Please note: this piece contains descriptions of abuse that some readers may find distressing.
Flying in an arc through the air, the half-eaten fish supper hit the close wall with an oily splat.
“Am no gonnay miss the next time, hen,” said my soon-to-be stepfather. With an ominous sway, he teetered on the middle stair.
“Don’t you dare,” said my mother, jabbing a finger in his general direction. “I’m warnin’ you!”
The argument continued as we shuffled inside the flat, and it was at that moment when my five-foot two mammy, much to the surprise of her beloved fiancé, put an end to the dispute by pushing him through a closed glass door. I was horrified. Mind you, my horror was nothing compared to my granny’s; it was her house we were in, and her door!
Despite being upset, I went to bed that night feeling happy, with the certainty only a child could have, that the wedding would be cancelled and that my mother and I would have a blissfully happy life on our own. Sadly, it wasn’t, and we didn’t. They married six months later, and we fell into shadow.
As life continued, fights and arguments became routine, following a predictable script that I now refer to as “The Fish Supper Protocol”. Trouble always began with something innocuous, perhaps a cup of tea that was too hot. This great travesty would be enough for my stepfather to throw an insult or two, followed by whatever object was closest to hand. My mother’s response to this was always the same: jabbing a finger in his general direction and utilising her stock phrases of “don’t you dare’, and, “I’m warning you!” Sometimes her threats cooled the situation; sometimes they didn’t. On one occasion when things boiled over, having missed her head with his first throw (a copper bin, contents included), my stepfather followed up with his shoe, a brown leather thing with a two-inch-thick rubber sole. It hit her square on her right eye, and in a matter of minutes she looked like she’d gone three rounds with Muhammad Ali.
In contrast to the aftermath of most fights, I distinctly recall waking up the morning after that one, brimming with hope and expectation. Surely now she’d have had enough of this man. We’d be leaving, wouldn’t we? I was so certain of this that before I made my way into the living room, I packed my school things, my Abba records, and some clothes – all the important stuff I couldn’t leave behind. But I needn’t have bothered, because the only place we were going to was into town on the bus; all three of us. And where do you think we were heading? Well, to Boots the Chemist, of course, to buy a pair of sunglasses to help hide her bruises. To this day, I can’t believe we did that. Back then I despaired, because nothing he did seemed to make any difference. She always stayed and probably always would.
In hindsight, I understand why she stayed despite the humiliation she must have felt that day on the bus and in the shop. It was simple: she had nowhere else to go. She was, like many women in her situation in the 1970s, trapped. Unable to afford to break free, unable even to get credit without a husband’s permission. Her own mother wouldn’t take us in again, being keen to see people lie in the beds they’d made for themselves. She was also possibly a bit worried about her doors. And so, my mother swallowed her pride, and again the years passed in a blur of violent arguments. But one day, everything changed.
With the arrival of the eighties, my stepfather's drinking escalated to such an extent that he lost his job and was eventually dependent on Incapacity Benefit. My mother worked, as did I, and she calculated that as long as every penny of the Incapacity Benefit remained untouched, it would cover us for rent and rates. Surprisingly, my stepfather agreed to this plan, and for several months, the agreement held. But to me, it all seemed too good to be true. And sure enough it was. For one night on her return from the office, she found him lying drunk, surrounded by empty lager cans and a half-empty vodka bottle. He’d cashed in his benefits and gone on a bender. And suddenly there it was: the straw that broke the camel’s back.
To this day I don’t know what, if anything, she discussed with him. But I didn’t care, because by Sunday that week we were packing all we could carry into my little Ford Fiesta. Throughout our manoeuvres he watched an episode of Little House on the Prairie, saying nothing, not even when his sister and brother arrived to harangue him about breaking up a family. Aye right, I remember thinking, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. And then we left, and it was over. We never saw him again.
Years later, I found out that during the toughest days, I hadn't been the only one yearning for better times. My mother told me she’d always searched for a way out after every punch he threw but had never found it until the day she discovered the used order book. On that day she finally realised that although things were tough, ahead of her lay rock bottom, and probably penury. So, despite having no plans for anything other than the initial escape, she threw caution to the wind and took a gamble on the best years of our lives being ahead of us. And do you know something? She was right.