In Fear of Her Life

by Sandra Smyth

All of us were the victims of his terrible temper and abuse of alcohol. I worried about the girls, all three of them lived in as much fear of Johnny as I did, and the older they got the more it showed. They began to ask me questions.

  “Ma, why can’t I bring home my school friends like other girls can?” said Aoife to me one day. I didn’t know what to say. How could I explain that her father was an alcoholic, control-freak who wanted nobody to get close to them.

  Because Aoife was the oldest, she witnessed more of his abuse than the other girls. I could see her becoming introverted and shy, as she grew older. She was always a sensitive child and I don’t think she was able to see her mother beaten up on a regular basis.

  Molly, of course, was affected too but she seemed to have more spirit; she was always the one to answer him back when none of us dared to. Aoife too would sometimes tackle him, then he’d hit her too.

  The abuse didn’t stop at me; he’d now started beating his own daughters. I remember one time when he hit poor Molly over the head with a saucepan. It was a Sunday afternoon and Molly who was only 10 at the time, had been helping me make the dinner in the kitchen. When the meal was ready, we all sat down together to eat it. Johnny pulled the table up close to him and I put his dinner down in front of him. I hadn’t even sat down myself when he turned on Molly.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” he roared at the poor child.

  “Nothing Da,” she said in all innocence.

  Like that Johnny was on his feet, he pushed the table away from him and his dinner fell on the floor. Gravy trickled down the leg of the table. Then he grabbed a big, heavy saucepan from the counter and threw it at Molly. It landed on her head. I can’t imagine what it felt like. Molly can barely remember but she fainted immediately. The poor child was lying on the floor unconscious with blood dripping off her head.

  “Jesus, Johnny you’ve probably killed her,” I screamed as I ran to her side. Her face was white as a sheet and I called an ambulance immediately. By the time she regained consciousness Johnny had vanished. He didn’t even wait to see if she was alive.

  It took weeks for the wound on Molly’s head to heal. Luckily she wasn’t seriously injured but to this day she has a huge scar on her scalp.

  Living in fear does strange things to your body. The two older girls and myself suffered with bowel problems for years. It became a regular occurrence for us to rush to the toilet whenever Johnny rang to announce he was on his way home. There would be queue outside the door and we’d all have diarrhoea from sheer terror.

  He always rang beforehand, as I said he was phone- happy. He’d ring constantly throughout the day to check up on us. He’d want to know the whereabouts of all the girls, what’s more he’d quiz me on everything I’d done that day, whether I’d been out of the house or had met anyone. He was becoming increasingly paranoid.

  If I talked to another man he would accuse of me having an affair. It makes me laugh to think about it now, simply because there was no way I was capable of having an affair at the time, even if I’d wanted to.

  I was constantly worn out, depressed and I looked horrible. People actually tell me that I look younger now than I used to. My skin was pasty and lined back then. I did no exercise, I got very little fresh air and I lived on a diet of bread and chips with the odd battered sausage or burger thrown in.

  Johnny still took me out the odd time for a drink. He arrived home early sometimes. “Come on,” he’d say jovially as if we were the happiest couple in the world. “I’m taking you out.”

  I never wanted to go. More often than not I’d have a black eye that was still fresh from the last time he’d beaten me up and I’d know make-up wouldn’t hide it. I’d become an expert at covering the bruises and cuts on my face. I could have been a make-up artist for God’s sake.

  Over the years I tried everything—toothpaste, talcum powder, tea bags, anything to heal the wounds he’d inflict on me. I wore the darkest, most orange- coloured foundation I could find. I’m naturally fair so I must have looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care. I just wanted no one to notice. Of course people did notice. I became used to sympathetic glances from women and men alike. People on the street, teachers in the school, strangers on buses.

  I remember once being in the bus station when Aoife was going on a school tour. A woman I had never seen before turned to me.

  “Would you like a cup of tea love?” she asked me out of the blue. I blushed profusely.

  “No you’re alright. Thanks anyway,” I replied immediately. I felt embarrassed but I wasn’t sure why. Years later, when I looked back, I realised she must have felt sorry for me. Maybe she suspected that I was being abused. At the time I just wanted to get away from her. I would never have talked about my situation to anyone, least of all a stranger.

  Mind you, most of the time, no one ever questioned me. It’s just as well as I wouldn’t have told them the truth and it would have added to my shame. I lived my whole life in a state of abject shame—shame that destroyed my youth, crippled my personality and trapped me in a state of despair. They say that guilt is a way of controlling people and in my case it worked. I felt guilty about everything; guilty if I ate too much, guilty if I watched television, guilty if I gave out to the kids, guilty if I answered Johnny back and overwhelming guilty if he hit me.

  On one occasion we were in a bar with Fiona, Helen and her husband. He actually hit me in public that time.

  And he hit me often. It was like a bad habit that he couldn’t resist. I suppose it gave him a sense a power, it made him feel like a man. Little Johnny Smith was master of the universe in his own home and gentle as a lamb outside it. He didn’t need a reason. If one of his friends annoyed him for example he’d come home and take it out on me. Anything and everything annoyed him and I was always the one who suffered as a result.

  I don’t think any of our neighbours guessed what went on behind our front door. Maybe they heard the screams, but if they did, they turned a deaf ear to them. And Johnny was a different person outside the house. He used to bring home sweets for all the children on the street.

  They’d run to the car when they heard him coming and he’d open the door slowly and theatrically. He loved a bit of drama.

  “Mr. Smith,” they squeal with delight. “What have you got for us today?”

  He’d pretend to search his pockets as the children gathered around him, some on bicycles, and some just out of nappies.

  “Sorry kids, I’ve nothing for you today,” he’d joke with them.

  “Ahh, go on Mr. Smith, give us a lollipop,” some cheeky youngster would pipe up. “We know you have them.”

  Then he’d give in and produce lollipops for the entire road and chocolate bars and ten-penny bags. The kids would jump up and down with delight and run off to show their mothers. A few would be standing, smiling in their doorways.

  “Isn’t he a lovely man? So generous with the children,” they’d nod their heads and smile in approval.

  “Say thank you to Mr. Smith now, don’t forget your manners.”

  It killed me to see the way he could fool people. I felt like running out and screaming at him in front of the neighbours, but it would have done no good. He’d have told them I was mad, and who do you think they would have believed? I was beginning to think I was mad.

  All kinds of thoughts went through my head when I was alone. I’d think about murdering him in the middle of the night but I knew I’d never be able to carry it out. Sometimes I’d daydream about running away but I honestly didn’t know how I’d look after the children. I believed myself incapable of earning a living, and for years Johnny drummed it into my head that I was stupid, “Stupid and neurotic, ugly and unable to talk to people.”

  I thought there was no hope. I carried on living but I wasn’t really living, I was merely existing. I wasn’t even 30-years-old and I felt like my life was over.

  chapter twenty-one

  I DREADED THE thought of sleeping with him. I used to go to bed
early every night and do my best to fall asleep before he came in. Sometimes I’d cover myself up in layers of clothing. Looking back, I suppose it was a form of protection but it never worked.

  “Where do you think you’re going with all those clothes?” he’d sneer at me. “Do you think you’re in Siberia?”

  Sometimes when I’d gone to bed before him, he’d leave me alone. Besides I always felt safer in bed. I’d often get into bed with the girls. Aoife and Molly shared a double bed in the back room. I’d climb in beside them, thinking that I’d have less of a chance of being wakened by him because he’d have to waken them too. But more often than not it didn’t work.

  “Frances,” he’d slur from the landing. “You’ve got two minutes to get in here or I’m going to come and get you.”

  I’d be too afraid to disobey him so I’d crawl out of bed sheepishly and into my own. On one occasion, he came into the room and grabbed me the hair. Then he hauled me, kicking and screaming into the next room. Of course, the kids woke up and witnessed the whole scene. That killed me more than anything. I hated for them to be upset. The two youngest started to cry and I was helpless to comfort them at the time. He was already slobbering all over me like an animal in heat.

  I dreaded having sex with him. He’d climb on top of me and go at it like there was no tomorrow. His heavy body crushed me in the bed and his hands were all over me. The smell of alcohol would make me want to vomit.

  He didn’t care if he hurt me; in fact, he seemed to get a perverse sense of pleasure from it. Sometimes he’d pinch my nipples really hard to see how I’d react. On a number of occasions he pulled out a bunch of my pubic hairs just to make me cry with the pain, then he’d laugh sadistically.

  He’d roll over and fall asleep immediately with not a loving word or an emotional embrace. I’d lie there, stare at the ceiling and listen to him snoring. I felt horrible at those moments. I felt dirty and used and violated.

  Johnny had no scruples. He blatantly lied all the time and I caught him out on a number of occasions. I remember one Christmas when the two girls wanted sovereign rings as presents. The rings were all the rage at the time and all their friends had them. For weeks before I begged him to buy them.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have them by Christmas,” was all he’d say and his tone of voice would imply I was over- reacting.

  But I wasn’t. I’d spent enough years with him to know that he was likely to forget all about the rings and spend the money on drink instead. I didn’t want to let the girls down. I’d saved a little out of any housekeeping money he grudgingly gave me, since as far back as August and I reckoned I had enough to buy one ring, but where on earth was I going to get the money for the second one?

  By Christmas Eve there was no sign of the rings, what’s more there was no sign of Johnny. He’d been gone since early morning. Christmas was a great time for robbing. The streets would be full of wealthy shoppers, laden down with bags and oblivious to the pick-pocketing ability of Johnny Smith.

  It was always a great excuse to drink too, not that Johnny ever needed an excuse but in the run up to it I wouldn’t see him for days on end. He’d be either out stealing money and credit cards, or in the pub with his mates, boasting about how much he managed to graft that day.

  I dreaded Christmas with a passion. I was always worried sick about how to buy the Christmas clothes for the children, the groceries for the dinner and there were other expenses too like a Christmas tree and presents. For weeks before I’d always be nagging Johnny to get whatever the kids wanted and I’d be sick with worry about it. Never mind the tension in the house and the violence which always happened on Christmas day. It was one big nightmare.

  That year, I decided I would have to give Aoife the ring I had bought and I’d give my own sovereign ring to Molly.

  The three girls came running down stairs on Christmas morning. We had a little plastic tree in the living room that Johnny had brought home one night. I think it came from a shop, it had definitely been used before but I didn’t mind. I was happy that we had one at all. I remember the grins on their faces and the shrieks of delight as they searched the tree for presents. I used to wrap up their presents and hide them in the tree so they’d have to look for them amongst the branches and the fairy lights.

  “Oh thanks Ma, it’s fabulous,” Aoife grinned, as she unwrapped her ring.

  Molly ran to hug me. “Oh Ma thanks a million.”

  Young Frances was too young for jewellery. She got a plastic tea set, which pleased her no end. The worst thing about Christmas day was the fact the pubs were closed. Johnny never bought me Christmas presents but he’d be sure to stock up on the beer in the house. We’d all go to mass in the morning, leaving him behind with the beer and he’d usually be locked out of his mind by the afternoon.

  He’d sit in the sitting room, watching the queen’s speech and giving out about everything under the sun. He used to rant when he was drunk; rant about the cost of a pint, rant about neighbours, and rant about how great he was.

  The girls and I would pussyfoot around him, nodding our heads in agreement and smiling to keep the peace. Aoife and Molly were becoming almost as expert at keeping him sweet, as I was. They knew never to disagree with him and to obey his every command.

  After lunch I’d get the dinner ready in the kitchen, praying that maybe this year would be different, maybe this year he’d nod off to sleep before he caused a fight. But it never happened, every Christmas I’d end up in tears and more than likely I’d have a black eye and bruises to show for it too.

  Back then Johnny always made sure to aim for parts of my body that wouldn’t be seen. The girls would end up crying and all of us would go to bed early. I often went at eight o’clock simply to avoid him. I’d lie there and wait for him to climb the stairs, dreading the thought of having him on top of me.

  chapter twenty-two

  WHEN MOLLY WAS 13-years-old she ran away from home. Johnny had grounded her for two months prior to that because she had answered him back. That meant she was allowed to go to school and the rest of the time she had to spend in the house, confined to her bedroom. He went mad if she even came down stairs during that time.

  “Get up to your fuckin’ room,” he’d scream at her.

  The poor child, my heart went out to her and I used to let her come down when he wasn’t around but there’d be murder if he found out. She was miserable during that time and I felt helpless to alleviate her pain. She had confided in a school friend about just how badly Johnny treated her, and the two of them decided to leave after school one day.

  When Johnny came to collect the girls, Aoife was waiting for him alone.

  “Honest Da, I don’t know where she is,” said Aoife who knew nothing of her plan.

  Johnny was furious by the time he came home.

  “Where the fuck is that child?” he roared at me.

  “I don’t know where she could be Johnny, I hope she’s alright,” I said. I was worried that she’d gone and done something stupid.

  “I’ll try calling Tanya’s house.” As it happens Molly and her friend Tanya had hopped on a bus into town. They’d wandered around O’ Connell Street, feeling somewhat bewildered and wondering what to do. Then Molly phoned my sister Fiona who was staying with us at the time. She told Fiona that she was going to stay in Tanya’s house, of course, Fiona came straight back and told us. I think Molly knew that Johnny would be mad when he found out but he’d be more likely not to hit her if she was in someone else’s house. Johnny and myself got into the car and drove to where Tanya lived.

  “I’ll fucking kill that young one,” he said as he drove along the road. “Who does she think she is running away from home?”

  I was terrified for Molly; I knew what he was capable of.

  “Ahh Johnny, she’s only young and she doesn’t know what she’d doing,” I tried to explain.

  “Shut up you,” he turned on me. “She wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for you encouraging her to p
al with that young one Tanya.”

  There was nothing I could say.

  Tanya’s mother was waiting for us by the time we reached the house in Crumlin and the two girls stood behind her, looking guilty.

  “There you are sweetheart,” said Johnny to Molly in his best accent. He’d suddenly switched on the charm in front of the other woman. “We’ve been awful worried Molly, are you okay pet?”

  He was like a different person now, all gentle and understanding. Molly glared back at him and said nothing. Then the three of us got into the car.

  Poor Molly was beaten black and blue that day. I had to keep her out of school for three days and of course I got a hiding too.

  Shortly after Molly ran away, I got a windfall in the form of compensation from an accident. I’d been involved in a car crash with Johnny a couple of years before and as a result I’d injured my neck. We’d stopped at traffic lights and a car had crashed into us from behind.

  Johnny had persuaded me to sue, I didn’t want to at the time, I was so shy back then I would have been happy to let it go, but a few years later I was delighted to receive the money. It was only a couple of thousand but it was more money than I’d ever had in my whole life.

  I felt like a child at Christmas and my mind raced as I imagined all the things I could buy. “Maybe a new cooker for the kitchen or a lamp for the sitting room? Perhaps I could even buy some pretty clothes or a pair of shoes?”

  Of course, Johnny had other ideas.

  “Why don’t you buy yourself a little car?” he suggested slyly. He had no car at the time and he wanted one for himself.

  “But I can’t drive Johnny,” I said, shocked at his suggestion. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house on foot never mind by car.

  “Sure you could get yourself a few lessons and learn,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and the fool that I was, I believed him.

  Within a week, I’d handed the money over for a car he brought home and I’d booked myself in for driving lessons. I was excited at the prospect. For years I had never even considered learning to drive. What was the point? I knew Johnny wouldn’t allow it. Now however he seemed happy to let me learn and a car would open up my world. It would give me the sense of freedom I longed for.