More (grown up) memories.

Pat and I struggled on for a few more months, but it became clearer and clearer to me that Pat was leading a double life, (as in truth, I was). Pat showing me off as her husband to her family members  but in her other world she was making excuses to be busy with a girl from the factory where she worked, and I was looking for any opportunity to revisit any experience I could get with Paula. Paula lived with her Dad not far for me and he looked after her four kids (all with different Fathers) whilst she was teaching me how to pleasure her. There were a couple of occasions just after particularly heavy sex sessions that I was tempted to ask Paula to marry me once I had divorced Pat but fortunately I remembered the old saying “A still tongue lives in a wise head”.

So, I’m afraid I sat Pat down one evening after she came home from work and told her our marriage was not working and I wanted a divorce. Surprisingly, she readily agreed but wanted to haggle over what I would keep, of the furniture and what I wanted to take out of the marriage. My deal was she could have everything – except our daughter. I said I would fight her tooth and nail for custody of our daughter and if I was pushed to it, I would stand up in Court and declare to the world that she (Pat) was a lesbian (something very frowned on in those days) and how she had not been the wife that she had pretended to be over the last five years.

We agreed that night that in splitting up, Pat would ask her Dad to represent her best interests and I would get my Dad to represent me. (Well it was cheaper than getting lawyers). I remember being very weepy over the next few nights and even days, while alone at work. The truth was – even though I had wanted the divorce, I loved Pat with all my heart. I think I must have had some sort of mental breakdown over the ensuing weeks and months, as I started to pray to God for some help to end my anguish. Whilst on one particular job I was given – it might have been just the surroundings I suspect. I was in a paper factory at the back of Dalston Junction tracing a burst pipe somewhere under the internal corridor flagstones, when I noticed a very old dirty faded poster on a back wall, it gave a chilling litany saying basically what the rules were and what the punishment was for breaking any of the rules. I later learned from the Manager of the paper factory that it turned out that, the building used to have been the main Hackney workhouse, where destitute people were made to slave in order to receive shelter and food. The whole building in every storage area sagged with an awful depression in its atmosphere. Behind several pallets of bound paper, I was on my knees straining to listen if the burst water pipe was louder or quieter in that area than other places, when it occurred to me to stay on my knees and pray. I told God that day that I did not want to commit suicide but I was just not strong enough to hold the pain that I was going through much longer.

There was no thunderclap and God to say all would be well. In fact nothing happened. That weekend I moved out of our flat back to my Mum and Dads house in Gibson Square with my daughter, leaving every thing else to Pat. I tried my best to convert the two unused damp basement rooms of Mum and Dads rented house into a sort of flat for my daughter and me.  However, having been what I thought grown up then and moved away from my Mum and Dad’s for five years it was not easy to come back as their little boy again.

Whilst at work in Hackney I would take every opportunity to drive past the flat I once shared with Pat in Hackney. One day whist driving past when I noticed a note pinned to the front door. It read something like “don’t ring me or call me again” Pat! I knew the note could not have been left for me as I had not tried to ring or call on her, so I knocked for Jean and Fred in the basement flat. In their living room I heard the most horrendous stories of wild parties with weird butch women coming and going at all hours. Both Jean and Fred were clearly fed up with the goings on, and I told them how unhappy I was living back with Mum and Dad.

Fred said, “well if that’s how you feel, move back in here. If she doesn’t like it she will have the alternative option to sling her hook and at least we will get some peace and quiet”. So the following day, I loaded my car up with the meagre bits I had moved out with (left my little girl with my brother and his wife – and went back to the flat. Pat was there, and I lied through my teeth. I said that Mum and Dad’s Landlord had found out somehow that I was back with a daughter, living with them and as they had not asked permission from him, he intended to evict everyone.

She went like a she devil, swearing – and a half slap or punch managed to send my glasses half across the room and caught the side of my nose with her nails. I was pouring with blood (much much worse to look at than it actually was) but I pretended to be mortally wounded. Within 15 minutes she had phoned her new girl friend and packed all her clothes into carrier bags and in minutes a taxi was waiting to take her away.

I was so half happy. Back in my flat, with my furniture, the kitchen I had built, the front room with my telly, with friends Jean and Fed just downstairs with their four kids.

Of course I was in trouble with trying to work and look after my daughter but Jean volunteered, and I was more than happy to meet the cost. It wasn’t until years later that my daughter revealed what a nasty bitch Jean was towards her.

Another blog to follow.

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This entry was posted in Autobiography, Religion and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to More (grown up) memories.

  1. odeboyz says:

    Pretty frank, pretty brave, pretty good.

  2. J.G. says:

    The insights of the now much older narrator are compelling.
    Never heard that saying about a still tongue, but I like it.

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