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.
The driving instructor was a gentle, middle-aged man who was very patient with me. I was terribly nervous to begin with but little by little I surprised myself by picking it up. I was delighted. For once in my life I felt like I was bettering myself. My happiness didn’t last long. Johnny arrived home early one day just in time to see me get out of the instructor’s car. I was grinning at the time, my driving had improved no end and the instructor was pleased. I waved to him as he drove off and I turned the key in the door.
My husband was waiting for me inside. He’d watched the whole scene from the window and he was ready to explode. He followed me into the kitchen and I could tell by his heavy step that he was angry.
“You think you’re great now, don’t you?” he taunted me as I nervously laid my bag on the kitchen table.
I had my back to him. I was afraid to turn around. I said nothing, hoping, praying that he’d calm down.
“Look at me,” he roared. “Look at me you filthy bitch.”
I turned around. I was afraid to disobey him. Then he grabbed me by the shoulders and shook the living daylights out of me.
“Tell me truth,” he demanded.
“Johnny,” I whimpered. “Johnny, what are you talking about?”
“Tell me the truth you dirty cow,” he stared into my eyes. “You’re having an affair with that man, I know you are, you might as well come clean. You’re having an affair with that driving instructor.”
I felt like laughing and crying at the same time, his accusation was so ridiculous. “Johnny, don’t be stupid,” I said. “There’s no way that’s true, of course I’m not. Sure he’s a married man Johnny.”
But there was no winning with Johnny Smith.
“Are you calling me a liar?” he was even angrier now. “Calling me stupid, are you?”
He spat in my face. He was always spitting in my face. It was another of his degrading habits.
“I’ll show you. You’re my wife and I’ll fucking show you.”
With that he started shaking my shoulders with his two hands, then he let me go and I fell to the floor. I was crying now, crying with fear for what was to come, crying with the sheer madness of his unfounded accusations. And then he kicked me, first in the chest and the pain went through me, then he aimed for my groin and I screamed in agony and doubled over with the pain. Then he kicked me again and again. Each time the pain was horrendous and I felt like my body could take no more.
“Johnny stop it, please Johnny, please stop,” I cried out but it was no good. My pitiful cries fell on deaf ears.
Suddenly young Frances ran into the room. She was 10-years-old at the time.
“Stop it Da,” she screamed. “Leave her alone Da, please Da leave her alone.”
Then he turned on her. He pulled back his arm as if to hit her. Of all the girls young Frances was Johnny’s favourite and although he often hit her too, for some reason she always forgave him, and if he’d listen to anyone it would be her.
He stared into her eyes for a few seconds with his arm raised, ready to punch her. But he didn’t. She held his gaze while I lay whimpering on the kitchen floor, curled up in the foetal position. Then he stormed out of the room.
I gave up the driving lessons after that and he took over the car. Months later he let me take them up again and this time I got a female instructor. Then he told me I was a lesbian. I gave up altogether. Johnny didn’t want me to drive.
The irony is that he’d often ask me to meet him in a bar. I hated having to do it but I’d have no choice in the matter. If I refused there’d be trouble later. I remember one time he rang home in the afternoon.
“Can you meet me in the Gate on James Street? I want to talk to you.”
I had to get the bus into James’s Street because he had the car. I hated getting the bus on my own. I’d become more and more introverted and terrified of strangers. When I was outside the house, I felt vulnerable and scared. I asked Molly to walk me to the bus stop.
I reached the pub at nine o’clock. There was no sign of Johnny so I perched at the bar and waited. I had no money to buy myself a drink so I asked the barman for a glass of water. I felt embarrassed to be there on my own, the pub was full of men and I could see them looking me up and down from the side of my eye. I tried not to make eye contact with any of them by keeping my head bent.
A full hour passed and still Johnny had not arrived. One of the men in the bar approached me.
“Are you alright love?” he said in a kindly voice. “You’ve no drink there, can I get you one?”
I looked up at him and he had a nice face. I could tell by his voice he felt sorry for me but there was no way I could accept his offer. Johnny would have hit the roof and killed him when he came into the bar. I was worried too that he would walk in at any moment and see us talking.
“No really I’m fine,” I said to him nervously. “But thanks for the offer.”
“Go on love, have a drink. I’m buying one for myself anyway,” he insisted.
“No I’m fine thanks,” I began to sweat and I must have looked so worried that the man knew I wanted him to go away. He went back to his friends and I waited.
Johnny didn’t arrive until 11 o’clock. By the time he got there he was drunk and we only had time for one drink before the bar closed. I was glad to get home that night. Back then, I hated being in public places and I especially hated being with Johnny whose whole life now revolved around drinking. I used to beg him to get help. “Johnny you’re an alcoholic,” I’d say to him sometimes. “You need help.”
But it was never any good. There was no getting through to him.
“You’re the one that fucking needs help,” he’d reply. “You’re mad as a brush.”
The terrible thing was, I was starting to believe him.
chapter twenty-three
ONE CHRISTMAS SHORTLY after that I got a phone call from Anto. I hadn’t heard from him for a long time and I was overjoyed to hear his voice.
“Frances, are you there?” he said, and I recognised a touch of English in his accent.
“Anto, Jesus Christ, it’s great to hear from you love. Are you ringing from England?”
“I’m here Frances,” said Anto. “I’m in Dublin with my family for Christmas. Can I call around Frances? I know it’s St. Stephen’s day but we won’t stay long. I’m dying to see you Fran.”
Johnny had gone to the pub early that morning and because it was St. Stephen’s day, I thought he’d be there all day. I was so pleased that Anto had phoned that I agreed he could come to see me, but as soon as I put the receiver I began to worry.
“Please God, please don’t let Johnny come home,” I prayed. “If I can just get Anto and his family in and out of the house before he comes back, everything will be fine,” I thought, as I busied myself making sandwiches and tea. The girls flapped around helping me and between all of us we had turkey sandwiches and Christmas cake laid out on a tray before Anto arrived. I was looking forward to seeing my brother and his two children. I’d heard that he’d been off the drugs for a number of years now, but I knew he had AIDS. My father had told me some time ago and I wondered what affect it had had on him.
I’d read up on it and I knew there was little chance of being infected but I wondered about things like the toilet seat in the bathroom and the cup he would drink tea out of. I felt guilty but I couldn’t help it. I loved my brother but my survival instinct and the urge to protect my family was stronger than any blood ties. I nearly died when he walked into the house. He was like a walking skeleton. His features were so changed I hardly recognised his face. It was shrunken beyond belief and his
eyes showed the years of suffering at the hands of an addiction.
I was shocked but I didn’t want to embarrass him. He had his wife Cassandra and his two young girls with him. They were sweet, little things and I was pleased to meet them, but I could hardly hold back the tears when I looked at Anto. He was like a different person and it pained me. I suspected he not only had AIDS, he was dabbling with heroin again.
You could have cut the tension with a knife as we sipped tea in the sitting room.
“So tell me, how have you been Anto?” I said nervously as I sat down on the edge of the couch.
“Not too bad now, Frances,” he smiled and then bent his head to look at the ground. He seemed nervous but pleased to see me. His wife Cassandra looked well, she had stayed off the drugs.
We talked about the kids and his life in England, he still worked at a counselling centre for drug addicts and he’d made a life for himself in the Irish community there.
Suddenly I heard the front door. My heart skipped a beat; I looked at the clock on the mantle piece. Twenty-past three in the afternoon. What on earth was Johnny doing home?
“Excuse me for a second Anto,” I said, as I jumped up almost spilling the tea all over me. I ran into the hall, closing the sitting room door behind me. Johnny was standing there and I could smell the drink off him.
“Who’s in the sitting room?” he slurred.
“It’s my brother Anto, his wife Cassandra and two kids. They’re over for Christmas, Johnny,” my voice trailed off and I waited for his response. For years Johnny had hated Anto.
“That fuckin’ drug addict,” he used to call him. I knew the real reason he hated him was because years ago Anto had turned on him and tried to protect me.
Johnny paused for a second then he roared at me, “Get him out; get him fuckin’ out of the house before I throw him out.”
“Shh,” I put my finger to my lip. “Please Johnny don’t make a fuss. It’s Christmas and I haven’t seen him for years, please,” I begged, trying to whisper the words so they wouldn’t hear in the next room. But it was no good, there was no persuading Johnny Smith once he had a bee in his bonnet, besides he loved the feeling of power he had over me.
He grinned sadistically. “I’m going out for ten minutes, he’d better be gone by the time I get back,” he turned and then looked back over his shoulder, “or you’ll pay for it.” He banged the door behind him.
Anto turned to me when I came back into the sitting room.
“What’s wrong with you Fran?” his eyes searched mine.
“Nothing Anto, everything’s fine.”
Then suddenly I started to cry. I couldn’t hold back the tears. It was all too much.
“Don’t worry, Fran,” said Anto when I told him about Johnny. “I won’t let him lay a hand on you. How dare he treat you like that? You’re my sister. I’ll have it out with him Fran, I will.” But Anto had forgotten who he was dealing with and I knew Johnny would be more than able for him.
“No Anto,” I wiped away the tears. “You’d better be going, I’m sorry,” I sniffled. I stood at the door waving him off and once more I felt deserted.
Johnny didn’t come home until much later that evening.
“What the fuck was he doing here, that AIDS- riddled, druggy?” he shouted at me when he came in the door. I had to pretend I didn’t know my brother would call.
I lost touch again with Anto for a long time after that and it’s only in recent years that he’s started to phone me again the odd time. I ask him how is health is and he tells me he’s fine, but I know otherwise from talking to his wife Cassandra. She says he has problems sleeping. He stays up at half the night on his own and insists on leaving the lights on in the house. He’s become paranoid too. He went to the dentist recently and demanded to have all his teeth pulled. He was convinced the police had installed a tracking device in his gums years ago when he was kept in prison overnight.
It makes me angry just to think about it. What kind of a dentist would have done such a thing? Cassandra said there was blood everywhere and it took him weeks to recover. Now he has dentures but he can’t wear them all the time because they irritate his gums. Poor Anto can’t even speak properly and everyone says he is fading away; he just gets thinner and thinner. It breaks my heart to think about him.
There are some who would say it’s his own fault and blame him for becoming a drug addict in the first place but I’m not angry at Anto, I blame the pushers who took his life and that of many others in the inner city. They took them in their prime, when they were young and hopeful and had the world at their feet. They ruined their lives for the sake of a few bob.
chapter twenty-four
ONE AFTERNOON I came home from the shops to find Aoife lying at the bottom of the stairs in the hallway. She was 12-years-old at the time and Johnny had beaten her up. I nearly died when I saw her lying in a pool of blood with a huge gash on her face and blood everywhere. One of the two chandeliers above her had fallen and there was glass all over the floor. At first I thought it must have dropped on top of her head and cut her face. She was wailing with the pain.
“Ahh, darlin’,” I cried out, “What in God’s name happened to you? Was it the chandelier Aoife, was it?” I was kneeling on the ground with her head in my lap and there was so much blood it was all over her lovely, little face. We were both crying.
“It was him Ma,” she managed to say in between sobs. She was overcome with anger and pain, and the sheer shock of all that had happened to her.
Johnny had attacked her because she answered him back. She had wanted to go out with her friends to play on the road, but he wouldn’t let her. He told her she was grounded and sent her to her room for the afternoon. In a fit of anger she’d told him to “fuck off.” That one remark had pushed him over the edge.
“Think you can talk to me like that. Do you?” he’d roared at her. And in the blink of an eyelid, he’d pulled a u-shaped, metal lock from his pocket. It was one he always carried with him, it fitted neatly into his palm and he used to wrap it around two of his fingers to keep it on. He had purposefully whacked his own daughter in the mouth with it.
She was on her way up the stairs at the time and he’d pulled her back by the hair and aimed at her mouth. The bastard.
It was bad enough beating me for years but only the lowest of the low attacks their own flesh and blood and this was no accident. Aoife had reeled with the pain, as she did one of the chandeliers had fallen on the ground beside her.
I helped Aoife into the car and took her to hospital where the gash on her upper lip was stitched. The doctor on duty at the time was a nice, gentle man. “Who did this to you?” he asked Aoife gently.
I was shocked by her response but proud of her too.
“My Da did it,” she said defiantly.
The young doctor stepped back.
“Is this true?” he turned to me, and I could tell by his expression that he was shocked. I nodded painfully. I felt ashamed and guilty. I felt like it was my fault and perhaps part of me believed it was, after all, I’d married the man. What’s more I should have been there to protect her. If I’d been there maybe he would have gone for me instead.
I loved my children so much I’d have taken a beating rather than see them hurt. The sick thing was that I knew Johnny so well and I knew this was his way of getting at me.
Aoife is now an adult. She still has that scar and it will be there for life. She’s a beautiful, young woman but every time she looks in the mirror she’s reminded of Johnny and all the pain he’s put her through.
When the girls got a bit older they became interested in boys. They were still in their early teens and I wanted them to wait a few years before they had boyfriends but there was nothing I could do about it. I suspect they were subconsciously looking for a way out of their home life.
Aoife was the first to have a boyfriend. She was slim and dark and all the boys liked her. She was 14 when she fell for a young fella from around the corne
r—a quiet lad called Mark who was crazy about her. Johnny wasn’t pleased of course.
“Tell those girls not to be going with lads,” he used to say to me, as if it was my fault.
Mark seemed like a nice chap and I was pleased that Aoife had someone to depend on. He was only with us a few weeks when Johnny turned on him.
He came in drunk one afternoon and attacked poor Mark who was drinking tea in the kitchen.
“You think you’re great, don’t you?” he said to the poor lad, who was terrified out of his wits. “Think you’re great going out with my daughter?”
I was upstairs with Aoife at the time and we could hear every word that was said downstairs. Then the kitchen door was closed shut.
“Quick Ma,” said Aoife. “We’ve got to help Mark.”
We carefully tiptoed down the stairs and stuck our head through the banisters, straining to hear what was going on.
There was a little window over the kitchen door and we could see through it. Johnny was sitting at the kitchen table with two carving knives in his hand. He seemed to be sharpening one with the other, he kept running one of them down the other blade, and he did it slowly but determinedly. Aoife was out of her mind with worry.
“Holy shit, he’s going to kill Mark,” she looked at me in terror. “What are we going to do?”
Mark was sitting opposite Johnny in a chair at the table and he looked terrified. My heart raced.
“Come on Aoife, let’s go round the back and see if we can hear what they’re saying,” I whispered to my daughter. The two of us went out the front door, closed it softly behind us and then we tiptoed around the side to the back garden where we crouched beside the door and tried to hear what was going on.
Johnny was taunting Mark, slagging him off and trying to undermine his confidence.
“You think Aoife loves you, don’t you?” he said in a sneering voice. “She doesn’t love you,” he laughed mockingly. “She’s just using you.”
Mark said nothing.
“She doesn’t give a shit about you. You’re just a fuckin’ eejit.”
In Fear of Her Life: The true story of a violent marriage Page 11
