The Bastard of Brexley

By Malcolm K. Needham

Barry Freeman was born in 1976 in the village of Brexley in North Yorkshire, England. He had been carried to the village in the belly of his mother, Rita, who yearned to be close to her lover and his father, Roy Weston, who was in a vegetative state in a nearby nursing home. Mr. Weston was, of course, completely unaware of the existence of his son. For his part, Barry knew only two things for the first ten years of his life. First, his mother unreservedly loved him and second, he was a bastard. How did he know he was a bastard? Well, the boys at school told him he was. And so it became clear to him; he was indeed the Bastard of Brexley, This is Barry's story—his conflict with his nickname, his eventual discovery of his father, and the adventures which came of this.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers USA
• Release date: Aug 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463203293

Malcolm K. Needham

Malcolm was born and raised in a small coal-mining village in South Yorkshire, England. Growing up there was a time of hardship, fear, love, and overwhelming support from family and friends. He was luckier than most to have had a marvelous grammar school education. The combination of this education, and a head full of stories from this rich environment, has poured out into his novels. He is also the author of two other novels, A Trail of Blood and The Rise and Fall of Roy Weston.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rita Freeman

Giving up her job as the bartender of Edie’s pub was a hard thing for Rita to do. She had worked there for almost ten years, going back to when Albert was alive; at which time it was called ‘The Rose’. It was commonly thought that Albert had fallen down the cellar steps and suffered from the broken neck, which then killed him. The truth was: he had been pushed down those steps by a man called Roy Weston, who was a drug dealer in the Rotherside area, and who had a tenuous business relationship with Albert’s wife: Edie. After her husband had been dispatched, she had quickly renamed the pub to: ‘Edie’s’. Weston was imprisoned in 1994, but not for the crime that had led to Albert’s death.

Rita Freeman had a long-lasting love affair with Roy Weston, which ended in 1975. This was the time he went into a state of suspended animation called ‘Catatonia’, due to the shock resulting from the murder of his son. He was to spend the next nineteen years in this arrested state at the Wickhill Convalescent Home. In 1976, Rita moved to Brexley, a village close to Wickhill, where she could be near Roy’s family and where she could visit Roy. She did indeed spend many months sitting beside him as he pointed aimlessly around the room, not even knowing that she was there.

When their love child, Barry, was born, it changed Rita’s perspective of the future. It was not that she suddenly stopped loving Roy, but it was clear that she now had a more important priority.

She had heard Roy speak of a pub called the ‘Travelers Rest’, which was on the outskirts of Brexley. She quickly obtained a job there as a bartender, and became immediately popular; mostly with the men. It was four years later that she met Kevin Taylor. He had visited the pub one night with a darts team from another village. He walked with a confident gait as he stepped up to the bar and whistled.

Rita looked at the man.

Have you lost your dog then, love?

Huh?

Oh, I heard you whistle—I thought perhaps you had lost your dog.

Oh, sorry, darlin’, I was just anxious to get the attention of the best looking girl in the room, he said, as he dispatched a radiant smile.

Alright then, I’ll let it slide this time. What can I get for you?

A pint of Stones, please. I’ll pay extra for a smile.

Rita had no intentions of getting involved with another man at this time in her life, but she felt that old stirring down below. God damn it, not now, she had thought, as she pulled the pint and set it up in front of him.

That’ll be two quid then.

It had better be good—I usually pay forty pence.

That’s what the beer costs. The smile is a pound sixty, Rita replied with a wink.

Oh, you are too good for me, pretty girl. I’ll tell you what, if you let me keep the pound sixty, I’ll take you to the pictures on Saturday.

Well, you’re not behind the door, are you? What makes you think I can be picked up just like that?

Yes, you’re right, I should have known better. I’ll just stick with the missus then, came the retort.

So, you’re married then. Well, you cheeky bugger!

Ah, gotcha! he said as he pointed at her with a tilt of the head and raised eyebrows.

Rita took another look at him. He was better dressed than most of the men that came into the Tap Room. He wore tan trousers with a silver buckle on the belt. His casual shirt was light blue, and he had a brown, check jacket with a pocket handkerchief—you never saw that much anymore, certainly not in this pub. She figured he was in his late thirties. He had a chiseled look about the face with neat, brown hair; showing some gray at the temples. Those hazel eyes and a bright white smile convinced her.

Alright, I don’t know what’s showing, though.

There’s that American movie: Animal House. It’s supposed to be outrageously funny.

Well, I’m used to animals—I’ve been in this business a long time.

Shall I pick you up then?

Sure, here’s my address, she wrote it down on a napkin and slid it over the bar.

Great! I suppose I had better get back to the darts and try to get my team out of here without too much humiliation. Don’t go anywhere.

I won’t. Yes, Danny, I’m coming, hold your horses! Hey, what’s your name, anyway?

Kevin Taylor, people call me Kev.

The cinema turned out to be their second date, since they went back to Rita’s place after the pub closed that night. Rita had never expected this to happen, maybe it was because she had a hard time taking her eyes off him that evening, or it could be that she drank three shots of Rum behind the bar. Whatever it was, she woke up the next morning with Kevin Taylor lying at her side.

The panic set in immediately.

Kev! Wake up! You have to go—my son will be awake soon. Come on, move it!

He had accommodated her with no fuss. Within minutes, she heard his car pulling away from the curb just in time.

Mom, what’s for breakfast?

Chapter 2

Barry Freeman - The Bastard of Brexley

The birth of Rita’s son had put her through hard labor. It seemed like he just did not want to see what the world had in store for him. Her screams resonated around the delivery room at the Rotherside Hospital for three hours before the midwife gave up trying and sent her for a cesarean section.

After the birth, she slept for two hours before she was awoken by a nurse who placed the newborn carefully in her arms. She looked down at him with adoration, as tears rolled down her cheeks. This had never been her plan, and she was fairly certain that she did not deserve the boy, but was equally sure that she would never let him down.

She named him Barry after her deceased father, and watched him with overwhelming love as he took faltering steps, spoke his first words, and, at the age of four, read to her from a book of nursery rhymes. It seemed like Kevin had taken to the boy, and had never asked who the father was. He kicked a soccer ball with Barry, taught him how to ride a bike, and they would walk together in the fields. When the boy went to the junior school at the age of seven, Kevin would drop him off at school on his way to the bakery in Wickhill, where he was the manager on the day shift.

One evening, when the boy was ten years old, and Rita was working at the pub, Barry asked Kevin a question of some importance.

What’s a bastard?

Kevin lowered the newspaper onto his knees and looked at the boy.

What do you mean?

Well, Alan said I was a bastard.

Alan, who?

Alan Bradshaw, a kid at school.

It’s nothing to worry about, just forget it.

And Frank said I was as well. They laughed at me and sang: ‘bastard, bastard, bastard.’

Kevin could be insensitive, he knew that, but he always told the truth, at least the way he saw it.

Well, a bastard is an illegitimate child, one who has no father.

"So, I am a bastard?"

Well…yes…uh…no. I’m your dad.

You’re not my real dad, though. Are you?

Barry, come on, you don’t need to be bothering yourself with this.

The kids at school said they would beat me up if…

If what, Barry?

If I didn’t bring my dad to school.

They’ve seen me.

They know you’re not my real dad.

How?

I don’t know.

Hey, come on, kiddo, go get that Mechano set, and we’ll build something, eh?

Yeah! exclaimed Barry as he ran to the toy cupboard.

Later that evening, when he had put Barry to bed, Kevin sat in the chair by the gas fire, thinking about this whole ‘bastard’ thing.

Man, kids are brutal. It’s definitely bothering him, though. I never gave it much thought before myself. Maybe I should know who the father is? It makes sense—maybe one day, I can take Barry to see his dad. I’m gonna ask Rita about it.

Kevin would often be sound asleep in bed by the time Rita got home from the Travelers. He was usually up no later than seven in the morning to get Barry ready for school and himself for work. But this evening he stayed up.

Rita walked into the living room around a quarter to twelve.

Hey, babe, what are you doing up so late?

Oh, I have something on my mind.

Oh-ho, that doesn’t sound good.

Nah, it’s no big deal. But Barry was upset today.

Oh, no! Why? Shall I go upstairs and wake him?

No, he’s sound asleep by now. He told me that some of the kids at school were getting on him.

About what?

Well…they were calling him a bastard.

Jeezus, what? Rita flopped down into a chair.

Yeah, I got him past it for now, but…

But what?

Well, it got me thinking.

Oh, boy. Kev, don’t go there…please.

You know I think of Barry as my son, but still, at the same time…

You want to know who he is, I get it. Alright, then. Do we have any beer left?

Sure.

Why don’t you go pour us both one, this may take a while.

After Kevin had left for the kitchen, Rita tried to decide how she would tackle this. I could always change the name, she thought, or at least what he did. He could be a bank clerk or …

Here you go, babe. All we had was the Mixons, sorry about that, I know you don’t like it.

He handed her the beer, sat down, took a sip, then put the glass down on the coffee table and looked at her.

Are you okay with this?

Yes, it’s time. His name is Roy Weston.

Do you still see him?

No, not anymore. He’s in the Wickhill Convalescent Home, in some sort of a coma.

A coma?

Well, not really a coma—they call it a catatonic state.

Never heard of it.

I hadn’t either, and it’s very weird. He’s alive and well, I guess, but he doesn’t know where he is or who anyone is; including me.

What caused it?

His first son was killed, and it blew his mind, I guess.

Wait a minute…Wait a minute…I read about this guy in the newspaper. Wasn’t he a drug dealer or something?

Rita sighed.

Yeah, that’s what they said, but we might never know.

Jeezus, Rita, how did you meet him?

He used to come into the pub where I worked.

Edie’s?

Yeah.

What does he look like?

Why?

I’m just curious.

"Well, don’t be. I love you. Forget about him."

Are you going to tell Barry who he is?

I wasn’t planning on it just yet.

They sat in silence for some time with an occasional look between them; one or the other looking away. The clock on the mantelpiece was ticking unusually loud. A draught came down the chimney and wafted the flames in the fire, causing them both to look at it. The door that opened to the stairs made a creaking noise. Rita looked at Kevin.

It’s Barry! she said, as she jumped up and went to the door.

She looked up the stairs just in time to see Barry as he disappeared back into his bedroom.

Barry, is that you? she called, but there was no answer.

When she returned to the living room, Kevin asked:

Was it Barry?

Yes, it was.

Do you think he heard everything?

I bet he did, said Rita with a sigh. Well, we’ll know soon enough, I reckon.

Chapter 3

Barry Wants To Find His Father

As he lay in bed listening to the rain hitting the windows, not in a mood to get up at all, but wishing to get away from Rita’s snoring, Kevin was thinking about that whole scene with Barry yesterday. Poor kid. I don’t know what it’s like to not have a father around, and I’m a poor substitute for sure. I don’t like the sound of this Weston guy, but he has the right to see his real dad, I reckon. Well, I had better get up and wake him up for school.

When he opened the door to Barry’s room, he saw the boy turn his head and peek over the blanket that was pulled up over to his chin.

Hey kiddo, are you awake? Is cereal okay for breakfast?

A silent nod gave the answer.

Okay, I’ll get on down to the kitchen then.

The kitchen was another reason that he did not like getting up when the season was moving toward winter. It had no heat, unless you count the stove, and the linoleum floor did not help. He quickly filled the kettle with water, placed it on the stove top, and turned on the gas, which blew flames all around the utensil in protest.

Bloody hell! he exclaimed. I have got to get the gas board out here. This damn thing will blow us all to Kingdom Come one day.

He reached up to the cupboard on one side of the stove and pulled on the handle. The top hinge finally gave up the fight and the door fell with a bump, as it swung precariously on the bottom hinge.

Kevin sighed as he shook his head despondently.

It’s gonna be one of those days for sure.

He removed the frosted sugar flakes and poured some into a bowl. Next, he opened the door of the small black refrigerator that Rita had bought second-hand from someone in the village, and pulled out the milk. Unscrewing the plastic top, he lifted it to his nose and gave it a good sniff. It seemed alright, so he poured some into a small saucepan and put it on the stove. On days when he had the time, he always warmed the milk—Barry liked it that way. This was a day to pamper the boy, he thought.

The kitchen door opened and Kevin turned to see Barry enter. The boy was dressed in the school-approved clothes—it was not really a uniform, just gray pants and a blue shirt, with a sweater that had a yellow ring around the bottom. Parents had to buy the sweater from the school, but it was not very costly, and Rita liked to see her son wearing it.

Hey, kiddo, you might need your long pants today. It’s gonna be a bit nippy out there.

I’ll be alright, Barry replied, as he sat down at the table.

Here you go then. I warmed up the milk for you, said Kevin cheerfully, as he put the bowl in front of him and went back to make the tea.

Thanks.

When he had successfully squished the tea bags to produce a pleasing brown color, added some milk, and stirred in two spoons of sugar in each cup, he set the cups down on the kitchen table.

He sat and looked at Barry, as the boy kept the spoon constantly moving between bowl and mouth. When he was done, he wiped his lips on his sleeve and picked up the cup. He held it with both hands wrapped around for warmth, as he sipped the hot brew but still did not look at Kevin.

Are you okay, Barry?

Yes, the boy whispered quietly.

Do you want to ask me anything?

Nope, came the retort with a puff of the lips.

I mean…hey, I’m not mad at you, but…were you listening to your mom and me last night?

Yep.

So, you heard that stuff about your real dad then?

Yep.

Alright, Son. Hey, if you want to talk about it, we…

He was interrupted by the scrape of the chair on the linoleum, as Barry jumped up and left the kitchen.

Jeezus, that was a mess, thought Kevin. I probably should not have brought it up. Rita is gonna give me stick when she finds out.

He did not ask Barry any more questions as he drove him to school. He watched as the boy opened the school gate and walked up the path to the main entrance. He saw another boy run over and give Barry a light punch on the arm, and the favor was returned.

Hey Bazzer, are ya gonna play footie after school?

Dunno, Lonnie. Bradshaw might beat me up again.

I’ll stick up for yer.

Nah, he’ll bash you, too.

Why don’t he like ya?

Cos I’m a bastard.

A what?

A bastard.

What’s that? asked Lonnie.

I asked Kevin last night, and he said it was a kid who doesn’t have a dad.

He’s yer dad, ain’t he?

Not my real dad.

Where’s yer real dad then?

He’s in the nuthouse over at Wickhill.

Is he mad then?

I suppose so.

They walked into the room where all the children were assembling for morning prayers. Barry always dreaded this because he would go dizzy when he closed his eyes. He tried to keep them open, but the last time he had done this, Miss Dickens had seen it and rapped his hand with a ruler afterward. Since he was now in his final year of junior school, he was able to escape the view of the teachers for the most part and often ended up in the back row by choice.

Lonnie leaned close to Barry.

Hey, we should go and see yer dad.

What do ya mean?

We can go on our bikes.

Barry had not thought of this possibility and it excited him.

Yes, we can. We could take sandwiches and pop.

They caught each other’s eyes and giggled.

That boy! Eyes front, yelled Mr. Pritchard, the headmaster.

Barry and Lonnie quickly looked toward the headmaster, as Miss Dickens strode down the room with her eyes flashing in every direction—not that she was particularly interested in finding the offending child, but she wanted the headmaster to see how diligent she was.

Prayer time came and went with the usual spinning in Barry’s head. As the two conspirators made their way to the classroom, which was a temporary mobile building that the County Council had erected almost eight years ago, their plans were set in motion.

Do you know the way? Lonnie asked.

Not really. We need a map, I suppose.

There’s a map on the wall near Pritchard’s study.

Yes! We need to get that map, said Barry with increased excitement. We can do that after he leaves today.

He will see us waiting.

Not if we hide behind one of those vaulting horse things.

Yes, he’ll never see us then, agreed Lonnie.

I sure hope not, or we’re in big trouble, agreed Barry with some trepidation.

All that he could think about, during the mathematics class, was the upcoming adventure. When Miss Prescott asked the class a question, he was deep in thought, I’m gonna see my dad—my real dad. He’ll be glad to see me.

Barry, wake up! What is the answer? the teacher yelled right into his ear.

Uh…sixteen, Miss.

Sixteen is it? How about twenty-one. Good Lord, boy, where is your head today?

Sorry, Miss. I don’t know Miss, he replied, as the teacher made her way back to the front, and Bradshaw jabbed him in the back with a ruler.

Bastard. You stupid bastard. You’re a dumb bastard.

When the bell rang, Barry almost ran from the room, partly to avoid Bradshaw, but mostly because it was the singing lesson. He liked to sing, and his mother had told him that he had a lovely voice. In fact, she had bragged about it to one of the neighbors. This class was only for the boys because the headmaster was trying to create a boys choir for the upcoming Lord Mayor’s inauguration, which was only a month away. He had created a short song from Robert Browning’s poem: ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin’, and they had been practicing it for several weeks.

They gathered in the large room that served as both an assembly hall and gymnasium. Today, Barry found himself in the middle of the second row. Soon, the plump, swaying figure of the headmaster grunted into view at the front of the class.

Alright, boys, eyes this way, Mr. Pritchard shouted, as he tapped on the podium with a conductor’s baton. Who amongst you has now read the amazing poem by Robert Browning? Come on, speak up.

Silence fell around the room. If any boys had, in fact, read the poem, they were not about to bring his attention upon themselves.

Yes, yes, just as I thought. Well, today we are going to pick the boys who will be short-listed for the Lord Mayor’s choir. So, sing your hearts out. Sing like you never did before. Sing like your mother’s life depends upon it. Sing like this, and with that, the headmaster stepped around the podium and started to bellow out the song. As he did so, he held the thumb and forefinger on each hand together and conducted himself in the air.

It was, of course, a well-known fact that Mr. Pritchard had a good voice. He was a tenor of some accomplishment in the church choir. Finally, his masterpiece was over, and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop up the profuse sweat that had run down his face from his brow.

Now, from the top. Go!

The boys sprang into song as the headmaster’s hands once again went to work. Once he was satisfied that they would continue without the dubious assistance from those magical fingers, he started to walk down the first row. He stopped to listen carefully to the efforts of each boy. To do this, he leaned forward until his ear was just an inch or so away from the boy’s mouth. As a result of this, the unfortunate recipient could hear the heavy breathing of the man as he struggled to lean over his protruding belly. Ugh, Ugh, Ugh, they would hear his grunts, as they tried to concentrate on their singing and failed.

Barry watched carefully as the headmaster came closer and closer until he was just three boys away.

♫ Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats ♫

Two boys to go.

♫ And bit the babies in their cradles ♫

Now the boy to his left.

♫ And ate the cheeses out of the vat ♫

Now, the headmaster was directly in front of him. He could feel the fat man’s breath as it blew a gale onto his face, interrupting every few seconds by a raucous grunt.

♫ And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprat ♫

And then it happened, the tap on the forehead. Barry’s heart somersaulted, as he knew that he had been selected. I’m in the choir! I’m in the choir!

When he was back at the front of the room, the headmaster unceremoniously said, Those boys I tapped stay behind. The rest of you can leave. Slowly! I said slowly, Stevens.

Barry glanced over his shoulder and was happy to see that Lonnie was also a future choirboy. They pumped their fists in the air. For Lonnie, it was not that he wanted to be in the choir—in fact, he hated the thought of it. It was just that he had been selected to be part of this elite group of boys.

They waited until everyone had left the room and Mr. Pritchard had waddled around the corner to his study. Barry knelt down and made a long pretense of tying his shoelace. Okay, let’s hide behind that vault thing. Quick.

Soon, they were in their hiding place. The school had become quiet. They could hear the voices of all the kids outside as they screamed and shouted in the joy of their release. It was not long before a grunting noise alerted them to the departure of the headmaster. They carefully looked over the vaulting horse and saw him go through the side door toward his car.

Let’s go, said Lonnie.

They looked up at the map that was attached to a giant pin board and were suddenly swept over by fear.

Get a chair to climb on, said Barry.

You get it, replied Lonnie with a shake in his voice.

It was your idea.

No, it was your idea.

Alright! agreed Barry, as he dragged a large upholstered chair over to the wall. Go on then, climb up there.

You climb up there.

I got the chair.

I know. It’s your chair, so get up on it.

It’s your turn.

Lonnie held onto his friend’s shoulder as he stepped carefully up onto the seat of the chair. He was still not high enough to remove the pins, so he just tore the map down, and tossed it down to Barry, who folded it into a small square and shoved it up the front of his sweater. They ran out of the front door, leaving the chair where it stood.

Rita was walking up the path from the front gate as they came to a halt in front of her.

What’s going on? Why are you the last ones out today?

Oh, the headmaster wanted to congratulate us because we are in the Lord Mayor’s choir, lied Barry.

Wow. That is really great! Both of you too! That is excellent. Where’s your mom, Lonnie?

She left us, again.

Oh, no. Not again. Where did she go this time?

She ran off with a bloke from Huddersfield.

Is your dad at home?

No, Mrs. Freeman, he’s down the pit.

What are you gonna do for your tea?

I have some bread and dripping, and I put HP sauce on it.

Oh, you poor kid. Bugger that, you’re coming with us. Get on in that car, said Rita, as she shed a tear and swiftly wiped it away.

When they were in the back of the car, and Rita was precariously maneuvering the car out onto the main road through heavy school traffic, the two friends elbowed each other and giggled.

We’re thieves, whispered Barry. Map thieves.

Yeah, that’s right. Did you like the way I got up there and tore it off the wall?

I would have done it, protested Barry.

Why dint ya then?

Cos you jumped up there before I could.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Hey, what’s going on back there? cried Rita. I’m dangerous enough here as it is.

Hey, Mom, what’s for dinner?

Meat, potato pie, and chips. What about that then, eh?

Oh, that’s bloody lovely, Mom, Barry said as he looked at his friend. Meat and potato pie, Lonnie.

Spot on that, his friend agreed.

Chapter 4

Wickhill Convalescent Home

It was the Friday afternoon following the stealing of the map. Barry and Lonnie had studied the document and now felt confident that they could make their way to Wickhill. Rita was getting ready for work at the Travelers. Kevin was not home yet from the bakery. Barry was hanging around watching his mother, and waiting for his opportunity.

Finally, Rita flopped down in a chair in the living room to drink a well-earned cup of tea.

Mom, can I ask you about my dad?

So, here it comes. Finally, thought Rita.

Of course, Son, what do you want to know?

Well, did he come to see me when I was younger?

No, I’m afraid not. Your dad was involved in an unfortunate accident, and he went into a kind of a coma.

A coma? That’s when people go to sleep for a long time isn’t it?

Yes, Son. This happened before you were born, so he never knew you.

Where is he?

Well…uh, he’s in a hospital…I mean…

Where?

Barry, why do you want to know right now?

Oh, I dunno. I was just thinking. Do you have a picture of him?

Rita felt like she was under fire. She always knew that this day would come, but it was supposed to be years away. It was unfortunate that he had overheard that conversation. Oh well, here we go, I guess.

Yes, I have a few photographs somewhere.

Can we go and look at them?

She bit her lip. It was not that he didn’t have the right to see