When I was a little, I used to tell classmates that my mum was a famous actress who was always jet-setting around the world and that was why nobody had seen her. But it wasn’t true. I just couldn’t bring myself to reveal the truth about my mother – it was too horrible and it was a secret that I carried with me for decades.
What happened to her is actually my first memory. I was only two but I can still recall my father, owen Foley, a respected Christchurch police officer, kicking my mum, Eileen, to death in our home. My elder sister, Mary-Anne, and I were absolutely helpless and could only look on. There was nothing we could do to help her.
our little brother, John, 18 months old, was somewhere else in the house at the time. oum was only 34 and she was six months pregnant with her fourth child. The senseless violence occurred when she asked my father to help her more around the house, but he wanted to go to the beach instead.
He then accused her of ripping one of his shirts and punched her, knocking her to the ground. The kicks continued, over and over. I think what finally killed her was when he kicked her in the temple.
I didn’t understand what had happened, even when my father dragged oum’s body to their bedroom, lay her on the bed and then called the police himself. Looking back, there was domestic violence going on, but it wasn’t mentioned. I can see now that was why she would spend long periods of time in Wellington with her mother, staying until someone said, “You’d better go back to your husband.”
Those visits were probably a cry for help. The newspapers at the time said there were no witnesses to the attack, even though Mary-Anne and I had seen it. In the end, our father was charged with manslaughter and served three years in jail.
oy sister and I went to live with our grandmother in Wellington, while little John went to an orphanage. We all knew what had happened, but the whole ordeal was shrouded in secrecy and I grew up not being allowed to talk about it.
For our grandmother, losing a daughter in such a horrible way was too hard for her to talk about and I always felt trapped by her silent pain. When I turned five, I was sent to boarding school, and that’s when other children started asking why my mum wasn’t around. So I used to fantasise that my mother was an international actress and tell stories about her.
I finally got caught out when I was eight and one of the girls in my class publicly revealed the truth. “Your mother is dead! She was killed by your dad!” she said, pointing at me. Even now, I feel the shame and pain of that moment, as everyone stared at me in horror. I was a killer’s daughter.
After that, I changed the story and if strangers asked, I would say my mum had died of cancer. I buried my mother’s death in my memory and tried not to let it torment me, even though it was always on my mind.
When I grew up, I became a mother to two children myself but I was in my forties when something happened that changed everything. I was watching TV and there was an ad for volunteers at a local family violence centre. Immediately, I knew what I had to do. This was a chance to not only deal with the pain I had locked inside, but to also help others.
Being involved with the centre motivated me to finally seek counselling and decades after I watched my father kill my mum, I was able to let it out and begin to heal. The experience was so profound I quit my job as a lawyer’s assistant and began working for the Women’s Refuge.
Today, I’m the manager of the Supportline Women’s Refuge Trust, providing a safe haven for families affected by violence and helping them rebuild their lives. I understand how women keep the secret of violence for so long because I’ve carried that burden and been affected by it myself.
Working in this area has made me realise that we all need to break the silence. That’s the only way to stop it. Women and children are still deeply ashamed about violence in the home, just as they were when my mother was killed. But they don’t need to be. There is help for women in violent relationships, and if you think someone you know may be a victim, don’t turn a blind eye offer to help.
Nobody did that for my mother and every year there are more cases of women suffering like she did. It’s time for change.
As for my father, when he was released from jail, he was able to get on with his life. He remarried and I saw him on rare occasions. I tried to get him to talk about what he had done but it was fruitless. He never addressed it.
Until his death in 1981, I tolerated him, but I never, ever respected him. I only attended his funeral through a sense of duty. He took away my opportunity to grow up with my mother as part of my life. I had to learn from other people that she was a beautiful and caring woman who was devoted to her children.
I’m a grandmother myself now, and the only memory I have of my mum is of her cruel and brutal death. But that memory has inspired me to help other women in her position. I am certain in my heart that she would be proud of me.
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