Chapter 2

Ingrid Jameson;

I’ve only myself to blame for the position I found myself in. Where to start? Well, I’ll skate over my childhood and upbringing, which was unexceptional. I suppose I’d better say my parents were – sadly – very religious. The very worst aspects of Roman Catholicism. As a result, I was a very naive, innocent girl when I got to University. I managed to survive and graduated with a BA English, an upper second, still a virgin, would you believe? I got a job with a legal firm, secretary/receptionist, and found that I thoroughly enjoyed it. Moreover, I was good at it. I wouldn’t progress far, of course, without a law degree, but the partners liked me and complimented me on the research and administration I was able to do, so I was soon on a pretty good salary.

Still naive, though, and unsurprisingly I fell for a charming and attractive man, a little older than myself. I’m not quite sure how I found myself in bed with him. In retrospect, I think he had a little chemical assistance in seducing me, but I suppose I can’t complain about the orgasms he gave me – my first – and even losing my virginity wasn’t as unpleasant as I’d been led to believe. Soon enough I believed myself to be in love with him, and believed him when he talked about marriage. We – or perhaps he – didn’t get anywhere with that before I found myself pregnant. Again, that’s hardly surprising. I told him, of course. His response was, shall I say, muted. He actually suggested an abortion. I wouldn’t hear of that. We continued to see each other, but one day he didn’t turn up, and his phone number was ‘unobtainable’. I never saw him again, and the business he worked for said he’d left without a forwarding address.

My parents were horrified. When I refused to consider adoption, they cut me off and refused to have anything to do with me. Fortunately my employers were wonderful. They reassured me I was sure of a job with them and maternity leave was no problem. Indeed, they had a small creche for employees which would be available to me – two of the partners were married women, both with children. I took a deep breath and got on with my life. Timothy was born on time, eight pounds, with bright copper hair, much lighter than my own, and, you know? He was an absolute joy to me. We managed together pretty well and he started nursery school at three, just half days, of course, then infants’ at five. I started taking Tim to the park to play after school, sometimes with other Mums and their offspring.

An attractive man, only a little older than myself, passed the time of day with me as I watched Tim playing. As you’d expect, I was cautious, and it was several months before I actually agreed to a date. Child-minding was a minor issue, but a teenaged daughter of the senior partner solved that. Matters progressed. I took the precaution of getting birth control, an IUD, once bitten, twice shy. I well remembered the orgasms Tim’s father gave me. I missed them, enjoyed them at the time, but was well aware of how I’d lost control of my responses. Damian was polite, considerate and charming ... until I let him move in with us. It began gradually, but looking back I can see how he slowly began to belittle and dominate me. As for Tim, well, Damian had as little to do with my son as possible, and I can see now that Tim avoided him too. I’ve learned a bit about abusive relationships since, quite apart from my own experience. The abuse turned physical slowly, but culminated in a rage in which he attacked Tim and, when I intervened, beat the daylights out of me. Tim ran away, as you know. In a way I was pleased, but I know the poor lad felt guilty. What could he have done, though?

I lost consciousness quite early on – I didn’t even know Tim had gone – and Damian went on a rampage through the flat. There was almost nothing worth salvaging afterwards. Neighbours called the Police because of the uproar, but Damian had left by the time they got there. He’d left the door open. Actually, the frame was so badly damaged that the door wouldn’t have shut properly anyway, and they found me in the midst of the mess. They caught Damian as he’d become embroiled in a fracas in a bar a couple of miles away, so he was arrested for, I believe, ‘drunk and disorderly’ and ‘affray’, even before he was associated with the assault on me. The latter resulted in charges of Grievous Bodily Harm as well as Criminal Damage.

I wasn’t going to be able to return to my flat. That was going to need a lot of work before it was habitable, even were the landlord willing for me to return. I lost my deposit, my contents insurance paid up (eventually) for my losses, and the landlord didn’t lose out by much, if anything, in the end. The offer from Olaf ... Mister Andersen ... solved some of my problems, but of course I wondered about his motives. Even knowing that he’d been approved for the foster-care of my son, and the obvious positive relationship the two of them had formed, didn’t remove my trepidation. What was the alternative? A battered women’s hostel? He’d obviously looked after Tim – made a friend of him, in fact – and living in his house I’d be with Tim. Social Services would be keeping an eye on them.

I accepted the offer. I had to – apologetically – point out that I had no clothes fit to wear. Um ... Olaf ... I suppose I need to use his given name, since he’d offered it ... seemed to think he had an answer. At evening visiting, right at the end, I had a visitor I wasn’t expecting. A woman in Police uniform came to my bed.

“Good evening, Miss Jameson,” she smiled, holding out a hand. “I’m Wendy Richardson. I’m not here officially, in case you were wondering. Mister Andersen asked if I could help with getting you some clothes.”

Oh! Wow! I took a deep breath. “Thank you, um ... Wendy?”

“Wendy is fine, as I’m not on duty. Otherwise, if you want to be formal, it’s Constable Richardson.”

“I’m Ingrid.”

“Thank you, Ingrid. You might be interested to hear that your assailant is remanded in custody with a long list of serious charges, not least the attack on you.”

“Oh, thank you! I really was worried about him.” After a pause, I said, “I’m five foot five, about a thirty-five bust and thirty-six hips. My waist is about twenty-five. I usually wear a B cup, but mostly don’t need one. Is that enough?”

“If you don’t mind going without, it’s probably best you get a new bra when you’re out of hospital. I’ll get you some basic, decent-looking things. Your top is going to have to go over that cast on your right arm.”

“Oh ... yes, of course. Slacks. T-shirt?” she nodded and I continued, “A loose blouse, perhaps?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you so much. I don’t know how to say...”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’ll work out in the end. But Ingrid, I’ll just say, Mister Andersen strikes me as a good guy. Otherwise he wouldn’t have Tim with him, okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.” It was a relief to know that I’d have some clothes, and it was reassuring to hear that Wendy thought Olaf was a ‘good guy’.

My next visitor was Peter McCauliff, the Senior Partner of the legal practice. He reassured me of my job security, telling me to take as long as necessary to be fit and well.

“Emotionally as well as physically,” he emphasised. “And don’t worry about any legal expenses.”

I had another round of x-rays and scans, and the doctors agreed that I could leave on Saturday. The hospital contacted Olaf, who agreed to collect me. One of the nurses helped me to bathe, and washed my hair. That was such a relief! She took ages working out the tangles Friday evening during visiting. Fortunately there were no crises while she was doing that. My hair is dark red ... auburn ... and thick and wavy. I’m proud of it, pride which is probably an indication that I’m not a very good person. Perhaps that’s why I’ve got myself in such difficulties? But Saturday morning the same nurse – she’s called Eleanor – helped me dress. Slacks, a t-shirt under a loose blouse which we managed to get over the cast on my right arm, socks, and a pair of trainers on my feet. There was another bag with a skirt, another blouse and more undies, next to me as I sat in the day-room to wait for my ride. The television was on, but I never got into the various daytime programmes and I just sat, thinking.

I didn’t have to wait very long, though it felt like it. Tim saw me and rushed over to hug me. “Gently, darling!” I had to stop him squeezing me. “My ribs...”

He froze. “Oh, Mama! Sorry!”

“It’s okay, darling. Just don’t squeeze. I’d love a gentle hug.” And that’s what I got. Poor Tim was so careful! I got to my feet, though not without some aches and stiffness, and Tim took my hand.

“Come along then,” Olaf suggested. “I’ll carry that bag for you.”

He led the way to a carpark – I think it was about as far away from the entrance as it could be and still be in the hospital grounds – and to a faded red, elderly Fiat Panda, which was tucked in a corner about as far away as it could be.

“Sorry about the walk,” Olaf told me. “Parking is pretty dreadful, even in the morning, and this was the only space I could find. Do you want to sit in the back with Tim? You might find it a bit tricky to get in with your aches and pains?”

“You’re right,” I agreed, reluctantly. “I’d better sit in front. Sorry, Tim.”

“It’s okay.”

The little car was noisy and draughty, but Olaf drove it carefully and smoothly. We drove along a narrow lane and turned in to an entrance with a large five-barred gate. Olaf got out to open it, and Tim followed, but didn’t get back in when Olaf drove through, but rather closed it after us and ran after us. We stopped by a long, low building, but in front of another which had large, arched doors, one pair of which Olaf opened. Tim arrived as he did so, and opened my door for me and held it with a smile. When I got out, Tim pulled the bag with my extra things in out of the back.

“Mister Olaf’ll put the car in the garage,” he said. “It’s a bit tight where it’s got to go, so it’s easier if passengers get out first.” That had the sound of something Olaf had taught him.

“Isn’t there much room in that garage? It looks big.”

“One side is a workshop, and there’s a lot of... stuff... where the car goes.”

“I see.”

Olaf emerged from the building and locked the door. He walked over to us. “Welcome to ‘The Mews’,” he declaimed, grandly, waving at the building.

“Very posh,” I smiled in response.

“Not really. ‘Posh’ is on the other side of the fence,” he explained. “The mews is where the toffs kept their hawks. The falconer who looked after the birds lived there too.”