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When women come to us for counselling we take them to one of seven bright and cosy rooms where they can talk in peace and comfort.
As they walk through the door they might notice a nameplate.
That is because we decided some time ago to commemorate those women who turned to us for help through the most difficult times in their lives before dying, all too often, pitifully young.
As time goes by, fewer people know about those women and their experiences, so we thought it would be fitting to tell their stories, where possible with the help of those who knew them best.
This, the second piece in our occasional series, The Names on the Doors, is Caroline’s story – told by our director Della Kagure Brown.
Caroline was the first client I saw when I started working at The New Futures Project in July 2000, Della writes.
I’d met her on outreach. She’d stood next to the car and taken a coffee, a cigarette and a bag of condoms and chatted away about how how many customers she’d seen that night.
She was open and friendly, she made me laugh and I felt an instant connection to her.
She came into the project a few weeks later. At the time we were based in Regent Road within a project called Leicestershire AIDs Support Services, (LASS).
The building was very quiet – more like a library than a support project – and she burst in covered in blood complaining her boyfriend – we later found out he was one of the most vicious pimps in Leicester – had beaten her up.
That was the start of our relationship. And it was a relationship. I loved Caroline. And I never doubted she loved me too.
She told me often enough.
She told me most weeks over the next twenty years when she came in for food, for housing, for a meth prescription, for a shower, for clothes or just to chat and catch up.
She’d walk in and shout “Della, Dell. It’s me”.
I took her to hospital more times than I care to remember, usually for injuries caused by the various men in her life.
She’d laugh whenever she told me about the latest.
She always went for the baddest pimp on the beat. Maybe it gave her status, or maybe being connected with the baddest kept her safe from the others – but it was hard to watch.
I took her to intensive care when she’d been attacked with an axe, when one boyfriend/pimp had followed an Eastenders storyline and hit her with a hot iron and numerous times when she’d been beaten up so badly she was unrecognisable.
I was there when her babies were born, when she overdosed and had to be resuscitated but refused to go to ITU without me.
When she had longer hospital stays for infections, for deep vein thrombosis, for pneumonia and various other conditions I’d visit her in hospital with clean pyjamas, magazines, chocolates and toiletries ( “…and fags Dell – don’t forget fags”. )
I’d sit and hold her hand and she’d cry and promise this time she’d stay until they discharged her. Most often she’d get into a row with the hospital staff and walk out.
She’d always come straight to the project and tell me it wasn’t her fault, that they were mean to her (they weren’t) and anyway she’d rather be here at the project.
I visited her throughout God knows how many prison sentences.
We always wrote to each other when she was inside. Her letters were funny and crazy. “Have you got any spare gold lying around Del? I need some jewellery” or “please send designer trainers – urgent”.
Sometimes her letters would start “Dear Mum…..” and she’d always end: “I love you. Your Caroline”.
Once Maggie (the project’s assistant director) and I were invited to attend a celebration and presentation after she completed a qualification in Peterborough Prison.
She was allowed to invite two family members, so of course it was me and Mags. She was so pleased with herself.
There are so many memories. So many stories. So many hours spent supporting her to give police statements against men who had hurt her, always hoping this time she’d go through with it.
Once she worked out she’d given one pimp enough money to buy a house for cash. She was so mad, I really hoped she’d go through with the prosecution.
We were at the police station for over twenty hours for that one. She retracted the statement two days later.
She was a huge part of my life for twenty years.
She came out on trips the project arranged. On a coach trip to Skeggy she got us thrown out of a service station for shoplifting and held the coach up for hours because she’d gone out drinking when it was due to leave.
We went to funerals together for women the project supported who died of overdose or illness.
She’d stand next to me and I’d look at her and hope it would never be her. I always knew she took too many risks.
I lost her during Covid. She was sent to prison and I was at home going through chemo, so I was isolating and unable to be at the project.
I knew she was due to come out.
I got a call from Carl, (Our direct services manager), who told me. God knows how he managed to tell me.
Caroline had been released to a bail hostel. She’d come out and overdosed and, because her tolerance had gone down in prison, she’d died.
They think her body lay there in the bail hostel room for two days before she was found. There are no words.
She’d named me as next of kin so the coroner’s office rang me and I helped them locate her other family.
I still miss her more than I can say. She was difficult, challenging, feisty, sometimes rude, sometimes aggressive. She was also charming, warm, generous, loyal and funny.
We named a counselling room after her. I moved into it recently. I didn’t really like anyone else using it.
I counsel clients and work from the room with her name on the door.
It helps.
My room. My Caroline.
The New Futures Project was set up more than 20 years ago to support women involved in sex work.
However, we have evolved into a comprehensive welfare and counselling service for women and young people dealing with sexual abuse or exploitation, domestic violence, trafficking, poverty and debt, substance use or mental ill-health.
Call us on 0116 251 0803 or send us a message at: info@new-futures.org.uk
You can find us at 71 London Road, Leicester, LE2 0PE.
We publish a monthly newsletter to tell the stories of the women we support and to round up all the things we’ve been doing.
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