Joe Peters
Authors: Cry Silent Tears
Tags: #Child Abuse, #Children of Schizophrenics, #General, #Family & Relationships, #Adult Child Abuse Victims, #Abuse, #Biography & Autobiography, #Great Britain, #Rehabilitation, #Biography
Chapter Two: A Bitter Battleground
Chapter Seven: Mum’s New Boyfriend
Chapter Eight: Rescued From The Cellar
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
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.
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 me, 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.
