by Sandra Smyth
This went on for a few months before Ma decided to leave. She didn’t tell any of us at the time, but we later found out she’d been having an affair with a married man. She’s still with him to this day. He eventually left his wife and children and moved in with her, but for years they didn’t live together.
Even to think about it now sickens me to the core. She left a lovely, hard-working man and three children under the age of 15, to have an affair with a married man. What kind of woman does that? Since I’ve become a mother myself I’ve come to despise her actions even more. She didn’t even try to explain what happened between her and my father.
Despite the fact that my parent’s relationship had gone from bad to worse over the years my father was bereft when she left. I think he felt he had in some way failed. I felt very sorry for him so I took him into my flat with the three girls and looked after them all for a few weeks.
We were still living in the corporation flat, which had only one bedroom. At one stage there was Johnny and I, my father and the three girls living there. My brother Anto had moved out of the family home and got his own place but he often stayed with me for short spells too. There was only one double bed, which I shared with the girls, all the men had to sleep in chairs. Looking back I don’t know how we all fitted.
After a while my father went to court to get custody of the three children. I was supposed to give evidence against my mother but in the end I didn’t have to as it was settled outside of court. I would have had no problem standing before a judge and telling him exactly how my mother had treated them. She was never a responsible woman and there were many occasions when her three youngest children went hungry.
My father on the other hand was a hard-working, responsible individual who would have died for his kids. When he did return to our family home he found it empty. The vindictive woman had taken everything—furniture, sheets, curtains, even the light bulbs had disappeared. The poor man. Not only did he lose his wife, he had to start from scratch and buy all the household items he had acquired over the years on a modest salary. I don’t think he ever fully recovered. From that day on he looked even sadder than before.
chapter ten
LOOKING BACK, I realise the first time I tried to commit suicide was actually a cry for help. I didn’t want to die but I knew I couldn’t go on living as I had been. It honestly seemed like the only option open to me.
It happened after that terrible beating—the one when I’d just been released from hospital after an operation on my bowels. I’d been so sick before that at one stage I thought I was dying. My family thought so too and even the doctors in the hospital weren’t sure if I was going to pull through.
After the operation however they seemed hopeful that I could recover. They told me I had to rest.
“Rest,” I laughed to myself at the time.
How little they knew about my life. Rest was the least of my priorities. I was only home three days before he beat the living daylights out of me—beat me to a pulp and left me lying on the hall floor.
It was after I returned from the doctor, after I had told her about Johnny that I tried to do it for the first time—I tried to kill myself. I remember arriving back in the house that night. Aoife was with me but she was exhausted, the poor child, she went to bed early.
Johnny Smith was in bed snoring his heart out; no doubt he was tired after a long day of drinking, robbing and beating me up.
I made myself a cup of tea before bed and then I wearily climbed the stairs. As I walked into the bathroom, I was dreading the thought of getting into bed beside him. It was all I’d been thinking about since I arrived home and suddenly I realised I couldn’t face doing it. I felt like running but there was nowhere to run to.
“I’ll never get away from him,” I thought to myself. “This will go on until the day he dies and I have no doubt that I’ll die first.”
He often used to say he’d take me with him if he died. I can hear his voice in my head even now.
“Frances,” he’d taunt me. “You think you’re going to leave me, do you? You’re going nowhere. If I go, I’m taking you with me. I’ll shoot you dead before I die myself. I’ll cut you up into little pieces. I’ll make you die slowly and painfully, I will.”
I turned to look at my tear-stained face in the mirror. I didn’t recognise the sad, beaten person staring back at me. I had two black eyes and a cut that was turning septic on my left cheek. My chin was bruised and the rest of my face looked raw and red from being slapped.
Then my eyes fell on a packet of painkillers on the ledge under the bathroom mirror and suddenly a thought occurred to me and it was a wonderful, freeing thought—I was going to commit suicide. I clearly wasn’t thinking straight at the time. For years I had stayed with Johnny Smith because of the children but now I no longer even cared about them. I just wanted to get away; get away from this life of hell.
I grabbed the pills and searched the cabinet for another packet. Eventually I found more with some anti-depressants the doctor had given me months ago. I looked at the back of the box and found they were out of date.
“Sure what the hell,” I thought. “I’m going to die anyway.”
I felt like laughing, then crying, then laughing again. I was hysterical and there was a sense of urgency about my actions now. It was almost as if I had to carry out the act before the notion left me.
I poured all the pills on to the ledge in the bathroom. There were pink ones and white ones and some, which were half-brown and half-white. They looked like sweets.
“This is it,” I thought to myself. “I’m going to die. I’m going to eat all the feckin’ sweets and I’m going to die.”
I looked at myself in the mirror and made a sign of the cross.
“God will understand,” I thought. “He knows what I’ve been through.”
Then I grabbed as many of the pills as I could and began stuffing them into my mouth. I swallowed a gulp of water and grabbed more pills. I felt them slide easily down my throat and lie on my stomach. I stood there, staring at my reflection for what seemed like a long time. The last thing I remember is feeling dizzy and sick.
chapter eleven
I WOKE UP feeling dazed and wondering where I was. It took a few minutes to realise I was in a hospital ward. I forced myself to think, and slowly but surely the memories came back and with them the realisation that my suicide attempt had failed. My vision was blurred.
I knew there was a figure at the end of the bed but I couldn’t make out their features at first.
When I did, my heart skipped a beat. Johnny Smith was standing in front of me with a bunch of red roses in his arms. They were as red as the pool of blood I’d lain in the night before, when he’d beaten the living daylights out of me.
“Hello chicken,” he smiled sadistically and his cold blue eyes twinkled. “Did you miss me?”
“Did you miss me?” he repeated. It was like a bad dream. I had to blink for a second to check that I wasn’t in the middle of a nightmare.
“Maybe I’ll wake up and find that he’s gone,” I thought. I blinked. But no, Johnny was there alright. What’s more he’d been drinking. I could tell by the expression on his face. He must have stopped off at the early house on his way to the hospital.
“I came to check up on you,” he said. “I knew you’d be telling the doctors you fell down the stairs. Terrible accident that was,” he shook his head in mock disgust.
“Terrible. I’ve been awful worried about you, awful worried. Sure I even bought you a bunch of flowers, look—red roses. I knew that you’d like them.”
If I hadn’t been in so much pain I would surely have laughed. Here was the man who had caused me to attempt suicide the night before, standing in front of me, looking for praise. The crazy thing was he actually believed he deserved it.
I started to hyperventilate. I wanted to speak but the words wouldn’t come out. My whole body was shaking with fear. The memory of the beating he had given me was still
fresh in my mind and my whole instinct was to run. Only I couldn’t. I couldn’t move from this hospital bed. I couldn’t even lift my head for God’s sake. The pain was excruciating.
Just then the door creaked open and a nurse walked in.
“Ahh would you look?” she said, smiling. “I wish someone would bring me flowers.”
I watched Johnny’s face. Like that he had become a different person. His expression changed from one of power and evil to that of a kind and considerate husband.
It always galled me the way he could always do that. When he wanted to he could charm the birds from the trees. Oh, he could be very persuasive, could my husband. I’d seen it a million times before and I knew all his little tricks. He smiled sweetly at the nurse and put the roses on the bed.
“I’m her husband,” he said, in his best accent. He’s great at putting on posh accents. You’d think he went to some boarding school on the south side of Dublin. The nurse was completely taken in.
She turned her head to look at me.
“What’s wrong Mrs. Smith?”
She ran to the side of the bed and checked my pulse.
It was racing. I managed to lift my head off the pillow and point in his direction. The nurse could see I was trying to speak. She put her ear down to my head.
“It’s him,” I pointed in his direction.
“Yes, it’s your husband Mr. Smith,” she said nodding her head and not understanding what I was trying to say. She looked worried.
“He’s come to visit and look he’s brought you flowers.”
“You don’t understand,” I whispered in her ear. But my voice had started to go and she couldn’t understand a word I said.
“What was that Mrs. Smith?”
I started to choke. It was all I could do to get the words out. I almost gave up and then suddenly a wave of anger washed over me, anger for all he’d put me through, anger for the years of pain and torture and humiliation. And with it, I had a new found power. I was going to tell the world the truth about Johnny Smith. I didn’t care if he killed me. I looked him in the eye and for the first time ever he saw me defiant.
“He did this to me,” I pointed at him and almost spat out the words. Then my head fell back against the pillow.
The nurse looked into my eyes and they said it all. She knew then what I was saying.
“It was him?” she said, pointing at my husband. And in the flick of an eye-lid Johnny’s expression changed. Gone was the loving husband; in his stead was the real man—cruel, belligerent and scarily aggressive.
“Get out of this room, now,” said the nurse with disgust written all over her face. “What kind of a beast are you to do this to your wife? Do you hear me? Get out.”
The poor woman. She didn’t know who she was dealing with. Johnny wouldn’t take orders from anyone, least of all from a woman.
“You fuckin’ whore,” he snarled at the nurse. “Don’t you tell me what to do, you stupid bitch. This is my wife and I’ll stay here if I want to.”
He was like a Rottweiler dog, foaming at the mouth and I could see the nurse was frightened.
“Right. I’m calling security,” she said, as she passed him and made for the door.
Two security men arrived immediately but even they couldn’t get rid of him. He was on a roll— screaming abuse and pushing them away. Until that is, one of them threatened to call the guards.
If there was one thing that frightened Johnny Smith it was the mention of the guards. He once spent a week in prison and since then he’s been terrified of being arrested. Two big security men and one nurse didn’t frighten him but the thought of going to prison did.
Before you could say, “boo” he was out that door. It swung on its hinges and the red roses lay scattered on the floor.
chapter twelve
THE FIRST TIME Johnny ever lifted his hand to me was actually the week before we married. I put it down to him being upset.
I remember walking along the street with him. It was the evening time and there were a few children playing ring-a-ring-a-rosy on the pavement. The kids were laughing and shouting to each other. Their cries rang around the neighbourhood.
The lingering smell of brewing hops filled the air from the Guinness factory, which was close by on James’ Street.
Some people hate that smell but I’ve always loved it. It reminds me of being young and free to run around the streets.
Johnny was in a strange mood that night.
“Are you alright?” I said, looking up at him and trying to lighten the atmosphere. I wanted him to talk to me and tell me about his problems.
“Tell me what’s wrong Johnny, then I can help you,” I thought to myself, but still there was silence.
He said nothing. He just continued walking a few steps ahead of me with his head bent and his eyes firmly fixed on the pavement. I stopped in the middle of the street.
“Johnny, will you talk to me for God’s sake?”
Suddenly he turned on me with a face like thunder. There was hatred in his eyes. It was an expression I’d never seen before. Then out of the blue, for no reason whatsoever, he hit me. He pulled back his arm and aimed at my face. The impact of the blow sent me flying backwards and I landed on the ground.
I was more shocked than anything. This was my boyfriend, my lover, and my best friend in the whole world. This was the person I ran to to protect me from my mother. My head was reeling and the tears came fast and furious.
I tried to speak but the words just wouldn’t come out. It was as if somebody had stolen my voice. He had punched me in the lip and the blood was trickling onto the pavement. My whole face throbbed and my back and my neck felt sore.
I lifted my head up slowly and there he was leaning over me.
“Are you alright, Frances?” he searched my face to see what damage he’d done and then he took a tissue from his pocket and gently began to mop the cut. He looked guilty.
“Oh Frances, I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me Frances?”
He was all talk now.
“I don’t know how that happened Frances. I’m just upset that’s all. I’m so sorry love. You know I love you darlin’ and I’d never do anything to hurt you?”
He was like a different person now—loving and kind and terribly sorry. This was the real Johnny, the one I was going to marry in a week’s time. It was almost worth the blow just to have him back again.
Of course I forgave him. I knew he didn’t mean to do it. He was upset, God love him and I believed it would never happen again.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” I thought. “I forgive him and I love him. I will marry him next week. I will.”
I didn’t tell my mother. I knew she’d hit the roof and never allow us to marry.
“What in the name of all that’s holy happened to you?” she said, when she saw my face.
“I fell Ma,” I lied through my teeth. “I tripped over a brick and fell flat on my face.”
Little did I know that this was the first of many lies I would have to tell in the coming years. She pulled my face towards her and examined the cut.
“You fell did you?” she said. She showed no sympathy. There was silence for a minute and I prayed she wouldn’t question me more. “Right so, go upstairs and put some Dettol on it.”
That was it. She didn’t ask any more questions but looking back I’d say she knew well I hadn’t fallen. I honestly believe she didn’t care if Johnny had beaten me up. She knew I was getting married the following week and she wanted me off her hands for once and for all.
“One less child to feed, one less responsibility to carry,” I could imagine her thinking. My father never questioned me. My mother had told him I fell over and I think he believed her.
We married the following week and the scar was still fresh on my lip.
chapter thirteen
JOHNNY DIDN’T HIT me for a long time after that and we were so happy when we first married that I put it out of my head and refused to think about it
.
Looking back it’s hard to pinpoint when exactly a change in him occurred but it started around the time that Gillian died. He didn’t drink before that. He didn’t have the money or the interest.
When Gillian passed away however he began running with a different crowd. I didn’t like any of them. They were rough, aggressive men; many were criminals and most were older than him. They were all heavy drinkers who spent most of their days in the local pub. I didn’t tell him what I thought of them however. I wouldn’t dare to tell Johnny whom he should associate with.
He started drinking with his mates; mind you he’d only have the odd pint of Harp after work. He’d never have more than one or two at a time and he didn’t touch spirits.
I didn’t worry about him drinking then, I was caught up in the day-to-day living. After the first baby died I soon became pregnant again. I was over the moon and took extra care with my pregnancy. I couldn’t bear to lose another child.
In the meantime Johnny gave up his job as a courier and got a new job as a taxi driver. His brother lent him his plate for a few months to get him started. The idea was that he’d earn enough money after a few months to buy his own taxi. I was delighted. Taxi men earned good money at the time and with it I imagined we’d build a sound future together. We’d fill the house with kids, I thought and they’d have toys and clothes, all the things I never had as a child.
For a while things ran smoothly. He’d go out to work during the day and come back each evening. In the mornings I’d clean the house. Then in the afternoon I’d go out shopping for groceries or maybe visit my sister Helen who had recently had a baby.
Even back then I had no friends, for years before we married Johnny had discouraged me from being friendly with other girls and any friendships I’d had before I met him had long ago ended. I never thought much about it until years later. To me Johnny was always enough. He was such a dominant personality that he took all my energy and indeed much of my time. Besides, I was close to my sisters and in many respects they were my friends. They were the only people who could understand what it had been like to grow up with my mother and that created a bond between us.