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kill you.’ I was in a daze as he was led away: the guilt and the self-blame had evaporated, so you’d think I would feel relief or satisfaction, or as if a great burden had been lifted off me. But I didn’t: I believed Dad when he said he would kill me.
    It took three years inside before Dad finally admitted what he’d done to me. And somewhere along the way he also got religion and claimed to be a changed man. It took a long time for my fear of him to subside. Even when Dad found God and understood what he’d done to me I still didn’t feel safe from him. As long as I could remember I’d pleaded with him not to hurt me and he had carried right on and abused me. Even when someone had stopped him they’d punished me by locking me up in Care. So how much faith was I ever going to have in either my father or the system itself?
    But for the moment I had to get on with my life. I was 16, out of Care and free, for the foreseeable future, of Dad. It was time to make up for lost years and missed education. I went to college.
    Gateshead College had been in existence (in one form or another) since the First World War. In 1955, Prince Philip cut the ribbon on the new, purpose-built campus premises on Durham Road. By the time I arrived it had grown into a busy and exciting place with four major departments and more than 200 staff. I was accepted to study for the National Nursery Examination Board (NNEB) exams. The NNEB diploma is the key to getting a job working with children – and I knew that was what I wanted to do. So every day I got on the bus from near Mum’s flat to spend all day studying at the college.
    And I loved it. I loved the subject, the theory, the practical work that went with it: I loved everything about it. But was I happy? Now that’s a whole other question.
     
     
    I’ve often looked back to that time and asked myself what went wrong. Generally I come up with a one-word answer: Steve. Steve isn’t his real name. Since he was largely the innocent party in what happened I don’t think it’s fair to identify him. I haven’t seen him for more than 15 years – who knows, he might be happily married by now, with a good job, a family and a decent life. I certainly hope so.
    Despite my success at college, my personal life was something of a mess. I was 16 and thought I knew everything the world had to throw at me. As a result, I was wild and out of control more nights than I care to remember. I’d grown up too fast and too hard. I’d been used to the attentions of older men – whether welcome or not – and if I felt ill at ease with myself well, that could usually be solved by a few nights out on the town with whoever was interested in buying the drinks.
    My poor mum despaired. I’d only just been returned to her after what seemed like a lifetime’s separation – first, through the abuse and then from being in Care. And now here was her precious little girl, the daughter to whom she had been so close, staying out till all hours of the night in the company of God knows who. Did she argue with me? You bet she did. Did I listen? Of course not.
    And so it was deeply ironic that it was through Mum that I met Steve.
    Steve was older than me – 10 years older, in fact. He was an engineer working in a local small business and I met him through Mum’s boyfriend. I’m not proud to admit that the reason I started seeing him was purely mercenary. He had a car, and to a frustrated, rebellious teenager sharing a small flat with her mum and sister (my brother had left home by this point) he represented hope and something I could otherwise only have dreamed of: freedom.
    I didn’t love Steve; that much is certain. And he didn’t love me. We got along well, had a good laugh and, like I say, he had a car. But we didn’t love each other.
    And then I discovered I was pregnant.
    I didn’t tell Steve, even though I knew he was the father. I may not have loved him but I’d definitely been faithful to him. By then I