The Social Worker

The Social Worker

Names and places have been changed. Some who played a part in this are not included, but in essence this is a true story.

Whatever I was expecting, Mrs Lauren wasn’t it. An older woman, well spoken, with not a hair out of place, wearing heels and a power suit, she didn’t fit my image of a typical social worker, whatever that was. The first time I saw her; I didn’t think she’d be much help.

***

A voice called from the half-open door where my favourite teacher Mrs Swanson was conferring with the school secretary.

“A quick word, Helen?”

I got up from the desk, dread rising from the pit of my stomach.

Had I done something wrong? I couldn’t think of anything – unless it was my turning up late to school a few times because of “difficulties at home” – a euphemism if there ever was one. You might have thought the form tutor would have been more understanding, but she decided to make an example of me by giving me detention and ordering me to put up stools in the classroom. I was seventeen and on top of everything else I was going through, it rankled. When I refused, she sent me to the Head of something or other to explain myself. The Head of something or other just gave me a blank look, and said I was not allowed to attend registration for a week or two.

At times, it was a wonder I turned up to school at all.

**

Her usual elegant self, Mrs Lauren was waiting for me in a big car. The school parking area was ominously silent.

She leant over to open the door. “Step inside, Helen.” Her voice was smooth like silk.

I got in, heart hammering.

“Things have rather come to a head, I’m afraid. As we expected they might.”

I put my head down. “Right.”

 “Don’t worry. A place has been found. Your mum will be waiting for you there… you'll be alright ”

Mrs L checked the mirror before sweeping out of the main school gates. As the car sped past familiar landmarks, I felt a weird combination of fear and nostalgia. Even the gasometer, hardly the most scenic feature, tugged at me – how long before I saw it again? I was constantly on the lookout, expecting my stepdad to spring from every corner. Surely, he was the last person I should be thinking of right now, but in spite of all the awful things that had happened since he’d married mum, part of me cared about him. I had to put a brake on my thoughts otherwise I’d never get through this.

**

When he was alive, my stepfather was a complex man. Tormented by things he never spoke about; he spent most of his days locked in turmoil. It was easier blaming my mother for everything that went wrong than seeking help. Terrified of losing control, he ruled every aspect of her life to the extent she was unable to go anywhere without his permission. If she tried to “escape” he used force. In effect, she became a prisoner in her own home. I saw her turn from a vibrant woman into a timid wreck. He also behaved in other ways I cannot write about.

Much as I abhorred my stepfather’s actions, he had another side. That side was charming and kind; intensely interested in other people. It is an understatement to say that his actions towards his own family left much to be desired. If only he’d been able to channel his energies in a positive way, our lives would have been very different.

***

Not surprisingly, the first time Mrs Lauren visited the family home after mum had called social services, the atmosphere was tense. The situation seemed and felt hopeless. I expected my stepfather to pull the wool over her eyes like he had with others, but there I underestimated her. Seemingly without effort, she managed to disarm him so that the next time she called, he was almost looking forward to seeing her if only so he could use the opportunity to “explain” how our family problems were nothing more than minor domestic matters, almost trivial really, with no need for social services to be involved at all. His wife had “overreacted” – a word he frequently applied to my mother’s “behaviour.” Others were “hysterical, emotional and highly strung.” He put on quite a show offering Mrs L endless cups of tea and homemade chicken soup. All the while, she listened politely, nodding and using expressions like “quite,” or “just so.”

Removing her mask of apparent affability as soon as he left the room, she’d turn into a powerhouse of support, asking us how we really were and what she could do to help.

***

Having been taken out of school in such a dramatic way, I found myself wanting the journey with Mrs L to last forever. Sitting next to her in the car was almost soothing. That way, I wouldn’t have to face whatever ordeal lay ahead. Sometimes it’s easier to stay with what you know even if it is horrendous. Eventually, after passing the high street of another town, we came to a road with a church at one end. As Mrs Lauren’s perfectly manicured hands steered into it, she said, “We’re almost there. But then of course, you’ll remember it from last time. We were lucky to get a place at such short notice.”

**

We had now drawn up outside a familiar suburban house. Apart from the hedge at the front, it looked much the same as the neighbouring houses – unless you happened to know it was a women’s refuge. I would later learn that the first Women’s Aid refuge in Britain opened its doors at Chiswick in 1971 to protect women from domestic violence and help them with the likely financial problems they would face after leaving abusive partners.

“Come on. I know you can be strong.” Mrs L guided me to a windowless front door where she announced her presence by rapping on the knocker a certain number of times, the secret code for admittance.

The heavy door was secured by two sturdy chains. Presently, a gap formed, and a pair of steely eyes peered out.

“Yeah?”

“Oh dear.” Raising her eyes, Mrs L explained who we were.

 “It’s not going to be easy finding you a room,” the owner of the steely eyes said, and I felt my heart sink along with my courage.

“Well, never mind that now,” Mrs L flung open the door to the front room. “Go and sit in there, Helen, while I sort things out with Janice. She runs things here now.”

“Janice is in the office with the new lady. She’s in a bit of a state,” the woman said sombrely.

Realising she was talking about my mum, I again wondered whether it would have been easier to have stayed put, but I knew I didn’t mean that.

**

Our arrival at the refuge had followed on from a terrible argument in which I’d tried to protect mum and had suffered the consequences. A few days later, Mum grabbed me when I got back from school.

“He’s just popped out. I don’t think I can go on much longer.” She was whispering and crying all at once.

 “Are you sure, mum?” It wasn’t the first time she’d spoken in this desperate way; even so, my mind leapfrogged at the idea of a better life. A life free from pain.

As he’d only briefly popped out and could return at any moment, we decided it was too risky to leave right then; there was no time to pack anything. Earlier Mum had given me some cash which I’d stashed away. “Have you any other money?” I asked her.

“I’ve put a bit aside – just in case. I’ve been in touch with Mrs Lauren when I was out shopping yesterday.”

“What did she say?”

“She said if things got too much to call her and she’d sort something out.”

My heart beat thick and fast. “Mum?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“It’s just I can’t face going through it all again if you aren’t.”

“I am.”

“You promise?”

She nodded furiously. “Yes.”

**

With the front room curtains permanently closed, there was an inevitable “us and them” feel to the refuge. In the front room, a flickering tv seemed to be kept permanently on with the volume turned down. I was more interested in the record player in the corner and soon discovered the teenagers of the house made great use of it.

Mum entered the room pale and trembling. I wanted to hug her, but it was difficult. However awful things had been at home, it was still home. Here, until we got settled, it was just displacement.

Mum couldn’t stop shaking, even though it was summertime.

“Mrs-L-said-she’d-collect-you.” She spoke like someone underwater which was how she’d been living her life for years. I struggled to remember when she’d last been happy.

“I hope I’ve done the right thing.” She kept repeating this over and over.

“Of course you’ve done the right thing.” What else could I say?

“He’ll have been in such a state when he got back from shopping and saw I was gone.” She was wracked by sobs.

“Why are you so worried about the state he’s in?” I asked angrily.

“I feel like I’ve betrayed him.”

I wasn’t going to admit I felt that way too. None of it made sense.

**

A friendly woman with colourful bangles breezed in, and placed a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table.”

“Hi, I’m Carol,” she said putting her arms round mum. “Cry it out, love. You’ll feel much better for it.” Then, she looked at me. “I know it’s not much fun in here with the curtains closed, but we had a bit of trouble the other night. We don’t want anyone peering in.”

I suddenly felt terribly thirsty.

“We ask the women not to say anything, but…” Carol smiled at mum. “How’s the tea?”

“The tea is fine, but I can’t manage anything else. This is my daughter, Helen, by the way.”

“Hi, Helen. Sorry, I should have got you a drink. If you go into the kitchen, you’ll find something. It’s at the end of the corridor. Last door on the left. There’s lemonade and coke in the fridge if you don’t fancy tea.”

**

There were no rooms available that first night, so I slept next to mum on makeshift cushions on the front room floor. It felt nice to be close. For once, there were no intrusions, no shouting, no disturbances. Just pure mother/daughter time together.

Bliss.

A few days later, a room became available when one of the women decided she was going to give her “old man another chance.” It had a nice view of a garden with trees, swings and a slide for children. We were lucky. People were queuing up to get a place here.

Gradually, I got to know the others in the refuge and began forming tenuous friendships. The women came from all walks of life. Some were friendly, others distant, all of them in pain. I wanted to permanently wrap my arms around a woman who told me she’d been repeatedly raped. I began to fear there were no good men out there, then remembered a male teacher who’d always been kind and professional —he’d helped me with my studies when things got tough, kept telling me not to give up.

Some of the women at the refuge said they hated men; one told me everything was fine until she and her partner “tied the knot.” Then it went downhill because he acted like he owned her. Some had relationships with other women that turned sour. A few had given up on relationships for good. All the talk, however justified, was distressing. It made me wonder how couples could ever make it work. How had it gone so wrong and could the violence ever be stopped?

Mrs L visited the refuge whenever she could. She and the refuge workers helped mum who was still extremely vulnerable, by arranging financial aid, dealing with the legal side of things, getting a court date sorted and the necessary restraining order.

One of the hardest things was sitting round the long table at the family court. My stepdad kept looking at me and my knees shook. How can you measure love and hate and all the bits in between? He had his solicitor present, as did mum.

What do you want to do? The judge asked.

All I’d ever wanted was a quiet life. To be with mum.

How do you feel about your dad?

How could I answer that? Strictly speaking, he wasn’t my dad (my real dad had died much earlier and my memories of him were hazy). It could all have been so different. I tried to answer truthfully. The truth was I cared about my stepdad. I just couldn’t stand the way he treated mum.

A few months later, me and mum returned home to start a life without him. He was staying in a hostel. He asked to see me, but I didn’t want to.

Gradually, mum’s confidence returned. I was surprised to see how well she managed what money she had and enjoyed her pleasure in buying a few bits for the home. When she threw out all the clutter that my stepfather had accumulated, it was like fresh shoots emerging from a light frost after a long hard winter. She talked of going back to work, something he’d put a stop to. I decorated my room, got my hair cut, and started inviting my friends round. One day Mrs L popped in to deliver sackfuls of clothing. Not horrible clothes, but nice fashionable ones. She smiled, watching me and mum laugh as we tried them on, pretending to be models on a runway.

For weeks the atmosphere was light, but then the familiar wavering returned. Mum talked of missing him.

**

One day while I was gazing out of the living room window, mum touched my shoulder.

“I’ve something to tell,” you said.

A chill passed through me when she refused to meet my eyes.

“I’ve asked him to come back.”

My heart froze but I forced myself to keep calm. “Why would you do that?”

“He says he’ll change. Try and do better.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He means it.”

“He said that last time, and it didn’t happen. Also…”

“What?”

“It’s just…. You’ve been doing so well. You’ve transformed the place. It’s lovely here now.”

“He says he misses us.”

“Why did you meet him? I thought the court order…”

“You’re too young to understand.”

“But he controls everything you do, and he hurts you if you disobey him. He wouldn’t even let you go out to the shops without his permission. You’ve made such progress.”

“He’s promised to get help.”

“He said that before. It didn’t last long, and he was back to his old self. You’ve made a life. It’ll be going backwards.”

“I’m sorry, Helen. I don’t expect you to understand. Maybe one day you will.”

“Mum! No!” I’d really believed she’d turned the corner in her way of thinking. Now, once again, the ground was shifting beneath me and the lifeline was being pulled away. How wrong could I have been?

“I’ve said he can come back next week.”

It felt like a dagger to my heart. I couldn’t see the view from the window for tears.

Somehow, I staggered into the small garden where I snagged my arm on a rose bush. Life had shrunk to a pinprick. Standing there, I knew if I was to have any chance of surviving, I’d have to find my own way. It would mean moving away for good, making my own life, and leaving mum behind. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but some day soon.

**

“Can I speak to Mrs Lauren?” In the months before I finally left home, things had once again reached a head. It took a while to get through to the right person in social services, but when I did, I was told she no longer worked there. I felt bereft. I’d so much wanted her advice and reassurance. Instead, wrapped in my own misery, I’d forgotten all about her imminent retirement.

Only now, many years later can I look back on those days with a semblance of understanding. I’ve long since learnt it can take years to recover from emotional and physical abuse, but Mrs Lauren’s help proved to be unexpectedly effective and came when it was most needed. An individual really can make all the difference to a young person’s life, be it a teacher, social worker, carer or friend, and that was what she did.

Some years after I left home, my stepdad became unwell and grew physically dependent on mum. She later told me how in his last years he’d mellowed, and their relationship had improved. By then, I was long gone so I never got to see it.

Altogether, Mum has indeed had a tough and traumatic life, although in many ways remains a remarkable and resilient person. She may have been downtrodden and deeply oppressed but at heart she’s a survivor. I now see she was unable to break free and was locked in a destructive cycle. She simply did not know how to live in a better way.

To anyone suffering from an abusive relationship, our minds and bodies deserve to be loved and respected. It is possible to break the cycle — providing you get help, although that may not always be easy. Sadly, violence in the home is very much alive and well, and for social, economic, and other reasons, not everyone is able to leave.