Only a Yorkshire Lass

Andrea Dridi

Description

Only a Yorkshire Lass is an account of a woman born in South Yorkshire in the 1950s. It follows her life from birth to her late fifties, events which occur in her hometown and in many other countries of the world. It details the high and low points of her life, the people she has met and the people who shaped her destiny for better or worse. It is a story full of emotion, joy, happiness, sadness, anger, hope and despair. It keeps the reader wondering and waiting for the next chapter and what will the outcome be. It also forces the reader to look at their own life and both sympathise and empathise with the writer's different situations. In parts, it is humorous and will bring a smile to the reader's face and in others, one can't help but shed a tear for the writer. It is a book that will appeal as there is always light at the end of the tunnel.

Sujets

• Lettres et linguistique

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 mai 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528987691
• Langue: English

Extrait

O nly a Y orkshire L ass
Andrea Dridi
Austin Macauley Publishers
2021-05-28
Only a Yorkshire Lass About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Introduction Chapter 1: Early Years Chapter 2: A New Father and a Sexual Assault Chapter 3: Teenage Years Chapter 4: Leaving Home and Germany Chapter 5: Far East Posting and Raped Chapter 6: Two Lesbian Affairs Chapter 7: Return to Rotherham and ‘Two Mistakes’ Chapter 8: Married – Return to Yorkshire Chapter 9: Hospitalised Chapter 10: Birth of My Son Chapter 11: The Birth of My Daughter Chapter 12: On the Up and Up – 1 Chapter 13: On the Up and Up – 2 Chapter 14: Rubbing Shoulders – 1 Chapter 15: Rubbing Shoulders – 2 Chapter 16: We Are Millionaires – 1 April 1998 Chapter 17: We Are Millionaires – 2 Chapter 18: A Passionate Affair Chapter 19: Sectioned Chapter 20: Depths of Despair Chapter 21: Switzerland, 2005 Chapter 22: Return to England and Divorce, 2006 Chapter 23: Murcia Chapter 24: England Again! Epilogue
About the Author
Andrea is divorced with two grown-up children. She now lives in Hammamet with her Tunisian fiancé. Andrea is an English language teacher for foreign students and has worked in the UK and Spain. She currently lives in Tunisia and is now concentrating on her poetry and the sequel to Only a Yorkshire Lass !
Dedication
To the Bataillard family
who gave me back my sanity.
With grateful thanks to Fernando and Fran
for their infinite patience and help with typing.
Copyright Information ©
Andrea Dridi (2021)
The right of Andrea Dridi to be identified as 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.
All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528987660 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528987691 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2021)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Introduction
I’ve actually started writing my autobiography so many times. Even got as far as three pages. But what the hell, who wants to read a book about me?
I’m not famous, I’m not even infamous. Just an ordinary, ageing, overweight, arthritic, not pretty woman, born in a town 58 years ago that many people outside South Yorkshire haven’t even heard of.
But sifting through photo albums, souvenirs and some long-forgotten memories, I realise that I have had a very interesting, colourful, strange and even at times, an enviable life.
Human life has many phases, not unlike that of the animal kingdom. I certainly was an ugly pupa; pity I didn’t make it to the beautiful butterfly stage. The ugly duckling that didn’t turn into a swan. Luckily for me, that attribute, having skipped me, re-emerged, from my parents, in my children and my beautiful granddaughter.
But more of them later, much, much later.
I have battled with drink problems, gambling problems, not to mention weight issues and from the age of 15, have suffered severe mental health problems. All of which contributed to the breakdown of my 30 marriage and my being sectioned for three months after a complete nervous breakdown.
I have experienced abortions, miscarriages, attempted suicides, lesbian relationships, a sexual attack at the age of 11, which no amount of years can erase, never to be spoken of to parents or grownups at the time, and raped whilst under the influence of alcohol. A torrid love affair with a man young enough to be my son. I have lived in virtual poverty and the life of a millionaire. I have met and known a US president and UK prime minister, royalty, peers of the realm, MPs, rock stars and famous people from all walks of life, all of which have enriched or shaped the journey to where I am now.
Writing my story has had its high and low points. It fills me with sadness, regret, joy, happiness, amazement and longing for the past and fear for the future. All the emotions which contribute to the rich pattern of life—my life!
It’s an evening in April 2009, and I am sitting here alone, as usual, music playing. A half bottle of cheap white wine and an assortment of prescribed drugs staring back at me from the table as I struggle to focus having left a letter for my son. How did I ever get to this point?
Chapter 1 Early Years
I was born in the early spring of 1951 the first child of George and Shirley, who had only been married since July 1950. As you can imagine 58 years ago, the wedding was a foregone conclusion.
I spent the first six months of my life at the home of my paternal grandmother and was christened at the church where my parents had met at the youth club of the church. After which my parents and I moved a short distance away into a rented property which was owned by my maternal grandfather. Some eight months later, my second sibling was born and 22 months later, my mother produced yet another daughter.
Although my father was happy with three daughters, he did hanker after a boy and fostered a small boy of whom I have only vague recollections and for some reason or another, it didn’t work out. Four years after my second sibling was born, my parents produced yet another daughter!
My childhood until the age of eight was a relatively happy one although it was punctuated by unwarranted bouts of physical punishment by my mother. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was the by-gone motto.
There was always the issue of mealtimes. If anything was left on your plate, it was put in the pantry until the next mealtime when it was brought out again and unless it was eaten first, nothing fresh would be allowed to pass your lips. Perhaps it was a throwback from the days of rationing. Who knows? Sweet rationing was still in force at that time.
I now know, and realise, that these outbursts of my mother’s were borne out of sheer frustration with, and resentment of, her lot in life at that time. She was virtually housebound with four children under the age of seven by the time she was 26 and a husband at work all day.
I also feel that having married because of me, the brunt of her anger fell on me.
Our home was a “passage” house in the middle of a long row of terraced property. There was no bathroom, just a tin bath in front of the fire at weekends, with multiple users and an outside toilet with neatly cut up newspapers—no Andrex then! Although we did progress to Izal which was only marginally softer on the bum! The small kitchen housed a copper boiler and washboard with which to service a family of six’s weekly laundry. Mondays will always remind me of washdays—the smell of soapy water and a steam-filled kitchen. And of course, the smell of stew—an easy meal to prepare on such a busy day.
The terrace was like a little community in itself and everyone knew everyone, and I suspect everyone’s business too. But having said that, there was no shortage of help if anyone was in need of it, post wartime camaraderie I suspect.
I knew everyone in our “yard”. The Morgan family at the other end and then Grannie Morgan next door to them. Then here were the Chesters. It was their garden our rabbit would liberate itself to in order to mutilate Mr Chester’s vegetable patch.
The Smiths were in between them and us and were very helpful to my mother.
Across the passage in the next yard was Miss Taylor, a spinster and Mr and Mrs Hudson, he was a dustbin man (I can’t remember the politically correct term nowadays) and he had some wonderful “finds” which he always shared out among the community.
I do have some happy memories from that house when my father was alive. I remember having piano lessons, making myself giddy on a red and yellow mobo roundabout in the front room, and I remember quite vividly my seventh birthday party, my only one I believe, when I won a charm bracelet at “pass the parcel”. There was the incredibly bad winter when my father took us to school on the sledge wearing a pair of galoshes which you don’t see now just jazzy wellington boots. For some bizarre reason I also remember that all chairs and sofas had ‘chair back’ covers as the young men including my father always wore brylcreem (today’s equivalent of gel) and it was a nuisance to clean off!
I remember, too, my sister being knocked down by a bicycle, crossing the road to see our great grandmother and having to have stitches in her forehead. Our great grandparents lived across the road almost exactly opposite to our house. There were always sweets or biscuits when we visited. In those days, every home seemed to have a biscuit tin and some sort of receptacle for sweets. My great grandfather was often to be found sitting on the wall of the front garden, smoking his pipe and watching the world go by. That was the time when neighbours knew each other and not a day went by without having a conversation with someone in the street.
I also feel that it was an incredibly safe era in society. We were allowed to go across the road alone to the fields and down to the River Don and watch the loch keeper open and close the gates. We would often stand on the pedestrian bridge to watch the trains go by too. Small things were amusing and exciting then, and of course free. How times have changed. Perhaps the word “paedophile” hadn’t been invented then?
Another memory I have is of having appendicitis and being taken to the hospital by ambulance. My mother told me later that they had forgotten to obtain parents’ signature for the operati