I wonder what gravestone carvers think as they carve yet another name on a head stone. I suppose they are not emotionally involved. Gravestones have always fascinated me especially if the person died young. My grandmother’s daughter died age just thirteen. I watched my grandmother kneeling at her grave. She didn’t have a headstone, just a flimsy wooden cross. She was laid to rest under a tree at Halley’s Mount, named after an astronomer who visited the island at the beginning of the century. It was rumoured that her daughter died two days after my grandfather physically abused her. My nan never recovered from the loss even though she went on to have seven more children. She kisses the small grave and says “goodbye Lilly see you next time”. She looks up at me and says “you are a pretty girl Dottie, God has certainly graced you with good looks”. I always feel so happy when she praises me. She dampens my happiness by asking me to be a good girl and to upset papa when we get home. Our house was a dismal, grim loveless place. I really hated living there. Papa would be waiting for us. He always wore a trilby hat pulled down just above his eyes. He was violent and sadistic. He called me a bastard and said he hated every bone in my body. My teacher said I had around 210 bones, even at 5 years old I thought it was a lot of hatred. He even said I would come to a sad end, this really did frighten me as I thought he had cursed me. I tried my hardest to be good. I wanted him to love me the same as he did my cousins. They had a dad and I didn’t know who my father was, nor did my teenage mother. Rape was rife on the island. She left when I was 18 months old. My grandmother did her best to care for me The sheer sound of my child like giggles and laughter would send my grandfather into a frenzy. He was blinded with cataracts, he would throw pieces of wood, stones and anything he could lay his hands on, his aim was accurate, I still have the scars. My social worker Mr Ward called at our house quite frequently, but in my day children didn’t speak. papa did all the talking, listening to him saying I was bad and lazy made me feel worthless. mama and I sat whimpering the whole time.
My grandmother and I didn’t have any choice but to get on with papa’s vile cruel behaviour. I didn’t really understand the full extent of papa’s hatred towards me, until the night the priest called to tell us my grandmother had died, she was just 62 years old. I watched papa walk towards his chair and put his head into his hands and repeatedly said “oh my God Dolly has died and left Dottie with me”. My grandmother’s name was Dorothy and I was named after her. The next day the Salvation Army captain took me to live with his family. I’d endured years of physical, emotional and sexual abuse, I was safe at last. I missed my grandmother terribly, but believe me, rape out weighs grief. I have the most beautiful memories of my grandmother, she taught me to pray, to forgive, to selflove and respect. She read me uncle Toms cabin, Gladys Aylward and the story of Moses. She sang to me, she had the most amazing voice. She was my roll model and my inspiration. And most of all she would say “always do the right thing, you know when you have done right, and everything will come right one day”. I love you always sweet mama.x
Oct 02
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Dorothy Maude My Life
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My name is Dorothy and I want to share with the world my trial and tribulations from St. Helena to where I now reside in England.My Photos
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