I’m shaken and vulnerable, but I choose not to be the victim

Last Monday morning we woke to discover we had been burgled.

My husband, myself and my friend Wilma, who had been staying with us for the weekend, hadn’t heard a thing during the night. The first thing we noticed was the top part of the kitchen window “the hopper” was wide open and the back door was slightly ajar.

I looked around the kitchen and nothing was disturbed apart from a plant missing from the window sill. Then with a sinking feeling I looked at the chair where I hang my handbag and realised it was gone.

Like many women, my bag holds my life. It’s got my purse, bank cards, cheque book, store cards, vouchers, keys, money, lipstick, hairbrush, perfume spray, pens, address book, photographs of my grandchildren, rail travel pass, stamps and the last black and white photo taken of my dad on holiday with five-year-old me in Largs the summer he died.

Irreplaceable.

My husband went to the row of pegs where we keep our coats and felt in the pocket of his jacket. His wallet was there but the £60 inside it was gone. He felt in the other pocket and his car keys weren’t there.

I’ll never forget the look on his face as he went outside to the garage, opened it and discovered that his car had been stolen. He bought the car a year ago. A black Golf GT his treat to himself after retiring as a railway signal engineer. It’s the most expensive car we’ve ever owned.

In the early years of our marriage we had a succession of secondhand cars which he lay under most weekends coaxing them to work, getting them through one more MOT. With four children, a mortgage and lots of demands on one salary, a new car was an impossible dream for many years.

Eventually we managed it. And this special car had all the bells and whistles he’d ever wanted. He loved it and polished it so often. Our oldest son bought him a personalised number plate for his pride and joy.

The look on his face on Monday morning said it all. Gone. In the boot was his toolbox, every precious tool he’d gathered, used and cherished over 40 years of fixing things for us and for our sons and daughter when they bought their own homes. A lifetime of memories in those tools.

We phoned the police and it took a few hours for them to arrive because there had been five other robberies in the area. They explained that targeted car crime is on the increase. A housing estate is sussed out, cars chosen to order and the sole object is to get into the house for the keys and get out quickly. Often, people drop their keys into a bowl or leave them on a table near the door. Sometimes the thief uses a fishing rod pushed through the letterbox with a magnet on the end to get the keys. The stolen car is driven away, stored somewhere for a few months and then put into a container with other stolen vehicles and shipped to Russia, Albania, China wherever there is a lucrative market.

In the days that followed the robbery, a forensics officer came to take fingerprints. “Lucky you didn’t get up and disturb them” she said. “They can be violent. One man tried to stop them taking his Range Rover and they ran him over in the driveway.”

Since the burglary the “what ifs” have frightened me. I often get up in the night imagine if I’d gone downstairs . . .

I’ve felt weepy and anxious all week. When your home is broken into it’s as if someone has violated your safe place. They’ve stolen more than your things they’ve taken your peace and your sense of security.

We’d had such a lovely weekend before it happened. The Christening of our youngest granddaughter, Elizabeth Anne, a family party and barbecue with baby’s aunts and uncles from French Guyana who came to share the celebration.

Three generations of family and friends enjoying the moment in the sunshine. A simple, happy day. Then someone decided to snatch it away.

But the kindness and understanding of people has helped. In coming to terms with a burglary you have days when you feel a bit shaken and vulnerable. But I choose not to be a victim. That way they can’t win.

I know that things are replaceable but people aren’t. And it’s the thoughtfulness of others that is helping phone calls, flowers, visits.

Even the girl on the till at Tesco saying: “Where’s your points card, love?” and when I told her she patted my hand. “Don’t let those scumbags get you down.”

I won’t.

When all the fuss and hassle is over, what will I remember? Elizabeth took her first tottering steps this week. She’s a walking girl now with all the world before her. And in that world she’ll grow up in, goodness will always outshine the darker moments.

Always.