Читать книгу For the Love of Nadia - My daughter was kidnapped by her father and taken to Libya. This is my heart-wrenching true story of my quest to bring her home - Sarah Taylor - Страница 8

Funny when you think about it, I come from an ordinary family in an ordinary town in Lancashire, but my life has never ever been exactly ordinary. In fact, it’s been quite the opposite. Even my arrival, on 10 July 1976, was dramatic – my mum had been in labour for thirty-six hours; she needed gas, air and Pethidine, and was desperate to give birth, but I didn’t want to face the world until I was good and ready. The doctor needed forceps to drag me out. It seems I’ve always been independent and had a stubborn streak – lucky for me, lucky for Nadia.

After a few days in hospital, Mum and I came home to 17 Chatham Street, Wigan. A two-up, two-down terraced house that my parents were buying from my mother’s stepfather for £5 per week, it was small, but cosy, and in a working-class neighbourhood that was incredibly friendly and supportive. Everyone knew each other in the street and they were always in and out of each other’s homes.

Mum and Dad met in a pub in Wigan and were only in their early twenties when they married. My dad, David, was in full-time employment as a welder, but money was still very tight. We couldn’t afford to send our own car to the garage, so out of necessity Dad taught himself how to fix it. He then repaired other cars on the side to earn a bit extra. Mum, who worked as a seamstress, was equally resourceful. She bought herself a sewing machine with some money bequeathed to her by a distant aunt and made clothes for us. She really loved doing it, but she mostly did it as a way to save money without spending a fortune on clothes from shops.

When I was small, we used to spend a lot of time with my paternal grandparents. My dad was born in Wigan and his parents lived nearby. I remember spending many a happy hour helping my grandma, Betty Taylor, to make her famous currant cakes. Granddad Bill had a red Bedford van that he used to go to work in, and I used to stand up in the back and knock on the roof. Granddad would make me laugh by saying there was someone on the roof of the van.

My mum, Dorothy Bibby, was one of seven born in Singapore. Her dad, who was in Royal Air Force, died when she was just fifteen years old, so I never met him. She had a tough upbringing, and her mum struggled to bring up the family on her own.

Three days before Christmas 1980, my baby brother Andrew was born. Dad drove us to the hospital in our bright-orange Reliant Kitten and I remember seeing a doll in the boot of the car, all wrapped up in a big bag. Having sneaked a look, I wondered why Mum and Dad had bought a doll for a baby boy! I was quite jealous, but Dad gave it to me in the hospital and said it was from Andrew to me. I was really pleased and I remember thinking that having a baby brother was going to be fun. When he was about eighteen months old, Andrew moved into my bedroom and I remember feeling really excited about it. As the big sister, I wanted to be in charge of looking after him – it felt great to have this ‘responsibility’.

Mum and Dad both smoked, and when I was a bit older they used to send me to Patterson’s, a little shop across the road, for packets of Player’s No. 6 – I think they were the cheapest cigarettes you could get in those days. The street wasn’t busy and the shop was opposite our house, so my parents felt safe in letting me go there. Mr Patterson was an old man, who co-owned the shop with his wife. If Mum and Dad were strapped for cash, they allowed us to put any purchases ‘on the slate’ until we could settle the bill – I don’t suppose there are many places where you can do that nowadays.

There also used to be another shop around the corner called Agnes’s. I wasn’t really supposed to go there as it was on the main road. The trouble was, this shop had a better selection of sweets than old Mr Patterson and it stocked my favourites – Jaw Breakers and Cola Bottles. Luckily, I used to persuade Mum to let me go as long as I got back before my dad came home from work because he was much stricter about those things. I had to run there and back before he got home and caught me. He never did find out – well, until now that is. Sorry, Dad! There was another old man – Arthur – who lived across the road, and every time he saw me, he would give me a handful of chocolates, including Galaxy bars and Smarties. Sounds a bit dodgy now but it was all quite innocent, although I do blame him for making me into the chocoholic I am today! Looking back, it’s surprising I’ve got any teeth left.

There wasn’t any money for holidays when I was growing up, and I can only remember one trip abroad. When I was quite small, we were invited by my uncle Harry and his family to tour Europe in his motorhome. I remember the blazing-hot weather – Dad even got sunstroke in Switzerland – but, despite this, we all had a great time together. A few years later, Dad bought an old ambulance that he spray-painted beige and converted into his own form of motorhome. The vehicle had two beds, which converted into tables, a sink and cupboard space. We went camping to Flamingo Land in North Yorkshire, and Andrew and I would take ourselves off and play on the woodland park and the small theme park, which wasn’t so extensive in those days.

As kids, we got on well. We used to play ball in the street late at night with our cousins, Mark and Michael. As I was the eldest, I would always order them around, although I think I might have done that whatever age I had been. Despite being a bit bossy, I was a polite and calm child, and I took everything in my stride. Mum and Dad were firm with me – they brought me up the right way, and taught me right from wrong. Although very loving and affectionate, they weren’t keen on me being a softie. Even when I was sick, they never used to make an issue of it; they gave me the attention when I needed it, but they didn’t overdo it. I’m sure their influence has made me the person I am today: they helped make me strong and secure and gave me a strict moral code to follow. Also, they were always honest with me and I like to think that I always try to be truthful and straight with people.

In early 1983, Mum and Dad decided that Andrew and I needed our own bedrooms, so we moved to another part of Wigan. The house at 18 Meadway was a much larger property, with three bedrooms and a front and rear garden. Our previous home in Chatham Street only had a backyard so my brother and I were thrilled that we now had a proper garden to play in. We really loved our new surroundings and felt happy in our relatively spacious setting. Unfortunately, this newfound bliss was not to last very long.

We had only been living in Meadway for a short time when I began to feel unwell. I was seven years old when a number of bruises started to appear on my arms and legs. It was very mysterious because I hadn’t hurt myself. Every time someone touched me, another bluish-purple mark would materialise on my skin. At one point, Mum and Dad thought that I was being bullied at school and someone must be hitting me but this wasn’t so, and, in any case, I had always been brought up to stand up for myself. I was also sleeping a lot and would come home from school, immediately curl up on the sofa and fall into a deep sleep. The bruises seemed to multiply and now my parents, who were becoming concerned, took me to the doctor. I was referred to the local hospital for blood tests but nothing of significance showed up. Then, one day, I was doubled up with stomach pain and rushed back to Wigan Infirmary.

I had further blood tests and a lumbar puncture. This involves collecting fluid from the spine. It’s quite an ordeal for a young child and I remember lying on my stomach while various medical staff around my bed looked on. There was one nurse holding my hand, who told me, ‘Squeeze my hand as hard as you like.’ The doctor told me what she was going to do but I hadn’t realised that the needle was going to be quite so large. I remember saying, ‘But I thought it was just going to be like a pin!’

All these nurses and medical students were looking at me and, although I tried hard not to cry, I couldn’t suppress my tears. The assembled throng all said how brave I was, and I felt proud of myself but I still didn’t know what was wrong with me and neither did my parents.

The following day, Mum, Dad and I went to Pendlebury Children’s Hospital in Greater Manchester, which has since become The Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital. We were taken to one of the wards, where I was shown a bed and asked to undress and lie down. Meanwhile, Mum and Dad were requested to go into the sister’s office. A nurse attempted to put a drip in my arm, but I yelled at her: ‘Don’t touch me, I’m going home soon!’ I wouldn’t let her do anything without my mum being there – I suppose I always had a bit of an obstinate streak, but I was frightened. I was even more scared when my parents came out of the office. They both looked shaken and pale, and they were crying.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘It’s all right, Sarah,’ my mum tried to reassure me. ‘You’re just a bit sick at the moment so you’ll have to stay in hospital for a while but you’ll be coming home soon.’

‘But I don’t feel sick,’ I replied, ‘I’m fine.’

‘Please, Sarah – just do what the nurse says and you’ll soon be home.’

Reluctantly, I agreed to let the nurse carry out the procedure but I was very unhappy. Mum and Dad stayed with me until visiting time was over, but then I was left on my own. I hated the thought of being in hospital, especially so far from home; I was being taken away from my family but, most of all, I didn’t want to be ill. That night I sobbed myself to sleep.

At 1pm, on 8 August 1983 – the fateful day imprinted on Dad’s brain forever more – the doctors diagnosed me with leukaemia. Soon afterwards, they told me I had cancer. I remember asking Dad the one question that he must have been dreading: ‘Daddy, am I going to die?’

He took a deep breath, held my hand and looked me straight in the eye: ‘Sarah, you know it’s possible that you could die, but if you take all your medicine and do as the doctors and nurses tell you, then maybe you’ll be okay.’ He could easily have lied to me in an attempt to reassure me, but that was not his way. It’s not our way.

He has since told me that it was like putting a sword through his own heart.

Right from the onset of my illness, Mum and Dad agreed that they would always tell me the truth, no matter what I asked them. They felt that it was important to be completely upfront with me, in the same way that my hospital consultant, Dr Richard Stevens, had been totally truthful with us.

It must have been one of the hardest things Dad has ever had to do, but his reaction and raw honesty actually helped me to come to terms with my illness and now, in later life, it has fashioned the way I relate to my own daughter. I am completely honest with Nadia and will answer her truthfully, whatever she asks me.

Anyhow, I was now in hospital and this was just the beginning of two weeks of intense medical treatment. At one stage, I spiked a temperature and was put on the critical list. My mum came to stay in special accommodation nearby. Kept isolated to avoid infection, I felt all alone and very miserable too.

The chemotherapy had many side effects; I was constantly vomiting, didn’t eat and was being fed through a drip. I remember waking up and seeing a clump of hair on my pillow. Mum and Dad had talked to me beforehand and warned me that I was going to lose my hair, so I was kind of prepared for it. All the other children on the ward had gone through the same thing, so I expected the same outcome. Very self-conscious about losing my hair, I was concerned about what my school friends would say – I was really worried that I would get teased, too. Would I be bullied for the first time in my life? I was just hoping that, by the time I went back to school, my hair would have all grown back again, but it hadn’t and so I had to wear a headscarf. (In fact, when I did return to school, some eight months after my initial diagnosis, the complete opposite happened: I wasn’t bullied at all and I gained a lot of new friends, who were inquisitive about my look. I think maybe the school had warned them before my return, so they knew what to expect.)

One day, after two weeks of hospitalisation, my mum was in the kitchen preparing my meal, as she always did (I wouldn’t eat the hospital food because it was always cold), and Dad was at my bedside when a nurse approached us. ‘Do you want to go home, Sarah?’ he said to me.

Before I could reply, my dad reacted joyfully: ‘Do we? Do we? I should say so!’

I was so happy about being allowed home but, as I quickly discovered, I still had to attend Christie’s Hospital (also in Manchester) for radiotherapy as a day patient. As it was too far to travel, Mum and I stayed with a family who lived in Manchester and had a son the same age as me. Jonathan also had leukaemia and was a day patient at Christie’s. During this crisis time, our families supported each other and became very close. Tragically, Jonathan contracted pneumonia a few years later and passed away. He was just a young man – I don’t know how his parents ever got over it.

After I was discharged as an outpatient from Christie’s, I had to return to Pendlebury but this time as an outpatient. Once a week, under general anaesthetic, I had a bone marrow test to search for abnormal cells. After a while, the tests were reduced to once a month, then once every two months and eventually once a year. I remember the doctor telling me that, if I was clear from abnormalities six times in a row, then I was officially ‘in remission’. It wasn’t until ten years later, when I was aged seventeen, that I finally received the all-clear, although even to this day I still have an annual bone marrow test.

After five years of my being in remission, Mum and Dad decided to try for another baby and, on 28 July 1989, my sister Stephanie was born. I was so happy that Mum had a girl. This time I didn’t need to be given a doll – I had my very own living doll to play with! I could help dress her up and give her lots of attention. I don’t think Andrew was best pleased that Mum had a girl – he definitely wanted a brother.

Everything started to look up: I was in remission, Stephanie was healthy, my parents were happy, and I was enjoying Rose Bridge High School, my new secondary school. I was regaining my confidence, making new friends and doing quite well academically. Growing up, I was very confident – I would speak my mind and always stand up for what I believed in. I liked to be liked, too, and I had a few friends who I really relied on – I always tried to fit in with the popular kids.

I was in my last year at school when I met my first love, Robert. I was fifteen and he was two years older. My brother Andrew played rugby and Robert’s father was the coach. We had another connection in that our dads were work colleagues. Although my dad approved of Robert and his family, the thought of his little girl having a boyfriend was difficult for him. He didn’t want me to start dating properly until I was sixteen; he also insisted that I was always home for 10pm and warned, ‘Not a minute later, or there’ll be trouble.’ Dad wanted to know where I was at all times and, although it was frustrating, I knew it was for my own good. I’m sure that my being so seriously ill had affected his attitude and made him even more protective of me.

Right from the beginning of our relationship, Robert and I spent a lot of time together. In fact, we were inseparable. Looking back, I think we might have been a bit too devoted to each other and alienated many of our friends, who probably couldn’t bear to be with such an exclusive couple. Eventually, it was only my younger sister Stephanie who would put up with our constant smooching – but only if it meant a day out in Southport or Blackpool!

After leaving school with nine GCSEs, I started work at Ormskirk & District General Hospital on an NVQ course. I earned about £60 a week as a nursing assistant looking after the elderly on a respite ward and I loved the job – I got to meet a lot of nice people. I had various tasks to perform, such as helping with feeding, toileting and bathing, but none of these responsibilities fazed me. Although some of the work wasn’t very pleasant, I just got on with it.

I remember one old man who had just been brought in, who was very unwell. An exceptionally thin, tall man, he was always incredibly polite. He had been a patient before, but this time he was really sick and died a few days later on the ward. I was at his side when he passed away. This was the first time I had actually seen a dead body, let alone witnessed a death. I did all the usual stuff – I cleaned him up and then laid him out. I was then asked to open all the windows, which seemed to me a bit strange, but I was told that it was done to let ‘the bad spirits’ out! Millie Blake, the senior nurse, always insisted it be done after a death and I didn’t want to argue, even though I didn’t really believe in that sort of thing.

I was employed in the hospital for approximately eighteen months and, although the money wasn’t too good, I loved every minute of it. Robert was earning more than me, working for HM Revenue & Customs in the Family Credit section, and suggested that I should apply for a job there. If I’m honest, I would have much preferred to stay on at the hospital and do what I was doing rather than office work, but it was better money. Fortunately, I was successful in my application and, in the same week, I started work as a civil servant, I not only celebrated my eighteenth birthday, but I also passed my driving test. Now that I had a better income, Robert and I enjoyed some fabulously exotic holidays together – we visited South Africa, the Dominican Republic and Kenya.

After we had been going out for about five years, and when I was twenty-one, we decided to buy a house together. We visited a show-home on a new estate and fell in love with the design. Our house hadn’t actually been built, but we immediately made an offer. We moved in some months later and, with a lot of help from our families, bought everything we needed to set up our first home. It was very exciting to be moving into my own house.

Unfortunately, we had only been cohabitating for about a year when things started to go wrong. Robert and I had been together for seven years and, although neither of us got ‘the itch’, our relationship had become a little stale. I’m still not entirely sure why we split up. There were no major issues, or much arguing, but we had been boyfriend and girlfriend since our teenage years and perhaps we had become slightly bored with each other. We didn’t seem to have anything to talk about, and we stopped having sex. Later, Robert told me one of the reasons why it didn’t work out was because he was too young and he felt that he didn’t have any space for himself. In retrospect, obviously neither of us felt strongly enough to make it work, so we agreed to part. Robert moved out and I stayed on at the house for a little longer until it was sold before moving back in with Mum and Dad.

Although the split had been a mutual decision, I was knocked back and, for a while, my confidence was affected. Fortunately, I had my family around me and friends to cheer me up. My friend Linda had recently separated from her husband and the two of us would go out quite a lot, enjoying ourselves. We met a few guys but there was nothing serious. I had just come out of a long-term relationship and wanted to have some fun and stay unattached. After all, I needed to make up for lost time!

Of course –and not for the first time – once things were on a seemingly even keel, I received another shock. Not long after returning to my parents, soon after the New Millennium celebrations, we were out having lunch when I rubbed my neck and it felt as if there was a bit of a lump there. Although I mentioned it to my mum, I wasn’t going to do anything about it, but she insisted that I get it checked out. I had blood tests that were all fine and then a voice test. Nothing sinister was discovered, but because of my medical history it was agreed that I should have a biopsy and have the lump removed.

I was terrified that the cancer had come back and I was going to have more treatment. Unfortunately, my worst fears were realised when the results came back and showed that I had cancer of the thyroid. I remember the doctor saying that, if he had to choose a cancer, it would be this one as it is slow growing and can be sorted out without too much difficulty. Although this helped a little, I couldn’t believe that I had been struck down again. Was I ever going to be rid of this evil disease?

After being admitted to The Royal Manchester Infirmary, I had surgery to remove my thyroid and both glands. I have always wondered if the thyroid cancer was caused by radiotherapy because the metal jacket I had worn all those years earlier to protect me during the treatment didn’t cover my neck. I guess I’ll never know, and I suppose it doesn’t really matter now.

Shortly after the op, I returned to work at the Inland Revenue and resumed ‘normal’ life. At the time, I used to go out every Thursday night with my friend Lyndsey, who was an ex-work colleague. Both single, we’d go into town, taking turns to drive so that one of us could drink. We always started our evenings at a venue called the Chicago Rock Café because it was the first pub we stumbled upon on our way into town. It was a popular meeting place, very lively and played the sort of 80s music we liked. More importantly, there was a better chance of meeting someone there than in some of the other venues in town. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t desperate: if I met someone, then okay, but if I didn’t, I didn’t.

One night, in October 2000, Lyndsey and I headed out into town. She was driving so I didn’t have to worry about sticking to the limit, although I’ve never been much of a drinker. On this particular night, the pub was especially busy but I managed to work my way to the bar to order the lagers. As I looked across the bar, I noticed a man looking at me. Mmm not bad, I thought. Although the lighting in the pub was dim, I could tell that this tall, dark stranger was also clean-cut and very handsome. A really good-looking guy, he couldn’t possibly be giving me the eye. I could never attract someone like that.

Avoiding his gaze, I took the drinks to our table. Excitedly, I told Lyndsey that the guy seemed to be interested in me. I tried to play it cool but I couldn’t stand it any longer and so I glanced back in his direction. Oh no, he wasn’t there! He’d gone. I’d blown it. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up and it was him. Not as tall as I first thought, but still pretty gorgeous.

In broken English, which was a little hard to decipher, he said: ‘Where are you from? You look Italian. What is your name?’ Well, that was flattering for a start.

‘Actually, I’m from here – I was born in Wigan,’ I told him, all the while hoping that my answer wouldn’t kill any possible romance.

I asked him where he was from and he replied, ‘I was born in Libya.’ That didn’t help much – I’d never heard of Libya before.

‘Where’s that?’ I asked.

‘It’s in North Africa,’ he said, smiling. ‘I am twenty-seven and a surveyor, but I’m here studying English at Wigan College.’

Charming, handsome and with a good job, this is going well, I thought.

He offered to buy me a drink and after a little conversation, he then enquired if I could help him with his English studies. I replied that I wasn’t a teacher but I would be more than happy to help if I could. We swapped telephone numbers and he told me his name was Fawzi. He promised to call me in a day or two. I remember thinking that I would try not to build my hopes up. Maybe we would just be friends. If he wants to see me, he’ll ring me. If he calls, he calls. If he doesn’t, then I’ll move on.

Of course, my reaction was quite different when Fawzi rang a couple of days later. I felt much more elated than I had expected – I was excited at the prospect of getting to know this foreign guy and learning more about him. We agreed to meet on the following Saturday afternoon, back at the Chicago Rock Café. I arranged to meet him in the afternoon because I thought it would be safer if he turned out to be too lecherous. Also, it would be less crowded and noisy, and I would be able to hear and understand him better.

When he arrived, I was pleased to see that he was as attractive as I’d remembered from that first meeting. He seemed at ease, talking about himself, and told me that all his family lived back in Libya and his property company had sent him to study in England. He added that he was a Muslim, and asked if that would be a problem. ‘No problem,’ I replied. I told him that we had a relative in Singapore who was married to a Muslim, and so I knew a little bit about the religion. It didn’t seem to matter at this stage which religion he followed – after all, it wasn’t as if I was planning to marry him.

Fawzi asked me if I wanted to go out that evening and, if so, could he bring his friend. I wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to bring a friend along for the date – I assumed we were going out on a date – but I agreed. Although I didn’t feel particularly nervous or insecure about the arrangement, I said that I would drive. That way, I could make a quick getaway if there was any nonsense.

I met Fawzi and his friend at a pub in the centre of Wigan called Berkley Square. The friend turned out to be his flatmate, Ibrahim, who had adopted the English name of Brian. Fawzi and Brian had been studying in England for about eight months. I liked Brian immediately and felt quite pleased with myself to be going out with these interesting and attractive men.

The three of us then went to a nightclub, where Brian busied himself by chatting up women, so Fawzi and I were left to our own devices. We danced and had a few drinks, although I was a little surprised that Fawzi, a devout Muslim, downed quite so much Jack Daniel’s. Still, it was none of my business and we were having fun. We enjoyed our first kiss and I have to admit that I was already quite taken with his flashing dark eyes and dark handsome features.

Afterwards, I offered to chauffeur Fawzi and Brian to their home, which was a converted flat in a terraced house near the town centre. They invited me in and, although I didn’t feel threatened – they had behaved like perfect gentlemen – I’m not naïve and, after all, I really didn’t know them at all. I refused and said that I had to get home. Driving home, I was excited but trying to stay calm underneath. Fawzi had said he’d ring and, if he liked me, he would. There wasn’t much more I could do, and I certainly wasn’t going to chase him – that’s not my style.

After a few days elapsed, I was still wondering if I was going to hear from Fawzi but then he called me. Thrilled, I tried not to let the delight sound in my voice. We agreed to meet at his workplace. To earn extra money, I had obtained a second job at the NEXT clothes shop in The Trafford Centre, Manchester, and was working two evenings a week and every Sunday. Fawzi was working in a pizza place in Whiston, near Liverpool, and I agreed to drive over there after work.

As you can imagine, it wasn’t the most romantic of settings and he was at work, so it wasn’t an ideal arrangement for pursuing a relationship. Still, we had a pizza together and managed to chat. Conversation came easily to us but he was working late so I didn’t want to hang around and went home before he finished his shift.

We did this a couple of times and then one night I went back to his flat. Brian was there at first, but quickly disappeared. Fawzi and I had a few drinks and we went to bed. It was exciting and lovely, and he was very tender. As I drove home that night, I couldn’t contain my feelings and wanted to tell the world about him. He’d already got me hook, line and sinker!

We began to see each other more regularly and, as I was still living with my parents, I found myself staying at his flat most nights. Very quickly I realised that I was falling in love with him, although I was a little unsure about what I was getting myself into; I knew at some stage he’d be returning to his job and family in Libya, and then what would happen to me? Also, what was he expecting of me? Was I just a casual fling? I was in a quandary because I wanted to protect myself, but at the same time, the more I saw him, the more I felt involved. It wasn’t like me to throw myself in at the deep end, but my heart was beginning to rule my head.

After a few months, Fawzi surprised me by starting to discuss marriage. He told me that, ideally, his family would like him to be married before he slept with or moved in with anyone. Bit late for that, I thought. The trouble was, I soon discovered he wasn’t talking about marrying me; this wasn’t a proposal. It transpired that he was just considering the concept of marriage and how it related to his culture. Fawzi admitted that he hadn’t told his family about me, and I felt really let down. If he was really serious, why hadn’t he mentioned me to them? They probably didn’t even know I existed. I began to think that if he was serious about me then he should be introducing me to his family. At least he could have told them that he’d met an English girl, who he was fond of.

It was all very confusing and I tried not to think about what some of my friends had been saying: that he wasusing me and that any thoughts of long-term commitment or even marriage – especially marriage – would be a very convenient way for him to obtain a British passport, enabling him to stay in the country. In any case, I was too fond of him to think that our romance was a cynical ploy on his behalf. This was more to do with his culture: his Muslim background and his religious beliefs.

There was also something else weighing on my mind. Although I was only twenty-four, I was already worried that my biological clock was ticking. I suppose having had two brushes with cancer had made me think deeply about my future. Life must be lived to the full because you never know what’s around the corner. This may have pushed me to commit myself a little quicker than I might otherwise have done. The chemotherapy that I endured as a young girl might have caused me to be infertile. I was much too young to have my eggs frozen, something that could have been done then, had I been older. I’d been warned that I could start my menopause prematurely, possibly as soon as I reached the age of thirty. Now twenty-four, I desperately wanted children soon.

I couldn’t afford to wait too long to commit to a relationship. I was thinking about IVF and even adoption. Besides, I was smitten with Fawzi, wasn’t I? I explained to him about my medical history and the fact that I might not be able to have children; I didn’t want to wait until we got more serious only to discover that he wanted to back out. I felt quite comfortable talking to him about this – it seemed the right time and very natural.

By now, I had introduced Fawzi to my parents. A total gentleman, they fell for him almost as much as I did, and maybe even quicker. He charmed them and nothing was too much trouble when it came to helping them: he came over and made typical Libyan meals for us. He even took Mum shopping. Mum and Dad had no qualms about Fawzi being a Muslim and loved him to bits; he became part of the family. Both Stephanie and Andy liked him, too, and got on well with him. They only lived five minutes away from my parents’ house and so we all saw a lot of each other. There was a genuine mutual fondness, which made me even more certain about him.

I was still living at home, and Fawzi and Brian were still sharing their small flat, which was much too cramped for the three of us. Fawzi and I felt we needed more privacy, but I liked Brian and didn’t want to see him kicked out so it was agreed that we would rent a three-bedroom house together. I suppose there must have been some hesitation on my part not to live with Fawzi on our own, which would have seemed more intimate and certainly more of a commitment. In some ways, it didn’t seem like we were setting up home together, which was still a daunting idea, especially when it hadn’t worked out with Robert all those years earlier.

This arrangement worked out well for about a year and we were extremely happy. Looming over us, however, was the prospect that Fawzi might have to go back to Libya in order to return to work, although he told me that he really wanted to live in England in the future. He said that he would need to return home to see his parents from time to time. Of course, I agreed that it was important for him to maintain his family links.

Fawzi returned to the subject of marriage soon after we started living together, only this time it wasn’t a theoretical discussion: he was now talking seriously about the two of us getting married. He said his family were keen for him to start putting down roots, but he still hadn’t told them that we were living together. I was made up.

I told Fawzi that Dad would appreciate it if he went to ask his permission to marry me. He agreed that it would be a nice thing to do and, of course, I insisted that I was present too. My dad’s response couldn’t have been more positive – ‘That’s brilliant, we’d love to have you as part of the family!’

Fawzi then went and bought me an engagement ring; it was very simple with a small diamond solitaire. It wasn’t the most exciting or fancy piece of jewellery, but it was all that he could afford and I was thrilled to wear it. We wanted a quiet family wedding, and for our honeymoon we planned to go to Singapore. However, our plans were dashed in spring 2001 when Fawzi heard the news that his father had died suddenly. In Muslim culture, the deceased person has to be buried within twenty-four hours of death, and so, by the time Fawzi was able to return home to Tripoli, his father had already been buried and the funeral had taken place. He was distraught and particularly upset that he hadn’t been around to support his mother.

On his return to England, Fawzi insisted that we bring our wedding forward and that we should forego our honeymoon in Singapore. He told me that it wasn’t respectful for him to be seen enjoying such a lavish holiday so soon after his father’s death.

So, on 10 July 2001, which coincided with my twenty-fifth birthday, I married Fawzi Essid Abuarghub at Wigan Registry Office. Fawzi had a few friends attend the ceremony and two of his cousins, both called Mohammed, were ushers. I wanted to have as much family there as possible to celebrate with us and, to honour my dad’s mother, I wore the wedding ring that had belonged to my late grandmother.

Afterwards, we went for a meal in a pub in Hindley with a few friends. I have to be honest and admit that it wasn’t the glamorous and magical wedding day that I had imagined when I was a little girl. Still, I loved Fawzi and it was all that we could afford at the time. Fawzi had no savings and so my family and I paid for it all. In fact, he didn’t contribute to anything, but it didn’t seem to matter at the time.

Some weeks later, we wanted something more to mark the event and arranged a party at Wigan Pier. Before the festivities, we actually had official photographs taken with me in my wedding dress and Fawzi looking very elegant. The party was a large, lively gathering, with lots of friends and family. There was dancing, drinking and a buffet dinner. I felt happier than I had ever been in my life; Fawzi seemed to feel the same way.

Everything was perfect and I was looking forward to a long and contented life with this lovely man.