Book 1

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MS is a constant battle between the body and the mind. Normally the later is far more willing than the former

The dawning of a different class

The day was dank and gloomy. A cold North Easterly wind blew in from the direction of Wembley’s twin towers, barely a couple of mile away – sweeping a torrent of biting rain into the faces of my brothers Charlie and Henry. They were trudging up Hill Crest Avenue from Ealing Broadway. The facade of the Victorian nursing home – their destination, which was soon to be turned into a private abortion clinic, was as gray as the weather. They entered through its doors and headed towards the maternity department – Roy Orbison’s ‘It’s over’, was playing on a wireless in one of the side rooms, as they had a brief discussion with one of the nurses who directed them to the new arrivals ward where my exhausted mother rested. Besides her in a carry cot screaming at the world was her seventh and final child, who’d arrived on the seventh day at seven in the morning. Weighing in at 8.5bs, I came out punching above my weight and was destined to be one of those who liked to be seen, always heard and who’d never Surrender to
adversity. From cradle to my waiting grave it was pre ordained for me to question and always believe the game was winnable. This was the path to follow fuelled by my combustion engine inside. It’s a fire that has burned ever since. This is my story

Everyone has a life
None of us in that ward that new what was in the post medically that day in a metaphoric way
A writer is a painter whose brushstrokes are words and whose story ..

In the grand scheme of things all of those babies in the ward on that bleak Sunday on the 29th November 1964 would have started the game of life (as I’ve come to see it) on equal terms that day. However in reality, race, family, socio economic background, gender and health issues would massively contribute how their strategy would play out. Most would have opportunities to roll the dice, play their top trump or to stick or twist – hoping to sway how the trials and tribulations of life panned out. Even though some would probably fall at the first hurdle – never to get up, but at that time we’d all made it to the starting line. Now it’s important to know the rules and parameters of any game whether it’s life or monopoly. In my eyes you have to play to win but you have to play fair. Of course the experience is there to be enjoyed, but no one gets a free lunch. There’s going to be heartbreak, setbacks and many pitfalls but focus on the dream, believe in the cast and keep going – most of all never stop believing. It’s in your interest to gain an advantage but never shit on anyone. Remember you always leave a footprint and playing nasty breeds the same in return. Cheating therefore should be kept to a bare minimum, never to be relied upon and used only in exceptional circumstances as Karma will always track you down. However bending the rules if ethically appropriate should be actively encouraged. The prizes you win whether big or small will always be worthy, as it’s your inner self which will ultimately deliver and decide upon them. Your journey on the metaphoric board of life will often resemble a puzzle so look for the signs or clues to take you to the next level. Treat other players with respect and look to build a team that supports and nourishes one another. Also never look a gift horse in the mouth. The’ll come in many guises and often seem insignificant but they’ll help open doors and expand your experience and enjoyment whilst you play the game. Finally please be aware – the game never ends. The chequered flag or final whistle – death if you want, signals the passing of your body. That of course should be honoured and carried from the field on a shield – it’s earned its place in the hall of fame. But always remember that is only the catalyst for another beginning. A new game will have already started on the other side as your soul will already be taking another roll of the dice.

Your family and its history counts

I was blissfully unaware of my future rulebook when I left the nursing home two days later, but I was already a head of the game. Armed with both a passport and talisman, courtesy of the trappings of middle class suburbia and a loving family it was a good start.
Ealing was known as the queen of the suburbs and the area we lived in around Haven Green had a real village feel to it. The family had moved there just before Henry was born five years before me and the house which was a large Victorian semi detached had been a happy home. My Dad called himself Bill – he disliked his first name Noel, which was the same as his mother’s, both sharing a birthday on Christmas Eve. He had recently retired from the Royal Marines after a 20 year service where he had attained the rank of Major. He now worked for an oil company in central London, commuting in by tube whilst my mum Joyce held the house together as she had done since they married early in WWII. Most of my siblings Peter, Charlie, Simon and Liz had been born in those war years or soon after. Probably conceived when he was back on leave, they were all old enough to have been my parents and I benefited from their wisdom and take on life, but I was always treated as their brother or ‘Little Bim’ as I became known, as I pronounced Jim with a ‘B’ which led the other to stick.Janey my other sister was the conduit in the middle, eight years older than me. She had the rule of the roost and became known by my father ‘As she who must be obeyed’ but like all my brothers and sisters she was very loving, engaging and close knit when it came to family. Besides of Charlie who was a meat packer at Smithfield market and Jane and Henry, everyone else had left home but were living in the close vicinity. Ealing was getting a big reputation in the sixties for a burgeoning R&B scene and all my older siblings were regulars at the Ealing club. The Who, The Rolling Stones and Manfred Mann were early attractions there as the seeds of the blossoming counter culture, spread its various guises. Inevitably it had a drip down effect as Janey got into the hippy vibe and Henry and I would join her around the portable record player listening to Charlie and Simon’s singles, stacking them up and singing a long. There’s no doubt my love for music and words grew from these sessions. Music would become a powerful healing and motivational force for my soul in later years; a vital weapon if you want for dealing with the ups and downs of the game. By the age of four I had already had an eclectic set of favourites headed up by Petula Clarkes, Sailor. I couldn’t get enough of the songs folkie twang or dreamy lyrics wearing my Sailor’s hat, thinking I was the one sailing across the sea. The hat had been a gift from my Dad and for a while it was literally stuck on my head as I stubbornly refused to remove it. Looking back I think it was out of an early loyalty to the traditions of the family that introduced the sea bug. Dads grandfather, Sir Charles Fergusson, had been a quite a big shot in the Royal Navy making it to Vice Admiral. He sailed on or commanded over 17 ships and had had each one painted in water colours. They’d been passed down and adorned the walls back home. His naval career had ended somewhat acrimoniously. He had been stationed in Cork or Jamestown as it was known in its colonial past, commanding the Western Approches, when the Lusitania was torpedoed in 1915. Even though the sinking was steeped in controversy and eventually led to the USA joining the great cull of WWI, which suited the British, he took a lot of the flak. His command was  described as the ‘Gilbert & Sullivan’ division of the Navy and soon after he was manoeuvred out of his position. At the time I didn’t have a clue who he was or what he had done  but i marveled at the pictures of the early Dreadnoughts such as the Cornwallis as it battled through high seas, its guns at the ready. Unfortunately the ship would later go down getting sunk off Malta and I’d too get an early dose of that sinking feeling becoming stricken with asthma. The illness had been a slow burner and no one at first could get to the bottom of it. I’d have periods of breathlessness and go through wheezing bouts, but then feel perfectly fine. However the symptoms persisted and by the age of five I was ill enough to require hospital treatment. Janey described me looking like a beaten old sea dog in my navy cap, struggling for air as I waited for the ambulance. I ending up spending 3 weeks in hospital stuck in my bubble of an oxygen tent, as I was tested for allergies. The results were pretty conclusive and damning for the house cat; showing I was allergic to them and horses. She’d had a tendency to sleep in the airing cupboard which had exasperated my condition and was rehomed before the house was defumagated to allow me to breathe again. Sometimes they say diseases like MS require a pre cursor like a virus or illness to set them off but looking back I don’t think asthma was a contender. I was much too young and once home after my 3 week binge of pure oxygen I was feeling a lot better and on the mend. However there was time for one final attack which freaked everyone out. Charlie was living in the basement but on the verge of moving out as he was getting married. Most of his  weekends were spent playing rugby and partying around Ealing. He had an extraordinary ability to neck a yard of ale in under 10 seconds and was a big attraction in the pubs in the area where he was known as the King – having never lost a drinking contest. Despite suffering from what must have been the hangovers from hell, he would always drag himself from his lair for a kick around in the garden or pop in to check on me and Henry who shared a room, when he got home at night. Like many families the Radio or TV was often on in the background in our house and I already knew when my fix of Marine Boy and Mary Mungo and Midge were on. The later coincided with the lunchtime news bulletin. That day there was an item covering the abduction of a women by some guerrillas in Africa, which  got my attention. For the life of my four year old brain, I couldn’t work out how a bunch of gorillas – with guns, had driven off with her. Henry’s nature book which had a picture of a gorilla in it didn’t highlight this side of their nature and despite my mums reassurance that it wasn’t what it seemed, I went to bed that night with some misgivings about the law of nature. Charlie in the meantime was off to a fancy dress party. I have no memory of him leaving but just returning that night. Henry and I heard him coming through the front door. We giggled as he tried to negotiate the elbow of the stairs attempting to get to us. He knew we were listening and played to our excitement like a drunken brother would. Eventually he negotiated the hindrance and his footfall and joshing grew louder as he came down the landing before bursting into the room – dressed as a pantomime gorilla. I vividly remember Henry laughing as he lumbered in as I panicked and emitted a  scream – thinking the guerrillas had made it to England. Poor old Charlie, I ended up having an asthma attack and the old man went apocalyptic as everyone searched for my inhaler before the situation calmed down. We all laughed about it in the morning – that’s what families are about after all. However Dad had had enough of Charlie’s beer time antics. An amicable word later in his ear, soon saw my brother vacate the basement and move into a flat in Paddington earlier than planned. As my godfather we’d always be close and support each other through thick and thin and the gorilla if you want was the glue that bonded us together. It’s impossible to say but after the scare with the asthma and guerrillas, I like to think I made a conscious decision to live my life to the full. My spirit has always been a good divinator and I’m sure over the next two years it led me on a trail of non conformity. On it I quickly came across some golden nuggets which enriched my path, solidifying my identity. For a start, I was never a classic product of my environment. As a family we were definitely born on the right side of the tracks. Everyone had a good education and benifitted from the trappings of a middle class upbringing and spoke with a received pronunciation My eldest brother Peter though, took this to another level. He was quite a unique character and existed on a different plain to everyone else. He would have a tendency to strutt around like a landed squire with a plum in his voice,  extenuating my parents posher accents, which I found incredibly irritating. He seemed to miss the swinging sixties with all the hedonism that accompanied it as he tried to join the Rhodesian police force but independence was declared the day before he was due to fly saving my parents much angst. Clearly order was a big part of his persona: He was always dressed in a shirt and tie and was cleanly shaven. Years later I would ask him about this peculiarity whilst nursing a sore head and a five o’clock shadow and remember him looking at me with a degree of distain before saying, ‘Discipline – dear boy – discipline’
That was him in a nutshell in many ways. I knew from very early on that we had little in common but both had a purpose to serve in our own ways. If anything the whiff of patronage he displayed rubbed up the inner rebel in me as I ended up developing a strong West London accent. That’s been inextricably linked to who I am; its opened many doors and I’ve worn it like a badge since. I still haven’t got a clue where it came from but I’ve always suspected he had something to do with it.

Now everyone in life needs to develop a way out if you want or a level of escapism. On a physical level it manifests itself in various forms and I’m now a lifetime member of more than a few. Metaphorically speaking they’ve taken me to many plains, but it’s the mental diversion away from the drudgery of every day life or a chronic illness, as I would later find out, that would prove priceless. To be a good escapoligist it helps to be a dreamer or as I see it a believer. It revs one’s emotion and passion for life and subsequently it’s very difficult not to end up being a positive thinker. That’s a good thing for your well being and I couldn’t help attaching myself to that philosophy, thinking most things were a Merry go round. Simon would often be around. He was always fun and up for a laugh. We’d often borrow Dads 1800 Austin and would hammer up the M4 to Heathrow airport to watch the new Jumbo Jets or hang out at Ealing watching the trains come though the Broadway. I loved all that : The sizzling sound the lines made, the Diesel locomotives belching their fumes hauling their rattling blue coaches, was brilliant. Now I wouldn’t call myself a train spotter in the classic sense but if a Red Western class 52 came through then that got a special thumbs up. I instantly associated them with holidays and the good times as they pulled the car train down to Cornwall which we sometimes took – when such things existed. I remember on one of those trips waking to be greeted with the expanse of the Exe estuary sweeping past below me, with the backdrop of Devon hills in splendid mottled green. I had no idea that years later the place would become my spiritual home and sanctuary but I have always believed that things happen for a reason. Those days down at the Broadway set the wheels in motion for allowing me to dream and to put my mind in a different  place where the endorphins flowed, which I found quite addictive. On top of that I was beginning to develop a keen interest in football. Most of the family seemed more interested in Rugby which appeared to pass me by as being to elitist and for people like Peter or my Dad. Football on the other hand appeared to be the opium of the masses. I was awe struck watching the Big Match on Sunday afternoon or Match of the Day which I was occasionally allowed to stay up for and the swaying crowds and obvious passion that the sport emitted. Simon had stoked my initial interest by buying me a subbuteo set including the Inter Milan and Celtic teams which I played endlessly doing all the guttural crowd noises and attempting to be David Coleman with my commentary but it was Henry who forced the issue saying I needed to choose a team to support. He was a big Brentford fan and went every other weekend to Griffin Park but still loved all the razzamatazz of the 1st Division and collected football annuals and always had an up to date soccer stars album. One day he sat me down with the 1970 album and we started leafing through its pages. I wasn’t drawn to anyone in particular. My favourite colour was blue and Chelsea were always making the news. Charlie supported them as did a mate of Henry’s – but they weren’t for me. Maybe it was a London thing but there were always pictures of them in Sports cars, in their flash clobber, with beautiful women on their arms. I found it all a bit pretentious and wanted something different. As we flickered through the teams, my mind sought solstice from following the grain and finding the umbrella of something primeval and then we turned the page and there was Everton. I immediately felt a connection. I knew they

had just won the league, but the fact of the matter was Gordon West was the only goalkeeper who had a cap on and they played in blue. That sealed the deal – partly thanks to my Sailor’s cap and rejection of Chelsea. In the coming years I’d eulogise Alan Balls white boots until he was transferred to Arsenal, face the brutality of countless Derby defeats by Liverpool, but resolutely ferment my passion for a team hundreds of miles away. It was a huge call in my life which offered escapism on another level introducing me to what I like to describe as ‘good stress’ as I’d listen out for the Toffees results or the commentaries on the radio, which could make or break my weekend, but I knew I’d always be back whatever the score. In later years when times were at their darkest an Everton victory – sometimes even just a goal, would always bring hope, galvanise my spirit, and offer a chink of light for the next mountain that lay ahead. If anything football would become my religion. I could freely practice it in the garden or immerse myself in its doctrines. Its pull was all conquering compared to the other religion which was been dangled before me on a regular basis which I was already beginning to question.

Born into a family of Catholics the church was well enshrined with the Cokes. Dads uncle had been an Abbot at nearby Ealing Abbey and by seven I was attending the junior school at St Benedicts which was part of the Abbey – I hated it. Obviously in later years terrible tales of child abuse would come out of that establishment which thankfully I avoided but even for someone as young as myself there was a malevolence that seemed to ooze from its Gothic style school building. It was still able to emanate a whirlpool of mysticism with its archaism and traditions which were peddled by its Cassock brigades who cloaked any social occasion  but I was always sceptical about what they and it stood for. The fact I was forced to spill the beans and confess every 6 weeks to misdemeanors I had to make up to earn a Hail Mary or Lords Prayer was beyond me and made me feel I was damned if I did or damned if I didn’t. It was like it was a big guilt trip and I was having none of it. I already had my reservations about heaven and hell, could not get my head round the resurrection, and then there was the Holy ghost who was purported to be the catalyst for the whole jamboree. Lying in bed at night I’d try and work out what mysterious circles this spirit took and what role it had. I was already learning that wars and conflicts were a big part of our makeup and that they caused great hardships. I just didn’t buy it how all this death and destruction was beneficial to our wellbeing. I wondered where this great reedemer – who I was getting told about every Sunday – had been when Jesus was getting crucified or all the soldiers were dying in the trenches. Sometimes my mind drifted before sleep imagining a heavenly ghost appearing over the battlefield blowing its heavenly whistle and bringing peace and order to the warring armies but deep down I was pretty certain Santa Claus didn’t exist. Most of my siblings were not sold by the church either and had cast of their chains as soon as they were old enough, but my parents still adhered to the cloth. Dads sister was also a nun and much of his wider family were staunch left footers – In many ways he didn’t have a way out, even if he had wanted one. Perhaps it was a quirk of fate then that Sir Charles a protestant, married Anne Marie a catholic, and agreed to bring the children up as the latter. Prior to that the family – who pronounced their name as ‘Cook’, were synonymous with anti papism and the marriage caused a schism within its echelons. Sir Charles had to take his stand and bodaciously altered the phonetics of the name to ‘Coke’ – so it sounded like the drink. Ironically as Anne Marie was steering the family towards catholic asceticism, John Pemberton was coming up with the idea for Coca Cola. They would end up playing a pivotal part in my life but the pious, unforgiving nature of the church wouldn’t.Thankfully my mum was less hung up by its controlling influence. Her family the Halford Thompson’s, came from Methodist stock and were more colourful and enlightened in many ways than the Coke’s. They had originated from Durham before settling in the South West and could count their forefathers as abolitionists, writers and members of the judiciary. Although she had converted to Catholicism when marrying Dad she was fiercely defensive of her children being smothered by the church and didn’t have much time for the Abbey and its monks. Perhaps she had the hindsight to see through its veneer because when Dads job in an oil company relocated to Swindon she was more than happy to move to the Cotswolds. I probably ended up dodging a bullet and gladly left the school too. I knew I would return to London one day; my eight years there and it being my birth town had engrained that in me, but the chance to move West and live in the country was an exciting adventure. In many ways it proved to be my making.

The sleepy Cotswolds

We ended moved to a little village called South Cerney, near Cirencester. It was a world apart from my metropolis of Ealing Broadway. Set in the sleepy Cotswolds, the main hub of the village was a mix of Manor houses and rows of stone cottages with All Hallows parish church which dated back to Norman times, at its heart.The River Churn a tributary of the Thames, flowed through the village centre and it teemed with life. Brown Trout patrolled its edies and Kingfishers, in a whirl of iridescent orange and blue, swooped down upon unsuspecting prey. Watervoles were even common then – ferring around their territory, before scuttling off to their burrows dug deep into the river bank. Set against rolling hills it was quintessential England at its finest. My parents had purchased a big old detached house. Most of it dated back to the early nineteenth century, but aspects of it like its central projecting stone porch with its weathered central arch, hinted of something much older. The interior of the property was cavernous and stretched over numerous floors with various nooks and crannies, which gave it a character of its own. The Attic was a case in point. It seemed to go on forever and one could nearly circumnavigate the whole house tip toeing over the roof rafters before a dividing wall appeared out of the gloom abruptly stopping any further exploration. I would peer over the top of it into the dark below, where a huge cavity unreachable from any part of the house existed. It was a dark creepy space and I never dared enter its abyss as some things are best left unchallenged, but it just helped to add to the character and mystique of the place. Besides of the vacuous interior of the house we also had over an acre of land which was walled in. Divided between an ornate rose garden, lawned areas, a large vegetable allotment and a semi wild plot where we ended up keeping chickens and rabbits – it was a playground sent from heaven. A few years later I would read John Steinbeck’s Mice and Men for my English Literature O’ level. George and Lenny the central characters dream of living of the fat of the land could have been a reality in that garden.Ok, we weren’t entirely self sufficient and rarely ate any of the chickens, but we grew our own vegetables and fruit and had an endless supply of eggs. In addition to that there was a twelve foot well hole dug in the rose garden. It seemed a bit out of place, but was expertly lined in cotswold stone with a foot of clear water at its base. I wondered when it had been dug and by whom. Like the porch and other parts of the house, the well was like a timepiece. It offered an eye to a distant past, whilst high above  Concorde with its deafening roar – offered a window to a swanky future, as it  completed its flight tests before commission, from its base at nearby Fairford. I would see it most mornings as I trudged off to my new school which was at the other end of the village, which I molded into quickly. The school was a contrast to St Benedicts as it was devoid of a religious anchor, but it still had a sheen of malevolence about it. Most of my new mates came from the local estate. We all shared similar interests but were all quite mischievous at a time when corporal punishment was still common. The two inevitably met with sanctions metered out on a regular basis with the occasional slap in the face for good measure – especially by a couple of vindictive bastards, who liked the power trip. Looking back it was amazing what teachers got away with but it was a different way of life then, when reckless adventure was a rite of passage – as were acceptance of its consequences. Loads of the older kids had air rifles and gat guns and most of us graduated to own one or the other. I’d later shoot the vicars son with one of the latter (he lived), after he nabbed my job as a paperboy. In hindsight the action was a tad extreme and should have acted as a warning to future recklessness but sometimes as a kid you do stupid things. There was then the fishing or poaching parties, on the local Lords estate where we sneaked around the grounds with our hand lines emptying his stock of trout before passing the evidence on innocently to our mothers who would later cook them up for tea or dinner. In a bygone era we’d have probably all been hung or sent on a prison ship to Australia, but most of us had a charmed life with so much space and freedom to keep us amused. It makes me laugh when people nowadays criticise the snowflake brigade or the Woke as they describe them, disingeniously suggesting that things in the old days, were so much harder and that options were diminished or limited. What a load of Bollocks! There is no doubt that kids today are probably more socially aware because of the internet and probably do have more options because of globalization, but that is always balanced by higher rents and more restrictions which actually reduce their freedoms. The same old issues- ie All the ‘ism’s, still existed back in the seventies, but thankfully my parents and family were never judgemental and pragmatically encouraged me to read and learn and where possible to better myself. Society in many ways didn’t and has failed to liberate itself – maintaining the status quo under the guise that its doing us a favour, why we pay way over the odds to believe the subterfuge. The whole thing is a fucking sham! When Covid 19 struck nearly fifty years later it just illustrated that money trees did exist, but people born on the wrong side of the tracks were not allowed to benefit from them – well…besides of the rotten fruit they were allowed to gather at bottom of the trunk. Inevitably whatever generation you emerge from you become a product of your environment and what is available to you and you make the most of it. If mobile phones had been about then we’d have lapped them up, but they weren’t. Instead we turned to marbles, conkers, British bulldog and marched around the playground with our arms around each others shoulders chanting ‘Join on for war’. The one thing I got early on was that life is about sharing as it can be a lonely place if you go it all alone. Don’t get me wrong I was quite content playing on my own with my subbuteo teams or renacting WWII with my little soldiers after a dose of the World at War – which was getting its first airing on TV, but the best of times were always had with my mates. I’ve followed that doctrine throughout my life and on that journey I have found many golden nuggets or friends – who I look on as my inner circle. To me those people are as important as your family – in fact sometimes more. They are of your choosing and can offer you counsel and friendship like no other as you are from the same pod. Their presence in your life is fundamental for ones wellbeing and where possible it is in important to seek them out, like a farmer and their sidekick pig – would sniff out a prize truffle. Subsequently when we weren’t at school or playing outdoors our house became a magnet for my mates as we grew up, as it was a playground in itself, which I loved to share. A couple of them had been there before – well they had waited outside in the stone porch.The previous owner, a writer, had employed their mothers as cleaners and secretaries respectively, but both mates treated the house with a little trepidation. They told similar stories of their mothers saying the house had an odd feel to it and feeling an unerring presence on occasion and it always seem to pry on their minds when they visited. I had never noticed anything untoward about the house and just laughed it off as we had already lived there for nearly four years and thought they were just taking the piss.
There was always talk about old folklores or superstitions – which seemed to come with the territory. We were out in the sticks after all and gossip like that travelled quickly.Tales of the ghost of a Motorcyclist who haunted the old Kemble road or nearby Woodchester Mansion and other spooky abandoned country houses were the norm, as we wound each other up with stories heard on the grapevine of paranormal comings and goings in the community.The Transcendental gauntlet would always be thrown down on the night of Halloween. A few of us would troop to the supposedly haunted All Hallows church, and goad one another to circumnavigate around it. Few of us had the bottle to turn the corner and leave the light of the street lamp at the church gate and enter the darkness – where the tombstones waited to greet us. Everyone knew that the stories were mostly a wind up but the mysticism of them kept me anchored to the belief that anything was possible – especially in a place where so many remnants of old England were still all around. Around that time my Grandmother on my Dad’s side died. She’d been born within the sound of Bow Bells, but was hardly a how’s your father Cockney type, coming from a rich catholic family. She’d married my grandfather, who believe it or not had made his name as a successful ‘Coke’ dealer – ie the stuff you burn not snort. He had died a few years earlier and she had seen out her final days in a convent in Ealing. I remember going to see Dad who was sitting on his bed in his pyjamas after hearing the news. He had his head in his hands but quickly looked up at me smiling. His eyes were slightly red but he rarely showed weakness. Years in the Marines had taught him to stand strong and he stoically mourned her passing before sending me on my way. He taught me a good lesson that day that whatever the circumstances you face – its always important to hold your shit together. For far as I knew as soon as the door closed he might have started sobbing again, but he wasn’t doing it in front of me. My gran was buried a few weeks later next to my grandfather in Prinknash Abbey in Cheltenham and we hosted the preliminary lunch or piss up in the renovated barn in the back of the house. Most of the people there were family from the various Coke branches, but there was a sizeable Ecclesiastical turnout of priests and nuns to see her off. I knew some of them from Ealing and we passed some small talk as they tucked into some Roast Ham my Dad had cooked, while generously sipping the Pouilly Fuiśse – or Fussy Pussy as he described it, that had been laid on. It was probably the biggest gathering of rosaries and mutual genuflection that the house had ever witnessed and by the time everyone set off for the funeral, quite a few of the mourners were half cut. That could have had a disastrous outcome when one of them tripped and nearly fell in the grave with my Grandmother’s coffin, but overall my first funeral went off without a hitch. However the monastic gathering in the house prior to the funeral, seemed to open up a right can of worms. Some very strange events happened in the next year within its confines – as I was introduced to spiritual enlightenment on another plain.

Ghostly comings and goings

Apart from Henry who was still at home off and on, everyone else lived up in London. It was a relatively short jaunt from there and most weekends saw someone turning up to stay. A couple of months after the funeral, Janey had paid a visit bringing her friend Gina with her. I’d known her from the Ealing days and she was a character who loved to play pranks and jokes – one of which had seen all three of us thrown of a bus in West Ealing once. After dinner they’d gone off to the local pub which sat on the banks of the river. It was an ideal place to wile away a summer’s evening, whilst supping the local cider serenaded by the sweet country air and the burbling of the brook. They’d returned a few hours later and Gina had retired to the spare room on the first floor. It was a large space benefitting from two gabled windows with a sink in one corner, comprising of two single beds, a built in wardrobe and an assortment of different furniture dotted around. She remembered  falling asleep quickly – the cider and air having done their job, but had woken in the dead of the night. At the end of her bed stood a figure – a man, who swayed back and forth and was dressed in a buff leather tunic and a torn white shirt of sorts – both of which were blood stained. She further detailed his face was bearded and that he was dark skinned with a bandage wrapped around his head, also caked in blood – his hollowed sad eyes just stared down at her. The sight sent her into panic mode as she let forth a blood curdling scream and fled the room, awaking everyone in the house. Dad did a quick recon afterwards searching for any intruder but quickly put it down to a bad dream and to much cider and went back to bed. The rest of the house soon followed after Gina had calmed down after recalling the dream. I remember thinking her vivid description of it was uncanny – especially as it happened, at the bottom of her bed. A couple of months later Charlie turned up for a weekend with his wife Pat and new born son, Tim – who would later become my godson. He still found the time to play footie in the garden and would allow me and Henry to take him out in wrestling matches as Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks were the in thing on World of Sport on a Saturday afternoon. My Dad had never been that hands on and rarely got involved in the rough and tumble of growing up, preferring to observe things from a distance or just leave us to it, as he was no spring chicken when I was born; having sown the seed at the age of forty five. However he had gone to Boarding school and I’m sure with his strict catholic upbringing at home and the ‘seen and not heard’ culture – that children faced of his generation, this had somewhat desensitised him, which in part he had taken on into his adult life. On saying that he could be the life and soul of any party once the gin started flowing and always came to life when family were around. That weekend was little different as Autumn turned to winter and we stoked up the fireplace and welcomed Tim into the fold. By the Saturday everyone had gone to bed by midnight besides of Charlie, who had stayed up to watch Television. Parental and God fatherly duties soon took their toll though, as he must have fallen asleep. He recollected being woken by the National Anthem blaring out of the TV signalling the end of transmission for the day before retiring upstairs to the room where Gina had experienced her ‘Cider induced fantasy’ as my Dad later described it. Upon entering the room he saw Pat and Tim – who was in his carry cot, were both asleep illuminated by the bedside light. He had then crossed the room to the sink to pour himself a glass of water, drinking it whilst staring at the mirror as you do. He momentarily jumped out of his skin startled by its reflection. In the centre of the room stood a figure which was clearly visible staring back at him. It was dressed in the same bloodstained buff leather tunic Gina had described and wearing riding boots. By the time he had swung round to face it the vision had gone and the scene in the room was as it had been when he had entered. Charlie would admit he wasn’t the most spiritual of people the next morning when he mentioned what had happened to my mum, but he was adamant about what he had seen. He left later that Sunday afternoon, squeezing Pat and Tim into his Blue Mini Cooper for the drive back to London still perplexed by what he had seen.I was away playing for the local village boys team at Fairford. In a tetchy affair, we ended up winning 3-2 – with me scoring a hat trick (one of the great days in my footballing career).The report the following week in the local newspaper was headed ‘Coke stokes Cerney’s fire’. It was  the first time I’d made the news, it certainly wouldn’t be the last. However in the five days it took for the report to publish and massage my ego, mum had already started to kindle ideas together for finding out more about the house convinced we had a ghost.

My mother was both a passionate and spiritual person and had lived quite an eclectic life. Born in Exeter in 1921, she had lost her father to a heart attack by the time she was aged nine and had lived in Paris for a period before the war, but deep down she was a West Country maid, spending most of her youth growing up between Devon and Cornwall. Her Aunt Joy had owned property near Falmouth and the Helford River had become our de facto place of residence most Augusts. It was Daphne De Mourier country and the mysticism and romance of the place was intoxicating.
My mum loved it there. Besides of its beauty, it gave her the opportunity to immerse herself in family and reminisce about characters and fabled stories, which were common place down there.This must have had some effect on her spirituality as she had an open mind or portal if you want, to superstitions or things from the other side. A case in point was an unhealthy outbreak of warts I had on my hands. There were clumps of the bastards everywhere and conventional creams or treatments were just in effective. Looking back after the asthma it was another sign that my body was susceptible to infections and that bigger battles lay ahead, but we more interested in sorting out the immediate problem. She had a cousin called Christopher who had been a diplomat in Italy. He had developed a sizeable wart – slap bang at the top