Fights at home were common when Dad had too much to drink. As a small child I remember being ready for bed one night and we were all in the middle room where we lived at the time. It was bliss. The fire was burning brightly and we were listening to records on the wind-up gramophone, records like, "She Walked the Bloody Tower," "The Laughing Policeman," and "In a Monastery Garden." Suddenly the door opened with a great crash and Dad came staggering in, drunk. He made straight for my Mother saying, "Right, monkey, you're going out." With this it was all arms and legs and they fought for a while, back and forth, both of them shouting and yelling at the same time. The gramophone went over and when Dad realised that he was in no fit state to overpower Mum, he threw the records on the fire one by one. I remember watching them curl up and blaze brightly as they burned. I had no idea what was going on but I knew that I didn't like it. That was the earliest scene of this sort that I remember but it was typical of many similar incidents. And where were Edna and Doug at these times? They were both "up the town" enjoying themselves in their separate ways and were not really interested when they returned because by then an uneasy peace prevailed.
A similar incident is worth telling because the biter had a little of his own medicine. Dad came back one night very late when I was in bed. Suddenly, I was roused from sleep by a tremendous racket and a lot of shouting and screaming. They were at it again. Like Br'er Rabbit, I laid low and waited for it to stop, which it did in due course. Next morning I heard Mum get up early and go downstairs to get something. She crept quietly back upstairs to Dad's room, listened for a minute or so at the door, which she then threw open and rushed in shouting, "You can have some of your own medicine now. How do you like it?" At the same time she was knocking hell out of him with the copper stick (this was the stick used for stirring the clothes about in the copper on Washing Days. It was about four feet long and had a diameter of about three inches, so it made a very effective weapon). Dad was less violent "in his cups" after this and he often told the tale to visitors afterwards as though it was something to be proud of.
I recall another incident, again, as always, late at night when the pubs turned out and in the absence of the older children. Mum and I were in the same bedroom when suddenly the door opened and Dad advanced menacingly towards Mum. He said nothing for a while and then, after slowly rolling up his sleeves, he started knocking her about and dragging her towards the door saying, "You're really going out this time, my girl. You've had it!" This seemed very serious to me so I jumped out of bed crying my eyes out. Although I only had my pyjamas on, I slipped out of the bedroom, out of the front door and ran off to find the nearest policeman, still crying fit to burst. I had to run a long way in my pyjamas because I couldn't find a policeman until I had reached the Town Hall area and then I found two of them casually chatting together.
After they had calmed me down a little and I had got my breath back, I managed to tell them in between great sobs which shook me all over, that Dad was throwing Mum out. I expected this to affect them as much as it did me but, to my surprise, one simply said to the other, "Well, I suppose we had better take a look." I was even more surprised when one of them took my hand and we ambled off to Emlyn Square at a leisurely pace instead of running. This calmed me even more, an effect which was reinforced as they carried on with their previous conversation as if nothing had happened. I thought to myself that such quietly confident people as these would soon sort my Dad out at long last.
This didn't happen, though. When we got back, Dad had slipped into yet another drunken phase and he was all sweetness and light. "Yes, Constable, no Constable, sorry to have bothered you, Constable." After a while the two policemen left and I thought, "Now I'm going to be in trouble for fetching them." Instead, Dad rumpled my hair and said, "You'd better get back to bed." What an anti-climax.
As we children grew up, Dad became less and less physical because he knew that the time was approaching when we could stand up to him. The constant fights degenerated into bickering, accusations, relatively subdued arguments, prolonged sulks, sometimes for weeks together, and just plain silliness.
I don't want to give the impression that Dad was nothing but a drunken, selfish brute. He certainly was that sometimes but for most of the time he really loved us children. He told us stories late into the night, took us on long walks along the Old Canal explaining odd things about plants and wildlife and generally had time for us all. He could be all innocence and sweetness when people came and they would tell Mum how fortunate she was to have such a husband. To which she would simply say, "Huh! You don't have to live with him or you'd soon change your tune."
In retrospect, I believe my parents really did have a love for each other which they kept well hidden, almost as though it was an embarassment to them. Before I was born, my parents underwent a period of separation for several years and Dad served a term in jail for non-payment of Alimony. When they came back together they settled in Bathampton Street and then I arrived on the scene.
Home address of this page: http://www.johnw55.freeuk.com/village
Page updated 21 July 2008