In Fear of Her Life
The True Story of a Violent Marriage
Frances Smith
with Erin McCafferty
Published by Maverick House,
47 Harrington Street, Dublin 8, Ireland.
[email protected]
http://www.maverickhouse.com
ISBN 0 9542945 7 2
Copyright for text © 2004 Frances Smith and Erin McCafferty.
Copyright for typesetting, editing, layout, design © Maverick House Ltd
This edition 2006
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a newspaper, magazine or broadcast.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
The names of the characters in this story have been changed to protect Frances Smith, who is also writing under a false name. The facts in the story are sadly true, however.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my family and friends who have stood by me over the years, in particular my four daughters. I wouldn’t be here if it were not for them. Thanks to my father, who will always hold a special place in my heart.
Thanks to Michael Kealey and Fiona Barry of William Fry solicitors for reading the manuscript.
I would also like to thank my Mediterranean friend, and, of course, Erin McCafferty who wrote my story.
Frances Smith
Contents
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-one
chapter thirty-two
chapter thirty-three
chapter thirty-four
chapter thirty-five
chapter thirty-six
chapter thirty-seven
chapter one
HAVE YOU EVER been punched in the stomach? Ever had someone draw back their fist and aim their knuckles at the soft wad of flesh on the lower part of your body?
Do you know how it feels to have a pain shooting through your insides? Through the flesh like a knife; a pain so bad you think you’re going to die. You feel like puking but you can’t. Your heart is beating as if it’s going to burst out of you and you can’t see straight. The world is just a blur—a blur of pain. Lying on the cold tiles of the hall floor, I was staring up at the ceiling as the pain coursed through my body. All I could make out was the crystal chandelier above me. It was one of two he’d stolen.
“Came off the back of a lorry,” he told me. Of course, I knew otherwise but they brightened up the otherwise dreary hall of the two-bedroom council house we lived in. Now I was looking at it from a different perspective—little shards of crystal, twinkling like stars, catching the light and reflecting streams of rainbow. I remember thinking for some reason that it looked beautiful. It’s funny the thoughts that occur to you when you think you are dying. I’d never looked at it like that before.
It occurred to me then as I lay in a pool of blood on the floor that there were many things I had yet to see, yet to do, yet to say. Now it was too late.
“This is the end of my life,” I thought. Part of me was grateful.
Despite the pain, a feeling of serenity washed over me. For the first time in many years I felt happy.
“Get up off the floor you ugly bitch.”
I could hear his voice booming and through the blur I could make out his face leaning over me. Weathered from years of drinking, his skin had the rosy-hue of an alcoholic. His lip twitched in disgust. His wild, blood- shot eyes were full of anger and contempt. He ran his hand though his greasy hair that had once been the colour of coal but was now greying prematurely and leaned over me. I caught the stench of his breath. It reeked of booze and the smell turned my stomach and made me want to retch.
“Do you hear me? Get up,” he shouted. “Get off that fucking floor.”
He clenched his teeth in anger. I wanted to move but the pain was too bad. I searched his face, pleading with my eyes for him to stop. Where was the real Johnny Smith?
It was no good; I couldn’t find him. He was lost in an alcoholic haze. Then he kicked me. His size 10 boot with the steel- capped toe came straight at me. I thought he was aiming for my eyes and that I’d be blinded for life but no, he aimed lower down, into the soft, vulnerable flesh of my breast—the same breast that had fed his four children; the same breast he once lovingly fondled. I blacked out.
I don’t know how long I lay on that floor. Maybe I was there for hours, maybe days. It seemed like a lifetime. When I did come to my first feeling was of regret. I was alive but I wanted to be dead. Then I felt angry.
“God,” I thought “Why have you done this to me? Why have you brought me back for more? What have I done to deserve this? Let me die God, please let me die,” I prayed.
But no, God was having none of it. “Ma,” I heard a familiar voice scream.
“Ma, are you alright? Jesus, Holy Mary and Joseph. What has he done to you now Ma?” Aoife, my 18- year-old daughter was standing over me. I could see the look of fear on her face now—fear mixed with anger.
“That fucking bastard. How could he do this to you and you after coming from the hospital?”
It was true. I’d been released from hospital just two days before, after a serious operation on my bowels. I still had the stitches in my stomach but I knew from the amount of blood and pus oozing out of me that they had burst. The tears rolled down Aoife’s face but she pushed them away with her hand as she bent down and stroked my head. Her voice was high pitched and panicked.
“Don’t worry Ma. He’s gone now Ma, I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No! Not an ambulance.”
I couldn’t bear to go back to the hospital. The thought of strangers staring at me in shock and disbelief; the sympathetic looks from the nurses; the questions from the doctors and the abject shame.
“No Aoife,” I whispered and there was determ- ination in my voice.
“No way. I’m not going back to the hospital.”
“But you need a doctor Ma. Look at you Ma, you’re a mess.”
She was upset and annoyed at me for not complying, but she knew I hated hospitals. I’d been in and out of them for years. She gave in.
“Alright Ma but we’re going to the doctor. Mark’s outside in the car. He’ll bring us Ma.”
Somehow I got into the car with the help of Aoife and her boyfriend Mark. They supported me as I limped towards the passenger seat. The pain was excruciating and I screamed out lou
d as I got in.
Mark drove us to the local GP. He knew what had happened but he was mortified; he didn’t know where to look.
“Is she alright Aoife?” I heard him say. “I know he’s your Da, but he’s an animal. I can’t believe he did that to her,” he shook his head in disgust.
Even the doctor was shocked.
“Jesus Frances,” she said when she saw my undressed body—the burst stitches on my stomach, the cuts on my breast and the dark blue bruises, which were all over my body like maps.
“What in the name of God happened to you?” I said nothing at first.
“I ran into a door, I fell down the stairs, I was mugged by a young fella on the street,” all the usual excuses ran through my head like wild fire.
For years I’d been covering up for him. It was like a kneejerk reaction.
“Tell nobody,” I’d think to myself. “Pretend it didn’t happen.”
Jesus, I almost convinced myself half the time. But this time was different. Something inside me snapped that day. I looked her in the eye and took a deep breath.
“It was Johnny Smith,” I said, “My husband.”
chapter two
I WASN’T ALWAYS a battered wife. At one stage I was a carefree child who held her head high when she walked down the street. I was brought up in the heart of Dublin. Most of my childhood memories revolve around the inner city and looking back it wasn’t a bad place to live. It was dirty and rundown, but it had a strong community atmosphere and we loved it as children.
Both my parents were born and bred Dubliners. They met and married when my mother was just 19 and my father 20. Their first home was a flat in a tenement building. We lived in a small two-bedroom, corporation flat. Our flat was on a second storey. It had concrete steps leading up to it and a small balcony outside with railings. There was an enclosed yard in front of the flats where we used to play as children.
There were six kids in the Reilly household. All of us children slept in one bedroom and my parents in the other. Anthony or Anto as we called him, was the eldest child. He was six years older than me. Then came Helen who was four years my elder. I had three younger sisters—Sorcha, Patricia and Fiona, who was born seven years after Patricia—she was an afterthought as they say.
There was barely enough room for all of us to live in the flat but my father was a worker with an average salary and it took all his earnings to pay the rent and put food on the table. As a child I never thought of our family as poor but looking back I realise now that times were hard. It was the 70s in Dublin and everyone was “pulling the devil by the tail”.
Mind you we always had enough to eat; my father made sure of that, but there was no money for anything extra. We wore the same clothes day in day out and we had no toys. Looking back, however, most of the children in the area were poor and we spent our days hanging around the streets. We hung around in gangs.
The streets were our playground and we knew every nook and cranny in the local area. There were no trees and no patches of greenery to play in. Instead we made do with the concrete and the rubble, the burnt out cars and the washing lines. We used to make swings from the poles where the women hung their clothes and play hide and seek in the pram shed belonging to the flats. That was where the street traders stored the carts, which during the day held their goods.
When we got a bit older we ventured further afield and ran around the traders with their colourful stalls that lined the pavements. They sold everything from fruit and vegetables to toilet rolls. Most had been traders for generations and everyone was a Dublin character. They’d shout at us when we knocked the apples or toppled bars of chocolate off their carts.
We’d laugh and run like the wind back home where we’d sit on the steps of the flat and play games. We used to look forward to Da coming back from the pub on a Saturday evening. He wasn’t a heavy drinker but he liked a few jars with the other men after a long week of working. He’d bring us sweets. Our favourites were Lucky numbers—chocolate numbers wrapped in shiny, coloured wrappers. I remember looking up at him coming in the hall door with the brown paper bag tucked under his arm and a big smile on his otherwise sad face.
“Here you are, children,” he’d say, as he poured the contents of the bag onto the kitchen table.
“Go on pick your favourite number”.
We’d shriek with joy and make a grab for our favourite number. I always wanted six. Believe me nothing ever tasted quite as good as those lucky numbers. How little it takes to satisfy a child. Although I have some good memories of my childhood in general it was an unhappy one. I was smaller than average and very slight growing up. I had long, black, straight hair and small eyes. People said I had a winning smile but I never thought of myself as good looking. My father however used to say I was the prettiest girl on the street. Of course I didn’t believe him. I’d get embarrassed and blush.
“Da,” I’d say. “You’re only embarrassing me. Would you give over!”
Then he’d laugh. I loved it when he laughed; he didn’t do it often enough. He’d look so sad sometimes it would break my heart. He was a kind and gentle man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. In all the years I’ve known him I’ve never seen my father raise his hand to another living soul and he rarely shouted or got angry. He enjoyed the odd pint and he’d often put a bet on a horse at the weekend. He used to get us to cheer the horse on, in front of the television. In general however he was a moderate man who craved a simple life. He came from a respectable family who had worked in Dublin Castle. My mother’s family were street traders and considered to be a step below his. All of us children took after our father. None of us were like my Ma who was hard as nails.
Looking back I think my father just wasn’t able for her. She was the boss in the house and the complete opposite of him in both temperament and appearance. She was tall and dark; he on the other hand was at least a head smaller than her and very fair. I can quite honestly say that I lived in fear of my mother—we all did. She was a severe woman with a terrible temper who blatantly resented her children and she seemed to have no feelings. I never once remember her showing me any sign of affection. She never hugged me or kissed me; she never told me that she loved me and she never gave me any encouragement. She didn’t even mark our birthdays. We had no money for parties but I never once received a present or a card or even just a “Happy Birthday” and a hug.
My mother treated all of us in the same manner except for Fiona the youngest—who for some reason she held a soft spot for. I remember her playing with Fiona when she was just a little baby. That was something she never did with us.
My father arrived home with a red anorak for me when I was six-years old. It was wintertime and I had nothing warm to wear. It was one that he’d made himself in his workshop. I was over the moon.
“Oh, thanks a million, Da,” I jumped up and down with excitement and he grinned. My father loved to make us happy in anyway he could. My mother walked into the room with a face on her like thunder.
“What the hell is that?” she turned to my father. “What did you buy her that for?”
My poor father never even got a chance to explain. The angry woman grabbed the coat out of my hands before I could even try it on.
“You won’t be needing this young Frances,” she said, as she threw it into the roaring fire.
I cried myself to sleep that night. I wasn’t crying for the anorak. I was crying for the mad temper that my mother possessed. I realise now she was jealous of the relationship I had with my father. She was a possessive woman and she hated the fact that he loved me so much.
My mother seemed to have no guilt about any of her actions. Ironically she was a strict Catholic and she drummed religion into us from an early age. She used to march us all to mass on a Sunday morning and make us pray in the evenings. She used to get up at six o’clock to attend morning mass in the local convent each day. In that respect she was a product of her upbringing. Her own mother was a devout Catholic.
My
mother didn’t talk about her childhood but we all knew my grandmother, her mother, as another severe woman and I can only imagine how she raised her children.
At one stage when she was in hospital, three of us were sent to Goldenbridge Orphanage. I was five- years-old at the time. Helen, my sister, was nine and Anto was eleven. Although we spent only three weeks in the place, they were three long weeks and the memories of Goldenbridge are ingrained in my mind.
My mother had pneumonia at the time and my father had the task of looking after the three of us. I think it was too much for the poor man. He was out at work during the day and there was no one to mind us when we returned from school. He was too proud to ask for assistance from our relatives.
He decided it would be no harm to place his three eldest children in the care of the Mercy nuns. It was meant to be a temporary situation and he planned to bring us home after a few weeks when my mother had made a full recovery.
To this day my father denies we were ever in Goldenbridge. I think he has blocked it out of his memory. But I remember clearly walking down the street holding on to his hand with Helen on his other side and Anto skipping along beside us.
We didn’t know my mother had pneumonia then, we were told she was in hospital having another baby. It was a sunny day and my father had told us we were going to the seaside. I was excited but I knew something wasn’t quite right. It’s funny the things children pick up on. My father looked worried. Eventually we reached an imposing looking building. To a child it seemed huge. We walked through the gates and a shiver ran down my spine. The nuns greeted us and we had to sit in what looked like a hall while one of them took our details. I was standing by my father’s side as he sat on a big chair in front of a desk. An old nun with a wrinkled face and a croaky voice was writing in a big leather- bound book. It was the biggest book I had ever seen in my life and I remember how withered her hands looked. I was terrified of the nun and I didn’t like the place. It smelt of laundry and burnt food.
I remember the pattern of the tiles on the floor— yellow crosses on big brown squares. There were pictures of the Virgin Mary and crucifixes on the walls. A stained glass window hung above the old nun’s head. Suddenly Helen started crying.
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