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I begin to write this, because it occurs to me, more and more every day, that I know next to nothing of my parents' lives before my involvement in them. As each day passes now that I'm a parent, I think about how little I can tell our children about mum and dad, other than how much they would love them, and be loved in return. The main reason, then, for this account, is to shed a little light on my life, for them to read when I'm either gone, or no longer in a position to tell them tales of who I am, what I've done, why I did it, and why it went wrong, or so spectacularly right once I met their mother and they burst forth on the world as a result of that love. They may not want to know, they may well find it excruciatingly dull - Charlie Small I most certainly am not - but at least there won't be an empty space where their father's previous life is concerned, which is the part that's hardest for me to come to terms with. I was born in July, 1962, shortly before the Sixties burst open with the advent of The Beatles. I think it was very nice of them to wait until after I was born to make their entrance; given the fact they actually recorded a version of Love Me Do in June, it appears they were conscious of the fact they'd spoil this story by entering the scene too soon, so pleasingly waited until November to release the song. I have been forever grateful, and will continue to be so, as evidenced by the amount of money I have given to each of them over the years. As I have to E.M.I., though what they ever did for it, I don't know.
I was a 'late' baby; mum and dad were both 40 when I was born, and my brother and sister were 12 and 9. I found out much later, in fact after both my parents had died, that they'd had another child who had been still-born. The facts of this are still foggy to me - I don't know how long before my birth this happened; I'd imagine 2 or 3 years, but that's purely conjecture. Like a lot of this story, for whatever reason I was never told, nor did I ever ask. Since I was certainly big enough and ugly enough when I found out about my lost older brother, I have no idea why I failed to ask then. I was 29, married, moved away - so why, then, didn't I? Possibly because I still had a lot of the spoilt child about me, and I wanted to hide from it, and from the fact that they were both gone now, way before their time, and I thought I'd find out in the natural course of time. Well, here we are, twenty years later, and I still haven't asked. I promise you, I will do my best to fill in all these missing links once this book is finished. If I can find enough out, I may add it as an appendix.. The fact that I was a late addition, that my parents were quite old (in those days, I think since the trend was not for career women, families were had quite early, and 40 was considered old - seems these days, 40 is probably considered too young, unless you're already a CEO), and that my siblings were a fair bit older than me, goes some way to explaining why there were huge parts of my parents' lives that were never open to me, and to why I never asked. I was never really in the position to. We weren't an open chatty family - not that we weren't close and very affectionate; mum would always be cuddling us, telling us she loved us, and that was evident anyway - we just never sat down and talked about things like - well, anything, to be honest. Part of that may be down to my brother growing up and leaving home so quickly. The family unit wasn't a unit for very long, and certainly not at all by the time I was old enough to even think about these things, let alone discuss them.But I get ahead of myself..
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Alice Patricia (Pat) D*****, my mum, was born in October 1921, in Shepherds Bush, London. It was a house I visited quite a few times until I was about 7 or 8 (there I go, vague again). A typical London townhouse, I think three storeys high, but with a basement. I was always fascinated by the steps leading up to the front door, and by the steps leading down to the tiny patch of ground between the front of the house and the pavement, and thus to the coal store, and the door to the basement rooms, and the image of them stayed with me. Both my maternal Grandparents were pretty tiny, it seems to me, or at least that's my abiding memory. They'd both died by the time I was 6, I think, so for all I know Grandad was actually 6' tall, but I don't think so, given the stature I inherited. There was a sister, and two brothers; Bet, Dennis & Ron. I knew and loved Auntie Bet best of all; Uncle Den I knew less well, and he died before I was 9; Uncle Ron I knew not at all. He'd been killed in Italy, and in my youth I'd always imagined it to be during the war, since I had been told he'd died when his tank, or armoured vehicle, went over a verge. In actual fact, it was after the war in Europe had ended, but he was still on active service, in 1946. When I was young, I suppose I'd imagined it to be tragic, but no more so than the millions of soldiers, sailors, airmen or civilians who'd lost their lives over those unimaginably horrific 5 and a half years. Finding out later that it was after peace had broken out, makes it seem more of a waste of life, so heart-rending that his parents, and brother and sisters had lost him, just when they all thought that they'd all survived, where so many families had been shattered.
Pat and Bet were beautiful; I've seen pictures of them, taken during the war, and they stand out. In fact I remember a picture that showed them to be not unlike the then Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret, with whom they were near contemporaries. Mum was a brunette, and Auntie Bet fit the description 'flame-haired'. I know nothing of what they did, what their ambitions were, when they were young. I do know (or think I know) that mum had an opportunity to go to Grammar school, and there was veiled talk about further education beyond that, but, and this is only an assumption, World War 2 put paid to that. Mum joined the WRAF, as I think did her sister. Somehow, as a result of that, and of the rootlessness and wrenching apart of families that the war led to, Mum met Dad. In an age before the war, it would have seemed unlikely that two people born so far apart would have even met, let alone married. Mum born in West London, Dad in Lincolnshire, 170 miles away. And yet it was only because of this horrendous conflagration, with so much death and destruction, displacement and rupturing of familes, that our family, my immediate family, came to be. Neither of my parents, despite the fact they came to find each other because of it, were ever in the least bit sentimental for 'The War Years'. I have them to thank for fashioning my opinion of what war means, and what it can do to peoples lives and friendships, and my thanks are eternal. Not for them the rosy reminiscences of times when everyone pulled together, and every man and woman looked after each other, and you could leave your front door unlocked. No memories of how, with backs to the wall, and shoulders to the grindstone, united against the enemy the nation fought its way to freedom for all. No, when they spoke of it, which wasn't often (usually on occasions like the Remembrance Day Tattoo, or watching the occasional war film), they were quite definite. Whilst they'd made friends, of course, with people they would never have met in other circumstances, and they were relieved to have made it through relatively unscathed, their memories were more to do with how much it hurt to lose friends and acquaintances, and I suppose in Mum's case, with her parents in London, the constant fear about what may be happening at home on a daily basis would have played havoc with her mind. That fear, that no-one born in the last 65 years can possibly know, can only imagine, was with them and the millions like them for almost 6 long, excruciating years.
Okay, enough of this. I’d intended to make this some kind of
autobiography, but that would involve writing about people who, likely as not
would prefer their past NOT to be discussed.
So, what this will now be is a confessional as such. The
stupid things I’ve done, the bad stuff, the mistakes I can’t take back.
No flowery stuff, just the facts, ma’am.
Bak to 1981. In love, properly, for the first time. I’d met
Karen in 1979, she was still at school, I was a year out of it. In March 1981,
we got engaged, and decided to save for a deposit on a house and a wedding. She
was great at it; me. less so. I still wanted to buy stuff. Cigarettes, albums,
I don’t remember what else, but I had no idea of budgeting (still don’t). I was
running an overdraft that nobody knew about. I couldn’t keep up. I was getting
paid about £35 per week, and it didn’t stretch. I remember I couldn’t even
afford a haircut – there are pictures of me at Christmas ’81 with a mop of
unruly hair. I didn’t know what to do about it.
I’d also been seeing someone else. She worked in the
butchers next door to the shop I worked in, was fun (a Teddy girl, in 1981?).
We’d fooled around, but then she moved to a town about 25 miles away. However,
her replacement in the shop was just as pretty, and again, we flirted and saw
each other secretly.
Christmas Day 1981: Karen had arranged for me to have lunch
with her family. Mum wouldn’t have even contemplated me eating elsewhere, and I
was a coward when it came to any possible confrontation. So that was already
making me nervous. Then whilst Karen was round in the morning, the girl from
the butchers shop rang me – there were no mobile phones then, just a landline,
which in our house was un the front room. How do I explain that? I have no idea
now how I did. Ended the call as quickly as I could, and came back into the
sitting room. Karen and I then left, and had Xmas lunch with her family. A
little later, I came back home, and ate a second Xmas lunch with mum & dad,
under an uneasy cloud of suspicion.
Boxing Day was traditionally the day we went to my brother’s
house for more food, and games. Karen wanted me to be with her. Something had
to give. It was me. I decided to hide from it. I sat in the front room,
headphones on, listening to music. I ignored the phone when Karen rang, two,
three times. Then dutifully went along to Chris’s house to sit sullenly. The next day, dreading the fallout, I went
around to Karen’s house in the evening. Apparently, that had been the final
straw for her, and over the course of the next couple of hours, she told me it
was over – I needed to choose between my family and her. Justifiably, as it
happens.
The next few days and weeks were horrible. We withdrew what
we had saved and split the money. Heartbroken as I was, it didn’t stop me
spending my share on a new bike and a Sony Walkman. I’d like to think that was an
emotional action, but that’s bullshit. I was just stupid. And worse, I
effectively became a stalker. I’d walk over to where Karen lived, most nights,
and weekends. I was lovelorn, long-haired and lousy at being honest, with
myself or anyone else. I’d sunk so low that one evening, sometime in January
or early February, I got steadily drunk on a mix of Martini and Cinzano left
over from Christmas, and then walked the 2 to 3 miles to Karen’s house, stood
against the wall of the alleyway that led to the entrance to their flat, and
listened to music, my only saviour. All this time, the alcohol, sickly sweet at
the best of times, was working on my digestive tract. I realised I had to empty
my bowels (sorry). So, I lowered my trousers and pants, and sank down against
the wall and did the act.
Then fell asleep.
I don’t know how long I was out
for, pants at half mast. I don’t know if anyone saw me in this position, though
I’ve imagined (known?) ever since that Karen did, possibly on her way to the
off-licence on the same block. I don’t recall what woke me up, though most
likely it was the cold, and I don’t recall how I got home. Dignified, eh?
In the following years, my lack of money management continued.
I’d sneak the occasional fiver or tenner out of the drawer where mum kept her
insurance money (to pay the premiums with) to buy cigarettes, or have enough
for lunch (usually a rock cake and a doughnut). I knew money was tight for my
parents, but I still did it. I hated myself (still do).
To 1984. After a short-lived job as a manager of an
independent electrical store, I returned to my previous employer, and was moved
to manage a store in a town 15 miles away. I got a flat in town, and this was
my first time living away from home. I couldn’t afford to furnish the flat, so
I slept on a mattress, and the only things I had with me were my hi-fi and my
records. I lived on Chinese food and sandwiches, and remember staying up one
night, and around dawn, leaning out of the flat window with a microphone
recording birdsong. This was not a busy store – it was tucked off the high
street, and really, most of the customers who came in were just paying their TV
or VCR rental. Sales were not high. But, on one occasion, someone came in to
buy a TV. I remember specifically it was a Grundig, priced £205.00. I gave the
customer a receipt for the purchase, but didn’t actually ring it through the
till, and I’m ashamed to say, pocketed the cash, which covered my rent for the
next few weeks. Guilty, but I managed somehow to get away with it.
In 1987, I’d been with my
girlfriend (later my first wife) for 6 months. I’d met her because I worked
with her mother, and she’d come in after work, and we eventually got together. That
year, the company had won a sales competition, and the prize was a long weekend
in New York for 2 staff members, and I won the draw to go along with the branch
manager. The trip was at the beginning of February ’87. I’d never been out of
the country, so we’d had to rush through a passport application. We flew on the
Friday, landed in New York around 5pm NY time, by which time we’d been awake
some 18 hours, but we were scheduled to go for a meal around 9pm, and ended shortly
after midnight. 23 hours awake, drinks and jet lag. On the Saturday night, we’d
all gone for a meal at the South Pier (48 blocks away from the hotel). More
drinks, a stop at a bar, then a long walk back via the Bowery to the hotel.
There was a young lady from Northern Ireland on the trip, and we’d hit it off
earlier in the day on a trip to the Empire State Building. No excuses for what happened
once we were back at the hotel, but I slept with her (I wasn’t very impressive
as I recall but we were both drunk). Even worse, I can’t now remember her name.
Shitty. We returned to the UK, and a few weeks later, a letter arrived from
Ireland, wanting us to keep in touch. For whatever reason, I kept the letter,
hidden in a cupboard in my room at home, and at some point my girlfriend found
it and hell broke out.
The Nineties were a shitshow for me, from beginning to end,
for various reasons. In 1990, my mum had a stroke, and it was so severe that
the family had to place her in a nursing home, since there was no-one to look
after her at home. (My Dad had died in 1987).
By this time, I was married and living in my first wife’s old house. On
visits to the nursing home, despite mum recovering slightly from the stroke,
she was still very frail, struggling to eat, and not always remembering who her
visitors were. This, and the depressing setting , with other residents who were
in a similar or worse state, made me dread visits with mum. Eventually, I
became so cowardly that I would ‘pretend’ to visit her; I told my wife that I
visited her a couple of times a week, directly after finishing work, but in
reality I would either drive around town, or park somewhere until my ‘visit’
would have ended. I continued tis charade until the beginning of October 1991,
when Mum had the stroke that would eventually cause her death week or so later.
My marriage was never really happy – we were both not ready
for the serious work needed, and in a very short space of time, we were both
drinking heavily almost every night. Alcohol just fuelled ridiculous
disagreements, I was struggling to hold jobs, once spending six months as a
security guard working 12 hour shifts, most of which were night shifts. At some
point during those six months, my wife started an affair with her boss, so
there was even more to argues about. Those arguments descended into some
violent clashes, and I’m ashamed to say that drunkenness and frustration meant
that I did hit her, my lowest point in life. We tried to make it work,
following our move south from Grimsby to Oxfordshire for my work, but it was
doomed and we eventually separated in 1999 and divorced a year later.
Bizarrely, my ex-wife was the catalyst for my getting to
know Lizzie, and from 2003 on, my life has been an entirely different journey,
with marriage and 2 great kids lifting me out of a long depression.
