The Evil that Came to Denham

By John Ulrich

Denham has been known to house some notable residents such as the late Cilla Black, Sir John Mills, Paul Daniels, Shane Richie and a fair few more to mention. However, the tiny village sadly has more of a tale to tell than that of housing celebrities, and it is a tale told and known by many people far and wide.
The Evil that Came to Denham is based on the true and gruesome tale of the Denham Massacre which took place in 1870 in Denham Village. The story is told from the point of view of the author's own father which adds credibility and believability to an incredible narrative. The macabre subject matter is sensitively treated and the tale is retold with empathy and feeling for the characters involved.
With suspense, intrigue and mystery, in addition to real life matters of family and work, The Evil that Came to Denham really does have something for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398461185

John Ulrich

John Ulrich was born in Berkshire where he grew up for the first three years of his life before moving with his family to Uxbridge Middlesex. His first passion is music and though he spent many years of his life working and being inside recording studios, he knew that one day he would set out to become an author and write the story of the Denham Murders.

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About the Author

John Ulrich was born in Berkshire, where he grew up for the first three years of his life before moving with his family to Uxbridge, Middlesex.

His first passion is music and though he spent many years of his life working and being inside recording studios, he knew that one day he would set out to become an author and write the story of the Denham Murders.

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to:

My Son

Kieran John Ulrich

Copyright INFORMATION ©

John Ulrich 2021

The right of John Ulrich to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398417700 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398461178 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398461185 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2018

This Edition 2021

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

Level 37, Office 37.15

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank Christine Walker for always taking the time to read my work and giving me not only valuable advice but also the inspiration to carry on pursuing my goal to complete this book.

To Roslyn, many thanks to you for taking the time to be my second pair of eyes, you really did make a difference.

To Derick Gumbs, thank you for your encouragement and belief in this book and a massive appreciation for giving up your time for me when I needed you to.

Thank you to all the team at Austin Macauley Publishers for continuing to work with me to bring this book into print.

Note from the Author

Many nights I would listen to my father as he told me the story of the blacksmith who killed a family of seven from Denham Village with an axe early Sunday morning back on May 22nd, 1870. He told me how he came to live in the house that was built on the exact site that the murders took place. Those two and a half years would become a living hell for my parents as they endured the torment of the spiritual re-enactment of that event.

The anniversary of the murders was the worst time of our lives, son, my dad would say. I will never forget it as long as I live, I could hear the children screaming as they were being killed.

Even as a young boy, I would wonder what kind of man could commit such a horrific crime as this. What kind of person could kill an entire family with the children being as young as four and the eldest eight? It was and still is, beyond comprehension to me, and I am sure it could bring the hardest person to tears at the thought of how mercilessly those children and the rest of the family were brutally murdered.

As time went by, it had become common for my brother and me to tell the tale of the Denham massacre, and how our friends would listen with great interest come those late evenings with the lights turned down, as we told the tale not just about that murder, but also how our parents came to be living in a haunted house.

So here I am now, an adult who knows the story should be told. Years of listening to the horror that took place in Denham has stayed with me and there is no other option than for me to write about it, to share with you; the story that I had been told and I have told my friends.

However, when I first thought about writing this book, I knew I did not want it to be just another horror story about a haunted house; I felt there had been too many of them and I wanted to appropach this from a different direction. Not only did I want to tell the story of the murders and the haunting, but I also found that there was a lot of history that I could share with the reader as I took a journey through the Victoria era.

The skills of the blacksmith and wheelwright will be appreciated as one will learn how these men have come to master their trade that earned them the rightful respect amongst their community.

Coldbath Fields Prison itself holds so much history, that one could not help but be interested in taking a little bit of time to read up on the prison which is now the grounds of Mount Pleasant Sorting Office in London.

Etiquette: A word to some almost obsolete while to others in the future, a word unknown.

The Victoria era lived by this word, and readers will learn how the Victorians who were considered of good-standing, based their lives around it.

It was understood that it was a conventional but unwritten code of practice followed by members of certain professions or groups.

And yes, the swinging sixties?

Some events took place outside my parents’ home and I am sure it will take some people back down memory lane as they sit and recall some of the events that I have written about whilst my parents were living in Cheapside Lane.

But wait!

There was something else I had found, and that was the perfect love story.

Here was another story around a story and that was about two people whose determined love and desire for one another was so strong, that no matter what, they would have done anything to be together, and just when they thought they had succeeded in fulfilling their dreams of finding the perfect love nest, their relationship would be truly tested in ways completely unimaginable to them.

I have written this book as if from chapter one it is my father telling the story because it was his experiences that have brought me to be here: to be sitting in front of my computer.

I have changed the name of the house to respect the privacy of those who now live there, and as I write across an empty page, Chapter One. I can’t help but wonder, how could anybody have known that the deleterious actions of one man would come to affect my parents in 1965 when they moved into the house called Harridans in Cheapside Lane, Denham?

Prologue

Coldbath Fields Prison

Sometimes I could not help but feel sorry for a man that did not know his own worst enemy was himself, and I have met many a man like that working at Coldbath Fields prison, here in London. They have the same old look in their eyes that says they think the world owes them something for putting them where they are now. They never accept that maybe they are to blame, it is always someone else’s fault, never theirs!

This is also the kind of man that hates everything and everybody in this world and feels no remorse for any wrongdoings that they have played a part in. As far as they are concerned it was every man for themselves and if you did not like his ways, his nights of sleep were not going to be interrupted because of your displeasure.

Officer Paul Jones is my name. I am one of the oldest and longest-serving prison wardens working at the prison and believe me, I have seen many men come and go through here in my time, only for some to return two or three times, which amazes me, being as all the prison has to offer them is nothing but ruthless, gratuitous punishment. It has been promised to the public that the prisoners will get ‘Hard Labour, Hard Fare and Hard Board’. It is meant to deter any fellow from wanting to return here, but all the punishment is achieving, is to keep order while they are within these cold, dark, wet walls. For once released out into the general population, some have nothing to return to other than crime. You could, on any one day find prisoners on the treadmill with the order to climb the equivalent of over 5000 steps for no other reason than punishment. They could be picking oakum or separating fibers of coir from the outer shells of coconuts or even just picking up boulders and putting them down again, and if you are wondering if we get deaths here? We do, (although the death toll has dropped considerably since women and children have been stopped from being sent here). Even the military has stopped sending their men to this prison because most of them return to their barracks unfit for duty, but as I said, I have seen the same faces come back here two or three times but for now, I want you to push aside in your mind, the thoughts of the unfortunate man that is so poor, that he will continue to commit crime although he knows it will bring him back behind these gates of hell, and, I want you to turn your attention towards the kind of man that has no accountability for his actions, due to his selfishness and arrogant attitude. One man comes to mind and I knew from the moment I laid my eyes on him, that not only did he have disregard for his scandalizing behaviour: this was Satan’s work in flesh, blood, and bone. I knew this man as John Jenkins and that is the name I shall use as I tell you about him, though in time I would find out through another prison and horrific future murders, this man’s real name was John Owen, a blacksmith by trade, a thief by nature and a killer by design.

Jenkins came from a well-conducted hard-working family who lived in Byfield in 1847.

When Jenkins was fifteen, he was a bound apprentice to a Mr Thomas Mason, a blacksmith in his hometown. It was sad though, even from an early age Jenkins seemed to go off the rails and because of his unapproachable, unpredictable manner, he did not finish his apprenticeship having been dismissed by Mr Mason, the parting being on bad terms for them both. It was said that Jenkins had threatened Mr Mason, claiming he would return to his workshop and reduce the whole building to ashes, but thankfully this was not carried out, but it did show what kind of person Jenkins was growing into and no matter where Jenkins went, the moment he left he would radiate corruption and bad feeling.

By the time Jenkins had reached seventeen he was thrown out of the family home, his parents finding him too difficult to deal with. Fights with his father became all too frequent, with Jenkins claiming, as a boy, he had suffered at the hands of his father’s brutality and still had whip marks to prove such a claim whilst his father had stated, that his austere parenting was him merely trying to keep his son on the path of the straight and narrow, but sadly it is something he had failed to do because his own son’s perversity was just impossible to handle.

Northamptonshire police began to know Jenkins very well as a thief and by the time he was eighteen he left Byfield with a bad reputation. It was plain to see that if Jenkins had not left when he had, sooner or later, he was going to end up in police custody, so he left and headed out towards Birmingham. There he met a woman called Mary Russell who kept a confectioner’s shop at Shipston-on-Stour. She had been visiting her friend in Birmingham for a weekend when she met Jenkins. He went to visit her in her hometown and within six months of meeting each other, they were married. Jenkins kept a beerhouse in Shipston-on-Stour and one would think with his new life ahead of him, he would have settled down, but he lost his Premises license for larceny and within one year of being married, Jenkins had gone back to his old ways causing him and his wife to separate.

We have a silent system here at Coldbath Fields Prison which means under no circumstances are the prisoners allowed to talk to one another. It is just not tolerated to such a degree that we have a warden sitting in the dormitory at night to make sure no conversation takes place. And if you are wondering if the prisoners get tempted to talk, sure they do, but there is a cure for anybody that forgets and breaks the rules.

A good thrashing!

As stated, this is not a soft prison, make no mistake about that, not like some of the men have here. We have Prison Officers here, who, with the Warden’s blessing, like to beat up on prisoners who break the rules. One such officer is George Lyons. Lyons likes to engage in his job a little too much for my liking. To him, a good day is knocking a prisoner’s head in. Lyons is not alone in being a guard who enjoys the chance to beat up on the inmates. He went so far as to make a rope with knots on the end of it and believe me: he knows how to use it very effectively.

And that was just how I came across John Jenkins. I remember watching him walk across the prison yard and I thought that he had an evil presence about him; it was just something about the look in his eye that made me think Satan had been busy the day he was born. I knew almost for sure, this would not be his first or last incarceration.

Jenkins had only been in the prison for half a day when he received a beating from George Lyons for talking whilst out in the yard. He had asked a fellow inmate what crime he had committed that brought him to be at Coldbath Fields Prison and before anybody could draw another breath, Lyons, with his great invention, set upon Jenkins. Within seconds Jenkins was on the floor, George Lyons standing over him.

Listen here, prisoner. I’m Officer George Lyons and I’m here for one reason and one reason only, I keep order here by making sure prisoners like you, show respect and follow the rules. No talking amongst the prisoners, it’s a silent system. So, if you do not want me to hit you again, keep your mouth shut!

Jenkins took the weight on his elbows, not a word came from his lips as he watched Lyons walk away. It was about near on a minute, I guess before Jenkins got to his feet. Two things came to my mind as I watched him wipe the blood away from his mouth with the left hand of his sleeve. The first was I could see a rage burning inside him and I knew myself, that if ever he had the chance, he would revenge Lyons for the beating he had just taken. The second thing was though it was obvious from the blood dripping from his mouth, and the whip marks around his face, he had been set upon, Jenkins was very composed as if he had just accidentally tripped over a stone but landed unhurt. I wondered, was it the hate that boiled inside him that made him get to his feet so easy once he decided to do so, I am sure it was.

Jenkins was sentenced to two months at Coldbath Fields Prison for stealing and when his term came to an end, I was the officer that walked him to the gates of freedom. The same gates that had taken it away from him now stood waiting to welcome him back to society.

I won’t be serving no more time in prison, Jenkins said as we walked side by side, you won’t see me here again, I’m leaving these gates behind me.

He gave me a surprised look when I said with a sturdy tone, That’s what you said at Reading. Yes, I know you were there, you’ve been in trouble a few times. And maybe this time you didn’t serve eighteen months as you did in Reading, but you’ve ended up here.

There was a strange, cold look in his eyes as he said, This time things will be different. This time I will make sure of it, I’m not coming back. I’m going out of here and I will collect what’s mine. What society took away I will take back!

(It is always someone else’s fault never theirs). The prison gate opened.

How do you expect to do that, I asked sarcastically. Steal from good, kind, hardworking folk like before? People like you always come back.

No, I will not. I have a rich brother in a town called Uxbridge who will help me, he will give me money, I will collect it from him then start a better life. No, you won’t see me again.

I watched him walk away, knowing that despite what he had said, he would spread the same bad animosity wherever he went. Why? Because wherever he went the devil walked alongside him holding his hand.

But if only I had known… his freedom would be the price of seven lives!

Chapter One

The Advertisement

Looking back on all the problems that followed us into the house called Harridans, it is still plain to see, even today, why we moved into that house. Anyone who has been to or lived in Denham, I am sure, would agree that it is a very sumptuous area, to the point that it has housed some celebrities. Though I had a general knowledge of the area, moving into Denham was not planned and moving from Hayes was probably the last thing I expected to do. After spending a brief period of my adolescent years in Hillingdon, I had grown up and lived around Hayes town, so I settled with the notion this would be the place I put roots down.

I had been searching for a few weeks, for accommodations for my girlfriend Christine and me, because our relationship had progressed into something more than just boyfriend, girlfriend. And though at first we never bought engagement rings, in our hearts we both felt ready to make a full commitment to one another. Also, we were both unhappy in the homes that we were living in. I was living with my brother, who to be honest, I never thought much of as a brother once I got my teen years out the way. Christine was living with the parents from hell, whose total lack of acceptance towards me, had made Christine embrace the idea that she would prefer to live with me. As far as we could see, it was the only way we could get any peace from what was to become my forever pain in the arse in-laws. Now you can call it fate, bad luck, or whatever you want. I would call it a bit of both for I now believe, though I didn’t know it back then, that the wheels of fate were turning for me and it was to be the worst bit of luck I’d ever had. But hey, I will let you decide for yourself, while I tell you how I came to find the house that was to be our home for the next two and half years.

Friday 16th July 1965, I found an advertisement in the Gazette, our local newspaper. I was a dustman back then, and this is what I mean by fate or bad luck. I picked up a dustbin to empty when this paper fell out and landed open on the floor. I bent down to pick it up, when there, right in front of my eyes, I saw an advertisement for a house that read:

To let, a very spacious three-bedroom house called Harridans at Cheapside Lane Denham. For further enquiries please contact Tom or Sarah Miles on this number.

‘What you found, John?’

I looked up. It was David Keen.

Now Dave was someone I regarded not only as a friend but also as a brother. We have been mates now for a good four years and enjoyed working together ‘on the dust’ as we would call it.

‘You know I’ve been looking for a place to live for Christine and me.’

‘Yeah, mate.’

‘Well, brother, I think I’ve found it!’

The evening couldn’t come quick enough for me and I was thankful that I had made plans to meet Christine at seven that evening, at the Queens Head pub in Uxbridge. I was home by five-thirty, washed, changed and at the pub dead on seven. I was feeling in tip-top shape and looking sharp as a razor with my three buttons navy suit on. It had nice narrow trousers and I wore a crisp white shirt and a plain blue tie to complement the whole get up. I may have thought of myself as a bit of a Teddy boy with my quiff and ducks-arse hair style, but you wouldn’t have ever caught me in all that clobber they wear. You can keep that kind of get up, thank you very much. For me, it was about style. I am sure someone, somewhere must have seen me around town and based several Sean Connery characters on me. He looked almost as sharp as me. The filmmakers from Dr, No, have something to thank me for. If it weren’t for me, they probably would have had Bond running around in Drape Jackets and Brothel Creepers. Now that would have been so funny, wouldn’t it? I mean absolutely hysterical. But of course, I am thinking this with a smile on my face, enjoying the concept of Bond and his wardrobe while passing the time waiting for Christine.

My humorous thoughts subsided once my conscious turned towards Christine and I started to ponder, seriously, about the future and the Denham house. Why had it held my interest so much that I couldn’t wait to show her the advertisement in the newspaper? I mean, I had looked at a few adverts, but none captivated me like this. I even looked at a few houses but without following through. So, what was it about this house that made that advertisement stay as a forethought? Still contemplating, I began to get agitated when at seven-thirty Christine had not arrived. I thought I would give her another 15 minutes before I’d have to look for her when Dave walked into the pub and came up to the bar where I was sitting.

‘Hi there, brother, how are you?’ He gave me a friendly slap on the back. ‘I knew you and Christine wouldn’t mind, so I thought I would join you two for a drink and to be honest with ya, I was kind of interested in hearing what she thought about the house you found in the paper.’

He looked around him. ’Where’s Christine? In the…"

‘No, she isn’t,’ I said cutting him short.

‘You two haven’t had a barney, have you?’

‘Hard to have a row with someone who hasn’t shown up.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Don’t ask me, Dave,’ I replied showing my irritation. ‘I was wondering the same thing. Let’s have a drink and if she doesn’t show soon, we’ll go and look for her.’

‘I’m not trying to be funny, John, but have you looked outside? You know women don’t like to come into these places unless they have some company with them. Doesn’t look…you know, proper.’

‘Dave, she’s only got to do what she always does and that is just stick her head around the door to see if I’m in here or not, and besides, if she were outside you would have seen her, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah, I guess so.’

‘You guess so,’ I replied shaking my head at Dave. ‘Get those drinks before you come out with any more bright ideas.’

By eight-thirty Dave and I was in a conversation about how I was starting to doubt the Denham house because the rent was sure to be too high for Christine and me to be able to afford.

‘Those places out there are not cheap to rent, Dave,’ I was saying when the pub door opened, and Christine walked in. Dave was the first to notice her and the horrified look on his face made me turn around. Christine was walking towards me.

It wasn’t the tears she had in her eyes that alarmed me, but her left eye was swollen black and blue. She looked like she had a tear-up down the back of an alley. I was off the barstool like a bullet from a gun to meet her halfway across the floor.

‘Christine, what the bloody hell happened to you?’

She looked down to the floor as the tears from her eyes fell to the floor. ‘It’s, it’s my father… you know how he feels about us going together.’

Blood shot to my head as my temper got the better of me. ‘I’ll do more than black his eye, I’ll kill the bastard!’

I went out of that pub like a raging bull with Christine hot on my heels. ‘Please, John please! Don’t do anything rash, he’s not worth it.’

I turned to face her and snarled, ‘I’ve had enough of him Christine. Let him try and black my eye, then we’ll see what a big man he is.’

I had said this because though I am the same build as her father, he stood six inches taller than me at six-two and was two stones heavier.

Christine still desperately trying to calm me down replied, ‘Listen, John, we can find a place and I can move out of there.’

‘Christine, I’ve had enough of your fucking father laying his goddamn hands on you, shouting the odds about one thing or another just because he doesn’t like us courting. From the moment I walked into their living room, I never stood a chance, and you tell me this. What have I ever done to him for him to hate me so much? You tell me that. Fuck all that’s what!’

‘I know, John, but you know what he’s like.’

‘Yeah, and he should know what I’m like and if he doesn’t, he’s going to bloody well find out.’

‘But, John…’

‘I’m sick of it, Christine and I’m sick of him.’

‘I can move out.’

‘That bastard had it, Christine and nothing you say will change it. This is long overdue. I should have given him a smack in the mouth a long time ago but this time I’m going to bloody well make sure he gets it.’

‘But, John, please.’

‘No, Christine forget it, this time I’m not letting it go. I’ve had enough, do you hear me? I’ve had enough!’

I had good reason to be infuriated, I had put up with her father’s nonsense for two years now and this was not the first time Christine had taken a thump from her father over her courting me. That bastard even kicked her down the stairs one evening because she wanted to see me, can you imagine that? He kicked his daughter down the stairs just because of his deep-rooted animosity towards me. She was halfway down the stairs when he came behind her, put his foot into her back and gave her a free-flying lesson. He could have killed her. Fortunately for Christine, all she sustained was a sprained wrist, but I never knew the truth about that incident until a month later. Her sister told me the truth behind Christine’s injured wrist. I couldn’t believe that a man could do such a thing to his daughter, all because he didn’t like her boyfriend. All I knew was, once I got over the surprise, I wanted revenge, I wanted to tear his head off, I wanted to teach him a lesson. Father or no father, no man puts his hands on my Christine and expects to wake up the next morning without knowing he made a big mistake. But then I remembered how I felt the hurt, the disappointment that Christine had felt it necessary to lie to me. She had told me she came off her bike which was her transportation to work at that time. When I confronted Christine, when I told her I knew how she had sprained her wrist, she talked me out of doing anything physical towards her father by saying though it was true, I didn’t know how cantankerous her sister could be, and that the only reason that her sister would have given me this information was that she knew what my response would be and the trouble it would cause, so of course I would be playing into her hands by reacting to it. It made sense then, after all, we both knew her sister never had Christine’s interests at heart, and she certainly was not going to give two hoots about me, was she? So, her father got away with it, but I was keeping score. Why did he feel like that towards me? I don’t know, but it was obvious we would never see eye-to-eye. A few times I tried to justify in my mind, why he thought and acted the way he did. Maybe, in some weird way, he thought he was protecting Christine and not being able to do so made him frustrated. The funny thing is he never really did come out and say why he disapproved of me so much. All I could speculate was, in his eyes I was some rough boy from Hayes who had been dragged up from a children’s home and wasn’t good enough for his daughter. (Have I found the answer? Hmm maybe, don’t know), but it wasn’t like that. I have worked hard since I turned seventeen. I may not have had the best education but I am far from stupid, from the moment I left the children’s home I made sure I found time to learn to read and write, even if most of my knowledge is self-taught, my English and math is just as good as any average man on the street, and I can turn my hand to most things. I was always looking for a way to make money and stand on my own two feet. If there was one thing that those children’s homes had taught me, it was independence from an early age, never depend on anyone else in life. It was a good rule to follow so this is what I did… I followed it.

Even living with my brother was more for his welfare sake than mine. He needed extra rent money and I was his answer. My parents brought me back home to live with them after I had left the children’s home when I was two months shy of my seventeenth birthday. But I wasn’t the same kid anymore. The kid that had been taken away and deprived of a family home for almost five years had now changed. He only existed in my parent’s imagination, but they were completely wrong about the young man they were bringing back home. Besides being a teenager, there was something in my personality that would be completely different to all those that knew me before. I saw things differently, I felt different. There was a perversity about me now. I was no longer the gullible soft-touch kid that had been put in the back of a police car and taken away. My parents just fell straight back into being my parents again and expected me to slot back into being their submissive son, but I had grown resistant to authority and didn’t take it very well being ordered around. That kind of harsh approach was not going to wash with me anymore and though I always loved and respected my parents, I just struggled with their rules and restrictions.

I guess my brother Tim picked up on the personal battles I was having and after his woman left him for whatever reason, he asked me if I would like to live with him. At first, I was going to say no, until he said I would have as much freedom as I needed to come and go, and that, at the time, sounded marvellous. The word freedom sounded so sweet to my ears, freedom was the one thing I hadn’t had much of and I wanted to embrace it so much, that I felt like a bird that had just been told it could fly after years of having a broken wing.

Come and go as much as you want, he had said and yes, I would do that, I certainly would do that.

My father gave me that sturdy look of his and then warned me against moving in with my brother. My father might have good intentions but on that occasion, it had the opposite effect completely and the next day I climbed over the garden wall and went to my brother’s house. I didn’t want to get into a set to with my mother, who in her wisdom, thought sitting on a chair by the front door would stop me from leaving. She sat there for near an hour before she realised I had slipped out the back.

Our dad knew Tim always had a hidden agenda when he offered to help someone, and he sure knew that Tim wasn’t looking out for my best interests. He knew around the corner there would be an ulterior motive for his offering of a helping hand. However, my stubborn and headstrong attitude didn’t allow me to hear his dull father to son talk about my father knowing what was best for me. Besides, I thought Tim, (who was nineteen), was being a big brother and taking care of me but in time I found out his motivation was money.

He knew his kid brother was out on a mission to get himself into work and not just sit about watching the world go by. As soon as I started doing odd jobs here and there and then the dustcarts, Tim wanted money. Please do not get me wrong here, I didn’t begrudge paying my way, I was more than happy to, but my brother always insisted (until he was nearly blue in the face) that the reason he asked me to move in with him wasn’t so I could help him pay a few bills. But sure enough, as soon as I got a bit of dough in my pocket, he came with his hand out reminding me how kind he had been to me. The next seven and some bit years of my life I was to grow up living under the same roof as my brother, which sometimes brought me unexpected hassle, like when someone he owed money to or had just upset, came to the front door looking for him. The cowardly bastard always had me sort out the problem for him, and to be honest, I didn’t mind, after all, blood is blood. But if he had shown me some gratitude by at least buying me a pint here and there it would have made me feel a little appreciated, but nothing. Sometimes I would be lucky if I got just a simple thank you. So, by the time I was twenty I knew my brother and I wasn’t pals and when I left the house at twenty-four, I liked him as much as our father did which was truly little.

I still smile when I think that Christine and I met in one of the most unexpected places ever imagined… a café. She was sixteen and I was twenty-two. She had left school to work in a bakery and instead of her going to work one morning she decided that she would have the day off and came into the café where I happened to be sitting having a cup of tea. Some guys gave her a wolf whistle as she went to the counter, which she tried to ignore, but was finding it hard because one of them kept shouting out to her, Come and sit here, darling, so everybody could hear him, a real Jack the lad arsehole.

The café was busy. She looked round for somewhere to sit, as Jack, the guy who owned the café, told her to take a seat and he would bring the tea over to her. She could still see this bloke inviting her over to where he was sitting with his workmates and I must confess I thought she was at least eighteen or nineteen, little did I know she hadn’t long stopped wearing her Mary-Jane flats and had stepped into her Go-go boots and miniskirts. I remember thinking how she reminded me of Nancy Sinatra and anyone who has seen Ms Sinatra, would know what a compliment that would be. Even more so because some of the women around here looked identical to their mothers as far as the dressing was concerned, like father like son, like mother like daughter. It’s stupid how some mothers (and fathers with their sons) thought that dressing their daughters up almost how they dressed would keep them respectable. I laughed at that thought because I was sure that this young woman, who was just looking for a seat, held no resemblance to her mother. Not only did she know it, but she would also love the fact that her mother only wished she looked and dressed as good as her daughter did.

I looked back down at my newspaper when the next thing I knew this young woman had come to where I was sitting and asked if she could join me. I had shrugged my shoulders told her, Sure no problem, then asked her if she wanted toast with that tea she had ordered.

‘Oh, I don’t have enough pennies on me,’ she replied smiling at me.

Jack brought the tea to the table, so I said, ‘Two toasts with that tea, mate, just put it on my bill.’

‘Sure thing,’ replied Jack looking at me smiling then at Christine, who had made herself comfortable at my table.

‘Hey, love, what are you doing over there, come and sit with some real men.’

I looked over at the guy with the big mouth and felt a rage that could have been happily cured by me smacking him in the mouth. He looked at me then at Jack, who seemed to have given him a warning look that conveyed, If you know what’s best for you, mate, you’ll knock that off.

He went quiet.

She gave a little grin and said, ‘My name is, Christine.’

From that day onwards, Christine and I were together most days and the only thing that made our relationship difficult were her parents. I was never given a chance from the moment they met me. Christine’s father was so judgmental towards me that I felt like I was on trial for murder the way he looked at me and scrutinized and criticized everything I said or did. And the fact that I emptied dustbins for a living didn’t get his approval either which makes me laugh when he’s a gardener. Maybe he thought he was above everyone else because he worked for himself. I knew for a fact he told everyone he had his own business and maybe with me being six years older than Christine, it also gave him another reason to have a pop at me, but I did believe in time he would come around and then he would see I wasn’t some sort of thug his daughter had hitched up with and the fact that I was a dustman only proved how hardworking I was. (Gee I could almost burst out with laughter at these ambitious thoughts) I will never forget the look on the faces of Christine’s parents when the word ‘dustman’ was mentioned and the sarcastic way they acted as they said to me, Oh, really, pay well does it, picking up other people’s rubbish?

And that peevish attitude was how things were going to stay towards me but now this was it, this truly was it. For all the times he had laid his dirty gardening hands on her, for the time he had kicked her down the stairs, for all the times he had been rude to me or about me, revenge was all I had in my mind and now it burnt like a wildfire. I was going to pay him back with a long-overdue smack in the mouth. This time I had been pushed too far and I was determined to make sure the sonofabitch paid for it, but Christine was trying her best to stop me. ‘John there’s no point in this, he won’t change, forget him.’

I grabbed her by her arms and yanked her close to me. ‘When I get hold of that, that bastard so help … Christine I’ll tear his head off his shoulders. You see if I don’t, he’s dead. You got me? He’s bloody DEAD!’

Dave came out of the pub to join us as Christine still desperately tried to calm me, ‘But, John, it’s you I love and want to be with, please don’t make the situation any worse than what it is. There’s no point going there causing trouble, he’s not worth it.’

‘Me!’ I said totally shocked. ‘He blacks your eye, and you tell me not to start trouble. That’s beautiful that one – a real winner.’

Dave came over to me and placed his hand gently on my shoulder.

‘She’s right, John, he’s not worth it, as big as he is, we all know he can only hit women. He’ll just get you nicked.’

‘It’ll be bloody worth it, Dave, just to put his lights out once and for all,’ I replied through gritted teeth.

‘Then he’s won, hasn’t he? You’ll give him what he wants. You and Christine won’t be together, you’ll be down the cop shop with him sitting at home with a smug look on his face bragging