me that I was alive. Alive ………. and free!

It had already become apparent that the first thing I must attend to would be the obvious existence of three hungry stomachs. Having lived on a farm with a constant supply of eggs and milk, I was now acutely aware that the backyard was no longer my supermarket. The baby would be in need of milk soon, his good nature having been sorely tested by a missed meal already, and the other two would start protesting as soon as the novelty of waking in a strange house wore off. I dressed us all, lifted the baby into my arms and with instructions to each of the others to hold tight to the leg of my jeans, one each side, we ventured out into the unfamiliar street to search for a store. Having found one just a few blocks from the house, I made my first discovery about just what little inconveniences were about to become a part of my life. With two toddlers walking beside me and requiring my constant attention crossing roads etc, and one handicapped and difficult-to-carry baby in my arms, there would be no way I could manage anything but two or three items when I went to the store. I made a mental note ….. the rule would be buy little and often.

Upon arriving home, I discovered yet another annoyance. With no refrigerator, the milk and butter were not going to last long in the heat of a N.S.W. summer, and with the baby still needing bottles of milk, I was going to have to think of some way to overcome this problem. I decided to fill the sink with water from the cold tap (even though it could have been better described as cool) and sat the butter and milk in the stainless-steel cavity, changing the water every half hour or so. This was my arrangement for the next three months until, eventually, I was able to afford an ancient-looking appliance from the local charity op-shop. Those three months have made me feel, to this very day, a great reverence (usually only reserved for religious deities) whenever I open a refrigerator door!

Within the next week, I secured a part-time job coaching swimming at the local pool, had the electricity connected and learned to change a light bulb. No one achievement stood out as being any more worthwhile or important than the others. I had not yet been able to rid myself of the feelings that become a part of a person when one has been abused. It’s a strange thing when one has become so used to abuse that one misses it when it is gone. Perhaps it could be likened to the phantom pains experienced by an amputee.

The boys made the situation bearable by making it almost impossible. The job of feeding and nurturing three small children, working and keeping house as well, gave me no time to consider what was ahead, and for that, at least, I was more than grateful.

Some days had passed before I mustered the courage to call Richard and tell him my new address. The fear at having to make the call proved unfounded, and I was astonished to hear his voice at the end of the telephone calmly repeat the address after me and tell me that he would be around the next Saturday to take the boys out if it was all right by me. So relieved was I that there had been no admonishment or recriminations over my leaving (in fact, there was no mention of it, and everything seemed so normal) that I eagerly, and childishly perhaps, jumped to the conclusion that Richard must have had a change of heart over his prior treatment of me. The anticipation of his arrival, however, was fruitless.

Saturday came and went, and with the children dressed in their best clothes, eagerly looking forward to a day out and me being caught up in their excitement, which is so often the case when one is in the company of young children, the sun had set before I was finally able to admit to myself that he was not coming. Since we had left our home, not one of the boys had mentioned Richard or asked of his whereabouts (behaviour quite normal for children their age who are bonded to each other so closely), so I had thought it prudent not to tell them what their outing would entail or who would be accompanying them. Thus, as the disappointment became a reality on Saturday evening, I became painfully aware that, in the children’s eyes at least, I was to carry the full responsibility for disappointing them. I was to find that it is a loathsome burden that many single mothers’ bear and one that is extremely unjust.

The following week I phoned again. Richard’s cheery voice belied the fact that anything had gone wrong, and he had no explanation for his failure to show other than the fact that he had other things to do. I tried to impress on him the importance of keeping in touch with the children regardless of any ill feeling that existed between us, and he agreed that it was his intention to do so. We made arrangements for the following Saturday.

Though I had convinced myself that there would be a repeat performance of his irresponsibility, it proved unjustified. Saturday morning arrived, and so did Richard. The boys were pleased to see him, and I was relieved as I waved goodbye and watched their happy faces drive away.

At first, the relief of at last having some time alone was immense. I hardly knew what to do as I found myself able to achieve my chores in half the time it usually took. Richard had promised to return the children by 4:00 p.m.. As the afternoon progressed, I found myself eagerly looking at the clock every few minutes wishing the minutes away, my new-found freedom no longer appreciated. The agreed time came and went, and by half past four, I was feeling rather let down and irritated that the boys were not home. How I missed them. It is a strange phenomenon, as yet unexplained by the greatest scientific minds in the world, that a mother can spend every waking moment wishing she had a free moment away from her child or her children, then, the moment they are gone she is feeling as if her most vital part is missing and wishing her little one was back with her. As 5:00 p.m. approached, I had passed the stage of being slightly irritated and had now begun to feel quite angry.

With the three boys all under three years, and the youngest still requiring nappies and bottles, I knew that the supplies I had packed would be running out, and the little ones would be well and truly tired and cranky when they did arrive. I thought how much more palatable the situation would be in the future if Richard would just be a little cooperative. I sat, watching the clock tick away, and with each minute, my mind played out a different scenario. I wondered what could have gone wrong, car crashes, drownings and lost children all becoming part of the scene.

It was 6:00 p.m., and I had become frantic. Where were they? Then, as I sat quietly weeping and wondering about my little family, a new thought emerged, one that, until now, I had never even contemplated. What if Richard had taken the children and had no intention of returning them to me? What if I had seen them for the last time? Panic began to take over. I began to prowl like a lioness in her cage from room to room, performing useless tasks. I pulled the sheets down on their primitively make-do beds; then, as I convinced myself that they were not returning, I would return to their room only to pull the sheets back up as if there was no chance of them sleeping there again. My tears were now accompanied by loud sobs, and all other emotions had given way to anger.

By 7:00 p.m. I had all but convinced myself that I would never see my children again, and I was now carefully planning in my own mind what I was going to do. There remained no alternative other than to go to the police and report the matter. Still, I was not knowledgeable about matters pertaining to domestic situations such as this and was afraid that the police would tell me that Richard had every right to take his children. Whilst having a lengthy argument with myself mentally, I suddenly heard a noise at the front door. I raced down the hallway and flung open the door, only to see Richard standing there alone. I looked past him anxiously.

Where are the boys? I demanded.

In the car! He seemed surprised at my tone. They’re all asleep.

Have you any idea what time it is? I was just about to call the police! I was shouting and crying, unable to disguise my relief or my anger.

"You bloody bitch! That’s typical …... just what I would expect from you. They’re my kids, and I will keep them out as long as I want." He fumed, negating any recognition that three and more hours late in any situation, let alone this one, would be