A Cautionary Tale…

A long way from home - 18 Jul 16

When my husband phoned one Friday night to suggest we all go out to eat, I shelved my plans (eggs for the children and some ropey looking salad for me) and jumped at it. By the end of the week my culinary motivation is zero, although admittedly it starts from a very low base, and when my husband gets in he happily fossicks in the fridge and cupboards and throws something together for himself.

This particular Friday, the thought that I didn’t have to prepare, cook and wash up for just one meal, propelled me into performing a minor miracle: in less than 30 minutes I had enticed the children away from their end of the week screen-a-thon and we had met up with my husband at Ikea. You may think it is all about flat-packed furniture; to me it is about Friday night meals for $3.95.

At first all went as expected. There were the usual arguments over who would push the trolley and whose turn it was to fill up the water glasses, and discussions over where the conveyor belt actually takes the trays and empty plates – not my kitchen sink anyway, so hallelujah for that. Our old and battered laundry basket had been ruining clothes and occasionally injuring fingers for months, so we set off on the compulsory traipse and tour of Ikea, obediently following the arrows through dining, living room, workspaces and bedrooms, to buy a new one.

We, like most parents, constantly usher and herd our brood along, turning frequently without making a conscious decision to do so, to keep the group together, and to be on the alert for hazards or temptations. I am always amazed at how quickly we assess people and situations. In a tenth of a second our eyes take in an image – a frail man and his robust wife, a harassed mother and her bored children, an uncomfortable teen, a group of loud and confident friends, a child looking lost – and the brain immediately makes judgements, and in some cases sends us warning signals.

With no more interest than I gave anyone else, I watched a man approaching us. He walked slowly with an air of nonchalance. He had a small smile on his lips and a distant look in his eyes. He was slight, mid-50s, wore very baggy clothes and a woolly hat. He had a hooked nose and high cheek bones. As he was just walking past me I came to a halt and, with my constant herding instinct at the fore, I turned to keep an eye on the children. I watched as the man very deliberately put his arm out over my son’s body and drew his hand across my son’s waist and arm. My reaction was immediate and instinctive, and came from deep within my chest. I yelled a non-verbal ‘oi’ at the man. He did not react at all. He did not alter his pace. He simply ambled off.

My husband heard me (most of the customers in Beds & Bedding probably heard me) and came back with a quizzical look. I explained what I had seen and we asked our son what he had felt and seen. We talked to the children about the man and reinforced why we are always telling them to stay close to us. And then what? I debated with myself whether I should report the incident to a member of staff, and say what? “A man has just touched my son’s arm.” It sounded ridiculous, so I did nothing. Even when we were leaving and I saw him with another man apparently, but so obviously not, interested in baby toys that they were handling while murmuring to each other, my heart screamed THEY ARE UP TO NO GOOD, but my head told me Don’t make a fuss. You have no idea. You can’t accuse someone of being a … what?-the word I didn’t want to think or say and which I avoided using in discussions later-paedophile.

A sombre mood settled over our previously happy family group. We drove home in silence, each contemplating what had happened and thinking about that glimpse into a scary world.

That night I lay awake for long periods pondering what I had seen – what my eyes had seen and what my fight/ flight instinct had yelled at me. I realised with absolute clarity that I should have reported the incident.

Finally the next day, after breakfast and tennis lessons and snacks and things to do, finally, I phoned the police. The lady I spoke with listened patiently, asked me detailed questions, reassured me that phoning the police was absolutely the right thing to do, and gave me an incident number. Less than half an hour later, I received a call from another police officer who barked down the phone at me, “Why didn’t you report it straightaway?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have done. I realise that know.”

She asked questions. I talked through the incident again. She sounded a little frustrated with me, and told me that someone from our local police would phone me for an interview and see if they could get CCTV footage. “We are taking this seriously,” she said softening, and apologised for her earlier brusque manner. “We just want to catch the buggers.” Despite everything, I smiled at the Australian casual usage of ‘bugger’.

Over the next couple of days I had various calls with the police, going over details again and again. I dug out the receipt for the laundry basket which of course had the time of the transaction, and realised that our original estimate of when the incident had happened was out by more than half an hour. The police put in plenty of time and resources, but they couldn’t get enough information from the CCTV. Case closed. How different the outcome may have been if I had immediately found a member of staff, pushed away my self-doubt and worry of being perceived as silly, and said, “A man just touched my son’s arm. I know it sounds like nothing, but it was all wrong.”

When you see a child seemingly alone, you are able to immediately judge whether they are lost, or are just an escapee from a pram and that a parent is most likely in close pursuit. We are constantly reminded at airports and in other public places; “If you see anyone behaving suspiciously, report it.” These notices are not asking us to be experts; simply to act on our instincts.

A long way from home

She was plucked from the bosom of Mother England and sentenced to 10 years of hard core whingeing in the land of Kylie and The Wiggles. Her crime? To fall in love with an Australian who gallantly shivered his way through 11 English winters (and a few summers) and who eventually persuaded her to pack up their three children and move to Oz. She is a long way from home.

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