This book is available at Waterstones ISNB 978-1-60860-357-2
probably the most important book you will ever read


CHAPTER ONE

THE REASONS FOR BEING MUM 1987

It was cold outside this block of flats. I sat inside on the third floor listening to the wind hugging the aluminium window frames, sporadically whispering in the corners, with the occasional lifting of the net curtains, which had been hung untidily by a man. The view outside the flat was extremely familiar. Curzon Walk and Chalvedon stretched out in all directions if I looked out the front window or the back window. Inside the flat, the surroundings were not familiar at all. Although the room I sat in was warm to the skin that was only because the chair I sat in was next to the aluminium grill inset in the concrete. My right leg waited by the grill for the heat that my body sent to the rest of me.

The flat itself had another chill and that was from the absence of love and care. This flat was not a family home it was just five rooms and a hallway, giving shelter to people on their way to somewhere else in their lives, and at present it was servicing my brother Frank and me. It was November 1987, it was seven o’clock in the evening and it certainly was strange how I came to be staying with my older brother Frank after all these years.

I was twenty-four and Frank was thirty-seven, a lot older than me. Frank was a visitor in our family; at least that is how I grew up knowing him. He was more like a satellite that orbited us. Frank and I shared the same biological mother, but my biological father was his stepfather. Frank never knew his real father and to him my dad was his dad; no one ever mentioned any different. Although Frank was nearly an adult when I was born it was wonderful having an older brother. I have fantastic childhood memories because he was such great fun to be around. Frank had never left Basildon and neither had the rest of the family, we just did not see him that often. Mind you, you did not have to leave this town to not meet up with your family and friends, it was a huge town and everyone is busy.

We had not really kept in touch that much over the past six or seven years. As I got older, I also got busier. Frank was a hard working man. He often worked seven days a week. He was a strong, well built, brown-haired middle aged man with a smile, and a moan that always led to a laugh. He loved all sport, something I never realised until recently. He drove all cars, owned a fast motor bike, sporty kind of thing and at one stage of his life he flew a glider as a pilot. Up until a year ago, he enjoyed himself at home with his family. He loved being a referee for the local Basildon football league matches and going out to places of interest. He loved mechanics; he would enjoy getting under the bonnet of a car for the day or stripping down a motorbike out of curiosity and reassembling it again, not my idea of fun but he loved it. Frank was a fun man who wasn’t cut out for rules; he did not and was not interested in anything that didn’t lead to some sort of leisurely activity. My brother and I were both recently in relationships with women who we found were not the right people for us. It is amazing how long it takes people to understand that situation before they part company. Now that I was spending some time with Frank, I wished I had seen more of him than I did when we were younger.

However, the reason we never saw as much of Frank when we were growing up was that life does not allow adults much time when we have so many work and family responsibilities; this I have learned myself. I was lucky that Frank gave me a roof over my head; he did not really know me as an adult. There was so much to talk about but we didn’t talk about the past only the present, I had been here a week now. We spent our time talking about our mum and the situation that threw us together like this. There were two reasons for me being here; one of them was when the mother of Neola, my eighteen-month-old daughter, and I finally realised the future was definitely going to be cold together, freezing cold. Jody, the mother of my daughter, was a twenty-year-old girl who after three years stopped loving me. I don’t know whose fault that was. This caused arguments that led to a difficult relationship from which we both tried to recover. In the end we agreed to be friends and move on while keeping our daughter’s upbringing as the most important thing in our lives.

I worried that while it all seemed to be working now, what would happen in two or three years? A shroud of emotion waved over me. The guilt I felt inside of me for leaving Neola hurt. Although I hadn’t lost her yet I worried that I would. Neola was walking and smiling, she loved me more than I thought possible. I was flattered by the attention she gave me and was secretly pleased when she cried for me in the right situations. However, I was emotionally distraught when she cried when I would drop her home to her mum. She would burst out crying when she realised I was not coming in to the house because Daddy did not live here anymore. I quickly shook off the emotion as if I was covered in snow and sipped my coffee.

Frank never arrived home from work much earlier than about eight o’clock in the evening; he worked long hours as a traffic controller for a large haulage company. Frank drove lorries most of his life, now he directed them to and from their destinations. I could tell when he was nearing home as I could hear the roar from the engine of his motor bike negotiating the turnings from Rectory Road into Wickford Avenue and then down into Balfour way. Finally I heard the sporadic revving of the engine until it was driven slowly into the exact same place in the garage, definitely not outside. Not around here or it would not be there in the morning. Then one final rev and ignition off, total silence until the door squeaked open to the flat, its communal staircase was loud with the harsh echoes and the sound of each footstep hitting and leaving the concrete as the climb to the top of the stairs would eventually reach his flat.

However, it was only seven o clock; it would be an hour yet before he arrived home, that is if he came straight home. The flat’s unfamiliarity made it seem very bleak to me and that was made worse when I sat alone in the silence. Once again, I was feeling sorry for myself. The madness of a typical relentless Basildon weekend in the eighties had just passed and I always felt rough after the weekend binge. I was hung-over and that in itself was difficult. Too much fun at the pub over the weekend; much happiness can be found in alcohol but it does not last. Mum had just passed away and funeral arrangements had to be made but I did not understand how I felt because I was pleased for her and angry with her. Dad lived miles away so we could not chat and I had lost Neola, my little baby.

I moved to the kitchen quickly as the wave of emotions tried to take hold again. I dodged them as the imaginary dark shadow of gloom grabbed and missed. I did not want to drop my guard and let these feelings out. I never showed my feelings; I never cried, only under the influence of alcohol would I drop my guard; I was far too hard for that. The kitchen was only ten steps through the door to the right. It was hard to put my foot down fast, as the cats would not move for you and I thought I might tread on them; there were five in all. I was still searching my way around this flat. All of the cupboards, drawers, and their contents were unfamiliar.

Again, whilst waiting for the kettle to boil my mind wondered. It was only a few weeks ago that Mum was still alive in the hospital. Part of my routine was to visit the hospital and check if she was still alive. We didn’t have mobile phones in those days and I worked all day on a building site. If she was still alive I would try to comfort her, which I found extremely difficult as we definitely never were that close, not even when I was a child. When I was not visiting either Mick or Frank would be there and occasionally we would all turn up at the same time. Now that Mum had gone and I had split up with Jody, I felt lonely, so very alone. I had many friends, more than I could count and I had family, but still I felt very alone on this particular evening. A few years ago, I never could have imagined myself waiting for Frank to come home from work, it seemed unreal. I always seemed to have a connection of some kind with this area; it was as if I could not get away from this place, Curzon walk, Pitsea.

I remember arriving back from Ireland in 1974, thirteen years ago. Mick, Bernie, and I all stayed at Balfour Way just off Curzon Walk while Dad lodged in Curzon Walk with a landlady. Dad and we kids waited for our new home to be allocated to us by the Council, that was when our world had crumbled and we were all separated. When I was sixteen years old and left home to live with my girlfriend’s family, it was to live in Templewood Road, another turning from Curzon Walk. Now I was twenty-four and once again found myself back here at Curzon Walk, a place it seemed I could not escape.

Mum was ill for many years. She had suffered a lot with her lungs, all brought on by cigarette smoking of course. She was a true addict; I mean very heavy smoker. Mum could easily put away three packets of cigarettes in a day no problem. She loved to smoke. In the last six months it was much worse because she had emphysema. She had it for years and it eventually got the better of her. She could not stop even if she tried, even though with every pull on that cigarette she dragged herself nearer to the cemetery; she actually enjoyed smoking too much, you could watch and witness it. Mum suffered from chronic bronchitis also and listening to her breathing made you breathless to be in her company. She had been in the hospital now for six months but this last time she had a hole open in her lung and she developed pneumonia. The doctors said they could not operate as she was too weak and would not make it through the operation. We were told to prepare for the worst. Therefore it was just a matter of time. That time had come and gone; now Mum was gone.

At one stage I did not want her to survive as I knew that she would be constantly out of breath and unable to look after herself. It was a sorry affair having to be helped by strangers and be wheelchair bound at the age of fifty-three—just for the luxurious taste of a cigarette. Mum died at a young age but she looked twenty years older. I suffered a loss when she died that I still do not understand. Mum never showed her emotions; she was hard and I was hard, I never showed emotion either.

The stink of cats filled this flat, it stank and of course, it would, because everywhere I looked I saw a cat staring back at me and they didn’t want to be here in Curzon Walk either, you could see it in their eyes. They belonged to Frank's girlfriend who was staying here with him, they were her five cats. Well I mean she was staying here until I arrived. I have not seen much of her since; she has become a stranger around the house. I think they split up, but if they split up Frank had not told me yet. I was not fussed as I never knew her and he did not look like he was in love. Anyhow, I sat thinking and sinking more into my thoughts, only being interrupted by the smell and the same relentless flea that seemed to be at war with me. Five cats in the flat and he wants my fucking blood! What happened next would one day send me on a journey of self-discovery and personal judgement I could never have imagined.

Sipping my tea as I walked from the kitchen, I returned to the chair to catch some warm air heating, a crap invention if you ask me. My mind wandered as I sat. I could have turned on the TV which would have broken the silence that allowed my mind the time to question my relationship with my mother. I sipped at the cup relentlessly; I always drink hot drinks straight down. I put my empty cup on the little table in front of me. I was staring at Mum's belongings on the table. There was a cardboard box full of Mum's personal stuff. I could see an old passport and some photos; these items I had collected from Mum's little bungalow at the top of Gordon Road and returned the key to the council earlier this week. I found them whilst we were clearing it out; we all took some bits and pieces to sort out. Mick, my older brother, and his wife Lucy had most of the furniture; Frank and I did not take anything for the flat so I decided I would sort out the letters and paperwork. I placed it all in a box two foot square that now sat staring back at me. A life in a box, nothing more.

Whilst searching through the miscellaneous items I began to wonder about this woman; who was she? The more I thought about it the more questions I had. This woman I had taken care of for the last couple of years and known all my life. Should I really have so many questions in my mind? After all, this was my mother. I was shocked; I know we had a difficult childhood us kids but we all got through it. We had never lost contact with each other for any length of time, not any of us. Even during those years of poverty and custody, Mum, Dad, and all of us fought amongst ourselves but stayed in contact. I knew that moment that our memory of this woman, Violet May Guilfoyle, would inevitably be forgotten. She would be just a memory without detail, which worried me. This should not happen, but what had she shared with us, her family over the years? Not much that comes to mind, I mean she kept herself to herself really. I moved to the edge of the chair with an awakening that tore me back to reality to focus on life and death. I searched for my mother in this pathetic mess. For some reason, I imagined Neola in this same scenario. I was imagining myself gone from this world and my family thinking of me after the funeral; would they ever have really known me? I never show my true emotions so how would they know the real me?

I began to explore the box with enthusiasm and anticipation; I was looking for an explanation. I was looking for my mother, for an item that stood out and shouted to the world, "This was me, Violet May Burn" or even Violet May Guilfoyle for that matter. I continued the search for an hour, reading everything; there were utility bills, memberships to various clubs all asking for money of course and some photographs. I found a passport dated 1975 with a visitation stamp for Holland. She never told me she had been to visit that country, which upset me even more. I remembered she had met another man while we were in Ireland so this must have been a holiday with him. Why did it have to be a secret all her life, did she share nothing with her family? Mum looked fit and healthy in her passport photo. It makes you wonder about life and how quickly you can go downhill.

Mum had bleached blonde-hair in that photo; I picked up some more photos of the holiday she had in Spain with Freda in 1973. It seemed that the best times she had were not spent with us. Then I thought to myself, Twelve years later, Mum; you are dead and gone. What I found to shout to me was not what I was looking for. It was the fact that I found nothing that shouted at me the loudest. Most of the contents of the box went to my sister Bernie. The records of Mum's financial commitments, mainly to mail order catalogues and that sort of thing, and personal information to do with her old job went in the bin. It felt strange to read someone else's private correspondence. Who was the woman in the box I knew but did not really know? I reached for the A4 sized red book at the side of the box; it was on top at the start and I had seen it before at the bungalow. I had moved it to sort through the stuff below. I opened it and there was Mum's cash flow. It really did not amount to much; she paid her bills on time, so did my father as they had both previously wrecked their lives with debt.

That issue broke the family and sent us spiralling into poverty in 1974. Something none of us will ever really recover from mentally although we laugh about it now. Seeing the way in which she filled in the little cash flow in the book told me more than I expected. Remembering a month ago how from the hospital bed she was handing me coins wrapped in £5 pound notes to pay off the bills on time now scared me. She must have thought she was coming home. I did not care about the bills; she was never coming back to the bungalow although I paid them of course. Only maybe Mum never knew that. Now I was scared. I shuddered at the thought of death and realised I must live every single day of my life as happy as possible. My mother and father spent so many good years of their life at war with each other and for what? I would not follow that path. I kept thinking of Neola, how I had just split from her mother, how she would or could remember me if our lives drifted apart? I was scared and I became worried. How would I avoid Neola not knowing me, who I was, and how I lived? I became quite paranoid. I would write Neola a letter and seal it, right now at this moment in time, and when she was eighteen years old, I would give it to her, even if Neola did not know me. Hang on and what if I lost the letter? No, I thought Jody has not stopped my access to Neola. Then it hit me, the answer was there to all my wondering this evening.

How wonderful it would be if you could just pick up a book, take it off the shelf and read about your parents? They need not be dead for that matter. It could be a book like Roots by Alex Haley, I thought how good the TV series was but I had never read the book. My mind was getting a little carried away as it often did if I let it. I was smiling without realising it. I wouldn’t let the real me be missed by my family, I would write a journal or a book. I returned my gaze to the cardboard box on the coffee table and I stared at it with contempt. Only five pages of the two hundred or more pages that were in the red lined book had writing on them. I ripped them out. They were of no use to anyone now. One day I would find the details on my mother, I would find the reasons for being Mum. I would also find the details on my father and in doing just that I would show the details on me to my family. I looked towards the clock it; it was eight o'clock on that cold lonely evening back in November of 1987. I began to write these words. It was cold outside this block of flats; I sat inside on the third floor listening to the wind hugging the aluminium window frames, sporadically whispering in the corners, with the occasional lifting of the net curtains, hung untidily by a man.