Autobiographical Essays

Essay 4  -  To Walk a Mile in Another’s Shoes

The following chapter has hung over me like the Sword of Damocles for many years.  Without it my story has a huge hole in it.  Actually sitting to write once more the details of that dark period was a painful mental exercise.  Nevertheless, no one can know another without walking a mile in the other’s shoes.  The following ‘mile’ – was the most bitter experience of my entire life.  Conversely, it was also a defining period of my life.

It was only after our trip to UK in September/ October 2007,  I found the courage and incentive to finally draft the details of those extraordinary years of my first marriage.  Nicola, my first born daughter, expressed a desire to know more about that part of her life.  Not being able to express her concerns in words made it difficult to know exactly what information she really needed.  Before we parted company, however, I promised I would write down as much as I could remember.  The results, I would send as an open letter – to be shared with, Jason, my son.

Having first drafted the letter six years ago, at least I had a base on which to work to fill in the details of those years, which changed our lives so dramatically.  It is certain that I wouldn’t volunteer to relive many of those experiences, by the same token, without them I wouldn’t be who I am today – nor would I have travelled life’s path, that unfolded as a result of those awful years.  And of course, without those years – my first born children would have never been.  It is a strange world indeed.  Little wonder some people get confused about fate and concepts such as pre-destiny. 

I choose to begin my essay with the lyrics from ‘Queen’ – ‘Too Much Love’.  The lyrics encapsulate so much of the mixed and shared emotions just discussing those years engendered, in both Nic and myself when we attempted to talk through her issues.  The extract relating to - ‘Six Degrees of Separation’ - is self-explanatory.  If not immediately so, it should be by the time the reader has read the section.    

Queen - Too Much Love Will Kill You

Written by Brian May, Frank Musker, and Elizabeth Lamers.

I'm just the pieces of the man I used to be
Too many bitter tears are raining down on me
I'm far away from home
And I've been facing this alone
For much too long
Oh, I feel like no-one ever told the truth to me
About growing up and what a struggle it would be
In my tangled state of mind
I've been looking back to find
Where I went wrong

Too much love will kill you
If you can't make up your mind
Torn between the lover
And the love you leave behind
You're headed for disaster
'Cos you never read the signs
Too much love will kill you - every time

I'm just the shadow of the man I used to be
And it seems like there's no way out of this for me
I used to bring you sunshine
Now all I ever do is bring you down
Ooh, how would it be if you were standing in my shoes
Can't you see that it's impossible to choose
No there's no making sense of it
Every way I go I'm bound to lose
Oh yes,

Too much love will kill you
Just as sure as none at all
It'll drain the power that's in you
Make you plead and scream and crawl
And the pain will make you crazy
You're the victim of your crime
Too much love will kill you - every time

Yes, too much love will kill you
It'll make your life a lie
Yes, too much love will kill you
And you won't understand why
You'd give your life, you'd sell your soul
But here it comes again
Too much love will kill you
In the end
In the end

Six Degrees of Separation:

Six degrees of separation refers to a theory that all people on earth are connected to one another by no more than six separate individuals.  A theory that parallels the idea that “it’s a small world,” six degrees of separation, maintains that through a series of connections or steps, all people have the potential to know one another on a first name basis through mutual acquaintances.
The theory of six degrees of separation has been examined through research for proof that the theory holds true.  Milgram’s Small World Experiment, a study conducted by Stanley Milgram, a researcher of social psychology at Harvard University, is perhaps the most famous such experiment. Though Milgram reportedly never used the term six degrees of separation, his experimental findings did somewhat support the theory.

Milgram’s, Small World Experiment, began in the late 1960s. He conducted various experiments that involved sending informational packets from one starting individual to an ending individual, neither of whom personally knew each other. The packets contained rosters where participants in the study passed on the packet and then listed their names and mailed postcards to researchers at Harvard for tracking purposes. The results of Milgram’s experiments, though not exactly scientific, concluded that those packets which reached the targeted recipients had an average path length of five to six people.
A similar study to prove six degrees of separation, was conducted in 2001 by Professor Watts at Columbia University.  This modern day experiment was performed using email messages as the packet was passed along.  His findings also concluded that the average number of people within a given chain was six…         

Ref: http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-six-degrees-of-separation.htm

It is a small world – even so - there are some people who, because of the vagaries of life, are separated by only one degree, yet know little or nothing of the other.

This essay is not an exercise in blame, which would be pointless.  It is simply based on the open letter to my children, presenting the ‘truth’ from one perspective. 

‘Truth’, as you might realise, is in itself an amorphous proposal.  What is truth according to one may not harmonize with another’s version.  At the end of the day the comparative truth must surely lie somewhere in-between.  That truth can only be sifted out when all the stories are told by all the participants concerned.

This then is my story...

A Father’s Story

All stories have chapters.  Some chapters are easier to write than others.  It is pointless reading a chapter in isolation, without first having read some of the previous chapters, or at least knowing of their content.  I have avoided tackling this part of my story for years, simply because I still find it extremely painful to discuss.  However, holding out on this ‘chapter’ stops me writing ‘the book’ – literally!

My teenage years, I must confess, were a confusion of mixed emotions.  Naivety was at the core of many of my problems.  How innocence can be such a burden is difficult to explain.  Somehow, I just never fitted in anywhere.  My early progress into adulthood was impeded by extreme shyness and social ineptitude.  Blushes, bright red and hot, came unbidden, at the most inopportune moments.  Even walking down a street was a painful business; I was unable to look other people directly in the eye.  For years I walked around looking down at my feet.  Sounds stupid now, I know, but that’s how my teenage years started out.  Windows and reflections often provided my only questionable and tenuous link to the ‘real world’.

Sex education was not something that commonly happened in those far off days, either at school nor at home – especially at home!  At the mention of the word, or any hint of s-e-x on the television, my father would immediately lean forward and change channels.  Censorious Victorian attitudes were well entrenched in the Jones household!  It’s a wonder the dining room table-legs weren’t covered!

Whilst I do not intend to discuss intimate details of my life, to tell this part of my story will necessitate outlining some of my poor social developmental history.  On leaving school in 1958, aged 14 years, I became an apprentice plumber.  It was also at this time I developed an interest in brass-banding and joined the local Sidmouth Town Band.  Work and Band forced me into meeting and socialising with a small group of mainly adult ‘strangers’.  I gradually began to develop an individual personality of my own – or at least a personality that blended into what was considered socially acceptable in those days.  I learned how to be what others expected – whilst concealing my secret self behind whichever persona was currently being employed.  Throughout my life, I have always felt a bit of a ‘chameleon’ in many ways, learning to blend in and hide, wherever I happened to find myself –  the proverbial tree in the forest.  This in itself is an art form that can lead to many problems.

I’ll not dwell too deeply on my teenage years at this point.  Suffice to say, I did learn to fit in, mostly through going to the pub where there were crowds, and plenty of Dutch courage alcohol.  Crowds were good for hiding amongst.  Alcohol was good for breaking down severe inhibitions.  There’s nothing new or unusual in that I suppose; but in truth, I was a social disaster in too many ways.  I learned to be ‘a man’ through association with other blokes on building sites – not necessarily the perfect role models.  Often they were rough and ready blokes, who habitually swore and talked ‘dirty’; the sort of blokes today I term as ‘sleazy’.  Even now, at seventy-plus years old, I still can’t stand sleazy people; they make me feel very uncomfortable. 

I never could get it together with the opposite sex.  Girlfriends were a rarity – and those that came along didn’t last long.  I was always secretly glad to see the back of them and get back to superficial drinking, and youthful mayhem.  Life was much simpler that way.  So – naivety, confusion, and great difficulty communicating with strangers, new people, or the opposite sex, were the main themes of my teenage years.  I absolutely hated my adolescence years.

At around the age of 20, while sitting in the pub, I got into conversation with another young bloke.  My lack of experience with the opposite sex was probably that glaring – he more or less asked me straight out, if I was still a virgin.  He offered to introduce me to a girl at a party who would be up for anything.  With some trepidation, I attended that party.  Of course, I was introduced to Anne – my wife to be - who had the unfortunate reputation of being (colloquially) - the town bike – she’d allegedly been rode by all and sundry.

That was the pivotal point in my life.  In the first place, I made the most glaring social blunder of all – a blunder I’m convinced made by many young males – I mistook falling in lust for falling in love.  Simple really – simple but deadly.

Having finally found a female who appeared interested in me, it didn’t matter about her so-called reputation, or that she was interested in anything in trousers.  As we do; I thought I was different - silly boy!  To be perfectly honest, Anne never made any secret of her past peccadilloes; throughout our married life she openly boasted of her past conquests and previous sexual exploits.  According to her, she had started her active, very promiscuous, sex life at the tender age of thirteen.  In retrospect, she had obviously been effectively sexually abused from a tender age. Over time she had developed her own crude philosophy on life – if you can call it a philosophy – she boasted her fanny would wear out long before it rusted out. 

And so the scene was set, and it was hardly Romeo and Juliet.  In the early days of our relationship, there were one or two verbal warnings of the dire consequences that lay in store.  Such warnings, from so-called mates, were as water off a duck’s back.

Again, I could reveal many of Anne’s ‘remarkable sexual encounters’, but that would serve no real purpose.  In spite of all that passed between us, there’s no points to be won in smearing the other party – who, after all, cannot defend herself. 

Anyway, did I take the hint that this might be a dangerous liaison – of course not.  I was far too young and stupid!  Our affair soon became ‘serious’ – to me anyway.  I think Anne was probably looking for a way out of home, and away from her domineering mother.  I too was looking to ‘grow up’ – I guess that’s the easiest way of putting it.  I really wanted to be married – and have kids; simply to follow in life’s logical steps as they had been modelled by my parents. To me, there’s nothing different at this point to what most young people go through – some couples are successful in their partnering, and sadly, some aren’t. 

I was working on the ‘big building sites’ in Exeter during this period; earning good money, and working a guaranteed sixty-hour week.   Sometimes we even got called in for Sunday work, bumping the hours up even more.  On top of the hourly rate, I was also paid travelling expenses for the use of my car.  I was rolling in money – earning take-home pay of around £36 per week.  That was nearly three times the rate local tradesmen in Sidmouth were earning at that time.  Anne was working as an usherette in the local Radway Cinema in those early days.  Therein lay another attraction I guess – I had a lot more disposable income than she did.  After we had been seeing each other for a few months, I proposed and she accepted.  We did what people do – bought an engagement ring and made plans.  I remember some wise folks reminding me – ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure’.  Oh that those same folks had been a little more explicit.  But then, the world would have been different for all of us – wouldn’t it. 

Anne’s mother – Dera – (pronounced Dear-ah) was all for our continued relationship; Dera was a widow, who may well have fitted the ‘Merry Widow’ description.  She liked the pub and she liked her men!  Rings a bell somewhere.  If Anne was to be believed, Dera had been physically abusive towards her – particularly so once Anne reached puberty.  Of course, we will never know, but perhaps Dera had some idea of what was happening in Anne’s early years.  Anne’s father had died fairly young, possibly of prostate cancer, before Anne reached her teens.

Accordingly, we set our wedding date for later that year – sometime around October, if I remember correctly.  Of course, the obvious happened before then.  Around February or March, Anne became worried because her period was late.  Denial became the name of the game for a few more weeks.  Those were stressful times.  Getting pregnant out of wedlock in the 1960s was still very much frowned upon, and treated as a mortal sin.  My moralising folks had made that fact quite plain over the years.

I had one acquaintance – Jeff - who had found himself in similar circumstances.  He had panicked and tried to leave town.  While this might be difficult to believe now, his parents forcibly restrained him.  They actually tied him to his bed and locked his bedroom prior to the wedding date.  He was then escorted to the wedding ceremony, where he was required to perform the ritual nuptials!  The days of the shotgun wedding were alive and well.  

As Easter approached, Anne couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer.  She went to her doctor, who confirmed she was indeed pregnant.  The doc made some wise-crack about ‘Easter Bunnies’.  Anne was not amused.  To my horror, she absolutely hated the thought of having a baby.  I couldn’t understand her attitude at all.  I remember her sitting beside me in the car punching her stomach madly with both fists and crying bitterly.  That upset me greatly – making me feel extremely confused.  Anyway, the deed was done, and short of getting an abortion, there was nothing to be done but get on with life.

We went through what all couples in that position go through – putting off telling everyone until we could wait no longer.  I’d never known such anxiety; not knowing how my parents would react, and having to tell Dera the glad tidings.  The imagined is always worse than the reality.  When I eventually told my parents, my father simply said – ‘Well, you’d better get on and get married then’.  I could have killed him!  If I’d known his reaction was going to be so laid back and uncaring,  I would have saved myself a lot of angst. 

Anne’s mother was similarly unimpressed, or bothered, when we told her the news.  She seemed happy enough to see Anne married off, and out from under her feet; she even offered to rent us an old cottage she owned in Water Lane.  Dera did say it would need a lick of paint – although she never offered to supply the paint!

And so, the wedding date was changed to the 1^st of June, 1966.  The ceremony was to be a simple civil registry office affair with just a few friends in attendance.  Born on Friday, December 29^th - 1944, I was then twenty-one years old, and Anne, just eighteen.  Anne’s birth date was Monday, November 24^th - 1947.  Even the fates were warning me:  Monday’s child is full of woe!  Friday’s child, however, is full of soul!  What a strange world. 

The small terraced property in Water Lane was a dirty, damp, dump, but Dera was prepared to rent it to us for the princely sum of 15/- (fifteen shillings) per week.  Dad and I got down to work and redecorated the place from top to bottom, prior to us moving in.  The cottage only had two small rooms downstairs – a tiny kitchen and a 10’x10’ sitting room - and two equally small bedrooms upstairs.  The stairs were so narrow the only way to get the bedroom furniture upstairs was to remove the front bedroom windows.  With the windows removed the furniture was then hauled up the outside of the building.  There was no bathroom and no hot water.  The toilet was outside the front door.  The rising damp throughout the cottage was unbelievable!  Dad and I had used wallpaper with a gold stripe; the rising damp quickly turned gold to mouldy green.  Even the fucking decorations were tarnished before we started our married life!  This then was the humble dwelling into which we eventually welcomed our first child, a daughter – Nicola Anne Jones – born on the 31^st October 1966.

The wedding day itself was unmemorable; I can’t honestly recall if my own Mother attended – I know my Father didn’t.  The reason he offered was – ‘He had to work that day’!  I do recall both my Mum and Dad eventually turning up back at Water Lane, where we held our so-called ‘reception’.  I can’t honestly recall if Anne’s mother attended.  I have no memory of her, or her boyfriend, (Joe) being anywhere in attendance.  Such astounding familial support – I don’t think.  Such negative experiences leave a bad taste in the mouth.

Because I’d become a married man, I decided to stop working in Exeter and return to Sidmouth to be closer to home.  I approached, Tom Lake, the boss at my old firm.  He was in need of a plumber, and even offered me sixpence (6d) over the hourly rate – ‘provided I didn’t tell anyone’.  Thus I returned to the place where I’d started my ‘so-called’ plumbing apprenticeship.  I soon discovered what a bad financial move that decision had been.  My take-home pay dropped from a healthy £36 per week to somewhere around £13 pound per week – take home.  We still had the car, but could no longer afford to put petrol in the tank.  The poor old Morris Minor convertible sat outside the house all week; I went back to riding a lowly bicycle around town.  Financially, times became very difficult, but on the surface, all seemed happy enough.  Anne even seemed content with our beautiful new baby girl – like so many new mums, she seemed to glow.

Our neighbour in Water Lane,  turned out to be an elderly gentleman, by the name of Jack Grant (deceased).  He was a bit of an enigma – the man was a hermit who rarely went anywhere.  He was rather eccentric; he wore women’s tights to keep his legs warm; and had the strange habit of recycling his used teabags as an economic measure.  The first we heard of him was on Sunday evenings, when he used to belt out a few tunes on a rather over-sized electronic organ. 

Like much of what he owned, the organ was a cobbled together affair, with some sort of vacuum cleaner motor delivering air to the contraption.  Amazingly, the sound it produced was quite acceptable, and old Jack certainly could bang out a decent tune.  I’m not sure now who adopted who, but we used to pop in and see the old guy for a neighbourly chat.  We were often offered a cuppa – an offer that was always politely declined.  The thought of recycled teabags and Jack’s not too clean cups was enough to deter all but the hardiest.  Jack loved our new addition and always made a big fuss of her.  He was in reality, just a lonely old man, to whom we offered a little bit of sunshine and perhaps reminders of his earlier life.  We eventually found out – he had an ex-wife and family somewhere, but had no contact with any of them.

As time went on, I eventually installed hot water in the cottage, and added a lean-to shower cubicle to the back of the house – strictly illegal, and with no planning permission.  Anyway, our illegal lean-to shower was a marked improvement on the tin bath we had used up until then.  

On a recent return to the UK in 2007, my second wife, Barbara, and I looked around the back of that little cottage.  Although the lean-to shower had gone, the scars of where it had once been were clearly visible, etched deeply into the rear wall, as a reminder of what had once been.

I’m not sure how long we lived at Water Lane, but it must have been at least two and a half years.  We still have some photos of Nicola, at around age two, taken in the cottage in Water Lane.  In an effort to improve our financial position, I’d changed jobs several times during the time we lived in Water Lane and up to the beginning of our time in Sid Park. 

On leaving Lake’s for a second time, I worked for a short while at Skinners – a local builder in Sidmouth; the only business I was ever sacked from.  I can’t say as I was sorry to leave that job, and it is still unclear if I was actually sacked or if I told the boss to stick the job up his arse.  I guess it depends on who was holding the stopwatch at the time!  The shortest job ever during this period was just six weeks, working for, HW Willis, in Exeter.  That was a crap firm.  Also during that period I tried my hand at something outside my trade.  The tax records show I worked for dear old, Wally Westlake. 

Wally was into all sorts of shenanigans, including demolition, jerry building and tree felling.  Working with Wally and his crew was great fun, but the money wasn’t crash hot.  There’s also a period when the tax man seems to have lost track of me.  I was actually self-employed for a while, and worked as a lowly labourer for a couple of young, gung-ho plasterers; Tony Guest and Rodney Harris.  That job actually paid better money than tradesman’s rate – but by God I had to work for it! 

Whilst living in Water Lane, our second child, Jason, was conceived.  Jason was a ‘planned baby’ – which on reflection adds to the mystery of why things went so terribly, terribly wrong.  Anne appeared happy enough to add another child to our little family.  We were back then, the traditional British family.  I worked long and hard bringing home the money and she was the ‘happy housewife – supposedly without too many cares in the world.  That was the way things were supposed to be back in those days.  The house was always kept in good order.  We were clean and tidy, we had a nice garden.  Little Nick used to help me out in the garden at both Water Lane and Sid Park.  I can still remember her to this day, out picking strawberries and poking around in the garden with me.  I also had half shares in a small boat in which I used to go fishing in what spare time I had.  Fresh fish helped supplement our tight household budget.  There wasn’t a lot of time for actual socialising as such, when the family is young that’s the way it is.

In spite of the work I’d done at Water Lane, the living conditions were really unbearable.  Wet walls and cold, constantly wet stone floors; I approached the council, writing a letter to that effect.  The reply was straight to the point – if the house is uninhabitable for you, then it is uninhabitable for others.  If the council granted us a council house on the grounds I had applied under, the cottage would be closed until such time as work had been carried out to make it habitable.  You can imagine how popular that made me with my new mother-in-law.  That didn’t worry me; I’d never been good at winning popularity contests anyway.  With another baby on the way it was time to make a move.  The council granted us a council house, and shortly thereafter we moved just up the road to Sid Park. 

Jason arrived as expected on the 28^th of April, 1969.  I can remember cycling madly up the road from the hospital shouting like a fool at everyone I passed.  ‘It’s a boy – it’s a boy’.  I have felt that same deep elation with all of my children – the indescribable joy that most new parents feel, I assume.  We moved to Sid Park soon after Jason’s birth.

Sometime after our move, I returned to Exeter for work – again with Drake and Scull – a previous employer.  That was the way of it back then – if I fancied a move, I would turn up on site and simply ask if there were any jobs going.  I was known, and had a good reputation as a grafter; if there were vacancies, the reply would be – when can you start?  Drake and Scull were the plumbing contractors at that time, on the new Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital (as it was then).  Getting that job back on the ‘big sites’, with decent money, was the best possible financial news we could have had.  We desperately needed new furniture; and with a new baby there were lots of other things we needed to buy.  A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!

Anne seemed ok to begin with, she did the ‘new mum’ thing.  She showed off the new baby and changed nappies and she coped well with the regular feeds.  As Jason blossomed, Anne got extraordinarily restless.  Even the improved living conditions didn’t seem to make her happy.  She began expressing a wish to go out alone at weekends.  We’d never had the luxury of babysitters; which left me in a quandary - did I simply trust her to wander alone and unaccompanied, or refuse point blank to let her out.  I felt utterly confused by her cold, detached attitude – it was suddenly like living with a stranger.  Anyway, soft as shite old me;  I just stayed home and babysat while she went off to the pub or wherever.  The little excursions were few and far between to begin with, and I thought she probably deserved a break.  Nevertheless, many nights when she was late returning, I’d stand staring out of our darkened bedroom window, wondering where she was – and what she was doing!  I was as green as ever!

Other cracks were starting to appear.  On one occasion, I came home and found Nicola with black eyes and bleeding cuts all up her legs.  Nick was obviously distressed when I arrived at home.  She had been crying and looked like she’d been in a battle.  I naturally asked what the hell had happened.  Anne, quite calmly, informed me that Nicola had been giving her the shits.  Anne had lost her temper and smashed a plate to the kitchen floor.  Nick had become frightened and run for the back door, which must have been open.  As Nicola ran through the door, Anne slammed the door shut.  Nick hadn’t quite made it through the door and the door slammed her against the wall as it was thrown closed.  The cuts on her legs were from shards of smashed plate.  The black eyes and other damage were obviously from being slammed between a rapidly closing door and the wall.  Nick was around three years old at the time.  I went off my head and very bitter words were exchanged.  Of course, nothing came of it and life seemed to return to some sort of normal.  Nevertheless, an added uneasiness crept into our personal relationship from that time onward.

This next incident I recall, demonstrated as much as anything just how bloody naïve I still was.  It started after lunch on the hospital site in Exeter.  There’s no tactful way to describe what happened - simply - one of my testicles inexplicably swelled to an abnormal size.  It was an extremely painful condition, and very uncomfortable; so much so, I had to return home from work early that afternoon.  On arriving home I told Anne what was up and headed off for the doctor.  I assumed I had somehow badly strained myself at work.

The doctor’s first question to me was – ‘Had I had sexual relations with another woman recently’.  The GP, was the same doctor we both attended.  I told the doctor - ‘No, I most certainly hadn’t had sex with anyone else’.  He sort of mumbled over the explanation of the cause of my dilemma.  He informed me I had – non-specific urethritis – or as it was more commonly known – NSU.  He said the cause could be unknown.  He prescribed a course of antibiotics and sent me on my way.  On returning home I told Anne what the doctor had said.  Her verbal response was – ‘Well - don’t look at me’.  Her body language said something else again; and it made my skin crawl. 

I didn’t realise it at the time, but it would come out later, that she had caught an STD from one of my so-called ‘mates’, who she had recently been screwing.  That same bloke was one of those who had predicted marital disaster several years previously.  The doctor, poor sod, was caught in between a rock and hard place, because we were both his patients.  I took the tablets, got better and carried on blindly – or perhaps as is so often the case – in denial.  What she did about her obvious problem can only be surmised!

We had been together four and a half years, and were heading inexorably into a disastrous marriage break-up!  Up to that point in the marriage though, I have to say, I had enjoyed life day-to-day and assumed – not even assumed – really – just accepted I suppose, that everything in the garden was normal.  The unease I felt was continually being pushed to the back of my mind.

Little did I know that many blokes had been having a laugh at my expense – while others were just sitting on the dirty little secret, and feeling a bit sorry for me.  The storm clouds gathered, but I was too busy working 60 hours a week, and being ‘the man,’ to even notice.  Even now, looking at the rare photos from those days, demonstrates how easy it was to belie the truth.  In mid 1970, a smiling Anne, grinning for the camera and cuddling a one-year old toddler, Jason, who she considered an impediment to her extramarital sex life  – and this shortly before the truth came out.  For two long years, she had been a woman leading a double life – a very dangerous double life at that.  The episode with the STD must have made her more cautious, and for a while there seemed less tension in the house. 

It’s probably uncharitable to say, but on reflection, she was probably taking a short medical break from her extramarital activities.  Normal extramarital ‘servicing’ soon resumed and the marriage was heading for the rocks – big time.  We had been married just five years.

Maybe you wonder ‘how’ a marriage ends.  Maybe you don’t wonder – especially if you’ve gone through your own personal disaster!  The end to our relationship came quietly!  I was reading, of all things, a woman’s magazine article.  The article stated that something like 65% of all married women had had extramarital sex.  I remember feeling quite shocked at such a high percentage.  I read the article aloud to Anne.  I was sitting on the sofa in the lounge room and she was in the kitchen.  Her response was to laugh.  It wasn’t a ‘good laugh’.  It was the sort of laugh that forced the question – ‘Well, have you ever been unfaithful to me?’  To this she simply replied – ‘I’m not telling you that’.  From then on it was all downhill.  The evasive answers, the body language – by now I was up on my feet and angrily facing her in the kitchen. 

She just crumpled.  The dam of lies broke and the sickening truth poured out.  Little by little I nagged the story from her.  She admitted to having extramarital sex and named two or three of my, so-called, mates.  I demanded to know details.  How had she managed to have illicit sex with the kids around?  She told me she had taken the children down to our old neighbour, Jack.  Dear old Jack Grant, our neighbour in Water Lane, had been unknowingly complicit in the great deception.  He had been one of those,  ‘sitting on an uncomfortable secret’ for a long time it seemed.  Jack said as much to me at a later time.  He ‘knew’ there was ‘something’ going on – but felt he couldn’t tell me!

I was totally devastated – a word that comes nowhere near describing my actual state of mind.  I felt trapped with nowhere to run and didn’t know what to do from that point on.  It was late afternoon, I guess.  I just left the house and walked.  I walked alone all night – right through the night.  I cried that night and many nights after.  What was I going to do?  What was going to happen?  WHY – WHY – WHY – WHY had any of this happened at all?  A question without answers.  At around 05:00hrs I was walking back up towards home.  I remember a policeman who knew me (most of the coppers did back then because I’d had a bit of an unruly reputation).  He asked if I was ok.  I told him my marriage had fallen apart.  He took me to the police station and made me a coffee.  Such a small kindness at such a dark time, means more than most people realise.

Can you believe that – it almost moves me to tears even now; simple human compassion from a copper so early in the morning.  Of course, there was nothing he could do to help.  He talked for a while though.  He tried to reassure me that everything would be all right.  That’s the sort of thing people say when they can’t think of anything else to say.  I returned home to face whatever was going to happen.  I vaguely remember driving into Exeter, to work, to tell them I wouldn’t be in that day – or maybe longer.  There were no mobile phones in those days.

I had also made a decision to get the children out of the house as soon as I could.  I had a very strong suspicion they were not safe in the house, and that Anne was not to be trusted.  You had to be there and living it to really understand the unbelievable tension – the hateful body language and the sheer awfulness of it all – the cold-hearted way the information regarding the betrayal was imparted.  Anne knew what she was doing and her actions had been planned and deliberate – extensive and extended.  Her affairs had been going on for the best part of two years.  She said, ‘If it’s any consolation – Jason is yours.’  Apparently, it was shortly after Jason was born the affairs began – just prior, in fact, to us leaving Water Lane!

The experts tell us there are three things in life which impact with equal negativity upon the human soul.  These three things cause deep emotional upset and depression.  They are: moving house – a death in the family – and a marriage break up.  I can tell you categorically, that statement is utter bullshit.  I have moved house many times.  Moving house is a pain in the arse, but ultimately it is a time of renewal.  I have lost both parents, grand-parents, in-laws, and friends through death.  You come to terms with that quite quickly and naturally – although no doubt death leaves an unfillable void in life.  A marriage break up – well – that’s a different proposition altogether.  The person you held feelings for is still alive and still present.  Your feelings towards that person don’t automatically get ‘switched off’.  When entering a marriage contract, it isn’t for one year – two years – five years – it’s for life!  I’d never even considered the prospect my marriage might fail, or that I would be a cuckold.  Suddenly – shockingly - finding everything you thought you had – home – wife – children – is all being stripped away, is the most awful fucking feeling I’ve ever known.

What follows may or may not be in exact chronological order.  My state of mind remains confused about many of the complex details.  Nevertheless, the essence of the information is  all that’s required to know how life progressed from that point onward.

After returning from Exeter that morning I headed for my parent’s home at Manstone.  I passed on the news of what had occurred.  You have to remember, I didn’t do this in a cool or calm way.  I was totally distraught, crying and hadn’t slept for 24 hours.  My only concern at that time was to get the children to a safe place.  The only place I could take them – apart from Manstone – was to my sister and brother-in-law,  Cliff and Sandy, who lived in the nearby town of Honiton.  My parents agreed, that was probably the best course of action – if Cliff and Sandy would agree to help.

Hindsight is no  great virtue, however, I can’t help but remark here, if, at that early stage, someone had simply said to me – ‘At the moment you’re in no fit state to cope with the children.  See if Cliff and Sandy can help you out – or even (dare I suggest it) bring the kids up to us at Manstone.  Then, when once you have sorted yourself out – you can arrange how you are going to cope with the children – who are at the end of the day ‘YOUR RESPONSIBILITY’.  I would have responded positively to that sort of guidance.  But it didn’t work out like that at all.  Other people had agendas of their own – or perhaps were just as misguided in their thinking as I was. 

In all fairness, I have to say, at that time it was uncommon for a man to take on sole parental responsibilities for his children in a marriage break up.  My own father would not have considered taking on that sort of responsibility – he would have EXPECTED a woman’s help.  Social customs would gradually change in a few years time – but those were early days.  In fact, my Father’s immediate reaction was swift and brutal:  ‘You are not bringing the children here.  Your Mother couldn’t cope with them.’  No argument there then!

Things moved pretty fast for this part of the story.  Cliff and Sandy agreed to help out.  Sandy had been trying for a family for years, but could never go full-term with a baby.  She had literally spent weeks – if not months – laid flat in bed just trying to keep her pregnancies going.  Nothing worked for her.  She always ended up miscarrying.  She seemed the natural choice as a surrogate mother to care for young children.  The logistics were sorted out from the start.  I would pay Sandy and Cliff to support my children.  I would also visit as often as I could.  Living at White Bridges, Honiton, at the time, they were close enough for me to travel to and visit regularly.

Believe this or believe it not – I also made a decision to try and rebuild the marriage.  Still pretty green huh – and obviously a glutton for punishment!  I’d managed to get a list of the major players in Anne’s past affairs.  As previously indicated, they were all known to me, and were all young married blokes, who I had considered as friends.  I knew there were others, but  Anne never owned up to anything she thought she might get away with.  Ultimately, how many blokes she had been with in that time is anyone’s guess.  I know for a fact she was not averse to having sex with multiple partners in a single day.

I went around to each and every one of those blokes who’d been named, and I fronted them with the fact that I knew of their infidelity with my wife.  Only one of those blokes had the guts to own up and apologise.  He happened to be on crutches at the time – or I would have punched his fucking lights out there and then, on his own front door step.  I warned him to keep away from Anne as we were trying to patch things up.  Coincidentally, he happened to be the same bloke who had introduced me to Anne five years previously! 

The others involved vehemently denied any such improper involvement.  For them the pain would continue because – being off my head with grief and being a sheer bastard – I just kept knocking on their doors and causing all sorts of disruptions to their daily lives.  Their wives knew – I made sure their wives knew.  I talked to their wives – long, loudly – and often.  Still they denied and denied.  It’s hard to beat someone who can successfully stonewall.  They had everything to lose – I had already lost everything.

Anne stayed in the Sid Park house, because she had nowhere else to go.  I stayed in the Sid Park house because I didn’t want to go anywhere else.  I wanted things to be as they had been.  This situation went on for months.  I still went to work every day.  I kept working through the worst of times.  I badgered Anne day in and day out to reconsider.  She just carried on with her affairs.  Life was shit.  She was just a shameless slut.

At some stage, Anne, for reasons unbeknown to me, got herself transferred into, Digby Mental Hospital, just outside of Exeter.  Dr Gibbons – our local GP – told my Mother at the time, ‘David is the one who should be in the mental hospital’.  I had made a goose of myself one afternoon when I discovered one of those involved had also had venereal disease.  He’d caught it while having sex with yet another female.  I put two and two together and realised that was where I’d caught my STD.  He had passed it on because he’d had sex with Anne before getting himself cleaned up.  Having uncovered that little gem, I went directly to the doctor’s house and would not leave until he saw me.  He did eventually agree to see me in his study – mainly because I wouldn’t go away.  I raged at him for not telling me the truth when I’d seen him with the swollen testicle.  He was pretty cool, considering.  He explained how it was: confidentiality you understand, and all that.  He had been in an impossible situation.  I wasn’t happy, but there was nothing else I could do.  I never saw that doctor again.

Anyway, during the time Anne was in Digby, I’d go and visit her.  She was always distant and very off-hand.  I remember taking the children in to see her, thinking perhaps it might do some good.  Her being in the mental hospital was a way for me to understand - this could be the cause of the trouble.  Maybe it was some sort of mental aberration which had driven her to such depraved deeds.  I was grasping at straws.  Was I fooling myself again, or what?  The last time I took the children in to see her, she had actually ‘lost’ her wedding ring.  For ‘lost’ read -  she had THROWN IT AWAY.  Adding insult to injury, she also made a point of telling me she was having sex with one of the inmates in the mental hospital.  That guy was serving time, and was in the mental hospital on medical transfer from Exeter Jail.  No – she wasn’t fussy; anything with a dick, anywhere, anytime!

Apart from yet another smack in the face – abject humiliation – and total rejection – the most memorable thing to happen that day happened on the way home.  With the children in the car, we drove home in silence.  As we approached, Halfway House – a pub on the edge of Woodbury Common – Jason piped up from the back seat.  He was upset and crying quietly to himself.  He said, quite simply, ‘Mummy never kissed me.’  That just broke my heart.  I was beyond grief at that point.  I took the children home to Sandy and Cliff and went and drowned my sorrows.

I don’t know if you’ve ever lived with a permanent lump in your throat and  ton weight in your guts.  That’s how it was for me.  There was a huge lump gnawing away at my insides, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week – month in and month out.  I had started drinking heavily.  I had also started smoking cannabis.  There was a plumber’s mate on the hospital site, who was a bit of a hippy type.  He actually used to look after me on my really bad days.  If those guys hadn’t covered for me I would have been long gone.  Dave 'S', was the young bloke’s name, and he came from Teignmouth.  Dave usually had cannabis resin or some other form of weed about his person.  Although I used occasionally, I can’t ever remember actually buying dope of any description.  I always had it given to me.  Self-medication became the name of the game.  It was the only way I survived that first year.  Throughout the whole of the first year I was totally suicidal.  My one desire when driving was to steer my car into an oncoming truck.  The only thing that stopped me was the thought of my two kids.  What would happen to them if I killed myself?  My one thread of sanity – my lifeline - and my one bit of brightness in an otherwise fucking black world. 

Anne eventually came out of the mental hospital and returned to Sid Park.  I might even have gone in and drove her home from Digby that day, but I really can’t remember.  She had owned up to a lot of misdeeds over the past few months, including the fact she had tried to drown little Jason in the bathroom hand basin.  That hardly came as a surprise and simply validated my initial reaction to get the children to a place of safety.  I remember we talked once more in the lounge room.  I might have even tried one last plea for reconciliation.  Who knows?  I do remember what her reply was – almost word for word, even after forty years – ‘No.  I have no more love or respect for you or the kids.’  That was pretty much to the point I guess.  No arguing with that was there. 

I gave her half the money I had saved in the bank; the grand total of £26 – which left us with £13 each.  After I’d given her the money, she told me she’d been squirreling money away from the housekeeping for the past two years.  She’d managed to pocket 10/- (ten shillings) a week into an account she had secretly opened.  I suppose she had maybe £50 tucked away.  That was a good sum in those days – certainly enough to survive on for the immediate future if she was careful.  Thinking back now - it demonstrates how long she had been preparing for the inevitable day when the truth would come out.  She had planned things down to the nth degree, and made sure that at the end of the day she’d have money in her pocket no matter what.  Cold – calculating – no one knows the half of it.

In parting that day, I warned Anne, with genuine sincerity; I would leave her and go and live with my Mum and Dad, but if she ever tried to take the children from me – or in any way interfere with us – I would kill her.  I meant it – and she knew it.  The marriage was ended, I walked out leaving her with all our goods and chattels.  Sadly, the saga wasn’t over.

It was now 1971 going into 1972.  I was still a wreck and would be for years to come.  Nevertheless, I started to rebuild some sort of social life.  It was difficult, because every time I had too much to drink, I would get maudlin and depressed.  I still used to talk incessantly to anyone who would listen about the marriage break up.  I knew I was a bore – but some good friends understood and remained steadfastly supportive.  Thank goodness I still had some real friends who remained untarnished.  Even amongst those, I discovered, some who had known for a long time what was happening in my marital life.  They all said much the same – they knew, but were not inclined to speak up.  They simply didn’t think it was their business.

Going to the pub was a trial.  More often than not, Anne would be in the same pub, and she would have yet another bloke on her arm – or in her knickers.  She made no bones about her latest conquests.  She’d deliberately flaunt her latest knowing it would upset me greatly.  We were still married - on paper anyway.  One Saturday night, she went through this usual performance with yet another young bloke.  By the end of the evening, the disco in the Royal London bar was going full tilt.  Anne and her latest had stationed themselves in my line of sight all night.  Wherever I went they went opposite.  The tension was palpable – the more I drank the more short-tempered I became.  In the end I’d had enough.  I picked up the short bar stool I was sitting on and headed across the dance floor to Anne and her latest.  He did no more than smash his pint glass as I approached, and jabbed it towards my face.  All hell broke loose.  I went berserk and started swinging.  He jabbed out even more.  The lights went up.  The fucking bouncers grabbed my arms – the wankers – leaving me with only my feet to fend off the glass attack.  Eventually someone disarmed the other bloke.  I was immediately ejected from the pub and that was the end of another jolly night out.  But the story doesn’t end there.  The following week – mid-week, I was stood at the bar in the same pub.  The young bloke who’d tried to glass me on Saturday night touched my arm.  He was very apologetic.  He said he didn’t know Anne was my wife.  She had wound him up all night to have a go at me, and he had just gone along with it.  I told him not to worry about it – he wasn’t the first and probably wouldn’t be the last.  I fucking hated Sidmouth and everything in it.  I wanted out of there badly.

With the final parting of the ways, I had taken the necessary legal precautions.  I can’t remember who advised me, but I followed that advice anyway.  I got a letter published in the local paper, the Sidmouth Herald, to the effect that I would no longer be held responsible for any debts incurred by my (ex)wife.  That out of the way, I also applied for custody of the children.  To do this I had to apply to the court in Exeter.  I still can’t remember the details relating to this procedure, but I do remember the day of court.  I also remember I was advised custody would not be granted to me alone.  If I got custody, it would be on the grounds that I agreed to joint custody with my sister – Sandra.  I saw no problem with that – joint custody was duly granted.  I would have been one of the first fathers to have been granted custody at that time – custody traditionally went automatically to the mother.

Questions were asked about the ‘mother of the children’ – but there was no petition being made on her behalf.  I can only assume that legally, the court would have had to inform Anne proceedings were taking place, giving her the opportunity to make her own petition.  Had she done that, we all know what the likely outcome would have been.

The children were settled, apparently happy, and unaffected by all the familial drama.  I visited often, and Sandy and Cliff were coping well.  They’d had a few problems; particularly when trying to wash Jason’s hair.  He would scream the place down when they took him to the bathroom and anywhere near the hand basin.  I don’t have to tell you why – you can work that one out for yourself.  I continued to pay maintenance to Sandy and Cliff and I continued to work hard as always.

1971 and moving towards 1972, I changed jobs again. That was the nature of the building trade back then.  There were always jobs to be had.  As one area dried up, you just moved on to another.  At that time, the UK was moving towards changing the domestic gas system from the deadly, old coal gas, across to natural gas.  That was a massive national undertaking.  Although I wasn’t a gas fitter, my plumbing credentials stood me in good stead.  I got a job with another firm, based in Exeter – DGF Gas Conversions.  Again, the money was good – but there was a requirement to travel quite extensively.  I was happy enough to do that – anything to get away from depressing Sidmouth.

The visits to the children began to upset me at times; my sister had assumed the ‘mother’ role and was starting to impose her own authority when she thought necessary.  The idea of someone else – no matter who – disciplining my own children didn’t sit well.  Often I felt like intervening – but knew I couldn’t!  Sandy had to cope after my visit was over, and I knew she was just doing what any normal parent would do.  But it still hurt to think of someone else reprimanding my children.  I knew this was just another hurdle to be taken in my stride.  You quickly learn to put the good of others before your own feelings.

Still lost and still smarting, selfishly perhaps, I started to think seriously about what I could do to get out of Sidmouth permanently.  ‘What’s the biggest thing a man can do – apart from flying to the moon?  I used to ask myself.  Wandering along Sidmouth seafront, I’d gaze out to sea, to the far horizon.  I’d wonder what lay beyond.  What were other countries like?  What were other people like?  Could the answer to my problems lie beyond that far horizon?  It’s called RUNNING AWAY.  I know that now. 

At home, Mum and Dad continued to be supportive.  They also made regular weekend visits to see their grandchildren.  We had settled into a routine of sorts.  My parents continued to assure me absolutely, that I was doing the right thing.  The kids weren’t far away.  They were still in the family.  Everything was good.  Everyone was happy.  (Weren’t they?)  In passing, you may wonder about the other grandmother, Dera!  Wonder you may – because I never heard a word from her – ever!

Anne pushed me for a divorce.  I refused to give it to her – just out of sheer spite.  She had fucked up our lives and taken everything from us as a family.  Why should I give her what she wanted as soon as she demanded it?  She actually tried to take divorce proceedings against me, but that didn’t work.  She got knocked back twice by the courts, as far as I know, because she didn’t have any grounds for divorce.  In those days, there was no ‘quickie divorce’.  All I had to do was keep my nose clean.

I started to think seriously about ‘getting away to sea’.  I talked openly with the family about this idea and the likely prospects of being able to do something like that.  Everyone smiled and nodded.  It’s just David.  He’s a bit cracked up ‘a’.  I persisted.  I wrote here there and everywhere – but always the answers came back directing me to write to yet another address.

One weekend, sat in the pub – Pat Street - now deceased, an old school acquaintance of mine came in for a beer.  Pat was, colloquially, as mad as a cut snake.  He’d been a biker in his teens and, as young men do, had smashed himself up pretty badly in a speed related motorbike accident.  On recovery, he’d got himself away to sea as a merchant seaman – working as an engine-room hand – a donkey-greaser.  He was currently a contract ship’s mechanic, working for the Ministry of Defence on Royal Fleet Auxiliary (RFA) vessels.  Anyway, he said, ‘I hear you’re trying to get way to sea.  Is that right?’  I told him my tale and that I wasn’t getting anywhere with the idea.  He immediately gave me an address and a name to write to in the Ministry of Defence (Naval) – the Royal Fleet Auxiliary – ammunition and supply ships – who were looking for ship’s plumbers.  I had never been on a ship in my life.  But what the heck!  When you want to get out of a place badly enough you will take any offer.  Life throws up some strange opportunities.

To cut a long story short, I eventually attended a day long interview in London, and was accepted into the RFA.  That was in 1972.  On announcing the news, I remember my brother-in-law’s comment distinctly – it was sarcastic and it hurt.  I’d had enough shit thrown my way in recent times.  Cliff said:  he thought I’d get ‘one wave from Exmouth’.  He obviously didn’t have a lot of confidence in my determination or ability.

So started my sea-going years; I continued to send an allotment home on a regular basis, but my access visits were now governed by my shore leave time.  It was also around this time, I returned home on leave to find my ‘designated parental title’ changed from ‘dad’ to ‘pop’.  The story as told by my sister, was that the children had started calling Sandy and Cliff – ‘mum and dad’ of their own volition.  Therefore, to save them any confusion, they – the children and Sandy and Cliff – had decided to rename me ‘pop’.  That hurt deeply!  Again, I could understand why it may have happened, and for the sake of everyone involved, I went quietly along with the change.

I was still drinking, but dope was mostly off the scene.  I think in all my time at sea I only ever reverted to using wacky-backy twice in six years.  The last time I smoked dope was after a big booze up on Smirnoff Blue Label Vodka – I thought I was going to die for two days afterwards.  Enough was enough!  The time at sea was lonely.  I still didn’t know why the things that had happened had come about.  There was no logical answer forthcoming.  Philosophically – is there ever – or – does there have to be?  Drinking didn’t solve the problems either – it just made me more depressed.  I would go to my bunk at night and lie awake considering a bleak future.  One thing I was sure of - I wasn’t about to settle down with another female in a hurry.

I needed time – lots of time – to get over the pain.  I also knew the implications of this course of action.  My sister – who couldn’t have children – and her husband were bringing up my children – and the years were passing.  My children were happy, safe, and being looked after by loving foster parents.  In reality, IF I found a woman to settle down with, in who knows how many years time, would I then go back and say – ‘I want my children back’.  The answer was obviously – NO.  Who could even consider being that cruel?  I couldn’t do that to either my sister or my children.  I would literally cry myself to sleep, night after night, going over this scenario – but I couldn’t see any practical way out of it. 

It occurred to me that everyone would be better off with me out of the picture altogether.  I began to wonder if Sandy and Cliff had ever considered formally adopting the children.  With that in mind, I returned home on leave after yet another trip.  I first tested the adoption idea out on my parents.  Both of them thought it was the most sensible idea they’d heard so far.  My father said – as he had often said before – they won’t be going anywhere.  They will still be in the family, etc, etc, etc.  That weekend, I talked seriously to Sandy and Cliff about my thoughts.  As it turned out, they too had apparently been thinking along the same lines, but, according to Sandy, they’d been too afraid to actually make such a suggestion.

We all agreed that adoption was going to be a possible option.  I made one proviso - to both Sandy and Cliff - if the adoption went ahead – the children must grow up knowing they were adopted because they were loved; not because I didn’t want them.  Cliff and Sandy readily agreed to that.  Sadly, it seems maybe that promise wasn’t taken too seriously.  To me it still is a very serious aspect of the whole agreed arrangement.  For a lifetime I have buried my love and my feelings for my two first-born, for what I have always thought to be - the ‘greater good’.  My love for the children was big enough to accommodate my loss to provide happiness and security in their lives.

The adoption went ahead and Sandy and Cliff assumed full responsibilities as parents – including the financial obligations.  Also, at around the same time, I finally agreed to give Anne a divorce.  The Decree Nisi Absolute was granted on the 9^th of March, 1973.  The divorce cost me approximately £300 – an absolute fortune - which I paid off in instalments.

The story doesn’t quite end there; I wish it did.  I did eventually meet a wonderful Australian woman.  A totally different woman, who was prepared to accept me for what I was – believe me – that was not the easiest thing in the world to do!  We eventually married and moved to Chard in Somerset.  We moved to the area because I wanted to be near my family.  I considered my extended family to be – Sandy – Cliff – Nicola and Jason. 

We didn’t move to Chard to impose on anyone’s life, or to adversely change the course of anyone’s life or lifestyle.  Whilst we were in Chard, we regularly visited Winsham to see everyone.  I even helped my brother-in-law install his central heating.  When a problem arose with a certain headstrong, now teenage girl – I was called upon to ‘sort it out’.  Minor stuff – shit – the sort of stuff that all fathers have to sort out at some stage I guess.  Our reward for wanting to be close was total rejection.  The ten years we were in Chard I think Cliff came once to our house in Coronation Street – when he wanted my help, and Sandy once came to our front door at Clarkes Close.  I never questioned their attitude during all of that time.  I simply accepted my mother’s explanation that - ‘Sandy wasn’t very good at being around babies’.  Our three daughters – our new family -were all born in Chard, Somerset. 

It was only when we had emigrated back to Australia – living in Orange NSW, we received a letter from my sister suggesting they had felt threatened by our continued presence while we were living in Chard.  I couldn’t understand how that could be.  We had never encroached on them in any way.  Quite the opposite in fact; all I ever wanted was to be part of an extended family – you know – NORMAL!  I remonstrated strongly with my sister over that letter.  But what is done is done.  I cannot be held responsible for someone else’s imaginary fears or insecurities.

As I have said before – I have many regrets in this life – but I don’t have a bad conscience about anything I’ve ever done regarding my decisions over family matters.  I only ever did what I considered to be right at the time.  Anyway, I’ve grown very broad shoulders and take life as it comes.  I’ve had shit thrown at me by professionals – there’s not a lot can compare with that.  Real love conquers all – In the end – In the end...