He was so clever about how he would groom a victim. It might start with a game of tickles, where he would chase a girl and tickle her. In my case, when I was comfortable with him tickling me on my hips, he would gradually move his hands down, until he was ‘tickling’ me under my knickers, between my legs. This was a process that didn’t happen overnight, and it was this behaviour that made it so dangerous, because he made it seem so normal.
He also took every possible opportunity to meet other little girls. Da, I would learn in later years, was also an opportunistic paedophile and would sexually interfere with a child when he saw an opportunity.
I can recall specific events, which now chill me to the bone. One day I went out with Da on a message. He was driving along in the rain when he suddenly stopped to pick up a lady and a couple of children who were complete strangers to us. He asked her where she lived and told them to get in out of the rain, that he would drop them home.
Obviously having me in the car gave the impression that he was a family man and could be trusted. The woman said she was very grateful, and rushed her girls into the back of the car. Da told me to move into the middle so the girls could sit at the window seats and look out. I did what I was told without thinking about it too much. One of the girls, who was around nine years old sat behind Da’s seat and started drawing little pictures on the window pane in the condensation. As the woman shook herself dry and organised her belongings, she told Da how kind he was.
‘I was a bit wary of getting in the car with you, but then I saw your lovely little blonde daughter.’
‘That’s my Audrey, my only little girl,’ he replied smoothly and as he spoke, with the car still stationary, the little girl who was on my right suddenly stopped drawing and froze. My da’s hand had stretched in between the doors of the car and his seat into the back, and up the little girl’s skirt. He continued chatting to the lady while his dirty hand was up her daughter’s skirt. The knots in my stomach were so tight I couldn’t straighten myself up. When we finally got to their house, Da and the lady were all smiles and thank you’s. The other little girl just gave me a filthy look, scrunching her face as if what had just happened to her was all my fault. I felt that it was.
There were lots of other opportunities for Da. Most Friday nights, we would go to swimming baths in Artane. I didn’t go to swimming lessons. I would just copy people, and stay up somehow. That’s if some older kid wasn’t holding you down till you couldn’t breathe, which was a popular game then. Swimming was brilliant, except when my da came. I had the feeling that he was touching girls that I didn’t know in the pool and I was dead embarrassed.
I could see what he was doing because he had been doing it to me for as long as I could remember. His roaming hands, touching where he was not supposed to touch. I hated his hands. Yet he did it in such a way that you weren’t marked; there were no scars, no pain at that stage and age.
Although he was abusing me, I seemingly had nothing to give out about because the bruises were all inside. That’s how I knew what he was doing, and how it felt for them, those other girls. I could see where his hands were and the games he played. His hands, I hated his hands, they were always where they shouldn’t be.
But what could I say when I was so young. I couldn’t say ‘he hurt me’ because at that stage he was using his grotesque hands to rub me down there, gently grooming me, bit by bit, going further and further each time. There was nothing obvious to tell at the beginning except I felt dirty, confused. I was told, of course, to keep away from strangers because they would hurt you. My da was not a stranger, nor was I cut or bleeding. It was hard to say that he had attacked me in any shape or form.
*
Another way Da made his behaviour appear normal was through his behaviour with me around other people. I was not just abused at home but even on holiday when I was surrounded by adults.
A holiday we spent on a farm was one such incident that I remember well.
My emotions still do somersaults and my stomach contracts when I think about this holiday.
The good and the bad memories wash over me and it’s hard to separate them because they go hand in hand. It’s a vicious circle. Once you recall good memories from a particular event, the bad ones come too, nipping at their heels. And the bad ones only end up soiling the good ones. It has taken me years but I can now distil them a little better.
I remember the farmhouse holiday for two reasons. Firstly, ’cause I got to spend a lot of time with Granddad and Nanny Delaney and I have fond memories of that. I remember Nanny in particular from this holiday. She used to bring us out to a field near the farmhouse that had cattle in it.
Jesus, they’d be running at her left, right and centre, and she’d be running right back—she was very brave. But she didn’t go to the field to taunt the animals. She wanted to gather mushrooms before they were trodden on by the animals.
We wouldn’t dare step into the field with her though ’cause we were terrified of the cattle. So she’d pick the mushrooms all by herself. I don’t remember what we did with them afterwards—whether Ma cooked them or what—but I’ve loved mushrooms ever since. They always remind me of how brave Nanny was.
The second reason I remember that holiday is on account of the abuse I was forced to endure and all the insecurities and unnatural feelings that were left swarming around in my head all the time.
I made some new friends during the holiday, and we all palled around together on the farm. But as usual Da made sure to befriend my new playmates, and he was constantly hanging around with us kids. One of the girls was having a birthday party during the holiday and we were all invited— having a party while on holiday was a double celebration. Da was hanging around with us one day when I noticed he had disappeared off with one of the girls. I got the familiar sick feeling in my stomach that I always got when I knew something horrible was going to happen.
The next day, the little girl who was having the party marched up to me, flanked on either side by all the other girls.
‘You’re not invited to my party,’ she said, glaring at me, and she marched off. It was so obvious to me that someone had told her about my da. All the other girls were invited, except me. I had done nothing, yet that overwhelming feeling of being dirty and disgusting washed over me. I felt like a piece of scum. I didn’t know why I was so bad and so different.
I didn’t tell Ma that I wasn’t invited, because I was so ashamed. Instead, I stood outside the house on the day of the party, hoping the girls would take pity on me and invite me in. But they didn’t. I was all by myself, sobbing uncontrollably. But no tears were falling. It was all on the inside. I had this awful pain that I couldn’t shake. I was only a child and the weight of the world was on my shoulders.
I had started to get growing pains. I can’t remember much of that holiday because I have buried the memories deep in my subconscious but I do remember one particular night when I woke up with a terrible throbbing sensation in my legs. The pains were quite severe.
On that holiday, Nanny and Granddad Delaney had their own room in that cottage but Ma, Da, the boys and me were all in the one room.
One night, I was moaning about my leg during the night and eventually I decided to sleep elsewhere to help me relax.
I dragged a blanket out with me and made a bed on the sofa. I had only just lay down on it when I heard the door creaking open behind me and in walked Da, wearing nothing but a pair of Y-fronts. Muttering something about wanting to see if I was all right, he came over and took my pyjamas and knickers off roughly.
‘I’m giving your feet a rub to help your sore legs,’ he said, peeling off his Y-fronts as he drew me towards him. He started rubbing himself in between my two feet, up and down, over and over. Several minutes later he came to a finish, pulled up his underpants and stumbled blindly back to his bed.
The strange thing is that I don’t remember there ever being a mess when he would masturbate against me. I don’t remember him ejaculating, but mayb
e he did and I’ve blocked it out. It’s hard to know, but one thing I do know for sure is that he got some sort of self-gratification out of this behaviour. Whether he ejaculated or not, he made sure that he enjoyed it. When he finished, he left me there to dress myself again.
I have never forgotten what happened that night. I was beginning to understand at this point that my da was only using me for his own pleasure. He didn’t come out to rub my legs because they were sore—that much I was able to comprehend. Whatever he was doing with me, it was all about him. With this newfound realisation, I dressed myself with tears streaming down my face, the pain in my legs being the physical part matching the pain in my heart.
When he woke the next morning, he went about his business as if nothing had happened. Whereas I had been enjoying the holiday up to the previous day, I now felt myself slipping into the familiar black hole as I realised that I wasn’t safe from Da no matter where we were. It wouldn’t matter how many adults were surrounding me—he would still do exactly as he pleased with me. If he couldn’t physically get at me, I knew he would find some other innocent girl to molest. He was insatiable. I spent the rest of the holiday in a state of numbness, making sure that I slept in the company of others for the remainder of the holiday.
*
When I was seven, Ma told me that we were going to be getting a new baby. The boys and myself were sent to stay with Nanny and Granddad.
I can still remember the smell of coddle cooking as I stood in the kitchen waiting for the call to tell us that the new baby had arrived.
Oh, I so hoped it would be another boy. Everyone thought that with two brothers already, a little girl would want a sister. I think some people secretly thought I was just jealous and wanted to remain the only girl in the family. I couldn’t explain it myself at the time but I had this dark cloud hanging over me.
I feared for the baby if it was a girl. It would mean trouble. No, no, the baby had to be a boy. Everyone else kept saying that the gender didn’t matter so long as the child was healthy.
But the health of the new tot never even crossed my mind. All I cared about was that it was a boy, and if it wasn’t then I wanted to die. I couldn’t take it any longer. I was only seven yet there I was, my stomach in knots and me barely able to eat from the anxiety of waiting for that call.
They all thought I couldn’t settle down ’cause I missed Ma but I was very at home in that house. I loved it there. It was safe and full of people who loved me. And I didn’t spend the night-time lying awake, watching and waiting. I slept right through. I would have stayed there forever if I’d been allowed.
A real fire always burned in that house. You could just sit at it for hours soaking up the heat, while the adults jokingly warned you that if you sat with your back to the fire for too long you’d get a cold in your kidneys.
I was sitting in front of the fire in the sitting room one cold November evening when the phone call finally came. My aunt came in and told us the baby was a large, chubby boy. He was a real heavyweight for those days seemingly. Ma and Da had named him Dan.
‘Oh, God. Thank you,’ was all I could think.
‘It’s a boy! It’s a boy!’ I cried over and over as I danced around the room.
Nobody in the house knew the significance of the baby being a boy. It took the responsibility off my shoulders. I could breathe again. The thunderous black cloud overhead disappeared but little did I know at the time that it wouldn’t stay away for long.
Now I had two little baby brothers and I planned on being their second Mammy. I would tell them stories and play with them. Anything to keep them with me and safe at night. Once I was sure they were asleep and their door was shut, I would sooner make up an excuse to call Da into my room if it meant he would leave them alone. Better me than them I thought. On some level, I was already aware that Da was interested in girls and not boys. I knew that Da didn’t ‘tickle’ the boys. He never went near my brothers, yet he always wanted to tickle girls, but I was too young to be sure so it was a case of better safe than sorry.
A few days later Ma arrived home from hospital with the newest addition to the family. We were all bundled into the car for the drive home to Fairview.
Mammy sat in the front passenger seat and me and the boys sat on the edge of the back seat, with baby Dan lying behind us in a carrycot. It took up the whole of the back seat. He had certainly claimed his place in the family, literally edging me and my brothers out of the way, but none of us minded. He was so cute that I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
Whether Mammy was in the mood or not, all the neighbours flocked to see the new baby. Dan was such a cuddly child, with gorgeous big, puffy cheeks and huge dimples, that he earned himself the name Puddens. He was never fat; all Dan’s chubbiness was in his jolly little face. I thought both Fergus and Dan, my two baby brothers, were equally gorgeous. The older one with his huge saucer-like blue eyes, long eyelashes and placid, happy-go-lucky nature. And then the new baby, with his big smile and endearing dimples. God, love didn’t get any better than what I felt for these two.
As time went on, I fell even more in love with Puddens. I used to make him pretend to be a baby monkey and tell him that I was the Mammy monkey and if he clung to me I’d carry him along. He’d wrap his tiny little arms around my neck and his legs around my waist and off we’d go.
I was very close to my other younger brother Fergus too. We played together a lot, talked loads and just got on well without any fighting.
You couldn’t fight with him anyway even if you’d wanted to—it just wasn’t in his nature. And all he had to do was bat his big Bambi eyes at you and your heart would melt.
We did everything together as a family back then. We certainly earned ourselves the Brady Bunch title, which some of my friends had bestowed on us.
Chapter Three
When I look back on my childhood, I can see why people thought that I was a happy and content child. I am sure that most people who knew me probably believed that I was happier than most youngsters.
I liked games, playing dolls and other children’s activities but dancing and performing were my favourites.
I joined the Billie Barry School of Dance when I was about eight years old. I learned tap dancing at the school and I loved it. I loved the noise and the exhilarating sound of it.
It became the event in my week. It was something pure and wholesome; it was innocent fun and it was something that Da hadn’t tainted, so I could enjoy it in a relaxed atmosphere. I should have known he would take away this last remnant of innocence from me sooner or later.
Every Saturday at 3p.m. I went to the Carlton Hall in Marino on the north side of Dublin and learned how to tap dance.
I went there with my cousin Kate, who was my best friend. My little brother Fergus started as well, and he was really good. He and I always palled around together and if I started something he was quick to follow, not only because he wanted to be with me but because we liked similar things.
There was only one thing that I hated about dancing and that was the uniform we had to wear. It was a white poloneck, a short red swing skirt and tap shoes. The boys were lucky because they didn’t have to wear a uniform. I loved the tap shoes though, especially the noise they made on the floor as you tapped along to the rhythm of the music. The first pair of tap shoes you got—the junior ones—were always white and you had to scuff coat them every now and then when the leather became worn.
My attitude to dance shoes changed when I got my first pair of black tap shoes. I’d say me and Kate wore out the lino on the floors in both our houses.
Tap shoes, or black tap shoes to be precise, looked fabulous. As far as I was concerned they were the height of sophistication.
The dance classes cost about 50p each. An old woman, who everyone called Aul Aunty Something, collected the money before the class and ticked off your name to show that you’d paid. She looked old to me, probably about 90, so it didn’t take us long to realise that she was a bit doddery
. So we would pretend to put our money in a biscuit tin she used to use; we’d rattle it around a bit so it sounded like the money had dropped in and then Aul Aunty Something would tick our names off the list. We’d spend the 50p on sweets in the little tuck shop they had at the back of the hall. We never thought we were doing anything wrong. We had no real value on money; we just loved the buzz of keeping the 50p. And we loved our sweets too. I would never have dared to take somebody else’s 50p out of the tin, or keep my own 50p and just not bother going dancing.
Tap dancing was an escape for me. I knew I was good at
it and, for a little while at least, I could forget my troubles.
*
I hadn’t been dancing long when I was asked to attend an audition for a commercial on RTÉ. The auditions were to be held in a studio that Billie Barry had built at the back of her garden and Billie herself would be picking the children she thought were good enough to proceed to the next round.
A lot of the kids had been in the club for yonks and were really good, so when I got picked to audition I was thrilled.
I wore a red-and-white striped catsuit to the audition. I thought it looked really cool. But on my way there, I wore a jacket that covered the top part of the suit, so it looked like I was just wearing red and white trousers, which, on their own, didn’t look nearly as cool. I was teased all the way to the audition, with other kids laughing at me and saying I looked square.
My confidence was shattered by the time I arrived at Billie Barry’s house. I would go as far as to say that I was convinced that I had worn the wrong outfit and now looked stupid, so I struggled through the audition.
All My Fault: The True Story of a Sadistic Father and a Little Girl Left Destroyed Page 3
