Blame

By Nev White

A griping, tense, and compelling sad story peppered with pockets of humour. A story relevant today as it will be tomorrow in the abuse of children from a man so sick he refuses to shoulder the blame and responsibilities.

His lust and greed torments him to ignore the law and family responsibilities. A violent, sad story that could be true as one in four families suffers from abuse of some kind (National Health Service Publication 2013).

Blame, written with accepted mannerisms blended with incidences of horror and disbelief, the theme is of abuse and domestic violence, anger, and hate, creating disappointments and anxiety in a family living with a man with bipolar a sickness of the mind who blames everyone apart from himself for his own actions.

A fascinating read of textbook quality of family life beautifully observed with humour and sadness that will appeal to both adults and children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504943659

Nev White

Nev White is a keen author and an artist who has travelled extensively through Europe while in the Royal Air Force. He has seen many areas of the Second World War conflicts in France, Belgium, Holland, and Germany. With that experience, he can write about actual places and dates. He is widowed with a family and grandchildren in mind. They encouraged him to write a series of books entitled “The Grandad Series.”

Book preview

Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

Chapter 1 What’s Wrong, Mom?

Chapter 2 My School Problems

Chapter 3 Don’t Cry, Mom

Chapter 4 No Toys for Christmas

Chapter 5 Thrashed and Beaten

Chapter 6 Life without Dad

Chapter 7 Mom, I Love You

Chapter 8 The Hidden Past

Chapter 9 Sick, Stalking Len

Chapter 10 Idiot on the Run

Chapter 11 Meg and Pauline

Chapter 12 I Had a Future

Chapter 13 My Dear Friends

Chapter 14 Custody of Children

Chapter 15 The Past Is Best Forgotten

Chapter 16 Boxing Clever

Chapter 17 Growing Pains

Chapter 18 Our New House

Chapter 19 Henry’s Platters

Chapter 20 More of the Past

Chapter 21 Fitness Fanatic

Chapter 22 Cast a Dark Shadow

Chapter 23 Voluntary Organisations

Chapter 24 Running Wild

Chapter 25 Gym and Gymnastics

Chapter 26 Trouble in Court

Chapter 27 Not Guilty, My Lord

Chapter 28 Granddad Is Unwell

Chapter 29 First of Many

Chapter 30 The Fall in September

Chapter 31 Fight On

Chapter 32 They Tried to Say I’m Too Young

Chapter 33 Tinsel and Turkey

Chapter 34 It Is the Law

Chapter 35 The Mud-Slinging Fool

Chapter 36 Who Cares?

Chapter 37 Women’s Centre

Chapter 38 It Never Rains Unless It Pours

Chapter 39 Problem Families

Chapter 40 Mommy, Is It True?

Chapter 41 Too Be Seen, Not Heard

Chapter 42 Hurricane Henry

Chapter 43 I Want To See My Children

Chapter 44 My House is A Home

Chapter 45 A Day Return

Chapter 46 Rot in Hell

Chapter 47 I Had to Fight for It

Chapter 48 Dual Purpose

Chapter 49 Memories

Chapter 50 Mom, What Went Wrong?

Chapter 51 The Big Fight Night

Chapter 52 Granddad

Acknowledgements

I am grateful for information supplied voluntary from cases of families who have experienced or are experiencing social and domestic abuse and seek help from the state and various voluntary organisations.

My thoughts go to families who are and have found themselves living with the illness of bipolar disorder.

Preface

A story of a boy in the absence of a father’s love who seeks pleasure in sporting activities to eliminate the hate and anger he has for his father, who showed little love and care with his bombastic, cruel, physical, dictatorial, unforgiving attitude.

A father who only cares for himself and who is absent from home until money runs out, a demanding, greedy, drinking two-timer who fails to support his own family.

A story filled with the sadness, disappointments, and struggles of a boy through his school life to adulthood, with help from his grandfather and family friends who give him much love and affection for him to make progress with his natural physique in football and boxing.

The heartache, the suffering of a mother striving to cope with the torment of court procedures, the fight to hold her family together, battle after battle, with court orders, threats, and the hassle created by a father who suffers from bipolar disorder.

The arguments, the physical violence, the economic absence caused by idleness, the destruction of property, all entwined within family life that a mother and children endure from a sick, violent man.

A story of sadness from a mother so determined to succeed who sees her son rise out of inherited problems to become a much-loved sportsman who wins the Lonsdale Belt in boxing.

Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely a coincidence. My intentions are not to offend, and all material in this book is to be accepted as a story designed for good reading for all age groups. Also, I do not intend to offend or embarrass anyone of any race, religion, colour, or physical makeup. If anyone is offended, I apologise, for this is unintentional.

Chapter 1

What’s Wrong, Mom?

‘What’s wrong, Mommy?’ I often called as Mom was preparing tea and shielding her face so I would not see her crying.

‘Nothing, Henry,’ she would say. ‘Eat your dinner and then you can go to football training.’ I played hard and sometimes rough – much too rough for my teammates, who seemed much smaller in height and physique. I was made team captain, and a bully of a captain I was, for I always wanted to win, hated losing. I was a winner, a trait I inherited from Mom and you, Grandfather, who showed great interest in my prowess. I quickly recognised you were taking great interest in my sporting life. You were investing in sporting equipment, recognising Mom could only do so much financially, as we had other members in the family who required attention but who were too young to participate in organised sport.

Dad would take me to football training. I quickly learnt that no matter how well I performed, I would get a scolding. This became regular. I wouldn’t show much interest, as my ego was low from unfair criticism. I lost heart and was sent to my room, and my mobile phone, football boots, or other Christmas presents were taken away from me and, more likely than not, destroyed. Much of this I failed to understand, for I was very young. Mom would intervene and love me, but this made Dad worse. He would tear my clothes into shreds, hide my football kit, and crush my phone to bits or throw it away – Dad, a large man with an unwelcome appearance, an impatient man with no two days alike, a disciplinarian with a confused direction resulting in frustration and anger.

The house was like a living hell, with Mom screaming her head off at Dad, who would use his violent ways to knock her about and beat her into submission. Then we all would scream. Dad was always right, from his point of view. If proven wrong, he would gather the family’s clothes and tear them to shreds or hide them in other people’s gardens.

Mom was at wit’s end, not knowing what to do. Her cries were often a cry for help, a cry in silence. She was being conditioned and controlled. She carried on in silence, a cruel silence in a home that lacked love and affection from a father who only thought of himself and expected all to comply with his ways and demands – a cruel, unforgiving father.

Dad was a con merchant, a trespasser upon a society, with many fundraising ideas, thinking he would make big money by doing little. Always building up big ideas that came crashing down after a few weeks, he would set people up against others to try and gain favour for himself. Everyone was wrong except him, an idealistic man with little knowledge of people’s feelings, particularly us, his family.

I learnt fast. A quick learner and thinker, I recognised Mom was constantly hurt and crying. She was unhappy but maintained a dignity. She fought back with venom. She was strong and determined to protect us from a cruel father. Mom’s tears were constant; life was sad and unpleasant. When Dad was in the house, it was a home without love. We would look up to him for love but get none. It was dictatorial, demanding, and sometimes brutal. Mom would rush to our help and defence, only to encounter sexual language and abuse of an unacceptable nature.

Mom would cry and shield her feelings. I knew Mom was suffering in silence, with three of us at school and Dad trying to fiddle the system and screw money out of Mom from the family child allowance. She thought if she were to complain to the authorities that she might lose us and that we’d be put into care. That would not bother Dad; he cared little about us. We were wising up and learning fast. My younger sisters tried to avoid him. I cared little about him but cared for Mom, who I loved to bits, whilst my older sister just kept well clear of him.

Mom, who would love us and suffer in silence, complained little until you, Grandfather, started to get more and more involved in Mom’s plight. Like lots of things, it was money problems, and Mom was no exception. She couldn’t turn to Dad, for he gave her very little if anything at all. It was excuse after excuse, but he expected food on the table and a bed to lie in. He lied and lied and made many false promises. It was you, Grandfather, to the rescue, for without you, I shudder to think what would have happened.

Grandfather, Dad cared little, only for himself. It was tears all the time for Mom, who did everything from morning to night whilst my idle father would run off, chasing other women in other towns and cities. He didn’t realise what Mom knew, for liars require a good memory.

Mom paid all the bills. Dad paid nothing but took all. Hardly a day went past when Mom would not shed a tear. I was learning fast. We began to put things together, and laughter and happiness found its way into our lives. My younger sisters began to laugh more as Dad had moved out to try and claim benefit from the social security and a housing benefit without paying towards us, his children, who he wanted but failed to care for. He was seeking pleasure without responsibility.

Mom struggled on, feeding and clothing us. She was going short herself. Dad would call, only to scrounge any furniture or anything he could put his hands on. Mom would again cry in desperation. Her adamant ways of trying to live properly were taking their toll. Mom was neglecting herself for the sake of us.

We realized that Dad was only pretending to go to work in the afternoons and come back in about teatime. He was lying – like pretending to work from home and bragging about his earnings, but Mom never saw any of it. He was more likely chasing other women and checking on his previous relationships with women in Bradford, for he seemed to go there a lot.

I was young but not too young to know what was happening. I knew through Mom that Dad was a man with bipolar disorder who refused to get treatment, a father who was destroying himself and dragging others down with him.

A control freak; a blameless freak; a dominating freak; a devious, clever, crafty, sly man; a liar; and a greedy, ungrateful man filled with idle promises – these are the words that fit the description of Dad, as I would comfort Mom whilst he choked on his booze, issuing false demands and talk about what he intended to do about work, all false, working for charities and building his ego up on false assumptions of high earnings, living in a Walter Mitty world. It was, ‘Don’t blame me’, although it was all his doing – a dad who gave me no love, only pain. I got to where I stopped calling him Dad. He never called me son. I would refer to him by his first name but mostly kept him out of my conversations. It was you, Grandfather, who I loved and who gave me love that inspired me to excel at sport.

Dad had moved out, and Mom was getting a new life and beginning to look much better. The tears had gone. The hardness and determination had overtaken Mom. She was controlling her life the way she wanted. As for me and my sisters, we learnt to laugh again without the fear of a beating.

I was excelling in my sporting activities. My boxing and football were coming along fine with encouragement from you. Life without a dad was looking good. I failed to recognise Dad because of his brutal, unforgiving ways and mistreatment of my mom, who gave me love and affection. It all started when we children got old enough to play with toys and recognise the market of demand and supply. It was the beginning of me making mental notes and running to Mom for sanctuary. My life was frightening. I was wetting the bed in fear of Dad. I got to thinking, If and when I am old or big enough, I will get my revenge. I once put a carving knife under my bed in fear that he would attack me. Beatings were common. I lived in fear and hated him. Mom’s tears would race down her face. All the blame was on us. Why, I knew not, but Dad never accepted blame. It was always someone else. He played the blaming game.

Chapter 2

My School Problems

I was taking my problems to school. Dad would say, ‘Henry, I’ll see your teacher and have words. If you’re not behaving, you will go to your room when we get home and get a thrashing, for you don’t listen. You are stupid and an idiot.’ My father made me do what he said, either right or wrong. I would go to bed without supper.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Dad,’ I would say.

His reply was, ‘You play with white boys. You are stupid.’

My schoolwork was suffering. Dad would pick me up from school, shouting and bawling at me. Teachers would have words with him about his attitude towards me. It made little difference. I was going to school, tired and miserable, many times sore from beatings. I would run to Mom for protection. I was not happy at school. When Dad was around, it seemed everyone was to blame. Why, I don’t know, but I was the punchbag, and Mom was made to conform to his demanding, conditioning, ruling ways. Mom was a good mom, and I loved it when she picked me up from school. We were happy together, but Dad was a cruel man and violent, with little care and understanding towards anyone. If anyone went against him or upset him, he would wait until it was dark and go and vandalize that person’s property or damage his or her car, throw a brick through that person’s window or steal his or her garden furniture and shout obscenities at people. If anyone retaliated, he would accuse them of colour prejudice, for he was a black man.

Many incidents brought police to the house.

‘Dad,’ I would ask, ‘what did police want?’

He would say, ‘Go to your room and don’t ask, you idiot.’

I would cry myself to sleep. I was pleased when morning came so I could go to school and shout, ‘Love you, Mom.’

When school was over and I got home, Dad would be out ‘chasing up some charities for funding’, as he called it. I was happy until he came home to spew out a load of lies to Mom. It was the same old story, day in, day out.

He would sit at the table, eat like a pig, and look for what may be left over, not to encourage us to eat our greens but for him to scrape plates onto his and clean up. It was an awful atmosphere. When he was around, we tried to avoid him as much as possible, but it was hard.

My schooling was suffering fast. I was very much like Dad and unruly in school, a bully, a fighter, a nuisance, a pest, a disrupting student, using bad language. I knew it was wrong, and I was sorry afterwards. I was uncontrollable. I could not help myself. Forces of evil were with me. It was not that a tablet or a dose of medicine could cure you.

Grandfather would say, ‘It’s psychology that is required, for you are very much like your dad.’

I didn’t wish to be. I would cry in despair. I couldn’t help myself. I was indoctrinated with a hateful father. I would refuse direction and rightful tuition. I was right, and the whole world was wrong, so I thought.

My world was more like Dad’s. He made me that way. Now I have to go to a special school, having been kicked out of the previous school for unruly behaviour. All I could say was, ‘Not my fault.’

You, Grandfather, were getting more and more worried about me, upset and angry in warning me to amend my ways or you would withdraw your funding for me to play academic football and boxing. I was blaming others rather than myself, telling lies – only small ones – but you, Grandfather, were too wise for me. You knew what I was up to. You would scold me and make me feel sorry. You never physically harmed me. It was your love I had hurt. I wasn’t happy and got to thinking, ‘Without Mom and you, Grandfather, who else do I have?’

My school, a good school, I got to calling the naughty corner ‘my corner’ and thought I wouldn’t be much good in the air force, for I’m forever grounded. Hardly a day passed without me being in trouble, not with the law but at school. I often wondered why I couldn’t have been a son of another father? What had I done? What was it within me? It was not me but my father.

My teachers were great, but I drove them to the limit. I would ask, ‘What would I do if in their places?’ I remember when I would look up to my teachers. Then they looked up to me. I was growing fast. Like a cuckoo chick in a blackbird’s nest, I was outgrowing everything around me.

I was playing school sport, rough and hard. My rugby was crash, bang, and wallop into all tackles. I wanted to win, and I was miserable if I lost. As for football, my tackles were sometimes dangerous, and again, I wanted the ball. I wanted to win every time. Yellow cards meant nothing to me. As for red cards, I got a few. I was much too rough and hard against smaller players. It showed and many players got to fear my style of play. You would say, ‘Go steady with your tackles,’ but you enjoyed watching me. I loved your support.

Away from my sporting activities, you, Grandfather, were much concerned about my schooling. My attitude was wrong. I couldn’t help it. I had been educated by a father who rubbished my thinking to his ways. And now I was brainwashed to a degree I found hard to eliminate from my mode of life. I hated myself at times, troubled with ways that were not mine, awful ways, unsocial ways, daft ways, stupid ways, that I took to school with me and courted trouble for Mom to sort out, as if she hadn’t enough to do in keeping us away from a monster of a man that was my father.

I was never inclined to tell you, Grandfather, what a fool and pest I was at school, but you seemed to know without being told. It was you, Grandfather, to the rescue. Somehow you seemed to know all the answers to my problems, but my arrogant ways required further assessment, and the authorities were getting more concerned. I was thinking that I might have been put into a home for unruly children. It was you to the rescue with advice and direction and help for Mom.

Grandfather, you would lecture me in right and wrong and my behavioural state. I would listen without answering back, and when you had finished in lecturing, I would cry uncontrollably on your shoulder, and you would love me, something that had been lacking in my childhood, apart from Mom.

I would say, ‘I love you, Grandfather,’ and all you would say was, ‘Head up,’ and smile. It made me feel awful to have you correcting me with kindness and not a leather belt or a beating about the head after being called an idiot and stupid.

Dad is out of my life now, and I hope to God it stays that way. I love Mom, and Mom loves me. That’s all that matters, and for us to pull together as a family and put the hurt behind us.

Grandfather, you wanted to be involved with Mom and her problems so great. I failed to understand all the problems, but life without Dad, I do understand. It’s much better without his presence. We are happier and looking better, but many things I failed to understand. Maybe Mom thought I ought to get on with behaving at school and let you, Grandfather, help or assist her to get her life back.

Incidents would arise from Dad’s cunning ways. He simply wouldn’t let go of them. His sick ways of bipolar were awful, but you, Grandfather, were planning and plotting my future. That, I appreciated. You encouraged me to ask questions as you tried to plot Mom’s next move in her social life, for Dad was a silly fool, a cruel man not fit to be around children. You have catalogued along with Mom many of Dad’s activities that he tried to discredit Mom with. Grandfather, why did Dad do such things against Mom and tell lies?

‘Grandfather, you are looking at me strangely. Why?’

‘Henry, call me Granddad. Now make a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you all and why. You ought to know the full story, and I’m going to tell you.

‘I know what he has done to your mom, you, and your sisters, who were too young at the time to know. You may be aware of some things in your life, but I’ll attempt to tell you many things you don’t know. Remember this: what is happening to your mom is happening all the time from one end of the country to the other, a sickness called bipolar that has ruined many families and will ruin many more until something is done. It’s a mental complaint and can cause ruin to oneself and one’s family if not treated. I call it the hidden agenda.’

Chapter 3

Don’t Cry, Mom

‘Nice cup of tea, Henry. Thank you. Now listen up. You would come in from school and find your mom crying. You were only a young boy and would say, Don’t cry, Mom. What’s the matter? Your mom would brush away her tears and try and put a happy face on in giving you your tea. Len, your dad, would be watching TV or pretending to be busy with unnecessary chores.

‘For the slightest thing, your mom would rant, rave, scream, and shout. The pressure was unbearable. She had it all to do. She would ask your dad – or is it Len, as you call him? – to do things, for at this stage your twin sisters were only in arms, crying to be fed. It was one hassle after another. All Len would do is wander from one room to another, puffing and blowing as if he had all the worry in the world, planning and scheming how to con the public out of their money. That was your dad, Len, a cheat, a liar, trespassing upon the good nature of the public in raising funds for various charities. What a laugh, not at charities but at Len, your father, who paid little out to charities. He was from one town to another, never in one place long enough to be noticed, although he was black as the ace of spades and a good six foot in height. He was on the fiddle, claiming this and that from social security, hoping no one recognised him.

‘You, Henry, were constantly by your mom’s side, loving her, defending her, helping her to brush the tears away, a very sad situation, day in, day out, and no one to turn to except me. Yes, I knew what was wrong and at times felt helpless to intervene. You see, amongst your mom’s tears was love. She still loved him, at the time when your twin sisters were still in arms.

‘You would rush to your mom’s aid. Sometimes you would fail to understand what was wrong, but you were learning fast and being smitten with your dad’s ways. Not your fault, it’s what is in your genes from dad to son. But on the loving side of you is your mom’s genes. Your dad – or Len, I will refer to him as Len to avoid hurting you – he never loved anyone, only money and himself. As for money, your mom never saw any from him. All she got were tears. She was frightened to go to the authorities in fear you might be put into care, a traumatic position to be in. That’s why you saw tears from morning to night. She was like a slave conditioned to a life of turmoil. Your mom would yell at him, for she became strong with a willpower to fight. These traits are with you, Henry. Nurture them and take heed for the future.

‘Your attitude became unsociable because you were traumatized. With Len, life was difficult. Your mom wouldn’t neglect you or your sisters. A lesser woman would have buckled under but not your mom. Despite the tears, she fought on because of the love she had for you, a true love, a family love that was only present when Len was absent from the home. When he was home, it was tears, sad tears, tears of despair and fear of a beating, shouting, screaming, throwing things about, and destroying all in sight.

‘It was a cruel household, Henry. It was a most terrible situation to be in. That is why I rallied around your mom. She wanted help from family and friends, for without it, she would have gone under. She thought, at times, she had failed. Far from it, she made mistakes – we all do – but as a mother, she protected you, even though her nerves were shattered, and patience had gone.

‘I never knew a person to cry so much. It was a living hell at times. If Len had died, your mom would have known where he was, and the crying would have stopped, but to live a life of hell from him being alive was torture. No one should tolerate the sadness of bipolar and its carrier, a destroyer of any human dignity. I think no one knows a cure, only the symptoms, and if your mom cried any more, she could go around the house and water the houseplants.

‘Your mom was not giving up the fight but hiding much to protect Len, and she told a few white lies, which was natural, but it never altered dirty tricks from him. He just carried on, no matter what tears brought. Your mom slaved with little help from anyone. Len made sure of that by belittling her to other people, making enemies for her so she would lose support and friendship. She was being conditioned to submit to his commanding ways and dictatorial manner. It was not working as he planned, and frustration was setting in that required more thought to introduce more scheming and planning that brought more tears and distress. I have lived a long time, travelled widely, carried a rifle, met the enemy, but never met anyone so vile and mistrusted as an object of your father called Len. A man nicknamed the Matchstick, he surely was burnt out.

‘Lie after lie, he would broadcast to close friends of your mom to try and discredit her. It failed, and he only made a bigger fool of himself. He failed at everything except being a troublemaker, living a life of pretence, of catch me if you can, thinking he could outsmart the police and authorities. How wrong he was! What a fool, trespassing upon the human nature of others to gratify his own eagerness to outwit them, for Len had a mind of I win, you lose. Len thought, All is for me, nothing for you. All in the house is mine. Any blame was never his when, in fact, he would have caused it. I assessed him as a crazy, mixed-up fool with a violent disposition.

‘Your mom was wising up. She got to thinking she ought to look into his past. That caused more tears, heartfelt tears, wondering how she could have lived with such a character and put children in danger of a violent man who had been arrested for attempted murder and served time for violence. She learned of children from previous affairs who were placed in a home. Their mother became a mental patient in a home for sick women. More tears for your mom and how does she cope with such a situation? It meant a quick decision to protect you and your sisters, and that is exactly what she did.

‘It played on Len’s mind and tormented him into doing silly things like silent phone calls or ringing up utility organisations, gas, electricity, to tell them your mom wished to cancel their services, just stupid actions designed to cause hassle to your mom with no gain for him.

‘Your mom found out that he had spent much time in prison for various offences, from violence to attempted murder, from theft to non-payments of acquired goods. Just imagine how your mom felt when she found out. It was more tears, but she was strong and determined to win through. She was not going to give up on you, and she set about it in the right manner to ensure you had a good future from the love and affection you deserve. Yes, it was tears but tears that soon turned to action in what to do for your safety and future, Henry. That was the beginning. We planned to keep things from you for you not to be hurt. Now you say you don’t recognise him as your