I’m probably in a mawdling mood, but I’m wondering how many of you old-timers, when you were children, suffered the stern rule of Edwardian fathers?

Outdoors and in company my own father was a pillar of the community. Indoors he was a tyrant, and I am quite sure that the only thing that stopped him from beating me — a four-year-old — to death was a female next-door neighbour’s threat to report him to the NSPCC!

My crime? I’d accidentally dropped his precious rule (three old pence from Woolworths) and broken it.

After that, he discovered other punishments. In those days (1920s-early 30s) families had their friends and they visited each other for an evening’s social chat.
One Sunday afternoon he and my equally long-suffering mother were entertaining visitors, and one of them gave me a threepenny bit specifically to buy some sweets.

I went across the road in great joy, bought my sweets and was about to take one out of the bag when he ordered me to “hand them round”. The visitor who gave me the money suggested that I should have them because he had, after all, given his money as a present.

But my Edwardian father refused. I had to hand them around “to teach me to be generous”, so I ended up offering them to his various friends, all of whom were obliged to take one — even though some didn’t agree with the idea.

When I’d handed them out the small bag was empty so my benefactor gave me another threepence to get some more. At that stage my money was commandeered by my father who said the shop would by then be closed.

I never got that threepenny bit back, and those friends of his never returned to the house again. In fact that man who gave me the money was ‘banned’!

For my fifth birthday my grand-mother bought me a two-wheeled bike. I had no idea of how to ride it, but simply because I hadn’t ridden in straight away he smashed it up with the biggest hammer he could find.

Later in life, and nothing really to do with me, he had the opportunity to buy a semi-detached, quite nice house for £300. After due consideration he refused to buy it. Why? Because all his Communist and Labour friends lived in Council houses and he didn’t want to be the odd man out!

What appeared to be a change of heart; a chance to atone for his sins came when circumstances saw us move into a very large house which had a billiards room capable of holding two full-sized tables.

He built me a really massive Gauge 0 model railway which the Sheffield and Ecclesall Co-op borrowed each Christmas for their toy department to run locos and rolling stock on.

At home, this railway included two passenger locos — The Flying Scotsman and The Bramham Moor — and a tank loco. Each passenger loco pulled three carriages. He once told me that the locos could not pull more than three, so while he was out I foolishly put it to the test. Having travelled a lot on trains, I hooked the two passenger locos together and the six carriages behind them — an d they flew around the track like birds!

Unfortunately, because of all the big windows my railway could be seen by all passers-by — including my father, who was livid when he arrived home. His punishment for me proving him wrong was to sell it lock, stock and barrel!

He also bought me a Number 10 Meccano outfit as a Christmas present, then sold it to a cousin for £10. However, by that time I was old enough to point out that it had been a present which he had no right to sell. He went livid again, but looked at the size of me and the muscles I’d developed, and threw me £10 on the table.

I could go on, but suffice it to say that I left school by arrangement with the educaton committee, one day before my fourteenth birthday and made my own way in the world.

Strangely, I have a brother who believes the sun shines out of his deceased a**e.
But shortly after he was born my mother divorced my father and my brother went to live with our grand-mother. He was saved from a lot of grief, but doesn’t realise it.

Peter, it is perfectly acceptable to be maudlin about treatment like that!

there are many "pillars of society" and "hail-fellows-well-met" that I knew who were, behind closed doors, wife beaters and child abusers (not in the paedophilia sense, but brutalisers)

The ironical thing is, I have witnessed a lot of them boasting "I would never hit a woman!" etc. etc.

One man in particular comes to mind, (a pastor of a church) He mercilessly beat hells-bells out of his poor wife and children, whilst masquerading as a bastion of respectability, po-facedly preaching all the thou shalts, and the thou shalt nots from his pulpit of a Sunday.

He ran away with the wife of one of his parishioners, getting her husband disfellowshipped from the church, in the process.

I can't remember my father hitting me at all but, by God, did my mother make up for it!!!

My sister and I lived in fear for as long back as I can recall. We were thrashed regularly with a leather strap and when we got to a certain age (I think it was 11) we 'qualified' for the buckle end. I once got beaten so badly with a large wooden spoon used for baking that I was bruised from the back of my knees to the middle of my back.

Usually we were told to "GET UP TO YOUR ROOM WHILE I FETCH THE STRAP" It would seem an eternity before we heard the sound of her footsteps and it was, in many ways, the fear and anticipation that was the worst part of the ordeal. Well, maybe not the worst, but a whole frightening experience in itself. On entering the room she would shout "I'M GOING TO THRASH YOU WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR LIFE" and sure as hell we believed it. We would be panic-stricken with fear and beg her not to hit us, but even this and the sight of us cowering in fright was not enough to stop her.

My dad left home when I was 13 and by this time I was pretty tall. (Good job I remembered to add the word tall there). One day my mother decided it was time to have another go at thrashing me 'within an inch of my life' (that's 2.45 centimetres for you young'uns brought up with the metric system). Well, I went up to her, looked down and told her that if she hit me ever again I would hit her back.

She never did hit me again, though the damage was done and I planned to leave home as soon as I could.

I left school just before my 15th birthday, got a job and, having a regular wage, I boarded at a friend's house. When I was 16 I got a bedsit at Nether Edge. Leaving home was one of the best things I have done in my life and certainly have no regrets even to this day.

Mum's dead now and, unfortunately, these are the memories I have.

Best years of my life? No way!

This story does have a happy and positive end though. Both my sister and I vowed that our own children would not grow up in fear and trepidation. Between us we have eight stable and sensitive children. Well, all but one are now adults and I'm proud to say that I've just become a Granddad.

Jass — like you, I have no regrets at leaving home either. The bedroom bit, waiting to be a punch-bag was an experience I also had — but by the time my father had reached the top of the stairs, I’d reached ground level by jumping out of the window — a feat which, I was later told, amazed him; probably because I escaped unscathed. I stayed away for around two days, with the police looking for me. It was winter, there was a light snow on the ground but I slept in the woods on the right as you go down Carter Knowle Road. (I’ve edited this. My mind isn’t what it used to be. For Carter Knowle Road read Brincliffe Edge Road)

I contemplated running away but was frightened that I might get caught. If I did go through with it I had to try and make sure it would work. With this in mind I got a small brown leather suitcase from the cupboard under the stairs and periodically nicked stuff from the pantry and elsewhere to add to my 'survival kit'.

There was a kind of small alleyway or passage that led to our back gate. It also served three other back gates. We were at the far end, and over the wall, just in from the pavement, was a disused garage and some overgrown land. It had always been overgrown as far as I could remember. To me it seemed the perfect place to hide the suitcase.

After I had hidden it there for - oh I don't know - three weeks perhaps, someone decided to clear the land.

Well, what were the chances? Seemingly a lifetime of neglect, yet as soon as I want to hide something there, some chuff decides to neaten the place up!

'Course, the first thing I know about it is when said chuff arrives at our door wondering if we happen to know anything about a small brown leather suitcase half filled with assorted groceries.

Needless to say, mum recognised the case instantly and was somewhat baffled by the whole thing. She questioned me about it and I tried to put on my most convincing innocent look whilst denying any knowledge of - that's right - a small brown suitcase half filled with assorted groceries.

Strangely, my mother didn't thrash me within 2.45 centimetres of my life. Nor did she even shout. Instead she went into a rather pensive mood and, no doubt, realised that I could have so easily run away from home.

It wasn't too long before she was back to her old self though - screaming and shouting, hitting and gouging, beating and strapping (with the buckle end).

I was way too frightened to risk the same plan again. I felt sure mum would be keeping a much closer eye on the cartons and tins in our pantry from then on.

Cheers, Jass

Nice try though. I reckon the clearing up was a million to one chance! When I went for good I took nothing other than what I stood up in. Found my mother many years later, purely by chance. I drove into a small Derbyshire village on the day of her marriage to a really nice guy — another million to one chance.

When my father died I went to the hospital to see him, but he parted this earth on similar bad terms; he never even looked at me.

Jass, I really feel for you with a mother like that!
Mine was the same - I was beginning to think I was the only person who was beaten and belted by her mother - but all done behind closed doors, while a gracious, smiling, caring respectable 'front' was presented to the neighbours.
I was told that I was a "horrible child...", "an ugly little so and so...", "Nobody likes you - you'll never have any friends...", "You can't do anything properly...you'll never be any good at anything..." and "Get out of my sight - I can't bear to look at you..."
And while all this was going on, she would be cuddling and petting her new daughter (7 years younger than me) and telling her how wonderful and special she was, and how much she loved her, while I was snivelling in a corner, or under the table.
My step father was as bad, but crafty with it: he'd say "It's no use you telling your mother (s. abuse ), as I'll say you're lying, and she'll hit you again...." All said with a laugh!
I haven't told anybody this before: my friends all have, or had, really loving Mothers, and I don't think they could begin to understand what my childhood was like.
I, too, ran away as soon as I could support myself, and haven't seen or spoken to any of them since. (40 years!)
One thing though - I've never, ever smacked my child, and he's still here, age 32, so the belief that children from violent homes will automatically turn into beaters and abusers, is not always correct!!!

I was never beaten with any sort of implement as a child. I was however subject to many a good pasting from my father with the flat of his hand. My mother had only to tell him that I had misbehaved and he would go into the full pasting mode before he had even removed his work boots. :mad:

All this petered out from about the age of 14 as I was in the process of becoming a rather big strapping lad, but I was determined not to forget. :nono:

I have always believed that revenge is a dish best served cold and on my 21st birthday I hit him once on the chin with such force that I rendered him unconscious for almost 30 minutes. :heyhey: :hihi:

To all — I didn’t expect any replies to this thread because most people don’t like to talk about their nightmare childhood. I sympathise with you because I know what you must have been through, but I must also say that simply by posting this thread I have experienced a sense of relief at having got something off my chest, so to speak.

There were times when I hid under the bed from my mother, although she knew I was there and dragged me out. The punishment would have been all the worse as she became even more incensed.

On one occasion, as she stompped up the stairs to my attic bedroom, I became so frightened that I put all my weight behind my door in an attempt to stop her from opening it. Strange really - so frightened about the inevitable thrashing, yet knowing that it would be worse when she got to me. And that was equally inevitable! I was just a small child, whilst she was a rather hefty adult who would have willingly broken the door down at this stage rather than concede defeat. If you can conjure up the image of a Russian shot-putter on steroids, then double it, that's pretty much how mum was.

On a slightly brighter note, I didn't mind the relative isolation of the attic bedroom. For the most part it was a kind of refuge. I could sort of distance myself from the rest of the house. And it could have been so much worse. After all, imagine the cold, dark, damp cellar!!!

Thanks mum x

Whilt writing my previous post on this subject, my mind wandered to thinking how it affected us as children. I wonder if anyone was affected in similar ways to myself (and I must stress that I am not prying here - I know this sort of thing is very personal).

Some of my behaviour was really quite bizarre looking back, although at the time I thought it was my fault that I was like that.

Some of my chilhood behaviour and habits I would not wish to discuss on this forum for obvious reasons, and that is why I would not wish to pry into the lives of other people.

Some behaviours I will 'admit to' were stubborn refusal to go to the toilet (which required hospital treatment for severe cramps/internal problems I started getting), and bed-wetting - a classical sign of things not being right, although this just got me into more trouble.

Lastly, and perhaps most worrying, was cutting myself with dad's razor blades. I have just looked at some of the scars that are still visible as if to remind myself that it really did happen.

Although these things happened long ago I will never forget. They are still not easy to talk about, and I feel that I am, to some extent, betraying my mother. Then again, perhaps even this is a legacy of how I was raised.

The scars are not merely physical, but mental too.

If, by any chance, there are people who read this thread, and who find it difficult to control their anger towards their children or partner, I would just ask that you think about what you are doing.

It isn't over when the thrashing stops. It becomes a lifetime of pain and suffering. How I wanted to be able to love my mother and to look back on my childhood with happiness and contentment.

As stated in one of my previous posts, I have been fortunate to be able to use my experiences in a positive way. Being able to share experiences and talk frankly with my sister has helped immensely.

Sadly, it is well documented that many abused children grow to abuse their own children.

Be good to your kids, show them love and be worthy of being called mum or dad.

What a sad thread, that there are so many people who remember childhood as a time of sadness and fear. My heart goes out to you all, that you have made good adults out of that fear.

My parents showed nothing but love and support (apart from when I was a little git, which I often was), and for that I still thank them. I fail to understand what motivates people to have children if they're going to treat them in this way.

I'm sure there are many who spent their childhoods in private hells who will empathise with your feelings- thank you for sharing.

Whilt writing my previous post on this subject, my mind wandered to thinking how it affected us as children. I wonder if anyone was affected in similar ways to myself (and I must stress that I am not prying here - I know this sort of thing is very personal).

Some of my behaviour was really quite bizarre looking back, although at the time I thought it was my fault that I was like that.

Some of my chilhood behaviour and habits I would not wish to discuss on this forum for obvious reasons, and that is why I would not wish to pry into the lives of other people.

Some behaviours I will 'admit to' were stubborn refusal to go to the toilet (which required hospital treatment for severe cramps/internal problems I started getting), and bed-wetting - a classical sign of things not being right, although this just got me into more trouble.

Lastly, and perhaps most worrying, was cutting myself with dad's razor blades. I have just looked at some of the scars that are still visible as if to remind myself that it really did happen.

Although these things happened long ago I will never forget. They are still not easy to talk about, and I feel that I am, to some extent, betraying my mother. Then again, perhaps even this is a legacy of how I was raised.

The scars are not merely physical, but mental too.

If, by any chance, there are people who read this thread, and who find it difficult to control their anger towards their children or partner, I would just ask that you think about what you are doing.

It isn't over when the thrashing stops. It becomes a lifetime of pain and suffering. How I wanted to be able to love my mother and to look back on my childhood with happiness and contentment.

As stated in one of my previous posts, I have been fortunate to be able to use my experiences in a positive way. Being able to share experiences and talk frankly with my sister has helped immensely.

Sadly, it is well documented that many abused children grow to abuse their own children.

Be good to your kids, show them love and be worthy of being called mum or dad.

Exactly the same Jass. In those days neither my mother nor my doctor recognised bed-wetting syptoms. The doctor said that given time it would cease, it being a sort of ‘natural’ thing!

As a youngster I used to vent my anger on school chums, often without very much in the way of provocation. Fights were many, and winning them made me feel better — but only for a very short time.

Funnily enough, for many years I’ve had a scar on my left hand — ageing lost some of its visibility — caused accidentally when I was ‘slapped’ with the flat of a carving knife but lifted my hand at the wrong time to ward off the blow.

That scar went on the night I started this thread. I was tired, and for the first time in 10 years made a big mistake by allowing two of my dogs to meet more or less head on. I grabbed hold of both by their collars and held them at arms-length. I was stuck in my wheelchair near a door, wondering what to do next! Anyway, I decided to give Wagger — the biggest — a heave over my chair and close the door on it. The idea went well — except that for a second I relaxed my hold on Buster and he bit me (accidentally) instead of its brother!

Now, when it’s healed I’ll have a bigger scar!

I too was bullied by a father who had returned from the war as a Sergeant Major. To him I was one of his men, to be abused and bullied. Thrashings were common with the hand, fist or slipper across the face. I feared the thump of his feet over the ceiling as he got out of bed from doing nights at Foxes. We had to be silent nearly all morning, every morning. My family hated him, including his own close relatives. It affected my school work and how I passed the scholarship is a mystery to me. My elder sister was treated like a little princess and got the best of everything including an extremely good education. My younger brother got the same as me.
I left school at 14 and 6 months to catch the recruitment into the navy as a boy entrant of 15. The best move I ever made. He never laid a finger on me after that. The sad thing is I never spoke to my mother or father for 15 years, which broke my mothers heart.

Now at 61 and my mother 87, father 91 are very close. Dad has Alzheimers and cannot remember anything. What a sad waste of life. I sympathise with you all.

Jass, I really feel for you with a mother like that!
Mine was the same - I was beginning to think I was the only person who was beaten and belted by her mother - but all done behind closed doors, while a gracious, smiling, caring respectable 'front' was presented to the neighbours.

I was told that I was a "horrible child...", "an ugly little so and so...", "Nobody likes you - you'll never have any friends...", "You can't do anything properly...you'll never be any good at anything..." and "Get out of my sight - I can't bear to look at you..."

I haven't told anybody this before: my friends all have, or had, really loving Mothers, and I don't think they could begin to understand what my childhood was like. !!!

Hello Thursday,

This is de ja vu. Is it possible our mothers were some how related or went to the same sadism training school? We definitely seem to share common experiences.

Having been given the "Your Worthless" and "Get Out of my Sight " routine, did you mother yell in your face if you tried to do something constructive, to tell you that you were a "Big Heerd" with "Ideas above your station? Mine did.

To someone of a sadistic disposition, like my mother, the beauty of psycholigical abuse is that it doesn't leave any visible marks that are likely to bring the social workers (not many around in those days) to investigate.
Therefore she could continue the regime at home (I was an only child) while trying to pass among friends and the family as a paragon of virtue.

In reflection, I think both sides of my family and my parents friends did have a good idea what was happening; however, none of them had the courage to do anything official about it. What they did seem to do is go out of their way to have me at their homes, away from my mother, as much as possible. This often included weekend visits and even longer trips to the coast or places like London. Therefore, I did experience normal family life -all be it out side my own home - and survived.

Regards

Hello Thursday,

This is de ja vu. Is it possible our mothers were some how related or went to the same sadism training school? We definitely seem to share common experiences.

Having been given the "Your Worthless" and "Get Out of my Sight " routine, did you mother yell in your face if you tried to do something constructive, to tell you that you were a "Big Heerd" with "Ideas above your station? Mine did.

To someone of a sadistic disposition, like my mother, the beauty of psycholigical abuse is that it doesn't leave any visible marks that are likely to bring the social workers (not many around in those days) to investigate.
Therefore she could continue the regime at home (I was an only child) while trying to pass among friends and the family as a paragon of virtue.

In reflection, I think both sides of my family and my parents friends did have a good idea what was happening; however, none of them had the courage to do anything official about it. What they did seem to do is go out of their way to have me at their homes, away from my mother, as much as possible. This often included weekend visits and even longer trips to the coast or places like London. Therefore, I did experience normal family life -all be it out side my own home - and survived.

Regards

Now I come to think of it, both my aunts (mother’s sisters) welcomed me with open arms, as did my grand-mother and grand-father. I was a regular and welcome visitor, perhaps because they were all aware of my father’s disposition; although in my grand-mother’s case I think it was because I was at that time her only grandson.

I can't remember if I posted this poem elsewhere on the forum, but I feel it is appropriate to the thread.

Parentcraft

Why shouldn't
We
Scream at our kids?
It
Never did
Us
Any harm.

Why shouldn't
We
Use the
Barbarous Belt
Or Brush?

Our Fists
And Boots
Are enough
To keep
The brats
In line.

What's the
Point of
Treating
Them like
Decent
Human Beings?

They are

Only Kids,

After all.

copyright The Plain Talker, May 11 1998

I was born in 1951, hardly the Victorian or Edwardian era, and I always called my father "Sir" until I was in my late teens.
I presume it had been "expected", and therefore I'd grown up knowing nothing different.
He in turn was a strict but fair man, and I guess was just continuing how he'd been brought up, having been born just after the end of World War 1.
I remember finding a fountain pen in a drawer (I'd be perhaps early teens) and asking my mum who "Des" was, because these three letters were engraved o the barrel......
She had to tell me that they were my dad's initials!
I truly had no idea what his name was up to that point!

I was born in 1951, hardly the Victorian or Edwardian era, and I always called my father "Sir" until I was in my late teens.
I presume it had been "expected", and therefore I'd grown up knowing nothing different.
He in turn was a strict but fair man, and I guess was just continuing how he'd been brought up, having been born just after the end of World War 1.
I remember finding a fountain pen in a drawer (I'd be perhaps early teens) and asking my mum who "Des" was, because these three letters were engraved o the barrel......
She had to tell me that they were my dad's initials!
I truly had no idea what his name was up to that point!

Nowadays I think I might have asked when he was knighted, but a humorous but true story to lighten the thread a bit.

I had a very good friend who’s first name was always in doubt. She claimed her name was Margaret but her birth certificate said she was Marguerite. Before she died at the age of 90 I cleared it up for her by discovering that she had been christened Margaret and the registrar had made a mistake.

Margaret had a daughter, and when the pair of them arrived at the hospital the daughter was asked for her mother’s name. They said they had her on record as being Marguerite but she was insisting she was Margaret.

So the nurse asked the daughter, “What do you call her?”

The reply to that was “Mother.”

Hallo, Falls,
My mother did have a brother (who I adored!), but I was kept well away from most other people, including Granny and Grandad, who were miles away anyway, and quite elderly, so I didn't even get the relief of visiting anyone. (much as I would LOVE to have a relative who even half liked me, I'm afraid I haven't. Perhaps I'll "borrow" you, and pretend!)
I had to do the shopping on Saturday mornings - two or three trips -, before the shops shut at 1pm, and was made to practise saying (to a schoolfriend's mum) "Thankyou for inviting me, but I want to hurry home, so I can help my Mummy...." Only when I had repeated this with enough 'sincerity' in my voice, was I sent to the shops. I got round it, though, by telling Diana's mother that I wanted to come and play, but I had been told what I had to say - and said it! Goodness knows what she thought! She came up the hill and collected me one day, and I had a wonderful afternoon playing with Diana, but when I got back, I was beaten, as I "obviously" hadn't told Mrs. S. the vital sentence! My stepfather was a teacher at my primary school, and reported on everything I said and did: any budding friendships were fiercely forbidden, so I never really spoke to anyone. I was seven years old!!

PeterW...
Saw your response to my earlier mail - the use of the term "Sir" to him wasn't really in the "knighthood" mode, but more of a "touch forelock" kind of way!
In truth, it caused me a bit of bother later when I started work, because I would automatically address anybody above me (male, of course) in the pecking order by the same term, which did lead to a few raised eyebrows!
Mind you, some didn't seem to mind....!

If I had ever written a letter to my father it would have started, as most letters start, with ‘Dear Cur’!

LOL, PeterW !
Met a few of that variety too!
Going back to my ol' feller, I think it must have been his Army days that started it all off - regimentation, discipline, dishing out/taking orders and so on....
Probably found it hard to get back to civvy street after being demobbed...