My So Called Mum: Child abuse, Love & My Great Britain

by Joseph Kane

  “Shut up about bloody football.”

  My grandad shouted at Mick from the corner of the room, sat in his usual spot. Mick just laughed. If there were two things my grandad hated, it was football and television. His idea of relaxation was sitting in the corner with a glass of beer sat on one leg in his stone washed jeans, talking to himself or slating everyone under his breath.

  “You pile of crap.” “I should have never had kids.” “You piece of shit.”

  It was pretty amusing listening to him in his element, stood on the upstairs bannister. The only annoying thing that drove Mick crazy was my grandad’s tutting as he tried to get food out of his teeth with nothing more than suction.

  “Will you shut up!”

  Mick would finally lose it after the fifth tut as he laid on the floor watching sport. The only thing that drove me crazy was Patsy Cline every Sunday morning with my gran in full control of the record player under the stairs. Our house was inundated with visitors. There was never a dull moment.

  I didn’t have any friends in Fulwood until I reached seven when a boy next door knocked on for me. I stood behind my gran with curiosity when she opened the door.

  “Is that boy in? Does he want to come and play?”

  “Yeah go and play Joseph; this boy wants to play with you.”

  Stood shy at the front door, I was excited that someone asked to see me. That’s when I met Daniel. He was a boy the same age as me that lived next door with foster parents. He wore a black Adidas tracksuit and had short blonde hair styled as a bob. His nickname was ‘Scuddy.’ You could tell this kid was cool with an attitude. I was a goody-two-shoes that couldn’t tell my ass from my elbow; I knew nothing other than pubs, violence, and sex. It was great getting out. We became really good mates exploring Fulwood together. In a way, we came from similar backgrounds. Later that day he took me across the street to introduce me to another lad. Andy was an obese kid, that was obsessed with Man United. I liked him from the start. He was always hyperactive running around kicking a football pretending to be Eric Cantona, after kicking a ball into an imaginary net. Cantona was a new sensational football player that went down to be one of the all-time greats scoring 82 goals. Later, the boys introduced me to another lad named Phil, another nice lad that lived half a mile away. Every summer from that day forward was perfect. From the age of seven onwards, we stuck together like glue. It was like re-living the movie ‘Stand by Me.’ I played Gordie, the skinny kid. Scuddy played Chris Chambers. Andy played the chubby kid Vern, and Phil played Teddy. It was uncanny how we all fit the bill. We even had the same shaped heads. The six-week holidays were when things got really exciting. Just across the road, we had a leisure centre. Every day we paid £1.70 to do activities such as swimming, roller disco, bouncy castle, or badminton. If we weren’t running around in the leisure centre with twenty other kids, some of which being extended friends, we were in each other’s house playing video games or making dens in wooded areas. Climbing was mine and scuddy’s speciality; tree’s, roofs, anywhere inaccessible. He wasn’t as experienced as me. If it weren’t for a branch that saved his fall when he landed on his balls one time, we’d have a man down. We climbed 30ft conifer trees in my grandparent’s garden, high enough to see the hospital. Being so confident at climbing, I jumped straight from the top into a freefall, each branch slowly breaking my fall as I tumbled like a ragdoll. The best tree jumps had to be off a local high school roof. The tree next to the roof had long, dangly branches everyone could grab once they grew the courage to jump. If successful, it was like a bungee jump to the ground. That was the same school roof where we did a few all-nighters after sneaking out late at night. During the holidays, the caretaker lived on the school premises in a house with his dog. Scuddy and I thought it was funny to climb around the edge of the fence near his house so that his dog would chase us. It was only a sheepdog. Harmless enough, but fast as Flash Gordon. Boy, that thing could run. We found it so hilarious because the dog was always out of sight. It was only when we approached the house would it appear, running straight towards us like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. I think the dog enjoyed the chase more than we did. All we could do was roll around on the floor laughing, trying to catch our breath on the other side of the fence. Every time the dog retreated to the other side of the house, we repeated the process. It was such a blast taunting it.

  Another benefit from the six weeks holidays was mine and Micks birthday in August. Because we shared the same birthday, and practically joined at the hip, we always spent the day together. My gran would create a party for both of us every year. All my friends and cousins gathered around us with party hats on, eating sausage rolls with triangle sandwiches, while Mick and I leaned over to blow the candles out. It was a day filled with love and joy. Only God knew where mum and dad were, but I didn’t care. They never attended one birthday party, let alone do anything with me. My real life was with my dad's side of the family if nothing else. How could dad be such a violent drunk when he had such a loving family. After opening all the presents, we would all go bowling, or to the cinema. I was spoilt and loved, even if it was just for the weekend. I can’t imagine life without those three people. The rest of my family were great, but gran obviously pulled all the strings. She was such a selfless person. External parties were just as good from relatives, friends, or strangers. We all received an invite every week for doing everyone’s buffet. After all, someone had to carry thirty trays of food into the labour club. People danced and laughed, drank and ate, week in, week out. It was brilliant. I found it hard to include myself. Being such a shy kid, everyone tried to get me to dance, but I was happy to watch from the cushioned chairs built along the wall with a glass of coke. Some occasions, a few relatives managed to get me up to dance. I didn’t know any dance moves, but I jumped and moved my arms around before shimmying off the dance floor. Inside, I wanted to let go and enjoy myself without a care in the world. The DJ stood behind his booth of flashing disco lights, taking song request every so often. It was the 90’s, but with everyone’s bushy hairstyles, retro clothing, and robotic dance moves, you would have thought it was the 80’s.

  Sunday night was always a bummer. The calm before the storm. The wealth before the strife. I knew once it got to 6pm, I was in my final hour of need before home time. I laid down on the carpet in front of the nice warm fire, with a cushion from the sofa. The Simpsons were on for precisely an hour, making my family suffer before leaving the building. After it finished, it was time to grab my stuff while Mick got his shoes on to take me back to mum. I knew there wouldn’t be any food, so I grabbed loads of Pepsi and chocolate from the fridge. I didn’t want to eat sugary food, but it was better than no food at all. I couldn’t take anything my grandparents bought for me, because my mum had a habit of selling my stuff in the pub for beer money. My child benefit wasn’t enough for her; she had to sell what I owned.

  “You don’t even use it.”

  Mum was good at justifying things. If anyone could justify a war crime, I can guarantee, it would be her. Her outlook on life was far from dads side of the family. It made me wonder what part she played with my dad’s drunken antics. Once home, I walked straight to the living room with the front door already unlocked. Mum was never about to get up to open the door in the middle of her drama on TV. I never even got a hello. I sat on the footstool covering my face with my jumper. She was transfixed to ‘Heartbeat,’ one of the most boring TV dramas of all time. The room was filled with tobacco smoke. Before bed, I would get hungry. It was a laugh opening the fridge door. Cheese slices and the remains of a chocolate gateau hardly constituted as food, but that’s all there was. I tried to save my Pepsi and Twix chocolate bars for during the week, but most of it was gone before Monday morning. I missed countless opportunities to go on holiday to America with my grandparents. Mum always stopped me from going. She was either jealous, or she just wanted me to miss out because that’s the kind of personality she had. It was like I had to pay for my dad’s actions. I di
d, however, manage to get her permission to go to the South of France for a whole three weeks. Both uncles, my cousin, my auntie, and my grandparents took two cars to drive there and back. It was my first trip to Disney in Paris. Not what I expected from the stories in Florida, but it was still great. The mood turned sour two days after reaching the coast from what we heard on the news. In the resort bar, everyone gathered around the television to listen to a tragedy that unfolded very close to where we had just been. My gran's idol had been in a car accident. Diana, the Princess of Wales, had been in a 90mph car crash. Shortly after she passed away. It killed the vibe for the rest of the trip. It was such a shame. Millions mourned back home, while we had to make the most of it still on holiday. We managed to get some well-earnt sun, even reaching Monaco for the day were all the rich and powerful spent their money on expensive yachts. It was a beautiful place. Green water washed up on the rocks, as we ate spaghetti pasta outside an Italian restaurant imagining what life would be like, living on a multi-million-pound vessel out in the open sea. I had come a long way from a rat-infested farm, with cow shit up to my knees. My stomach was uncommonly full of Italian food, or French Croissants. Life could certainly be amazing in the right time and place. It might as well be a dream, because like dreams, the moment will end before returning back to reality.

  Chapter 5 - The Estate

  “Come on Joseph, get up. We're going to view the flat.”

  Awaking from our hotel room that we were cramped in for weeks on end, I looked forward to having my own bedroom again. It was a short walk from town, back into the middle of the estate, a stone’s throw from dads flat. I feared it wasn’t the last time we saw him. On arrival, our new home was the bottom flat, in a three-storey complex that stretched halfway down the street. I imagined it was full of low-income families compacted together. As we were a family, the Council gave us the bottom flat with a big back garden, and a small front garden enclosed behind a wall with a fence. Blocks of flats surrounded us in rows and columns, with the occasional house. What stood out more, were the ten-storey-high flats that towered above us. I was glad we didn’t live in one of those. When we walked in, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. We had a large kitchen on the left with two doors leading through to the living room. At the end of the hallway was a separate toilet and bathroom. To the right, we had two bedrooms. One of us would have to sleep in the living room. I can’t imagine Chris sharing a room with me. I overheard a conversation about Chris applying for a flat of his own. He had gotten a girl pregnant. I doubt mum was bothered, even though he was young. It was a smart move for most people living on the breadline. The Government will only help people with kids, so that was the trend for everyone out of work. I liked our new home; we just had a slight problem. The flat was completely bare. The only thing installed was the kitchen worktops with a sink, as well as a bath and a toilet. The Council committed to throwing away perfectly good furniture from previous tenants. Everything we had in the past was gone. All we had were the clothes on our back, and a few bin bags filled with junk that we didn’t need. We even had to go to the shop to buy lightbulbs. Anything else had to wait.

  Chris conveniently vanished to find comfort elsewhere, while me and mum grinded it out for the next few weeks with nothing to even sit on. Even mum found her own comfort. Her first plan was to have a house warming. Two of her friends came around so they could have a drink in the kitchen, with worktops to sit on. Me, on the other hand, was left in the empty living room. She placed a thin bed sheet on the floor for me to lay on, while another was on top of acting as a blanket. The floor was a black marble-like stone that was as cold as the pavement outside. I shivered all night while mum got drunk in the kitchen surrounded by laughter and smoke. The first week we went without water. Our temporary toilet was a bucket that we shared. I was so cold and stiff from sleeping on that horrible floor. The third night, mum managed to get some cardboard boxes from the shop that made a hell of a difference. The ten pence crisp I lived off, was now my new bed from the empty boxes.

  The weekend soon came, when Mick came to get me. Once my grandparents cottoned on, they weren’t happy. They had mercy on us and bought my mum a brand new three-seater settee that pulled out into a bed. It also came with a footstool. Eventually, they ended up buying bunk beds for my room. It took a while, but gradually it felt more like home. Mum decided to paint our front door from red to yellow; her favourite colour. She took pride hanging her dad’s custom-made metal plate above the front door. It looked like a registration plate that had his name ‘TOME’ printed in black on a yellow background. My estranged grandad’s name was Tom, and everyone called him Tommy, hence the different spelling. All she did was talk about her dad, and how he could fix things in his shed, or how capable he was. To me, he was just a drunk that owned a pub who died from liver failure. She denies it of course, telling me about the time he fought with my dad, and that my dad kicked him in the liver giving him liver failure. It was a load of rubbish. He drank himself to death. It became clear why I didn’t receive any affection when he was alive. I couldn’t say if she drank to feel close to him, or aspired to be like him.

  It soon became apparent as to what kind of people shared our neighbourhood. Stood on the wall, leaning against the fence in our small front garden, I watched the people go along with their daily lives. I had an incline from the people we met in the pubs, but this was different. This time we were all in the thick of it. Most of the community was in exactly the same situation as us. Substance abuse, poverty, and a lack of work plagued the whole estate. I was in the metropolitan of hell. Everyone dragged each other down, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Drunks roamed the streets like zombies. Heroin users walked in a quick march with eyes as wide as the moon, looking for an opportunity to steal. Kids begged every stranger they passed for ten pence, with the same dirty clothes they had worn all year. Without really knowing anyone, or what went on, the area seemed quiet until you noticed the obvious. Starting my new school was months away, so all I could do was hang around, again! There are only so many variations of climbing on a wall, before going back inside to an empty flat. My parents were heavy drinkers, so it's not like we ever had trouble fitting in deprived areas. We landed in paradise as far as mums concerned. I must have been the only kid with grandparents, let alone the ones I was so lucky to have. All I had to do was survive until the weekend; everyone else had to endure 365 days a year.

  One fashionable night, mum took me with her to the bottom of the street so that she could have a drink with her friends. The high-rise flats were a beacon for where we lived. Having four of them erected made the population for our neighbourhood immensely high compared to the rest of the town. One area might have a few thousand residents; we must have had over ten thousand people within one mile. Walking into the lobby, once we were buzzed through the main door, it absolutely stunk of piss. Dirty shoes had marked the floor from the hundreds of people coming and going. We pressed the elevator button for the eighth floor, two floors away from the top, and way too high for my liking. Each hallway on every level had a wall of shaped breeze blocks enabling air to flow in, and allowing people to look out over the town. The thought of falling from such a height played on my mind. Once outside the flat, her friend opened the door to let us in. Inside were two drunk Scottish men full of scars and tattoos. I knew what I was in for the second that door opened. It looked like a squatter’s den. There were two manky sofas and a light bulb in the living room. Rubbish and empty beer bottles littered the carpetless floor. What a shit hole! Our flat was only a slight improvement. Mum, me, and her friend Debbie sat on one sofa, while the men sat on the other sofa, just by the side of us, as we all looked at the invisible television. All I could do was sit back covering my face with my jumper, while four cigarettes burned at the same time. I hated the smell of smoke; it was like a gas chamber. They laughed and drank having the time of their life. I wanted to throw up. How could she come down to such a low? Hours passed much slower.


  “Mum, can we go now I’m hungry.”

  I tried to harass her to leave, but she ended up shouting at me. Then I started to beg her for money so I could go to the shop. It was never easy getting beer money out of her. My silence was bought when a pound coin was passed to me from her buddies. It was dark and late when I headed down in the lift, on my way to the shop on the lane. I don’t think she was too concerned about her eight-year-old son walking to a shop at 10.45pm. The money helped me fill my pockets with crisp, chocolate and a fizzy drink. It was all in my stomach by the time I went back to the flat. There was no way I was eating in a smoke-filled room. When I got sleepy, the only option was to curl up behind mum's back, while the intoxicated sat on the edge of their seats getting rowdy. Somehow, I fell asleep with all the shouting and laughing vibrating off mums back.