Cry Silent Tears: The heartbreaking survival story of a small mute boy who overcame unbearable suffering and found his voice again. Joe Peters
his lovely father going up in flames in front of his eyes, just a few weeks ago. The two of them were so close, it’s hit him hard.’
The doctor examined me and listened to everything she had to say and then explained what he thought had happened.
‘I believe Joe has been struck mute from the shock of what he’s witnessed,’ he said gently.
He was obviously as concerned about upsetting her as he was about whatever was wrong with me.
‘William was such a good husband and father,’ she started up again. ‘This is a tragedy for the whole family, but especially for Joe. And now my little boy has been struck dumb as well. How long will it be before he can talk again and get back to his normal self?’
‘It could just be a short-term condition,’ the doctor said doubtfully, obviously not having a clue. ‘Or it could be a long-term problem. We’ll just have to see how things develop.’
By the time we left the surgery the penny had dropped in Mum’s head that I actually had become mute, and it wasn’t just an act. She was partly annoyed with me for causing her yet more inconvenience and for trying to draw more attention to myself, but I suspect there was a part of her brain that was already beginning to see the possibilities, even at that stage. If I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t tell any tales.
It would be four and a half years before I was able to speak properly again and by striking me mute my brain had finally delivered me completely into Mum’s power. I was totally helpless. Now that I couldn’t speak, my frustration grew even greater, exploding out into uncontrollable physical tantrums and I started hitting furniture, throwing things and kicking doors in my silent rages. I didn’t realize it, but the worse I behaved the more I was playing into Mum’s hands, proving just what a difficult child I was and what a wonderful woman she was to be bringing me up on her own, especially when she had so many other children to care for at the same time.
Mum actually seemed to enjoy violence, relishing watching it almost as much as she relished doling it out herself. She used to rig up a sort of boxing ring in the second lounge at the house and make my three oldest brothers fight each other, with her as their coach and cheerleader as well as their audience. The room was not as smart as the rest of her home since she displayed all her best furniture in the other lounge. It was a part of the house that no one from outside the family would ever be invited into. It contained just an old fire and a tatty settee and chair. It would have been a comfortable ‘family room’ if we had been the kind of happy family to have such a thing. It was certainly a place where Mum could relax and unwind and not worry if there was some blood spilled on the carpet. There were always curtains drawn across the windows, with nets pulled tight behind them for extra protection against prying eyes. Even if she opened the windows to let in some air she still wouldn’t part the curtains, not wanting anyone from the outside world to be able to glimpse into her private fiefdom and witness what she was getting up to. When she felt like some entertainment she would sit down in that room with a cup of tea, pushing the older boys on and on like gladiators in Ancient Rome, until one of them drew blood.
‘Go on,’ she’d jeer at them, ‘punch him! Fucking kill him!’
If they tried to refuse they would get a beating from her, which would be far worse than anything they could do to each other. It didn’t matter if they were really hurt, she would insist they continued to fight until blood had been spilled, beating them with a garden cane if they tried to stop. She couldn’t allow any disobedience, couldn’t show a single moment of weakness or kindness in case it undermined the terror that she relied on in order to reign supreme over us all. Once one of them was bleeding she would allow him to come out of the ring and she would bring in another to take on the winner. She would tell them that she was just trying to teach them how to fight, toughening them up so they would be able to look after themselves in the outside world, but it seemed more like she did it to indulge her own blood¬ lust. The only person they really needed to protect themselves from was their own mother.
Most of the violence in the house was inflicted directly by her. If any of us dared to disobey her, or even just looked at her in the wrong way, she would immediately lay into us in a blind rage. Sometimes she wouldn’t even need to have a reason; she would just become angry and take it out on whoever was nearest. She would grab Thomas and me by the hair and literally swing us round by it until our feet lifted off the ground, sending us hurtling into the walls. Her strength sometimes seemed superhuman. If she didn’t manage to get a satisfying liftoff first time she would repeat the manoeuvre until she got it right.
As part of her hard-done-by widow act, Mum successfully sued the garage for several thousand pounds in compensation for Dad’s death, and Graeme closed the business down soon afterwards. Dad’s best friend Derek felt so guilty about not being able to save Dad when the flames were engulfing him that he wrote a suicide note and drove his car off the motorway, killing himself in the crash. It seemed as though the repercussions from that little gust of wind were going to go on forever, like ripples on a pond disturbed by a stone.
Mum was determined to crush my spirit and put a stop to my disruptive behaviour once and for all and she beat me up so violently, so often, that I finally understood I must never question her or so much as look at her directly again. She was constantly warning me that next time I annoyed her she would kill me and as I lay on the floor in a battered heap I had no reason to doubt her. She made no effort to hold back the full force of her strength when she hit out; there was no self-control, no fear of causing damage, no worries about killing someone. It had become normal for me to be punched in the head or kicked over and over again for no reason at all. Even if I was behaving myself I still drove her mad, just because I was there and because I reminded her of the humiliation Dad and Marie had put her through.
The fact that I was now virtually silent, making only little squeaking noises instead of speaking, seemed to fuel her annoyance even further. It was as if she believed I was mocking her with my whimpering, my pleading eyes and frantically shaking head as I tried to dissuade her from hitting me any more. As far she was concerned I was no longer a human being; I had degenerated into a hated animal to be kicked and punched and abused at every opportunity, like a beaten dog slinking around in the shadows with its head down and eyes to the floor.
When I first lost my voice I found other ways to communicate. If I wanted something I would point at it and grunt and even that would drive her mad and so soon I stopped communicating at all. She made no secret of the fact that she detested me more and more every day; nothing I could have done would have made any difference by that stage.
‘Don’t fucking point,’ she would snarl, giving me such a hard slap I would be knocked off my feet.
‘Don’t fucking look at me!’
‘You smell fucking terrible!’
Everything was an excuse to hit me. It went on and on and on. She channelled every ounce of anger and disappointment she felt towards the world in general and my father in particular, and took it out on me. She would encourage the others to do the same and Larry and Barry were happy to cooperate, delighted to have someone so much further down the family pecking order than themselves. They always wanted to do things to please her, and they soon learned that any humiliation they wanted to inflict on me would earn her approval as well as satisfying their own sadistic instincts.
I was still sleeping on the floor in Larry and Barry’s room. Wally had his own room at the top of the house and Thomas and Ellie shared another room. I would have much preferred to have been in with them but I knew better than to argue with any decision Mum made. I had to stay in the bedroom all day long, except at mealtimes, but I wasn’t allowed to play with anything in there that belonged to my brothers. If I so much as touched one of their belongings I would be given a beating and I had nothing of my own to play with. The boredom of just sitting there all day long increased the feelings of isolation and frustration that were building up inside me, until I was just itching to break out into mischief or destruction but never daring to.
At night I had no mattress or pillow, only a single blanket. Larry and Barry shared a double bed and resented having me in the house as much as Mum did. They bullied me at every opportunity and whenever