In Fear of Her Life: The true story of a violent marriage

by Smyth, Sandra

  After Ma left our family home, I’d call in on my father once a week to make sure he was alright. Most of the time he looked tired and worn. The house was often cold and I worried that he didn’t eat properly. I’d make dinner for him and tidy up a bit. I was close to my three younger sisters and I worried about them too and in particular Fiona the youngest. They all needed a mother but she was only six when my mother left so I felt I had to watch out for her more than the others.

  My brother Anto used to call around and keep me company. I was always fond of my big brother. He had a lovely, gentle nature just like my father but he wasn’t street-wise. He was always getting fired from jobs and seemed to spend most of his life on the dole, but then the whole neighbourhood was on the dole at the time. You’d see the world and his wife at the unemployment exchange on dole day. It was like one big social affair.

  The days passed and my stomach was getting bigger and bigger. Johnny was supportive at first. He’d sometimes tell me to sit down and relax while he made me a cup of tea. But I’d noticed a change in his personality since he got the taxi. He wasn’t as loving as he used to be and he’d become more irritable too. I tried to brush it under the carpet and pretend it wasn’t happening. “Just a passing phase,” I thought to myself.

  Then he started working nights and I saw a complete change in him. He’d come home after working through the night and having been to the early house afterwards. He was drinking more heavily now and often the money he’d earned that night would be spent.

  I’d have to beg him for money to buy a few groceries. He’d give it to me grudgingly and I’d always feel bad.

  “What do you do with that money?” he’d say, “Sure I only gave you ten quid two days ago.”

  “He’s right,” I’d think. “I should be more careful about how I spend it.”

  But as it was I could only afford the basics and we lived on chips and burgers half the time. I didn’t buy clothes for myself and we rarely went out together.

  The odd time I’d go to the local pub on a Sunday with Johnny and my father. Anto might join us too or Helen and her husband Alan. I still didn’t drink and I always felt uncomfortable in bars. Johnny would be agitated, looking around the bar and knocking back the pints. I couldn’t relax, I always felt like I was waiting for something to happen and I’d be glad to get home when the night was over.

  I didn’t like the affect of drink on Johnny. He was always a quiet person, he had a presence alright, but it was a silent, almost mysterious air about him. With drink on him he was a different man. He was loud and brash. He’d be over generous too, buying rounds in the bar with money we couldn’t spare. I’d have to sit there and bite my lip when he did that. I knew he wouldn’t stand for me telling him what to do. There was no point in trying.

  “But how are we going to pay the electricity bill?” I’d think.

  One night we came back from the pub. He’d spent all his earnings on beer and I was furious. For weeks I’d been asking him for money to buy a pram for the baby that was due in a matter of weeks, but he’d refused me every time, told me we couldn’t afford it and implied that I was spoilt and demanding.

  In just one night however I’d seen him blow the cost of a pram and more in the pub. In a fit of drunken generosity he’d bought a round of drinks for everyone in the bar. I could have cried when he did that. To make matters worse however he started a fight with one of the local punters. The man looked at him crooked and Johnny turned on him. He was only an auld fella from the area and he meant no harm. Johnny gave him a black eye and we were all thrown out of the bar.

  I’d said nothing at the time but I was mortified. I’d never seen that vicious side to him. I was shocked. I managed to hold my tongue until we got home, then I let loose. I didn’t mean to but the words just flew out of mouth and I couldn’t stop them.

  “Why the fuck did you that Johnny?” I screamed at him as he fell into a chair in the sitting room. “That poor man, what’s he ever done to you?”

  He looked at me from his slumped position in the armchair. His eyes weren’t focussing properly and he had a strange expression on his face, it was one I’d never seen before. I felt instinctively frightened. I knew something was coming but I wasn’t sure what it was.

  And then I felt it—the full force of his knuckle against my left eye. The pain went into my eyeball and straight to the back of my head. I reeled for a second, half with the pain and half in shock. Then I covered my eye with my two hands and managed to lift my head. He looked angry and guilty all at once. He stood there staring at me for a minute as if he was shocked by what he’d done. Then he turned on his heel and walked out the door, slamming it as he left.

  I sat down on an armchair and nursed my eye with my hand. Then the tears started. I sat there crying until I was sure he was asleep. I could hear him snoring from the hallway so I got a blanket from the hot press and made myself comfortable on the couch in the sitting room.

  I was cold, tired and my eye ached but I couldn’t face sleeping with him. I lay there shivering and waiting for the morning.

  chapter fourteen

  THERE WAS NO apology the next day, not even a hint of remorse. It was as if nothing had happened between us. Johnny simply got up and made himself a cup of tea. He rarely ate breakfast and lately I’d noticed he was eating less and less.

  I lay awake in the sitting room, waiting for him to leave the house. I was hurt and upset. I didn’t know how to react to him. I only had a few weeks before the baby was due and I felt uncomfortable and vulnerable. I got up and cleaned the cut around my eye. The disinfectant made it sting.

  I looked into the bathroom mirror and there was a whopper of a bruise, which had turned purple during the night. Then I made an ice pack with some ice from the freezer and a tea cloth. I held it against my eye until it gave me a headache. Then I put on some make-up. I lashed on the foundation—the orange one that Helen had given me, which I never wore. It covered it a little but not enough, the massive bruise was still visible and my eye looked swollen and sore. I decided to stay at home that day.

  “I’ll tell nobody,” I thought.

  The truth was I felt incredibly ashamed. I didn’t want people to know. What’s more my confidence was very low and I wasn’t in the mood for trying to explain the incident to anyone. Anyway, who would I tell?

  Helen had her own problems and I didn’t want to worry my father. I knew he wouldn’t be able for it. Anto was like my father and hated confrontation. There was no one to run to.

  I spent the day in front of the television, but I wasn’t really watching it. In my mind I was going over and over what had happened the night before. At first I felt angry and then I started to wonder if I’d done something to deserve a black eye.

  “Perhaps Johnny was right?” I thought. “Maybe I am a spendthrift?”

  After all he was rarely wrong about anything and I honestly believed he was a good judge of character.

  “Perhaps I embarrassed him by giving out about the money? After all, he’d earned it.”

  My mind went round and round in circles trying to explain his thinking to myself. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was making allowances for him. And why? Because I loved him. I loved him more than I loved myself.

  “Maybe this is what is meant by sacrifices in a marriage,” I thought. And then I thought of my own father and how he had made so many allowances for my mother. He never lost his temper with her, no matter how nasty she was to him or to us. He held his head high and made light of it.

  “If he can do it, so can I,” I thought. I took a deep breath and waited for Johnny’s return. He arrived home early that day, about five o’clock in the evening. I had his tea ready for him. I’d made his favourite— chicken and chips with peas. I heard his car pull up outside and the sound of the key in the door. There was a loud banging as if he was carrying something into the house and then kitchen door swung open.

  “How are you chicken? Look what I have for you!” He stood in
the doorway beaming as if nothing had happened the night before. I raised my head from the paper I was pretending to read. In front of him was a brand new pram.

  Nothing was said about the incident the night before, and for the sake of peace I let it go. I was delighted with the pram. I knew it was his way of trying to make it up to me. I convinced myself that I’d provoked him and of course that it would never happen again.

  He treated me very well in the following days. He went easy on the drink and came home early for about a week. He was kind too, loving and concerned about my pregnancy. I was so happy to have him back to normal that I forgot about my black eye and by the time the baby was born it had disappeared.

  After Gillian’s death I was overjoyed to have a healthy baby. I’ll never forget the first time I held her in my arms. She was so tiny and she looked like a little doll.

  Johnny came to see me in hospital. He seemed pleased that the baby was healthy.

  “Do you think she has my eyes?” he asked, as he peered into the cot where she lay beside me. She did have his eyes too.

  “Yeah, maybe she does,” I said.

  “She’s awful pretty isn’t she?” he puffed out his chest and I could tell he was proud.

  There were plenty of moments like that between us. Moments when, for an instant, I thought he was the best husband in the world. I wished it could be like that all the time but now, more and more, there were days when he was in a bad mood and didn’t want to talk to me; days when I found myself actually scared of him.

  I did my best to ignore him when he was like that. I’d act like nothing was wrong. I’d pussyfoot around him, making sure that his tea was ready on time, polishing his shoes for him, ironing his clothes. I tried to avoid asking him for money if at all possible. I didn’t want a row.

  At one stage my brother Anto came to stay with us for a few weeks. He was in between flats at the time and needed a place to crash. He slept on a chair in the sitting room at night, as there was no room for him in the bedroom. One day Anto arrived home with a motorbike.

  “Look at what I found, Frances,” he said proudly, as he wheeled the big bike through the hall door and straight into the sitting room.

  “Jesus, Anto would you ever leave it outside? I’ve just cleaned these floors,” I said to him.

  “I can’t, Frances. It would be nicked if I left it out the front and anyway it needs a bit of cleaning,” he paused.

  “You wouldn’t do it for me, would you Frances? I’ve got to meet one of the lads about a job. Go on Frances. I’d be ever so grateful,” he grinned knowing well that I wouldn’t refuse him.

  I agreed to clean the bike while he went off for the afternoon. Before he left he made me promise not to let Johnny near it.

  “But why Anto?” I protested knowing well there would be nothing I could do to stop Johnny if he wanted to give the bike a spin. He was mad about motorbikes and this one was far more powerful than the little one he had himself.

  “Just don’t Frances,” said Anto as he left. I spent the afternoon cleaning the bike until it shone. I’ve no interest in motorbikes but I have to admit I was quite proud of my handiwork. It looked brand new by the time I’d finished—it gleamed. Funnily enough it never occurred to me that the bike could be stolen. The thought just didn’t enter my mind.

  I’d just finished with the bike when Johnny arrived home. He took one look at it and fell in love. It was a lovely big motorbike with a high-powered engine and he was like a child who wanted to play with a new toy.

  “It’s Anto’s,” I warned him. “He’ll hit the roof Johnny and besides I’ve spent all afternoon cleaning it.”

  “Go on Frances. Just a short spin and then I’ll be back. I’ll just take it around the corner.”

  There was nothing I could do to stop him. Off he went on the back of the bike grinning from ear to ear. “Where’s the bike?” Anto demanded when he got home.

  “Johnny took it for a ride,” I said. “I’m sorry Anto. I tried to stop him but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  My brother nearly had a heart attack on the spot. “Jesus, Frances,” he looked worried. “That bike is stolen. If the cops see it, we’ll be in big trouble. I haven’t even changed the registration plate.”

  Johnny didn’t return for hours. Anto and myself sat in the kitchen and drank tea.

  “Do you think he’s alright Anto?” I was worried he’d been arrested.

  Just then there was a knock on the front door. It sounded urgent.

  “Jesus it’s the guards Anto,” I jumped out of my seat and ran to the door where I looked through the keyhole to check.

  It was Johnny, out of breath and flustered.

  “Here, help me get this in the door, quick as you can now. The cops are after chasing me the length and breadth of the city; the bastards. That fuckin’ bike is stolen.”

  We fell about the place laughing that day. Mind you, that was the first time I’d ever known Anto to steal anything. He wasn’t the criminal type; he was too soft. He didn’t stay long with us that time. Johnny and himself had a fight one night in my father’s local pub.

  I’d been there with my father, Helen, her husband Alan and Anto. We were having a quiet drink on a Sunday evening when Johnny stormed into the place. He was in a bad mood from the start and he began putting me down in front of everyone. It had become a habit with him at that stage and I don’t think he knew he was doing it, but others noticed and of course my family didn’t like it.

  “Would you ever lay off Frances,” said Anto to him all of a sudden. “You’re always fuckin’ slaggin’ her about something.”

  That was it. Johnny lost the rag. He pulled his arm back and in the space of a few seconds he’d punched poor Anto in the jaw. There was blood dripping off his chin. Anto looked stunned for a second then he punched him back; he got him on the cheekbone. In no time at all the two of them were brawling like schoolboys on the bar floor. My father and Helen’s husband tried to stop them but it was no good. Both were thrown back on to the floor and they eventually backed off.

  It took the big, burly barman to separate Anto and Johnny and then he threw us all out of the pub. But the fight continued on the footpath outside. At one stage they ended up in the middle of the street and only stopped when a car came to a halt, having narrowly missed killing them.

  Both Johnny and Anto were in a bad way afterwards. They parted eventually, screaming abuse at each other. I was terribly upset. I loved them both and I hated to see them fighting. Anto had to get 12 stitches in his head and he never forgave Johnny. He stopped coming to stay at our house and shortly afterwards he got into drugs in a big way. For a while he used to sell them to feed his habit.

  Heroin was rife in Dublin at the time and particularly in the inner city. Nobody in the area had a job or any hope of finding one and many of them got hooked on drugs. The lucky ones who managed to get the fare together got out and made their way to America or England. Most of them never returned.

  Sadly my lovely brother was one of the victims of that drug which took people’s souls and ate into the flesh on their faces. Before he tried heroin, he used to smoke the odd joint. He was never much of a drinker; he liked the smoke much better. I used to give out to him, warn him to stay away from it, but of course he wouldn’t listen to his younger sister.

  “Sure it’s no harm, Frances,” he’d say. “It helps me to relax”.

  It sounds clichéd but like many others he started on hash and in no time at all he was playing with the big boys and hooked on heroin. First he started smoking it and then injecting. I hated to see him using drugs. We’d been warned against them as children and I’d seen so many of our neighbours go down that road. I spent hours pleading with him to stay off them, but it was no good.

  Over night he became moody and distant. He was like a different person, not the brother I’d looked up to as a child; the one who had been there for me when something went wrong.

  Around the same time he started on the drugs, he b
egan to dabble in petty crime. He’d steal the odd car and sometimes he’d lift a handbag or a wallet. I worried now that he’d get caught but he was a grown man and there was nothing I could do to stop him. Then Johnny started on the same game. Not drugs mind you, he’s always been far too wise to go near any sort of drug, but he did start stealing on a regular basis.

  A few months after he’d been given the taxi plate, his brother decided to take it back. I didn’t blame him. Johnny hadn’t saved a penny. All the money he’d earned was going on drink and his brother was disgusted. The whole idea had been that he’d be able to buy his own plate.

  “Jesus, Johnny, how are we going to live and what about the baby? We have to feed her,” I pleaded with him when he told me the news.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get another job,” he promised.

  Once he lost the taxi plate, we had no money to live off except the dole and that barely covered our rent, it didn’t feed us. All his mates were criminals—petty thieves who lived off the proceeds of crime and it was they who encouraged him to steal.

  I remember him coming home one night with a credit card.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” I asked.

  He was sitting at the kitchen table and playing with the card, pushing it along the formica surface of the table. He looked up, his eyes shining and grinned at me.

  “It’s a credit card. I robbed it from a woman in a bar. Look, it’s one of those gold ones.” He was like a cat that had brought home a mouse and wanted praise.

  “Well at least we can eat tonight,” I sighed. We’d so little money back then and anything we had he spent on alcohol. Of course I didn’t like him robbing but I knew we wouldn’t be able to live if it were not for the money he stole.