Another Boy Who Lived
Some stories don’t fade — they live in the marrow. This one is mine. It’s not for pity. It’s for truth. For clarity. For survival.
The grandfather was a paedophile, alcoholic, thief and thoroughly unpleasant man.
My mother was born in 1941 and was the only child of her parents. After her birth, my grandmother told me she never allowed him near her again. Grandfather used to take the wartime rations and sell them in exchange for alcohol.
I recall him telling me that he wanted to be a soldier and a train driver. He had almost lost an eye as a child and wasn't able to be a serviceman or train driver. He did join the home guard apparently. He was a bitter, nasty little man. When he began teaching me about the "birds and bees" (I was about seven years old) he told me that he played "naughty" games with others in the home guard.
Grandfather wanted a son. He didn't get one. He had a grandson instead. Before me, my mother gave birth to a daughter. Unfortunately she and I didn't get on.
He had disgusting habits. He cleared his sinuses without using tissues, coughed up globular, yellow sputum and spat in on his plate. He urinated in the washing up bowl. He also contaminated my food and drink with the same, and worse. He would go months without a bath, waiting for holiday times when I visited so that I would have to bathe with him "to save on hot water". He was disgusting.
My Mum died when I was nine. Her last Christmas was special, she bought so many wonderful things. I left many new toys at the grandfather's house. Almost all got sold for whiskey. My mother's last gift to me went the same way.
He phoned my father once to say that I was expensive to keep. He complained that I drunk too much fizzy pop. He asked for more money. My father knew that he wanted whiskey and was using me as an excuse. The grandparents dressed me in very old fashioned clothes. I didn't get a pair of jeans until I was fourteen. My underpants were big, baggy and down to my knees. They were about thirty years out of date.
He also sold my "services" in exchange for alcohol. I think, but cannot prove, that some of those he sold me to were also ex home guard.
My grandmother did threaten to leave him twice that I recall. She didn’t tell me why. I don't know how he persuaded her to stay, but her bags and mine were unpacked and there was no escape.
He was slimy, sleazy, a loser. It sickens me to think that I carry his genes.
Those ten years have affected my entire life. It has permeated almost every aspect, every emotion.
I know that there are a couple of people out in the world that call me an attention-seeking liar. They chose to attack me on this, and other blogs, several years ago.
Yes, I acted up and was a pain in the backside when growing up, and later in adult life. I am not the evil liar I was accused of being. I'm not delusional. The events I have written about happened. The effects of the decade of abuse that I have written about did happen.
I have done things that I am ashamed of as an adult. I have suffered emotionally, physically, and psychologically — but I am still here. I fell to pieces. I crawled in the sewers. I survived however I could.
I speak my truth and I stand by it. I fight for others and have learnt to fight for myself (most of the time). I've made mistakes — many of them. I am almost human though, so I suppose mistakes are permissible.
The past has lost its power to silence me. It is now a foreign country to which I have thrown away the visitor's visa. As I said, the scars are there, and they do itch occasionally. I will never be — and have no wish to be — "ordinary or normal".
I am me, and that's good enough.
As regular readers of this blog may have surmised, I have been going through a challenging time recently. My "rut" had been ploughed up. Change is happening. I have embraced and fought it. I feared I was going crazy for a short time. For someone who was once sectioned under the mental health act, that is a big fear.
It turns out that I have been responding in an almost normal way (scary as that may be) and was not losing my mind. Contrary to what I was conditioned to believe, I am worthy. I deserve happiness. I am not a worthless freak.
I am okay. I need to chill out more though. Life has good and bad in it. Not everyone has a hidden agenda or wants to cause pain or chaos.
Thank you for showing me that it is safe to trust again.
As for grandfather and his cronies... They are dead. Their bodies rotten and consumed by the Earth. I will never see justice for what was done to me, but I will see inner peace. Releasing my story within my latest book, Phoenix Warriors, is a big step forward..
I am almost there.
I am.
Another boy who lived.
My grandmother’s story — one of survival, secrecy, and impossible choices — is the subject of my upcoming book, The Times and Trials of Hettie Morgan.
