From a Boy to a Man

Alan Whichello

Description

Life experiences of growing up after the 2nd World War
This is a sad story about a boy growing up just after the 2nd world war His abusive and neglected start in life continued throughout his schooldays. Only when he found love did his abuse finish, then to be dealt a cruel blow by his best friend. Only when his mother was dying was he told of the tragic story of his birth and why his father was so abusive towards him. Follow his story through the years of his often explicit teenage sexual experience’s his loves and losses, his triumphs and tragedies until his tragic end.

Sujets

• Coming of Age
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Trafford Publishing
• Date de parution: 03 août 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781698712512
• Langue: English

Extrait

From A BOY To A MAN
 
 
 
 
 
ALAN WHICHELLO
 
 
 
 
© Copyright 2022 Alan Whichello. 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 written prior permission of the author.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6987-1250-5 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-6987-1252-9 (hc) ISBN: 978-1-6987-1251-2 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022914192
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
Trafford rev. 08/03/2022
www.trafford.com North America & international toll-free: 844-688-6899 (USA & Canada) fax: [phone]
From a Boy to a Man
I would like to dedicate this book to my wife Gillian who has supported me for over 50 years
I would also like to thank my close friend Jacquie Cook who helped with the editing and of course Trafford for publishing this book.
CONTENTS
Preface
Prologue
Chapter 1 The Early Years
Chapter 2 The Headless Chicken
Chapter 3 The Early School Years
Chapter 4 Life at Home
Chapter 5 My Dog Bruce
Chapter 6 The Alternative Accommodation
Chapter 7 In Trouble with The Police
Chapter 8 The Day Trips
Chapter 9 My Auntie and Uncle
Chapter 10 The New House
Chapter 11 My First Real Job
Chapter 12 Growing Up
Chapter 13 Racism
Chapter 14 I Join The Scouts
Chapter 15 Scout Camp
Chapter 16 Falling in Love
Chapter 17 My First Driving Lesson
Chapter 18 The Best Christmas
Chapter 19 My Father’s Accident
Chapter 20 My New Job
Chapter 21 My Grans House
Chapter 22 My Best Mate
Chapter 23 I Suffer a Loss
Chapter 24 My First Car Crash
Chapter 25 The Driving Instructor
Chapter 26 Money Problems with My Father
Chapter 27 The Road Trip
Chapter 28 Some Shocking News
Chapter 29 My True Love
Chapter 30 In Trouble with the Police Again
Chapter 31 Dr. Wilkinson
Chapter 32 Pregnancy
Chapter 33 Fatherhood
Chapter 34 Money Problems
Chapter 35 Losing My Driving License
Chapter 36 Self Employed
Chapter 37 Money, Money, Money
Chapter 38 Our Own House
Chapter 39 Renovating
Chapter 40 The Camper Van
Chapter 41 The Dream House
Chapter 42 The Tragedy
Chapter 43 My World Collapses
Chapter 44 My New Life
Chapter 45 My New Family
Chapter 46 A Death in The Family
Chapter 47 My Mother’s Confession
Chapter 48 My Hopes Dashed
Chapter 49 The New Start
Chapter 50 My Hopes Destroyed
Chapter 51 I Become a Vagrant
Chapter 52 Home at Last
Epilogue
PREFACE
FROM A BOY TO A MAN
T his is loosely based on a true story. Although most of the facts are true, I have exaggerated on some to make the story more interesting reading.
This book is not suitable for children and is adult themed. In the first part of the story, there are a few words that are sexual and explicit. Some readers may find them offensive and vulgar, but I kept them in the story as they were relevant at the time this story was written. I do apologize if I offended or upset anybody—this was not my intention.
PROLOGUE
C hristmas 2003, my wife Gillian and I were walking through the streets of Oxford. Christmas was only a week away, and we were getting the last presents for our youngest child. We walked past Debenhams and noticed a shabbily dressed man sitting on some cardboard in the shop doorway. “Give us a few bob for a meal, governor,” he pleaded. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
I felt sorrow for him. I bent down and said, “Can’t you get food at your lodgings?”
He coughed several times, clearing his throat, and Gillian moved away. I could see she didn’t want to get to close to the man. “My only lodgings is the bus shelter if nobody else is sleeping there,” he replied.
“But can’t you get help from Social Services?” I asked.
“I could but I am an illegal immigrant,” he said, “even though I was born and bred here.” I was intrigued and could tell he was a well-educated man, but Gillian was getting impatient to go home. I gave the man £5 and asked if he would meet me here the next day at 10:00 a.m. “For £5, governor, I’d meet you on the moon.” He laughed then tried to get up. I could see it was a struggle, and the effort made him wheeze. So I grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. “You’re a real gent, sir,” he said then picked his bit of cardboard up and stuffed it in his old army coat and shuffled off toward McDonald’s. Gill was tugging at my arm so I relented and we walked back to the car.
The next day, I was outside Debenhams at 9:30 a.m., hoping to see where the man had been sleeping, but he was already there sitting on the ground with a plastic dish on the ground, asking people for money. Most people walked by and ignored him as if he wasn’t there. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go and have some breakfast.” He got to his feet, picked up the few coppers that were in the dish, and we walked to a little café down the road. His clothes smelt a bit, but you could see he’d washed and kept himself clean. We sat down in a quiet corner away from the other tables. “What’s your name?” I said.
“Jones—David Jones,” he replied, “but my friends call me Davy.”
“Well, Davy, I’m Alan.” I called the waitress over and ordered two English breakfasts. “Davy would you be willing to tell me your life story?”
“Will I get paid any money?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
“I can’t promise anything but if I publish the book and it’s a success, then you would be paid some reward.” After we had eaten the breakfast, I took out my tape recorder from my case and set it on the table. Davy looked a bit suspicious. “It’s all right,” I said. “I can’t do shorthand writing and have a poor memory so I have to tape things.” After he had drunk his tea, he began telling me his story. As his story unfolded, I was moved by how much he remembered from such a young age. His graphic account of his abusive and violent past brought tears to my eyes. We spent all day at the café after buying him lunch and tea and changing tapes on the recorder. We finally left, when the café closed. I shook hands with Davy and gave him my card with my contact details, eager to get home and write his story.
CHAPTER
1
The Early Years
David William Jones, born on July 20, 1945
Location: London, England
Mother: Edith Elizabeth Thomson
Father: Trevor Martin Jones
Registered July 8, 1948
T hat’s what I’d first seen written on my birth certificate.
I was nearly three years old when we moved to our new house in the summer of 1948, well, it wasn’t a new house as such but a 1906 detached cottage with two bedrooms and landing upstairs with a large kitchen downstairs. A passageway led off to a large lounge with inglenook fireplace. An old toilet and wash hand basin had recently been built into the corner, which was a luxury as most old properties had their toilet outside. From the passageway, a door led down a stone stairway into a cellar. This was originally an old pub but had been converted to a living accommodation by the farmer who owned quite a few houses in the village. Most of them were tied cottages for the farm laborers. The village was divided by a large stream with Upper Balding on one side and Lower Balding on the other. Trevor Jones, my father, had married Edith, my mother, a few months before at a registry office, and as he worked on the farm as a tractor driver, it entitled him to a house, which was in Lower Balding.
Trevor was twenty-five years old and was a huge man with a beer gut, with fiery red hair and beard. He was also a bully with a short temper. Edith was twenty years old, tall with a slight frame, quite pretty but was eight months pregnant and had a massive belly. She too was very irritable from carrying the baby and snapped at the slightest thing. As I think back, they did not make a suitable couple, and they argued a lot.
My first memory was being upstairs with my father. I was excited because it was my third birthday and my mother had promised me a birthday cake for tea. I remember falling down the stairs but couldn’t remember whether I slipped or was pushed. I lay at the bottom of the stairs. I was conscious but ached all over. My mother came rushing through from the kitchen after hearing the bumps, and picked me up,
“Are you all right, Davey?” asked Mum.
“’Course he’s all right,” shouted my father, peering over the stair rails. “He shouldn’t be so clumsy.”
Mum removed my jumper, and I winced at the pain. Bruises were already starting to show on my thin body. Mum quickly pulled my jumper back over my head. “You’ll be all right. Nothing’s broken. Go back in the lounge. Dinner will be ready soon and then you can have your cake.” I stumbled back into the lounge and slumped into an armchair. My arm really hurt, but I knew I shouldn’t complain. It would only make things worse with my father.
My father came stomping down the stairs a few minutes later, demanding if the dinner was ready. He had got changed and was itching to get to the pub. Mum ignored him and laid the table. “Davy, come and get your dinner,” she shouted, but before I could move, my father charged into the room.
“Are you deaf, boy, didn’t you hear you