Southend U3A

February 2023

Witness - Anne Wilson

Despite the current trend for showing one’s feelings, we still do nothing but wave a hand in seemingly friendly acknowledgement of each other when we meet for our sporadic family meetings; our bodies seemingly resolutely determined never to come together and make contact. It’s an awkward, unnatural gesture, demonstrating a palpable wariness between us and I wonder if Mum ever notices: after all, my father has always had the reputation of being an affectionate, tactile person. If she does, she never comments on it. His image to the general public must remain unsullied.

If anything, I usually hold on to her a bit too long, clasping her to me as if I am trying to comfort her for some long-held slight that can never be righted. Does she know, I wonder, or does she just think I find her easier to deal with and therefore the one with whom I have a greater rapport?

I have no brothers and sisters, which I always find to be a two-edged sword. No competition, of course, either in an academic or emotional sense. What I lack, though, is that ability to be able to share secrets involving members of the family with family members; those traumatic incidents which are tacitly understood between siblings. No-one has ever been able to coax very much from me; at least since the ‘Sandra Incident.’ I reveal to them only what I want them to see. My father is responsible for that.

What people see is a well-adjusted person and they infer that’s a result of my upbringing. How lucky I am, think friends from dysfunctional families. A cuddly, stay-at-home mother, who kept house and loved nothing more than dabbling in her artistic pursuits. And such a jovial, loveable father. Someone who could always make my school friends laugh. He made Sandra laugh. Or so it seemed to me at the time. When I look back now, there was no real mirth in her eyes as we both got older. I shudder at my naivete.

Sandra was my best friend. I feel a sense of desolation speaking about her now in the past tense, as if she’s no longer alive. She probably is – but whatever life she’s now living, there’s no place for me in it. There was no sudden break between us and no recriminations uttered – just a gradual tailing off brought about by a failure on both our parts to broach a subject which was unthinkable.

Her visits to our home as a pre-teen were frequent and I think, although she valued me as a friend, there was the additional cachet of my being the daughter of a celebrity. My father in private was then – exactly as he is now – someone who affects an almost continual extension of his on-screen persona of affability. Someone who speaks to a child in almost the same way as he would an adult, but, if anything, with an added enthusiasm and involvement. This approach is greatly flattering when you’re growing up and even now I can visualise Sandra’s face at that stage of her life – beaming with pleasure that an adult was treating her like an equal. Not only an adult but a famous one.

When did things change? Was it the crossing of the bridge from childhood to puberty? We all have to make that leap and Sandra’s and mine occurred almost simultaneously. Perhaps she noticed subtle changes in me: I don’t know. I noticed them in her. She developed a slight sullenness and I could see that she started to draw away from me. I assumed she’d found herself a boyfriend: she certainly came to our home far less frequently, but, optimist that I was then, I thought it was a passing phase and that the closeness between us would soon return. It could never happen and that’s because of what I saw.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. It was a Summer’s evening and we were both having difficulty completing the homework we had been set. I managed to twist her arm to come back to the house so that we could attempt it together, but she seemed reluctant.

‘Will your mother be there?’ she asked.

I thought then it was a strange question and, instead of my curiosity being piqued, as perhaps it should have been, I felt mildly irritated.

‘Of course she’ll be there. She usually is.’

‘You’re lucky,’ replied Sandra, exhaling deeply. ‘Not many are in this day and age.’ She seemed relieved, which struck me as an odd reaction to a mundane question.

‘Why this concern for my mother?’ I asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘Nothing. No reason.’

We smiled at each other, holding each other’s glance, and for a few seconds it felt like old times.

The journey back from school was a short one. It was a joke between us that the walk down our gravelled pathway at home was the longest part. Even now we still have the family home I grew up in – another aspect of all this that fills me with unease whenever I visit in my adulthood.

To my surprise, my mother wasn’t there to greet us. I could see Sandra’s body stiffen as a familiar beaded figure loomed towards us.

‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked. ‘And why are you here?’

‘She won’t be long,’ he responded vaguely, not answering the question directly. ‘The rehearsal finished early so I drove back. You know I don’t like to be away from home too long.’ He prodded me in the arm playfully. ‘It’s alright with you, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it is,’ I replied with sincerity. ‘Look who I’ve got with me.’

‘Sandra!’ he exclaimed, his face lighting up. ‘I was beginning to think you’d deserted us.’

Sandra didn’t respond. I thought it was rude but then that had become par for the course with her.

Dad busied himself in his study whilst we fought a steadily losing battle of coming to grips with our homework. After about half an hour he popped his head round the door.

‘Do me a favour, will you sweetheart?’ he called out to me. ‘I’ve just had a text from Mum. She’s mislaid her car keys and wants you to drop the spare set off to her so she can go on from her class and visit Nana.’

My teenage resentment kicked in.

‘Oh, Dad. Can’t you go? You can take your car. I’ll have to walk.’

‘You poor old thing,’ he responded, contorting his face comically. ‘Come on. I’ve got paperwork I need to clear up.’

There was a pause, during which Sandra rose to her feet.

‘Come on, love,’ Dad pleaded again with me. ‘It’ll take you half an hour at the most, there and back.’

When I look back, I know I should have noticed Sandra’s agitation but when you’re young and selfish the resentment of being asked to do something you don’t want to do overrides all other considerations and I waved away her protestations. She sank down in her seat.

In hot weather I’ve usually found that one of the nicest parts of the day is early evening and so it was on that evening. After dropping off the spare keys, I sauntered back home nonchalantly, revelling in the slight breeze which had relieved the sultry daytime atmosphere. I opened the front door and made my way unannounced into the study, peering through the doorway.

There’s been no more defining moment in my life than the one I then witnessed for a few seconds. Initially, I couldn’t take in what I was seeing. My father had his back to me and was bending down over something. Or someone. I blinked. It was a person – a female – and he was fondling her whilst holding her face to his and kissing her passionately. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of the face. It was Sandra’s and in that instant I ‘saw’ everything – both literal and metaphoric. They didn’t see me – or at least I don’t think they did.

I bolted out of the room, ran into the back garden and leaned against a wall, breathing rapidly – my arms and hands tingling. It was the first of many panic attacks I was to endure in the succeeding years but a catalyst I could never admit to a counsellor. It would have finished my father’s career and, much more importantly to me, destroyed my mother. The worst thing to me – even more than the act itself – was the look on Sandra’s face. It wasn’t one of shock, or even revulsion, it was one of pure resignation as if this degradation was something she had endured many times before from the perpetrator. She was a fourteen year old girl.

I pulled myself together, went out through the back gate and made my return through the front door again ten minutes later. With a tremendous effort of willpower, I walked back in, to find Sandra sitting at the dining room table doing her homework. Her face was inscrutable. The incident was never mentioned again and to this day I don’t know whether she or my father ever saw me.

Rumour has it that, following allegations against Jimmy Savile, an investigation called Operation Yewtree has been set in place which, it has been predicted, will reveal other incidents involving minors suffering sexual abuse at the hands of well-known celebrities. I feel very apprehensive. Over thirty years have gone by since I witnessed my father’s sordid behaviour towards my own best friend when she was a schoolgirl and logic tells me that it won’t have been solely directed towards her. It will destroy his image, it will certainly destroy my mother and, equally as importantly, it will bring about a confrontation with Sandra that I don’t wish for.

I wish so much I hadn’t brought Sandra back that day. It gave my evil father a window of opportunity which I then witnessed for myself. Ignorance is often bliss.