Anna Lowe with Jane Smith - Wake Up, Mummy: The heartbreaking true story of an abused little girl whose mother was too drunk to notice

Anna Lowe is mother to three children, and today runs a successful business with her brother.

I made a dash for the hallway and then my mind froze. Should I dart into the kitchen, where my mother would be swigging from a bottle? Or should I run upstairs and try to find somewhere to hide? It was a choice I didnt really need to make, because there was no escape.

Anna Lowe grew up on the doorsteps of pubs, waiting for her mum to come out. Giving up her bedroom to her mothers drunken friends, and regularly calling out the ambulance, after finding her mother unconscious and covered in vomit. But it was when they moved in with her mothers boyfriend, Carl, that things took the ugliest turn. He sexually abused Anna from the age of six destroying any semblance of a normal childhood she had left.

Wake Up, Mummy is the heartbreaking true story of a little girl who eventually found the courage to break free from the past.

THE EVENTS DESCRIBED in the first chapter of this book took place before I was born and when I was just a baby, so what Ive written about them is based on what Ive been told by other people. Ive included them because I think they help to explain some of the reasons why my mother was the way she was.

Many people had effects on my life when I was growing up, most of them negative. But one of the most significant influences of all was the abuse mental, physical and sexual that was inflicted on me by my mothers boyfriend, Carl.

I didnt understand what Carl was doing to me at the time, and it wasnt until some years later that I realised hed taken my virginity one morning when I was just six years old. Id woken up with terrible earache and my mother had left me with Carl while she went out to get me some medicine. And it was then as I lay in the bed beside him, crying with pain that he did something to me that was quite different from the horrible, disgusting things hed done so many times before.

Saying that my mother went out to get me some medicine makes her sound like a considerably better parent than she actually was. In reality, though, she probably caused me more hurt and more long-lasting psychological damage than anyone else in my miserably unhappy childhood.

There were reasons why my mother failed so dismally in her duty to protect and care for me and my brother when we were children, and I suppose I understand at least partly why she behaved in the way she did. But when someone recently called me an amazingly forgiving woman, it made me wonder if I have, in fact, truly forgiven my mother.

For years, almost every aspect of my behaviour was influenced by anger and bitterness. I was resentful about what happened to me when I was a child and, above all, about the things my mothers love of alcohol and lack of maternal care had deprived me of including my childhood, a normal family life and any chance of being happy.

Living with my mother was like living in a nightmare in which the only certainty was that nothing good ever lasted. So I doubt whether Id have been able or willing to start building a relationship with her as an adult if she hadnt turned out to be a much better grandmother to my children than she had ever been a mother to me.

Perhaps tenacious and stubborn are better words to describe me than forgiving, because I think these are the characteristics that have been of most help to me on the many occasions when Ive had to struggle to survive. And if I had to think of something positive that came out of my life as a child, it would be that I know how essential it is for children to have the love and stability that were so lacking in my own childhood.

My mothers parents and some of my aunts and uncles showed me, briefly, that there is a better way to live, and I have a great deal to thank them for. Im grateful, too, to my brother, for being there when I needed someone as a child, and for making me feel then and now that Im not entirely alone.

For me, though, the most important driving force of all is the absolute love I have for my children.

BERNADETTE RESTED HER head against the spindles of the high-backed oak chair and looked down at the baby that was sucking with single-minded determination at her breast. She ran her finger along the downy softness of her daughters cheek and then turned her head towards the open door. It was early spring, but the day had all the sun-soaked languor of midsummer and Bernadette released a slow sigh of contentment as she listened to the sound of the children playing in the garden.

As a child herself, she had sat on the same wooden chair on more occasions than she could have counted, her feet dangling nearer the ground with each year that passed. She closed her eyes and imagined herself aged seven or eight years old, swinging her legs and half-listening to the pleasantly lilting voices of her mother and aunt as they drank tea from flower-patterned china cups and discussed the family issues of the day. It felt good to be back once more in the familiar security of her aunts kitchen.

Were going to call her Judith. Bernadette stroked the babys cheek again as she spoke.

Its a good name. Her Aunt Martha paused for a moment and smiled at her, before turning to lift the heavy, cast-iron kettle from the range cooker and pour water into a large, brown teapot that stood warming beside it.

A shadow fell across the babys head and Bernadette looked again towards the open back door.

Sarah? Is that you? she asked, raising a hand to shield her eyes against the brightness of the sunlight that framed the dark silhouette of a child standing in the doorway. Come into the kitchen, darling, so that I can see your face.

The child didnt move, and as Bernadettes eyes grew accustomed to the sharply contrasted light and darkness, she saw that her niece was holding something in her arms.

He wont say anything, Sarah whispered. He was lying on his tummyin the stream.

As if in confirmation of her words, large drops of water splashed on to the step at her feet.

With a gasp of sudden understanding, Bernadette sprang from the chair, startling the baby as she almost tore its mouth from her breast. But Martha had already crossed the flagstone floor and was snatching Stephen from Sarahs grasp. Sweeping one hand across the kitchen table, she sent plates and cups crashing to the floor as she gently laid the child on the hard, scrubbed-pine surface.

Bernadette thrust the howling baby into Sarahs still-outstretched arms and ran to her sons side. Her face bore an expressionless mask of apparent incomprehension as she watched Martha put her ear to Stephens mouth and then feel his neck with her fingertips, searching for a pulse.

A sound more animal than human rose from somewhere deep inside Bernadette. But Martha barely heard it, as she placed the heels of her hands on the little boys fragile chest and pressed firmly. She counted aloud, One, two, three, and then bent down, putting her mouth over Stephens and blowing her own life-giving breath into his limp and unresponsive body.

Bernadette clasped her sons hand and began to whisper, Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.

The other children had followed Sarah in from the garden and they were clustered around her, their eyes wide with fear, when Martha suddenly stood upright, her face flushed with anxiety and exertion, and looked towards them.

Becky! Marthas tone was sharp and commanding. Stop your crying now, Becky. Stephen needs your help. Run down the road to Mrs Ryan and tell her to fetch the doctor. Quick now! Go as fast as you can.

Becky released a single sob as she fled down the pathway that wound around the house to the front garden, and the woman turned back towards the table. Once again, Martha placed her large, capable hands on Stephens chest, while Bernadette continued to whisper her prayer and tried in vain to block out the voice in her head that kept repeating with cruel insistency,