LOVE SWEET LOVE
Part 1: A Gift From My Mother
by
Dave Corrick
FIRST EDITION
Published on Smashwords by:
17 south eBooks
Copyright © 2012 by Dave Corrick
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should destroy it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
DEDICATION
To my wife Julie who gave me the courage and encouragement
to publish a story that my peers would probably lambast me for!
LOVE SWEET LOVE
Part 1: A Gift From My Mother
Contents
Author's Notes
Chapter 1 In The Beginning.
Chapter 2 Transition To Adulthood
Chapter 3 Out Of Left Field
Chapter 4 A Gift From My Mother
Chapter 5 A Night To Remember
Chapter 6 First Day Together
Chapter 7 Back To London
Chapter 8 Christmas 1988
Chapter 9 First Day At Home
Chapter 10 A "Special Meeting"
Chapter 11 An End And A Beginning
Chapter 12 Too Close For Comfort
Chapter 13 We Find A New Home
Chapter 14 A Paradise
Chapter 15 The Move To Paradise
Chapter 16 Home Sweet Home
Chapter 17 The Years 1992 To 1997
Chapter 18 1997 - A Major Consideration
Chapter 19 An Anxious Wait
Chapter 20 And Now We Are Five
Chapter 21 I Sort Out My Career
Chapter 22 Last Day At "The Office"
Chapter 23 Family Days
Chapter 24 A Plan For Christmas
Chapter 25 The Week Before Christmas
Chapter 26 Christmas Day 1997
Chapter 27 1998 And On Into 1999
Chapter 28 A Changing World
Chapter 29 Two Fine Young Adults
Chapter 30 A Rainy Night By The Fire
Chapter 31 TESSY
Chapter 32 Food For Thought
Author's Notes
"Love Sweet Love" is fiction but refers to actual events that have occurred in the world since the 1960's. As an example there are references to real events such as what has become known as "Nine Eleven".
There are fictional events portrayed that occur after the year 2000. Even though they are fictional, something similar could happen and change how we all live - for ever. In fact if we don't all do something about how we treat this planet - inevitably someday, somehow, we will as a civilisation, self destruct.
There are references to real places such as Birmingham in England and Auckland New Zealand. As well, there are references to places that are fictional.
You will realise as you get to know the two main characters, that maybe it is long overdue that we all do need to take a good look at ourselves. We need to change our culture so that greed, dishonesty and blind adherence to peer pressure are removed from society.
Above all the underlying theme of the story is that true love prevails against all odds. In fact true love enables the human race to survive, albeit in much reduced numbers. A compelling read that will be hard to put down with the realisation that world civilisation is in self inflicted "end times".
I suppose there is a flavour of science fiction; but on refection is there? Whatever maybe thought on reading this story there is no question of it; everything in this story could happen. So? Does it make it science fiction - I don't think so. In reality it is a story of the greatest love between to people that ever was.
I sincerely wish that you as a reader gain as much pleasure from reading these books as I gained from writing them. I have to admit it - there were many tears for me as I had to write the end. I had become emotionally involved. Be prepared for one hell of a story.
Best wishes - Dave Corrick.
Chapter 1
In The Beginning
My name is James Robert McDonald. I was born in Birmingham England on the 15th of March 1963. My father was Scottish and my mother Welsh. My father (Robert Dundas McDonald) was at the time I was born, thirty four. Mum (Megan, Elaine - nee Bufton) was thirty two.
Dad, a boiler maker by trade, was of medium height, thin, and in a rugged sense good looking. In his younger years he had a thick crop of black hair with a little premature greying at the temples. He was thin because he smoked and drank more often than he ate. Externally he was hard but inwardly he was a little "soft centred" when it came to Mum. Deep down he really loved her, however once the lust of the early days of their relationship had faded, and I had been born; for some reason Dad withdrew to the company of his mates and his work, and found it hard to express his true feelings for Mum.
Mum was slim, and marginally taller than Dad. This gave her a slight advantage whenever she got mad with Dad and needed to advise him accordingly. Mum could be feisty if she wanted to be.
From photos I had seen of Mum when she was young (in her twenties and early thirties) she had dark almost black hair, fair skin, and hauntingly beautiful blue eyes. She had the looks that any red blooded male would fall for. My father did exactly that when Mum was holidaying in Glasgow at the time they met. Mum was born and lived in Cardiff Wales, and worked in an office for British Rail. She moved to Glasgow to marry Dad.
Mum, in early times, smoked "fairly" heavily and had a scotch and dry on the rocks on social occasions or sometimes with Dad. Dad would rubbish her for ruining perfectly good scotch with ginger ale. Still Mum ignored him and took such criticism in her stride. Mum would have actually much preferred a nice wine. In particular she liked red wines from the wine growing region of Bordeaux in France. With limited finances, Dad's scotch was all the budget would allow.
It was a pity in relation to smoking; originally Mum only smoked because Dad did. It stemmed from the time when they had first met and had gone to parties and socialised together. Then it hadn't taken long for it to become an addiction. Smoking, as time passed and to a small degree, took a toll on Mum's good looks, particularly as she advanced into her forties. Her face, if one looked closely, was prematurely lined, thin and drawn; not only from smoking, but from general day to day stress with money worries and Dad's heavy drinking. Still that's just the way it was and there were thousands of other families just like us at the time.
Years later, when I had started to become interested in the opposite sex and had an appreciation for beautiful women, I saw the classic film "Gone With The Wind". It stunned me when I realised that my mother, when she was young, had looked just like Vivien Leigh.
So that I don't miss out someone who was very important to me, I need to mention that a year and a half after I was born (16th September 1964) my sister Mary arrived. Mary, Anne, McDonald was a special sister and a companion during some lonely and difficult times we both had as children. Mary and I could talk about things that troubled us and she consoled me on many occasions when I was bullied at school. We could talk to Mum too, when Dad wasn't around. Mum though, was caught between a rock and a hard place in that Dad insisted that she not be too soft with "us" kids. "We nay wan' no namby pamby stuff woman", he would say in his insensitive arrogance. His insensitiveness I believe reflected the hard upbringing that he'd had as a child.
I have to admit that due to my inherent mischievous nature I did tease my sister sometimes; in reality this really reflected a deep fondness for her. I suppose we were bonded because we faced the "growing up battles" of a tough upbringing together.
Mum could have done so much more with her life. She was sensitive and intelligent, and it was a tragedy that she had ended up with someone like my father. Her sensitivity and intelligence were no better demonstrated than at one time when I was four years old.
To explain; Dad frequently used the "f" word when expressing displeasure about something. Naturally as a four year old I thought it appropriate that I did too. It was one of many unpleasant occasions when I had been told by my father to "go to your room laddy" - for what was usually some mild misdemeanour. Dad just didn't appreciate my response on this particular occasion, "I don't want to go to my 'fucking' room". Dad was close to giving me a severe thrashing when Mum intervened before he could do to me what absolutely terrified me.
'I'll deal with it!' Mum shouted at the time. 'He is only bloody well copying what you say Robert, can't ya bloody well see!'
Dad always backed off when Mum's Welsh feistiness had been ignited. She was a force to be reckoned with. Not that I was off the hook either! Mum now fired up said, 'James, you will go to your room as your father has said. Now! I want to have a serious talk with you young man!'
The serious talk that Mum had with me went along the lines of, "James, I never ever want to hear you say F-U-C-K or F-U-C-K-I-N-G in my presence again. Mum spelt the words rather than saying them. You don't know what they mean - is that quite clear!'"
Even though I was young and my knowledge included only a smattering of the alphabet, I knew what Mum was saying, but being curious I had to ask what F-U-C-K meant. Mum knew I would ask exactly that, it was part of her cleverness and she proceeded to explain. I listened in stunned silence.
After listening to Mum in amazement and screwing up my face (as a child does when perplexed) I mumbled the words, 'I have to put my "thing" in where?' - I didn't want to know about that! - I never mentioned the word again, well not for a few years. Clever Mum!
At the time my parents were married (the year before I was born) Dad worked for the Scottish company, Fairfield's Shipbuilding and Engineering Company Ltd, at Govan in Glasgow. Fairfield's (as it was generally known) was a major shipbuilder on the Clyde River. They had built warships extending back to the time of World War I as well as ships such as transatlantic passenger liners for Cunard and Canadian Pacific - to mention a few.
Dad was strictly a union man - bigoted and arrogant. He was particularly bigoted and arrogant if it ever came to bringing into question, union policy. He spoke quickly in an extremely broad Scottish accent that others found difficult to understand. One could easily understand where the term "blather" came from just by what he said and how he spoke! Mum didn't want Mary or me to grow up speaking like Dad and later paid for us to "suffer" elocution lessons - so that we could learn to speak "proper" as she had said. Dear Mum she really cared about Mary and me.
Typically throughout his post marriage years, Dad was in his element when he drank dark malt ales and played darts with his mates - usually twice a week or more at the local tavern. Apart from dark malt ales, his favourite drink was neat, Macallan's single malt scotch.
My father smoked incessantly - he was far worse than Mum. There was always a lit cigarette in his mouth, usually "Capstan Navy Cut". It always fascinated me as a child how when he spoke, his cigarette would stick fast to his lips and bob up and down in the most intriguing manner. With the way Dad had the ability to speak with a cigarette stuck between his lips, I felt that maybe he had missed his vocation - he could have been a ventriloquist!
The blue smoke from Dad's cigarette would rise and curl up his face then irritate his bloodshot eyes so that they squinted through the wisps of blue. Drawing in breath would bring on long bouts of coughing as smoke was drawn into his nicotine and tar soaked lungs. Even with me having the mind of a child, a mind that had not yet developed the full ability to reason, I wondered; "why would anyone want to do this to themselves?"
Ship building on the Clyde at the time was unfortunately "going to the wall". To avoid the inevitable point of demise; Mum and Dad moved to Birmingham a month before I was born in 1963, to a place called Stirchley. The name "Stirchley" somehow reflected the stoicism of the people who lived there at the time.
The move to Birmingham was made for my father to take up position as a foreman at the British Motor Corporation (BMC) Longbridge plant. This was a place where they made cars - notably Morris Minors and Austin A40's for the hoi-polloi, as well as top of the range Wolseley and Riley cars for the tweed jacketed, pipe smoking, pheasant shooters and fox hunters.
Dad was "reasonably" well paid in the new job, the union had seen to that. Things seemed quite rosy at the time; he and Mum were able to afford a mortgage on a "lovely" brick, two storied, three bed roomed, terraced house. 'Terraced" I suppose was a "nice" word for the depressing concept of a long line of (in our case brick) houses joined together - a means of cramming more people into limited space.
At the back of our architectural delight, was a pocket handkerchief sized rectangle of land enclosed by a low, and crumbling stone wall. This area provided a little space (allowing for what was taken up by Dad's racing pigeons) for me and my sister Mary to play on fine days during early pre-school years. Even though the piece of land was small there are some fond memories of a stream over the wall at the back.
Along the banks of this stream were wild flowers and willow trees - an oasis in a generally bleak suburban working class environment. Here I spent many an hour playing with model boats and daydreaming of pleasant things. Sometimes Mary would join me and we would talk about what we would do when we were "grownups" or maybe catch tadpoles to put in a jar and keep in our bedrooms out of sight of our father. Mum knew about the tadpoles, especially when they turned into frogs and escaped from the jar. Dear Mum, in order to prevent a scolding by our father, she said nothing and just let things be!
One little piece of pleasure was a chestnut tree that grew within the confines of the dilapidated stone walls at the back of our house. To me (and Mary) the chestnut tree was magic. When the leaves came in the spring, I could sit in my tree-hut where I would hide and not be seen. Here I could go to wherever my imagination would take me.
The chestnut tree was quite a large tree. Often in spring I could watch from my bedroom window a Robin or maybe a Thrush building its nest and see the marvels of the young growing up and finding their way in the world. Some little birds didn't make it; there were some good lessons to be learnt about the realities of life.
When the leaves disappeared in autumn there were chestnuts to be roasted on the fireplace in the lounge. On what were actually "good" occasions we would sit around the fire on winter evenings as a family and do exactly that.
Sometimes at Christmas, the beautiful chestnut tree would be covered with snow and look not unlike a scene from a Christmas card. Somehow the chestnut tree taught Mary and me that the simple things in life are the most important.
As far as neighbours went, Mary and I had no other children to play with who were close by. On one side of us lived the Craddocks; an elderly couple living on a war pension. Mr Craddock had lost a leg in World War II and was in the early stages of Alzheimer's. On the other side was a Mr Stitchbury; Frank was his first name I think. He worked nightshifts at one of Birmingham's steel mills so we never saw much of him. Occasionally Mr Stitchbury would come over for a Scotch with Dad. Mr Stitchbury didn't care much for children so Mary and I would make ourselves scarce.
Close by to where we lived was the Bournville Railway Station on the Birmingham-Gloucester line. Trains always fascinated me and I would spend many an hour here watching them. Close by to the rail was the Worcester Birmingham Canal - another area of fascination for me. Fantasy took me to a world of perhaps being a train driver or living aboard a narrow-boat on the canal.
Bournville was the location of the Cadbury's Chocolate Factory. The factory was reasonably close by to where we lived. If the wind was right, there would be the delicious sweet smell of chocolate in the air. Speaking of Bournville, Mary and I both attended the local Bournville Junior then the Bournville Secondary State schools for our education.
Breakfast time in our house; particularly in the winter when both Mary and I had started to attend school, will stay in my memory forever. Not that there was anything dreadful relating to breakfast time; it was just that it epitomised the dourness of how we lived in those times.
Frequently during winter, temperatures would drop well below freezing and often there would be ice on the inside of my bedroom window. It would be just before 6.00a.m when Dad (who would be having his breakfast with Mum down in the kitchen) would get up from the table and move to the kitchen door and stick his head out into the hallway. He would then yell up the stairs in his dour Scottish accent. "Wakey wakey you lot, rise and shine, time for school".
God! How I dreaded that sound of Dad calling us when being safely snuggled up in my nice warm bed. Mary and I couldn't ignore Dad's call because it would just end up with yelling and shouting plus threats of disciplinary measures. Besides it would upset Mum which was the last thing Mary and I wanted.
The matter of getting out of bed was made worse by the fact that Mary and I had no heating in our bedrooms. We could have had electric heaters but Dad being a bit of a traditionalist, and misguidedly thinking that electricity was too expensive, insisted that the house was perfectly warm with the briquette stove in the kitchen and the fireplace in the lounge. Admittedly some of the heat from the stove in the kitchen rose up the stairwell and kept inside temperatures above freezing, but in all reality, it was cold.
To add to the misery, the hot water was heated by the stove in the kitchen. If it so happened to be Tuesday or Friday, and Dad had decided to have one of his twice weekly baths, there would be no hot water left for Mary or me.
When getting dressed for school at that early hour, the mournful sounds of whistles and sirens could be heard from nearby factories announcing the start of the day. Commuter train horns moaned in the distance as though they didn't like having to be up and about either.
If there wasn't ice on the window and I could see out, there would inevitably be heavy smog or rain; blue sky was a rarity during winter. Incidentally the smog at this time wasn't caused by coal fires; the Birmingham Clean Air Act of 1956 had seen to that - a good thing too. Coal burning steam trains had disappeared in the sixties and for home heating, smokeless fuels such as coke and smokeless briquettes had to be used by law. No the smog was a result of a growing problem - this was the increasing number of cars on the road in Birmingham. Yes Birmingham's population at the time, was getting on up towards the one million mark, second only to London as far as English city sizes went.
Once Mary and I were dressed and ready for school, we would head downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen. Admittedly there was some degree of pleasure to be anticipated - cold hands could be warmed over the stove.
As we would descend the stairs, the smell of oatmeal porridge together with toast and dripping would waft up from the kitchen. Dad, being of Scottish descent insisted that oatmeal porridge was what we all should have. If ever I baulked at eating what I thought to be just horrible sticky goo, he would encourage me by saying, "Ea' up ya parritch laddy, 'til put 'air on y' chest'.
I often pondered over the logic of what Dad was saying. I wondered if poor Mary would end up with hair on her chest! Still it was just not the done thing to question such things with my father. Additionally I despaired (strictly to myself) about the inability of my father to think outside the confines of peer pressure when he insisted (in true Scottish tradition) that the "parritch" be stirred clockwise with a wooden "spurtle". Apparently this brought about good luck! Just ask any traditional Scotsman!
On entering the kitchen of a morning, it was a sight to behold. Usually it would be 6-30a.m by the time Mary and I had managed to make it down the stairs. Dad would be sitting at the head of the kitchen table, hidden from view behind his copy of the "The Birmingham Post". On a shelf above the stove was an ancient Murphy valve radio (an AD94 for the interest of any enthusiasts) that would burble away quietly, usually with the BBC news. We had a television set but that was in the lounge, and was to be strictly used for watching football, especially if Birmingham City (the team Dad supported) was playing.
Mum would be dressed in the traditional working class housewife's garb - hair in curlers complimented with a faded blue candlewick dressing gown and pink fluffy slippers. When Mary and I would enter the kitchen, Mum would always say, "Hello my dears", and give us both a hug and a warm "loving Mum" type smile. Dad would usually say, "Close ruddy door" (even if it was closed) - and that was about all Mary and I would get out of him at the breakfast table. This was unless we misbehaved, talked too much, or maybe our school reports weren't quite what they should be.
If our school reports were in question, the subjects indicating "average", "could try harder", would be agonizingly scrutinised by our father and require assurances that things would be corrected - "or else". Mum would usually just sit quietly and ring her hands with despair, knowing that really Mary and I were only human; we did actually try hard, we were both too scared to do anything else! Mary and I needed encouragement, understanding and help, not chastisement.
Dear Mum, bless her; when Mary and I had sat down at the table (having been careful to do so quietly and not to disturb Dad's reading of the newspaper) she would scuff about the kitchen in her fluffy slippers, and get us our breakfast.
The culinary masterpiece called "our breakfast" consisted of oatmeal porridge with thin cream poured over the top and a dollop of treacle to sweeten it. To accompany this delight would be freshly burnt toast "toasted" on the stove. In reality what happened was that the severe heat of the stove surface didn't actually toast the bread - it seared it. The ultimate result was simply warm bread with a bitter tasting crunchy charcoal veneer. Still that's the way Dad liked it so that's the way it had to be!
In the centre of the table would be what can only be described as a masterpiece in the way of breakfast condiments. This was what had many years previously (in its finest hour) been a large sized can of "Wattie's Golden Queen Peaches in Syrup" - all the way from New Zealand! The can had long since been relegated to a lesser role and had been filled with dripping to be spread on our toast. The peach can would be replenished, usually once a week, with more dripping (beef or sometimes lamb) after the Sunday roast. Mum, because she had some sense of pride, had adhered floral wallpaper to the outside of the can to make it look "presentable" on the table.
Dad would say little to Mum apart from making a few grumbles from behind his newspaper about interesting things such as the shortcomings of politicians, council rates or the price of ale. Mum usually had to pretend to be interested with the occasional falsely sincere. "Yes dear".
At precisely twenty-five minutes to eight, Dad would go through a totally predictable routine. First he would cough three or four times. The long slow chest rendering coughs would be syncopated with gasps for air as he wheezed and spluttered to overcome the intense irritation of smoke and tar in his lungs. Of course he still had a cigarette stuck between his lips and the gasps for air would draw in even more smoke and aggravate the situation.
When the coughing spasm had been brought under control, he would swing around on his chair and reach out to the stove. With yellow nicotine stained fingers, he would stub out what remained of his cigarette. Finally he would grab the poker and dislodge the hot plate so he could drop the butt into the fire below. He would then stand-up and say, "Ee'l be awf".
Having said "Ee'l be awf", he would then reach for his blue and white "Birmingham supporters" scarf. The scarf usually hung on a suitably placed peg to keep it warm by the stove. He would then wrap the scarf once around his neck and adjust it so the ends were even. Next he would put on a brown tweed jacket and matching "cheese cutter" flat cap. Finally he would fold his newspaper and put it under his arm.
Having made himself ready, my father would give Mum a peck on the cheek, doff his cap with the barest of a smile, glare at Mary and me (as a warning to behave) and head out a door in the kitchen that led to an attached garage. Here resided our trusty (rusty) Morris Oxford. Yes rusty because the salt used on the roads for de-icing had played havoc with the bodywork of "The Oxford" as Dad called it.
The departure of Dad for work would be the signal for a little piece of magic. Mum, Mary and I would sit in silence waiting for the sound of "The Oxford" to fade into the distance as Dad headed off to work. That would be the moment when I would leap from the table, excited and grinning from ear to ear, and rush to the washhouse. Here resided a large, much loved tabby cat we called Toby. Dad would not allow Toby anywhere near the table during breakfast or at any mealtime for that matter. As far as Dad was concerned Toby; who had arrived as a stray kitten some years before; and Mary and I had begged to keep him; could live in the washhouse. From there he could get under the house via a trapdoor in the floor we lifted for him at night. He could then get out through a broken vent in the house foundations to the outside world for toileting purposes.
The fact that Dad had banished Toby to the washhouse did not prevent the odd occasion at night, when I would sneak with Toby and take him up to my bedroom. Toby could then sleep on (or even in) my bed. If Toby happened to be in my room and he heard Dad coming up the stairs he instinctively knew it was time to get under the bed - wise cat! To be fair though, Dad did allow Toby to sit in front of the fire in the lounge on cold winter evenings, occasionally after the evening meal.
Toby on being brought to the breakfast table (after my father had left) would be fussed over and allowed to have some of the cream we had used for our porridge. He would purr loudly and always rub against each one of us as if to say thank you. Mum would give him cut up raw gravy beef or maybe cooked cold chicken or meat that might be left over in the fridge. Toby, then having had his hunger more than satisfied and having had it reconfirmed that indeed he was a much loved cat; would curl up in contentment in front of the stove on a mat if it was cold. If it was warm and sunny he might go and relax on the seat in the bay window in the lounge.
It seems that I have painted a fairly dour picture of my early years and I suppose in general, things were dour. However there were actually the odd occasions that were instigated by my father that brought about a great deal of happiness for all of us.
Two occasions stand out in my mind in particular and looking back I have to thank him for them. The first was when I was seven years old. In the summer of that year we hired a narrow-boat on the Worcester-Birmingham canal and spent two weeks away, living aboard, cruising and visiting some exciting places. The route took us via the River Severn, then back home through Lower Avon, Upper Avon and Stratford Upon Avon. For that short period we became very close as a family. Mum sparkled like I had never seen her do before.
The second occasion was when one Christmas, Dad took us all by train up to Scotland to visit and stay with some of some of his relatives. The occasion greatly excited me as British Rail had just introduced what were known as Advanced Passenger Trains. Initially these were gas turbine powered, then later electric. The really exciting thing for me was that they could travel at something like two hundred kilometres per hour and the carriages "banked" on the corners. I was mesmerised with excitement - that definitely was a wonderful Christmas. It seemed that when Dad was away from the pressures he worked under at the car factory - as well as the peer pressures of his mates, he became a different man. Mum in particular enjoyed these times; it was as though the man she had met just before she married had somehow returned.
I need to mention that in my formative years I had a passion for experimenting and pulling things apart to see how they worked. As an example; creating explosions - using ground up match heads was a favourite.
I took delight in doing incorrigible things such as running a wire from the toilet cistern out the overflow pipe. This was so that if someone was sitting on the toilet, and I pulled the wire, it flushed! My poor Grandmother (Mum's mother) was certainly "on the phone" to God the day it happened to her! The wire was discreetly and quickly removed before the cause could be discovered.
My desire to experiment and question things, ultimately lead to a passion for science, particularly physics and chemistry. There was always a strong desire to know how and why things worked. I was usually in some spot of bother in my younger years for experimenting with anything I could lay my hands on - such as kerosene that Dad kept in the garage or baking soda and vinegar that Mum had in the kitchen.
To enlighten you further as to the sort of things I got up to, I had a friend Peter Gibbs, some way down the road from where we lived. I remember once how Peter and I ended up in a great deal of strife for setting fire to Mrs Gibbs's washing. The washing happened to be out drying on the line at the time. The moment of strife was when an internal combustion engine that Peter and I had attempted to make (we were going to sell it to BMC and make lots of money) had combusted externally rather than internally. Benzene (a motor spirit additive of the time) spread over the washing and then ignited. This resulted in a conflagration of sufficient magnitude for the fire brigade to be called. Peter and I were lucky that neither of us was seriously burnt and that Mrs Gibb's washing took the brunt of it!
Well that's how it was in my early years. Next we shall learn about my transition from being a child to adulthood, and some things I had to come to terms with.
Chapter 2
Transition To Adulthood
Over a number of years, BMC where Dad worked changed its name several times while various amounts of restructuring and merging took place within the industry. Eventually in 1968 BMC became the British Leyland Motor Corporation (BLMC). I remember the times of restructuring well because Dad would come home in the evening and have long discussions with Mum at teatime about worries he had relating to his job.
My sister and I had to keep quiet at the table during these serious discussions. Dad's mood would alter as he gained relief from his worries with some of his favourite Scotch. If we didn't keep quiet we would have to "go to our rooms" - that dreaded expression of doom.
There were the occasional times that weren't particularly happy. Dad believed in corporal punishment. This belief fuelled by alcohol was a combination that terrified me. When Dad was discussing the worries of his job in particular, I knew I dare not do the slightest thing that would give him cause to take his frustrations out on me. If it hadn't been for the soft loving heart of my dear mother, and her intervention, I could have suffered more at the hands of my father
Due to ongoing financial problems, BLMC was in 1975 nationalised to rescue it from complete failure. BLMC was then renamed as British Leyland. One of the underlying causes of problems in the British car industry was that Japan was producing cars that were superior in the sense that they were lighter, nippier and faster.
These new Japanese cars broke British tradition! They didn't drip oil on the driveway; they had electric cooling fans that did away with fan belts and noisy fans driven by the engine itself. Electric windows eventually become standard as did central locking. There were built-in radios. Then there were fitted heaters that actually kept the interior of the car warm. Blinkers replaced "trafficators" - the stupid things that stuck out the side of the car like a flipper with a light to indicate you were about to turn. Then the damn thing wouldn't go back in again!
The British car making industry made some adjustments but didn't adjust sufficiently to meet the competition. The British "stiff upper lip" tradition meant car manufacturers kept producing cars that the industry felt people should have rather than what they wanted.
Because Britain had been at war with Japan during the Second World War, there was still a residue of hatred for the Japanese. On this basis it was impossible for the British car making industry to admit that Japan was producing cars that were superior.
The British motor industry managed to survive without changing significantly for a few decades; mainly because of ongoing domestic and British Commonwealth consumer loyalty. This support was dwindling as the younger generation (such as me) grew up knowing little of the Second World War.
The British car industry was slowly dying. It was not only due to the competition from Japanese carmakers, it was also because of powerful unions that held companies to ransom. It got so bad that the unions would just about go on strike if the pies in the cafeteria were cold! In reality though, the unions could see that the British motor industry was in decline and they (the unions) were going to bleed the companies dry before eventually the car makers were driven to their knees.
Sadly, the dwindling returns for the British motor industry ultimately cost Dad his job and he was made redundant. It was devastating for him, deep down it hurt him terribly and he felt betrayed. Poor Mum suffered as well because Dad withdrew into himself and at times he was mentally cruel to her - well more than usual.
One thing I have to say about Dad was that he never hit my mother. Deep down there was a flicker of fondness that was kept alight by memories of carefree days when they had first met and fell in love. The wedding photos that stood on the mantelpiece in our humble lounge (along with an assortment of Toby Jugs and other morbid memorabilia) bore testament to a truly handsome pair.
When Dad lost his job in 1976 he was forty seven. He could have actually avoided losing his job. He would never admit it, but part of the reason he had lost his job was absenteeism due to alcohol abuse. He had arrogantly thought that no matter what; the union would always look after him. When the union didn't, and he remained unemployed for several months, deep depression took hold. He became ill due to the unrelenting stress of what he felt was betrayal. This played havoc with his immune system. He had lost the will to live. He no longer had the money to get "boozed" with his mates and suffered alcohol withdrawal symptoms. Ultimately we all suffered as a family because of it.
Poor Mum had to get part-time work cleaning to keep food on the table. She had to lie about what she earned so Dad wouldn't take the money to spend on drink. They were bad times for all of us, fortunately the suffering, particularly for Mum was short lived.
Within three months of losing his job, Dad contracted lung cancer; no doubt brought about by the thirty to forty cigarettes a day he had smoked every day of his adult life - as well as the air pollution and smog of the time. Even though he had lung cancer he steadfastly refused to give up smoking - he felt it to be his one last pleasure - maybe he was right.
Dad spent two months in the East Birmingham Hospital before he died. Mum, Mary and I visited him each day. Poor Mum was in tears most of the time. It was my first real encounter with the sick and dying. The hospital had many others just like Dad.
It was winter and when I looked out through the typical, cream painted metal frames of the grimy windows in the room where Dad lay - it would inevitably be a grey and depressing perspective characterised by rain or smog. What a godforsaken place I thought. As was the case with Mum, tears of despair welled up in my eyes. Even though I had no great affection for my father there were mixed up feelings of emotions driven by unanswered questions of why did this have to be.
The day Dad died changed my life. It was the winter of 1976 and I was thirteen years old. I will never forget his thin wizened up body as the end was approaching. The small grotesque shadow of his former self had been wracked with pain as secondary cancers quickly spread. The rational aspects of my scientific and enquiring mind screamed at me. 'This doesn't have to be. I can never let this happen to my life!" I thought. "There must be a better way!"
My father had died because he had been weak and conformed to the status quo. He had never been able to see reason or logic. He could never say no to peer pressure and he would conform to the behaviour of the idiots he associated with.
I pondered more and more over how it could be that Dad had ended up the way he did, and put it down in part to be maybe a lack of education. No, really, as I had already surmised, the underlying cause was peer pressure and an inability to think rationally. Of all the lessons I ever learnt in my life, this was probably the greatest.
In realising what had brought about my father's death, I vowed to myself I would never be subject to peer pressure and to only do things or follow others if there was sound reasoning to do so. It was then I made an important decision. I decided that I was going to become a doctor and go into general practice.
I remember looking at my father immediately after he had passed away. The nursing staff were taking away the oxygen and the drip fed pain killers. They had prepared the bed to be wheeled away to the morgue, and had with care and concern put flowers that well wishers had brought to one side for Mum to take home. Mum was crying uncontrollably while my sister Mary held her tightly to comfort her.
"What a pointless existence my father had", I thought to myself. I had made up my mind that I was going to do all I could to prevent other people ending up in the same manner. I could help them, so I thought at the time. Yes, that's what I would do; I would study to become a doctor - a GP, my mind was made up.
A few weeks later, when Dad's funeral had come and gone and dear Mum had at last stopped crying; Mum, Mary and I were sitting in front of the fire one night after tea. I believe Mum cried a lot after Dad died not so much because of his death, but with relief that a segment of her life that had been filled with hardship, and possibly numerous lost opportunities, was now over.
Mum didn't dwell too long on the past and quickly moved to the present. Every day she treated as being the first day of the rest of her life - she was positive and her Welsh feistiness came to the fore.
Toby was with us too when we sat in front of the fire on this particular evening. Toby was now a very happy cat with his new found freedom to wander about the house as he pleased. In return he rewarded us on the odd occasion with a mouse he would bring in and dump at our feet in the kitchen. There would be meows of frustration if we didn't take any notice of his prize - or maybe when I would save the mouse's dear little life and discretely put it outside down by the stream where Toby wouldn't find it.
On this particular evening the lights in the lounge had been turned off so that only the glow of the fire lit the room. Mum sat in one of the two big armchairs while Mary and I sat on the couch. We sat in an almost mesmerised silence while some chestnuts roasted on top of the grate; the chestnuts quietly steamed and hissed as they cooked.
Each one of us was thinking about things that had been - the few good times and the bad times. We pondered about the future. I glanced across at Mum. The warm, soft red light from the glowing coke in the grate lit up the side of her face nearest to me. The angle of the light from the fire highlighted lines; a reminder of difficult times prior to Dad's death. In reality the lines didn't detract from a refined elegance and presence that Mum now showed, they were in fact lines of experience, lines that conveyed that this fine woman was no fool.
Mum wore a new dress, one of several she had bought. She wore makeup once more; something Dad, god only knows why, had forbidden. She had had her hair tinted to display her natural colour; streaks of grey that had been beginning to show had vanished to reveal a new younger looking Mum. Her straight dark hair had now been cut short in a youthful "page boy" style. Mum had found a new freedom; she had access to some money that I will elaborate on shortly; she looked beautiful and was still young in being in her mid forties. A new life was beginning. She was smiling.
'I have you two now', she said finally.
Mum didn't turn her head. She sat in a pensive manner with her right elbow on the arm of the chair. She rested her chin on the thumb of her right hand; her fingers were clenched in position just below her nose. She looked straight at the fire and paused a moment before continuing.
'I have made up my mind that I am going to improve my education by attending night classes. I am going to get a job, a fulfilling job and give you two the very best of education. There is something you two don't know but your father had a life insurance policy. There is sufficient money for both of you to have a good education'.
Mum tilted her head back slightly with her chin still supported by her thumb. She stared at the fire and narrowed her eyes; emphasising her committal to what she had just said. The narrowing of her eyes also reflected unspoken anger at the years of being trapped in her marriage to our father.
Both Mary and I went over to the big armchair where Mum was sitting. I sat on one arm and Mary on the other. We both put our arms around her and hugged her. She started to cry again, not of sadness but one of relief that a difficult period of her life was over and had been put to rest; and we really were about to move on to exciting things.
The crying was short lived and soon there was animated conversation and laughter as we consumed the hot chestnuts. I liked mine with margarine and salt! They were delicious and the aroma that had permeated the room was warm and comforting. This was indeed a new beginning for all of us.
My desire to become a doctor was still dominant in my mind and I blurted it out to Mum about my ambition. Mum looked at me and smiled.
'You shall', she said softly with a positive firmness. 'You shall, I am so proud of you James. I will help you all I can. The opportunity is there for you'.
Mum turned to Mary and said. 'What ever I do for James I want to do for you too Mary. You two are the most precious things I have left - and Toby - you too of course!' Mum hastened to add the bit about Toby when the great lump of a tabby cat looked up seeming to sense he might have been forgotten!
Mum continued. 'I love all of you dearly. Mary, have you any ideas about what you want to do when you get older?'
Mum pulled Mary close while Mary sat on the arm of her chair and thought for a moment. They both stared at the fire.
'Yes Mum', Mary replied. 'Someday I want to be like you and have children. I want to get married, and live in a house with a chestnut tree just as we have. But before I do I would like to be a nurse and help the sick. It was terrible to see the way Dad died and like James, I think I can do something to help too'.
These were strong words from a twelve year old. Tears welled up in Mary's eyes. She had obviously had similar thoughts to my own relating to our father. It had been a bit of a shock to see him die when it really was probably completely avoidable, and things could have been so different.
****
Subsequent to my father's death; Mum, Mary and I remained living happily at our Stirchley home. Mum attended night classes in accounting. Within a relatively short time she managed to secure a job with British Rail once more. She gave up smoking, and turned her life around with courage and determination.
Major changes took place! Not only was Toby allowed free range of the house as I have already mentioned, but Mary and I didn't have to suffer oatmeal porridge every day - and Mum allowed us to have electric heaters in our bedrooms! Electric water heating was installed so Mary and I could even have hot showers in the morning before school! She also did other things such as to sell "The Oxford". Mum was now the proud owner of a near new Toyota Corolla. Dad would have turned over in his grave if he knew she had bought a Japanese car! Mum was being deliberately defiant with a "stuff you this is my life now" attitude in transgressing from the past.
Our mother was just marvellous, she did everything she could to encourage Mary and me. To broaden our education she took us on weekend trips to France and Spain. Later when she could afford it, we all (poor Toby had to stay in a cattery) went on a trip to New Zealand. What a beautiful country. Thoughts of perhaps emigrating some day had been seeded in my mind.
What Mum had done was free Mary and me from the narrow minded parochial shackles that had typically affected our father. Looking back it was a shock to realise that there were people living in Birmingham that had been born there, died there and never left the shores of England. Thanks to Mum; Mary and I quickly came to realise that there was a life outside Birmingham. In fact seeing other places gave us an appreciation of Birmingham as being a place of beauty in its own right. It wasn't all terraced houses and smog after all! It was a place steeped in history with beautiful old buildings and canals.
We appreciated the beauty of Birmingham even more, when three years after Dad died in the summer of 1979, Mum decided to cut all ties with the past and move to a semi-detached house (not far from Stirchley) in Pool Farm Road. The property Mum chose was directly opposite Fox Hollies Park in Acock's Green. Acocks Green is to the southeast of Birmingham. Our house was two storied, so our bedrooms looked across the road towards the park.
Fox Hollies Park is a beautiful place. No doubt, those who are familiar with Birmingham would agree it is one of the prettiest parks in the whole of the area. One particularly beautiful feature is a crystal clear stream that runs through the centre. The stream is large enough and deep enough to see the occasional fish swimming against the current. Additionally there is a scenic lake containing many different species of fish. One is allowed to catch these fish - notices ask that fish that have been caught, be put back so that stocks don't need to be constantly replenished.
Apart from the lake and the stream, the lush grasslands and mature trees of Fox Hollies Park had made where we moved to live, a very special place to be. I have drawn some attention to Fox Hollies Park because its beauty stayed in my memory for ever - it influenced me in choices as to where I lived later in my life.
Mum had made a wonderful decision to move to where we did. She had unselfishly made the choice to makeup for the hard times Mary and I had endured living in Stirchley. While Mary and I were under the care of Mum she always made decisions that were for the betterment of our futures. Decisions she made also so reflected an unreserved love for Mary and me.
With the money from Dad's insurance, Mum could have set herself up in a really nice detached house in an expensive suburb. Being an attractive woman she could have also perhaps married again or found a partner - but no she didn't - her happiness was Mary's and my happiness - you dear, dear person Mum.
Our immediate neighbours, who lived in the "attached part" of the Pool Farm Road property, were a family with two children (boy and girl) about the same age as Mary and me. We all got on well. Julian Wareham was the boy's name. We played football together in a local, age graded team. I started to come out of "my shell" and grow in self confidence. I was a much happier young teenager; Mum was thrilled to see how I was beginning to thrive.
When we moved to Pool Farm Road, Mary and I were both attending Bournville Secondary school. Mum thought it best that we continue to attend Bournville rather than changing schools at a critical time in our education. Bournville wasn't that far away from where we then lived so it wasn't any real inconvenience. She had given consideration to perhaps sending us to private schools but felt that this could narrow our appreciation of life and the world as it really was. Looking back, she was right.
At school I worked hard and conscientiously to further my dream to become a doctor. The incentive was not only to fulfil my ambition but to also repay Mum for her selfless devotion to set Mary and me up for the future.
It wasn't straightforward and clear-cut to simply pursue my ambition at school. There was always peer pressure to deviate me from the "straight and narrow". The "tall poppy syndrome" was always present in that underlying jealousies and resentment of achieving would bring about mental bullying by others. I resisted these pressures strongly because it was ever present in my mind what the result of giving in to such pressures had done to my father.
Physical bullying at school was always there and it had affected me quite badly in my earlier years when Dad was alive. However things changed after Dad's death. It was in part because I was growing rapidly and had become tallish for my age, but really it was because I had become more outgoing in my nature so what I presented as a person was devoid of any timidity. Another factor that helped was that I actively pursued sport, particularly football, boxing and athletics. This to a degree allowed me to get along with others and to have plenty of friends. Bullies tended to focus on lone targets.
An ability I developed that I nurtured and was ultimately good at was debating; it gave me plenty of confidence once I had mastered it. It was a terrifying challenge to me at first but Mum gave the necessary coaxing and encouragement to ensure I joined the school debating team. As I became more accomplished, it was the "the icing on the cake" as far as becoming strong and assertive was concerned. Timidity and nervousness - two characteristics I had retained under the oppressive influences of my father - became a distant memory.
Thanks to Mum encouraging me, I managed to lead the Bournville Secondary School debating team to a few victories. Mum knew that a strong command of written and oral English was indeed a powerful tool that would see me in good stead. I found this to be absolutely true in ultimately having the ability to fend off mental bullying by others; with quick to the point logic that would have silenced a Judge!
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-31 show above.)