Many people endure an unhappy and distressing childhood. Such an experience is likely to warp the developing character, and thus affect the course of their whole life. Some may say that those traumas leave an indelible mark that blights their future, while, for others it can be the making of them; an unintended exercise in character building.
The one forlorn snapshot of my parents wedding showed a man in his 30’s wearing a trilby, smart grey suit and spats outside the church with his new bride, a shapely younger lass of no more than 20, wearing a dark 2 piece suit. The smiles were a little forced, and the only others present were the vicar, a couple of Dads friends, and one of Mums sisters. I was eventually to be the only fruit of that union. I was named Charles David. David is a Jewish name meaning ‘Beloved’. Never had a child been named more inappropriately.
We were of solid working class stock, respectable to the core. The luxury of lax morality was for others; our duty lay in hard work, and just getting on with life in a quiet unspectacular way. Dad was an Ulsterman, a Chief Steward on the Liverpool-Belfast ferry, with no family of his own. Mums family also had a background in the Merchant Navy in the best Liverpool tradition; indeed Gran had been a novice nurse on the SS Californian when it sailed past the sinking Titanic. Gran had hoped for better for her daughter than to marry a mere ‘Emptier of piss pots’, and so had not approved or attended the wedding: Grandad did as he was told.
I inherited asthma from Dad, and am told that it was severe from the day of my birth, and I was kept in hospital for some time. In those days, there was no effective treatment for asthma, and I was not expected to live for any great length of time.
Dad worked nights, and his free time in the afternoon was normally spent having a few drinks with his shipmates in Tom Hall’s Tavern in town. I suppose he did have days off, but my memory of such times is that he was normally having an afternoon nap, and must not be disturbed. In no way did Dad mistreat me, in fact I suppose he loved me in his own way, but he had no family history to learn paternal skills from, hence he forever remained a distant figure that I never got to know or understand.
Mum was a barmaid, hence she seemed to me to work day and night with just a short afternoon break. On her days off, she would set to with the housework, and I forever associate those days with thick clouds of dust as she vigorously swept the carpets; the effect of all this on my asthma was obvious to anyone but her, thus whenever she was off, I would likely be gasping for breath.
With both parents working at night, somebody to look after the baby was always a problem: Gran did her share, as did aunties and various neighbours. Sometimes, Mrs. Jones from next door would put me to bed, and tell me to knock on the wall if I wanted anything. I did knock, just once, and Mrs. Jones came running. I asked her for a glass of water, which she gave me, but somehow I knew better than to knock again. At a remarkably young age, it became necessary for me to look after myself. Probably with a heavy heart, Mum would say, ”You will be alright by yourself”. It was a statement, not a question. To this day, it would make a suitable title for my autobiography, for I have been ever since, and even then, I knew better than to argue.
My long solitary evenings were spent in sheer terror. I would sit motionless for hours with my back to the coal fire, which would make me sick, but I knew that if I moved, made a sound, or took my eye off the door, Billy Biggs the Bogeyman would come in and get me. My only companion would be the radio, still to this day, of vital importance to me. One night, at the end of a horror show, the sound of a dripping tap was heard, and the doom-laden voice of Valentine Dyall intoned, “It is only the tap in the kitchen dripping, or is it blood? Strong stuff for a young child. If someone put me to bed, I would lie in bed watching a shadow cast on the ceiling from the landing light. It was a Chinese soldier, sword raised, crouched, listening for my movement.
As a consequence, I grew into an unprepossessing child; skinny, unhealthy, withdrawn, and painfully shy. I understood that I was unloved and a nuisance, though nobody ever said such a thing. Other children in the street seemed to have such happy lives, yet I spent most of my time alone, gasping for every breath, crying for a mother who could not be there. Although I was too young to put words to my feelings, I believed myself to be a failure, not good enough in some way, a disappointment. When I started school, I was taken the first morning, but by lunchtime, I was on my own, and had to find my own way home. Lunch would be a tin of Mock Turtle or Chicken Noodle soup left on the kitchen table.
My fight back started one day when I was off school and really gasping for breath. Gran had come up to look after me, and when the doctor came, I remember him whispering to Gran “ This child will not see the winter through.” Even at that tender age, my spirit rebelled, and I am still here 60 years later. I somehow knew that I would have to make my own way in this world unaided; that I would have to be entirely self-reliant, a man who would indeed be an island, and so it has proved.
Despite missing most of my schooling due to ill health, I went to the top of the class, passed my 11 plus, and went to a grammar school, to the amazement of everyone. I went away to sea as was expected of me, and stayed there until I had obtained my Masters Certificate of Navigation. I lost interest after that, having proved myself, and began a series of business ventures. Unconsciously, I followed a strict pattern; I would work myself silly in a (one man) business until I had made an undoubted success of it, then I would just walk away, and move into a completely new field, I suppose for ever trying to prove myself worthy and lovable, but without any response from those who mattered. In turn I was an insurance salesman, a taxi proprietor, founded a coach company, a newsagent, a café owner, a tobacco wholesaler, had a concession in a department store. I did charity work, became a Samaritan, took a degree part time, and was always a dutiful, obedient son. I never found love or even a companion, but by God, I became capable, sociable, and wise in the ways of the world.
Several years after Mum died, in conversation with an aunt, she mentioned that I had almost been born out of wedlock. This stunned me, and she felt bad as she thought I already knew about it. I found this long kept family secret to be hilarious at first. Apparently, my oh-so respectable parents had conceived me during a squalid quickie up a back alley. I had been the cause of a shotgun wedding. No wonder the family had not attended.
Later, on reflection, it began to dawn on me that my whole life had been spent racing up a cul-de-sac. It was not me that was not up to the mark, it was my parents. If I was unloved, it was through no fault of mine; I had survived and advanced despite them, not because of them. What course my life would have followed if I had known this is impossible to conjecture, but it would have been radically different. Perhaps I may have been happier, perhaps I may have become lovable; who knows?
Ironically, this knowledge has brought me contentment, and a form of happiness. My life, for all its pain, terror and aloneness, has given me a strength, depth of experience, and wisdom that is unique, and I would not now change it for the world. I have no resentments; my parents paid a heavy price for their sin, but they made a good man of me.
