'I kept being raped a secret until the burden was too much to bear'
Lucy Keaveney: "I have done what I can to talk openly about my experience in the hope that I can help others."Â Picture: Moya Nolan
I thought little about the man who raped me as a 12-year-old schoolgirl until I read of his death on Friday, December 30, 2022. I was then hit with a tsunami of emotions as I reflected on his death and the effect his abuse had on my life.
I read about it on RIP.ie and then I read all the tributes. Most were from people I did not know and were probably friends of his children. As I had gone public on the issue of my abuse in the past, I was disappointed that people could still treat him as an upstanding member of the community, but then this was probably a generation who knew nothing about his past. I have not lived in the area for decades, so this is understandable.
Appropriately he was buried on New Yearâs Day when a new chapter in my life began. I go for a walk daily and I didnât realise until that morning that a weight had been lifted from me. He was no longer a threat to me or anyone else. This surprised me, as probably in my subconscious I was still aware of what he could do. Also, I felt that I could finally close the door on an experience that had such an effect on my life. Before doing so, I resolved to share what I felt as it may help someone else in their life.
Because of what I experienced and also because of how I dealt with it, I have always said it is important to tell someone you trust, something I was not able to do as a child. I grew up in 1960s Ireland where there was a lot of repression because of the dominance of the Catholic Church and the blind faith people had in it. Many in the area where I was raised had never passed primary school and were never taught to question or challenge.
Growing up, I did not have any sense of individuality other than being a daughter and a sister. My opinion was never sought. Looking back, I realise that I wasnât expected to have one. As a result, I was a quiet, shy, and timid pre-teen.
Education was a priority. As my Dad was a gifted, self-taught musician and couldnât read music, he was anxious that we would learn how to read and play music. To that end, in 1963, myself and my younger brother, now deceased, went on Saturday mornings to music lessons in Tuam which was about nine miles away.
We cycled part of the way to meet the bus but, at that time, money was scarce and when possible, we were encouraged to âthumbâ a lift to save the money.
One Saturday morning, a car stopped to pick us up and although one of us could have sat in the back, the driver engineered it so that both of us sat in the front, with me in the middle. He manoeuvred my right leg over the gear stick and continued to stroke it for the rest of the journey. I remember saying to my brother when we got out of the car that I found this strange.
This happened over a few weeks. Years later, I realised this was part of the grooming process. Once summer holidays came, the music lessons stopped and I thought no more of it.
In September, I attended sixth class in the Presentation Convent in Tuam. Again, I would cycle to the designated spot and then take the bus. One evening I was sitting at the bus stop waiting to go home.
The car, driven by a respected member of the local community with very high social standing, pulled up and offered me a lift. Again, it was an opportunity to save money, so I took it.
Instead of going the normal route, he took a turn and took me to a derelict building. He then raped me. I stood with my two hands in my pocket and looked up at the sky as there was no roof on the building. He told me that I was not to tell anyone and if I did, he would be believed, and I would lose my family. No one realises how strong those words are when an adult uses them to force a child to keep a secret. These words haunted me for years, but ensured that I did not/could not tell anyone. That evening when I went home, I couldnât eat and sat looking on as the family ate. I knew I felt different, but did not understand what had just happened.
Most evenings, for the next few weeks, the same detour happened and the abuse continued. I became more and more withdrawn and was full of confusion. I was carrying a huge burden, which I did not understand, and I couldnât tell anybody. I also started getting my periods at that time which added to my confused state.
To avoid the encounters, instead of taking the bus, I cycled the nine miles to school, unknown to my parents. I did this for a few days, but my teacher found out and contacted my parents. This option was then closed off to me.
I have no recollection how it happened but, after November, I became a boarder. In one way, that was a relief but I was also deeply unhappy as I had more time to reflect on my problems, with which I had become obsessed.
In January, I became a day pupil again and my abuser stopped again to give me a lift. This time I availed of it, out of a sense of expectation, but said I no longer wanted to partake in the âother stuffâ, saying I did not like it. Amazingly, he did not force me and, soon after that, he stopped giving me a lift. I now had to deal with what had happened to me.
I had changed. I no longer trusted anyone and my relationship with my father changed. I used to go places with him, but I no longer trusted anyone â and that included him. I spent five years in boarding school. They were bleak years as the 'secret' I was carrying became a burden. I heard âthe facts of lifeâ when I was in first year and it was only then that I realised what had happened.
I froze during the talk and missed the âfactsâ that we were being told. I feigned sickness and asked to be excused. Of course, then I thought I was pregnant, which added to my worries.
I felt guilty and totally lacked confidence. I put up weight and I suffered from alopecia. I cried most nights. I felt worthless. My confidence was so low that when I went out socially with friends, I felt any guy asking me to dance must think very little of himself.
Back in school, retreats, which were an annual event, were hard as there was too much time to reflect. In one of those retreats, I decided I would finally confide in someone. I was in fifth year at the time. A Franciscan priest came across as a great listener and he encouraged us to go to confession either in the normal confessional box or open confession.
I chose the latter and took my place in the queue. It was a waste of time. I was in the queue for well over an hour and worried about how I would verbalise my worries as it was my first time talking about it. The priest listened and his only response was: âYou did nothing wrong. The only time this will come against you is when you decide to get married.â I went in with one problem and came out with two.
I waited for him to talk to me at another stage. This never happened.
I finally confronted myself when I was 18. I was in college and, on a trip home one weekend, I received a letter offering me a job in the civil service. I had a choice to make. The Sinking River ran close to our house, and I sat on the bank for hours. I reflected on my life up to that time and knew I could not continue as I was. I had to confront the issue which had been with me for over five years, as well as the effects it had on me.
No one had noticed, or if they had, they were not bothered to ask me what was ailing me.Â
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If I was to stay on in college, I had to change.Â
I resolved to turn my life around that Saturday evening. I went back to college that very evening and went into the library. The library door creaked when opened and anyone studying there would look up. I had gone once but never went a second time for this reason.
I went to the library, walked to the end, and left again. I did this a second time and continued doing all the things I was too shy to do up to that time.
I decided to be open and tell people what happened. The first person I told was a cousin who was also a friend that I shared digs with. It was my second time verbalising the abuse and she was shocked. I was sorry to have burdened her, but it was important for me at the time to be open. I told boyfriends; some understood, some didnât, but I was prepared for that.
My ârehabilitationâ was complete, or so I thought, when I met my husband who is my best friend. We married in 1978 and had four children. Because of my own experience, I was very protective of them.
When my eldest was born, I remember feeling elated, but also felt a sadness at the idea that she would ever become an abuse victim. Children could come here to our house for overnight stays, but I was reluctant to let my own children stay overnight in another house. This eased as time went on. My husband trained the football team and became a scout leader to ensure they, and other, children were safe.
Through the years, I often marvelled at how casual other parents were about their childrenâs freedom. Indeed, I envied them. In later years, my children understood why.
Meantime, I talked openly about the abuse I suffered. Because I was open about this many people disclosed their experiences to me. Some had told their husbands and partners, some hadnât. I spoke publicly at many meetings always hoping that by sharing my experience, it could help others.
On one weekend home, I encountered my perpetrator in a local pub on a night out. One look at him told me he was still capable of abuse. I felt I had a duty to inform someone locally about him. I chose to tell a priest in the parish. On the day I went to find him, he had been out shooting with the local sergeant. I spoke to the sergeant, but noticed that the priest never once looked at me. The sergeant asked me if I wished to make a statement. I didnât at that time but said that he could contact me if anyone else complained and I would support them.
When the Brendan Smyth case broke in 1994 there was wall-to-wall coverage of his abuse in the various parishes in which he served. Instead of switching off, as I had always done, I listened to all the stories of victims as they were told.
The result was I decided that I would make a formal complaint against my abuser. I met a wonderful guard, Garda SĂ©amus Ryan, who listened to my story. When I had finished telling him, he said that he had gone to many a suicide and wondered how anyone could ever take their own life. He said he would never wonder that again. Suicide was something that never crossed my mind.
My abuser was questioned. He simply said that it was now fashionable for such accusations to be made after all the publicity on Smyth. It was pointed out to him that I had already informed the sergeant in the local station of the rape. The end result was he was not charged as the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP) deemed it was not in the public interest to bring charges. I was stunned. By the end of that call, I was sitting on the floor crying.
SĂ©amus later told me that the DPP did not have to give a reason for not proceeding with a case, which is unfair to complainants. I wrote to the DPP and queried his decision. My abuser was questioned again, but the decision remained the same.
That same year, 1994, I was invited on the when it was hosted by Gay Byrne. The programme was about rape and restorative justice. I received a lot of support and correspondence after my contribution, but also had comments suggesting I should have dealt with this at a much younger age. All in all, I was glad I went the legal route.
I also got a certain level of satisfaction that people locally would know who my rapist was as a result of my appearance on television. That whole process was therapeutic for me.
To conclude, I have done what I can to talk openly about my experience in the hope that I can help others. From experience and observation, there are three areas which badly need reform.
Firstly, the office of the DPP should be more open, more transparent, and accountable. Victims need to be told why if a case is turned down by the DPP.
Secondly, there needs to be an age-appropriate relationship and sexuality programme taught in all schools covering consent, contraception, and LGBTQ+ and transgender issues so that no child will be left in a confused state in their formative years. This needs to be compulsory in all schools irrespective of ethos.
Finally, our court system needs root-and-branch reform and our judges need appropriate training to deal with the cases coming before them. Sentencing for rape crime is too often too lenient. Lawyers Jennifer Robinson and Keina Yoshida dealt with this in their book In it, they conclude that irrespective of what legal jurisdiction was examined, the âstate of affairs never changesâ. They argue that most women go public because they have been failed by the justice system. They do this not for vengeance but from a sense of duty to help other women.
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