Kenneth Doyle - Mummy from Hell: Two brothers. A sadistic mother. A childhood destroyed.

Two Brothers. A Sadistic Mother.
A Childhood Destroyed .

Ken and Patrick Doyle

with Nicola Pierce

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781409034308

www.randomhouse.co.uk

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

First published in the UK in 2010 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group company
First published in Ireland by The OBrien Press Ltd. in 2009

Copyright Ken Doyle, Patrick Doyle and Nicola Pierce 2009

Ken Doyle, Patrick Doyle and Nicola Pierce have asserted their right to be identified as the authors of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment

Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX

ISBN 9780091937942

To buy books by your favourite authors and register for offers visit www.rbooks.co.uk

Mental Cruelty

S he met me at the back door, her face set in a dreadful pose of something between pure rage and madness. Her weapon of choice, the dreaded Cheese Please! board was in her right hand, her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and her large body tensed in preparation for what she felt she must do. I stared at her stupidly as she towered over me; I had been in school all day and could not think of a single reason for this horrible welcome home. All my classmates were probably entering their own houses at this exact moment, to be greeted by their smiling mothers who perhaps handed them a glass of milk and a sandwich, telling them to do their homework before putting on the TV. I was very sure that none of them, at this moment in time, were in actual fear for their lives. Suddenly she lunged forward, grabbing me by my shirt and ripping it from my body. Next it was my trousers, shoes, socks and pants. By the time I was naked we were in the middle of the kitchen and my fate was sealed.

Apparently I had robbed my sisters purse. This was todays reason. She started to whack me around my back and shoulders with the board, kicking my legs from under me, all the while explaining that my sister had visited that morning and now her purse was gone, and I had obviously taken it. In between my yelps of pain I tried to argue that I couldnt have possibly taken it as I had been in school, that I had absolutely no idea my sister had been visiting her, but it was pointless. It was always utterly pointless. She dragged me off the floor, from where I was cowering beneath the steady rhythm of blows to my upper body, and into the living room, tossing me carelessly into an armchair. Through my tears and pain I watched her bind my legs and arms to the chair using pairs of her nylon tights before tying a tea towel around my mouth to gag me. The real beating was about to commence.

And, as usual, no one would hear my muffled screams.

M ost nights I find myself plagued by the same recurring dream. I see a little girl, with stringy brown hair, dirty face, whos maybe two or three years of age. Shes dressed in a white dress and tights and is standing in her cot which I happen to notice is full of urine and excrement. When she sees me she starts to cry, calling out to me, heavy tears running down her face, wanting me to help her. Im horrified by her predicament and quickly rush to lift her out of the filth, but just as Im about to grab her she vanishes.

* * *

Ive been having this dream for years.

Ken

[ Your father ] outlines how he sought help from Social Workers, District Nurse/Health Officer, a Doctor and other health professionals but it never arrived. He places a large proportion of blame on the Health Boards for lack of action and support .

14 November 2003 An Garda Sochna

M y brother Patrick remembers my first beating, of which I assume I was completely unaware. He was just five years old when he watched our mother punching herself again and again in her pregnant stomach while shouting at the top of her voice, I dont want this fucking child!

Which was me. My father told her to calm down, that having a baby was something natural and anyway she couldnt stop it from happening now. In response she screamed obscenities at the bump, until Patsy, my father, lost his temper and told her to shut up in case the neighbours heard. With that she marched over to the window, opened it and bellowed out for anyone to hear that the neighbours did not pay her rent whatever that meant. My father reacted in his customary way: he told her she was sick and took himself off to the pub in disgust. As soon as he closed the door behind him she began to wail, calling me, the unborn foetus, all sorts of dreadful names, punctuating her diatribe with several more hard thumps to her belly.

I cannot say that I remember this, but it was certainly a hard thing to forget once I was told about it. Imagine someone hating you before you are even born. Does that make it more personal or less so? It would appear that no matter how I turned out, or whatever I looked like, I never had a chance for her love.

When I was a year old, my fathers parents reported their daughter-in-law to the Irish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children (ISPCC) in Athlone. The year was 1965 and six-year-old Patrick was caught stealing food from peoples bins because his mother often did not allow him to eat or drink. They also saw his scrawny and badly bruised back, after a recent beating when my father, utterly bewildered, rushed Patrick around to their house so that they could tend to the cuts with iodine and cotton wool. From what we can piece together the only consequence was war in our house, and all us children were banned from ever visiting our grandparents again. If anybody asked us any questions our only answer was to be, I dont know. My fathers sister, our beloved Aunt Tess, who lived in America, got on a plane and flew home to beg Patrick to return to the States with her where she promised to take care of him. He refused, saying he didnt want to leave his mother. After all, what six-year-old does?