TRUE-LIFE
What that creep did to me in his car left me broken
Chenine Woods, 37, from Cheshire
Seeing the silver car pull up outside our house, I felt nervous butterflies in my tummy.
‘Good luck,’ smiled my younger sister Kelly, then 15.
Mum and Dad hugged me before I stepped out of the door.
It was September 2003, and they’d adopted me and Kelly when we were 5 and 3.
I’d had a tough life before that.
Now in my teens, I’d become a bit rebellious.
Falling in with the wrong crowd, skipping classes.
But Mum and Dad still surprised me with driving lessons for my 17th birthday, after Mum’s friend recommended the instructor, Frank Barham.
I walked anxiously towards his car in my joggers and a baggy T-shirt – I’d always been a tomboy.
Out on the road, Frank soon calmed my nerves, chatting away.
He asked what music
I liked.
‘I love dance music,’ I said.
‘So, have you got any piercings?’ he asked and I showed him the belly button piercing I’d got at 16.
For my lesson the next week, Frank picked me up 44 from sixth form college, where I studied health and social care.
I admitted things were tricky at home.
‘Mum and Dad get mad when I skip class,’ I confided.
As we drove around town, Frank seemed easy to talk to.
He reached onto the back seat.
‘Got you a present,’ he said, handing me some dance CDs he’d made.
How kind, I thought.
Assumed he was putting me at ease.
Then he joked that each time I looked down at the gear stick instead of keeping my eyes on the road, he’d look down my top as punishment. Creepy.
I tried to ignore it, put it down to a tasteless joke. But during my next lesson, I was checking my mirrors when Frank reached out and touched my breast.
My heart pounded, but he just smiled.
Back home, I ran into my bedroom, closing the door.
I wanted to tell someone, but who’d believe me?
I didn’t feel like I could stop him, or report what he’d done
Frank had a family. He’d been a Sergeant Major in the army, ran his own driving school.
A pillar of the community versus me, a troubled tomboy teen.
Things only got worse.
A week later as I practised parallel parking, Frank shoved his hand in my bra.
I gripped the steering wheel in shock.
‘Next time, will you wear a leather skirt and knee-high boots?’ he said.
I refused.
Stuck to my joggers the following week.
It didn’t stop him putting his hand in my underwear.
I dreaded every lesson.
But I didn’t feel like I could stop him, or report what he’d done.
Mum’s be
