Autobiography

It certainly was in the cinema on a Saturday
morning, once I’d sneaked in through the
emergency exit.
I despised this man for his brutality towards
my brother and me. More than 40 years later I
went to Green Street on my way to see a
football match. I popped in to see Mum, and
found her crying. She had heard that her
brother was dying of cancer. I have to admit I
thought to myself, ‘So what? Who cares?’
Because of my fear of Cenci, I never told Mum
about his conduct towards me at the time; I
could never bring myself to do so, partly
because of the overwhelming guilt and remorse
I know she would have felt about having such
a man get close to her children. I tried to
pretend it had never happened. I was in denial
about it.
This man never lifted a finger to help. I
remembered him only in anger, and my
memories of him were all bad; a drunk, violent
and aggressive man. But I bit my lip and said,
‘Mum, that’s very sad.’
I discovered that she had been paying for him
to be in a nursing home because he had been
virtually blind for some years. She confessed
that she had been paying £200 a week, but
had run out of money and didn’t know what to
do.
‘What about his son?’ I asked. ‘What about his
ex-wife?’
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