To my burglar, You’ve stolen something far more precious than my family possessions
In an emotionally raw letter that will chime with anyone who’s had their home broken into, KITTY DIMBLEBY shares the full shattering toll
ALL I do is think about you, I can’t stop it. When I’m in our sitting room I can see you out of the corner of my eye, taking one last glance behind you before ramming the knife (or screwdriver or whatever it is you brought with you) into our battered old window frame to force it up.
What do you look like? not the cartoon image of a burglar I knew as a child — the man with the SWAG bag and mask over his eyes. You have taken on a more sinister shape in my mind.
Dark clothes, face shadowed by a hood, you lurk in corners of the rooms I know you entered. I imagine your hands touching my things, going through our drawers, your eyes appraising our pictures, our home.
You see, your violation was not just of my house, but of our life. And now you’re haunting me. Burglaries are commonplace in this country. We all know someone who has been targeted, don’t we? They are said to happen at the rate of one every four seconds in the UK, while the conviction rate remains infuriatingly low: 95 per cent go unsolved, according to Scotland Yard.
And in the current climate of knife crime, I know many will see our burglary, which occurred while we were away and with no real damage done to the property, as pretty insignificant. But as any victim will attest, the distress goes beyond the loss of material things. What you also took, when you broke into my home, was my peace of mind.
You were careful as you climbed in that night a fortnight ago, not knocking the photo frames or (broken) antique clock off the old trunk in the bay window. It sits between two battered leather chairs I found on eBay and one of the cushions, a blue one Mum gave me, was flattened.
Was that you? Or perhaps it happened before you came — one of the kids. Did you realise we had children? When you scanned the room by the light of your torch, did you notice the two baby photos on the mantelpiece, a black-and-white snap from our wedding and our first photo as a family of four, taken when my three-year-old was a newborn?
That’s the last one I got around to getting printed and I’m grateful, I suppose, that you didn’t realise the frame is silver, an anniversary gift from my in-laws, and take it.
Did you see the Valentine cards on the bookshelves? After 14 years together, my husband Ed and I still send each other a card. This year my beloved son Max gave me one as well — written by his nursery teacher but made with such love. I expect I’ll keep it for ever. NExT
to it was the ‘gymnast of the day’ certificate my six- year- old daughter, Chloe, earned. She was so proud, beaming the gappy smile that makes my heart contract.
Of course you didn’t notice. The police said you would have been in and out in minutes, making a beeline for the things you could grab to sell easily. One gloved hand would have been holding a torch while the other swept over our belongings, deciding what could be worth something.
Your body must have been coursing with adrenaline, ears listening for any sound, eyes straining in the dark.
Did you come with a friend, someone to wait outside and keep watch? I expect so. It was a risky break-in — both our neighbours were at home, they have loud dogs and our road, a favourite cut-though, is always busy.
The police said you had probably been watching the house for a day or so to confirm we were away (both for work, the children were with their grandparents) and been emboldened because neither of our cars was there.
Mine was being fixed at a garage and my husband had his with him. We probably should have made sure one car was there and left a couple of lights on, but the road felt so safe and we so rarely go away, I hadn’t given too much thought to security. WhEn
you broke in it must have been nighttime, as you would have been spotted in the day. Also, you came in through the front of the house, where any passer-by would have seen you. In my mind’s eye, I see you illuminated by the amber glow of the street light outside. Like I say, it was risky. But perhaps you were so high, or desperate for your next fix, you decided it was worth it.
This is our fifth marital home and, ironically, the one I feel… felt… safest in. I’m no coward, but I have always hated being alone when my husband is away. Since I became a mother, the anxiety has worsened — the utter horror of the idea of someone unpleasant coming near my children.
But in this house, in my favourite part of the city where I grew up, our for ever home, I felt content even when work took my husband away for up to a week.
It’s Victorian and we are the first new owners in 40 years. It was very dated but, as the estate agents said, the bones were good: period features, parking and a flat garden, which is unusual in the hilly city where we live. Five bedrooms (two of which are small attic ones, ideal for the kids) means we have one spare and one as an office for me to write in. It ticked all the boxes.
We got the keys last May. Ed would meet me there after he finished work and, while the kids were with my mum, we pulled up carpets, stripped Seventies wallpaper, sanded boards and painted walls. By July we were ready to move in.
There’s a long way to go — we can’t afford to replace the terrible kitchen and bathroom or the antiquated oil tank and immersion heaters — but we love it. Our neighbours are lovely
and we felt part of our little community. Yet in minutes you changed that.
Luckily, Ed was alone when he got back to discover the front door and bay window wide open.
He realised what had happened immediately and called the police, who were fantastic. They came out twice but, with no fingerprints or CCTV, have had to close the case within a fortnight.
The house had been tidy when we left (not in its normal state of child-induced chaos), so it was clear where you had been: drawers open, our belongings in disarray.
In our bedroom you took a pillowcase and used it (we assume) to hold the contents of my jewellery boxes. I don’t really care about the monetary value of what you took, although in total it’s probably a few thousand, but I’m reeling from the loss.
You see, those items you will try to sell ( or just throw away) represented my life — gifts from family and friends, memories of holidays and birthdays, anniversaries and Christmases.
I had worn the cheap silverplated ‘Kitty’ necklace, a present from my flatmate when I was 26, for 13 years. There was the bracelet Ed gave me on our first ‘dating’ anniversary. Flower earrings I was given on my 18th, and a starfish necklace that reminded me of sunshine and sandy feet.
The silver locket my Nan gave me with a photo of Ed in it, which I wore religiously when he was on tour in Iraq and Afghanistan. The watch I got for my 21st — Dad chose it, and the note from him was in the lid of its box, which you also took. Did you read his loving words and feel bad, even for a moment?
I imagine you sorting through it all when you got home, disappointment growing when you realised most of it was not high-end.
Oh, you got some items of value, including the jewellery I wore on my wedding day. I’ll never forget Ed’s best man arriving on the doorstep of my mother’s house with the small, wrapped box containing the diamond and sapphire earrings and necklace I’d admired in a shop window and he had saved to buy.
And my sapphire cocktail ring. I bought the stone when I was reporting in Afghanistan and had it made into a piece of jewellery on my return, saying that one day I’d give it to my daughter to prove to her that Mummy did some amazing things, before parenthood kept me at home. I was proud of that ring, the only thing of value I’ve ever bought myself. YOu
were lucky to get Ed’s watch — it normally never leaves his wrist, but he’d taken it off for the weekend because he was working and didn’t want to risk it getting damaged. I bought it for him when we got engaged, thinking that as I got a ring, he should have something special, too. I’d saved up £100 a month secretly for over a year, hoping his proposal was coming.
In the dining room you found our silver candlesticks. They’re only silver-plated and worth about £25 each on eBay but, as a wedding gift from my bridesmaids, they were precious to me. They have graced the table at every dinner party we’ve had for almost a decade, the last being on New Year’s Eve, when we squeezed 11 around the table and toasted 2019.
You also managed to find the silver platter, another wedding present. That is probably worth something but, engraved with the signatures of the men Ed served with in Iraq and Afghanistan and his regimental insignia, I’m not sure who would buy it. understandably, Ed was really upset when he realised it had gone.
I know we won’t see any of these things again. I don’t know how it will work with the insurance — I expect we’ll be able to replace some of the items but they won’t have the same meaning. In some ways, replacements will be tainted by you, just as our home now is.
But we keep reminding ourselves that’s it’s just ‘stuff’. Ed’s years in the Army have taught us that if no one died, then it’s not that bad.
Really, we were lucky. You didn’t trash the house and I wasn’t at home with the children when you came in. But now I think… what if I had been?
I have mentally gone through the scenario over and over. What I would do? What would you have done? I picture myself coming out of the bedroom, thinking the noise was one of the children, to find you on the landing.
So I’ve been sleeping with the light on, waking at any sound. My son gets up a lot in the night and often comes into our bed. Before, even with him snuggled close, I could go back to sleep quickly, but now that’s impossible.
Despite logic, and the police, telling me we are unlikely to be targeted again, despite the new window locks, the updated alarm and the presence of my strong husband, I lie awake, my heart speeding up, listening for you.
And that is the final violation. from Kitty Dimbleby