Two brothers, aged 15 and 10, made their way from their Tuscan hometown of Barga to join their older brothers in Rothesay, Isle of Bute in 1901. Word had clearly gotten back to the Bonaccorsi family in Italy that the food industry in Scotland offered a goldmine for Italian migrants. Ice cream parlours, chip shops and confectioneries were sprouting up across Scottish towns, offering a much appreciated variation to Scottish society. It’s difficult to imagine why parents would be comfortable sending such young boys on a ship to a foreign country, but the wretched reality was that they were left with very little choice. At this time, Italy was facing an economic stagnancy and many parts of the country were experiencing famine. It was the duty of the Bonaccorsi brothers to become successful business owners on Bute and send the money back home to aid their parents and remaining family in Italy. For many Italians, the plan was to return to their home country as the economic hardships settled, or move on across the Atlantic to chase the ever-sought-after American Dream. However, the two young Bonaccorsi brothers went on to live the rest of their lives on the Isle of Bute and with an incredible legacy at that. The eldest of the two was Pietro Enrico Bonaccorsi; my Great Grandfather.
In an article by The National, the growing population of Italians in Scotland is shown by a compelling comparison. In the 1881 census, there were a mere 328 Italians residing in Scotland and by the start of the First World War, this had grown considerably to about 5500. These communities had been established in major cities such as Glasgow, Edinburgh and Aberdeen – but with Bute gaining the reputation as an idyllic holiday spot, there is little wonder as to why many Italians seized the economic opportunity on this small but thriving island. Some of these families include but are not limited to: Biagoni, Foschetti, Barbi and Zavaroni. The latter being another Italian family relation of mine. My Grandmother Bonaccorsi’s great niece was the famous Lena Zavaroni, making her my third cousin.
Notice how many of these families have surnames ending in ‘i’. This was a common characteristic of Northern Italian surnames, thus indicating that a majority of Italian immigrants were moving from the North (at least in the first wave of migration). For example, the family name ‘Bonaccorsi’ stems from the Southern alternative ‘Bonaccorso’. Not only this, but whole villages from Italy were essentially relocated to Scotland in a clan-like fashion and, of course, the most famous being the Northern province of Lucca in Tuscany. This is where my Great-Grandfather’s hometown of Barga is situated. In fact, according to the same article by The National, Lucca is known as the most Scottish town in Italy and it’s estimated that around half of its residents have Scottish relatives, some that they of course aren’t even aware of: “It was perhaps the best example of the phenomenon in which Italians did not so much mass migrate as come in bunches from particular towns and villages and then supported each other when they got here, remaining quite clannish.”
The Italians and Scots Relationship
The Scots coined a nickname for them, ‘Tallies’, which was often used in a warm, adorning way. However, Italians were known for mingling mostly amongst themselves, except for when it came to business. Intermarriage with other nationalities was practically unheard of, mostly due to their religion. Pietro Bonaccorsi was a slight exception. He married my Great-Grandmother Helen McStay, an Irish immigrant of Roman Catholic religion, which overcame the cultural barrier. The National states that: “Though almost all Italians were Roman Catholic, the Italo-Scots also did not suffer the level of discrimination and downright bigotry expressed towards the Irish Catholics, and as people who were usually involved in family businesses they could not be accused of taking Scottish jobs.”
As with most bigotry, if a migrant ‘doesn’t have anything to offer’ such as businesses, profitable skills and/or culture, then that’s when the natives often rear their ugly bigoted head. Italians brought a welcomed diversity to Scottish cuisine and thus remained, at least in the early years, free from such slurs and tension. In my opinion, in the eyes of the Scots, Irish culture was almost too similar to their own – offering nothing of value and only populating their country more with socio-economic competition such as jobs and housing.
However, the peaceful assimilation of Italians in Scotland did not last too long. Benito Mussolini encouraged global Italian communities to engage in Fascism by forming clubs across all of their countries of residence. Scotland was no exception. Italians within the country began joining Il Duce’s Fascist party but much worse was yet to come.
War broke out in 1939 and the Italian communities across Scotland were immediately under suspicion. Neighbours and other good friends began distancing themselves and keeping a wary and watchful eye on their former Italian friends. The tensions eventually came to an explosive head when Il Duce declared war on Britain in the Summer of 1940. No Italian was safe in Scotland. Shop windows were smashed, businesses were looted and Italians were physically attacked, cases nearing the 100s in Edinburgh alone. The attacks weren’t limited to just Italians, but their Scottish born children and relatives. It wasn’t until the RAF bombed regions of Italy that both countries knew that every remaining hope of peace had vanquished. This meant war.
Winston Churchill soon directed the Internment of every Italian man between the ages of 17 and 60 (though, varying sources say 18 and 70) and were deemed as “enemy aliens”. They were either forced to work on war defences or be transported over the Atlantic to countries such as Canada.
Pietro Bonaccorsi was no exception to this rule. After making a life for himself on Bute as a confectioner firstly at the Glenburn Hotel before becoming the owner of the Electric Bakery, he was interned at the age of 54 on the Isle of Man POW camp. The internment left many women to take over the business responsibility and face alienation by their Scottish co-inhabitants. My second cousin, Ray Kennedy, who is in the process of writing a book on our family writes that: “Outcries in Parliament lead to a change in policy and the first releases of internees in August 1940. By February 1941 more than 10,000 had been freed, and by the following summer, only 5,000 were left in internment camps. Many of those released from internment subsequently contributed to the war effort on the Home Front or served in the armed forces.
My Grandfather [Pietro Bonaccorsi] never forgave Churchill; his hatred was made worse by the fact that some of the Bonaccorsi family was at that time fighting in the British army including his nephew Raffaello and his sons Umberto and Aldo.”
Some of the Bonaccorsi family were forced to change their surnames to ‘Brown’ during the war in order to fight on the side of the British and escape suspicion, but my grandfather Aldo, his brother Umberto and cousin Raffaelo, refused. Unfortunately, Raffaelo, the son of Pietro’s brother Celestino, was eventually taken as a Prisoner of War to Stalag VIIIB Lamsdorf.
The Bonaccorsi Family Crimes on Bute
The Bonaccorsi family was no Italian mob and my Great Grandfather was no Al Capone, but both him and his family did have their fair share of run-ins with the law on Bute. According to the Buteman Newspaper and family recollections, Pietro Bonaccorsi found himself in court in 1926 facing charges of owning an illicit still. There was a lot of laughter in the court as Pietro insisted on calling the judge “Senor Presidente” and stating that a prosecution witness by the name of Antonio Barbi had “a big mouth”. Consequently, he was found guilty and fined £50, which back then was a large sum of money.
Pietro’s eldest son, Arturo, was the only one of the Bonaccorsi children that could speak Italian fluently. He was put in charge of one of his father’s businesses: The Electric Bakery on Watergate. One day, Arturo found some of his colleagues and friends gambling illegally at the back of the shop on a Sunday. My mother tells me at this time there was strictly no gambling on a Sunday. Arturo’s colleagues scoffed at his attempt to scold them. That was until he brought out a gun and again, insisted that they stopped. For some reason, the men listened this time. However, it was too little too late. After a tip-off, they were all arrested and court proceedings were carried out.
The Impact of Italians on Bute
The Italian culture has had a massive impact world wide, and a small piece of that can be seen in Bute. Zavaroni’s Cafe, even after all these years, is still a thriving business showcasing the Scottish love for a chippy and ice cream; a love that shows no sign of slowing down. Many of the people on Bute who were teenagers in the 70s reminisce about ‘Gaby’s’ or ‘Joe Foschetti’s XL cafe’.
One of my favourite parts of Italian culture that I got to experience throughout my childhood on Bute came from my Grandpa Aldo; Italian music. My niche party trick is knowing every lyric to Santa Lucia and Luna Mezzo Mare, and also being able to name each of the Three Tenors. My mother passed down a lot of small but heart-warming Italian customs, like saying Buonanotte and having to watch the Godfather Trilogy (which is unsurprisingly my favourite trilogy of all time). I hope one day, in the not-so-distant future, I eventually get to visit my Bonaccorsi family in Barga. It’s clear to see that Italy hasn’t just left a small part of itself on Bute, it’s also left a huge part in me.
Above is a picture of my Grandpa Aldo performing like the fantastic tenor he was. The next picture is of me as a child with my Grandpa Aldo and my Nana Catherine Bonaccorsi nee Crawford.
There upon a spectacular view sat a pitiable structure whose shell stood open to the sky that loomed above a very quaking Isle of Bute. The 100ft clock tower that spent over 86 years proudly unmoved on the hill side, collapsed in heaps of rubble; ringing out its bell one final time before bowing to the same fate as its neighbouring walls.
Just like the building’s construction lived in the fantasy of its architect before becoming a tangible force of reality, in someone else’s — so too did its destruction. Seeing the burnt remains of a most dreaded institution would live vicariously in only some school childrens’ fantasies. But ‘fantasy’ is just ‘fantasy’ until it becomes a reality and a building is just a building until it becomes 500 people’s future, the craftsmanship of low paid labourers, the work of art from an architect, the livelihood of its staff and peace & quiet for hundreds of parents.
Elsewhere on the island, three 14-year-old boys, in long trousers, appeared before Sheriff Donald on a charge alleging responsibility for the devastating fire of their school. With their parents and a solicitor present, the Sheriff committed them to Rothesay Remand Home in Bishop Street for further examination. For those boys, this did indeed, become very real.
Friday, March 5th 1954
The blaze was first spotted by a Mrs D. Watson at 10.20 pm as she made her way home, observing a cloud of smoke emerging from the back of the school. She later told a reporter, “I thought at first that it was a dirty chimney.” But Mrs Watson had no idea of the catastrophe that lay ahead for that Friday night, nor did the pupils and staff that left the school 7 hours before in preparation for a seemingly normal weekend.
It wasn’t before long that Mr. John Allan, the Academy janitor, was informed by the witness at his house, that was only situated some yards from the school. Surprisingly, the janitor claimed that at 10.10 pm, only 10 minutes before Mrs Watson seen smoke, that there was nothing to be seen and “not a whiff of smoke.” This meant that whatever instigated the fire had to have happened between 10.10 and 10.20, if their accounts are accurate.
Mr Allan was finishing a cup of tea when Mrs Watson came chapping at his door. She then shouted: “Mr Allan I think there’s a fire in the school.” Immediately, he claims, he slipped on his boots and raced across to the Academy, which they both entered through a side door.
“Dense smoke filled the main hall. I rushed Mrs Watson across the vestibule, told her to stay put there, and grabbed a fire extinguisher from the janitor’s room.” From there, Mr Allan emptied the fire extinguisher into the No.5 laboratory where flames were materializing. However; in subsequent evaluation, the fire had originated in No.6 laboratory and Mr Allan confirms this by saying, “the volume of smoke told me that it wasn’t entirely the little bit I saw.”
Realising that this was a battle way out of his hands, the janitor could stand to fight no longer, launching the extinguisher into the fire before telephoning the police. He told them to get the fire brigade immediately. He told a reporter “…the smoke was too much for me.” Meanwhile, Mrs Watson searched the phonebook for the number of Mr James D. Mackenzie, the rector.
Mr Mackenzie received the call shortly after 10.30pm and arrived at the scene almost immediately. He said, “I had parked my car across the road and I went up straight away.” He said initially driving up Chapelhill, he never seen much smoke, but as he arrived at the front door, the hall was pitch black as it had filled the room.
“Mr Allan was coming out with a cloth over his face. The fingers of his right hand had been slightly burned when he picked up an extinguisher. He was rather groggy and Mrs Watson was helping him,” Mackenzie told. He then went onto describe the helplessness he felt in the way of firefighting but was eager to rescue what he could.
“…although there was no imminent danger and I did not anticipate that the whole school would go up, I thought I had better rescue something. So I brought out the school log and the register and a few odds and ends, which included record cards for individual pupils and the Academy Book of Remembrance.”
The rector then took these rescued items down to his car but on return to the school was told by police that he was to remain outside as the danger had quickly escalated.
The flames from the No.6 laboratory had burned through the roof by the time Rothesay fire brigade left their High Street station at 10.58pm, had reached the building and run hoses through the main entrance. According to a Buteman article published just over a week later, 17 firemen had manned the brigade’s two engines and as the fire spread from one end of the building to the other, the roof went up in flames. Sparks showered neighbouring houses in Academy Terrace and their occupants were warned to prepare for an evacuation of their homes at a moment’s notice.
However according to an article from an Express Reporter, a Mr Charles McNab watched the fire from his home in Battery Place stating that, “The flames shot 50ft into the sky. They stretched from one end to another.” Reportedly hundreds of people from all over the town rushed to the fire, watching the town’s volunteer firemen “with only one engine” (which would be a contradiction to the Buteman’s report of 2) try to control the flames. Toward lighthouse keeper Malcolm McNeill (35) at 12:30am said: “I can see a glow in the sky over the town and I am five miles away.”
Firemen attending a dance in Dunoon were called out as well as 150 sailors from H.M.S Montclare and H.M.S Termagant. They docked at Rothesay Bay and were sent ashore with two fire pumps. From Greenock fire service came another 5 men after a 90 minute crossing via motor launch from Gourock.
Just before 1 am, as the entire building burned ferociously, parts of the outer wall began to give-way and the roof of the clock tower fell in. Its remaining walls stood like a chimney, throwing sparks high into the air. Almost everything was destroyed.
Saturday, March 6th 1954
For 19 hours, until 6pm on Saturday, members of Rothesay fire brigade were on continuous duty and for three hours on Sunday, they were straight back at it again, making sure embers were dampened down.
As Saturday morning approached, police examined the ‘smouldering ruins’ and were desperately seeking an explanation for the blaze. Meanwhile, four hoses were left on to dampen the charred remains of the building. At this point, news articles and locals deemed the fire a complete ‘mystery’. Mr James Carruthers who lived near the Academy on Argyle Terrace had claimed that “No one knows how the fire started — it’s a mystery.”
It was discovered that the collapsing of the clock tower caused a fracture in the gas main in the flooded boiler house below. Water then flowed into the pipe through the break and gas was seized from most of its consumers in Ardbeg, Montague Street and Victoria Street. A loudspeaker van toured Rothesay warning consumers to make sure their gas was turned off. The full supply was not restored until 6pm that day.
Sunday, March 7th 1954
Finally, at 9pm after a weekend of intense investigation by Rothesay Police, an arrest of 3 boys were made. A woman had reported to the police that she had seen 3 boys in their teens, wearing long trousers, leaving the Academy grounds at around 10pm on Friday, at which time the fire is believed to have began.
Police began questioning Academy teachers before starting out on a quest to interview every single youngster of appropriate description on the island, if need be. They visited about 60 homes on the island before their enquiries ripened and eventually, an arrest was made.
In a letter to the paper, rector J. D Mackenzie states: “…to the churches who gave their halls, and to the headmaster of the Public School who immediately and generously placed classrooms at our disposal. Never could I have imagined the wave of sympathy which has engulfed us. Offers of help have poured in from all sides, and the staff, pupils and parents have been truly wonderful.”
“To all I have mentioned, and to many others, I am more grateful than I can possibly say, and on behalf of the school I would like to thank them publicly and most sincerely.”
An assembly was held in the playground on the Monday morning before the classes were dispersed to temporary accommodation to continue with their schooling. Many of the senior classes were relocated to the primary building up the hill. 500 pupils left that Friday having no idea what was about to await them Monday morning.
I’d also like to include a quote from one of my Facebook posts earlier this year from Mike Blair that spoke of his dad, who was a teacher during this: “I was in the Primary at the time and we were all decanted to various halls and our class went to the public school.”
“My dad (Mr Nelson Blair) spent the entire weekend organising the logistics of where we were to go in order to let the Secondary pupils occupy our building. It was just before the Highers (exams) which were in March back then.”
“The Scottish Office said they would make special dispensation in marking Rothesay papers and Rector Mackenzie agreed. However, dad fought this as he did not want the pupils to always carry that stigma. He was right as the marks in 53, 54 and 55 were almost exactly the same. Dad never got credit for that.”
Certainly Mike, I hope that by including your quote in this article gives even a little credit to your father for his determination.
The Lesson from the Fire
I am aware that including the above heading in a crime-laden fire is possibly controversial but it was absolutely necessary after my research. Coming across a statement from the Provost John H. Shaw on the Monday after, I was initially shocked.
“If there is one bright spot in this terrible business, it is that the Academy is in an isolated position. Such a blaze starting in a building in the centre of town would have developed into a major disaster.” He then began calling helper’s efforts pitiless and hopeless, discussing the real saving grace as being the building’s isolative position.
My initial reaction to the first line of this statement was confusion. This fire was not like the other Bute fires that I had written about. Hence why when people called me out for omitting this fire from my last article ‘Bute blazes that have been lost in history’, I don’t think many realised there was method in my madness. Rothesay Academy’s fire has not been ‘lost in history’. Its history survived on through its predecessor and now through the Joint Campus. Its history has surfed the mouths of our townspeople for decades, through story-telling, memories and pictures.
It was also a fire so profound, so different from the rest that it deserved its very own piece. I felt somewhat emotionally compelled by my research into this fire and could hardly believe when the Provost articulated in such an emotionally-detached and impersonal way. How could he call the strained efforts of volunteers and helpers from the mainland hopeless? I felt a fronted for these people that I didn’t even know. How could he talk about this place like just a building? Like I said, a building is just a building until its 500 people’s future, people’s craftsmanship, art and livelihood. But as I read on, my mind completely changed. My emotional side was immediately swapped out for my rational, strategic side and John H. Shaw shifted my perception.
“This fire can be taken as a warning that our fire services in Rothesay should be on a bigger scale than at present — even if only in the matter of equipment,” he began, “Before the fire service became nationalised we in Rothesay paid £200 for its upkeep. Now our grant to the South West Area fire service is £2,036 — and we are substantially no better off than before. Surely we should expect a great deal better service for such an amount of money?”
I guess there was a valuable, tangible and most importantly, sensible, lesson to be learned from such a catastrophe and the Provost was certainly onto something. Sometimes it does take tragedies to highlight the cracks in communities. After the smoke has cleared and temperaments have cooled, we can see the issues with clarity and distinction. We have, since then, made a lot of progress in the community and with our public sector services. One can only hope that such a tragedy, such a big lesson, does not crop up uninvited in the town again and if it does, for some things are inevitable, we are manned, equipped and ready.
All reports, pictures and articles are courtesy of Bute Photo Archive and Bute Museum. I’d like to kindly and personally thank archivist Jean McMillan for providing me with assistance and content for this article.
Trigger warnings – Graphic descriptions and evidence of domestic violence, a lot of mentions of s**cide and mental health/illness. Graphic pictures and mentions of physical illness. This is a heavy read.
In my silence over these last 2 years, a lot has happened. I moved house, I met the love of my life, I graduated and got accepted for my Masters degree. I took on many jobs, I started new projects and have morphed into a completely different woman. A woman that my 18 year old self would hardly recognise and in all honesty, I couldn’t be happier with that. I’ve grown. Really grown.
Now, before I start you may be wondering, why didn’t I talk about what happened to me for so long?
The pain that comes with delving into past emotions and reflecting on trauma.
The guilt, shameand embarrassment that you carry as a victim of domestic abuse is indescribable. What could I have done differently? What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I strong enough? Why didn’t I leave?
The way that people would see me. My trauma felt personal, something for only me, my abuser & those closest to me to know of. I didn’t want anyone to look at me differently because of what I endured.
The judgement. Everyone’s going to have an opinion and for 2 years, I was terrified of that. Especially when most of my abuse took place where there was not just small town but small island mentality.
My abuser is well-known, at least within my age group. How many of his friends and family are willing to lie to protect him? How many of his friends and family are in denial of what he done to me? and finally, how many of his friends and family are willing to attack me on his behalf – I bet a lot.
So, why now? Because…
Reflection is one of the greatest tools in any human being’s toolkits. Reflection has been done by so many philosophers, writers, great thinkers and politicians and without it, we would never learn. Just look at Edmund Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France or Reflexions sur la revolution en France. A huge, monumental reflection that changed the course of politics today. So if my reflection can help prevent or change just one person’s experience with domestic abuse, I’ll have achieved exactly what I’ve set out to do. Not for revenge, but for everyone else’s justice.
The guilt and the shame I have carried for years has dissipated with learning, time and an absolute determination to heal the wounds that were keeping me stuck. Because I’m not a victim of domestic abuse, I’m a survivor. I am not to blame for what he done to me. Nothing is wrong with me. My strength far outweighs his and the reason so many can’t leave an abusive relationship is because they are trapped like I was. That does not have to be physically. And that’s okay, because I found my way out… but many don’t and I have a duty as a survivor to help change that.
I’m no longer afraid of how people see me. I came out the other end of a life-altering experience and I want to show others that they can too, and if that means sharing my own personal traumatic experience, then I will.
People’s opinions no longer frighten me. I know the truth. I know my experience better than anybody else and if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a journalist, it is my value and commitment to absolute integrity and I have a duty to that in every aspect of my life. Always will. Other people do not intimidate me and their views on my experience is a reflection of them and their morals, not of me.
I’m no longer frightened of my abuser nor his close ones. He has no power over me whatsoever anymore. When you fear someone, you ultimately give power to them. It’s a sad element of humanity that has put many tyrants in positions of power and control over decades. Their principle tactic is other people’s fear and how they can play off of that for personal gain. Abusers do exactly that. But when you are no longer afraid, you are taking back that power. It takes time, but I’m there. It’s mine.
A wonderful girl a few years younger than me approached me recently and told me how much my writing helps people and how an article of mine on the effects of my experience with birth control at 16 helped her in making better decisions with her body. How discussing topics that are ‘taboo’ and aren’t talked about was exactly what she needed to read at 14/15 years old and how often the things that make people uncomfortable are exactly the things that need to be talked about.
Knowledge is power. I want to highlight and show the exact signs of an abuser, because when we can recognise the signs, we can better protect ourselves and loved ones. We have the power, not them.
My story didn’t end 2 years ago…he is still harassing me. Yes, you read that right.
Lastly, I want to leave you with this thought reader before I continue with the details of what happened to me:
I’m a writer and I have journaled about my life since I was 10 years old. What everyone else doesn’t know, my diary does. I still do believe that some things in my life are best stuck to the pages of my little black leather book for the sake of my own self-reflection. But what happens when the reflection has been done? What happens when you’re 21 years old reading the memoirs of a 19 year old girl that you barely recognise? The lessons have been learned and life moves on, but every time you look at yourself in the mirror, the wounds that were raw at 18 and 19 have faded to scars at 21. What happens when 2 years later justices, still, have not been served and stories have never been told? I’m not just a writer, I’m a survivor and I will not be silenced. I have a duty to young girls and boys, to women and to men and certainly to me, to let my truth be told. To not only share my story, but to tell YOU, yes you reader, how healing the wounds of domestic abuse (or any trauma) is not impossible, for when they fade into scars, they are not scars of their brutality, they are scars of YOUR bravery. How the road to recovery is never linear and how time, though a healer, is not a cure. I have a duty to tell you that you’re not damaged goods, but a whole person deserving of love. And finally, I have a duty to show you the ‘red flags’, the behaviours and attitudes to be aware of so that you or your loved ones can leave before it’s too late or even better, get out before you or they are even in.
AnonymityDisclaimer: I have absolutely noobligation to protect my abuser by not revealing his identity in this article. However, it is my better judgement to keep his anonymity for MY protection, since part of this story was a court case. I will be censoring his name in screenshots and voice recordings, as well as putting the pitch of his voice down a level. Throughout the written dialogue, he will be referred to as Mr. X. My name, my voice and my words will be revealed exactly as they were. NOTHING has been altered in any of the evidence provided except to protect his identity. I am being completely and utterly transparent, hence why I am including all 16 minutes of voice recording from one of the nights of severe abuse, despite large gaps of no talking. If the recording is too painful or triggering to listen to, please feel free to skip on or leave the article. Finally, I decided against editing the voice recording for brevity as it goes against my integrity and what I stand for so you will hear the full, original tape with subtitles. I will include EVERYTHING that I can and EVERYTHING that I have. My commitment is to sharing the truth and be assured that I will. Here it is…
I wanted to provide you all with a roadmap/timeline of my abuse from start to finish because this absolutely encapsulates its stages and though a painful journey, it is necessary to not only reflect on, but to help guide both me and you throughout my last 2+ years. This puts into perspective how long this has plagued me and gives a brief, bitesize and digestible insight into the abusive patterns over the years.
June 2021 – Starting at the End: The straw that broke the camel’s back…
When my mum called me to tell me that my abuser (Mr. X) had stolen an outdoor chair from our family business in broad daylight, my heart sank to the pit of my stomach as I stirred the pasta in the pot before me. It was the name I dreaded to hear and would always prefer to opt for ‘he who shall not be named’. He was the first person that sprang into my mind as I shared the Facebook post a few hours before on the Isle of Bute page. With gut instinct and an educated guess based off of his previous behaviours, I just knew.
Comments came flooding in and after my mum’s phone call, I remember typing my own comment above reluctantly. Nobody on Bute knew the story behind it, even comments like “great news” made me uncomfortable. Not because of the commenter but because nobody had any idea that for me and my family, it really wasn’t. It wasn’t just somebody looking for a spare chair for their garden. It wasn’t a stranger who wanted to poke fun at the business and essentially, the Isle of Bute page that I had shared it in – it had nothing to do with the community either. There wasn’t a community thug or thief roaming the Rothesay streets. It was my abuser making a personal attack on my family because that was his only other resort and just another way of trying to get to me after all these years.
The most unsettling thing about all of this was that he had done this at around 11am while my family had an employee in the shop and before he could hand it back, he broke it. He broke it to send a message. This went way deeper than just a stolen a chair. From then on, I knew his insatiable desire to intimidate, provoke and have power over consequences in these last 2 years hadn’t subsided like I had hoped. He hadn’t changed and certainly hadn’t learned anything since his court date. He does and always has thought that he was above and beyond authority. That his actions have no consequences and that, to put quite simply, he is invincible. Here’s the thing, I’m a great believer in divine timing and when this incident happened, I started the ball rolling with this article. I knew it was time to break my silence.
May 2018 – Where it all began…
I had known of Mr. X from school but formally met him back in the summer of 2018 through a mutual friend. I was inviting a few people round to my house on Bute after finishing first year of uni and one of them at the time asked if he could bring Mr. X along. I said ‘of course’. That night me and Mr. X really seemed to hit it off. He seemed humbilly unaware of how funny he was, he was quirky and at the time I felt that our characters meshed. But after coming out of a relationship that Christmas just before, I didn’t want anything serious. I wanted anything but serious and he seemed to match with me on that – at least at the time.
In my mind, he seemed to understand me where others (my parents and close ones) didn’t and seemed to align with where I was at in my life. From my music taste, my views on life at that point and the internal chaos I was going through. To me he understood it all. He almost seemed to liberate me from everything at that time I (stupidly and naïvely) felt was tying me down. In hindsight, I know that those closest to me were just trying to protect me. But I was 18 now, I could do what I wanted… right?
Here is an excerpt from my diary that demonstrates my complete confusion and lack of direction in building myself at that point. This was written on Saturday, May 12th 2018 at 11:30am :
I am enraged with my lack of self love and care recently and I am finding myself in more and more situations that are both challenging and encouraging change in order to become the strong woman that resides within me. This journey of self-discovery was inevitably going to pose challenges and each I must take something from in order to grow.
After spending a year at university amidst the complete chaos of self-discovery and trying to really figure out who I was, I have to admit, I was in a really vulnerable place. I still hadn’t worked everything out about myself and what I believed in. I wasn’t a fully-formed stable woman yet and he caught me right in my most vulnerable moment of personal upheaval. Where I turned on all the beliefs I was raised on, questioned authority and most dangerously, rebelled against my family in a completely oblivious self-sabotage. Mr. X and I got on so well because he was years ahead of me on that. And if there is one thing I love, is being taught.
From school, he had always been the type of person to get in trouble, provoke people and prey on those he perceived as ‘weaker’. He knew better on the topic of rebelling than I did and at the time, that drew me in. It’s interesting to note that after moving away to stay in Lochgilphead for a short period when I was 15 (due to personal issues), Mr. X was one of my aggrovators and taunters when I eventually moved back. Though at this time, I chose to forget this as he wasn’t alone on a list of people who participated in doing that in school.
So that was him and that was me. We seemed to align and I truly thought he could teach me a thing or two about being adventurous and exciting since my entire life before university felt soo careful. I thought he could show me how to be independent, free and awakened… but that happened in a way that I’d never expect.
As time went on over the course of the summer, I found him fascinating with his love of taking risks, always wanting to climb hills, camp out in the wild and… get uncontrollably drunk, fearing no consequences. His response to me asking “what if the police come?” when we would go drinking outside would always be “so we’ll hide” or “we’ll run” and there was something so exhilarating about that.
Reader, in truth, I was enamoured with the risk and not so much the person and I’ll tell you why. It was at the end of May that I first experienced the scarier side of Mr. X, and the first huge set of red flags were placed right in front of my eyes that I chose to be blind to. And let me tell you, the red flags you choose to ignore now will cost you later.
My parents were away and he had invited me on a walk round Loch Fad. I was looking forward to this but insisted that I wasn’t drinking because I was feeling rough from the night before and had noticed swelling on my tonsils. When we met for our walk, he showed up with a litre of Glen’s vodka and I laughed while asking “where is your mixer?” and he told me it was for both of us and that he didn’t bring any. He told me that we were both drinking it straight (red flag no. 1). I went back to my house and grabbed some diet coke, pouring it into a spare water bottle because that litre really intimidated me, even between two of us and even with mixer. I remember vividly the feeling of “I really shouldn’t be doing this” as I left my house for the second time to meet him.
Anyway as the night went on, I sipped at the water bottle mixed with vodka and diet coke as he gulped the litre, blasting music out of my bluetooth speaker behind me. I remember being so questionably sober even after a few drinks and him, well he was on a completely different planet. This didn’t scare me at first, until I had to pick him up from a ditch at the side of the road.
I pleaded with him to get up but he just kept asking where all his friends had gone to which I responded “it’s just me”. I had never seen somebody so drunk that they had mistaken people for being there when they never were and let me tell you, I never want to again (red flag no. 2). He kept insisting that his friends were there (a pattern that frequently occurs throughout this whole story and you will later hear in the audio) and it sent shivers down my spine, despite the heatwave of a summer we had that year.
As I eventually got him up, he staggered behind me as I walked ahead, murmuring and quizzing me on things about my life at university (including how many guys I “had been with”) etc. I told him bluntly that it was none of his business (and ladies and gentlemen, it never is anybody’s business unless you want it to be). At this point, I was merely interested in him as we had only met up once or twice before this event. I enjoyed being around him but at this stage, I can confidently say I had little to no proper or deeper feelings of attachment to him. Please note this as the story progresses.
As he progressively dug and dug for things to bring up about me and his fixation on “how many men I had been with” (red flag no. 3), I eventually snapped and told him that enough was enough and that he had crossed a line. This was just as we almost made it full circle round Loch Fad, stopping at Lover’s Lane as he slurped at what was left of the litre bottle.
His immediate reaction when I retaliated was to tell me that he had “feelings” for me and that he really “liked” me more than a friend and that’s WHY he was pestering me about it. This is not normal or okay to do to anyone and definitely not okay to justify it by saying you have feelings for someone (red flag no. 4). I didn’t know if I should have even believed him because of the condition he was in. Regardless, feelings or not, he should not have crossed those boundaries. But it got worse…
The First Sign of Verbal and Physical Aggression…
When he revealed his feelings to me, I didn’t respond the way he clearly had hoped and he didn’t like that – to say the least. I told him that I didn’t share the same feelings as we had only met a few times before and well, that’s when the name calling, the strangest behaviour and nothing short of bullying began.
He told me upfront that I was a “slut” who must’ve been with a multitude of men before (which was completely untrue but something that I never feel I have to justify, but I gave up trying to fight it). I resorted to silence and my silence was aggravating so eventually he told me to go home. The problem was he had my house keys in his jacket pocket since I didn’t have any pockets on my skirt. Everytime I tried to get them off of him, he would run away into the darkness of the woods in Lover’s Lane laughing a hysterical and echoey laugh which absolutely terrified me, especially at night time. He was genuinely playing mind games with me and it felt like I was chasing after The Joker just so that I could get home safely. It sounds as ridiculous and weird as it was, honestly.
After a good while of asking him firmly then pleading and begging him to come back (trying as many approaches as I could), he emerged from the bushes and gave me the keys but insisted he would walk me home. I allowed him in my terrified, exhausted and frankly exasperated, state. So he did and we eventually reached my house where he proceeded with the taunts about my time at uni; how “stuck up” I must be, how “slutty” I must’ve been in my first year at uni (seriously, I don’t know what he really thought goes on at uni but he couldn’t be more wrong) and several other inappropriate questions that I chose not to answer. Again, he didn’t like that and eventually asked if he could come in and stay at my house since my mum and step dad were away. I said “no” and if there’s one thing Mr. X does not like is a “no” (red flags 5 and 6).
He started the name calling and the shouting. I was so simultaneously embarrassed (since we have neighbours) and terrified that I got myself inside as quickly as possible and turned the lock on the side door. But he wasted no time in making his way for the front door. When I got to it, I remembered in my short-lived relief that it was already locked… but my front porch door wasn’t. He began violently kicking this as I stood in the hallway listening to the thumps of the wooden doors smacking off the porch walls inside. “Rat! You’re a fucking rat!” he kept shouting and my silence only seemed to provoke him more (7 million red flags ). I stood and listened with my back against the wall thinking of what my next move was going to be. I opted for going to a safe place in my bed upstairs where I was at a safe enough distance but could still hear him shouting below. Baffled, confused and truthfully, quite hurt, I eventually fell asleep.
The First Sign of Gaslighting…
The next day I woke to an unbelievable amount of missed calls and private messages from Mr. X, telling me how sorry he was and how he was “so embarrassed” with his behaviour from the previous night. He told me that he had just drank too much and became a different person (I don’t think I even need to count the red flags on this one). He begged me to meet him that same day but I told him I couldn’t as I had to go to work. Again, he couldn’t take “no” for an answer and kept trying to persuade me to let him meet me at my work down at the Putting Green. I felt incredibly uncomfortable but still he insisted on making things up to me. Despite this, I still refused.
That day I didn’t even know if I was going to go to work as I had woken up with tonsils the size of tennis balls and a horrific fever which had clearly been brewing from the night before. I had phoned my mum that morning and told her how ill I was but decided to push through and go into work but was let away early as my illness progressively worsened.
My mum and step-dad came home later that evening. She sat on the edge of the couch where I was wrapped up, hardly able to speak. She told me that I had to “put the bottle down for a while” as I was over doing it and it was clearly catching up to me. I knew she was right and I made a promise to both her and myself to do that because I could see how badly my body was reacting to the weekends of excessive drinking and Mr. X‘s measures. Yes, he insisted on pouring all of my drinks and done so throughout our entire relationship.
I told Mr. X I couldn’t see him for a while until I felt better, though we kept in touch over messenger. It was through this that I began to feel the pressure of accepting his apology and most importantly, accepting his justification for his behaviour. He told me that he was intimidated by me going to uni and how “out of his league” I was (which I thought was ridiculous, but you’ll later hear him describe this in the audio tape) and that the reason he put me through hell the night before was because he liked me so much. He proceeded to convince me that that’s what people do when they like you so much. Mr. X continued explaining how embarrassed and rejected he felt when I didn’t share the same sentiment and that’s when a huge shift happened. I began to feel responsible and that I was sorry. This poor boy had feelings for me. Had I led him on then completely rejected him? How could I have done that? I owe it to him. This was my exact mentality. So, owe it to him I did.
The First Signs of My Cycle of Abuse:
Phase 1 for me was the tension as you have read: insults, accusations, fault finding and controlling behaviours from asking about my past, my time at university etc. Making comments on the way I was as a woman.
Phase 2 was the explosion kicking the doors, verbal abuse and destruction of property.
Phase 3 was the honeymoon. The very next day with the apologies, the promises of change and the justification.
This was all within 2/3 times of MEETING him. And I dread to say it reader, but this was a foreshadowing and a repeated cycle that happened over the next 7 months of my relationship. Let’s continue…
I spent virtually every single day and night with Mr. X over the course of June, July and August and never formally as his girlfriend. We went up the hills in the sun, camping, sleeping in bird huts (because I was too scared to go home and face the wrath of my mum and step-dad), all while he filled half of a 500ml empty bottle with pure vodka for me, the other half diet coke and said this is the way I should be drinking now.
One night in June, I remember saying that I was going to go to the pubs with some of my friends and he said “why would you want to be one of those girls?” and proceeded to tell me how he fancied me more because I liked to go out adventuring and how I wasn’t like those “basic” girls that go to pubs. It makes me laugh with how ridiculous that belief is and even more ridiculous how I could agree with it. But in my head, reader, “I owed him”.
Essentially, he was subtly controlling every aspect of my life. Convincing me that my parents were wrong and that they were just trying to hold me back. That they would never and could never understand us. Eventually, I felt like I was falling for this guy because really, I didn’t have anybody else and he made damn sure of that.
There was still part of me that held true to what I wanted for that year: self-discovery and not having ties to anybody. I say this because Mr. X asked me to be his girlfriend not once, not twice, but three times that summer and I refused until the fourth. Even on the fourth time, that took convincing. Anything that takes someone to convince you, should not be happening ESPECIALLY after 4 tries. So, there you have it. There was still a part of me that didn’t want this, but I caved.
September 2018 – Becoming ‘Official‘ & My Return to Uni
I went against everything that I wanted for that year. I lost a good, close relationship with my mum and step-dad and felt like I was constantly justifying why I was with this guy because when I say I was warned about him, I mean I was hounded with warnings. Yet I felt the need to defend him, because like me, I felt he was misunderstood and he convinced me that we were the only two that could ever understand each other.
My mum gave up fighting with me over him and I eventually wanted them to be introduced to each other. After all, he was my boyfriend and I felt it was necessary but I will never forget how he went about this. He tanned a bottle of Buckfast before making his way downstairs to meet my parents because “he was so nervous” and everything that came out of his mouth when he spoke to them was slurred, skewed and practically made little to no sense. But still, they gave up fighting with me but the more he proved me wrong, the more I was determined to prove to my mum and step-dad that I was right and that came at a huge emotional, psychological and physical cost.
I was now drinking more than ever in a bid to keep up with Mr. X. We were preparing for me leaving to go back to uni in early September and this news hit him like a tonne of bricks- but it was reality. No more camping, no more drinking, no more hill walking and running away from everybody else into the fields. Reality hit us both hard for different reasons.
He knew that Stirling was a bigger place than Bute with more people, even more adventure and a lot of nightclubs. He didn’t like that. The more I got to know other people, the more Mr. X felt like he was closer to losing control over me. So what did he do? Before I left for university, he told me to change my Facebook relationship status to ‘in a relationship’ with him. I was so reluctant and he could sense that. Rule number 1:ALWAYStrust your gut. What came next was emotional blackmail.
“How do I know you won’t leave me for other guys at uni?”, “How can I trust you if that isn’t on your profile?” “Are you embarrassed to be seen going out with me?” “I won’t feel comfortable with you going to uni without that on your profile” and again… I caved. Even when the alarm bells were deafening in my head, I caved and again, he won. He had control, like he always wanted.
Reality hit me differently because I had spent virtually every single day with this guy and him alone for 3 months and all of a sudden, that was going to be over… so in that sense, it worried me. I had a strange and irrational dependency on him. As if all I could ever need was him. I hadn’t felt that in a relationship before so in my naïvety I mistook that for true love (that’s what he told me it felt like), when really it was extreme codependency and almost like a case of Stockholm Syndrome. I needed him for EVERYTHING and when he wasn’t there, my anxiety shot through the roof. I felt like an incapable little girl without him and he made sure to remind me that I was.
Soon, I was headed back for uni and from then on, it only got worse. It’s almost like the further away from him I was and the more people I interacted with that weren’t him, the more insecure and out of his grasp I was. I could slip through his fingers at anytime in his eyes. His response was to draw me in closer and closer until I was eventually under his thumb.
There are too many red flags to count at this stage but one of the worst from the time of moving back to Stirling for uni was his constant need to FaceTime me before every single night out with my friends. He always wanted to check in on what I was wearing and would make sure that I was constantly messaging him on a night out. He was even severely threatened by the fact that one of my three other flatmates that I moved in with was a guy. At the time, I thought this was just because he cared about me and wanted me safe but in reality, he just wanted to exert even more control over me than he already had, especially when I was physically out of his reach.
October 2018 – The first night of verbal abuse and humiliation in our relationship
It was Mr. X‘s birthday and I had come home to Bute from Stirling to celebrate with him. Everyone at his work had decided in late afternoon to go for drinks in the pub. I decided to come along a little later (approx 8pm) as I was taking longer to get ready and wanted to give him some time with his colleagues. By the time I had reached the pub, Mr. X was prancing around, chirper and very drunk. I was in high spirits too since this was the first legal time that he could celebrate in the pub (yet another reason he hadn’t wanted me to go to the pub before this – because he couldn’t be there).
The night carried on and I chatted away with his family and friends while he floated around the pub. Honestly, the energy felt really welcoming and for once, I thought in my own kind of selfish way, that I was really happy to be around other people instead of the monotony of just drinking with me and him. I was so looking forward to a great, social and high-spirited night but as always, these things didn’t usually last when I drank with Mr. X in social situations (which I came to find out).
As the older of the people out celebrating for Mr. X‘s birthday disappeared home to their beds, us younger ones carried on and before we knew it, we were at a girl’s afterparty who I was naturally really suspicious of. I’m not usually one to judge as I always follow the rule of “he who is without sin may cast the first stone”, but I had witnessed the way this girl treated younger boys along with other people and it really didn’t sit right with me. It was a strange after-party to be at but Mr. X was good friends with her and so I let it roll.
On the taxi ride home, he began making comments about my time at university again, making me feel like I had something to prove (I cannot remember verbatim and wouldn’t state what he said unless I did) but before I knew it, we were in a full-blown argument in which he resorted to name-calling. He was as vicious and terrifying as I remembered from the first night of this back in May.
We both apologised the next day, agreed that we were both drunk and I tried not to make a big deal of it or how much his words hurt me. I hate carrying on conflict for any longer than it needs to and so we forgot about it. Or at least he did. I may have forgotten what he said… but never the way it made me feel.
Mr. X and the Art of Humiliation
Mr. X wasn’t just a master of verbal aggression during arguments; he slid it into conversation and in front of other people in an absolute pursuit to humiliate me.
One day in October we had returned to Bute together after a short visit to Stirling during my University reading week. As we always did, we drank on the travel back down. The journey was exhausting to say the least as we had to get a replacement bus which caused so many difficulties but when we arrived, our mutual friend who had originally introduced us at the party back in May, had offered to pick us up and we could all spend some time together in his car. Mr. X didn’t want me to join. But this friend was my friend too and had invited me along, so this hurt me. I never made a big deal about it and decided to contact one of my other friends who had a car and asked if he wanted to go out a drive for a catch up since I hadn’t seen many of my friends in a long time.
He agreed and when Mr. X and I reached Bute, we went our separate ways. It wasn’t long before the car I was in passed the car that Mr. X and my other friend were in so we all decided to meet up with parked cars out in the countryside. Conversation ensued and I was being my usual bubbly self, engaging in conversation and enjoying being able to socialise properly again when Mr. X took a hold of the conversation and completely cut me off.
I felt a little hurt but continued to stand and listen as the four of us all stood around outside the two cars and when I went to give my input into the conversation, Mr. X turned to me in front of everyone and aggressively told me to “fuck up”. A phrase that you will hear also in the audio tape. Me and my friend have since talked about this incident and how uncomfortable it made him feel as well to witness. I was completely humiliated and my instinct was to shut down after this and not speak at all until we got back to mine.
When we both got dropped off at my house by our friends, I tried to climb out of the car I was in when he hurried over and tried to shut the car door on me. I had just about enough of this. As both of our friends drove away, I told him outside my house that I was fed up of the way he treated me and he wasn’t coming inside. He retaliated by being his usual sarcastic, nasty self and what did I do? I caved and let him in. Every argument felt like I was fighting a losing battle and the emotional energy that this took from me was unbelievable.
November 2018 – The Abuse Caught on Tape and Absence from Uni
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. This is where I get to back-up my claims and not just provide you with a narrative, but provide you with cold, hard physical evidence.
I want to provide you with some context to what happened to me in the month of November. It was a really difficult time for me because adjacent to all the abuse I was suffering from my boyfriend, I had also been dealing with the absence of my sister as she was in a psychiatric hospital due to severe mental illness that almost cost her her life on multiple occasions. Every single day was uncertain for me and I had no emotional capacity to retaliate to any of Mr. X‘s abuse.
To me, I had lost the greatest friend in the world (everyone knows how close I am to my sister) and every single day I was praying that things would get easier for her. There was not a moment that she was not on my mind. At this time, I was struggling with my own mental ailment that has plagued me since school – anxiety. This caused (and still causes me) extreme and horrific hyperhidrosis.
Remember when I said previously how dependent I was on Mr. X and how I was rarely socialising with anyone BUT Mr. X … this was the price I paid when I returned to university and HAVING to attend seminars and lectures. It caused the sweat patches that you see in the picture on my shirt. That was after a one hour long seminar at uni. It can be hard to see because of the stripes on the shirt (this was on purpose so nobody could see my sweats and to prevent embarrassment at uni) but I have circled the patches and explained where they are located.
In early October, I seen a counsellor at the university but never returned for my next appointment because I was convinced this was nothing to do with my relationship like she was eluding and instead was just something that was wrong with me and something that was wrong with university. That’s what Mr. X had made sure that I knew. That every other outside source was to blame for my heightened anxiety and actually, that he was the only thing keeping me afloat. Because remember…”I needed him”.
Now, on the 10th of November (this date really sticks in my head), Mr. X carried out his same manner of drunken verbal abuse on me. Questioning me on my history with boys – my ex-boyfriends, people who I had fancied, people who I had briefly dated… EVERYTHING, before resorting to telling me how much of a “whore” and “slut” I was. I was sick to the back teeth of this. When I sat in silence, he would taunt me about girls that had been interested in him and how I am lucky because he never pursued them. How grateful I should be that he never took these other girls up on their offers of one night stands AND long-term romances.
He began bringing up a night in August where I was at my Aunty’s wedding. He went on about how I was late to meeting him after the wedding. That night I sent him a snapchat of me drinking a glass of white wine at the wedding (he knew I never usually drank that and was usually on vodka because he poured them) and all he could respond was “well we know what girls are like with wine”, implying that they are more sexually inclined. He brought that up again on this night of November 10th. Remembering this makes me cringe.
I left my Aunty’s wedding to come and meet him and he stood me up. I was 5 minutes late and he had gone by the time I arrived. I waited at the bench for a while before he showed back up again and proceeded to be angry that I had “enjoyed” a night with anybody other than him. He wanted to punish me for this. Even on the night of my Aunty’s wedding, he wanted to punish me for enjoying my night. And still, on this night 3 months later, he was bringing the “white wine” up and the “amount of boys” that were at her wedding in an attempt to trigger me. What were meant to be some great times (including Bute’s Highland Games night the next day after my Aunty’s wedding) were taken from me. Because I HAD to spend it alone with him.
Now, on November 10th, he began getting up in my face, spitting whilst trying to aggravate me with past events and eventually, an argument ensued. I was always trying to fight my corner but when you have little to no emotional strength left in you, you tend to pick your battles. I was left yet again feeling emotionally defeated and LONGING for him to just go to sleep and sober up.
The next day, I woke to flowers and a whole bag of sweets next to my bed. He had sobered up, kissed me and apologised. It is the strangest and most bizarre moment of joy when abusers reward you for tolerating their abuse. I got an amazing rush of love and appreciation that next day when I seen the beautiful array of colours next to my bed. Like I said, it feels like a reward for your efforts. “Tolerate my drunken abuse and you’ll get love and affection the following day.” Just look at the diagram of the cycle of abuse. It was always Phase 3 “The Honeymoon” phase that I strangely longed for as the cycles repeated.
But reader, when your mum comes into your room and sees gorgeous flowers of a charming and blooming romance that she has had to come to accept but doesn’t know that those were flowers followed by a night of abuse and torment, that’s when you realise that you are worlds apart from everything and everyone else. Those flowers were a product of gaslighting. That is the domestic abuse cycle summed up. The exact emotional trap that abusers will place on you so that when people question why you don’t leave, you struggle to fathom the words because there ARE times when he buys me flowers, there ARE times when he says I’m beautiful… but that doesn’t make him a good guy.
*Let this be the pitstop reminder in this article that no matter what, this is never your fault. It’s psychological warfare.*
The Night I thought I was Going to Lose My Life (The Audio Tape)
Please read this before you listen to the audio tape. Context is so important to everything and I NEED to discuss the day of my 19th birthday and everything that led up to the most horrific experience of my life (worse than my seizure the day after my 21st). What you hear in this audio and what I have had to revisit and transcribe for you, my readers, is physical evidence of both my verbal and physical abuse and the worst night of it at that. Revisiting this tape (which I haven’t done in years) has been the hardest part of writing this article. It is reliving one of my most traumatic experiences where I was certain I was going to lose my life and so I pressed record. Please read the context before listening to the tape. Everything in the tape will then make sense.
What Happened on November 17th 2018 (My 19th Birthday)…
I had taken sickness absence from university on the 12th of October 2018 to the 12th of November 2018, following incredibly unbearable anxiety at university, deep worry and concern for my sister and a complete lack of direction in my own life. Mr. X had told me after I had returned home on my month off that I don’t need uni. That I should “just leave” and him and his job would support me. He was determined to eradicate me of any dignity, self-sufficiency and independence that I had left. I really do scoff at this now but then, I was in two minds. I just knew that I needed time away and needed important “me” time to figure myself out.
That didn’t happen. Mr. X was never away from me when I returned home. Fuelling me with drink (and when I say this, no he did not physically force me to drink – coercion and manipulation alongside emotional blackmail is a huge part of this cycle) and not leaving me to work on my essays. This meant that so many were submitted too close to the deadline, requiring me to stay awake until 6am or later at some points. One night before my deadline, I had stayed awake until 3am, fell asleep until 7am and completed the essay by 11am, just one hour before the deadline. It was exhausting. I had barely attended everything that I needed to at university due to anxiety so it was a miracle to even pass but the mental blocks I suffered at this time were close to unbearable. I really thought that I could bare university no longer and my grades were suffering.
When I returned to university on 12th November, it was harder than it ever was before. I had laid low and dormant for a month, spending time and energy in trying to get Mr. X out of a job that he hated. I also spent that entire month trying to give him motivation and ambition in life, all the while neglecting my own. It really is a sad irony.
When I travelled back down to Bute on Friday 16th November 2018 for my 19th Birthday the following day, I remember having this feeling of complete hopelessness and for the first time in almost 19 years, I hadn’t looked forward to a birthday. First off, the absence of my sister put a huge void in my heart. Birthdays were never the same without her, let alone while she was in hospital recovering from a horrendous depression. My sister had always been the ray of sunshine in the darkest of times and so I wasn’t really in good spirits for my birthday.
Amongst this, the family had to really come together for my sister so my birthday was put on the back burner which I completely accepted and understood. I would have put anything on the back burner for her and still would. I came home and the house felt vacant and everyone’s temperaments were running high with worry. I retreated to my bedroom when I arrived and spent the night before my birthday in there until the next day.
I woke up on the 17th of November feeling incredibly lonely and isolated. I was looking forward to Mr. X finishing his morning shift and appearing at mine at lunchtime and… he did. He had gotten me a wonderful gift – The Beatles ‘White Album’ Book remastered by George Martin’s son. This was an expensive and beautiful gift but most importantly, it was incredibly sentimental to me because of my newfound love for the Beatles and music in general. Along with this, he bought me the Beatles’ ‘Help’ album on vinyl which I was so excited to listen to but unfortunately didn’t have a working record player so would have to listen elsewhere.
That lunchtime I thanked Mr. X so much and told him that I would take it down to my dad’s that night so I could appreciate it and play it on my dad’s record player. My dad was also really excited to hear the album since he had just gotten back into his old records and the Beatles all over again. This seemed like the perfect plan.
My mum and step-dad had surprised me by booking a table for a meal for all of us (Mr. X included) and wanted to try and make my birthday as special as possible despite the family issues we were all going through. I really appreciated this and informed Mr. X of the plans.
The plan for me was to visit my dad’s in the late afternoon after Mr. X left to return for the rest of his shift and show him the wonderful gifts that I had gotten. Down there, I would play my vinyl and have a few birthday drinks with my dad and then leave my dad’s to meet Mr. X, my mum and step-dad for a meal in town before heading out to the pub with the three of them. I then promised my dad that I would return just before the pub’s closed so that we (Mr. X and I) could spend some time with him, listening to music and celebrating. This is exactly what happened until the very last hurdle after going out to the pub.
Mr. X had invited his dad along which I was excited for because I hardly knew him and was eager for opportunities to get to know his family. His family was a part of Mr. X that was very secretive so I was looking forward to this. When his dad arrived, he seemed funny and honest, full of opinions and seemed to enjoy our company in the pub. He got on well with my step-dad as they had already known each other. It was pretty nice and wholesome to watch and I was really enjoying my birthday, distracted from all the issues I had been carrying for the past few months.
The evening carried on until just before midnight when Mr. X and his dad were incredibly drunk, hugging and chatting to just about everyone in the pub, leaving me, my mum and step-dad sat at our table. I remember vividly being unusually sober because I felt a sort of uneasiness in my stomach that lasted from the day that I travelled down. I’ve come to know that whenever I get this sicky, almost butterfly-like feeling in my stomach that it’s usually a sign of bad things to come. I always trust this and it has never failed me unfortunately. I was not in a particularly great place emotionally and after the heavy meal that I had earlier, drink didn’t seem to touch me. At least pub measures didn’t and this was also different from the half-a-glass measures I was used to getting poured.
I remember really wanting to return to my dad’s to play more of the vinyl but no matter how much I asked Mr. X and his dad if we could get going, they’d find someone else to chat to or put on another song on the jukebox. I became deflated and phoned my dad, promising him we wouldn’t be long but he had told me that he was going to his bed within the next 15 or so minutes.
In desperation, I pleaded with Mr. X to leave and told my mum and step-dad thank you and that I would see them when I got home. This took longer than it needed to and certainly over 15 minutes. Mr. X brought his dad along with us – which I didn’t mind but in their drunken states, they staggered and walked really slow, chatting sentences that barely made sense to a really sober me.
By the time we had made it halfway, I knew we weren’t going to make it to my dad’s so said that I would just walk up to my mum and step-dad’s house. Mr. X‘s dad said that we could all go up to his instead and I said that I didn’t have anything to drink up there. He informed that they had vodka, beer etc. but when I inquired about mixer, he responded that they had none.
I came up with the idea of going to my dad’s, who had said that he would leave the door open for me anyway if he had gone to bed so I could come and collect my presents, and I could take my diet coke from there and bring it up to Mr. X‘s house. We all agreed and Mr. X‘s dad said he would walk ahead while we made our way to my dad’s. I was admittedly really upset with the outcome because I felt immensely disappointed with how my night had went. I felt exhausted, emotionally drained and quite frankly at this point, ready for my bed. I was angry at not being able to finish listening to the vinyl with my dad who I hadn’t seen in a while or spend some real quality time with him on my birthday before having to rush out. But I could tell Mr. X and his dad were still in the mood for “a party” as he refers to it in the audio tape, so I obliged.
As me and Mr. X went our separate ways from his dad, heading toward my dad’s house he turned to me and said “what’s up with your face?” to which I honestly responded everything that I highlighted above and well… he didn’t take that good. He said that I was “spoilt” and that EVERYONE else was enjoying their night and I explained to him that I had a lot going on in my head between being just back at uni after a huge breakdown, missing my unwell sister and feeling very lonely mentally. Again, to him I was “selfish” for saying this and was ruining “his night”.
I can’t exactly remember what happened at this point, but we definitely reached the outside of my dad’s block of flats and I’m almost certain that his words got so hurtful that I decided against getting the mixer and going to his dad’s altogether. I do, however, remember heading for my own home and he followed me.
We reached a red postbox which is featured in the picture outside of P&D’s (my family’s business) and it was here after several taunts of the usual slut-shaming and calling me a “spoiled brat” that he took his fist and punched the palm of his hand and in the most spine-chilling voice, looked me dead in the eye and warned me that “this could be your face.” I continued walking home, feeling almost zombie-like and numb at this point. I tend to do this in traumatic situations – just completely shut down. I just took his threat of physical violence as exactly what I thought it was… a threat. But it was a horrific one at that.
As I continued to walk, my mum and step-dad actually passed us in a taxi after leaving the pub. I was only a few seconds away from my house so they kept going in the taxi and beeped at us. Mr. X caught up with me, following me into my house and straight up into my bedroom, where I changed into my pjs and got into bed. I was completely exasperated with the entire night. I really do remember lying in my bed wishing over and over again in my head that my birthday would end and that Mr. X would leave me alone.
My mum and step-dad decided to continue the night down in the kitchen, while listening to music (you can hear this in the background of the audio tape). This one night they decided to shut the door because they thought I was going to sleep and didn’t want the music to keep me awake but this turned out to be a huge important factor in what ensued.
The taunts got worse and worse, to the point that Mr. X was grabbing my body parts and shaming them. Telling me that I was “too fat” in certain areas and even calling me “obese”. I got up to walk down stairs to tell my parents about what was happening to me and he followed, trying to stop me and as we reached the side door, I managed to get him half way out of it before he put his foot in-between the door and the frame to jam it. I was terrified.
Again, I felt defeated. So I warned him that if this continued, I would get my parents involved as he came back inside. But he called my bluff. He knew I was scared of them doing nothing if I said something. He always said “what are they really gonna do?” after so many arguments that I’ve threatened this before. I was scared of my mum and step-dad thinking this was just another couples fight. Everyone around me being so drunk but I was stone cold sober didn’t help. I felt like I was facing this all alone. And really, I didn’t feel this was the time to get an “I told you so”. It’s important to note that my mum and step-dad never did this and never would do this, but my mentality combined with Mr. X‘s threats and gaslighting, made me feel like the whole world was against me, except him. He distorted my reality.
He followed me back up to my bedroom and I just lay in my bed, at times turning over and pretending to sleep because I felt I had exhausted every other option. But everytime I asked him to leave, he insisted I was a thief because the vinyl he got me for MY birthday was still down at my dad’s and because I wouldn’t walk down at midnight to go and get it, I was stealing. I even told him I would give him it back the day after. I just wanted him to leave. That’s all.
He continuously insisted I had boys’ clothing in my room (they were his clothes for staying at mine that night) and insisted that I was a slut, whore etc. He accused me of cheating (not on audio, but before I recorded). I have never looked at another man in my life in a relationship, let alone cheat and my previous partners can attest to that. In the audio he tells me that “I’m a special child” that people worship me but that he “won’t die with folk worshipping me”. A very spine-chilling statement. You will hear all of this, reader.
He also is persistent about other people being in the room… sound familiar? and mocks my appearance and threatens me with my sister (knowing how close I am to her and how she was in hospital with severe mental illness at this stage) by saying: “if you care about your sister you’d look at me,” and when I didn’t, calling me a “selfish wee fucking cunt”. This had been going on for a long time before I pressed record. I had never heard it get so bad with threats of physical violence and verbal abuse. I feared for my life that night and in my fear of losing exactly that, I recorded the abuse on my phone. You will also hear several moments where he grabs my neck, shakes me and eventually grabs my throat, choking me.
Now, reader, you are about to hear the audio tape of the night of November 17th, early morning of November 18th. Please wear earphones or headphones when listening to this, though it’s transcribed and has subtitles. I really would like you to hear EVERYTHING in its rawness. If at any point it gets too much, please do not listen. Mute the video and read the transcription. Or leave the video. I don’t want to trigger anyone. But this is what I experienced at my own house on my 19th birthday by my then boyfriend after refusing to attend his dad’s for an after-party:
*Again, his voice has been altered for censorship but mine is exactly as is. The last 6-7 minutes are particularly evident of the abuse (and are extremely hard to listen to) but the whole audio provides context of how I was treated.
Even after the recording stops, he verbally tortured me the entire night. You can see how me describing the audio and actually hearing it is so different. The “I love absolute fucking bits out you” in an angry tone really terrifies me and particularly triggers me when revisiting this tape. In honestly…all of this tape does but there are times when transcribing this, my boyfriend has had to console me. It’s incredibly dark and really hard hitting but that was my reality and sadly, it is still the reality for so many people. THIS BEHAVIOUR IS NOT NORMAL. IT IS NOT OKAY.
I managed to get Mr. X out of my house that night by threatening (once again) to wake my parents and as I turned the light off, crying in the dark, I heard clattering on my attic bedroom roof. At the window across from me in the pitch black, there he was. A dark, hunched figure on all fours crawling up my roof and window trying to get in. This was my real life horror movie.
And you guessed it, I let him back in so that he would eventually fall asleep, sober up , not disturb my parents and yes… the next day I got flowers. Frustrating to read and frustrating for me to admit.
December 2018 – The Breakup
After that night, I started to really distance myself from Mr. X because a clean break never felt possible. It felt like leaving him suddenly would do more harm than good. His energy (although already really bad) seemed to get worse, either that or my rose-tinted glasses were fading. I think most likely, I was starting to see him for what and who he really was because he had shown me so much of his ugly side already. In fact, I’m not sure if it was his or my energy that shifted but something did. Something changed, that’s all I can tell you.
He knew I had seen his ugliness and forgave and stayed, so he got comfortable. He got comfortable knowing that I would probably never find the courage to walk away since he thought he had reduced me to nothing. But he was wrong. So very, very wrong. I could no longer stand being around him and I knew deep down that this wasn’t what love was and this was not how love was meant to be. That the life he wanted me to live and the future that he wanted us to have – a stay at home housewife, who cleaned dishes and looked after children while he drank himself into oblivion and I obeyed his every order, was just not going to happen. That was not who I was. I was always and still am a free-spirit. A maverick, a non-conformist and sometimes, I see myself as the feather that floats around in the opening scene of Forrest Gump. I can’t be tied down. I’m an independent, free-thinker and I had so many ambitions, big ideas and dreams for my future and he was not about to take that away from me. He took a lot…but he could never take that. And that frustrated him.
My sister’s condition worsened around her birthday in early December and I really started to see what was important to me when I came so close to losing her again. So close that I still find it hard to discuss and comprehend. I remember taking my nephew (her son) out for a walk around the park and watching how his little face glowed even in times of darkness, how he was so oblivious to how much of a saviour he really was to everyone in such a terrifying time and looking at my nephew and thinking if some woman were to treat him in the future the way I had been treated over the course of 2018, how enraged and protective I would become. But the difference with me was, nobody knew. I kept this so hush-hush. So nobody was enraged or protective, because nobody had any idea what I was going through.
Mr. X appeared in my house a few days before Christmas, clearly out of his box on cocaine and drunk beyond belief. He began getting soppy and telling me how much he loved me and how I was the best thing that happened to him and reader, pardon the expression, but I shit you not, I felt like throwing up in my mouth. He repulsed me. Standing before me, he really and truly repulsed me. Everytime he spoke, I wished he would shut up and that’s the god’s honest truth. Something really shifted.
I said “you’ve been taking stuff, haven’t you” and he knew how I felt about him constantly taking drugs and he denied it. I might’ve had the slightest glimpse of believing him if he hadn’t had white powder lining his nostrils so I broke up with him on the spot and kicked him out of my house. This time he happily obliged and left.
It wasn’t an easy thing to do. My mum was downstairs blow-drying her hair and I went down to tell her she was right. She was right all along and I absolutely broke my heart to her. She cuddled me and told me to block him on everything, which I did. Everything except messenger. Why? I have no idea why but I wish I had.
The entire night he bombarded me with messages, telling me how he got into a fight and was “jumped” by a group of boys. He demanded me to feel sorry for him and what an awful girl I was that broke up with him that night. That the reason he got into a fight was because I sent him out my house so it was my fault. Truth be told, I was trying to console myself crying knowing that I had done the right thing but he was tormenting me yet again, trying to make everything so difficult. And yes, I should’ve blocked him and left it there but as you’ll see below, this was the mental state I was in after the breakup. This picture was saved about week after.
I met up with Mr. X several times after the breakup and around Christmas to try to work things out or try to get through to him, showing the suffering he had caused me. He couldn’t comprehend. This was a boy who had little to no regard for anyone else’s suffering apart from his own. I remember standing outside the church next to my house on Bute in the pitch black knowing that my words were falling on deaf ears. I was so frustrated and in tears of desperation, pleaded with him to just understand why I couldn’t be with him anymore. No matter what I said or did, I felt like I was giving a little boy into trouble and he couldn’t take it. He would always walk away in a temper tantrum and this repeated. Even when we were not officially in a relationship, I let this boy (for that’s all that he is and will ever be) get comfortable disrespecting me.
Revealing the Abuse to My Family
It wasn’t until Christmas Eve when my sister was recovering and we eventually got to see her again after almost 4 months. We were able to go to her new house and have some lunch, but the whole day I was on the verge of tears. I was simply not coping.
It was a beautiful reunion between my sister and I, but conversation carried on between us all and she asked what was going on with me. I told her what had happened with the breakup but not to worry as I desperately didn’t want to place any other negative burdens on her. I never wanted to mention anything else other than the breakup but it seemed the harder I tried to hold back, the closer to breaking down I was. I told everyone at my sister’s house – my mum, my step-dad, my brother-in-law and my sister of the trauma I had endured. I let them hear the audio tape that you just heard but something back then didn’t compute about JUST how abusive that was. It felt like part of me was still in denial about everything and was just showing them a tape of a normal argument. It is so strange but I remember that feeling. I’m unsure now if that is a type of coping mechanism or detachment from trauma. A psychologist could tell better.
As the tape went on, my sister gasped and my mum’s face grew angrier and angrier as she stared at me. Again, in my head, I couldn’t understand why everyone was so shocked. This was just life for me. My step-dad shook his head and told me he couldn’t listen anymore. It was quite a horrific time and I knew from then on that I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t be Mr. X‘s girlfriend ever again. It was really done. Or at least I thought it was. January 2019 – He Would Not Leave Me Alone…
I made a huge mistake on New Year’s Eve. I met up in secret with Mr. X behind my family’s back to spend it with him, under promises that he had a complete breakthrough and was a whole new person. Abusers will do this. And I can tell you reader, they never had a breakthrough, they never change and you cannot fix or change them. You have to accept that. That’s what I know now, but didn’t then.
He told me how he couldn’t bare to see me with anybody else and as I prepared to go back to uni in the month of January after my Christmas break, he again, tried to get me under his grasp. He really didn’t like me being where I wasn’t under his watchful eye. Where I couldn’t be under his trap.
Mr. X wanted me to relive the past, to really remember the good times. Again, abusers will do this. He did this by taking me to the hill we always climbed back in the summer of 2018. He said that New Year could be our fresh start, wiping the entire slate clean and back then, I really did believe him. I fell for the words that were coming out of his mouth. I fell for the symbolism that came with taking me back to a place where I really did spend a great summer. But that great summer cost me a horrific winter. True love doesn’t require sacrificing one season for another. True love doesn’t require sacrificing your independence, happiness and self-love to please another. This was never true love. This was just plain, calculated and heartbreaking abuse.
My mum eventually caught on to where I was and I felt her wrath. She was so disappointed and angry. She had messaged him on Facebook to find out where I was and he lied to her. He said that he hadn’t seen me but I was right beside him on top of a hill. And when I say this woman fought long and hard with me to get me away from him, she really gave it all her might but I was in a trance-like state with him. Really and truly out of her reach and I have no idea how frightening that must feel for a mother. The promises of better things to come were all I could cling onto when I had suffered so much trauma. I was nothing but a shell of a human being at this stage.
Returning to Stirling
I had found out that Mr. X had slept with someone else the very night I ended things, though he denied this. I had heard through various other sources and people about the exact same story of him walking home with this other girl. It didn’t shock me but it still hurt me. It was almost like if he could do this on the very night we ended, what else could he have been doing when we were together and I wasn’t home. It felt like I had only just discovered the tip of the iceberg when this came to my attention. And those that are persistent in accusing others of cheating, are usually the ones guilty of it themselves. This is something else to note.
I broke my heart wrapped up in a blanket on the couch watching TV but not really watching it, more so staring at a screen while crying hysterically. My mum and step-dad were through in the kitchen when I approached them like a ghost-like figure. My mum held onto my shoulders and said “I need you to go through to the bedroom and take a good long look at yourself in the mirror, because this isn’t you. This isn’t the woman I raised,” and I did.
I walked through to the bedroom and looked at myself through tear-filled eyes and all I could think was how right my mum was. I looked like just a helpless, damaged little girl. I was looking at a vacant stranger and reader, throughout all of this story, that has to be the one crucial moment that still breaks my heart to this day to remember. Not losing him, but losing myself. And that is the greatest tragedy one could ever suffer.
As I lay on the couch sobbing, my step-dad came through and told me that it was time for a clean start and that my mum and him were going to take me back up to Stirling earlier than planned. We first started by me applying for several jobs in Stirling, joining a new society at university and spending more time with my flatmates who I began to get closer to.
Life was certainly looking on the up. I was still hurting terribly, but the pain got easier to carry. That was until Mr. X again made an appearance back in my life. He had created a Twitter and messaged me through there and from then on, we began speaking again. He wanted to come and see me in Stirling, telling me that since I left, all he has is reminders of me when the Beatles play on the radio and how if I don’t see him again, he’ll drink bleach. That he had already considered it while in the shower because I left.
I felt awful. I invited him over to mine in Stirling so we could talk as I was concerned for him and he travelled up. This was a humongous mistake on my behalf again. Once there, the day seemed to be okay. He showed no worrying signs of not being stable and continued talking normally. Then it changed to “I know we aren’t getting back together but who have you been with since we broke up?” and “what have you done in Stirling since we broke up?” and these questions were asked invasively and aggressively.
I responded with the truth which was “no one” and “not much”. Still he pressed and gave up when I told him he was searching for answers that just weren’t there. After that, he headed to the shop, bought drink and said that was what we could do while he was there and I stupidly obliged. I knew it was wrong but I did it anyway.
As the night went on, Mr. X popped down to the toilet but had left his phone on the desk beside me where several snapchat messages were being delivered from the girl that he had supposedly been with the night we broke up. He denied even speaking to her when I first brought up the situation to him and now I just knew that this was a lie. In my terrible curiosity and hurt, I opened the message. It really was none of my business and I know this now but I had never done it before and curiosity got the better of me.
The snapchat message from her read: “come do it again xxx” and I knew then that something had gone on between them. What he did after we broke up is his business, but trying desperately to get me back while in cahoots with someone else really irked me. Especially when I had spent 7/8 months in isolation and restraints from absolutely everyone. Again, I had no idea how long this had been going on either. They only got seen together on the night I split up with him, I have no idea what happened before that – so really, it could be anything or it could’ve been nothing. Irregardless I was furious. I had been lied to. Treated like a fool and disrespected again. I invited him into my home in Stirling that day in a fear that something was going to happen to him and he had completely baited me.
When he returned from the bathroom, I turned to him with his phone in my hands and read out the message. “Come do it again?!” I exclaimed. He lunged at me, trying to grab his phone from my hand, pushing me in the process. When he couldn’t get it, he flung a pot noodle that was on my desk all up the wall in a rage. He had been caught and he hated me for that. He started his usual horrible remarks, calling me a “stupid bitch” and “horrible wee slut” until BOTH of my flatmates emerged from their rooms asking what was going on because I was hysterically crying. One of those flatmates I’m still really close with today and he heard everything that went on in that room and consoled me through such a difficult time. I’ll always be grateful for that.
After spending some time with my flatmate, I returned to my bedroom where he was. It was late now and there was no chance Mr. X could go back to Bute but I felt so uncomfortable with him staying in my flat. He calmed down and told me the things I wanted to hear. Such as: the message was out of context, how he doesn’t actually speak to her and then the story changed to that it was actually one of his pals that had messaged her through his Snapchat earlier. At this stage, I really stopped caring and just wanted him out of my house. This didn’t even feel like a betrayal anymore, it just felt like sad, pathetic and dangerous behaviour that I did not want to be around.
I told him he had no right to emotionally manipulate me into letting him come up to stay and he said that he just really wanted to see me again. When he admitted that he had no intentions of harming himself my heart sank and once again, I felt like I’d placed myself right back in that trap. Here I was, stuck in a loop again. I begged him to go and find somewhere else to stay, to even book a hotel for a night but just to leave me alone and I will never forget what he turned to me and said.
“If you kick me out tonight, you know fine well there’s train tracks behind your house and you have no idea what I’ll do…” and reader, that’s where I should’ve just put him out the door but I had that threat looming over me. I wouldn’t have lived with myself if anything happened to him and he knew that and he played off of that.
Even when he returned to Bute and I felt somewhat of a relief, he haunted me. He messaged me constantly and I couldn’t bring myself to block him as I felt responsible if something were to happen to him because I left him. I just couldn’t do it. He absolutely terrorised and haunted me. So much so that when walking over Stirling bridge one day at 7am in the morning, I stood at its ledge and wished for relief. I wondered what it would feel like for the water beneath me to swallow me whole and I wouldn’t have to suffer at his hands anymore. I had never had thoughts like that before and I have never had thoughts since. I pray that I never do again.
A little lighter and happier side-note here is that whilst starting uni again in January of 2019, I actually first seen Kai (my current boyfriend) playing guitar and singing at a Live Music Society event that I had joined and fell head over heels, even at first glance but I was going through so much dark stuff that I didn’t feel ready to talk to anyone else at this stage. We then got talking and went on our first date in early October of 2019 and he asked me to be his girlfriend the day before my 20th birthday in November. We now live together and have been together for over a year and a half. He has definitely been my lighthouse in this storm. February 2019 – The Harassment, Murder Jokes, The Police and Women’s Aid
Reading week of 2019 for university rolled around. I was still in little contact with Mr. X but had tried desperately to turn my attention around to my studies. As I said previously, I was so scared of completely shutting off due to the threats and the way he retaliates in times where I call for a clean and immediate break off so my tactic was more of a steady distancing. I genuinely wanted to do better by myself since my grades had suffered so much since I had met him.
I wanted so badly to fall in love with myself and my degree all over again but as usual, I struggled to get away. With every hurdle I crossed, there seemed to be another one waiting for me with him. My grades here are not awful for a 2nd year student, but they weren’t what I was usually capable of and you’ll see this later. As you can see I was hitting a lot of 40% which is the bare minimum mark. That’s passing by the skin of your teeth. Still passing, but barely.
So reading week rolled around and at this point, my mum and step-dad had taken off to stay in South Africa for 3 weeks. I told them that I was going to visit Bute during reading week but would be staying at my dad’s house and oh how I wish I had done just exactly that.
When I arrived on Bute, I only let close friends know that I was there and had done this for the last month of travelling back and forth between Stirling and Bute. He had spotted me out a lot (Bute is a small place) and sent me this email below 2 weeks before my reading week. Mr. X had spotted me in the co-op when I came for my break off from uni. He then messaged me on Twitter saying that he was hurt that I hadn’t told him I was coming down and if we wanted to meet up. I said that I wasn’t down long enough but he knew it was my reading week and called me out on that. I wanted to meet him, reader, I’m not going to lie. I felt like I was clinging to whatever was left and since distancing myself from him, I felt more in control but that was NEVER going to be the case.
I found it hard not to continuously feel sorry for him when he was sending me emails like that. I feel foolish now and the Ailsa I am now would never tolerate this but this was a huge learning process for me. I don’t want other people to go through this just to “learn” when I have the tools already to give you the power of knowledge to prevent this from happening. Prevention is better than cure. So, back to the story:
I knew that if we were going to meet, it would have to be in private where nobody would see us because if word got back round to my family or anyone, I would be in trouble. My mum and step-dad were really sure that I was not even messaging him at this point. So, I realised I had a spare key for my mum and step-dad’s house and took him there to talk while they were away. Everything seemed fine and he told me how he had cleaned himself up, how his work was doing better than ever and how all he has ever thought about for the last month was me. Hearing this made part of me light up and the other part want to run for the hills. He told me that I had really inspired him to become more ambitious, that he was applying for college and that he had so much more to offer me now. I was going through a rollercoaster of emotions. He was saying all the right things and everything that I wanted to hear.
That same day, I told my dad that I had found a key for my mum’s and was just going to stay up there for the rest of the week and my dad never really questioned it. Me and Mr. X stayed there for a few nights but I began to 1. feel incredibly smothered by him being there for days at a time and 2. suspicious of the fact that he had no work to go to. Really suspicious. And one night lying in bed, there was a huge clatter downstairs when the house was empty besides us. I went down in the morning to find that a huge canvas that had never once fallen down in the house before, was lying side-up balancing on the radiator below where it hung. Somebody else really didn’t want him in this house. This also happened with another portrait in the house the next day.
One of the nights he was there, we watched a true crime documentary and when someone said that the murderer had wrapped his wife up in a bag and disposed of her, he jokingly turned to me and said “that’s what I’d do to you.” That really didn’t feel like a joke. Many a true word said in jest. If this wasn’t terrifying enough, when we were downstairs making food in the kitchen, he approached me from behind with a knife placed directly at my backside and laughed in my ear. It felt safer to stay with him than it ever did to leave and he made sure that was the way it was with us.
The most defining night was when we sat down in the kitchen and he took my mum’s £20 litre of vodka from the cupboard and began pouring us drinks. The sheer arrogance of just taking that from her cupboard, the absolute disrespect and literal no regard he had for my mum said it all. I was not shocked by any of his actions at this point but sat there and obliged with the drinks that he poured. We took to looking at things on Facebook on my laptop, going through some of my sister’s old photography on Facebook when he made me click on my profile picture out of the blue. So I did, in hopes he would finally say something nice about my appearance. He said “well we know what everyone is looking at and it’s certainly not your face”. I was horrified by this comment. It was completely belittling and degrading – yet again.
I told him how horrible that was but he insisted he was just stating facts before returning to take another swig of his drink. I tried to let the comment go but it really sat with me. I then turned to him and asked “how come you’ve not been at work?” to which he responded that he’s on holiday. I nodded my head suspiciously and he could sense my disbelief. This is when he got defensive, accusing me of being distrusting (do you blame me at this stage?) before retorting to the usual name-calling and yet again targeting my time at uni, making comments on the things he’s seen me wear while up there through social media posts etc.
I told him to leave straight away and he left willingly after my threat to call the police, but that’s when he started banging on my kitchen windows, thumping on my glass side door and screaming at me from outside. He began taunting me telling me that actually, he had duped me again. That he had actually got sacked from his job months ago and never told me, so he wasn’t on “holiday”. That he had actually been doing worse to me in our relationship than I ever had known of and promised me that he had gotten much worse with drugs, drink and women since our time apart. Again, I just begged and screamed and pleaded to be left alone. It got so bad that I desperately FaceTimed an old friend of mine who was online at this time in hopes that she would help but in fact, another one of my friends came to my saving grace instead. He said that he would be up quickly and when he arrived, Mr. X disappeared.
He promised to stay with me the entire night to ensure that he wouldn’t come back but what horrified me was at 9am in the morning, Mr. X had made a return and came face to face at my glass side door with my friend as he was about to go to the toilet. My friend stared him down until he eventually left again.
I was in a state. I was half-drunk, hurting and confused. I had allowed myself to be betrayed more and more, over and over and over again. My friend insisted that I should get some sleep and to try and calm down but in my hysterics I phoned the one person who was always there for me, who never judged me but always helped me – my sister.
She was still recovering fully in the hospital at this point and when she received my call she told me that I have to call the police. I insisted that I would but if anything happens to me, then she has to know exactly what and who it is because nobody knew that me and Mr. X were still talking. That is how fearful for my life I was at this point. After blocking contact with Mr. X on everything I could think of that night into the early morning, he was hounding me with emails while standing outside in my garden in the dark on his phone to even the early morning and afternoon in which he returned home. I will show these below. They were awful and twisted. Also please be aware that he was sending these emails to different google accounts and email addresses that I had, including a google account that I made for me and my friend when I was about 13. That is why the email address changes a lot in these screenshots.
So meanwhile I was being spammed with messages, I went to my bed with my friend still keeping a watchful eye inside the house. I had no idea that while I was sleeping, my sister had actually talked to her police officer friend who was in a bed beside her in hospital and her friend told her that the police HAD to be called because she had seen too many cases of this end in tragedy.
1 in 3 women aged between 16-59 will experience domestic abuse in their lifetime and 2 women A WEEK are killed by a current or former partner in the UK according to Refuge.org. This statistic rose during lockdown to 16 murders over the course of 3 weeks. Please think on that statistic.
I will be eternally grateful to my sister and her friend for really saving my life for if the police were not called, I really dread to think where I would be or if I would even “be”.
Giving My Statement to the Police
I was woken by my name being called repeatedly in a worried voice and my shoulders being shook. It was my dad. The police had contacted him because they tried to get a hold of me and I was sleeping upstairs, unable to hear them. He let out a sigh of relief as I came to. “You need to get down to the police station immediately” he said to me, telling me that he’d wait outside for me in the car.
I was in a zombie-like state once again, numb and barely functioning but knowing what had to be done. I got dressed and down to the police station I went. It was here that I gave my statement and told the officers of all the trauma I had suffered over the last 7/8 months. They told me that they’d be making an arrest due to the cause of fear and alarm from banging the doors and trying to get into my house the night before. They asked me harder hitting and deeper questions that my dad had to leave the room for. I won’t discuss any of this and I’m not sure I ever will. The officers assured me that I was doing the right thing but to me it felt so wrong. I still felt sorry for him. He’s got no job, no girlfriend and now he’ll be in trouble with the police. Again, I blamed myself. But it was never my fault, it never will be my fault. I will never be to blame for how he treated me and for how his actions brought around his own consequences.
My dad took me back to his house and asked me to explain everything to him properly. I couldn’t really fathom much but kept referring to all the questions I had answered in the police station. My dad wasn’t coping very well with it all. It all came like a shock to him and he had to leave to go out to work in a really shaken state. I stayed in my dad’s house, staring out his window and crying helplessly. I felt battered, used and bruised in every single way. If I hadn’t hit rock bottom before, this was definitely it now.
My brother was heading back out to work after lunch from my dad’s house and I said goodbye to him and all he said was “bye”. I remember the defeated, lonely and isolated feeling echoing through my body and encompassing my every inch. He opened the door up again after he said “bye” and said “I need you to know that if you ever need me, I’m always here,” and with that, he left. I really did need to hear that in that moment. My brother is not the emotional type but he let me know that day that I wasn’t alone. I’m still unsure of how much of the story my brother actually knows. It’s not something I’ve really talked about with my family since it happened besides my mum and my sister.
The Audio Tape and Women’s Aid
I never made contact with Mr. X again after that day and still haven’t. The next day, I told my dad that I was okay to stay up at my mum’s house again and that I would lock the doors and stay in her bedroom where the door locked from the inside to make sure I was safe. I was also made aware that his arrest had been made and part of me felt a relief.
I wanted to be on my own for the rest of that reading week to grieve. Not grieve the loss of him, but the complete loss of myself. I needed to grieve all the emotional batterings I had taken, all the psychological trauma he had inflicted on me and come to terms with my experiences. It was horrendous, but I lay there in complete solitude watching music documentaries and I started to find a happiness. My happiness was in music. It was in art. It was in these independent, free-thinker mavericks who were unapologetically themselves. It was in their talent, in their genius that I found comfort through one of the hardest times of my life. I watched Woodstock live lying locked up in my mum and step-dad’s bedroom on their tv. I fell in love with the idea of peace and love (though I’m sure there is some sort of psychological aspect of being abused that made me desperately seek this). I started to form my own political opinion on “war” and “violence”. It was the start of who I am today. I found a vice. A vice and an escape that made me better, not bitter. In fact, it kickstarted my entire career and shaped me into the woman I am today. Strong, resilient and completely and utterly unapologetically herself and nobody can or ever will change that.
Women’s Aid called me the day after my visitation to the police station. They tried to get as much information about my situation as possible but when the woman described me as a “victim of domestic abuse”, I panicked and hung up the phone. I didn’t want to be a “victim” and I didn’t want anybody to describe me as that. I was ready to heal, I was ready to put these burdens to bed and I was ready to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. A phrase that constantly cropped up in my head randomly on walks to uni. I was never going to come out the other end of this worse off. I was going to continue to better myself. To learn, to be better and to do better by myself and other people in the same positions. So no, I didn’t feel like a victim, I felt like a survivor who was ready to heal. And that’s where the healing took place, right in that mindset.
The police visited my house the same day as the Women’s Aid call, asking to hear the audio tape that I had mentioned in my statement. I sat with both of the officers who could not have been anymore helpful in my situation. They were gobsmacked by the audio and the woman police officer asked me to send this over to her email. The man asked me if I would like to press charges and in my shaken state I hesitated. He waited a moment before saying, “you don’t have to do this for you, do it for the next person he ends up with.” And for me, reader, that changed everything. I told him to go ahead. He was absolutely right. I had already suffered at his hands and was ready to heal, but I couldn’t watch some other poor girl go through that, especially knowing how dangerous he could be. I made it out alive, others might not be so lucky.
May 2nd 2019 – The Court Date
I held true to my word and bettered myself. I was still feeling like a floating figure roaming around Stirling made out of shards of broken glass. I felt unlovable and unworthy and decided that to combat this, I was going to restart and rebuild my life again, from the ground up.
I got a job as a waitress in Bridge of Allan which began to build my confidence and get me back on my feet with my independence. I was also looking forward to an exciting holiday to Magaluf with my little cousin and her friends. I really invested in improving myself in every way I possibly could but still, something always felt missing.
I returned home from uni one day and began a video call with my mum, when I received a knock at the door. I went downstairs to find a massive parcel delivered in my name. I carried it upstairs and showed my mum as she sat grinning at the other end of the camera. Tearing it open, there was a beautiful keyboard before me and I immediately knew it was from her. She said “I listened when you said that you felt something was missing”. My mum was the one who taught me piano at a young age and at this point, I was getting really back into the things I hadn’t touched in a year since I had been with Mr. X. Piano, writing and music in general.
I was on the road to feeling whole again. However, one thing lingered with me and that was the looming presence of my court date on May 2nd but I did it. I showed up to court, ready to battle his lawyers and ready to speak my truth but standing in the waiting room, a woman approached me asking if I was Ailsa Gillies.
She told me that after his lawyer listened to the audio tape, Mr. X decided to plead guilty for a lesser punishment. Though relieved that I didn’t need to stand up in court, I needed to know if I was going to be safe. Through Women’s Aid, I applied for a non-harassment order but was denied as this was a first time offence. Well I felt helpless to say the least. This meant that he could come near me anytime he wanted.
August 2019 – Harassing My Family Members
So, here we are on the timeline. Thank you so much if you have made it this far. This is not an easy read but it’s a necessary one.
I seemed to just get better with time though I suffered in many other ways – sleeping with scissors under my pillow in Stirling to protect myself (because one time after we broke up, he actually showed up to my flat unannounced in Stirling and I only knew because my personal hotspot connected to his phone. He was outside my door- how creepy), constant night terrors where I would dream he was trying to kill me and getting frightened when hearing birds on the roof. These were a few of the ongoing sufferings I had after my abuse, but I had still come a long, long way.
August rolled around and I received a message from a family member, telling me that Mr. X had messaged her after spotting her walk up to her house one night. The messages were bizarre but still, he had a clear obsession and willingness to get to me through any means possible. He knew fine well who she was and how she was related to me.
November 2020 – The Anonymous Instagram Account
I want to make this very, very clear. I cannot prove that this is Mr. X. I tried to uncover this account’s identity but to no avail. I did make a vow to myself though, if another account does the exact same, I will be taking it to the police. I have suspicions that the messages you are about to see on Instagram were from him. Very strong suspicions. From language, to the way he types and even to the things he would mock. This Instagram account targets the exact same aspects of me that he used to do to my face. Again, I cannot say with 100% certainty but I can say that I have my suspicions.
These messages came flooding in right after I had taken my first tonic clonic seizure and I was in a state of recovery and vulnerability. It also came after I shared an article discussing my experience with my seizure that I had shared on the Isle of Bute page. The timing felt strange and suspicious also.
I obviously do not think this highly of myself but I really was determined to show that his (or whoever’s) words have no impact on me anymore. I have enough self-love and confidence to pay no mind to the content of these messages. Notice how these messages all attack my physical appearance. So, so shallow. But as I said, I just had a feeling it could have been him. Then again, it could not be either. Who knows.
But it is a fact that he continued to harass my family and their business this year in June and I’m tired of it. I really am just tired of it. It is these little pathetic attempts that show the character of abusers.
Where I am Today…
I have a voice that will no longer be silenced and after 2 years, I’m confident enough to say that I have found it. After my abuse, I began to heal… though there are emotional and psychological scars that I will have for the rest of my life, those are just a reminder of my bravery. I did rise like a phoenix from the ashes and yes, I am a wounded warrior but I can honestly say, I have worked so hard on healing, on bettering myself and following my life goals and ambitions religiously, despite any setbacks. I’m not one to give up so easy and I continued the journey I sought out to do at 18 years old – to find myself. To really find myself.
Sitting with a counsellor over a year later in January 2020, I told her of my abuse and what haunts me the most is feeling like I have lost myself. She said the most poignant thing to me: “Thank god you did, because I don’t think you really would’ve wanted that version of yourself back anyway,” and she’s right. You aren’t meant to be the same person you were a year ago and it’s okay to look back on who you were and cringe. In fact, if you’re not doing that, you’re not growing.
What I settled for then, I wouldn’t even come near now. The amount I tolerated then, I instantly cut out of my life now. And yes, I grew to have the most healthy, safest and purest form of romance with the man I am with now who doesn’t see me as damaged goods, but a strong woman and doesn’t see my past struggles as baggage but of victories.
The Physical Impact
I suffered extreme illnesses due to stress after our breakup. I came down with incredibly awful laryngitis and a hellish fever, so bad that my flatmate had to take me to a&e. I then started to get bleeding gums despite having really healthy gums and teeth. Then I broke out in a horrible rash and ulcers all over my tongue. These were all stress-related illnesses and my healing process was not just a mental one – it was physical too.
But I did heal. I continue to heal and this article has been an incredibly difficult but healing one. I get to speak my truth. I get to release the weight I was carrying for no other reason other than fear. But I’m not scared anymore. In fact, I feel free. Really free and what a liberating experience this is.
I graduated university in June this year with my Film & Media and Journalism degree and I will demonstrate the comparison of how much better I done in my last 2 years of university without him. I had nobody holding me back. I grew and am continuing to grow into the woman I have always dreamed of being and have nothing but support and love surrounding me. It does get better and letting him go was the best decision I could ever have made.
Now we have reached the end of our journey, I have just one last thing to say:
In the end, if I have become abetter person out of this situation, I win. No matter what the court told me, no matter what people knew or didn’t know, no matter of the justice or the injustices. If I continue to build my own empire – blossom beautiful relationships, career opportunities and goals. If I continue to work hard, reap rewards for my efforts and help those who I can through my experience. If I can stop just one young girl from entering a relationship littered with red flags, or a struggling mum walk away from years of subservience to a man who believes she should be tied to a kitchen sink, then reader, I have won. So, I’m sorry Mr. X , but you may have walked out unskaved in many a battle with me but you best believe that I’ve won the war.
Help Services and Support
If you or anyone you know are suffering or think could be suffering from domestic abuse, then there are so many steps that can be taken:
– If you are in fear for your life, please contact 999. No partner should make you feel threatened, fearful or terrorised. These feelings are not healthy.
– You can always contact me through any form of social media or e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org. I will always be available to chat and give help or guidance from a survivor’s perspective when I can. Even if you would just like to share your experience, feel free.
– Professional help services are available. Women’s Aid have a live chat where you can talk to a professional through your device at https://chat.womensaid.org.uk/
– Additionally, you can also seek help and support in Scotland through the Domestic Abuse and Forced Marriage Helpline at email@example.com or on 0800 027 1234
Finally, Clare’s Law has been a huge step forward in preventing domestic violence and abuse.
“Clare’s Law, often known officially as a Domestic Violence Disclosure Scheme or similar, designates several ways for police officers to disclose a person’s history of abusive behaviour to those who may be at risk from such behaviour. It is intended to reduce intimate partner violence.”
You now have the right to ask for a person’s history of abusive behaviour before/during a relationship with them and you have the right to know.
Once again, thank you for reading and please parents, educate your children on how to treat other people in a relationship and on what a healthy relationship should look like. Use this article as an example of what it shouldn’t look like.
Flicking through old Buteman and Rothesay Express articles of the 1900s evoked a whimsical nostalgia that,being born at the end of the century, I probably had no right to feel but…I did. The yellowed articles, musk-scented and dust-covered, took me on a journey of Bute’s ‘Glory Days’ and what a core of warm memories the place really serves to be. For many Brandanes like myself (and those that are adopted ones), Bute is the fond and familiar hug of home, the historical and regal sense of pride and sometimes – the sudden and the dangerous reminder of reality.
On my quest to unearth the untold stories that lay beneath the cobblestones of Montague Street in the town centre to the mossy hill tops at Bute’s North end, I realised that tragedy is not only a part of Bute’s history, but its reality, and fires were unfortunately the most common events of destruction to plague 20th Century Bute.
These were documented in different local newspapers over the years and as part of my journalistic integrity, I’d like to merely relay the facts of these forgotten fires using the quotes and stories from newspapers, allowing you, my readers, to expand and discuss your experiences and memories where you see fit. For those that do not have any, allow this article to provide you with knowledge on the events that have shaped this island, its people and its architecture. Love Bute for all that it is- the good, the bad and even the tragically forgotten.
1. 1913‘Great Fire at Rothesay Saw Mills’
Described in a Buteman article from June 6th, 1913 (over 108 years ago), as one of “the most destructive” fires of its then recent years, Rothesay Saw Mills which belonged to Messrs George Halliday, Ltd and the McKirdy and McMillan, Ltd garage adjacent to it, were both victims of the mill fire’s ferocious devastation.
The fire took place on May 30th 1913, exactly a week before the article’s publication.
It was said to have began around 8.10pm when one of the firm’s partners, Mr John Halliday, noticed smoke whirling and rising up from the centre of the mill.
From later examination, it was thought that the fire began underneath the saw-bench and fed off of the flammable material in its “immediate vicinity” which caused its rapid and vicious spread, propelled further by the timber around it.
In fact, the spread was reportedly so vicious that after Mr Halliday’s phone call to the police office, fire brigade members AND the local Boy Scouts appeared to tackle the engulfing flames.
In front of a large, gathering crowd, the brigade and scouts lined Union Street in attempts to provide safety and protection to the community – the former battling flames, the latter aiding while also keeping crowds at a distance.
It just so happened that the very same night as the fire, the Boy Scouts, who were under Scoutmaster Jarvie’s service, were carrying out training for fire-drills before quickly being summoned to the location.
The combined efforts of all of Rothesay’s services, including the police, meant that the flames were soon eradicated but not without a considerable amount of physical devastation.
2. 1956 ‘Flames destroy a page of history’
“HUNGRY FLAMES last week destroyed an old, almost derelict building in Ladeside Street, Rothesay”, this Rothesay Express article begins, written on the 23rd of March, 1956.
The article then goes onto describe the lack of significance the building had to Rothesay locals and how to them, it was just an ancient relic of “Old Rothesay being used as a store and stable.”
Yet this was so far from the truth. The flames within this building destroyed more than just its beams but a memory of Rothesay’s industrial past. This regular old building once housed the first ever cotton mill to be established in Scotland.
The cotton mill industry flourished in Rothesay. It was from this initial building here that sprang several larger mills and over 1,000 workers were employed.
“Loch Fad was damned and the machinery in the mills was driven by water power from the Lade”, the article begins before telling us that later, a steam engine was erected in the year 1800 to “furnish power” in the emergency of summer droughts.
As the cotton trade declined, the last mill shut before the end of the 19th century and from then, all that remained was its history which unfortunately was lost to the flames.
“The only mill building now remaining on the island is that in Barone Road which houses Isle of Bute industries, founded by the present Marquess and enjoying a large home and export of trade.”
Through the journalist’s tone for this article (and even its heading), it’s easy to obtain how tragic and saddening this loss was for the town of Rothesay at this time and even more comprehensible why this is an event that is rarely spoken of around the community, even to this day.
3. 1962 ‘Blaze destroys clock tower’
I’m expecting this event to be a little more well known within the community but still one that was hardly talked about until brought up in conversation. My grandmother, Catherine Gillies, on my father’s side, worked as a cook in the pier tearoom and it was through the conversation with my father surrounding her that I decided to do some digging on this story.
On Saturday 19th May 1962, the 50ft Rothesay Pier clock tower was destroyed in a monumental blaze that could be seen on the mainland, with heat that could be felt as far as Watergate 100 yards away.
“Holidaymakers arriving by steamer had a grandstand view of the town’s part-time firemen, helped by volunteers, fighting the flames. They could do nothing to save the tower and concentrated on keeping the fire from spreading to other parts of the main building”, a quote from the Buteman‘s 1962 article reads.
The alarm was raised just after 3pm when the harbourmaster, Captain William N. Tudman noticed the scent of burning in his office which was situated directly under the clock tower. He struggled to detect the cause until he noticed flames “curling up” from the eaves outside.
Ordering steamer times announcer, Miss Jean McArthur, out from the building, Tudman then telephoned the police and fire brigade. He was also able to salvage a number of books and the contents from the safe before escaping.
Offices and the tearoom occupying the pier building were evacuated as clerks carried out records and cash.
Pier tearoom owner Mrs Bob Taylor said: “We couldn’t believe it at first. I had difficulty persuading customers to leave the tearoom.”
The combination of violent winds and heat drove the firemen who climbed onto the roof back initially, but before long they had successfully combated the flames from spreading to surrounding offices which were seriously flooded.
Unfortunately, the harbourmaster’s own office was left with nothing but stonework standing.
By 5pm, firemen had tied ropes and wires to its blackened beams attaching these to a tender.
“First to fall was one of the four clock faces, and after several more attempts the rest of the skeleton tower collapsed in a shower of charred timber.”
Captain Tudman had stated how fortunate it was that the wind hadn’t been blowing in the opposite direction as this would have caused the tower to collapse on the other pier buildings.
The only items that were lost in the fire were “valuable pier records” and a “loudspeaker system”.
Workmen that same week demolished the tower in the interest of safety.
4.1963 ‘Blaze in new flat’
“FIREMEN wearing masks put out flames in the smoke-filled living-room of a top flat at 1 Minister’s Brae, Rothesay, on Tuesday afternoon”, an article from Friday, May 3rd, 1963 reads.
According to the article, an elderly man, Mr Wm. Gillies, was the only occupant of the house where his hair was singed.
Thankfully, this was the only damage that Mr Gillies faced as he was directed out of the living room into the care of his neighbours.
Part-time firemen had rushed to the High Street station when the bellow of the siren called them, only to discover that the outbreak was “less than 100 yards away” in a recently erected block of council flats on the corner of Minister’s Brae and High Street.
Crowds gathered to watch as the flames rapidly extinguished and windows were flung open to disperse smoke.
The damage consisted of scorched, blackened walls and ceilings of the living room, along with damaged furniture.
5. 1964‘High Street factory blaze’
In the early hours of December 17th 1964, a fire was fought at the children’s wear factory off high Street, Rothesay, and extinguished by the part-time fire brigade.
The alarm was raised at 12.10am by a “passerby, Mr James Tait, 1 Minister’s Brae.” The firemen arrived very quickly to the scene and fought the blaze all through the freezing cold night until early hours when they eventually went off duty at 6am.
The blaze is thought to have began in a steam boiler room at the back end of the factory operated by J. Langan and Co. (Rothesay), Ltd. It was then that the boiler room roof collapsed.
Eventually, flames found their way into the main building, swallowing the entire steam pressing room but missing its roof. The steam presses, benches and machinery were charred and blackened.
Station officer Robert Tait at the time said: “The small boiler room was well alight when we arrived and we concentrated on saving the steam pressing room to which it is attached. We were worried about the roof but managed to save it.”
The factory, which was an offshoot of a Glasgow firm, was unoccupied at the time meaning that no one was hurt in the process.
*Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any of the following pictures or title headings. All rights go to the Buteman, Rothesay Express and their articles. I am also telling the stories of these Buteman articles in my own way, using their work as research, evidence (via quotes) and inspiration for this article that aims to educate.
I’d also like to give a huge thank you to Richard Hunter for providing me with his own personal archives to allow me to do this story. To the Buteman and Rothesay Express for exceptional journalism over the last 154 years, in which I credit to all 5 of these reports, and the staff at Bute Museum (particularly their archivist Jean McMillan) for being so accommodating and aiding me on my history-related quests and articles. I’m always so grateful for their help.
The once dominating, bustling hub of Bute’s Viking Raids and regal occupation by The Stewarts now lies as a quiet, well preserved (despite its age), central artefact amongst the everyday commotion of Rothesay life. One of the oldest stone castles in Scotland, and certainly one of the most uncommon due to its unusual circular plan, has survived a remarkable history, much of which can’t be easily accessed through a hand-out pamphlet.
I’ve decided to take the most unusual, fascinating and real nitty-gritty facts about this must-see Rothesay landmark that has survived the greatest battle of all – the test of time – and compile it into one easily-digestible article. Here are 5 things that you didn’t know (and if you did, then pretend you don’t so you don’t put me out of a job) about Rothesay Castle:
1. The castle may not have originally been built to be a castle at all
One of the most captivating factors of anything is not actually what we do know, but more so what we don’t and Rothesay Castle is no exception to this. Much of its history finds itself torn between intense speculation and historiographical mysteries but one thing can be agreed upon: its history is a lengthy one.
One of the proposed theories amongst the debate is that this proud castle wasn’t actually built to be a castle at all. It’s been noted that the likelihood of its erection as a fortress during on-and-off Viking Raids in the late 11th Century is more probable than the theory that Walter the 3rd High Steward was the first ever to construct it in the early 1200s. Still, there is no certainty on how the castle ‘came to be’.
The Viking Raids commenced around the year AD 800. Norway seized control of the Western Isles and Scotland – no longer governed by its own native kings – was now under the thumb of the Norse ones instead. In 1098, Scotland and Norway agreed a treaty which allowed the Norse to seize all of the Scottish West Coast Islands after Norse King, Magnus Barefoot, noticed weakening domination in their Western occupation and was the leader of many expeditions to consolidate, and once again, dominate with full Norse control.
Many speculate that during this domination, the Scottish King was under the impression that Bute and Arran would be an exception to this treaty due to protection from the Kintyre Peninsula but he believed wrong. Magnus claimed both Bute and Arran for Norway and as a way of marking his territory, the first fortress of Rothesay came to be and speculated to be what stood before what we now know as Rothesay Castle. Whether it was originally made of wood or stone is, again, unknown.
Despite its earliest history falling under myths, legends and intense speculation – one more probable theory remains and is widely regarded in many history books as close-as-possible to fact, which is that Walter, the 3rd High Steward, built the first stone castle in the early 1200s as a defence against the Norwegians. Much of its history, thereafter, became a lot clearer.
2. The castle was not always in the centre of Rothesay
In my early childhood, when my dad would take me on little tours of Bute, he would always tell me that in Rothesay, before all its promenade improvements, the sea would reach just before the castle and in my cynical, ignorant youth and growing up around the thick, flood walls of ‘down the front’, I would shrug this comment off. In my later research, however, I discovered that my dad was right. Naturally and untamed, the sea has a completely different idea for the town’s formation and this is evident in the positioning of Rothesay Castle.
Rothesay Castle was initially built upon a mound approximately 100 metres from the sea and whether that mound was man-made or natural is another part of its history that remains unknown. It sat raised, projecting dominance at the head of Rothesay Bay, as a symbol of powerful governance before harbour and promenade works over the last 2 centuries have forced the castle inland as a quaint artefact.
Even today, it’s hard to imagine how impressive the large stone fortress would have looked to any incomers of times gone-by but today, I’d argue that it’s just as impressive as its charming, rugged-self. Even in the centre of town, with its multitude of stories that spanned more centuries than is easily fathomable, it carries mysteries that will forever be etched on its injured walls.
3. The Kings of Norway, not once, but TWICE seized the castle
The Kings of Norway captured Rothesay twice: in 1230 and in 1263.
After the surrender of the Hebrides, including Bute, by Edgar of Scotland in 1098, his descendents were set on regaining the jewel island. However, Norway still ruled the Western Isles legally until the Treaty of Perth in 1266 which formally transferred power from Norway to Scotland. Everything before this treaty was a huge, messy power struggle.
The Scottish King, Malcolm, gave Bute as a reward to Walter Fitz Alan, the High Steward of Scotland and the head of the family which became the royal Stewarts, for the Kingdom of Scotland’s victory in the Battle of Renfrew against the Kingdom of the Isles.
However, when Norsemen attacked Rothesay in 1230 as part of a 3 day siege on the orders of King Haakon IV of Norway, what followed was probably a much more dramatic escalation of events than that of 1263 as it became preserved by one of the saga writers, Haakon Haakonson:
“And they sailed south round the Mull of Kintyre, and so in to Bute. The Scots sat there in the castle; and a certain Steward was one of the Scots. They attacked the castle, but the Scots defended it, and they poured out boiling pitch. The Norwegians hewed the wall with axes, because it was soft. The torch-bearer who was called Skagi shot the steward to death. Many of the Norwegians fell, before they won the castle.”
Not only had the Scots lost their castle, but they had lost their Steward in the process. Documents reveal, however, that the Norse had only a short occupation here before they withdrew to Kintyre.
4. Robert the Bruce had ties to Rothesay Castle
At the initial outbreak of the first Scottish Wars of Independence, Rothesay Castle was in the hands of James Stewart. Sadly, it fell to the English in the late 13th century, only 30 years after Bute had finally had some peace and security from the Norwegian occupation. Most of Scotland, including Rothesay Castle, was occupied by the English Army from 1303 and this persisted until King Robert I retook the castle in 1306. A short-lived, but probably exhausting, 3 years.
The castle was returned to James Stewart, who would go on to connect his family by marriage to Robert the Bruce when his son Walter married the King’s daughter, Marjorie Bruce. In 1371, their son would become Robert the II. The first Stewart King and the one to establish the tradition that whomever had heir to the throne would be titled Duke of Rothesay. A title currently held by Prince Charles.
In the later years (1400s), Rothesay Castle seen a huge refurbishment with an enhanced gatehouse to ensure stronger protection and the addition of four round towers. However, once again, the chaos within these castle walls were once again stirred in the 1600s by the occupation of Cromwellian forces during the civil wars of the 1650s and again in 1685 by Archibald, the 9th Earl of Argyll’s revolts. Both of which caused damage to the castle’s interior and exterior, rendering it uninhabitable. This is when the Keeper and his family moved from the now derelict castle to the Old Mansion House across the road on the High Street, which remains as one of Rothesay’s oldest buildings.
Rothesay Castle was placed in state care in 1961 by the Marquess of Bute and is now cared for by Historic Scotland.
5. There was a paddle steamer named after the castle that caused the deaths of 130 people
Built for service on the River Clyde in 1816, Rothesay Castle or Rothsay Castle was a paddle steamer named after Bute’s famous landmark. She was later transferred to Liverpool where she was used for day trips along the coast into Northern Wales and it was here that she was shipwrecked in 1831. This cost the lives of 130 people.
If you enjoyed reading about this historic landmark, please visit the Bute Museum website, Visit Scotland and Castles of Scotland’s website to find out more.
Recommended further readings would also be ‘Bute: An Island History’ by Ian Maclagan and Anne Speirs, as well as ‘The Isle of Bute’ by Norman S. Newton.
Also, huge thank you to John Williams for allowing me to use his amazing pictures of the castle in its modern condition.
The sound of bagpipes competing with the thunderous noise of T-Rex, tartan interwoven in the hem of denim flares and the smell of a fish supper laced with the remnants of Embassy cigarettes and El Dorado that clung to never-been-washed leather jackets, stained with memories, that if could talk, would say too much. That was 70s Bute.
20th century Bute had long been host to summers with sweltering heat, accessible beaches and cafés that stretched from end to end of Rothesay’s picturesque esplanade. You’d be forgiven for thinking that this was an island situated amidst a Caribbean paradise and it would come as no surprise that this little west-coast island became a tropical getaway for city folks and day-trippers, even acquiring the title of ‘Madeira of the Clyde’ and there is no better demonstration of the vibrancy and buzzing of Bute than in what writer Tom Wolfe refers to as the “‘Me’ Decade” of the 1970s in his New York Magazine essay “‘The ‘Me’ Decade and the Third Great Awakening”. It was a time where individualism reigned, sending cultural shockwaves through the Western world in the form of music, film and fashion and Bute was no exception to this sociocultural storm.
By day, the little quaint, charming town of Rothesay boasted packed cafés that included Joe Foschetti’s XL Café on Gallowgate, Café Bruna on the ‘front’ and Gerry’s Castle Café on High Street. The choices of places to go were endless and as the Glasgow Fair fortnight arrived, it brought an influx of tourists that Rothesay was able to cater to with several B&Bs as well as the CoCamps at Roseland and not to forget those who dared to rough it in Bute’s famous wilderness.
However, by night as most closed their doors, other’s began to open and so this endearing town transformed into a bustling hub of brilliant chaos, made to be taken on by the young, brave and eccentric: “I always loved going into a busy Rothesay pub, jam-packed with the doors open, and someone belting out a Dolly Parton or a Neil Diamond number, folk singing along, dancing about mad. The stale smell of smoke and beer. Magic.” Says Rothesay local, Charlie McGuire, 65.
Martin Gillies, 60, a former DJ for the ‘Moat Disco’ agrees with this: “The Moat Disco was great, where you had mods, rockers, new romantics and punks all on the same dance floor and also later came the Harbour Bar discos at the Port Royal where you could watch the floor moving up and down it was that stowed.”
A ‘night out’ was a bit of an understatement when it came to Rothesay, as binges could last up to many nights and even weekends: “Typically, me and my pals would be out Thursday,Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights, every single week. I suppose that, like a lot of others, I drank way too much. It was a pub society, and there was a very strong drinking culture here, more so than on the mainland even, but when you’re young you don’t think about these things. Although, there was never a problem getting home from a night out here, no matter how drunk you got.” Says Charlie.
You couldn’t partake in a good-old Rothesay night out without owning the proper attire and this could be obtained from shops like Fraser Gillies on Montague Street or Caldwells on Victoria Street. Paul MacDonald, 57, a renowned ‘rocker’ in the late 70s, talks of his style at this time: “My music taste matched the clothes I wore. Corduroys, black or denim flares, denim jacket with a t- shirt band name on it such as Zeppelin or Sabbath and of course, doc martens.”
However, fashion trends were typically late to the island, much like everything else, and many would take trips to the mainland for their clothes shops as Charlie mentions: “I was never much of a fashion guru, but I loved a lot of the styles of the seventies. I loved having my hair long, big sideboards, flared jeans, platform shoes, college jumpers, denim shirts and jackets but things got a bit more sophisticated and you’d be going to hip shops up the Toon, as we called Glasgow.”
Although many trends did arrive on Bute and of course, better late than never, the rural island held true to its traditionally agricultural values Charlie explains: “Bute being only an hour and a half from Glasgow meant that eventually there was the same styles and fashions on display here as in the big city, but the island had its own flavour too. Being largely an agriculture environment, Bute had a rich seam of traditional Scottish country culture, and a thriving Young Farmers scene.”
Not only did Bute thrive from its agriculture, but it boomed with talent and entertainment from places such as The Winter Garden Theatre, Rothesay Pavilion and the much-loved cinema: The Regal. Bute was a place in which both national and international superstars were not only a produce of but where many of them performed. Some of these big acts included Scottish musician and friend of the Beatles, Donovan.
Charlie describes how Bute got a taste of the 70s music scene: “I remember going to see Donovan with my girlfriend at the Pavillion. Even here on Bute we got a wee taste of [the music scene] when groups like Chicory Tip and Blackfoot Sue, both of whom had number one hits, played the Pavilion. They were joined by lots of Glasgow bands like The Verge, Molls Myre and other English acts. The big event was usually the local Sub Aqua Club Dance, which was always mobbed.”
From Bute at this time came the fame of international child-star, Lena Zavaroni, who was the youngest person in history to have an album in the top ten UK Albums Chart at the age of just 10 with Ma!. Paul and Charlie describe Bute’s reaction to Lena’s fame at that time: “It was good to see Lena in Opportunity Knocks and on the TV in general but it felt kind of surreal.” Says Paul.
Charlie agrees by describing his own first hand experience with her: “I remember standing outside Chrissy Jenkin’s pub, The Athletic, on the Gallowgate, listening to this new singing sensation, Lena Zavaroni, pure belting it out one Saturday afternoon. She was incredible. When she appeared in Hughie Green’s “Opportunity Knocks” on TV it was just the biz! Everyone loved her.”
Lena went on to perform with huge artists such as Liza Minelli and Frank Sinatra, Charlie recalls: “I remember my Dad coming home from school one day, in a state of shock. Big Charlie didn’t get into such states. Ever. But he’d been watching Lena on a tv special with his hero, Frank Sinatra, the previous night- and suddenly realised she was in his new class that day! What impressed him most was how polite, shy and unassuming Lena was. He was in awe of her. It was so funny to see him react like that.”
Lena was not the only Rothesay-born music star, with keyboardist Billy McIsaac performing on Top of the Pops with his band Slik and going on to have a big hit with the track Forever and Ever. Charlie recalls fond memories of Billy:“I knew Billy, he used to let me sit on with him on a Sunday morning in the Bute Arms, me playing the drums. Really decent guy. One night Midge Ure came over and stayed at his Mum’s in Dewar Avenue. He was on Top of the Pops quite a few times with Slik, and then a new group called The Zones.”
It would be unrealistic and rather naive to assume that Bute in the 70s was boasting all sunshines and rainbows with its flourishing tourism, endless dining and renowned entertainment because the reality is, it wasn’t. The truth of the matter is, that like any decade, it had its peaks and it had its pits and the ripples from post-war Britain and the politics of Scotland specifically, had an immense impact that arrived as waves upon its sandy shores.
Not only Bute but Scotland’s main and most well-known issue in the 70s (and still to this day) was the lack of job opportunities. This put huge strain on the island’s youth and for many, their only option was to seek work or further education on the mainland as Charlie explains: “To get on in life, you’ve pretty much got to go.”
However, the introduction of the construction yard at Ardyne relieved the pressures of work for some with long hours and great wages as Charlie states : “Ardyne was good for the the town, providing much needed jobs. It was a time of prosperity for some, but it didn’t last, unfortunately.”
Much of this, like the rest of Scotland, led to an increase in ‘Gang Culture’ and a general increase in violence which was particularly felt in the West and Central Scotland. Although Rothesay only being home to a number of small gangs that were mainly “bravado”, the real issue lay with gangs that would come “doon the watter” looking for trouble and the violence even extended to fights between locals and the Navy. Charlie recalls: “Often when the sailors came ashore they headed for the pubs and the Toon were waiting for them. There was a melee like a wild-west saloon fight in The Grapes one Saturday between sailors and Rothesay youths. There were some nasty incidents, same as anywhere, but in comparison to Glasgow it was pretty tranquil. Most guys just grew out of it got girlfriends and settled down. It was just part of growing up here in the 1970’s.”
However, the biggest cultural change in Bute at this time, was the collapse of the tourist trade and many felt the effects of a government they claim “failed to invest in the future of the town”. By the mid-70s, cheap air package holidays to Spain became affordable to Glasgow’s masses and the competition proved too much for what was once known as the “Madeira of the Clyde”.
Charlie looks fondly back on his experiences of the 70s on Bute: “I had a very mixed time of it growing up in Rothesay. There was a real community here, no real problems, but quite a lot of poverty. Some people had a struggle, and many kids didn’t get much of a start in life. But almost everyone I grew up with, from whatever background, remembers the seventies with affection and nostalgia.”
Paul agrees by saying “I would never change growing up in the 70s for the world. Although there were hardships and a lot of unemployment, the community pulled together and you could ask your neighbour for milk, sugar etc. It does say a lot though when a lot of people had tick bills to buy food and clothes. We were all on the same boat, so to say.”
It is evident that Bute since the 70s has both progressed and regressed over time, with the decline in both tourism and population, Bute has seen many of its much-loved places and faces come and go but its legacy will remain and although we have reached the end of our trip down memory lane, some of it’s diversions of tales and accounts will have to remain untouched, for the culture of a decade to be explored concisely in one piece is near impossible. Whether that’s good, bad or indifferent, almost certainly, for most, they will be thankful that their old leather jackets don’t talk.