Hailey's Story--She Was an Eleven-Year-Old Child. He Was Soham Murderer Ian Huntley. This is the Story of How She Survived Read online

  As I became older and more self-reliant, I fitted in with Mum’s routine. At that stage I didn’t feel neglected.

  In trying to recall a spontaneous memory from that time, I remember the times I would be out in the street near to home. It’s in part simply a fond memory and in part a growing-up memory that shows how I was starting to think for myself. The ice-cream man used to always come about ten minutes before teatime. Often Mum would comfort me by saying, ‘You can have an ice-cream tomorrow night, OK?’ and then, ‘Go on, you can go and play outside for ten or fifteen minutes and I’ll shout for you when your dinner is done.’

  Of course, I would catch sight of the ice-cream van and without hesitation I would saunter up to the van. Feasting my eyes on what was on offer, I’d have the brazen brainwave of saying to Don, the man serving, ‘Oh, yeah, my mum hasn’t got any change today, but she said, if she gives you the money tomorrow, could I, you know, have a cornet?’

  Don would give in and say, ‘Go on then, I’ll give you an ice-cream.’

  As I recall this, I remember how much I wanted that ice-cream. I wanted an ice-cream that minute, there and then, not tomorrow. That was as far as I pushed the boundaries of innocence as a child. I knew no different, but it shows how childhood innocence was looked upon by the ice-cream man.

  I pulled that ruse quite often, but then Mum and Dad cottoned on and they would come out to the van and say to Don, ‘Did Hailey have an ice-cream last week that she forgot to pay for?’

  Don would innocently reply, ‘Well, actually, she had about four’ as he looked at me with that ‘You’re not supposed to do that’ expression on his face.

  When I got a little bit older, I used to do the same thing but the very next day, when the ice-cream man came, my mum would give me the money and I’d say to Don, ‘Oh, there’s the money for your ice-cream.’

  I would say to Mum and Dad, ‘Oh well, I don’t want one tonight because I used the money for today’s,’ and they would say, ‘Well, go on and have one anyway.’

  Something that happened not long ago made me recall this particular memory. We went for a day out to Hemswell Market, where I used to go shopping with my granddad on a Sunday. I walked past an ice-cream van and I saw this guy inside and, to my utter astonishment, it was Don. It was the same ice-cream man, in the same van, and it brought the memories flooding back like a burst dam. And didn’t it seem as if time had stood still? I was just standing there thinking, God, how strange is that after all these years?

  I went straight over and said hello to him. To my amazement, he remembered who I was. He was like, ‘God, I haven’t seen you in ages. You look so grown up now. You’ve cut all your hair off.’ My hair used to be down past my waist. It was like I had accelerated all these years forward to where I was now. God, if only that had been possible! I just stood there and I had a lot of fiery flashbacks. All these disjointed memories came flooding back.

  That brings me on to a memory tinged with both happiness and sadness that was brought on by the memory of going to the market with Granddad. When I was still in primary school, on Fridays my mum used to go to this fish and chip restaurant with her dad, Granddad Don, and Grandma. The place had the peculiar name of the Pea Bung – that’s what Granddad used to call it, anyway. ‘We’re off to the Pea Bung on Friday,’ he would pipe up.

  When my mum got back I would eagerly ask, ‘Did you have a good day, Mum?’

  With a twinkle in her eye, she would reply, ‘Yes, guess where I’ve been.’

  ‘Where?’ I’d say.

  ‘Go on, have a guess,’ she would challenge me.

  Feeling I’d been left out, I would ask dejectedly, ‘You haven’t been to the Pea Bung with Granddad, have you?’ Because as a child it was my favourite place.

  Mum would bring me down but then lift me up by answering, ‘Yes, I have, but next week we’ll go, and we’ll go on a Saturday.’

  ‘Can’t I go on a Friday?’ I would plead.

  It was always, ‘No, you can’t, because you’ve got school, so we’ll take you on the Saturday instead.’

  Still, the chance to go to the Pea Bung, even on a Saturday, was a treat beyond comprehension. The expectation of what lay ahead on Saturday would fill me with delight. To some the place was just a normal, everyday chip shop with a restaurant. But to me the Pea Bung embodied all that was good in the world: there I could sit, look out of the window and see the world go by while enjoying the company and a special treat from Granddad.

  He would proclaim with gusto, ‘Well, I’m going to have fish,’ and, as he looked expectantly at my mum, he would ask, ‘What are you going to have, Mandy?’

  Mum would pick herself a mouth-wateringly tasty piece of fish from what was on display in the hot, glazed servery and, in turn, ask, ‘What do you want, Hailey?’

  Shivering with excitement, I would gather my thoughts and say, ‘Can I have a small sausage, please, with chips?’

  Within minutes my order would arrive in the safe hands of a waitress: two massive sausages, some big, fat beefy chips, peas, gravy and a thirst-quenching glass of orange juice to wash it all down, all accompanied by doorstops of bread and butter. It was a magical experience that words can’t fully capture. ‘Wow’ might be the best word to describe it. And yet, from the outside, the place was nothing special. It was on the corner of Freeman Street, in Grimsby: a brick building with two windows. We used to sit near the window at the far end. The place had a strange sort of sliding door; and it was narrow, so only one person at a time could squeeze in.

  We would go in and Granddad would announce regally, ‘A table for three, please.’ They would show you to a little high-sided booth. The booth was like Santa’s sleigh: it instilled a feeling of sanctuary, even of womb-like security. That cafe, with its ‘olde worlde’ charm, meant a lot to me. There I was protected from all the evil in the world. So it meant more to me than just being ushered to our booth and sitting there, Mum, Granddad and I. I don’t recall Grandma ever coming with us on a Saturday.

  Afterwards, we used to have a gentle stroll around the wondrous marketplace and, to keep me contented for the trip home, they would buy me a small bag of sweets.

  That’s my special memory of the Pea Bung, an enchanted place that remains in my thoughts; a place that offered warmth, security and comfort. If I could wish myself back to anywhere in the world, that would be it.

  The reverence I felt for it was destroyed, though, if anybody else came along with us, including my brothers. They were infringing on my special place, and it would infuriate me. This was my special world, and I would think, Don’t you know, you shouldn’t really be here. This is my place with Granddad and Mum.

  I knew I was Granddad’s favourite; he always called me special. I like to think so, anyway, because there were so many of us children. He used to give everyone else a normal-sized birthday card or Christmas card but, when it came to my birthday or Christmas, I would get a really big one from him and he would always write inside: ‘To my darling Hailey, hope you have a wonderful birthday, my special girl, love from your Funny Granddad.’

  We called him ‘Funny Granddad’ because he was a witty and amusing man. Everything he used to come out with was funny; he was just that extraordinary type of person.

  As much as I would describe the Pea Bung as my sanctuary, I would describe my grandfather as my rock. However, nothing is forever, and, at 14, my world was to collapse soon enough. I remember being near the front door, when we lived in Glebe Road, in Humberston, and my cousin Keeley burst in, her face ashen. ‘Where’s your mum, where’s your mum?’ she wailed. She was crying her eyes out and in that split second I knew what had happened.

  Granddad’s death was a shock to us all: he wasn’t ill and it was so sudden. He had a lady friend who lived around the corner and they used to go out shopping or he would go and have a natter and a cup of tea with her. From what I was told, he went round there one day and he was sitting in the front room having his regular cup of tea when he said to her
, ‘I don’t feel very well, can I go for a lie down?’ So he went and lay on her bed and, when she went to see if he was all right, he had died. He was seventy years old. My rock had crumbled.

  That morning, before Granddad died – I think it was a Friday – Mum had mentioned going out for fish and chips at the Pea Bung. Mum had bought another house, as our finances were better, and she was planning on going there that morning to do some work. So it was a big surprise that she was thinking about taking Granddad to the Pea Bung, and I was under the impression that I might be able to go there this time. Sadly, it wasn’t to be.

  Since then, my memories of the Pea Bung have been tinged with dark clouds of sorrow, but fond rainbow-coloured memories still shine through like shafts of sunlight on a stormy day.

  Many years later, I plucked up the courage to make a pilgrimage to the Pea Bung. My visit conjured up a mixed bag of memories. In a way, I felt proud of the cosy little place. Still there were the protective booths, the seats, the funny little door. One other thing I recall is that they had this unusual wooden spoon bearing the words ‘Don, the world’s biggest stirrer’.

  I used to quiz Granddad about this. ‘What does that mean?’

  Amused, he would throw his head back and say with a laugh, ‘I’ll tell you when you get a bit older.’

  I couldn’t wait for the secret of the spoon to be revealed to me. Mum used to say that it was because he used to stir up trouble with all the little old ladies behind the counter and pull their leg and tell them jokes and try to mess about by saying things like, ‘Well, she said this about you,’ and they would go, ‘Did she, really?’ and then he would say, ‘No, not really.’ So they got a big spoon and put it on the wall for him.

  Then, when we went back not long ago, I was devastated to see that the place I once worshipped had been changed. Its whole sanctity had been disturbed. The essence of what the Pea Bung was all about seemed to have been lost. Gone were the special Santa’s sleigh seats, all knocked out and replaced with new seating. I felt quite uncomfortable. It sounds silly, because it was only a fish and chip shop, but it wasn’t special any more, like it used to be. The charm had gone.

  But I still ordered two sausages, chips, peas and gravy, a glass of orange juice and some bread and butter. Mind you, there was a small consolation when I was approached by some of the staff – half of them I didn’t even know – and they declared, gobsmacked, ‘You’re Don’s granddaughter!

  ‘How old are you now?’ they asked.

  Then someone said, ‘I remember you when you were six years old, sitting there, when you knocked over your glass of orange and the look on your face was just like “Oops”.’

  ‘Oh, did I?’ I said.

  They all remember me, although I don’t know them. You can guarantee that every time I set foot in there they will go, ‘Your granddad was called Don, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never seen you before but yes he was, yes,’ I say.

  On that first return visit, I had a feeling of loss when I looked around for Don’s ‘stirrer spoon’ and it wasn’t there. I asked where it was and if I could have it, and they told me, ‘Come back when we have sorted the shop out and you can have that.’

  The lady said it had been taken down only about three or four weeks earlier, because they were changing everything around. When I went back again, they had clearly made the changes to the place, but the spoon still wasn’t there. And that was that.

  That day Granddad died, Mum and I were alone in the house after Keeley had left. Mum sat on the stairs crying her eyes out, and I was crying beside her. I reached out and put my arms around her. I felt enormously upset, as if my world would explode in a million pieces. It was just Mum and I. So I thought, Well, I’m going to look after her because nobody else is here. That is the feeling I think I had from that time on.

  Losing my granddad in my early teens had an overwhelming and disturbing effect on me. The loss of such a strong alpha male from my life left a void, a chasm so hollow that even the moon could not fill it. I ached and ached until there was nothing but hollow numbness within me.

  Granddad made me feel safe; he was like a best friend. I couldn’t do anything to disappoint him. Whenever I was around him I was always good and behaved myself, but out of respect, not fear. He insulated me from the pain I will tell you of later. Although I minded my Ps and Qs around Granddad, I never had to stand on ceremony.

  I was talking to my friend not so long ago about it, and I realise the amount of respect that I showed Granddad was overwhelming: I would have licked the mud off his boots. And yet, for all the respect I showed him, I didn’t show enough to others around me. Basically, all the respect went to this one man. In my eyes, he was the only one worth it. And I felt that he respected me just as much as I did him.

  My idea of dying is illustrated by the way you see some elderly people who are content to be able to say that their family has grown up safe and well. I will be the silly old woman contentedly baking cakes, in maybe about 70 years’ time.

  Shattered as my world was, somehow I had to piece it all together again and get on with life. I found it really hard to deal with losing Granddad because he was the only one I wanted to be close to. Through his love and understanding of me at that time, he gave me something that nobody else was able to. I felt special around him. I felt that I was not just being loved; I felt a love between us that was paramount, one that lasted because I was his favourite one.

  After Granddad died, I felt that I wasn’t anyone’s special one, and nobody came to my rescue. I used to think he would always be there for me and I would always be there for him. When it came to the finality of accepting he was dead, I still hadn’t come to terms with the loss. And I think that contributed to my going off the rails. There was no one to give that same amount of respect to. I had no reason to be on my best behaviour any more.

  In relation to what I went through at such a young age, the message I would send out to children of a similar age would be to try to take a leaf out of their loved one’s book, like I did with my granddad. If I tried to be a person who was just as good as him and treated people with respect and they didn’t give it to me in return, then fine. But at least I was showing it to them. I was trying to do the best that I could for other people, just as Granddad did. I try to treat them with respect, as he did towards me. Don’t judge a book by its cover.

  Thinking about how that wisdom could be applied today, when values have changed so much in such a short space of time, I realise relationships seem not to be valued as they once were. But the grandparent–grandchild relationship can be invaluable if one party can inspire respect in the other and vice versa. This relationship of mutual respect could play an important role for today’s teenagers, faced by the pressures of modern life, especially the lure of drugs and violence.

  My experience is that grandparents have an important role to play in the development of the core values that were once held by the majority of people, not the minority, as appears to be the case now. I remember one time I was sitting at my aunt’s house and I kept kicking the settee and my mum told me off, saying, ‘Don’t do that, please.’ Granddad came in and I was thinking, How far can I push it? He came over and put his hand firmly on my knee and said persuasively, ‘Don’t do that, please.’ I thought, Oh, I’ve been told off by Granddad. I was able to learn right from wrong, and the respect I had for him played an important role in that learning process. Respect helps people learn right from wrong, whereas the imposition of a domineering person’s will to force another to learn something is, I believe, how rebels against society are made.

  The central point is that, out of love and respect for someone else, people can turn their own life around and even challenge society’s bad guys. But I know that, as much as I had respect from my grandfather when he lived, in some sense it died with him. So I had to become strong within myself. My idea of becoming strong may have been slightly distorted because of the predominantly male influence in my life.
I couldn’t very well exchange my feminine skills for harder, masculine ones.

  I do know that, when Granddad passed away, I felt deserted, as if he had been a traitor to me, had let me down and done me wrong by dying. I just thought that my world had come to an end. I was obviously angry that he had left me, and I thought, Well, you were supposed to be here for ever, to look after me and make sure that nothing bad happens to me again.

  Whether or not it was because I was younger when Grandma died – I was just six then – I don’t know, but Granddad’s death had far more impact on me. I know that Catholics like to see the body before it is interred, and, although my faith is Church of England, I recall seeing Granddad lying in the Chapel of Rest before going to his funeral to pay my last respects. I had to come to terms with my anger at him for leaving me. When I set eyes on him laid to rest, my world fell apart again, but he had drilled into me that, when you die, you go up to heaven, and he used to always say that about Grandma.

  Sometimes he used to talk about Grandma and he would announce, ‘Oh, it’s raining again,’ and I would say, ‘Yeah, I know,’ and he would muse, ‘Well, that’s your grandma up in heaven, washing the floors and all the water is dripping down.’ At other times he’d say, ‘It’s sunny today. Everyone is having a good time up there, they’re having a party. When the sun shines, everyone is happy.’

  I always remember he used to tell me, ‘Oh, Grandma’s not very happy today because the clouds have come out. She’s not very happy, don’t want to know us today.’ I suppose it was a collection of nice memories. He didn’t just say, when you die you’re dead. He treated death with respect and humility.

  So when I went to see him in the Chapel of Rest I was able to relate to what he had said about death. It was sunny the day we went to see him, so I thought, He must be up there and he must be happy, the sun is out, he must be having a party. A lot of my anger dissipated when I went to see him. I’m pleased I did.