I took two part-time jobs, cleaning offices and transporting milk. The milk vendor was an Orthodox Jew and when I innocently laid a milk crate on the ground he went crazy, said food and drink in contact with the earth were contaminated and told this Gentile to take the crate home. A few crates slipped after that, but he wised up quickly and took it out of my pay.
The domestic load was crushing and I found it hard to cope alone. From dressing and feeding each morning to the last bedtime story, it was go, go, go. Add shopping, washing, cooking and cleaning to the strain on my energy and sanity. Night turns—toothaches, stomach pains, toileting, nightmares—were the most stressful of all. My appreciation of the mammoth job my mother did raising 10 children in poverty went stratospheric. Most women of her generation had big families, 12 wasn’t uncommon, and I was learning why they looked ragged and old at 30. I’d never faced such awesome responsibility, it was hard—at times it seemed impossible—but I was determined to keep my family together and succeed. At night, as I crawled into my big bed between my sleeping boys, stressed and exhausted, I’d gently put Troy’s limp body on my chest and my arm around him, and he’d sleepily nuzzle me. I’d look at Dean and Guy left and right of me. This was my family, my greatest achievement, and I felt loving and protective towards them all.
Yet, six weeks after Gloria shot through, a welfare officer paid me a visit with a fine solution she’d worked out. Dean and Tracey were to be installed with one family, Guy and Troy with another, all—she piously opined—would have lovely upbringings. Then she told me to sign the paperwork she’d brought. ‘Get out of here before I throw you down the stairs! Get out!’ She stood, straightened her skirt, threw her shoulders back, told me there was ‘no need to adopt that attitude’ and left. I sensed that wasn’t to be the end of it, and sure enough, she returned with reinforcements a few days later. They tried to make me feel guilty: I was depriving my children ‘of a better standard of living’. They tried pressure. I told them I’d throw the three of them down the stairs. They left quietly, but the battle was on, time to stop reacting, time for calm thought and strategic planning, time to take action. Welfare was pow6rful. They could take my precious ones away. I decided I needed allies in their camp.
I owned an 8 mm film projector and reels of cartoons, Mickey Mouse and the like. I visited the local Welfare-run kindergarten and showed films to the children, who loved it. Those welfare officers, the supervisor especially, came on side and gave me full support.
However, the world was still a dangerous place. I woke about 2 o’clock one morning to see queer shadows flickering on the ceiling. From the window, to my horror, I saw flames belching out of the top bedroom of Number 2 where West Indian families lived. I grabbed an industrial fire extinguisher, told Tracey and the boys, who were stirring, to stay put, and raced down the road. As I ran the extinguisher felt heavier and heavier, my legs got leaden, I was drawing shallow breaths and my heart was pounding. I was a fit man. These symptoms of debilitation could only have come from fear. What if I died in a rescue? My children would be fatherless. It took great effort to keep moving, but I knew I had to push on. A group of West Indians stood outside crying and moaning. ‘Are there any children inside?’ I yelled. A drunk Irishman slurred there was. Without hesitation I dashed inside and rushed up the stairs, the Irishman close behind. At the top of the stairs a smoke cloud stung my eyes and I could see little through an impenetrable wall of fire in the doorway of the room I’d seen burning. No-one could exist in that. The other upper room was full of smoke. I fell on hands and knees and crawled across the floor with my head near the ground where a layer of air remained. Blinded, gasping, roasting, I patted under beds, in wardrobes, corners—anywhere a child might cower. I began to suffocate and had to leave. The Irishman found a boy in a corner of the hallway. He reached out to pull the lad closer. The skin peeled off the boy’s hand like a glove. I helped him lift the child to safety and he carried him out. I went back into the smoke-filled room and by the time the smoke forced me back out I was fairly sure it was empty.
Three children had been playing upstairs and had probably kicked over a kerosene heater. The parents were playing cards and socialising downstairs. But none of the grieving adults had tried to enter the house and save the children. The following week I watched two white coffins being loaded into a hearse. My hands reached out and clutched my own living children and I made a pact with myself: my children would never be left alone.
One day a car carrier, with two racing cars on board, pulled up outside our house. Out stepped my father. He was on a delivery job and decided to visit me. The children were very excited and ran outside to check out the wondrous racers. Dad lifted Dean into the driver’s seat and told him he’d buy a racing car for him when he grew up. Dean’s eyes grew wide in expectation. I knew better.
I invited dad in for a cup of tea. On this second visit he was more comfortable as my guest. Dad was in his mid-sixties, more wrinkles on his face and a slight stoop. When he sat down and I served refreshments, it became apparent he wanted to talk. He filled me in on matters I didn’t know about, like me having another half-brother from his liaison with Amy Quick, Amy who my mother once caught climbing out of their bedroom window. This was the same Tut who Granny Ada raised. Dad spoke briefly about our family’s best kept secret: mum’s attempted suicide in the Minshull Street canal, with me as a 3 year old in her arms.
Then dad said, ‘Is there anything you want to ask me that needs your forgiveness?’ My heart skipped a beat. I thought he was referring to the subjects we’d just discussed. ‘No, dad, that’s OK.’ After he left I felt sick to the core that I hadn’t asked him about his drinking and the cruel way he’d treated me as a child. He was probably feeling some guilt about it and needed to clear the air. I reconciled myself by saying that next time we met we’d definitely resolve these issues.
A year passed since Gloria left. Christine kept in contact on a regular basis. She sympathised with the difficulty I was having raising children and maintaining income. Her plans were far less complicated. She was contemplating going to Liverpool University to do a course in veterinary sciences. Every two or three days she’d visit and spend an hour helping me do the housework. Christine wasn’t very good at it as she’d never been expected to help in her own house. I taught her to cook and do basic chores. This made Christine feel important and needed. She began to lose interest in higher intellectual pursuits and decided to move in with me and help care for my family full-time.
Christine’s parents were aghast. Her father Lionel took it particularly badly and came around to tell me our relationship would never last. I liked him and even thought about terminating the relationship. However, Christine didn’t want to. I was also very grateful for her help, so it was certainly not in my interest to call it quits at that stage.
Days after his visit, Lionel suffered a severe heart attack. I gave Christine a tin of talcum powder as a present to take with her when she visited her father at the hospital. The present was begrudgingly appreciated. A couple of days later, another massive heart attack killed him. I was very upset and felt guilty that I may have helped precipitate his early death. I was surprised Christine was not more affected by his death. Maybe she deeply buried it, but I was left with the impression she had not felt as close to her father as he had to her.
When Christine came to stay she always slept in a separate bed from me and the children. I didn’t want anyone thinking lust was the basis of our relationship. It was especially important to me that the children did not see us sleeping together; I knew that they were still missing the love and companionship of their real mother.
The children were aloof with Christine at first but as the months progressed they accepted her as a good friend. The children seemed more content and there was a feeling of family once again. Christmases became very special. I put more into them than ever before. We had a Christmas tree and I made sure there were lots of little presents and one big one for each child. We made a
great fuss about slowly opening the gifts one at a time. It was wonderfully bonding. I was making up for all those family Christmases I never had, despite all the efforts of my dear mum.
Christine became a member of the naturist club in Kent. We took the children there almost every weekend, where we’d play tennis in the nude, swim and sunbathe. Christine enjoyed rubbing sun lotion on the other women stretched out on the grass. My greatest pleasure came from the lunchtime ritual of selecting from the vegetarian smorgasbord. People brushed up against each other as they packed around the trestle table, pressing against soft rounded bottoms and reaching between shoulders, waists and breasts to select foods.
On our way to camp we drove over a bridge and the car hit a bump. Christine’s dog, Josie, bounced up into the air and his cute ears, one black, one white, flapped up on his descent into Troy’s lap. Troy thought this was hilarious and screeched with laughter. My son’s joy brought me an intense glow of happiness.
It was good to have a little dog in my life again for its own sake. Josie soon fell pregnant, thanks to an amorous black labrador that jumped our wall. She gave birth to a full litter of the cutest black-and-white puppies. We gave most of these to a pet shop which found homes for them. We kept two, Beautie and Logan, so Josie could experience motherhood. The children adored playing with, walking, feeding and grooming our dogs. Josie, Beautie and Logan knew they were the centre of our universe and acted accordingly. Logan became my constant companion. He was a tough yet gentle dog with compassionate eyes that always seemed to be wanting to tell me something.
My children grew old enough to run with me in Finsbury Park. We’d start off at a water fountain, circle the park back to the fountain, the three dogs bouncing along with us. Logan enjoyed wandering off on his own, distracted by the rich smell of grass, earth, trees and animal markings. Once, when he went missing, I dropped the kids back home and returned to the park, expecting Logan to be patiently waiting by the fountain. He wasn’t. I searched, calling him. After a while, to my relief, I saw Logan bounding towards me.
He had a little wounded sparrow in his mouth. He laid it on the grass in front of me so carefully he didn’t ruffle a feather. The bird was weakly flapping one wing. The injured wing dragged across the grass as the frightened bird tried to escape. Its vulnerability filled me with empathy; I knew exactly how it felt.
I gently picked up the wounded sparrow, aware of its heart pounding wildly in its warm fluffy chest. I took it home and put it in a cage where I’d nursed other small wounded animals. Slowly, the wing healed. When the sparrow recovered its strength, the children and I took it back to the park, opened the cage and the sparrow immediately became airborne, flapping upwards until it was just a speck in the sky. Logan watched its flight to freedom, barking and wagging his tail. I’m sure he knew he’d helped save the bird’s life. I reached down and affectionately stroked Logan—he had fine qualities that would put most humans to shame.
My boys clearly enjoyed looking at my boxing magazines, so I gave each of them a pair of toy-shop boxing gloves. They burnt up a lot of energy whacking each other, in fun or anger. It soon became apparent, despite a certain lack of coordination and grace, that given the right training all three boys might be able to excel. Furthermore, self-defence skills could one day save their lives. I never pushed my boys into boxing; their interest fed my enthusiasm.
It was fun and challenging teaching the boys to box. I wanted to establish good habits right from the start. Their style would be based on that of Gentleman Jim Corbett, which involved keeping the fists up, punching, then returning the fists to the same position. I told 5-year-old Troy fists are like little motor cars: they come out of the garage and go back to the same resting space.
Once I’d established all three were orthodox—stepping forward on the left foot, punching with the right, no southpaw habits—I got them to punch and step back, taking their fist back to their chest, hour after hour in the bedroom, practising breathing correctly as they did so. They trained with weights to strengthen their chests and shoulders and necks. Strong necks are vital because the head takes a lot of punishment and if the stalk that’s holding it is weak, the punishment is magnified. Slim waists are more supple for ducking and weaving. They had exercises for neck and waist too. Running regularly built up fitness and stamina. Nothing they did escaped my attention.
At first Troy fell over every time he threw a punch. I fixed his balance. After leading out, he’d drop his hands. I stretched string wall to wall at his punch height with a ring on it attached to his glove so his punches stayed at the same height out, back, out, back. Running through the snow in the park one day I tripped Troy so he tumbled. He gazed up at me, tears in his eyes. ‘Why did you trip me, daddy?’ How do you tell a five year old you want him to develop the courage and determination to pick himself up and keep on, to rise above obstacles? There’s no easy road to success. Guy was easy to train, Dean was naturally awkward. Tracey displayed gracelessness running in the park, her feet turning out. I taught her to run straight-legged straight-footed, the shortest distance in each stride. She blossomed as a potential track athlete, perhaps a star. As sportspeople and citizens I wanted them to reject easy or dishonest routes. I recalled my horror at Islamic law in Tangiers. I gathered them around a cucumber on the kitchen table, lifted a small axe, and said, ‘You children steal or keep what doesn’t belong to you, this is what will happen to your hands.’ A dramatic pause, then whack!
I’d lost my desire to be a criminal, but certainly not my rebellious streak. In September that year, dustmen in London went on strike for an increase in their basic wage. They felt not only was their job underpaid but it was also ‘dirty and socially undesirable’. There seemed to be no resolution to their demands and other local authority workers, such as grave diggers and road sweepers, went on strike too. Within weeks it was estimated that 7 million people in London were affected. A disused bomb site at the back of our house was being used by more and more people to dispose of garbage. Bags of rubbish were quickly piling up, to the delight of the local rats and flies, and a terrible stench blew in our windows. After two weeks I had the horrors: there was going to be another Great Plague of London like 1665, and I felt it was time to do something drastic. I wanted to attract the attention of the media and precipitate enough public pressure to bring an end to the unhealthy strike.
I left my garbage outside Buckingham Palace’s gates one day and outside 10 Downing Street, with Prime Minister Harold Wilson in residence, on another, and the media went for it. The Evening News headline:
A LOAD OF BRITISH RUBBISH ON HAROLD’S DOORSTEP
The police took my name and address but I never heard from them again. The strike ended a few days later. I would like to think someone in the royal household put pressure on the government, least disgruntled Londoners followed my example.
It came as quite a shock to Christine to find out that weeks of ill health were caused by pregnancy. A baby she didn’t want. She spoke to Sylvia over the phone and asked for the name of a midwife who could do the abortion. Sylvia told her of someone in Manchester. Christine went there as soon as possible, telling me she had to visit an aunt and uncle down in Essex. When Christine returned she confessed. I felt angry I hadn’t had a say in the matter. It wasn’t a case of morality, nor was it any concern to me who the father of her child was, but I knew women died daily from complications due to backstreet abortions. Christine could have become one of those statistics. The midwife who aborted Christine had been struck off for drinking on duty.
In February 1972 mum phoned to tell me my father had died in hospital from a bad heart four months before. She’d just heard. Why had nobody told us sooner? I was shattered. I felt a great loss that I never had the opportunity of saying, ‘Goodbye. All is forgiven. I love you, Dad.’
I phoned Edith, the woman dad lived with and who he’d eventually married. Why had she never informed me or the family about dad’s death? She got on her high horse and put the phone down.
I rang her several times after that because I was so disturbed by what had happened. What really hurt was when I found out she’d already given dad’s tools away—to her current boyfriend.
I felt as if everything I’d really wanted, however small, was always snatched away from me. I had no photo of dad or any of his possessions, just bitter-sweet memories.
Jock McAvoy, dad’s closest friend, died 10 days later, by overdosing on sleeping tablets on his sixty-third birthday. Since contracting polio, the old champ had been confined to a wheelchair for over 20 years and no doubt felt life was no longer worth living.
Plans to go to Australia fell through when Gloria left. Things had settled down and my mind returned to distant lands. Christine didn’t want to come. She was still planning to take up veterinary studies, but having trouble getting into university because of the long waiting list. I decided to separate from Christine and go without her. Then, to my disappointment, I was told by the embassy authorities I couldn’t come to Australia with my children unless I was a married man accompanied by my spouse. I tried to contact Gloria but couldn’t locate her. Five years had passed since she left. So I applied to the court for a divorce, which came through in early 1972.
I had always wondered why Gloria had so completely cut herself off from her children. Then Sylvia rang me. She’d heard or read Gloria had died. At first I was surprised by this news but when I thought about it, it began to make sense. After all, how could any mother be so uncaring as to go all those years without a phone call or card to any of her children, even on their birthdays?
Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me Page 23