Two women explain why they realised it was finally time to speak up
WORDS: VERONIQUE HAWKSWORTH. MAIN PHOTO: GETTY
‘I HAD TO STOP RUNNING FROM DAD’S DEATH’
Tess Cope, 61, is a transformation specialist helping leaders harness their potential through systemic coaching. She lives in Cambridgeshire with her husband Gary.
In Irish culture, family is everything. As a little girl in Northern Ireland in the 1960s, birthdays and Christmases were spent in a sea of uncles, aunts and cousins, and our house was always busy and full of laughter. It was just as well – by the end of the decade, the streets beyond our front door became fraught with danger.
Reaching my teens, the trauma of the Northern Ireland conflict was just part of daily life, from frequent stop-and-searches on the way home from school, to frenzied escapes from buildings as bombs detonated. What happened to my country in those years is no secret – but what happened to me in my early 20s was something I kept bottled up for decades.
Police greeting
I was 22 and returning home from my admin assistant job when I was greeted at the door by a police officer. My father had been shot dead, the police officer told me, just 20 minutes earlier. He’d been hit with 18 bullets on our doorstep. Rushed into an ambulance, he died on the way to hospital. My mum was hysterical, my brother banged tearfully on the wall in anguish and I felt completely numb. My dad was only in his 50s. While I knew Dad’s job put him at risk, we had no idea who had committed the senseless act.
As we prepared for Dad’s funeral, it didn’t feel real. In the weeks that followed, I faced reminders every time I stepped through our front door, which still had bullet holes. I desperately needed to get away from it all and start a new life.
A couple of years later, I finally made my escape from the war-torn streets of Northern Ireland and moved to England. Settling in Cambridge, I felt like I could get on with life away from all the reminders of Dad. I didn’t tell a soul what had happened to him, instead living in denial to the point where I almost convinced myself it had happened to someone else.
Even when I met my husband Gary, in a nightclub in 1999, I kept my traumatic past hidden – too frightened to show him my vulnerability. As we got closer, I revealed more about my life and family, and while Gary knew that Dad was dead, I never revealed the details of his murder. Gary alread
