Joanne Lee

This deeply disturbing memoir starts in 1998, with an account of Joanne Lee digging an eighteen-inch deep hole, with her bare hands, in the family grave in order to bury the body of a baby girl which she and her sister Cath had discovered stuffed into a red bin in her mother’s wardrobe. Bernadette, having concealed her pregnancy, claimed that the child had been stillborn and that she hadn’t known what to do. Joanne felt torn: having recently buried her own baby son she knew that her dead sister had a right to a proper funeral, yet she knew her mother would get into trouble for concealing the death and wanted to protect her. So, even though she knew it was wrong, she reluctantly suggested this illegal interment in the family grave. It wouldn’t be until 2008 that she would discover that Bernadette had also kept the remains of three more dead babies, born between 1986 and 1997: one was discovered in the same red bin and the other two in a canvas holdall. What the family had seen as the effects of Bernadette’s yo-yo dieting over the years had, in fact, been concealed pregnancies. With her mother initially denying all knowledge of the bodies, Joanne was arrested on suspicion of murder but, once the facts emerged, her mother eventually stood trial. However, because forensic examinations were unable to determine whether any of the babies had been born alive, she was charged only with the concealment of their births and deaths.
The background to these horrors is exposed through Joanne Lee’s account of her childhood experiences growing up in almost unimaginable squalor in a dysfunctional, filthy, chaotic home, seeing and experiencing things no young child should ever be exposed to. When the police searched the house in 2008, they discovered animal faeces scattered around the place, swarms of maggots, bin bags piled up from the floor to the ceiling, and even stinking, years-old nappies matted into the carpet. To describe her mother as inadequate is a huge understatement. Although she wasn’t physically abusive, she showed absolutely no interest in her daughter, leaving her to fend for herself from a very young age. Bernadette’s favourite expression “I can’t be arsed” captures the essence of this woman’s approach to life. Unable to cope any longer with his wife’s slovenly behaviour, Joanne’s father left when she was six and her mother’s drinking and promiscuous behaviour then accelerated. The arrival of a new partner, Karl, resulted in the birth of a half-sister, Cath, when Joanne was ten, followed just over a year later by the birth of a half-brother, Chris. She adored her siblings, which was fortunate because, with her mother showing as little interest in them as she did her eldest child, Joanne assumed almost total responsibility for their care.
Even as a child Joanne recognised that her life wasn’t normal and that she shouldn’t have to take on all this responsibility but, as with so many abused children, she felt a fierce, unshakeable loyalty to her mother. As it soon became apparent from her reflections on her life, as an adult she struggled with the many dilemmas this almost unquestioning support and protection of her mother faced her with. Over and over again she either tolerated, or ignored, behaviour which she knew was unacceptable until, finally, she could no longer live with the consequences of turning a blind eye and made a decision which would set in motion the police investigation.
Joanne’s childhood experiences were almost indescribably awful but what became clear was that Joanne, against all the odds, was able to break the cycle of abuse and provide her own children with a stable, loving background. Her capacity for doing this was undoubtably nurtured, in part, by her very loving, profoundly deaf paternal grandparents who provided glimpses that family life could (and should) be loving and supportive. Nevertheless, throughout this harrowing story I had to stop myself from being critical of the adult Joanne for being so tolerant, for so long, and to remind myself of the adage that we should never judge anyone until we have “walked a mile in their shoes”. It was easier to feel openly critical of the levels of denial which were central to the reactions of members of Bernadette’s family, two of whom were in the “caring” professions. Her mother, Nanny Pat, was a nursing officer but appeared to be someone whose main concern was to present a highly respectable front to the world, and her sister was a social worker who took no steps to intervene and stop the dreadful neglect, of which she appeared to be fully aware. However, above all, what I found both appalling and inexcusable is that for so many years, and with so much evidence of such serious neglect and squalor, there was no professional intervention by either social services, the family GP or the education department. Not only were all the children let down by the “system”, but it became clear from my reading that Bernadette had very obvious psychiatric problems which were never addressed, and for which she was never offered any help; these problems don’t excuse the level of her neglect but with the right help maybe she could have been helped to become a better parent.
I have to admit that most of the time I found it difficult to feel any emotional connection to Joanne and wonder whether this had something to do with the writing style, which I found rather flat and unemotional. I have no way of knowing how much this was a reflection of her, understandable, need to protect herself, and how much a reflection of the influence of Joe and Ann Cusack, the journalists who supported her writing of this memoir. As a result, I have found it difficult to review this deeply disturbing story because I fear that any criticism of style feels in danger of negating the horrors she experienced. However, I can feel admiration for her determination to create a good life for herself and her family, and to so effectively break the cycle of abuse. The issues her story raises would certainly provide some thought-provoking discussion topics for reading groups.… (altro)