Cry Silent Tears
The heartbreaking survival story
of a small mute boy who
overcame unbearable
suffering and found
his voice again
JOE PETERS
with Andrew Crofts
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Tug Of War
Chapter Two: A Bitter Battleground
Chapter Three: Inferno
Chapter Four: ‘Turn Him Off!’
Chapter Five: Smelly Woof
Chapter Six: Incarceration
Chapter Seven: Mum’s New Boyfriend
Chapter Eight: Rescued From The Cellar
Chapter Nine: Starting School
Chapter Ten: Being Groomed
Chapter Eleven: The Movie Business
Chapter Twelve: Learning To Speak Again
Chapter Thirteen: A Bid For Freedom
Chapter Fourteen: Betrayal And Capture
Chapter Fifteen: In And Out Of Care
Chapter Sixteen: Thieving For Mum
Chapter Seventeen: Moving On
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Publisher
To Michelle, my soulmate, and my five beautiful and special children, Darren, Liam, Kirsty-Lea, Shannon and Paige.
Thanks guys, for all your love and support. Love Dad.
Cry Silent Tears
Chapter One
Tug of War
I never doubted for a moment that my dad loved me more than anything or anyone else in the world, and I returned that adoration wholeheartedly from the first moment that I was able to. He was a tall, handsome man with sparkly eyes, who was popular wherever he went, and he made me feel like king of the world every second we were together. I was his first child, his pride and joy, and he put me on as high a pedestal as I put him. ‘My little Joe,’ he’d say fondly, sitting me on his knee and ruffling my curly brown hair.
In almost all of my early memories, I am clinging to his big long legs, viewing the world from between them, or sitting in his car or on a grass verge nearby watching him while he worked. He was employed as a mechanic for an Irish guy called Graeme who owned a garage in Norwich, and had been with him since he was an apprentice, straight out of school. Graeme’s whole family had taken to him as though he was one of their own children and he had repaid their faith in him a hundredfold. He had gradually been given more and more responsibility and trust until he was virtually running the place if Graeme wasn’t there and they all thought the world of him. Dad seemed to have that effect on everyone, and I was able to bask in his reflected glory whenever I was with him. I felt safe and happy when he was around.
My mum, on the other hand, was a terrifying woman. She was almost as tall as Dad, with jet-black hair and a scowling face. It seemed to me she was always angry and, in particular, she seemed to be constantly furious with Dad and me. My three older brothers (from her first marriage) got off lightly, but whenever I was near she would lash out, hitting me round the head, kicking me or pushing me over. She called me all kinds of names I didn’t understand and screamed at me till I cowered, petrified, in a corner.
Well aware of her violent nature and her hatred for me, Dad kept a watchful eye on me from dawn till dusk. Everywhere he went, I went. As a toddler, I was hardly ever allowed out of his sight. Not only did he take me to work, but he even took me to the toilet with him. Not that I needed much encouragement; I wanted to be as close to him as possible. We were mutually bonded and he took pleasure in indulging my every whim. If I wanted Sugar Puffs he would buy me a box a day and let me eat my way through them. Mum would freak out when she found out.
‘You’re spoiling him,’ she would scream. ‘And you’re undermining me when I tell him he can’t have things.’
‘He can have whatever he wants,’ Dad would tell her, in a tone that implied that was the end of the discussion.
In my early years, I had no idea why there was this constant raging battle over me, but so long as I could be with Dad that was fine. And when we began to stay at his friend Marie’s house instead of with Mum, I was even happier. Marie was pretty and gentle, with long, reddish hair, and she was very nice to me. I liked the way she talked to me, explaining things at a level that I could understand and always taking my feelings into account. In all the years I knew her, I don’t think I ever heard her raise her voice. But once we were staying at Marie’s, Mum got even more angry and would come round at all hours trying to force Dad to hand me over to her. That used to terrify me and I’d cling to him like a limpet while they shouted at each other.
One day, when I was four, Dad wasn’t able to take me to work with him for some reason so he left me with his sister, Melissa, instructing her that on no account was she to let Mum get hold of me. Somehow Mum got to hear about where I was and turned up at Aunt Melissa’s house, insisting that she was taking me home with her. Melissa put up a battle but Mum wasn’t having any of it. I stood in the hall trembling as the two women screamed abuse at each other, insults flying.
‘He’s not your fucking child,’ Mum yelled. ‘I’ll call the police and have you done for kidnapping, you fucking cow.’
‘You’re an unfit mother,’ Melissa replied. ‘Look at you – half cut at eleven in the morning. Let’s see what the police think about that.’
I pressed my hands over my ears to block out the shouting and the next thing I knew, Mum had grabbed one of my arms and dragged me past Melissa out into the street.
‘You bitch!’ Melissa was screaming, but she let Mum take me. Maybe she felt she had no choice because she wasn’t my parent. I was crying out ‘No, Mum, no!’ as she hauled me down the street, utterly petrified, knowing that I was about to get punished although I had no idea what for.
As soon as we got in the door of Mum’s house, she punched me full in the face, sending me hurtling to the floor. She grabbed me by the hair to pull me up again then started beating me round my face and body in a fury. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, twisting away from her but unable to protect myself from the blows that were raining down.
‘Shut up, you little bastard,’ she hissed. Holding me by the hair, she picked me up and swung me round so that my legs clattered off the wall. When she dropped me, I crumpled to the floor, dazed and half-unconscious from the beating.
Mum wasn’t finished though. She looked around the room for some way to punish me that I would never forget and her eye alighted on a hot iron, which was standing on the ironing board. She must have been ironing when she got the call to say I was at Melissa’s and she’d left the iron on when she hurried out of the house. She grabbed my hand and yanked me across the room, then pressed my palm tightly against the scalding metal until my flesh sizzled. I screamed uncontrollably with the shock of this unbelievable new level of pain.
‘You are a spoiled little bastard,’ Mum sneered, ‘and you are never going to see your fucking father again.’
She pushed me and I collapsed on the floor, sobbing, clutching my scorched, throbbing hand, terrified that somehow she would manage to arrange things so that I really wouldn’t see Dad again. ‘Dad,’ I sobbed. ‘Dad, help me.’
The moment Mum had snatched me from her house, Aunt Melissa had rung Dad in a panic to tell him what had happened. He must have downed tools at the garage and come running immediately but by the time he got to Mum’s house he found me in hysterical tears with a black eye and livid burn marks on my hand. As soon as I saw him I ran behind his legs, clinging on with my undamaged hand, shaking with fear, desperate to get away from her.
‘Look what you’re doing to him!’ Dad shouted. ‘He’s terrified of his own mother.’
‘It’s not m
e, it’s you,’ she screamed back. ‘You and your whore! You’ve turned him against me!’
‘What the fuck has he done to his hand?’ Dad demanded, looking in horror at the bright-red, blistered skin.
‘Oh, he touched the iron,’ she lied. ‘He was messing around as usual.’
‘And what about the bruises on his face?’
‘He fell over.’
‘Get me out of here, Dad,’ I begged. ‘Please.’
Mum grabbed one of my arms so Dad quickly grabbed the other one and they both pulled at me, like dogs fighting over an old bone. I thought my arms were going to pop out of their sockets, they pulled so hard. Beside himself with rage Dad punched her in order to force her to let go of me. The moment she released her grip he swept me up into his arms and ran from the house, clutching me to him as if he was never going to let me go. I just screamed and sobbed hysterically. He bundled me into his Ford Capri and drove me to the burns unit at the hospital to have my wounds dressed. I remember I couldn’t stop shaking, even after the nurses had given me something to help with the pain. I must have been in shock, I suppose.
‘That’s it,’ Dad told Marie in a grim voice once we were safely back at her house again. ‘I’m not leaving him with anyone else; not you, not Melissa, no one. He’s going everywhere with me from now on.’
I felt a huge wave of relief. Dad would look after me. He would keep Mum away from me. I would be all right now.
It was soon after this event that Marie sat me down and explained to me about the root of the problems between Mum and Dad. First of all, she told me that Mum (whose name was Lesley) came from a very strict family. Her father was in the army and her mother, a factory worker, had been a strict disciplinarian at home, so Mum must have thought it was normal to bully and beat up children. Maybe she thought that was how all children were brought up.
As Marie spoke, I remembered the times I’d visited my grandmother’s house with my older brothers. It felt more like being drilled on an army parade ground than welcomed into a family; everything was forbidden, everything was punishable. If any of us so much as moved we broke some rule or other and ended up being shouted at or slapped. The seeds of violence that were later to grow so strong in Mum must have been sown during the beatings she received from her own mother.
I can’t remember how Marie explained the complex relationship between my parents and her to a four-year-old boy. Maybe she just said ‘Your mum’s cross because your dad wants to stay with me and not her.’ But over the years I pieced together their story from bits of information I picked up here and there.
Mum had been married in her teens to her school sweetheart; she was forced by the family to marry after she fell pregnant. Their son, Wally, was to be the first of the three children the young couple would have together, followed over the next few years by two more boys, Larry and Barry. Once she had started having children Lesley became a full-time housewife, an undertaking that would soon become more of an obsession than a lifestyle. Her house was always kept spotless and woe betide anyone who so much as dropped a crumb on a carpet.
From what I’ve been told the marriage was pretty strong to start with, although the children were all brought up with the same ferocious strictness that Lesley had experienced herself, but the death of their fourth child at birth caused a rift between her and her first husband. The marriage quickly degenerated from that point and ended in divorce, leaving Lesley bringing up three children on her own, feeling angry and resentful towards the whole world.
It was at that stage that she started to drink seriously in order to dull the pain of losing her baby, and the children’s father disappeared for good from all their lives. The trouble with drink is that although it does help to lessen any pain you might be suffering, it can stoke up any anger that might be simmering below the surface, and Lesley had a cauldron full of that waiting to come to the boil. It also soaks up any spare money there might be in the family, increasing the very hardships that she was trying to escape from.
If there was one thing Lesley was determined not to do, it was be a prisoner in her own home and she became an avid pub drinker and partygoer. She was, after all, still a young woman in her early twenties and she craved a bit of fun. Soon after the divorce had come through she went to a party that Marie – an old school friend of hers – was having to celebrate the anniversary of her marriage to a man called Frankie. Lesley was still a vivacious, attractive young woman and that night she was up for a good time. During the party she met my dad, William, a friend of Marie’s and Frankie’s, and he appeared to be unattached and interested in her. What she didn’t know at the time was that Marie and William were in love but couldn’t do anything about it because neither of them wanted to betray Frankie, who William looked on as his best friend. Believing she was just enjoying a good night out, Lesley was actually stumbling blindly into a love triangle that was already on the brink of exploding.
William was by all accounts a bit of a charmer who could light up a room just by walking into it. He could have had his pick of the women there that night but it was Marie he was in love with and he was beginning to harbour thoughts of trying to coax her away from his mate, Frankie. The first thing he had to do, of course, was ensure that she was as keen to be with him as he was to be with her.
Feeling left out as he watched them together at their anniversary party, and hoping to make Marie jealous on the night, William decided to seduce Lesley, who had probably had enough drinks to make her look like a promising prospect. Ultimately I guess he was hoping that when Marie experienced a rush of jealousy at seeing him paying attention to her friend, she would realize how much she loved him and would leave Frankie for him. It was the sort of game that could only end in tears, but then a lot of people fail to weigh up the consequences of their actions when they’re young and they’ve had a few drinks at a party. Perhaps the flirtation between William and Lesley started out as a relatively innocent bit of fumbling around on the dance floor but one thing soon led to another and a month or two later she found herself pregnant with me.
I don’t think Dad was ever the least bit in love with Mum because his affections were always directed towards Marie, even on the night of my conception, but he was a decent man and once he discovered she was pregnant he decided that marrying her was the honourable thing to do. He was a bit daunted to discover that she already had three kids from her first marriage, something she hadn’t mentioned when they met at the party, but Mum came from a Catholic family and he realized it would look doubly bad if he didn’t put a ring on her finger. The fact that he was willing to marry Lesley, however, did not change the way William still felt about Marie and his plan to kindle her interest by making her jealous was working. Marie had finally decided to give in to his advances, despite the fact that he was now officially engaged to be married to her friend, and was still her husband’s best friend. I wasn’t even out of the womb and already my family life was a potential war zone. Whatever was going to happen next it was unlikely that anything was going to go smoothly for any of them.
After that night my dad and Marie allowed their passion for one another to overcome all caution and before long Frankie came home unexpectedly one day and caught his wife and his best friend in bed together. Unable to think of anything to say to the treacherous couple, he turned on his heel and walked out of the bedroom without so much as a word. Dad, mortified at what he had done, hurriedly pulled on his trousers and ran after him, but it was too late to save the friendship. The two men started arguing and got into a fight in the street, and when Frankie did eventually come home he took the rest of his anger out on Marie. In that day of betrayal and violence their marriage was destroyed and Dad, furious that any man had dared to lay his fists on the woman he loved, went looking for Frankie again. Everyone now got to hear what was going on, including Lesley. There was no going back; she had a baby on the way and a husband who was having an affair with her best friend. She was publicly humiliated and very, very angry about it.
By the time I was born in 1973 Frankie had disappeared off the scene and Dad was skipping back and forth between Lesley, the mother of his adored first child, and Marie, the love of his life. It was as though I had been born into a powder keg and I was going to be the spark that would ignite the whole thing once and for all. If I had never been conceived I’m sure Dad would never have married Mum and he and Marie would have stayed together from then on and lived a very happy life together. But I was there, and that changed everything.
Chapter Two
A Bitter Battleground
The garage where Dad worked was just a small back-street one, a couple of bays with ramps for the cars to be raised up on when the mechanics needed to get underneath, and some grubby offices and a customers’ waiting room to the side, with all the walls smudged in oily handprints. I loved the noise and smell of the place when they were all busy working. If cars didn’t need to go on the ramp Dad would sometimes work on them outside on the grass verge beside the road, where Graeme kept a few old bangers polished and lined up for sale at bargain prices. Dad liked being out in the fresh air as he worked and I preferred it too – just him and me and the cars, and the passing world for me to watch.
I always asked him if I could have an oily face like his and I’d squeal with delight when he would rub his fingers over a dirty car engine and then smudge my nose and cheeks as though he was anointing me into some secret Masonic club for car mechanics. If he was working underneath a car he would put me inside his Capri, which would be parked across the forecourt, telling me to stay there and play till he had finished, but if he was working on top of an engine he would pull a high stool up for me beside him and let me fiddle around under the bonnet just like him. Often I was more of a hindrance than a help but he would never get cross when I messed things up, always joking and making me laugh.
Joe Peters Page 1
