Please Help Me

By Joan Davy

When I was 4 I remember walking on paving stones: avoiding the cracks, living in the moment with a nice clear mind. Grandma looked after me while my mother worked.

When I was 7 life changed when my mother married someone she hardly knew. I am taken to hell to live with them. I believe in hell. It was at Number 34. There was no grown-up to stop the deluge of abuse. A blanket is thrown over my mind and I hide under it. Worry and anxiety have seeped into my soul and there they stay.

At sixteen I think I have been clever to get pregnant so I can marry and get away but I am trapped. I worry about what is happening with my half-sisters.

At twenty my mind is not coping and I urgently need someone to help me but there is still no one to turn to. Thats the day a visitor enters my kitchen and lets me see something beyond my wildest imagination.

Can I tell you about it?

Every word is true.

Through my future life struggles I am told I can contact the visitor for help anytime. And I do. Often.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483622217

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Joan Davy.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 05/21/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-800-618-969

www.xlibris.com.au

[e-mail]

503131

Contents

Chapter 1 Introduction to Fear

Chapter 2 Mrs Cook

Chapter 3 Ten Pound Poms

Chapter 4 Breaking Down

Chapter 5 Single Lady?

Chapter 6 Another Badly Tied Knot

Chapter 7 Mr Right Was Wrong

Chapter 8 Goodbye, Mum and ‘Dad’

Chapter 9 Still a Deluded Single

Chapter 10 The Problem of Worry

Many thanks to Jolie and Brian. I could not have managed

without their help to write this book.

DEDICATED

TO

EVONNE AND YVONNE

H ello reader, my name is Jolie. I’ve always believed everything happens for a reason and my meeting Joan was no accident. Joan came to work with me about 10 years ago at which time I introduced her to my mum and they became the best of friends. As we all got to know each other, Joan would tell me bits and pieces about her life and I soon realized that Joan had a story to tell.

One day Joan said she would like to write her memoirs and I said to her if you write it I’ll type it, and that’s what happened. Joan was not computer literate, but boy has she learned a lot about computers since those days! Joan would give me 4 pages of handwritten manuscript which I would type and return and then she would give me the next lot of writing.

As you will discover when reading Joan’s memoirs, she has been through life’s damages and sadness but she still has an amazing spirit. Joan, the woman I know and love, is intelligent, resourceful, incredibly kind hearted and compassionate. Joan also has a wonderful sense of humour and doesn’t mind making fun of herself.

I’m quite sure that you will experience a wide range of emotions reading this book. You will probably gasp, laugh, get angry, judge, cry, but most of all; you will be reading a true account of one woman’s life.

Joan’s faith in God has kept her strong and I am sure you will admire her as you read her journey through life so far.

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Me and Mum

Chapter 1

Introduction to Fear

H ow can this place earn the title of ‘home’ with all the implications of the word? I will now refer to it as No. 34 instead, an environment oppressive and void of fresh air, slum-like dirty, where a friend will not be invited, the embarrassment overwhelming.

When the front door is opened, the smells hit you first—the odour of strong red bloody urine wafting down, emanating from the metal bucket under the bed upstairs, and the fumes, hard to breathe through, hit your nose and throat if you are not used to them. A row of hooks hold ancient heavy wet smelly coats, hung up any old how, damp on wet.

Welcome! Bodies here are rarely washed neither is the one set of clothing they live inside. Discarded socks can stand alone, underwear drops to bits, and mouldy rags lie in the bath. Windows and doors remain locked through the four seasons, and the coal fire burns night and day, the red hot coals are held up by the poker. It’s an iron one, cooking itself from brown to red and emerging white, an object of terror, an instrument for torture in the wrong pair of nervous hands.

Phlegm is coughed up and aimed to hit the flames, usually missing, sizzling downwards. The thick green globules, drying, disintegrate, disgusting, but they finally disappear. The walls are decorated with various dinner remains the thrower threw the wallpaper; it’s stained with gravy, nicotine, coal dust, and greasy unidentified matter—its original pattern obliterated, its colour questionable.

Neighbours bequeath to us their third—and fourth-hand furniture. A settee shiny with dirt, the fabric split, the springs springing out, odd mismatched chairs; old threadbare carpets weighty with grit; bits of lino… all greatly received and utilised. One piece of furniture has a future, but for now, ‘the sideboard’ is venerated as being exceptional amongst its peers. Tall and heavy, ornate with clusters of berries, boasting a mirror, ugly and unpolished, belonging in someone else’s memory. When it reaches the grand status of ‘antique’, it will be sold for far less than market value. The majority did not cherish this wood monstrosity.

Square, heavy, central, and covered in clutter and stewed tea stands our table upon which is presented some kind of substitute for food, invariably the cause of arguments, smashed plates, smashed up people. Do not be present at our table, Lord!

The TV is a rental set, and its corner home protects it as it may give the results which notify a win on the football pools, the fortune that will change our lives, some false hope every Saturday. Visitors would not see beyond this setting, but they would smell wet dog, fishy acidic sweat, oily work overalls, burnt food, grime, and fear.

It’s an atmosphere that stifles, stupefies, saps energy, and renders one sleepy, lazy, and useless. Only the coal is fresh and clean. Flies stick to the glue paper that dangles from the light bulb, every space taken. The place is in semi-darkness with the thick pulled filthy curtains, barely a chink of outside coming inside to cheer us or to embrace us and encourage the belief that we will be outside this room looking in or back. But we will…

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Marilyn, Margaret and Me

‘Granny Blake’ filled the empty jam jar half full of salt. ‘Come on. Joan, follow me.’ she said. I was being led down the garden path, holding the jar with no idea what it was for. It would be around June 1948 and one of the very first solid memories, as I was only four years old. We lived at 33 Kenyon Road Portsmouth in England, Granny’s house. ‘Granny Blake’ always wore a full-length apron. She was then in her sixties and very attractive. Even as a small child, I could see she had a special bearing, a bit like royalty, and I was in awe of her. This day she was very intent on locating something. Selecting the big green leaves on the large purple irises, she bent over to examine them, and all at once it happened. Plop! The huge brown shiny snail dropped into agony. It was sizzling in death throes from murder by salt, and I was taking part. Another followed, and soon Granny Blake, flushed with satisfaction, could boast a full jar of tormented dying creatures, me staring on in bewilderment.

I remember thinking that this was so cruel. Usually she was quite kind and looked after me when my mother was at work. My mother seemed to be always at work, except on Sundays when she washed me down in the ‘scullery’. If I was good, two pieces of chocolate followed the ritual. If I ever had a bath, I do not remember it. What I do remember is hunger—ever with me, my tummy never ever content. Granny Blake would serve me a grey broth with bits of onion, potatoes, and unidentified bony pieces. There was also a slice of bread cut in two. It was not enough, and when I was allowed down from the table, I did not feel any different still hungry! When my mother would take me to bed, she would snack on cheese and cracker biscuits. I would just about beg to share some, but my mum said cheese would make me dream, so I was not allowed any and went to sleep hungry.

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Granny Blake

Marilyn lived next door but one. She had a mother and father and a large bowl of fruit. Sometimes, when I was waiting for her to come and play with me, I would stare at the fruit, willing a peach or banana to find its way to me. If Mrs Atkins could just notice me looking, maybe she would say, ‘Would you like a piece of fruit, Joan?’ This never happened, and I was jealous that Marilyn would just be able to take some without me even being asked.

Margaret Stafford was going to be five, and she would have a birthday party and I was invited. When I saw the food all set out for the party, I just attacked it at random, quickly making myself sick, and was taken home in disgrace. I had been worried over not having a pretty dress; Margaret and Marilyn had pretty dresses. I seemed to only have a kilt and jumper that were worn every day.

There were little piles of three-penny bits, pennies, sixpences, and halfpennies arranged around the house by Granny Blake. I knew that I could take some coins without them being missed. At my first chance, I would buy a little cake or tart from the grocer. The plan had holes in it, because I could not enjoy the ill-gotten gains for fear of being found out! I imagined that the grocer would tell Granny Blake, and she would know that I pinched her money.

I was quite a lonely, hungry, sad little girl. My grandmother and mother gave off certain vibes when they were together. These feelings were negative and void of any happiness. It seemed to me that we were not really wanted there and did not belong. I would spend ages outside, sitting in the gutter, watching for Mum to come home. It was quite a long street, Kenyon Road, and on seeing the distant body approaching with its side-to-side gait, after waiting hours and hours, I would have a childlike anti climax as my mother was not happy and could not help me to be happy either. Somehow though, someone taught me to read. I had The Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Luis Stevenson. This was followed by Winston Churchill and books about the war. My child self thought I might be quite clever!

I must have learnt to read in the freezing cold winter months when they could not send me outside. It was around this time that I started school and had no friends. Marilyn was one year younger than me, and she was my only friend. Sitting alone in the playground, I did not play, but looked forward to Mrs Love, a kind teacher, taking our class for reading and writing.

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Before Abuse

I began to wonder about my dad; I sometimes heard my mother and Granny Blake talk about him until they realised I was nearby. Then one night I was called downstairs and saw that the front door was open, and I heard my mother telling me that somebody wanted to look at me. This person was a man with thick glasses made of lots of circles, so you could not see his eyes. He seemed very interested in me, but it was all over quick and I never saw him again. This was my father. He was Reginald Christopher Davy (born in London, 1915).

I could remember Grand dad Blake but only just. He had died the same time as my tortoise, but grown-ups did not talk about death back then, so they both disappeared from my life, along with the man with the funny glasses. We never talked about this man again.

These are some things that made me happy:

My granny Blake who was so good at keeping the house nice and clean. Next, my red coat. A piece of toast from the toasting fork in front of the fire, the lilac tree, Father Christmas, and when we had a Sunday school picnic to Peterborough.

Most of all, it was Marilyn. So I had a safe life, and I did not have any fears. Already apparent by the time I was six was an awareness that there was no one there for me. My bond was to my Granny Blake, but as far as my mother was concerned, I did not know her, even though she lived with us, and I managed without her.

Meanwhile, my only perceived bond was to be severed swiftly, and I had no say in the matter. It all happened so fast. I had been just sliding down the banister, you see, one day when my Granny Blake and mother seemed to be getting ready for a visitor; I wondered what was going on. Granny Blake seemed worried as she let me know that my mother had invited a friend to visit us. My reaction at first was surprise as no one ever came to our house! Granny was a loner, so who could this be? Out of nowhere, Mum appeared with a short man, and if I had been an animal, my hairs would have stood up on end. If I was a dog, I would have growled! The short man was introduced as ‘Uncle Freddy’, and my insides turned over and collapsed. I was aged seven.

Uncle Freddy said, ‘I am going to be your new daddy,’ and saliva ran down his chin as he lowered his drunken self down to be level with me. In an instant, I knew fear. How could I explain at seven years of age that all my instincts were on high alert? Later, my mother told me she just had to get me a dad. She tried to make me feel that this new dad was all for my benefit! Suddenly she was Mrs George Fredericks, and I was on honeymoon with her and him. I wasn’t wanted. We only had two bedrooms. Granny Blake’s in the front one and me and Mum had the back one. A screen was pushed around my bed, and the night-times were noisy.

There was whispering and wee-wee, loud and long in the chamber pot, and different sounds that did not make sense. My tummy had a knot in it that no one else knew about. My grandma was no longer the one with me all the time, and then I was adopted and I was no longer Joan Stewart Davy.

I was Joan Stewart Fredericks and had to call Uncle Freddy Dad! Worst of all, we three were going away. A long way away!

Outside No. 33 was a black car, waiting to take us to the railway station and then to London. From London, we would get on another train to a place whose name I did not know. Standing at the gate was Granny Blake. She waved as the car left the kerb, and through the back window, I waved her out of my life and did not understand that I would not see her for seven years and she would no longer be able to protect me, or know what would happen to me.

Some of my thoughts were that maybe this might be an adventure because I had read about those and they sounded happy. But worry was settling deep into me as ‘Dad’ was just so very scary and seemed to be able to boss my mother around. He called me ‘Joanie’. I hated that name. I hated that name! I hated this name!

It was a long day, and our destination was a dirty, industrial area in West Yorkshire. Ninety-nine arches bore up the railway line, and we were to live underneath them, where ‘Dad’ lived with his first wife before she died. Four brick terrace houses one room up and one down all back to back. So there were blocks of eight and two toilets. There was a cellar for the coal and a box room which was to be my bedroom. One bed and nothing else fit this space. The place had old furniture with a sideboard and a mirror that I was not to damage, and it was a dark house and nothing like a nice adventure! I did not feel happy at all.

My mother was now living in a very different environment. The trains belched up smoke and covered the windows and washing in layers of soot. Then those Yorkshire women made no attempt to welcome us. Dad was desperate to go to the Working Man’s Club, where he spent most of his life. Mum thought things would be okay… . as Dad sang in the choir at the Anglican church! However, when the reality hit home of how her life would now be, she must have been in shock. I began to bite, which was my way of reacting to all the changes, and Mum was my victim. She seemed to enjoy telling people about that.

I did not speak like the other kids in the neighbourhood and did not fit in. At school, I was close to the top of my class, but that would soon change. I needed my Granny Blake, I needed to get help. I had thought when my new dad asked me to sit on his lap he wanted to be nice to me, but he only wanted to show me what boys did when you grew up. He made me let him do things that I was sure were bad things, but I was not allowed to say no and he had stick thing in his trousers. I did not know what it was.

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After Abuse

He said I would have to always say no to boys though. I was ashamed like when Marilyn and I talked about ‘bums’, but this was much worse! Dad would come home from the pub in one of two moods. Either he would be violent and smash anything around including us, use terrible words, and cover my mother in bruises, beating and belting her and me and kicking and spitting and threatening to kill us because we were useless. Or, he would be more subdued and get me on his knee and touch my private inside parts while telling me that if I told, he would go to prison and we would have no home. He also said he would kill me, and I believed him! Sometimes, he held my hand and walked me to the big Anglican church on Sunday mornings before he took me to church, but I knew what he would be doing later that day to me.

‘Please help me somebody, anybody, or God if you are real,’ I prayed.

Mum was usually asleep, trying to escape all the rows and very, very depressed; she was trapped, and there was no escape. It would be the early hours of the morning when the bed springs on their bed were silent that it would be over; then I might be able to sleep. Each night, I would lie in bed in the box room, listening for the sound of the boots arriving home. Voices, then ‘Where is Joan?’ He would find me and drag me down the stairs and start the rambling that came before the beatings. He would say, ‘When you grow up and even before, you will open your legs for anyone.’ These words played on my mind and made me feel guilty and dirty.

I was seven, and this was harder to take than all the physical suffering. My mother just stood by somewhere, listening. My spirit would gather some strength, and as Mum could not defend herself, I tried to deflect the fists and the boots and the bashings. My spirit was proud, and I would not register pain. However, it was like living in constant fear all day, every day. We had woodgrain wallpaper on the staircase and the wall at the top of the stairs. Evil faces began to jump out at me, and I was sure they were real. When I lay in bed, the best way to cope was to close my eyes so I could not see them and put my fingers in my ears. I did this so when the boots were coming closer I would not hear, but this did not work and I never went to sleep until after each night’s terror passed.

My mind blanked over and did not work properly, and my schoolwork slumped and I could not keep up. I wanted to run away but did not have anywhere to run and nobody to run to. There was one thing… we were now eating bread and potatoes, and I was not hungry. When it was too cold for ‘Dad’ to go to the pub or if he was too broke, he would send me. I would have to get bottles of beer and maybe a packet of crisps. It would be dark, and I would slip and slide on the icy pavements. One time I was waiting at the bar side entrance for the beer; the grown-ups were being served, and I needed to wee badly. I dare not leave the queue as ‘Dad’ would be angry if I took ages, so I let the wee run down my legs and tried to pretend it was not happening. Stepping over my own puddle, I didn’t think anyone knew. I had to hurry up, or there would be trouble.

Scared all day, every day, my new dad was wicked to me, but if he had one he did give me sixpence though to buy cinder toffee or humbugs.

‘Dad’ would often hold the poker in the fire till it was white hot, and then he would threaten to scar me. I am scared even now at the thought of it all, and the terror still has me catching my breath, even though this all happened years ago! Soon, my mind was to undergo more pressure with a secret I had and could never tell.

The year after our move was so far really awful. My mother not only was unable to cope with her marriage, but had never been able to do basic housework. She could not clean or cook. She maintained 100 per cent victim status and was having a baby.

I would watch as she washed at the sink in the corner, her belly swelling, and see her scratch her genital area as she was itchy and complained that this was unbearable! I did not know what ‘thrush’ was, but to see her this way made me angry. I would think, ‘Why does she do this in front of