This is the story of the first time I was sexually harassed.
It was 37 years ago, when I was 15. Like most 15 year old girls, I wanted my
own money. We lived in a rural area, so jobs weren’t thick on the ground. I can’t
remember how I found out about the cleaning job with Mr Manson; I think maybe
my Dad knew someone who knew someone. I went to see him with my Dad. It was agreed.
I would work as a cleaner on Saturday mornings in Mr Manson’s house for £1 an
hour. It was good money.
Every Saturday morning, my Dad drove me to his house and
picked me up three hours later. The work wasn’t difficult. A bit of washing up,
dusting and hoovering. To my 15 year old perspective, Mr Manson was an
incredibly old guy, although with hindsight I think he was only about 60 –
eight years older than I am now. Nonetheless, he was still 45 years older than
me. When I had finished whatever had to be done, I made myself and Mr Manson
a cup of tea, which we drank in his old-person living room.
A few weeks into the job, I had made the tea and we were
chatting. I never really liked him, but at that age I couldn’t put a name to
the feeling. He asked me if I like fun. I think I need to say at this point
that I was a naïve 15 year old, my upbringing had been sheltered and largely in
rural areas. Fun to me meant going to the local disco for a dance, or hanging
out with my friends. So I answered yes, I do like fun. What kind of fun do you like?
He asked. I told him my innocent 15 year old girl pursuits. Oh no, he said. I
meant fun in bed. Sex. Do you like fun in bed? Because I can give it to you.
Even now, 37 years later, the feelings of fear, revulsion
and disgust are as strong as they were then. I leapt up, grabbed my bag and
ran towards the door. Have I offended you in some way? He asked. I didn’t
answer. I ran out of the house and down the road. I'm thankful with hindsight
that he wasn’t a strong man, otherwise I’m really not sure where this would
have ended.
I met my Dad coming
up the road in the car to pick me up. I was completely distraught, so much so
that to begin with he couldn’t work out what I was saying – I was sobbing so
much I couldn’t get the words out. When we got home, he sat me down, handed me
a glass, and said drink this now. It was vodka. I drank it. My first experience
of sexual harassment turned out to be my first alcoholic drink as well.
I calmed down enough to tell him what had happened. We had
family friends staying that weekend, and everyone else was out. My Dad was like
a cat on a hot tin roof. The minute my Mum and the rest of the family got back,
he was out of the house like a champagne cork. I found out later he had gone
back to Mr Manson’s house and threatened him through the window. Mr Manson
wouldn’t come out.
I now know, 37 years later, that Mr Manson had a profound
and lifelong impact on me. He shattered my innocence. He showed me a world
that was not safe, where I had to protect myself. I would never be that innocent
15 year old girl again; even now I look back at my 15 year old self and feel
overwhelmed with sorrow for what I lost that day.
My Mum and Dad were truly wonderful. I was entirely
believed. There was not a miniscule hint of victim blaming. They did their best
to help me get over it. My Mum even let me get my ears pierced a year early. In
the post Jimmy Saville era, the police would have been involved, but it was
different then. I did get over it in that I carried on with my day to day life.
My Dad found me another job as a waitress in a hotel. I went to school, passed
my exams, went to university. I never really did get over it though. The memory
of this event is as clear today as the day it happened.
A few weeks later, my Dad came in and said, I’ve got
something for you. He handed me £3. What’s this? I said. Your pay from Mr
Manson, he said. Apparently, he’d met him in the paper shop. I don’t know the
detail of what happened, other than Mr Manson handed over the £3. I don’t know
what my Dad said, but knowing him as I do, I can guess. I suspect Mr Manson never visited the paper
shop again.
Me too.
