My Irish Grandfather
When I was in my early twenties I visited my mum, she made us both a cup of coffee, sat me down and said she had something she wanted to tell me. Something about her past. Something about her family. Up until then my mum’s side of the family was her brother, George, and her. And that was it. I was immediately interested but when I saw the etched look of concern on my mother’s face I realized this wasn’t going to be all sweetness and light. She wanted to tell me something. And it was important. And I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be very nice.

And that’s when my mum told me she’d been a product of rape.

This shook me to the core. I really wasn’t expecting this. My mum went on to explain that all her brother, my uncle, was also the product of rape. Apparently my grandfather, my mum’s dad, was an incredibly violent drunkard back in Waterford in Ireland where my mum originally hails from. He’d come home from the pub every night and rape my grandmother. And from that act of contempt and violence, my mum and all her siblings were born.

My mum went on to tell me that her great grandfather, a man mountain of a man (probably explains where my Uncle George got his monumental size from; he went on to do all that Britain’s Strongest Man stuff on the telly in the eighties), sat her down when she was about seven and said:

“If that man ever lays a finger on my daughter or any of my grandchildren, you come and find me. No matter what time. You come and find me.”

This conversation came about after my mum, aged seven, had told this brick shithouse of a man that she’d often see: “Dad beating up mum,” when he got back from his night’s out. My great grandfather, I imagine, suspected as much. But his daughter – my grandmother – always stuck up for her lay about husband, the man who raped her and stole all her money to spend on booze and gambling.

I sat, sipped my coffee and my mum continued, I could tell this was really hurting her. But she continued. I could tell she really needed to get this off her chest, once and for all. And that’s when she said:

“Then one terrible winter’s night my father came home drunk like always. I heard screams from downstairs. Horrible screams and clattering as he knocked my mum round the kitchen. I sneaked down, trembling, and caught sight of my mother’s bloody face as she cried and tried to protect herself against my father’s blows. He had a look of pure evil about him. Pure, pure evil. And so – only wearing my nightly – I tip-toed past the kitchen door, down the landing, opened the front door as quietly as I could, and I raced into the wind and rain in my bare feet.

“I knew where my grandfather would be. He’d always have a drink of an evening in the same place. So I went up to the door of this big old pub and walked inside. It was full of men and the smell of the smoke and stale alcohol was strange to me, but I found him – he was hard to miss, must’ve been seven feet tall and twenty-five stone of muscle, you’re great grandfather,” she stopped, took a sip of her drink. She then went on to describe how my great grandfather upon seeing her, rapped his coat round her and said simply: “Has it happened again, Kathleen?”

And with that he dropped my mother, soaked to the skin and cold, back off at his house first, then said grimly: “I’m going to go have a talk with your daddy,” and with that he went.

And my mum looked me straight in the eye and said: “And I never saw my father again after that night.”

My first thought was: Jesus, they killed him! But no. My mum went on to explain he received a severe kicking. The beating of his life. And he was advised to move away. Immediately. And he did and was never seen again. Rumor has it he went to the States. I suddenly had so many questions, but my mum stopped me:

“I received a letter today from someone in Dublin stating they knew the man. He died a month or so ago and they were letting me know.”

“Are you…” I really didn’t know what to say. I settled on: “upset?

My mum thought long and hard. “No,” she said. “That man hurt my mother for years. He was a terrible, terrible man. I don’t feel anything for him. I’m not sad. I’m not happy. I just feel nothing at all…”
( SpankyHanky, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:11, 13 replies)

Abhorrent
Stuff, but very nicely told.
( SigmaX0 Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:18, closed)

That's horrendous!
Such conversations should be had over a cup of tea not coffee!

That was really well told though.
( Dervel OTBC, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:23, closed)

Fuck me Spanky!
That's was very sobering. I'm not sure whether to click or not
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:48, closed)

Kudos to you...
...for sharing that one mate. Click to your great-grandfather.
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:59, closed)

Fucking hell m8
Me grandad did the same to me nan, but it only came out after he'd died. We always knew he was a nasty old cunt; even so as he was dead they swept it under the carpet and wouldn't speak of it again.

Never really understood the saying "Ignorance is almost as bad as the crime" until witnessing it 1st hand.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:08, closed)

Have a click...
...and a strong cup of sympathy. Some folks need killin'. And thank you; I'm starting to think maybe I can tell my story.
(springjack The King Of Pygmy Marmosets!, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:15, closed)

The mental image of my teeny-tiny little kid mother
running through the streets barefoot in the pouring rain to go and find her hard as fuck grandad resonates with me. It's an image that comes too readily to my mind and I thought I'd share this.

The terrible thing is my mum's family used to own a shipping company and were fucking loaded. This cunt of a grandfather of mine gambled the fortune away before he got his well-deserved beating.

And that means now instead of living the life of luxery on a desert island somewhere I have to go to fucking work instead. Bastard.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:21, closed)

'Kin'ell Spanky
I was expecting one of your usual deviant stories, but that was a realling hard hitting tale. Sorry for anyone to go through that.

It seems wrong to click "I like this". Although I will admit I do enjoy tales of people getting a well deserved comeuppance.
(Blue_in_Exile, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 18:35, closed)

Fuck.
Grim stuff. A click seems paltry consolation, but it's all I have to offer.
(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_ =o.o=, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 20:57, closed)

Jesus that's horrible.
Your mum is incredibly strong to come through that. *hugs*
( Maladicta, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 22:17, closed)

I hate the name of that button.
Clicked it though.

Good on yer mum for being... well, for being around. And getting on with things.
(Scritty Bakerman., Fri 13 Nov 2009, 0:15, closed)

I think for this week
We'll all just have to rename it the 'well told story' button or the 'fukkin hell that's harsh' button.

click
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 1:26, closed)