rolled up at the waistband, until I reached the turning into our cul-de-sac. I enjoyed the attention and flattery; it made me feel good about myself.
I lost my virginity at fifteen. It wasn’t as I had imagined it would be – it was uncomfortable and awkward. I stayed with my first lover for a year, but my jealousy ruined everything, as it would do so often in the years to come.
All I wanted was to be loved, but I found that the men couldn’t make do with just a kiss and cuddle. They would call me a tease and make me feel bad about myself, or I would feel like a silly little girl and give in to their desires, either to keep them or so they would go away, as they wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
Girls, jealous because their boyfriends looked at me, bullied me. My stepfather bullied me. My brother Phillip would call me names and pretend to throw up as I walked past him when we were out at the local discos, where I danced provocatively. I was used to being put down by Phillip. I pretended I didn’t care what he thought of me, but it did hurt my feelings. I wanted us to be close, like other friends of mine; they got on well with their brothers. I refused to let him or anyone else see that they had succeeded in hurting me; I would put on my ‘happy face’ to cover the pain I really felt inside.
I’ve used my ‘happy face’ throughout my life, on many occasions; it became my friend. It protected my pride and my feelings; it was a protective barrier I put up around myself. No one was allowed to penetrate that barrier. And, as the years went by, it made me appear confident, when really I felt like a second-class citizen. It was a necessity, as I found I couldn’t talk about my real feelings to anyone. Not to my mum, who would have been too affected by what I was going through. And not to my friends – they were used to me being the life and soul of the party, the bubbly girl with the wicked sense of humour. They wouldn’t have believed how inferior I felt compared to them.
At sixteen years of age, I left home and was living in Southsea, Portsmouth, with my neighbour and friend from Cinderford, Doreen. I ended up getting thrown out by Doreen’s sister, Dee, whom we were staying with, because she had grounded us for letting two sailors stay the night while she was away. I had defied her and left when she tried to stop me seeing my sailor boyfriend of the time, Steve Riddall.
After a short spell in a grotty bedsit, the police came round to tell me that Alf had suffered a heart attack and my mother wanted me home. I hitchhiked home immediately. Alf looked older and frailer than I remembered him. I tried to be nice to him, scared that if I made him angry again he would die. I was glad to be back home again, and tried my best to get on with the rest of the family, helping Mum around the house, cooking the tea for everyone and looking after Alf, who was still recovering from his heart attack. I kept busy, being helpful. For once, I felt Alf appreciated that I was trying to please him.
I FIRST MET Fred and Rose West in early September 1972. I had been hitchhiking back from Tewkesbury after seeing my boyfriend Tony, whom I had met at the annual Tewkesbury Ham Fair. We had been seeing each other for two months by then. I was nearly seventeen years old; he was six months younger than me, but seemed really mature for his age.
Tony was a skinhead and well respected by the older boys in the town. The relationship was still in its early days and we weren’t lovers. In fact, Tony was such a cool dude that I wasn’t really sure where I stood with him, but I was hoping it would become a long-term relationship.
I was used to hitchhiking everywhere – lots of young girls did it – and with Tony not driving yet, it was easier for me to travel to him. Most of the time I took a friend with me and we would hang around the town with Tony and his mate Rob. Sometimes we would go to discos in the town hall or sit in the café drinking Coke and chatting. Then, at about 10.30pm, I would stand opposite the Gupshil Manor, on the edge of town, and say good night.
Tony would go back to his lodgings, leaving me to get myself a lift home to Cinderford. The journey home was some twenty-five miles, which I usually made in two lifts. The first lift took me the ten miles to Gloucester, and then I’d get another lift from the Westgate Bridge, which was fifteen miles to Cinderford.
That night in September 1972, I remember noticing the grey-coloured Ford Popular going in the opposite direction just minutes before it pulled up alongside me. At first I was a little worried in case two men were inside, but when I saw there was a girl in the passenger seat I relaxed.
The girl rolled down the window and asked me where I was going. As I bent down to tell her, I noticed that the driver was leaning over, looking at me. He looked quite scruffy and much older than the girl who, I guessed, was my age. They offered me a lift and, feeling it was a safe ride, I accepted. The girl got out and lifted her seat so I could get into the rear seat of the two-door car.
Straight away, they started chatting and telling me their names: Fred and Rose West. I was surprised that they were married; I wouldn’t have fancied someone like him, and she was pretty. I felt she could have done a lot better for herself, but they seemed happy and he was quite charming, in a roguish kind of way.
During the first part of the journey they questioned me a lot, asking about where I had been and who with, and did I have a job. I told them that I had been away to Portsmouth for six months and that I had to come back because my stepfather had suffered a heart attack, and was very ill though he had pulled through.
I explained to them that Alf was the reason I had gone away in the first place. I told them that we had never got on and that I had felt he was always on my case, always finding fault with me. As soon as he became ill, I revealed, I had wanted to get to him, hoping we would get on better but we had soon started arguing again and things were back to being tense at home, so I spent most of my time out of the house avoiding him. I mentioned to Fred and Rose that Alf had started nagging me because I didn’t have a job and how he called he me lazy, saying I would never make anything of myself, and would most probably end up pregnant and living off the government. I had looked for a job, but I felt I was not capable of getting anything decent.
After I had finished explaining this to the pair of them, they both looked each other in the eye and then, at the same time, both said, ‘We need a nanny to look after our three daughters.’
They went on to tell me that they lived in a big house in Cromwell Street, Gloucester, and that if I wanted the job I could move in with them. They offered me £8 a week plus free board and lodgings.
I told them I would have to talk to my mum about it first, and that she would want to meet them first before anything could be decided. They said they would be happy to meet my parents and with that they drove me all the way home so that they would know where I lived and said that they would come back on the Sunday afternoon to meet my parents. I wasn’t sure how my mum would react to Fred, as he was quite rough looking. I hoped he would make the effort to look tidier when he came round, though as it turned out he didn’t.
When they arrived, after dinner on the Sunday, they had the three girls with them; I instantly fell in love with them, especially little Heather. I could tell from the look on Mum’s face that she was not impressed by Fred’s appearance. He noticed it too, and quickly apologised for having to come in his working clothes. He said he was working all hours, and that was why Rose needed some help around the house and with the demanding job of looking after the children. Rose left most of the talking to Fred, who reassured my mum that he would look after me and keep a fatherly eye on me. Meanwhile, Rose chatted to my younger brothers and sisters.
Alf
