Sitting up suddenly in bed, sweat running down my back, I took a deep breath. “You’re safe now, Sarah. It’s over,” I reminded myself. This was just a flashback, a dream. Yet it was vivid, so raw I couldn’t get back to sleep all night. I even had bruises down my legs where I had tried to fight back in my sleep and defend myself. I had carried my secret around for almost 50 years. Sometimes, I felt I’d never escape from the agony of my childhood. My earliest recollection, aged three and a half, was being lifted from my bed, by my father Arthur, and into his bed. I had a clear memory of a big, meaty hand, clamped over my mouth to stifle my screams. Then my father raped me.
For the next couple of years, at our home in Chard, Somerset, my memories were hazy and fragmented. But at six, my nightmare began again. Dad regularly sexually abused and raped me, usually in his bedroom.
Every time my mother was out, he took the opportunity to swoop. We had horses, in stables adjoining our home, and sometimes he’d say, “Come and help me feed the horses, Sarah.” In the stables, he’d sexually assault me.
Sometimes, he used objects on me, once it was part of the handle of a spade. I was just a little girl, and I was in agony. I longed to confide in someone, but after the abuse, Dad always said, “If you tell anyone, I will shoot you. And I will shoot your mum. Do you understand?”
Behind closed doors
Wide-eyed and terrified, I nodded. I had seen his guns, usually kept in the garage but occasionally brought into the house. I believed he was capable of it. We moved around a lot too, so it was difficult for me to make lasting friendships, or for teachers and social workers to get to know me. I spent some time living with my grandmother – a temporary respite, until I was sent home again.
As I grew older, I wasn’t sure anyone would believe me. To the outside world, Dad was charming, a big character, larger than life, and well-known locally as a builder. But at home, he was a monster, with a dark, evil look in his eyes. Once, aged 10, I was in the living room watching TV, Dad came in and nodded towards the door. I knew what he wanted. My whole body trembling with fear, I replied, “No, I don’t want to.”
Dad marched over to the sofa and pulled me on to the floor by my ponytail. He kicked me all the way to his bedroom, shouting, “Don’t you ever dare say no to me!”
As he threw me on the bed, he had his hands around my neck, and I felt myself choking. “Kill me,” I pleaded.
I just wanted a release from my pain. Dad stopped, stared at me and left the room. Lying on the bed, sobbing, I put the pillow over my head and tried to smother myself. But I couldn’t go through with it. There was a small spark of survival there, even at 10. And I knew then that I would never give up.
But it was the last time I dared to try to stand up to him. From then on, I did as he said. When I was 13, my parents separated, and my mum and I moved away. I thought this was the end of my nightmare at last.
Like father, like son
My older brother, Arthur Stephen, known as Stephen, stayed with Dad. He was two years older than me, but we’d never really been close. A couple of years later, Stephen came to stay. One day, in my bedroom, as I was changing out of my school uniform, Stephen, who was 17 at the time, cornered me and raped me. Afterwards, I sank to my knees and sobbed. I couldn’t believe it had happened again. It felt worse almost, to have escaped the abuse from my father and then face this. I felt like I’d been smashed to pieces, all over again. “If you tell anyone, I’ll say you wanted it,” Stephen sneered.
Because he was older, and my self-esteem was so low, I thought people would believe him and not me. The flashbacks of the abuse were so horrific that I took an overdose, just before I took my final exams. I survived, but
I felt wretched. Ashamed and afraid, I left home as soon as I could. So many times, I wanted to share my horrifying secret. But Dad’s words rang loud in my head: “If you tell anyone, I’ll shoot you and your mother.”
After leaving school, I worked in a factory and in hospitality. I was very artistic, and there was a lot I wanted to do with my life, but the trauma held me back – I had no confidence.
In time, I got married and had two daughters. Sadly, my relationship didn’t work out; I struggled with intimacy. But I loved being a mum, so I moved on with my life and tried to focus on my children. However, I was plagued by memories of the attacks. I drank too much to blot out the images.
In December 2009, I met a new partner, Darren Sidebottom, through mutual friends, and we fell in love. Darren was different to any man I’d ever met; understanding, kind, patient. He was the first man I ever trusted.
I confided in him about the abuse and he persuaded me to speak to the police. In 2019, almost 50 years after it all began, I made a complaint.
The investigation was slow. At one point, I was told my files had been lost and it caused me so much stress. I had flashbacks and vivid nightmares.
My German Shepherd, Kayla, helped me through the darkest times. Once, she pulled me back from a suicide attempt, barring the window so I couldn’t jump out. After my nightmares, when I felt as though I couldn’t carry on, she’d jump on my bed and cuddle me until I felt better. I was so grateful I had Darren, my daughters and Kayla on my side.
Crucial evidence
As part of the investigation, I was shown a hospital letter, which had been added to my medical files on 25 April 1973. As I read the words, my blood ran cold. ‘Your patient was admitted under the surgeons having fallen downstairs and landed on a go-cart handle, which tore her perineum.’
With tears blurring my eyes, I read on. The letter explained I’d had extensive surgery to repair horrifically severe tearing down below – it directly followed the rape, aged three and a half. I had needed a pint of blood. I was appalled. Things were different in the 70s; I knew that. But I couldn’t believe no one had challenged my father’s account of my injuries. The doctors believed his lie. I had no memory of the surgery and no idea the letter even existed – until now.
“This is vital for the prosecution,” the police told me. I was shell-shocked. I felt angry and confused. I wanted to speak to my mum, for an explanation, but the police said I wasn’t allowed to discuss the letter in case it jeopardised the court case.
In 2021, my mum passed away so I never had a chance to ask her about the letter. I felt cheated. I had so many questions. I had to accept I’d never get the answers I wanted.
The case went to trial and I was left with PTSD and emotionally unstable personality disorder. But it made me determined to help others. I now sit on forums with the police and the Crown Prosecution Service, advising on how they can help victims.
These services need to be responsive, victims need support. No matter how hard it is to report, I want other people to know you can get justice. Don’t be afraid or ashamed. After staying silent for nearly 50 years, part of my healing is having a voice. At last, my burden is shared.
The book about Sarah’s life, named The Letter, is now available to buy here.
