chapter seven
I WAS FOUR months pregnant when I got married. There was a little bump showing but I was so slight that it wasn’t noticeable. Back then being pregnant out of wedlock was something to be ashamed of and nobody except my immediate family and Johnny knew about it.
I was 16-years-old at the time but I looked about 12. I was very petite in height and very slight. Even Johnny looked younger than his 19 years. We went to two different churches before we found a priest who would agree to marry us. They just didn’t believe that I was old enough.
Eventually a local priest agreed to marry us. He had known me since I was a child and could vouch for my age. But I was disappointed. Our local church was not where I had envisaged our wedding. But then I wasn’t thinking straight about getting married at all. In the weeks leading up to it I walked around in a daydream, imagining our perfect life together. I saw Johnny and I sharing a little house with a garden, somewhere far away from my mother. We’d have the perfect life together and I’d want for nothing.
What was I thinking? My younger sisters used to slag me, “Would you look at our Frances, she thinks she’s all grown-up getting married to Johnny Smith, Ooh Johnny!” they’d sing at me as I walked down the street.
It seems unbelievable that I was so impractical but I never thought about where we’d live, how we’d pay the bills or even who would do the housework. I really believed Johnny would sort everything out. Already I’d become totally dependent on him.
The day before the wedding Johnny’s older brother decided he wasn’t going to be best man because they’d had a row. It didn’t surprise me. Johnny was always having arguments with his family. Most of the time one wasn’t speaking to the other. I found it strange, the concept of a family who wouldn’t talk to each other was so different to mine. We’d scream and shout at each other but there were no prolonged silences.
Johnny used to explain it by saying that his mother was mad and I believed him.
“My auld one,” he’d say, “She’s as mad as a hatter. I can’t stand the bitch, and she wrecks my head.”
It never dawned on me that maybe he was the mad one. Back then I didn’t question anything he told me. I trusted him implicitly.
The night before the wedding there was an air of tension in my home. I had gone to bed early but I couldn’t sleep with the excitement. I was in the room alone. The other girls were downstairs watching television with my mother. I heard a tap on the door.
“Can I come in Frances?”
It was my father. He had a worried look on his face as he sat down beside me on the bed.
“I want to talk to you sweetheart,” he said, and I knew by the tone of his voice that something was wrong.
“What’s the matter Da?” I sat up in bed and looked into his eyes. I didn’t like to see him unhappy. He took my hand in his; his eyes were fixed on the floor. Then he lifted his head.
“Don’t do it Frances; don’t marry that man,” he blurted out.
“What Da? What do you mean?”
It was most unusual for my father to come out with such a statement. He was the kind of man who rarely gave his opinion and never interfered with family affairs, he left that to my mother. Besides he had never in all the four years I’d known Johnny Smith said anything bad about him or mentioned that he didn’t want me to see him. I was shocked.
What’s more I was hurt. These were the two people I loved more than anything in the world and I wanted them to like each other. I wanted my father to give me his blessing.
I pulled my hand away from his. I could feel the tears begin to well up in my eyes.
“I’ve been thinking Frances,” he fumbled. “It’s all wrong. He’s not the man for you. I know it Frances, I know it in my heart.”
I couldn’t control the tears now. They came rolling down my face and I pushed them away with my hands.
“But . . . but I love him Da,” I sobbed. “And you never, you never told me you didn’t like him. It’s Johnny Da, what do you mean he’s not right for me?”
My poor father, it killed him to see me upset, what’s more I knew there was no malice in his advice. He simply wanted the best for me. He sat on that bed for over an hour pleading with me not to marry Johnny. He told me I was too young, too innocent, I didn’t know what I was doing.
“I’ll look after you Frances,” he said. “I’ll help you raise the baby.”
But it was too late and I was too headstrong. I was determined to marry Johnny no matter what he said. We were going to raise a family together—a happy family where no one ever fought. I was going to be Mrs. Smith.
We married on a cold, windy morning. I didn’t have a wedding dress. My father couldn’t afford one and anyway we didn’t want to draw attention to the wedding because I was pregnant. Instead I wore a suit—a grey pinstriped jacket in flannel material with a matching pencil skirt, and flat grey shoes. I had my hair tied up in a bun and I felt very grown up. I looked like a child dressed up as an adult, but then I suppose that’s what I was.
I didn’t even have a wedding ring because all the money Johnny had stolen was spent at that stage. He didn’t drink or smoke. He never touched drugs or gambled either. All the money went on clothes and shoes for himself. He bought a new leather coat that cost £300. It swished about his legs when he walked and I thought he looked even more handsome than usual.
We had to borrow his mother’s wedding ring for the day; she never knew Johnny took it. Johnny found the ring in her jewellery box and gave it to me.
The plan was that I’d wear it until we could afford my own and then he’d return it to the jewellery box, hopefully without her noticing its absence. I didn’t mind too much. I trusted Johnny to buy me a ring eventually. Little did I realise that it would be years before he bought me one of my own and I would eventually pawn it to feed my children.
The only people to attend the wedding were my parents and his brothers and sisters. Johnny’s mother didn’t come because they didn’t speak to each other.
But a couple of his mates came along. Johnny was the sort of guy who always had other blokes trailing around after him. The mates stood at the back of the church and sniggered throughout the ceremony. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder and flashed them a smile as if to say, “Look at me, look what I’m doing.”
The wedding was a terrible let down. No one was in good form that day. My father didn’t want me to marry Johnny and Johnny’s side of the family was sad because his father was not there.
There was no confetti outside the door of the church; no flowers and no horse-drawn carriage waiting to carry us away. We simply went back to our respective homes having arranged to meet up later.
I felt deflated after the ceremony. I remember coming in the door of our flat and sitting at the kitchen table in my suit. I kicked off the grey shoes that were beginning to pinch my toes.
“I’ll put the kettle on love,” said my father, guessing how I felt.
Later that afternoon my parents and I went to the local pub for celebratory drinks. One of Johnny’s sisters, two of his brothers and a few of his mates turned up for the occasion, which to be honest was a fairly sombre affair.
There was no reception and no meal. I didn’t drink either, so we sat around watching the others toast our future together. Somebody ordered me a snowball, which was a non-alcoholic cocktail. I’d never had one before and I was delighted. It had a red cherry on a cocktail stick and I thought it looked too pretty to drink.
“Here’s to the young couple,” somebody said and everyone raised their glass. Johnny stood beside me with his glass of coke in his hand. He put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed it.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered in my ear.
We spent our wedding night in his father’s flat—an old corporation flat around the corner from the pub. As we walked home we stopped at the local chipper and Johnny bought me a single of chips and a battered sausage.
“Here you go Mrs. Smith,�
�� he grinned, handing me the bag of chips.
chapter eight
WE MOVED INTO a corporation flat not far from where I was raised once we were married. It wasn’t where I’d imagined us living; but at least it was ours.
Things weren’t too bad at first. Johnny would go off to work on his motorbike each morning and I’d stay at home and tidy the pokey little flat. There was no question of me getting a job. Johnny wouldn’t have liked it and besides I was pregnant and quite happy not to work. We got by with the little money he earned as a courier.
His older sister had given us £200 as a wedding present to get us started. It was a lot of money and we were delighted. We bought a brand new suite of furniture. It was brown and made of tweed material. I thought it was gorgeous.
His other sister gave us a fridge, a kitchen table and four chairs. There was an old wardrobe in the flat when we arrived and we bought a new washing line that his brother helped to put up in the backyard. It wasn’t a bad start to a marriage.
The day we moved in I scrubbed the house from top to bottom. I got down on my knees and scoured the filthy old bath; I cleaned the toilet and all the skirting boards. I worked all day until I had welts on my hands. There were no curtains on the windows and no wallpaper on the walls, it was cold and grey, but it didn’t matter to me. It was our home and I was Johnny Smith’s wife.
He was lovely to me back then—kind and considerate, understanding when I got tired or sick from being pregnant. Looking back, those few short weeks when we first married are the only time in our entire marriage when I was completely happy.
We’d been in the flat for five months when the baby was born. All through the pregnancy I had no one to give me advice. I was terrified of my mother and was never able to ask her advice. I didn’t discuss personal issues with my sisters. I wouldn’t ask my friends and I certainly wasn’t going to discuss my pregnancy with my husband. I attended the local doctor for regular check-ups but I was too embarrassed to ask questions.
The baby was born by emergency caesarean section so I was unconscious at the time. It’s just as well as I would probably have died of a heart attack. I didn’t know what was happening to me and nobody explained. When I arrived at the hospital I was put on an operating table. I remember the doctor saying, “We’re going to induce labour now Frances.”
“Labour?” I thought to myself. “What is he on about?”
I honestly had never heard the term. That’s how naïve I was.
I’ll never forget the first time they put little Gillian into my arms. She was so tiny and vulnerable that I was terrified of dropping her. I was so overwhelmed with joy and pride that I didn’t notice anything wrong with her. The doctor told me afterwards that she had various deformities.
In fact I had no idea what was wrong with her and I needed the nurses to explain her condition to me. She had to be fed through a tube. Although I wasn’t allowed to take her home I was permitted to come in and feed her in the hospital. I watched how the nurses did it and learnt how to do it myself. I badly wanted to take her home but the doctors wouldn’t let me.
I loved that child so much; it breaks my heart just to think about her. I really couldn’t admit to myself just how sick she was. I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I could make her better.
For three months I visited Gillian everyday in hospital. Sometimes Johnny would take me on the back of the bike but often I’d go on my own on the bus. Johnny never stayed long in the hospital with me. It was as if he couldn’t handle the fact that she was sick. What’s more we never talked about it. I was afraid to bring it up in conversation in case I upset him. I felt some how that it was my fault she’d been born that way. Besides I found it too hard to talk about myself.
There was a knock on the door one Sunday afternoon. I was washing the dishes in the kitchen and Johnny was out on the bike somewhere. A young guard stood in front of me. He was only a young fella about the same age as myself, he was good looking— he had blonde hair and blue eyes, but he had a cold, calculating expression.
“Can I speak to Mr. Smith?” he said, as I opened the door.
“He’s not here,” I said. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Tell him to get in touch with the Garda station as soon as he gets back,” said the guard. “It’s about his daughter,” he added, as he turned on his heel and walked off.
I closed the door. There was something terribly wrong with Gillian. I grabbed my bag and ran around the corner to the main street to find a taxi. It was Sunday afternoon and the streets were quiet, there were no taxis in sight. I panicked; I was out of breath and in a terrible state. I was standing outside a pub and it was closed. Then I remembered it was Holy hour and the taxi men were probably inside having a drink. I banged loudly on the door.
“Let me in,” I screamed at the top of my voice. My heart was thumping. I knew I had get to the hospital as quickly as I could. I banged on the door repeatedly but there was no answer.
Then suddenly the door opened and a tall man came out. He looked puzzled and slightly annoyed.
“Are there any taxi men in there?” I screamed hysterically.
“Well, I’ll have to see love. Hold on a second.”
He left me standing outside while he went to see. Just then a tall man with black hair appeared.
“You need a taxi? I’m parked over here.”
I got into his car, which was parked on the side of the road and I sat in the back crying.
“Get me to Our Lady’s Hospital as quickly as you can,” I said to the taxi man.
“What’s wrong with you love?” he asked gently. “There’s something wrong with my baby,” I cried. The man stopped the car in the middle of the street and looked at me in the mirror. Then he turned his head to face me.
“There’s something wrong with your baby? Jesus, you’re only a baby yourself,” he said.
By the time we reached the hospital Gillian was dead. I couldn’t take it in. I remember looking at her little body lying on an operating table. She had nothing but a paper gown on and for some reason it occurred to me that her arms were cold. I wasn’t thinking straight and my mothering instinct was still as strong as ever. I wanted to protect her from the cold, protect her from harm, I wanted her to be alive and for a while I almost convinced myself that she was.
My mother and my sister Helen arrived at the hospital later on. But there was no sign of Johnny until later that evening. When he did arrive he was gruff and non-communicative. His way of dealing with the death was to retreat into himself. I, on the other hand, couldn’t hold back the tears. They came in torrents and try as I might I just couldn’t stop crying.
The doctor wanted to do a post-mortem but I refused. I couldn’t bare the thought of her little body being cut up. When they took her to the morgue I thought my heart would break in two.
“Come on Frances, I’ll take you home,” said Helen as she put her arm around me. My mother was as cold and distant as ever. She offered no sympathy or support.
A few days later Gillian was buried. We drove from the church in the hospital with the little coffin in the back of a car.
Johnny’s brother had bought a plot because we couldn’t afford one. It cost £150.
There was a white sheet placed over the coffin and inside little Gillian was dressed in a christening gown. I was overwhelmed with emotion and clearly not thinking straight. All that I could think of still was how cold she must be. Before the ceremony I sent Johnny home to get a little, white cardigan for her. I can still see that cardigan; I had knitted it myself—it was tiny with small pearl buttons.
Johnny and I, my parents, my sister Helen and a few of his brothers and sisters all attended the funeral. Afterwards we piled back into my brother’s car. Anto looked at me through the car window.
“What do you want to do now Frances?” he asked. He could see I was overcome with emotion.
“Just drive Anto,” I sobbed uncontrollably. “Just drive.”
&nbs
p; Anto, Johnny and I drove for hours that day. Where we went to I couldn’t tell you. It’s all just a blur. We sat in silence in the car, driving around Dublin and every child I passed on the street broke my heart a little bit more.
I’ll never forget the way my mother treated me on the day of the funeral. She had never been much of a mother to me but I needed her more than I ever did that day. We were standing in the graveyard after the funeral when she turned and looked me in the eye.
“Frances I have to go now. I’ve got a function to attend tonight. The girls from the hairdressers are going out for a few drinks.”
She didn’t even hug me or try to console me in anyway. I was in a state of shock. I couldn’t take her lack of emotion on top of everything. I couldn’t even speak to the woman. I stared at her in disbelief and her face was stony cold. There wasn’t a hint of feeling in it. Then she turned and walked away leaving me a sobbing mess.
I didn’t speak to my mother for over 20 years after that and to this day I can never forgive her for the way she treated me.
Even after all I’ve been through since, it still kills me even to think about little Gillian. She was my first- born and I loved her more than life itself. I can honestly say that I’ve never been the same since she died. Something deep inside me broke the day she died.
chapter nine
SHORTLY AFTER GILLIAN died, my parents split up. It had been coming for a long time. I honestly don’t know how my father put up with my mother. Ironically it was she who left him. He was an honourable man who would never have left his wife.
At that stage my mother had started to work. We all wondered why. As a family we never had much money but my father’s wages provided the basics. Besides, Sorcha, Patricia and Fiona were all still young and they very much needed her around. Sorcha was 15, Patricia was 13 and little Fiona was just six-years-old.
In Fear of Her Life: The true story of a violent marriage Page 4
