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

  My So-Called Mum:

  Child Abuse, Love and My Great Britain

  By Joseph Kane

  This book is dedicated to my Grandma, Marie, who loved and showed me the good side of life. Thanks gran x

  This book is also dedicated to the thirty friends and family I have lost from murder, suicide, substance abuse, cancer, and natural causes. May God rest their soul, and may their spirits rest on my shoulders as I walk this earth alone until the end of my time in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen

  “Tomorrow is a new day.”

  I would appreciate it if you left me a review on Amazon to help people find my book. Thanks

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Notes

  Chapter 1 - Gate Crasher

  Chapter 2 - The Farmer’s Son

  Chapter 3 - Dad’s Second Chance

  Chapter 4 - Breath of Fresh Air

  Chapter 5 - The Estate

  Chapter 6 - Bad News

  Chapter 7 - Love and beyond

  Chapter 8 - Hostels Galore

  Author’s Notes

  Please be aware that this book covers disturbing true stories that some readers may find upsetting. If you have experienced traumatic events in your life, I would advise that you don’t read this book. Some of the stories consist of: Child abuse, animal abuse, sexual abuse, self-harm, attempted suicide, successful suicide, substance abuse, neglect, emotional abuse, poverty, violence, murder, mental illness, crime, homelessness, starvation, and cancer. This book is not a sweet lullaby. It will repulse and shock you to the core.

  Some, but not all of the names have been changed in this book to respect the privacy of others. Out of respect for the dead, this story has been told exactly how it happened. My aim of this book is to share my story with the rest of the world so that others can learn from it. Some of you may be inspired to write your own life story. Being on this planet once, it's essential to take responsibility for our actions. I would also like to guide people who have experienced any physical, sexual or mental abuse. This book covers a wide range of social problems that can happen to a human being when certain conditions are met. Everything in this book is true, and none of the stories have been exaggerated. I wrote as it happened, how I felt and what I experienced – as God as my witness. Being blessed with a photographic memory, I have memories from a very young age.

  I was born in 1985 in Preston, Lancashire, UK. My mum and dad, and their mum and dad lived at a time when there was a pub on every corner. It was the post-war decades where life had blossomed once again on the British Isles. If you were lucky to have great grandparents, then you are fortunate to exist. Not every soldier from World War 1 and 2 had the chance to procreate before their demise, even if they did make it to the end of the war. My great-grandfather survived the war but was gassed by the Germans, so he died in his sixties from lung disease/cancer. Because my grandparents were kids during the war or born around that time, they carried with them the British stiff upper lip. If you don’t know what that means, it’s fortitude and stoicism in the face of adversity, and exercises of great self-restraint in the expression of emotion. It basically means don’t give a shit about anything. Americans love that about us for some reason. If only they saw the result. Thankfully now in 2019, we have services, medical pieces of evidence and advice to live a healthy and proactive life. My mum’s dad owned a pub, and my dad was drinking and smoking in pubs from the age of fourteen so you can tell how this story is going to turn out when a child comes into the mix.

  [Memory is] a man’s real possession… In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

  Alexander Smith (1830 – 1867)

  Chapter 1 - Gate Crasher

  It was Saturday, August the 10th 1985 when my grandma, along with other relatives had prepared the buffet for the party. My gran was like the head of the family. She was the one that got everyone together, arranged parties and made the buffets single-handed, that catered for over a hundred people. How she did it, I’ll never know. It was my uncle’s 21st birthday, so preparation for that night was in full swing. He was my dad’s youngest brother, my dad being the oldest out of three lads. Everything came together like clockwork. The labour club function room was sitting in wait with hanging balloons and banners caped around. The barman in the corner eagerly awaited for the night ahead, locked and loaded with enough booze to kill a zoo. The DJ was finishing his set-up with a selection of 80’s music, that unknowingly went down in history as some of the best music ever created. An army of ants had arrived with silver foil platters in each hand, full of sandwiches, savouries, and desserts. The birthday cake and whole stuffed salmon had to be carried with extra care. By the time it got to 6pm, everyone had arrived, and the party was going well with introductory drinks, warm welcomes, and laughs between tight-knit family and friends; nobody was a stranger. By 6.30pm my uncle had arrived with my grandparents. Full of surprise, my Uncle Mick was overwhelmed with hugs, kisses, and gifts from everyone. The drinks flowed, laughs roared, and bums were shaking on the dancefloor. Suddenly the music changed to a Marilyn Monroe song. The spotlight focused on Mick as the DJ instructed him to take a seat on stage. Giggles, whispers, and curiosity could be heard around the room with searching eyes raised high, like a mob of meerkats. Out of nowhere, a slim, half-naked kissogram had appeared in front of him. Laughs and whistles cried out as Mick became giddy like a teenage boy. Flirting and brushing against him in white lingerie, I imagine that was the closest my uncle ever got to a woman’s warm thighs, being the way he was. The night had gone down without a hitch.

  Around 8pm, shortly after all the fun had started, the phone started ringing behind the bar.

  “Is there a Peter here?” The barman shouted. Echo’s of my dad's name went around the room.

  “Peter, phone, quick,” my grandma shouted.

  Manoeuvring around people and tables, my dad made it to the phone!

  “Hello is that Peter?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “You’re partner Angela has just given birth, and she wants you to come to the hospital.”

  “I’m coming now.”

  “Well?” My gran said, stood behind him.

  “She’s given birth.”

  My grandma turned around. “Quick… Mick, Kevin, get your jackets, we’re going to the hospital, Angela has given birth.”

  “Birthday boy is driving.”

  “We will be back soon.”

  My dad and Mick headed to the car park with my grandparents. Being that Mick was t-total, he was the designated driver for the night while everyone got drunk. He didn’t mind. After all, he was the only person over eighteen who wasn’t drinking. The drive was short to the Workhouse Hospital for maternity. On arrival, one of the nurses pointed them to the correct room. Long hallways with faint cries came from both sides of the landing, by little bundles of joy. My mum was sat up holding a baby, as my dad and family quietly greeted and smiled, asking if she was ok.

  “It’s a boy” my mum revealed.

  “Aww, brilliant.” My family grasped with nice comments, smiles, and amazement gawking over her.

  “Congratulations to both of you.”

  “What are you going to call him?”

  “Joseph”

  “Aww, baby Joseph.”

  “Well, we will leave you to get some rest.”

  My grandad eagerly ushered everyone back to the car. His Whiskey back at the club was getting lonely. Back to the club it was, to celebrate and share the good news with everyone. I had just gatecrashed my Uncle Micks birthday. We now share the same day. It wo
uld have been great if I made it to the party, but for now, I was getting used to breathing the delightfully, fresh, antiseptic air from my cotton-wrapped swaddle.

  I was going on four when I first started gathering memories. My third memory was me, sat in the kitchen sink as my mum bathed me. My brother Chris walked through the front door with his 80’s multicoloured shell-suit and asked mum if she had some money. My first memory imprinted on my brain was when Chris ran halfway up the stairs, shaped like a sideways ‘V,’ just as I took my wet nappy off. He looked up at me and shouted; “mum, Joseph has taken his nappy off and ate his own shit.” I was shocked, confused and agitated at such a lie. He wasn’t even on the same landing as me. He could barely see my todger through the bannister as he looked up. The lie was scandalous. He told all his friends that I took my nappy off and ate my shit. It felt so wrong to say something that wasn’t true. I must have been four, and that memory is as fresh as a daisy; what a Bastard. My second memory which I will never forget was when my mum got me out of the bath. Stood on my towel in front of the TV down in the living room, she rubbed baby oil all over me. Big-mouth-Chris was sat on the sofa right next to me. Mum thought it would be a good idea to pull my foreskin back so she could put baby lotion on. She had trouble pulling it back again. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be pulled back in the first place. When she finally tampered with my goods, the skin felt uncomfortably tight. There was a sudden panic from mum that interrupted the TV I was watching.

  “Chris, I can’t pull it back.”

  Hands slipping everywhere from the baby oil, panic had set in. I became more anxious and scared every second.

  “Chris help me; I can’t pull it back.”

  “I’m not touching that, what am I supposed to do.”

  My manhood was being strangled along with the fear my foreskin would be stuck permanently. By that point, I was screaming and crying as I looked down. Their lack of knowledge of what to do was not helping the situation. Tears rolled down my face. The TV had become a blurry, pixelated square. The fear took over me. What if it stuck like that forever? What if the doctor has to chop it off? How would I pee?

  “Pleaseeee pull it back. Why did you do it in the first place?”

  All sorts of crazy stuff went through my head. Out of all the people in that situation, I have a mum that doesn’t know what she’s doing, and a brother staring at the television with no sympathy. The worst part is knowing your family can’t help. Finally, she managed to pull it back to normal. I felt like a trapped whitetail deer escaping from captivity. I just wanted to run and jump back into my natural surroundings under my bed.

  Those first years of life were already filled with highs and lows. I was a nervous wreck living with my mum and half-brother; not a very good half either. I used to fear my brother because he chased me around my room holding both corners of my duvet blanket high up before smothering me with it, frightening my short-lived life half to death. “Go in my room, and I will kill you!” That was his regular threat in case I ever forgot. I used to stay out of his way, the times that we did cross each other’s path. I enjoyed watching him on our upstairs landing while he played with his big toy cars; Replicas of Ferrari and Aston Martin. He would lie on his side with his palm against his cheek, moving the cars around with his free hand. Although I stayed away from his room, the curiosity got the best of me. One day when he was out, his bedroom door was wide open. It was neat and tidy with his sports cars correctly parked in a straight line by his window. I heard someone enter the house, so I moved away quickly.

  “Joseph, come here. I want to show you a magic trick.”

  I ran downstairs with excitement. My Brother was holding my favourite video ‘Watch with Mother.’ It was a black and white collection of children's programmes from the 1950s, through to the 1970s. He placed the video underneath the couch.

  “I can magically disappear your video, and make it reappear under your bed cover.”

  “Go on then.”

  “The trick is complete; you may now go upstairs to look under your bed cover.”

  I ran upstairs as quick as I could to lift my blanket.

  “Wow! How did you do that?” I asked with wonder.

  “I told you, it’s magic.”

  Convinced my brother was playing tricks on me, I asked him to do it again. He repeated the process to send the video back downstairs.

  “Oh my God, you can do magic.”

  To this day, I never knew how he did it. My only guess is that he had two of the same videos without me knowing, and one of his sketchy friends hidden.

  Life was good in Astley Village. We lived in a three-bedroom semi-detached house in a town called Chorley, ten miles from Preston. Our village was a council estate full of small doll-like sized houses that looked the same. To me, it was a big adventurous maze where I could free roam on foot. There was only one way in for cars. Running over small, grassy areas and darting down pathways and ginnels to get around, had become the norm. It was one big playground. Surrounded by streams, fields and tree’s, you surprisingly couldn’t get lost. All you had to do was walk in a straight line. Sooner or later you would end up on the main road, or in a familiar part. Most of it looked the same. Even I kept getting confused whenever I took a wrong turn. We had the essentials nearby such as a primary school, a few shops and a local pub convenient for low-income families. The village was situated close to working-class homes. The main road lead to slip roads for cars that came in and out of Chorley. The only way to the rest of the world was through a large park behind the shops that lead straight into Chorley town centre. It was a scenic route whenever we couldn’t afford the bus fare, but mainly because of the sizeable makeshift bird sanctuary halfway into the park. I loved watching the Peacocks flaunt their multi-coloured feathers in the shape of a rainbow, with what looked like eyes looking back at me. We also passed Astley Hall, the historical Tudor house. The hall was built sometime after 1576 by the Charnock family during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. I imagine it was hard being Catholic at the time of a protestant queen. Looking up at the original leaded window, you can imagine how the people worshipped in private with a priest secretly conducting a mass. Now it's just a museum with everything still intact.

  The village was great, built for summers for kids my age. Mum was a sociable drinker, and my brother never had any issues fitting in. As long as I can remember, I was never short of friends every time I went out. Everybody knew each other. You only had to come out of your front door before bumping into someone you knew. Only the best community came from a tight-knit village. My dad was not around at the time. I don’t know if Chris ever saw his dad. Life was easy, simple, and fun; the only time of normality I had with my mum. Chris was more fortunate than me; he was the only witness of any regularity shown by mum, way before I arrived. For some reason, I don’t have many memories of her. I can’t remember having any hugs or kisses as an average child would. I can’t even remember what her young face looked like. There are memories around her, but for some reason, her face seems censored out like the maid in Tom & Jerry. Chris was in and out like a yo-yo. Being ten years older than me, he was coming up to Sixteen, and with no other men around the house, he was his own boss. All three of us never spent time together. We would go out, do our own thing with our personal friends, and then rendezvous back at the house whenever.

  Just outside our house before it was time to go in, I was coasting around tight bends with great ease on my bike. The maze of pathways had plenty of dips and corners for my very useful stabilisers. Leaning into corners was second to none. Mum must be having a drink tonight. Her friend came outside to say hello to me during one of my many laps around the block.

  “You will never learn how to ride unless you take your stabilisers off.”

  “But I can’t ride without them.”

  “I’ll take them off for you and show you how to do it.”

  I tried my best to convince her not to do it. There she was dismantling my bike with a pair of pliers. I
was mortified. Coasting around was the best ever. My bike now in pieces, what was this drunk woman doing to it? I looked in sadness in what felt like forever. God knows what mum was doing inside.

  “Right, come over here on this straight path. Now, you sit on the bike like you normally do, and I’m going to hold you upright.”

  “I want my mum to show me.”

  “She will come in a minute.”

  Looking over the woman’s shoulder as she propped me up, mum was nowhere in sight.

  “Now, you steer and peddle while I gently push you forward.”

  I knew this was only going to work if we did it together so I cycled as hard as I could. The bike was all over the place; I couldn’t control it. Her left hand was on my handlebar, and her right hand was under my seat pushing. Three attempts later after being catapulted, I somehow managed to steer and balance to the end of the path raising my eyebrows, with the tip of my tongue out from excitement. I turned around and smiled at mums friend. She cheered and smiled back before vanishing behind the bush. I looked at the floor and pondered. Why did mum stay inside while her friend taught me how to ride a bike? I couldn’t understand why. Why didn’t she show me instead of her friend? She didn’t even watch.

  Mum had a lot of friends in the village. Other single mums were in similar positions. Once you knew one family, being introduced to their friends was just a matter of time, and so it went on. Mums main friend was Irene. I was really good friends with her son and daughter, Ben and Tanya who were my age. I stayed at her house often. The mums had a babysitting rotor so that one of them could go out drinking for the night. I imagine my mum was either in the local pub or went to Preston. I had no idea what she got up to. She might as well have been a silent partner in a business. Only the business just happens to be my childhood. When it was time to come back inside, Irene wanted to relax in her living room, so we were all ordered to stay upstairs. We had some good laughs too. Ben and Tanya had sibling rivalry which was heightened with my presence. We all played together most of the time, but Tanya was my best friend. Ben would usually go off on his own escapades. Me and Tanya were like chalk and cheese, always stuck together. There was no good technology back then or any good toys, so we reverted to in-depth conversations. Three became a crowd, and they knew we would mess around all night, so we split up. Irene was a bit of a hothead. She went ballistic one day when all three of us ploughed through sixteen packets of crisp. There was never usually more than two of us in one room come bedtime. Naturally, I always stuck with Tanya. Irene sure did have a mighty screech with her temper, as well as a really annoying voice that we didn’t want to hear twice. Our bedroom light had to be switched off, but the landing light stayed on. I sat against the wall by the door, placing my head in the path of the light that entered through the gap. Any footsteps heard coming up the stairs, and we would quietly climb in bed pretending to be asleep. Once the coast was clear, we returned to our positions. Tanya had a nice view out of her back window. I could only see a few tree’s and homes just over the back, but it looked good none-the-less.