That

An Excerpt From The Memoir The Vatican of The Hollies (thevaticanofthehollies.com)

**Trigger Warning: The except below describes in some detail physical abuse of a child. Don’t read any further if you are likely to be upset by this content.**

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All knew to stay out of Dad’s way when he was walking, playing records, playing his organ. When he ran out of whiskey or beer he became edgy, irritable, and when he had consumed his supply he was rarely anything more than disappointed at his world and clumsy within it; those nights, the milk from his drives in the Shredded Wheat Truck left a sorry trail from the kitchen to his Dad’s Chair, with Pepper coming behind him lapping up the drops from the yellow kitchen mats and the hall carpet. Dad kicked Pepper for that, for shadowing him, for being a black dog in a dark hallway tripping up a drunk and clumsy man. He kicked Pepper for being there, or for being here, or for not being there, where he expected him to be. Dad beat Pepper with a stick when he dared snarl back, when the poor dog had taken one too many kicks. He kept two sticks behind the door separating the kitchen from the hallway. One was thin, nothing more than a twig, but it was strong and flexible and whistled as it moved through the air. The other was thicker, a walking cane without the handle, but with metal tips on both ends, one for the ground, the other metal tip an insert where the curved handle, now missing, would join the stick proper. This stick was more for threat than practice, though it was often the first grabbed in any moment because it looked better. Dad could choose either one if Pepper bared his teeth to him when he became protective of the bone Dad had given him.

Pepper rarely received a bone because it was the done thing for any good pup; he received this treat only when Dad was spoiling for a fight. He would give the dog the bone, give him some time to savour this treat, then he would try to take it back, assured through practice that Pepper would snarl, a sure sign of disrespect, and a sure cause for a whipping.

“You can’t let a dog snarl back at you, you know. Oh no. That’s disrespect. They need to be shown who is the master.”

And he beat the dog often, using this same ploy as the basis for the excuse he needed. The bones were only ever treats with cruel intentions.

But if the drink was in, and if Pepper had done nothing to deserve a beating, and if there were no bones in the house with which to tease out a fight, there was, for Arthur, always his youngest child.

Martina was for years considered the family’s problem child. At times she could be rude, bad-tempered, inconsiderate, strong-willed, disobedient, insolent, and these traits worsened as she grew into her pre-teen years. She would remain out late, hanging with the many friends she still had on the street, her bonds with several of the local families remaining many years after her brothers’ friends had taken their exits. She would ignore curfews, not by hours, but on many occasions by a noticeable number of minutes. Martina also took no shit, often speaking back to our parents despite the threat of punishment, something we three older children wouldn’t dare even contemplate.

It took years for me to understand that Martina was the only honest one amongst us. Her chaos was a frank outpouring of the turmoil she witnessed behind closed doors at Number 43, and it was she who experienced more physical and emotional trauma than any of us, because she dared to tell it as it was.

Dad took no shit either, and he took no shit better than Martina took no shit, and for our father there was room enough for only one uncompromising individual in the home. And if Pepper couldn’t be bated into a fight, Martina’s disrespect would provide a ready excuse for her to substitute.

As he sat drinking in his chair, quietly and slowly churning his thoughts, our father seemed often to convince himself that Martina had somehow sinned against him, or Mum, that she had in some way contravened some rule, or some Commandment, or she had been too lippy, too flagrant in the flouting of expectations. His mood would darken, his happy drunk chat lessen, and he would offer to us a preamble for what was to come, introducing our absent sister into the conversation, casually so, but for us jarringly so and not unexpectedly so. He had been thinking about her, stewing, cogitating on her sins, on her mendacious, rebellious nature. We could feel him thinking about her.

“She shouldn’t treat your mammy like that, should she?” he would slur, to no-one in particular, while rolling a cigarette. “She knows I don’t tolerate anyone speaking back to me, or her. Or showing the disrespect that one shows, so she does, and there she goes doing it again. Doesn’t she, eh? Will she ever bloody well learn, will she?”

We wouldn’t respond, and he would fall silent for several minutes.

Our father would attempt to engage our mother in his seeking a justification for his mood and for his intent, because we all knew what was coming. “What time did she come back last night?” he would ask. Or “Who was she out with?” Mum could sense the anger in his low tones, and she would often downplay Martina’s behaviours and the impact on her and on home life. But her attempts at persuading her husband on this issue always proved futile, for any hint of a reason for punishment was hint enough for his attentions.

Dad would wait for Martina to return to The Vatican, then, as the front door closed behind her, and usually without a word uttered, he would grab her by the arm, or pull at her clothing, or grab her by the hair and then drag her into the living room. Mum stayed rooted in her chair, though she begged our father to be lenient, that she would handle things. We three went rigid with fear wherever we sat or stood.

“Get in here, you! Haven’t I told you before to never disrespect me or your mammy, haven’t I? I’m not a bloody fool here, not like her,” he’d yell, pointing at Mum, “and you’ll not be speaking to me like you speak to her! No, you will not! Do you think you can treat me like some bloody idiot? Well? Well? I’m not one of your mates out there, so I’m not, and you’ll not be disrespecting me, so you won’t. Do you think I’m a bloody fool, my girl, do you?”

Martina would be terrified, and she would turn white and go mute with shock as he read for her the list of sins she had committed in his eyes that day, before asking her for an explanation for these transgressions. He knew that in the early seconds of any assault on her that she would be rendered unable to speak, but he would rarely afford my sister any real opportunity to defend herself, as she tried to spit out some excuse. And she knew that was hopeless.

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to stay out late! I wasn’t watching the time!” Martina, her body by now already contorted, her one hand guarding her chest and her neck, the other down one side of her body, tried to grasp reasons from the putrid air, pulling together some formulation of events that seemed half plausible.

“Don’t you damn well talk back to me!”

“You asked me! I was at Julie’s place! I wasn’t far!”

“I’ll not be made a fool of by the likes of you! Nor will your mammy! I’ll be listening to none of your bloody excuses, so I won’t, standing there lying to me. I’m a bloody fool, am I?”

“No! I’m not! I didn’t!”

“Is that what you think I am? A bloody fool? Well, you’ve got another thing coming then, haven’t you? Don’t think I’ll take your nonsense, so I won’t!”

The moment she opened her mouth, Dad would shout Martina down, tell her she was a liar, that she would not lie to him, oh no she wouldn’t, he’s nobody’s fool, so he’s not. Beyond her first attempt to defend herself, Martina was too frightened to speak, and I remember after those first few protestations nothing more of her defences of her actions. I remember her silent, ambushed, desperate, helpless. But I remember him clearly, just him, in absolute control. By the very act of him grabbing her in the hallway, we knew that no time for an explanation would be afforded her, nor would one be given his time or his consideration. It was true to form, this was. What was coming, was coming.

It rarely mattered what was Martina’s crime, whether great or small in his eyes, for nothing would prevent him putting her in her place, and he had to put her down hard. He listed once, twice, three times the perceived sins against him or Mum or God only so he could prepare a later justification for what was coming. The listing of the charges was his appeal to us, his audience, his formulation of an explanation he had concocted as he sat stewing that evening, and which he now needed to spill. He read her crimes in public to garner sympathy only for the hangman, not for the accused.

Martina knew what was coming, and her tears would start before he first laid a hand on her. He would be holding her tight with one hand, usually his left, his thick fingers clamped at her elbow or her wrist. She would be trying to pull away, screaming, scraping at his fingers with her free hand, trying to loosen his grip, her lower body stretched as far from him as possible, protecting her legs. It was her legs he went for first, her upper thighs, and always brutally so. Her skirts and jeans, he knew, would hide bruises there.

Before she could utter another word in defence, he would pull at her to position her body in such a way that he could guarantee good contact with his hitting hand. He wanted to see open thigh.

And then he hit.

And there it is, in my head, in my memories even today. The silence that ripped across the room. Time and movement stop there for a fraction of a moment, the noise stops, the flailing too. There is only Martina’s flushed, pained, desperate face. It hangs there for a moment, between her and us, the air depleted, all now within her, waiting to expel. Hair is plastered to her head. Sweat is trickling off her eyebrows and down to her chin.

Martina’s mouth would slowly open, and tears filled her eyes. I saw her look at me, at us, back to me, several times in that one moment, in the split second between being hit and her releasing a horrific cry. I remember seeing the pain in her face welling slowly, but steadily.

Those moments haunt me.

Time juddered to a start then; Martina’s face would contort, and it flushed deeper instantly. Her eyes would shift then, from us, as she frantically sought the position of Dad’s free hand in time and space, hoping to anticipate where next, where she would next feel searing pain.

Her scream releasing brought us all back to the moment. It had started, tonight’s assault. The next several minutes were always calamitous, rapid, uncontrolled, unstoppable, loud, desperate. Time never did slow again. No matter how long or how brutal were my father’s assaults on my sister, only the first slap of each assault truly remains in my memory. The frantic, quick, brutal aftermath mercifully does not play in slow motion. In fact, it goes by rapidly, that several minutes. That image of my sister’s contorted face is the only snapshot that remains.

He hit her again.

As her scream exploded from her, and as she looked again for his hand, Dad would reposition Martina by brutally tugging on her arms or her hair. Her body would contort as he needed it to, and any skirt would rise.

He hit her again.

“Don’t. You. Speak. Back. To. Me!” His words came slow and controlled and insistent when he had that moment of perfect control, when he could slap skin for several seconds.

Martina tried, but time and again he would pull on her to get access to bare skin, to open thigh. Each tug on her arm, each contortion of her body negated every desperate attempt at anticipating where the next blow would strike.

He hit her again.

My sister’s struggle spent quickly. Another contortion, another expelling of energy. Each time his right hand raised and came down hard, his thick brown fingers slamming into her skin. Every slap would deplete her.

We watched in horror then, when we were older, but we didn’t always. For years we lapped up our father’s preamble, his listing of the sins, being so very easily swayed by his apparently well-considered reasonings, and yes, we were convinced our sister needed taught a lesson. She needed that, to straighten her out. This is what he did to all of us, to some degree, but Martina was the worst, she was disobedient, she talked back, so she deserved that. But this was different. For me, as I look back, I realised the beatings worsened as his alcoholism fully took hold, and what may have once seemed justified to a child, now was only brutal, and unnecessary.

He hit her again, raising her skirt. His left hand held her hard, in whichever way he could grab her in the brawl: there was no getting away from this or from him. Mum watched in terror, pleading. Anne-Marie, Brendan, and I watched too, moving from where we were sitting only when the fight spilled into our laps. We could do nothing, and he knew it.

He hit her again.

Tears streamed down, across, and up Martina’s face as she struggled, and those tears ran into her sweat; her lips turned crimson and stretched, glistening, as the blows ripped through her body. Watching, I could feel how in agony and how warm and uncomfortable she must have been, because slaps make you sweat and prickle, the pain and the warmth and the stickiness and the prickliness of violence. I remembered how my beatings at the hands of Proud Protestants made the top of my head itch as every pore on my head opened and flowed. I knew what it felt like to be that warm and sweaty in sticky clothes, not knowing where the next blow was going to land but knowing that it was coming from somewhere and that it was going to squeeze more water from your skin and more air from your lungs. It had to be awful, that, for her. I knew it was awful.

He hit her again.

Martina had come in from the coldness of the night into the warmth of the hallway with all of its comforts, not knowing but probably suspecting that she had somehow sinned against the father, that she had sinned her way into twisting, turning, sweating, searing pain, sweat, snot, and tears. Seconds was all it took from the announcing of the sin to the first slap, and she must have dreaded those moments, when he first grabbed her.

He hit her again.

As the beating continued, Martina tried to speak, to defend herself, but another slap and an admonition would bring an end to any plea for mercy. She tried desperately to get away, but he held her arm so tight he often bruised the skin on either side of her elbow or bicep, wherever he could find easy grip. She fought to get her free arm to her thigh, to defend the skin. Her body would double over, she would put her head down and toward his crotch as she tried to keep her thighs as far from him as possible. She would twist again if this defence failed, pushing her head against his chest, her body turned into him, doing everything she could do to protect bare skin from the blows. She twisted, turned, flailed, and begged him to stop, often ripping her clothes as she tried to pull away.

He hit her again.

Dad found a way around Martina’s defences every time. Often, he would get his body beside hers, his torso over her back, his left arm around her waist, from above, her body held in position by his left knee. That way she was defenceless, entirely open at the back for a girl with a school skirt on. In this position both her hands were free, but the grip this position permitted him was unbreakable and that was how he liked it, that was the position he desired every time. All Martina could do then was tear at his trousers or reach out to Mum if she could see her in the room. Or she would just take it, she would give in, and her fight would ebb.

He hit her again.

And he hit her again.

And he hit her again.

When he knew he had broken her once more, the assault would pause, but there would be a slap or two more for good measure, just so you learn your lesson, my girl.

So, he hit her again.

Don’t talk back. Don’t be late. Don’t disrespect me.

When spoiling for a fight - and whether drunk or sober - Martina or Pepper were going to get it, sure as the sun would rise the next morning above the roofs in Blackthorn Park. These beatings each lasted no less than five minutes, and they never eased; the cacophony, the desperation, the flailing, they continued until Martina was depleted of all defences, when she had exhausted her fight and collapsed drenched on the floor or on the sofa. Our father would often keep a grip on her elbow or the wrist, as she lay panting at his feet, her thighs red raw. Her chest heaved and fell. She murmured as much as she sobbed. She had struggled until the end, and I knew that her struggling meant that she never got used to the pain. She always fought.

When he let go of her, she would run crying from the room, but he always got a slap or two in as she was running out. Sometimes he caught her again at the bottom of the stairs.

He hit her again.

After each beating, our father would again unfurl the charge sheet; why, I have no idea other than to have the charges and his defence aired one more, but no-one was going to stand up to him, to challenge whatever was his rationale for the beating. Even planning these defences was a useless waste of time for him, for us, but, at evening’s end, as Mum tended to Martina in the bathroom, he revised it, adding to the list of infractions, and he read out for us all yet again the litany of sins committed against the father or the mother or the god, to justify his actions.

“She shouldn’t talk back. Not to me. Not to your mammy. Coming in late, like we’re bloody fools.” We three sat on three sofa, all in silence, listening but not. We had heard it all before. Martina was upstairs, sobbing. Mum was climbing the stairs. I heard that.

“Who does she think she is? It’s not safe for her out there, running around with that crowd. She could get hurt.”

Dad followed Martina and Mum upstairs, where Mum would be trying to comfort her youngest in any way she could, easing the swelling and bruising with cold damp facecloths and dripping towels. Martina would be sitting on the edge of her bed or the edge of the bath, obviously in excruciating pain. Dad would go to where she was, calmly smoke a cigarette, and he would preach to her again, detailing why she deserved what had just happened, “and you’d better believe it’ll happen again if you cross me again, my girl. Don’t you ever treat your mammy like that again,” or, “Don’t you ever think you can do that with me and get away with it”, or “That’s what you get for….”

For whatever. He never unfurled and read aloud an accurate charge sheet, bluntly admitting she was just there, at arm’s reach, and he had drink taken and no reason to beat the dog. He never told her that he had just been thinking, percolating on ancient misdeeds, just thinking about her, her shitty attitude, and how she deserved a beating, well, just because. Because he felt like it.

But that is the true and only reason why Dad beat Martina, because she was there, and he was drunk and angry. She was there and easily overpowered. She was there and life is shit. She was there and I need to punch someone. She was there and I need release.

And there we would be, my brother, sister, and me, sitting wide-eyed, shocked, and silent on the sofa, gazing at but not watching the TV, or with our eyes cast to the carpeted floor. Before he returned to the living room we would silently and quickly discuss what had happened.

“She should know better than to do….” To do whatever. “She just keeps pushing.”

“She’s bad, yeah, but she’s not that bad.”

“She has to learn, but…”

“You’re right, she has to, but she didn’t deserve that.”

“Yeah, that went too far this time.”

“Again. Shhh! He’ll hear us! They’re in the bathroom.”

What Martina endured we came to know only as that.

We had to whisper our dissent about that because Dad was not to hear us criticise him doling that out to Martina, even though he never did that to anyone else. Ever. That was for her and her alone. Our father would explain each time why Martina deserved that, including how this was also an effective method to train the dog not to disobey its master, like every dumb dog should. Dumb dogs need sense beat into them; they need that to learn, he would say. “Sense can be beaten into dumb dogs and unruly daughters and I’m no fool, let me tell youse. There’s plenty of that to go around.”

I grew to never believe a word he said, and I knew in my heart that he hit them because he liked to pick on those who were weaker, because he wanted to go straight to complete domination, to overpower, he wanted to avoid the bother of making a real fight of it with Brendan, me, or Anne-Marie. We would all have been hurt too, and made to submit, this goes almost without saying, but he knew he’d get a harder fight from the eldest three children, and might walk away with a few of his own bruises. I believed for the longest time that he would never have assaulted Mum, for she looked after him just too well for him to lose her. But Anne-Marie did once witness him hit her, apparently on a single occasion, though this is an incident about which she has refused to provide detail.

“Shh! Here he comes.”

Listening for creaks on the stairs we would be sitting in silence when Dad returned to the living room. He would laugh his cackily laugh, swig from his beer glass, and would smile at us as if looking for approval for what he had done.

“Heh-Heh-Heh! That’ll teach her, won’t it, eh? Heh-Heh-Heh!” He would look again for acknowledgement, for agreement. We stayed silent. And again, his cackily laugh - Heh-Heh-Heh! - the one we heard only when he was having just a wee bit of fun, and sure isn’t it all okay now, isn’t it?

Sure, aren’t we all grand, all of us here? It’s fine, isn’t it? She needs taught a lesson sometimes, doesn’t she?

We never returned his smirks and his cackily laughter; both were obvious and blunt attempts to beguile us into becoming co-conspirators, to collude with both the beatings and his reasonings for them. I felt repulsed at his attempts to get us to ease his conscience. I knew then that my attitude toward my father was changing. I could see then that he was becoming a real bastard; an angry, drunken, evil bastard.

Martina was excused PE classes the day or two after she sinned against the father, the mother, or the god. Her thighs would be black for two weeks, her upper and lower arms pinched into the same colours, and she woke often with eyes red and crusted closed, requiring the soothing attentions of Mum and a warm facecloth. Mum would help her get dressed the mornings after the beatings, and she would check Martina’s legs and arms for any easing of the bruises. Several times she refused to let her go to school with the obvious violations of her thighs there for the entire world to see.

But Martina rarely asked to stay home. She got up with the rest of us and put on her school uniform: she wore her blouse and skirt and tie and shoes, as always. I don’t remember a morning when she asked to hide her broken body. She ate her breakfast and drank her tea and sang along with us as Downtown Radio interspersed that week’s top forty hits with the woes of the unemployed and the listing of last night’s roll call of the dead mounting upon yesterday’s roll call of the dead. Tick-tock-tick-tock and time to go to school.