Recent shocking murders have once again hilighted the plight and fear that women face when out alone. It’s not a new thing. When I was about 11 yrs old, I became aware of dangers to be faced. A young girl about my age, from my area, had been murdered, and my family obviously needed to alert me, and advise me how to stay safe. It included staying in a group with friends, staying in well lit areas… all the usual stuff.
About a month after the death of Sarah Everard in March I found myself writing a poem about my encounters with “Sleazy Men”. It eventually ran off at a tangent and became something else, so it’s not been “out” yet. But it had led me to recall a few close shaves I had when I was in my teens. Then last month there was another murder – Sabina Nessa. This poem is written on a memory of my fears from over 50 years ago. Nothing’s changed, except for the worse. If I was younger I’m not sure I feel completely safe on busy streets in daylight, sometimes.
After the Late Train (Chiswick, 1970)
And you walk home
Under the A4 subway
Cos there’s no other way
Footsteps behind you
Might just be someone homeward bound like you
Or maybe not
When you increase your pace
Their pace quickens too
And your heart quickens
Don’t turn round
Don’t look, keep walking
Out the other side now
Street lights. Houses.
No sound behind you. Maybe they’ve gone
Don’t turn round
Car door slams and engine starts
Drives slowly. Doesn’t gain speed
Slowly, slowly, just behind you
Will it be a chat-up line?
Rehearse your clear response
Or will you just be grabbed?
Check houses for friendly lights. Run up a driveway
Any driveway. Safe haven. Heart pounds.
Stand on step. Turn round. See the car speed off
Breathe. Knees bend. Stifle sob
Why?
Outcomes to think about
As you continue on your way
You can stay home and let the fear win, or
You can prepare, with alarm, pepper spray, knuckle duster rings
If you knew where to get such things.
What you can’t do is tell your story
Because nothing happened
Except the pounding of your heart
And the taste of blood in your throat as you ran.
Nothing happened.
This time.