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A single mother was today convicted of having a "torrid" affair with a 15-year-old schoolboy.
Mother-of-three Janice Harding was found guilty of two charges of indecently assaulting the teenager, with whom she allegedly had sex up to 12 times a week.
Harding, 29, who now lives at The Beacon in Falmouth, Cornwall, was acquitted of indecently assaulting a second teenage boy on two occasions.
The jury of five men and seven women took over six hours to reach their verdicts at Truro Crown Court.
She had denied four counts of indecently assaulting boys under the age of 16. Harding wept in the dock after the verdicts.
Judge Giles Forrester adjourned sentence until September 3 to enable a pre-sentence report to be prepared, and allowed Harding's bail to continue.
He told her "all the court's options are open to me, you must understand that."
The Judge told her to read nothing into being allowed bail "other then the court considers it appropriate in the circumstances."
Mrs Harding said after the case that she had no comment to make.
During the trial, prosecutor Michael Brabin said that Harding was 27 when the offences began, and had daughters aged nine and four and a son less than a year old.
The teenager with whom Harding had the long affair "hit it off" with her when he and his family moved near to her house in the town where she then lived.
Eventually he began to go round to her home on a daily basis, and was still at school when they started having sex, said the prosecutor.
They started kissing when he was playing with a PlayStation in her bedroom and it led to sexual intercourse.
The boy's mother became suspicious and sent him to stay with relatives, who he told what had happened.
For a few months in the spring and summer of 2000 the boy was "besotted" with Harding, said Mr Brabin, who did not suggest intercourse took place without his full co-operation.
"A torrid affair took place between them," said the prosecutor.
He said Harding twice had sex with another 15-year-old boy who knew about her relationship with the other teenager.
The first boy, now a 17-year-old student, said in video link evidence that he had been a virgin before meeting Harding.
"She knew my age - three months after my 15th birthday, that is when we were seeing each other," he said.
They had sex in the afternoon and nearly every night, and he slept at her house three times a week. But their relationship was now over.
Harding, who did not give evidence to the court told police she first had sex with the first boy on his 16th birthday.
She said the youngster had been upset that day as he had not received many presents.
Harding said the boy stayed at her house that night, when they had sex for the first time.
Harding told the police that on his 16th birthday the boy got only "a tenner" from his mum, adding: "He was upset because he was not given much."
She said that night they had sexual intercourse, instigated by the boy.
"We were play fighting. Then he just grabbed me and started kissing me," she said.
"It just happened like that. We must have had feelings for each other before but we had never thought about it."
The second boy told the court he had sexual intercourse twice with Harding before his 16th birthday.
He said on one occasion: "Jan told me to go upstairs and look at her new bed. Then she started kissing me.
"It was a shock at first but I just let her."
He said he slept with her twice but felt bad because he knew she was meant to be going out with his schoolfriend.
In her police interview Harding denied ever having had sex with the second teenager.
The first boy's mother said when she realised what had been going on between Harding and her son, she couldn't bear "the deceit and the hurt."
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“I think I’ll write a book about sex ,” my mother, 76, announced on the phone one day recently.
“I’ve learned a few things. I know lots of tricks for when you want to make the magic last — or for when you just need to get it over with because you’re not in the mood or you have other things to do.”
I laughed. “You probably have a wealth of knowledge in that arena.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she snapped. I’d found the edge, the hint of a boundary.
My mom was never like the other mothers in the playground. She had a job and wasn’t interested in domesticity. I was raised on Cosmopolitan , Jackie Collins novels , and a merry-go-round of her men.
Growing up in Australia, she’d had dreams of medical school, but instead she had me at 22; she and my father had already broken up by the time I was born. So it was just me and my mom , until it wasn’t. Which happened often.
In grainy photos of my 20-something mother, she’s a slim bombshell with platinum-blonde hair, looking glamorous in a bikini with me as a toddler attached to her hip. She was never single for long. I learned early that having men desire you gave you a certain currency.
When I was 4, we moved from Australia to Hong Kong with her then-fiancé. When we arrived, we stayed in a hotel that overlooked the famous harbor. I remember falling asleep to the twinkling lights and waking to the sounds of them having sex — beside me in the same bed. The sounds they made frightened me, and I cried out for him to stop, thinking he was murdering her. They laughed, as if I were being silly, and brushed it off. I hated having to share my mother, especially in that way, but I also didn’t get a vote. Her fiancé had a temper and a crackling energy under the surface that made me uneasy. I tiptoed around him. That wasn’t the last time I witnessed or overheard her sleeping with a man, but in the years to come, when we often shared a bed, I would pretend to be asleep.
The three of us moved into a nice apartment with my own room. But after only a couple of months, they abruptly broke up, and we left. Back then, I didn’t know why they split, but I asked her about it this year, and she told me he had dragged her by her hair to force her to watch a television show with him. He also demanded she pay him back for a doll’s crib he’d bought as a gift for me. His fury was intensifying, so we moved out. All of a sudden, we were crashing in a crowded apartment with the only other people my mother knew in town. Later, we rented a grimy room in the red-light district, where we stacked our suitcases against the door to prevent intruders. Eventually, we found an apartment, and I started school, while my mother spent long hours at her job as a secretary.
“Didn’t you want to get married back then?” I asked her recently.
“It didn’t even occur to me,” she answered. “It was far too early in the game for that. I was still learning and observing.”
Without a dad or siblings, I was tethered to her for survival. We held hands everywhere we went, and I tried to make her laugh, to make her love me. I twirled around the living room and performed for an audience of one. I wanted to be enough for her so she wouldn’t need anyone else. She called me her “little mouse,” probably because I was a shy child who didn’t want to make waves. I never objected to that pet name until I grew up and an acting teacher screamed at me onstage, “What are you? A fucking mouse?” The teacher was so frustrated that I had zero physical presence, no sense of myself. I cowered in humiliation, and then it dawned on me: I had morphed into a fucking mouse.
There were mornings I woke up to discover my mother hadn’t come home, and that felt like a stinging betrayal. Why wasn’t I enough for her? We were a team. Why did she need to look elsewhere? But men offered something unquantifiable that I couldn’t compete with. During a move a few years back, I found school notebooks from when I was 7. One drawing stood out. It was of a girl with yellow hair in a big bed alone with the caption: “Mummy has gone out for the evening.”
When I was 9, I got a sibling. My mother fell in love with an American businessman and had a baby boy. Unlike me, this baby was planned. The father-to-be was generous and sent me big boxes filled with toys and clothes, and I was excited at the prospect of having a dad who knew exactly what clothes 9-year-old girls want. Unfortunately, it turned out he was married with daughters of his own back home. It was unclear when my mom knew that, but nonetheless, we weren’t becoming a family after all.
When my brother was around 4 and I was 13, we were sent to Sydney to spend the Christmas holidays with my grandmother. But we didn’t return, as planned. Without my being aware of it, I’d moved to Sydney. I felt like a piece of luggage that was shipped off and dumped with relatives — first with my grandmother, then my aunt, then my uncle — forced to change schools in the middle of the year in a completely different country. At one point, I dropped out of school for a bit; at another, I moved in with my best friend’s family. After nearly a year of not seeing her, my mother showed up with a boyfriend for a surprise weekend visit. When she saw me for the first time, I watched her scan my body and registered her disapproval. “You always need to be in good nick,” she said, using Australian slang for impressive conditioning, a term usually applied to athletes or racehorses. I’d put on weight, and to her, being thin was yet another type of feminine power.
Her visit ended a few days later. I was angry she didn’t take me with her or even mention when I might see her again.
My hormones raging, I found that male attention could buoy a melancholy existence, at least for
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