LIVING HISTORY

Today marks the 20th Anniversary of the death of a remarkable and much loved lady ... my Mum. 

I miss her today so much as a valued part of my life. To me, she was more than a mother. I knew her as a Playmate, my Best Friend, a Woman, a Visionary, my Soulmate. As a child, she widened the boundaries of my world, injecting a powerful concoction of dreams and imagination whereby ordinary objects became something very wonderful and magical, leading me to write stories from an early age. In later years, we talked and shared about anything and everything. We'd swap clothes, go on holidays together or have weekends away. They are times I treasure today as I remember. It is from her I drew my inspiration and my strength, as well as a firm faith in God. We spent her final ten years writing a book about her wartime fiance, made up of her diaries as a young girl, and letters shared between herself and Special Operator Flt/Lt Henry Victor Vinnell, known as Vic, before his untimely death on 27 November 1944 alongside the man who was to have been Best Man at their wedding a short while on, Canadian Pilot Flt/Lt Jack Fisher. They were flying their usual aircraft Mosquito DK292, affectionately known as 'N for Nina'. There is still a mystery surrounding their death and the operation they were on at the time. Both in their early twenties, they served at RAF Foulsham in 192 Squadron, RAF 100 (Bomber Support) Group, Bomber Command - a secret Group of Squadrons based on airfields in Norfolk, UK. Their prime task was to identify and jam enemy Radar; but they also worked with the Resistance, Bletchley Park, SOE and SOD, picking up and dropping agents into enemy-occupied territory. It is Mum's wartime story which led us to become founding members of the RAF 100 Group Association of which today I am proud and privileged to be worldwide Secretary, for the past twenty-five years working with veterans and their families.

 

Anyone wishing to read my mother's wartime experiences and learn more about the special love shared between Nina and Vic can obtain a signed copy on receipt of £12.00 + pp. I now only have a certain number of copies left of the original publication as I am in the process of having their story re-published under a different publisher for the future, with additional information.

Both Nina and Vic will continue to be remembered as their names are spoken during our annual RAF 100 Group Reunions in Norfolk alongside that of Canadian Pilot Jack Fisher, Vic's friend and Pilot who was to be Best Man at their wedding a few days on. They remain part of a worldwide Association of kindred spirits which continues to grow as younger generations join, with members in daily contact. Mum would have loved the very real connection we enjoy with one another.

What actually gave rise to this writing today, written in memory of Mum, is that completely out of the blue, when at a particularly low ebb on 19 July, the day on which, last year, I read my now ex-husband Tony's email telling me he had another life in London and would never be coming home; a miracle occurred. Someone was reading my blog, in particular the piece I wrote about my two great uncles, Will and Arthur, brothers killed in WWI. She felt compelled to write to me, and in doing so, opened an unexpected door into the past. She is the daughter of my maternal grandmother's youngest sister. For the next few hours it was an absolute delight to follow in the footsteps of those who had gone before, sharing stories of a past age. She completely turned my day around, chasing the shadows away, and we continue to correspond several times a day.

Thank you, dearest Celia, my now sister-cousin! xxx

WEB OF DECEIT

 Copyright: Janine Harrington

Mr B. lives with his wife in a sleepy little village in the north of the country. He travels south to work, staying away from home, arriving back at the end of the working week. At first, it is a three day week, and the time he spends with his wife therefore like a long weekend. However, work commitments change. Soon, he is away all week, returning late Friday evening, his mind distracted by mobile and laptop which dominate his life; before travelling back early Sunday morning, leaving just one precious day to spend together. She is alone most of the time. But he doesn't seem to mind. He says it's the way his life has always been, she has to get used to it. At first, he would take her out to dinner to celebrate their 'Togetherness'. But this changes over time, until the one day she has to look forward to is spent catching up on chores, her disabilities making it difficult for her to do some things in his absence. His wife loves him with all her heart. She believes in him, trusts him implicitly, hiding nothing from him, open and honest about her feelings, willing to put up with absence and hardship because this is her Soulmate, someone she will be with for the rest of her days. This is a very different world to relationships she has experienced previously which have always ended in pain. She cherishes the time spent together all the more because of the past.

Mr B. also has a young lady in the south who he is infatuated with, and who dominates his thoughts. He also has a house from which he commutes to work. More and more he is able to spend time with her ... but still he craves more. Somehow it isn't enough. He buys new furniture for a house which will become their home, spending less and less on his wife in the north. Work is like a pastime, a hobby, he enjoys it so much. He is a quick learner, a team leader, and he has time to think and plan, moving people around like pieces on a chess board. He pledges allegiance to both women, unable to give either one up. One is his wife, the other his Mistress. He knows inevitably one will undoubtedly usurp the other. In the meantime, he has to be careful. There are appointments to keep in the north as well as the south. He is careful to keep finances secret, paperwork hidden, any trace of either life hidden from the other.

Mr B. is living a lie. Someone is going to get hurt. And it's unlikely to be him ... because he is The Controller.

Can a man live two parallel lives?

The answer has to be a resounding 'Yes'!

But then again, isn't true love about giving all of your Self to one person? Doesn't loving someone also include trust, loyalty, honesty, respect, care, understanding, support, concern ... and so much more? There is definitely no room for deception and lies.

Shame on the man who makes this his way of life!

I say again: Someone is going to get seriously hurt. More than that ... their heart will be broken. The long-term effects devastating. The consequences of such action damaging beyond repair. It can even lead to death. Since the birth of the website Ashley Maddison, there have been suicides of wives whose husbands have secretly been having elicit affairs. I understand as I write this, that because of the devastation caused, the website has been banned in Australia. It is a subject which really is serious.

So how does it work?

It's a question which has been plaguing me for the past year.

So ... you meet Mr. B. and share a meal together. At first, you want to take everything he appears to be at face value. He's putting on the charm, the kind of image that draws you in, and which, let's face it, is attractive. You talk, share, ask questions, respond in kind, and if you are older, exchange past baggage, or at least as much as you feel is appropriate at the time. If you've been hurt in the past then you're going to tread careful. You'll want evidence of what he says, if you're prudent and don't want to risk being hurt again. You need to know he's kosher. That everything he tells you is true and checks out. If he's older, maybe he's been married before ... once, twice, maybe even three times. It happens.

If this is the case, it's vital to know how those past lives panned out.

Remember, there is HIS truth. There is HER truth. Then there is THE truth!!

No, it doesn't have to happen all on that first meet. But it's important to bear in mind that often we hear what we want to hear, what we need to hear, because already we're smitten. Love can creep up on us unawares. Before we know it, we're sucked in, and it's all the harder to dig ourselves out without getting hurt if the time comes. But there's that old adage which keeps creeping into our subconscious: 'once bitten, twice shy'. Somehow, we have to be sure. But how? It's not like we get to look in a crystal ball and see the past the way it was. All we have is his word, first impressions, day-to-day experiences shared. Okay, so he talks the talk, walks the walk. Past marriage(s) failed because of  'affairs'. On his wife's part, that is ... she went off with the accountant ... the neighbour ... the boss. Or else something went wrong with living arrangements ... she bought a dog he didn't like and without his permission. Ah! She almost caused him to have a car accident because he couldn't sleep at night with the TV blaring. There's a familiar theme already emerging in the telling if we dare but stop a moment to look and recognise the sign of someone unwilling to accept blame or responsibility, or admit to any kind of failure, much less trying to put things right, talking and sharing differences and situations ... isn't there? So, what did he do in response? He walked away leaving her the house. Sounds fair enough ... unless you consider how she might pay the mortgage, whether she worked, and if he paid a settlement figure enough for her to get her life back on track. Then again, who divorced who? How can we be sure? Children? Strange if they're not in contact. Yes, of course he paid maintenance. What kind of man would we think he is otherwise! And yes, his life has been nomadic, with no real permanency. How could it be any other way when he has to be where the work is ... don't you know contractors live in B&B anywhere in the UK, sometimes abroad!!

In our case, first meetings happened while he was between contracts. He moved in, bringing belongings out of storage.

Life moved on.

Nine months out of work living off my savings, and finally a contract when we're travelling together, staying at a B&B. He leaves for work early morning, arriving back at night to share a meal. It's a different lifestyle, but quickly becomes a way of life, one I could assume would continue for the future. No worries with having the ability to work anywhere using a laptop. Besides, Home is time shared ... being together. It isn't really a place.

Trust builds. It feels like solid ground. Secrets are shared. Where would they hide anyway? The fact that he always uses 'techie stuff' is because he's that way inclined. Isn't it? Mobile phone is always on, always taking calls, texts, emails. Communication on the run. 'Crap text ...' becomes a common phrase used as texts pile in one on top of another in an evening. Just because you want to share quality time together is your need, not necessarily his. At least, that's what he says. 'Wouldn't it be boring if we were all the same?' becomes a favourite saying. And you take it to heart.

So when did that other life begin?

I still don't know.

I can't accept his explanation that he met her passing in the street ... their eyes met and ...

No! It doesn't sound true. Try walking down a street and catching someone's eye enough to say you've fallen for a stranger. You only have to try it to know just how impossible that actually is on the move, never mind seeing enough to form a relationship. Besides, how does the exchange of details happen?

Much more plausible is the fact they met online. Otherwise, why keep shutting down the computer late at night when I repeatedly ask when he's coming to bed? And later, why name the website in a text to me, telling me to take no notice of it being hacked on the news? His details got on there by mistake? I don't think so!! And then there's the name which unwittingly drops from his lips in talking to me ... both in sleep and awake. It isn't my name, nor a name I know. So it begs the question, how many women came before her? How many others were there who he might have met while saying he was attending an interview, or meeting someone from the car club? Easy done!

But let's step back, rewind time to when he's between contracts. Plenty of time to get bored being a workaholic, caught in the tedium of everyday life. 'Same old ... same old ...' Is that how it's always panned out for him in the past? Once life settles into a routine, that old familiar taste for pastures new leads his fingers to tap the keys onto dating websites, window shopping to begin with ... where's the harm? Then finding someone to meet, talk to, get to know, sending texts or emails in an evening while begrudgingly watching telly with the wife.

An engagement happened during a coffee break, if I remember correctly. 'Shall I put the ring on my finger?' 'Yes', he replied, somewhat distracted by what he was viewing on the computer. And that was it. No romantic proposal, down on one knee, no special moment in time. Then some way down the line came marriage. I managed all the arrangements. But then, was marriage enough to stop window shopping online, viewing other female faces? Why would it? It can so easily become habit-forming. Especially when it's already a part of someone's psyche! I signed all the papers to make the wedding happen. Now I ask myself the question: did he really want to get married, or was it something he went along with merely to keep the peace? There wasn't family attending on his side ... that's explained away. Yet, still one wonders. Questions are asked. Questions stick, like flies caught in a web. The wedding is a small affair. No onrush of emotion. He is almost emotionally detached. A short ceremony at Gretna, then he rips off the regalia my nephews have carefully decorated the car with to show off the newly-weds, and it's a mad dash down motorways to catch the ferry to France for a honeymoon at La Rochelle. I'm seasick during the crossing, so no fun there. And we've bunks to sleep in!! One week on, I'm wondering where the holiday went ... the romance ... the sense of magic, specialness, wonder ... love, when aimlessly we've walked down streets he's easily bored of, unable to understand it seems what they're doing there, how to enjoy a holiday, what it takes to make it special.

Home again, and life returns to become much the same as before. Nothing has changed ... or has it? Again, the question: 'When did his parallel life begin?' 'How long was it going on?'

Finally, the contract in London ... the one contract I didn't join him on. He didn't want me to.

A house in London suddenly comes into the equation. Or ... was it already there? Somehow, the impression was that he was staying in B&B. London rates? Prohibitive! But then, he's on a good wage. Where then does the money go? And more and more, why can't he come home?

Something is wrong.

It starts as a feeling. But then, because of past hurts, instinct kicks in, screaming at me from the inside out that something else is going on ... something I don't know. It's a warning! 'There's nothing wrong. It's all in your head. You're delusional. Paranoid. For God's sake, woman!' Oh, how much I want to believe that's true! To hang on to the dream. This is the Forever Man, right? For the rest of our days we'll be together, right?

Wrong!!

Because one fine day it's my birthday. He spends the day. But somehow it's become important to get everything done, in its place, like there's no tomorrow. Why can't the day be special? Why can't we go out for a meal? Celebrate?? And where's the usual 'Art Deco' card I love so much? Why is everything such a struggle, a stress? The following morning, early, he's gone ...

... out of my life ... stepping into someone else's dream ... someone who has been there awhile.

Simple really, when you know how.

It's the spaces that are filled with the other woman, not you. You feel because you're married he'll be faithful and true. You judge him by your own standards, especially when you've not been married long. You've looked for the obvious signs of something being wrong, but none are forthcoming. So you feel bad for even looking, guilty and upset you can ever imagine he might be cheating on you.

The email arrives two weeks on ... filling the spaces suddenly with images and colours you don't like, colours you remember too well from the past, images which remind you of lies, deceit, betrayal. The email tries to blame you. 'You pushed me into this ...' Was that in reference to the fact that, despite loving the place where I live which has been home before he ever came into my life; in a desperate bid to make things come right again between us, still sensing something was very wrong; I offered to move closer to his work? To save him driving long distances. To spend more quality time together. To have him home at night. To be there, able to do things for one another, with one another, especially over weekends, when couples come together.

Now reading that email one year on, that changed my life forever, it makes sense. 'You pushed me into this ...' In other words, he wasn't ready. His house in London was still being altered, furnished, fitted to his requirements. The needs of the other lady in his life were still being nurtured. She has a family? Yes, that would fit. So okay then, there were still things to be sorted. But my unexpected suggestion about moving, or at the very least, sharing B&B as we used to in the early days; made him suddenly panic. It shifted his focus onto his wife ... when it was now all about The Mistress. He wasn't ready to switch them around. That's why the sudden pressure from him to divorce, offering to pay all divorce costs, just to get it done.

Out with the old ... bring in the new!

But then, is this the way he's always lived his life?

I wonder.

Oh, and this doesn't only have to be a male-only psyche. Females do it too! They fall in love with the 'Honeymoon Period' ... the first flurry of feeling for another, when the world seems sweet and beautiful and everything's going their way. But when you're the one who ends up trashed, with a past you can't look back on without having everything smeared with lies, not knowing what to believe any more; a future where dreams are shattered, and a present you can't live with except on a moment-by-moment existence ... with days you can't see the point in living any more ...

... then look in the mirror, and you will see me, because that's where I am right now ...

One Year On!

Memories

Copyright: Janine Harrington

ONE MOMENT IN TIME

One moment in time was to define the lives of two young men and how they would be remembered forever. They were my great uncles. I never knew them. My maternal grandmother (Nanny) with whom I shared a close relationship, never spoke of them. Yet their photographs bear witness that they lived ... dying young before their time, soldiers serving their country during World War One.

William James Croman in Army uniform

WILLIAM JAMES CROMAN was Mary Ann (Carter) and Joseph Croman's eldest surviving son - their firstborn, James J. born on 22 January 1880, died (cause unknown) at the age of one year and ten months, on 19 November 1881. William was born on 9 May 1881, in the year his elder brother died.

Typical of the day, he was one of a large family, ten children together with 'six motherless children' who Mary and Joseph his parents 'adopted'. On 3 October 1908, at the age of 27, he married Eliza Healey and they had three children, one of whom died.

Will was a Railway Signalman living in Limehouse and working in the Bow district of London where, for extra income, he joined the Poplar & Stepney Rifles. Lance Corporal William James Croman was therefore already a soldier when war broke out in 1914. At 33 years old, he joined the 2/17th Battalion London Regiment in 1914/15 by his regimental number: 571685

After training, his Unit proceeded to France with the 60th (London) Division in June 1916 where he served in the trenches on Vimy Ridge until November that year when he moved with his battalion to Salonika. 

Here they remained until June 1917 when they were posted to Egypt and took part in the campaign in Palestine throughout the rest of that year, including the capture of Jerusalem.

Will is sitting in the wheelchair

However, in July 1917, Will was badly wounded and sent home to convalesce ... before being sent back into the fray to re-join his regiment in Egypt in 1918.

In May 1918, Will with his Unit returned to France where they joined the 30th Division to take part in the fourth Battle of Ypes in August - September, advancing across the Messines Ridge.

He was killed in action on 28 September 1918 when, on this day, the 2/17th Battalion London Regiment advanced from Wulverghem and captured Ontario Farm and the Kruistraat area, pushing on to the crest of the Messines Ridge near Wytschaete. Given his place of burial and its proximity to Wulverghem, it seems likely he was killed in the early phase or actual advance. 

He is buried in Dramoutre Military Cemetery in Heuvelland, West-Vlaanderen, Belgium.

Arthur Birkett Croman pre-war

ARTHUR BIRKETT CROMAN was the sixth son of Mary and Joseph Croman, my maternal grandmother Emily's younger brother. Born in Birkenhead on the Wirral where his family moved from London; he was named 'Birkett' after the head of a river, and educated at St John's, Birkenhead.

On leaving school, he became an apprentice printer by trade, and was 23 years old when war was declared, whereupon he enlisted in Liverpool and lived in Poulton. He was a wartime enlistee, becoming a Private in D Company, 21st Reserve Battalion, King's Liverpool Regiment; sometime in 1916, known by his regimental number: 52295.

On 4 January 1916, he married Florence Louise Liggett at St Michael's Church, Liverpool, and lived at Sherlock Lane, Wallasey, 58 Limekiln Lane Poulton, and Beresford Rd, Dingle, Liverpool.

Arthur & Flo's Wedding, 1916

On 22 July 1916 Arthur was wounded. Nothing further is known either about his injuries, or whether he was deemed unfit enough to return home to convalesce.

What we do know is that he went on to be posted overseas in 1917 where he joined the 9th Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers, part of 19th (Western) Division. He served with them in the Ypres Salient and took part in the Battle of Messines in June 1917. By July, his battalion were holding the trenches on the eastern side of the Messines Ridge, opposite the village of Hollebeke.

It was here that he was killed in action on 19 July 1917, on the day his battalion were in the process of being relieved after several days in the line. It is said that an Officer had been speaking with him just moments before a shell burst into his trench.

He is buried in Oosttaverne Wood Cemetery.

Extract from local paper announcing his death

Both Will and Arthur were ordinary people living in extraordinary times!

Their full story was shared initially in my book: 'Brothers'.

However, with the last copy in this format now sold - although a few secondhand copies may still be available through Amazon - their story is now featured in: 'High Wood' published by FeedARead.com available either direct from their website, or from Amazon.

We WILL remember them!

LANGUAGE OF LOVE

Copyright: Janine Harrington

A small pebble is thrown into a still small pool. Ripples emanate from where the pebble entered, before it falls to the bottom and is lost to sight. For a while, the waters carry that sense of disturbance, remaining restless, uneasy, slow to return to the tranquil scene of which it was once a part. Finally, a seeming peace returns. The picture of light playing among the shadows makes it surreal as sunlight touches the waters making it glint and sparkle and shine. While the pebble lies on the bottom creating uneven ground, a lasting reminder of a disturbance in an otherwise unblemished, tranquil scene.

It can be like that in Life.

Every action has a consequence.

Something happens, and like the stone, it can lie heavy on our soul.

I was sexually abused as a young child. I know I survived because my body protected itself, withdrawing, pulling the event in deep ... hiding it so deep not even I could find it, or was even aware it was there. Like the stone, it sat on the seabed of my soul, weighing heavier through the years as abuse continued on. I was four years old when it began. A small disabled child. An innocent. Naive and vulnerable, I trusted the specialist I needed to see three times a week at hospital. He was the first man to betray my trust. Aged fourteen years old, I went on strike, vowing never to return to the hospital after five unsuccessful operations which I believed were punishment for trying to make my secret known. All I could say aged six was: 'The doctor hurts me ...' As a child, I didn't have the words to describe what was happening to me, especially the devious way it was done. All I carried were the feelings of which I could make no sense at all. Yet my fingers had to be prised from the dark green railings outside by orderlies instructed to bring me in. I was obviously afraid, haunted by nightmares which made me scream at night.

The ripple effect!

However, despite putting a stop to the specialist, the abuse continued through my teens courtesy of a music teacher both at home and at school. In much the same way as the specialist, he never spoke of his crime. I was left only with implied threats, and the belief that I was somehow bad, that this was happening to me because there was something about me which was different, distasteful, pliable, and despite all attempts to be a good girl, brought up in a quiet tranquil suburb of society with loving parents; there was nevertheless something very wrong with me.

I was a good girl. Yet I must be bad otherwise why did bad things happen to me?

I couldn't work it out. It was the riddle that haunted my life.

Again, my body kicked in, protecting me from the effects of pedophile action. I had a twenty-year amnesic block. I couldn't remember childhood. Everyone told me I'd had a happy childhood. I believed them. Why would I suspect anything was wrong? Except that deep within me, I felt the weight of something which caused me to be physically sick at the colour of darkest green, panic attacks, bulimia, phobias. I had nightmares as well as daymares, seeing shadows, faceless people who came out of thin air, transposing themselves onto others. I self-harmed. I wanted to end my life. But why? I had no memory then of anything being wrong, or of what had happened to me. 

I became a battered wife. By then, it was all I was worth. I believed I needed to be punished, I deserved to be punished for the feelings I carried with me. A second marriage failed ... yet, in the very act of giving birth to my miracle child, the child I was told I could never have ... came distorted pieces of a puzzle I couldn't put together or make sense of. I was having flashbacks. In years that followed, like a rabbit caught in the glare of a car's headlamps, I would suddenly be brought up short, stopped in my tracks by pictures entering my mind. They were triggered by everyday events, leaving me ill, deeply depressed, with feelings of dread, as if I had to do something I didn't want to do but must, something very confusing and bad, and which left me absolutely frazzled. Slowly, through the years, with the help of a clinical psychologist and years of therapy, I took back the life that was lost, tracking back through time, using a time-line to dredge the bed of memories, reclaiming what was mine, restoring sanity and reason, bringing balance back into my world. The gift of love ultimately came, I believed, in my marriage to Tony on 20 September 2013. I thought he accepted me just as I am. No more secrets. No more pretending or barriers or demons I had yet to face. I could talk and share about anything, and for the first time in my life I felt free of the past ... of pain. It therefore came as a greater shock when, in July last year, he sent me an email to say he was never coming home. He had been leading a double life, had a home in London with someone else. The years peeled back, like layers of sticking plasters coming away from a still raw open wound, and again I felt ... bad. My trust betrayed. I collapsed and had a breakdown. I couldn't look back because every memory I had of our time together was tainted with deceit and lies. I had no future because I dare not dream. I lived a moment-to-moment existence.

Now Tony is getting married again. He has moved on. My past year has been a nightmare, but never mind the consequences of his actions, or the trauma of what he left behind. He is not the man I thought I knew. I was merely a pawn in someone else's game of Life.

The effect of a childhood trauma never goes away. It remains a lifetime sentence. Yes, we can learn strategies to manage our lives. We can put on different faces, make it seem as if we are fitting in with everyone else, adapting to the world around us as they would have us be. But like a pebble entering a pool, the effects can be more far reaching than we can ever know. While on the surface it appears the waters are once more clear and clean, refreshed, tranquil, sublime, beneath them lurks a deep dark secret which, as more and more pebbles enter the pool, they form a small mountain on the ground below, more weighty, more liable to cause problems for the future.

I shared with my parents my past childhood abuse when I was forty years old. My mother did everything she could to understand, to know, to realise what it meant in terms of living everyday life. We became soulmates, and she went on to become a Counsellor working alongside me, taking calls from pedophiles after we discovered that, once they share their secret addiction, they can no longer carry it through. Their fantasy is spoiled in the act of that sharing, and through sharing, they can for the long term seek the help they need before another child is hurt. Prevention is the key on both sides of the coin ... protecting by listening to abusers, protecting by teaching our children that saying 'No' is okay when we're asked to do something which makes us uncomfortable or we believe is wrong. Fathers however, can find it difficult to accept their child's abuse experience when they feel safe enough to share. In discovering they did not protect their daughter, they can become angry ... more than anything at themselves, but then even at their child for somehow 'allowing it to happen', lacking knowledge and understanding ... rather than with the abuser.

In adulthood, mindful of the ripple effect, I felt I had dealt with past experiences to the best of my ability. I know my triggers. I understand my pain and what was done to me. There are no more secrets hidden from me. I can manage them ... or so I thought. But then, suddenly something happened unexpectedly, completely dragging away the careful wrapping I have put in place. No time to put barriers in place to preventing myself sliding back into the still disquieted waters of the deep. Without warning, I am back in that point of childhood when my life turned upside down, and abuse and pain entered my innocent world. The ripple effect kicked in BIG TIME! I slid back into the womb on automatic reflex, the only place left of safety in a once more fragile world.

I don't know how else to describe what happened to me recently.

It has meant reminding myself that I am A1 normal for my experience ... but still I feel judged!!

There are thousands upon thousands of child sexual abuse survivors who will identify with these words, and understand exactly what I am saying. It doesn't need words. You are already right there with me on my journey. But then there are others who can never understand, and yet at the same time, I believed would be right there for me in my moments of pain ... reaching out ... hugging, holding, loving me, letting me know that I am safe and they are there for me no matter what, and more than anything else, that they accept me JUST THE WAY I AM.

I have sat with teenagers in places of their choosing, where they felt safe to disclose what happened to them, there for them as they reached out to be enfolded in a hug. I have held adults affected by the searing pain of past abuse still scarring their souls. I have held the hands of and listened to an aging great grandmother in her late eighties as she shared for the first time what was done to her as a child. The greatest gift of all is to love and to be loved whoever and however we are. So why is that so hard? How can someone simply turn their back and walk away, shutting the door behind them, unable or unwilling to deal with the pain of another, judging their behaviour over which they have no control? Why leave someone hurting when all they need is a hug, comfort, compassion? It doesn't matter that you don't understand or know the experience. All that really matters is comforting them through the experience, just being there, listening, learning from them ... beside them as a friend.

It is the language of love.

When we've had a bad experience in life, it is the response we fear from other people, especially those we love, those within our family. It is the reason children don't tell. What will happen? What will people think of us? What words can we use for the tsunami of emotion we feel inside? How can they ever understand what it feels like to be us? Questions keep coming, while we hold the dreadful, awful burning secret inside us, frantically putting up barriers so that no-one will know, fencing it in, somehow believing people will see the 'bad' that we feel must be leaking from us, making us feel ashamed, guilty, confused, upset, disillusioned, disgraced ... even though we are the victims of what someone else did to us.

If only the language of love was universal, one which everyone could use and understand from the inside out.

It isn't hard. The language of love, more than anything else, isn't about words. It uses body language ... a smile, a helping hand, a hug, being held and comforted, being listened to and simply allowing us to share knowing that compassion is right there between us.

I remain grateful to all those people who accept me today just the way I am.

I value both your friendship and your love.

Copyright: Janine Harrington

 

TRUTH CAN BE STRANGER THAN FICTION

Foulsham Church, courtesy Stuart Borlase, May 2016

The air was still, settled, calm ... and yet held a ripple of discontent. Who were these strangers entering its hallowed hall? Why had they come? What did they want?

The building was old, heavy with memories. It also held a sadness. Tears streaked its walls, imprinting the stone, leaving droplets of shadows marking the passage of Time.

Gently, reverently, we entered, stopping at the glass case where beneath its cover, a register of names caught my eye on the page of an open book. My hands reached to turn the pages back ... back ... back to a name which caught in my throat. 

Flt/Lt Henry Victor Vinnell.  

Vic!

Stationed on the airfield just down the road at RAF Foulsham he probably wandered in through these same doors, walked the same way we had come. His eyes would have been drawn to the same stained glass window up ahead, and he might well have sat on one of the wooden pews to pause and reflect on what he hoped would be. Deep in the pocket of his heart where fear lurked, was a name that had become his world. With no family to call his own, already she was so much more than the young WAAF he had fallen in love with and was soon to marry ... please God! Silly really, that this WAAF could be jealous of the aircraft in which he flew and all because he spent so many more nights with it than she. 'N for Nina', a Mosquito IV, numbered DK292. It would be waiting for him now, being prepped for an op.  He knew where he would preferred to be right now, and yet serving in the lead 192 Squadron under RAF 100 Group, Bomber Command, he was under orders. Until the war was over he was not a free man. But then they were already planning the wedding. He had the ring. Nina was his fiancee. Already his home was hers where they spent every Leave with her widowed mother. Soon, they would become Family, and they would look after and take good care of one another. Her mother, bless her, need never live in fear again. Their life would be almost complete ... almost ... because in time there would come children. And one day, he would return to this place and talk about his time here with them, teaching a new generation about the dangers of conflict and war. There must never be another. It had killed too many friends, colleagues, strangers, aircrew unable to save themselves when the enemy struck their aircraft high in the sky. This world needed to find its peace.

A shiver rippled the air.

Sitting in the front pew of the little village church I sensed suddenly I was not alone. A family entered through the door behind me. The lady wore a soft smile on her face, and she was looking at me with the eyes of someone who already knew my thoughts. As she approached, I stood up, and she introduced herself and I to her. Names. What were they but vessels filled with life, experience, knowledge, truths as yet unspoken. Somewhere in the far corner, children were playing. Her grandchildren. Her daughter stood off to one side. An onlooker. While her husband talked quietly to my companion Stuart. A stone mason, the man had run his hands gently over the ancient stones of the building, feeling its sadness, the pain of neglect, wishing he could heal its emotions. It was in a bad state of disrepair. The village, made up of few people, did their best. But this icon of history needed so much more to restore and give it back life.

Time stilled. It was as if everything around me was happening in slow motion. I felt caught in a place between past and present. The lady sat beside me, and suddenly I was enveloped with a huge wave of love, drowning me in tears. It reached deep into my soul while she stroked my neck, my back, holding me to her, reassuring me, telling me that those of the past were gathering round me, telling me it wasn't yet time for me to cross over, I still had so much more work to do. Knowing nothing about me, the words made little sense to her. She was simply the portal through which this message came. But it was nonetheless real ... heart-stoppingly real as I realised what her words meant. She said they were thanking me for keeping their memory alive, ensuring they never be forgotten, and yet still, my work was not yet done. This then was the message of the moment, the one, in truth, she had come so many miles to deliver from some other place ... beyond where we were right now.

Jacqui lives in Australia, not far from where my companion lives. Strange ... yet true. She and her family had travelled to Essex because her brother was dying. They needed to be there for him at the end. Assured he had time, their plan was to spend their days with him over the next few weeks, until finally, after he was gone, they would return home. But then, he passed sooner rather than later. They were caught off guard. Death isn't an exact science. It can creep up on us unawares. Suddenly, he was gone.

But then Jacqui suddenly knew she needed to be, not in Essex, but in Norfolk. She couldn't explain why. They had never been here before, yet somehow, that morning, they had been drawn to the church in Foulsham. More than Happenstance, it was a Meant-to-Be. We met. Our paths crossed and intertwined. And together we sat on the pew, talking and sharing as if we had known one another all our lives. Soulmates. In the time we shared, she felt so close, so vibrant, so filled with secrets and messages of hope, and the un-explainable fact was that she had come to pass on messages meant for me.

Vic and Jack his Canadian friend and pilot were close. I could feel them even as we sat together on the pew. A shaft of sunlight fell across the floor, for moments blocking sight of the door. I knew we weren't alone. Not just because there were other people ... her family, my companion ... waiting beyond. But again came this tsunami of emotion, great waves of love cradled me, urging me to speak their names aloud, to tell their stories, to write as I never had before.

The veil lifted. We had shared all there was to say. Our meeting was not about words, but something more ... something beyond words which even now I struggle to explain. But I know the way it was, and it reassured me.

I gave her a copy of the book Nina, my mother, and I had written together: 'Nina & Vic - A World War II Love Story' ... the book Vic had promised he would write once war was done. It was his passion to become an author. To tell the stories as I am doing now, of people he had known and who also had been a part of RAF 100 Group so that they be remembered in the wider world. I also gave her a copy of the weighty tome: 'RAF 100 Group - Kindred Spirits' which brings voices of different Squadrons under the Group together under the one cover, just as they had served under the umbrella of RAF 100 Group, Bomber Command, during the war. Then, walking away, down the path between grave stones, each a marker in Time of a life that had been lived with a story all its own; I became aware I was shaking, crying inside and out, filled with emotions beyond words, knowing my own journey was not yet done.

As we sat quiet in a corner of the local Inn, sharing experiences of what had happened, again I wondered whether Vic and Jack had sat here during precious moments away from duty. Did he come here, to this local haunt, perhaps with paper and pen in hand to write to his precious Nina, my mother? Or did he save moments he shared with her for times when he was alone? And on 26 November 1944, did he enter the church to say a prayer for God to keep him safe on that night's special operation, not knowing then it would be his last ... and that over seventy years on, the secret of where they went, what they were doing, why they were killed would remain unknown?

I can think now only of a young man, old before his time, just twenty-one years; wanting to reserve that most precious of days when ultimately he and his sweetheart would say their wedding vows, united before God, to spend the rest of their days together.

The future was theirs.

War snatched it away in a heartbeat.

One thing I do know for certain. That final word on his lips had to be: 'Nina ...' He loved her so much!

Foulsham Church gravestones, courtesy: Stuart Borlase, May 2016,

Graves, like markers,

map lives snuffed out before their time.

Set out in random Regiments

Standing on parade,

A permanent reminder

Of a country saved.

Next to each a stranger

With a story all his own

Buried deep within a field

A long long way from Home.

In the air around them

I feel their Spirit near

‘Remember how and where we died

and why we’re lying here.

Please do not forget us,

We didn’t die in vain.

Let our Life and Death have meaning;

One day we’ll meet again.’

Men who died in battle,

Brave boys who went to war,

Each and every one a Hero

Left … on a foreign shore.

Copyright: Janine Harrington