My father is a “clever” man; he is a Jekyll and Hyde person. To outsiders, he is the most genial man you will ever meet but, to those very close to him, he can be very nasty.
My father was born on 28th November 1930 and my mother, exactly a month before. Given the era in which I was born, both my brother and I are quite young compared to the age of our parents. My father is 90 in November, whereas my brother and I should be in our early to late 60s or 70s but not so; he was born in 1961 and me in 1963.
This was no accident; it was the fault of my father. He was and is a classic chauvinist and is incredibly racist.
When my father got married to my mother, she was working at Metal Box. My mother came from the gutter and was brought up in the East End, in the slums. To say that her family was poor would be an understatement; even her mother used to make cigars by hand, for pennies by rolling tobacco leaves on her leg. Her father did not work as he got gassed in World War 1 and had been given the last rights; his lungs were destroyed by the mustard gas. It is the same old story; people who give their lives for their country and are badly injured, as my granddad was, were just forgotten about and thrown in the gutter.
When the slums were demolished, my Mum’s family were moved to Dagenham in Essex, to a crammed house but infinitely better than what they had lived in before.
Roll forward a few years and my mother was on holiday with her girlfriend, at St Michael’s on the Mount and my father was on a cycling holiday with his best friend. I have seen the old photographs of my mother and she was absolutely stunning; yes, I am biased but I have seen the photographs, long ago, on my brother’s wall and it proves how beautiful she was.
When my father first saw my mother, he instantly decided that it was my mother who he wanted to be his wife. In that era, as is now, he wanted a pretty woman on his arm. But, she was not only beautiful. After all of the degradation that had taken place through her early life, he had not turned bitter and was so very kind; in that respect, she was the mirror image of her mother. After all, it was her mother who stood beside her husband, through his bitterness of being turned into a cripple and the frustration that he threw out at everyone. I can even picture and hear my granddad trying to catch his breath in the dingy old council flat in Loughton that they ended up in, up those horrible concrete steps through badly lit corridors to the door that gave entrance to their flat. It was as though you were walking through a utility building, not a block of flats.
But, my father met Mum much earlier. He took Mum as a prize that he had to win and became obsessed with getting her. When they were “courting”, he would cycle from Southampton up to Dagenham, just to see my Mum. On one occasion, Mum did not want to see him but her parents, wanting the best for her (as my father was becoming successful in the world) and so they pushed and cajoled my mother into seeing him, even though she did not want to, as she had worked out what he was really like.
But the pressure worked in my father’s favour and they eventually got married; this was the start of my mother’s downfall. In my father’s mind, he could not have a wife working, as that would have been completely contrary to the perception that he wanted to give everyone. So, he forced her to give up work and, in the process, Mum lost all of her friends; she was now alone and isolated.
Mum was now my father’s property and he could do with her as he wished. He would dress her up in lovely clothes, as if she was a mannequin and paraded her wherever they went, mainly to Masonic functions.
Behind closed doors, my father was intimidating and abusive to my mother, not necessarily physically but certainly mentally and eventually, it took its toll on my mother’s kind and gently nature; she broke.
I was told the story by my father himself, in Sydney, in John Dory’s restaurant that my mother was so bad that she did not recognise my father; she probably did not even want to recognise him or communicate with him. My mother had been talking to my brother at the time and it just slipped out. My brother than kept on pushing until my mother was in tears and my father was getting very anxious. He said that it was all her father’s fault for teasing her but I did not believe it then and I do not believe it now.
My father started to get so anxious that he became unwell and we had to leave and go back to our hotel. With my mother in a state and my father looking as though he would keel over at any moment, I decided that I would call for an ambulance but my father shouted me down. It was clear that the real truth was starting to come out, he could not deal with it and was causing him severe breathing and heart difficulties.
That was why my mother was in hospital; she had been abused by her husband and had literally snapped; that is why both my brother and I were born so late in their lives, as nearly everyone had children very early in their marriages but not so my parents.
Roll on more years and my mother spent all of her time looking after my brother and I. When we grew of an age, she had nothing left and all she would do was to get the groceries and sleep; she now dressed and looked like an old lady. It was not her fault; it what she was pushed into by my father.
That was why my mother contracted Alzheimer’s at only 79. Because of the decisions my father had made on her behalf, her brain was not working hard enough and that is why she got that awful disease so young.
That is why that now my father has Alzheimer’s, he is obsessive about working with numbers and does it every day to keep the disease from taking hold. Mum had none of that. She was poorly educated and had given up everything for Martin and I, at my father’s behest. As soon as I left home, she had nothing at all and it was though she then had a target on her head for Alzheimer’s to come calling.
When I was made homeless after my first divorce, she used to pester the life out of me to check that I was okay. She not only did this out of love but to keep herself busy again but that was short lived.
When I had left home, my father did nothing to encourage my mother to get a little job, even working in a charity shop because he wanted his wife home all of the time and at his beck and call. My father’s ego was so great that he did not care about my mother, as most good husbands would have ensured that their now “out of work” wives would have a purpose in life again.
My mother and I were very close but, as soon as she died, it was like clicking a switch; my father’s attitude to me changed completely. That was back in 2011 and he treated me like a slave as I would good with my hands and he would prepare long lists of things for me to do.
He was a multi millionaire at this point and could have just picked up the phone and got things done but he wanted to save even more money and keep me under the thumb.
I did all that he asked for a while, maybe four years, as I loved and do love my father. But I “smelt the coffee” and realised that he was just using me. He demanded that I did all of these things but, my brother, who was not even capable of changing a plug, never visited my father, whilst I was still on the mainland.
He always made excuses for my brother, who was clearly the prodigal son but made no excuses for me in that I did have a life too. We were sitting in my car and I said to my father that I was not going to do anymore work for him, as he he was using me. No one stands up to my father and he blew his top and said “if you won’t do it with good grace, don’t do it all”. Those were his exact words.
After that, I would visit my father but less so than before. It was always tense now and eventually I stopped seeing him. This was in late 2015.
It is clear that he took umbridge with me and not soon after, the investigation into the false abuse claims started, with my arrest in April 2016.
Thankfully, I managed to clear myself with the overwhelming evidence and not long after, I started seeing my cousin in secret, who was now in Wales, courtesy of my father who had paid for her house, with her living in it rent free, as my father had forbade Pat and had forbade me from seeing her.
But he found out and then instantly Pat changed her tune and kicked me out. I had previously sat down with her and asked “Do you believe that I am guilty or innocent?” Her response his ingrained in my brain “If I thought you were guilty, I would never have let you into my home”
As soon as my father found out, I was instantly kicked out of Pat’s home and the lies then started to build up. She said that she had phoned Verity’s school when she had not and everything else besides.
My agoraphobia was slowly starting to creep up on me but even though I was going to Wales, my car was a safe zone, as I had it for so long, and I felt very safe at Pat’s.
Because of what happened a year before, I was starting to feel unsafe in my own house and she knew it. She told me about a derelict bungalow that was for sale, very close to her and I contacted the trustees to discuss a bridging loan that would be repaid when Sanctuary Cottage was sold; I have all the emails.
But, as my father made all of the decisions as to the trust, even if he was not supposed to, my request was denied. I even went to the local pub landlord, Calvin Jones, to ask to borrow some money but he said it was all tied up in bonds and it would be too expensive to break one.
So, I had no choice but to return to the Isle of Wight and I have been here ever since. Although I hate this house because of what has happened in it, it does at least afford me some protection and I will not leave it until there has hopefully been some sort of resolution.
My father is dictating my life, even though I am 56 but can do fuck all about it. The police will not help, even though he tried to bribe me and so, as I have said many times, I am in a prison without bars; they will not even take him off the roads as he is a real danger to other motorists and pedestrians. No wonder that I now completely mistrust the police.
And this is the man that my daughter looks up to. Of course, it is not just “love” but it is money as well, a great deal of it that feeds her loyalty.
As for me, I have been abused by my father for more years than I can remember but as he is a man and the victim (me) is a man, the police will do absolutely fuck all.
And the police wonder why they are so mistrusted?
Of course, I know that my daughter has been manipulated and brainwashed by her mother but her mother has nothing on my father; he would win oscars for his performance