Darkness and Light Read online

  Chapter 2

  Family

  THE sound of my mum screaming as my dad threw her on to the sofa was the soundtrack to one of my earliest childhood memories. The battleground was the living room, where their volcanic relationship had erupted yet again in full view of their first-born. I jumped off the sofa and ran upstairs to the safe haven of my bedroom, where I hid under the covers until it stopped, but trouble was round every corner.

  My childhood was like a soap opera; a white mum, an immature black dad and two kids, but the setting didn’t quite match the storyline. Our home, where I spent the first eight years of my life, was a box of a flat on the third floor of a housing block on a run-down council estate. It had a basic living room and kitchen, along with two adjacent bedrooms, one of which I shared with my younger brother Reuben.

  It wasn’t the prettiest of estates, but I didn’t grow up in inner city London or a poverty-stricken northern town. The flat was at the top of a steep hill, with a pink blossom tree outside, which overlooked the roads and valleys weaving their way into Bath. The city is a slice of urban paradise, decorated with limestone and sandstone buildings. Tourists flock there to visit the iconic Roman baths and the imposing cathedral, which is famous for its eye-catching gothic architecture.

  Beauty and freedom persuaded my mum, Michelle, to start her adult life there after she graduated from Staffordshire University with a degree in English literature and philosophy when she was 23. But she didn’t live the dream life she’d imagined when she packed her bags and headed for the bright lights of the big city. In the day she worked at a charity shop called Women’s Aid and stacked shelves at Marks and Spencer, before washing pots at the Walrus and Carpenter pub at night.

  It was during a shift at the charity shop when she first met my dad, Nicholas. At the time, he was painting the walls of the building as part of his community service after being found guilty of handling stolen goods. She should have known there and then that he was bad news, but his good looks and charisma left their mark. It was another year before they met again, at a nightclub in Bath, but still she resisted his efforts to impress. He persisted with regular visits to M&S, often stalking the aisles she was working on without buying anything, until she eventually gave in.

  Together they embarked on a volatile relationship. Dad’s charm was a smokescreen for his reckless personality. He is the second youngest of seven children, born to Jamaican parents who moved to England at the end of the Second World War. His mum, Vashtee, or Nanny T as I’ve always known her, showered him with affection after the tragic death of one of his older brothers. That thirst for female attention has never left him, and my mum was well aware of his reputation as a bad boy with an eye for the ladies when their paths first crossed. But she saw a glimmer of good in him and was convinced she could change his ways.

  At first, their relationship was electric. They quickly fell in love in a haze of music and chemistry on the many dancefloors in Bath’s city centre and moved in together in the front room of a friend’s house. But he wasn’t the man my mum’s parents had imagined would steal the heart of their young girl. He did try a few courses, such as bricklaying, but found burgling houses and carrying out set-up insurance jobs provided a quicker route to getting his hands on cash and satisfying his impulsive personality. His one steady job, as a DJ who played blues music, meant he often spent his Saturday nights away from home, spinning records in Oxford, Cardiff, Newport, Swindon and Bristol.

  His sources of income were almost as unstable as his temperament. At 26, and 14 months younger than mum, he was too immature and selfish for the responsibility of fatherhood when she gave birth to Joseph Jerimiah Lasselles Thompson, three weeks prematurely, on Sunday, 5 March 1989 on the Princess Anne Wing at the Royal United Hospital. It was a tough labour, which lasted 13 hours, before I was eventually dragged out via forceps, weighing 6lb 3oz. But it wasn’t my dad who was holding my mum’s hand and wiping away tears of happiness – it was auntie Sue, who was also heavily pregnant at the time.

  Several miles across town, Nicholas Thompson was sat on the floor of a jail cell. He’d been arrested after police raided the property they were living in the night before I entered the world. Officers had uncovered his latest treasure trove of stolen goods and slung him behind bars for the umpteenth time. He appeared before Bath Magistrates’ Court on the Monday morning, charged with handling stolen goods, and was only spared a jail sentence after the judge decided to show leniency in light of him becoming a father. He escaped with bail and a slap on the wrist.

  He was a relieved man, but not because he could now spend his time doting on his newborn son and ensuring the woman he supposedly loved recovered from the trauma of her labour. They had been together for three years, but my arrival was the cue for their relationship to spiral out of control. He became jealous of the time and attention mum gave to me and took out his frustration with regular rounds of verbal and physical abuse. Another method he had of escaping his responsibilities was to tell mum he was going to the shops, only to disappear for a few days to spend his money on weed and chasing women.

  Mum’s parents, who lived miles away up in Rochdale, were furious, as they could do little to help. Aside from his many personal failings, my grandma Audrey’s negative opinion of my dad was also racially motivated. She was ashamed of her daughter for fathering a black man’s baby and was horrified at the thought of her friends and other family members finding out. She’d spent nine months largely ignoring her pregnancy before eventually coming to terms with the reality of the situation. I try not to judge her behaviour by today’s standards because her view was sadly typical of her generation’s attitude towards black men in the 1980s.

  After 15 months of bringing me up on her own, mum eventually snapped. Enough was enough, and one afternoon she decided to turn the tables on dad and told him she was nipping out for a pint of milk, only to flee to Glastonbury festival with her friend Lesley, where they both worked on a pancake stall. Back in Bath, dad soon realised he’d fallen for his own trick. He took me to social services that day to complain that mum wasn’t fit to be in charge of a baby boy. ‘Who is the baby’s father?’ asked the woman on the desk. Dad turned on his heels and returned home to reluctantly change nappies and prepare bottles of milk.

  Mum had escaped reality for a short while, but she couldn’t avoid her demons forever, and I’m not just talking about my dad. She’s a wonderful person, who is an absolute pleasure to be around when she’s on form, but on other occasions she can be like a bull in a china shop, whose mood becomes vicious and quite aggressive. She’s a very intelligent woman and that is part of her problem. She is extremely aware of every situation and obsesses over the finest details. If she has a conversation with someone, afterwards she’ll overthink everything in her head, which drags her mood down.

  Growing up, her behaviour was often erratic. I remember on more than one occasion there was no milk in the house, so she told me to pour water on my Weetabix for breakfast. She often struggled to get up in the morning and get me ready for school. In a normal household, a child would be woken up gently, but not in our house. I remember one time when she banged on the paper-thin walls separating our bedrooms at 4am and told me to put on my school uniform. She quickly realised she’d misread her alarm clock and sent me back to bed, under the instruction to stay in my clothes so I didn’t have to get changed again in the morning, which afforded her a little longer to sleep.

  Mum certainly isn’t lazy, but she’d use up so much energy in the day and then spend hours worrying when she should’ve been sleeping, meaning she’d end up exhausted and unable to function properly.

  I can look back and laugh at it now, but in hindsight it was pretty obvious there was something seriously wrong. Mum was suffering from bipolar disorder, a mental illness that was previously known as manic depression. The condition causes periods of depression and elevated mood. On a good day, the sufferer experiences incredible highs and relentless energy, but can then feel
lethargic and low at the drop of a hat. It’s caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain and can be triggered by an environmental change or a traumatic episode in everyday life.

  Mum had plenty of those to contend with and so did I. Dad’s descent into a life of crime and hard drugs was rapid. I could only have been six or seven when he woke me up in the middle of the night with a shake. ‘Get your clothes on, grab your coat, you’re coming with me.’ Minutes later we were outside, pacing through the town centre in the dead of night. We’d been walking for about 15 minutes when dad told me to wait while he walked ahead to meet three associates. They stood there talking for a short while before he returned and took me back home.

  I never questioned why he’d taken me with him that night until many years later. At the time I had no idea of the sort of people he was mixing with, but given that he’s spent the last 20 years in and out of prison there’s every chance they were career criminals or drug dealers. I’m convinced he’d found himself in trouble and wanted me to accompany him to reduce the risk of the situation getting out of hand. Surely the mystery men wouldn’t attack him if his little boy, and a potential witness, was watching on close by. He’s a coward, plain and simple.

  I’m still on a journey to try and understand my dad. There are so many unanswered questions I need to get answers to so I can get closure on my childhood. Years ago, I used to feel my opinion wasn’t valid because I hadn’t experienced the things he had. I wasn’t a father or a husband, but now that I am I’ve been in his shoes. I want to know how he was capable of hitting a woman in front of his own child. His face is absent from pictures of so many pivotal moments in my childhood, but why didn’t he want to watch his two little boys grow up?

  The decisions he made baffle me and I’ve spent many nights trying to find some sort of understanding. My little daughter, Lula, is five. If money was no object and I could spend every day playing arts and crafts with her, or dressing up, I would do. The thought of doing those things with her again and watching her laugh was probably my biggest motivation when I was fighting cancer. Perhaps dad felt he was inadequate because he couldn’t provide for his family? Or did he simply choose not to be part of our lives?

  He’s wasted so much of his life and he’s behind bars again now. While I was undergoing chemotherapy he called me to ask me how I was. It was a brief conversation, but I told him once I was better I wanted to come and visit him and ask him all the questions which have troubled me since I was a young boy. He joked that he’d be more than happy for me to see him because he wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time. He also promised he would be honest and try to explain his side of the story.

  Amazingly, mum and dad stuck together long enough to have a second child. The arrival of Reuben, when I was three, caused another storm in the Thompson household, and this time it was me who was the problem. I don’t think I’ve inherited too many of dad’s traits, but for a time I was consumed by a jealous streak as mum divided her time between the two of us. I can’t remember it too well, but she tells me I hated him from the moment I saw him and told her to take him back to the hospital.

  If she was in the kitchen and he was lying on his play mat, I’d smother him in Sudocrem or talcum powder. I once covered the back of the sofa in marker pen and blamed it on him, despite the fact he wasn’t old enough to walk never mind hold a pen in one hand. But the worst incident was when mum came into the living room to find him covered in his own shit. It didn’t take her long to locate the perpetrator. A health visitor urged mum to try and get me more involved with him, but I was more interested in hiding his toys from him than showing him any sort of affection.

  Our relationship changed almost overnight when he was 21 months old. It was a cold February morning and the three of us were walking to Walcott Infants’ Primary School, where I was in my second year. We were running late, so I ran ahead of them and down a narrow ginnel, about 100 yards away from the school gates, which was just about wide enough for a car to squeeze through. But I was stopped in my tracks by the screeching sound of brakes and my mum screaming. I spun around and froze as the driver reversed, dragging Reuben underneath his car before speeding away.

  His body was propped up by the kerb, but remarkably he was still alive and even managed to yell at us to go in pursuit of the car. He was covered in orange from head to toe. It’s an image I can remember vividly. I can only think it was a combination of blood and some liquid from the underside of the car. He also had a tyre mark down his face, but that was the least of his troubles. Mum was in hysterics as she picked him up and held him in her arms. She screamed at me to run to school and find someone who could call an ambulance immediately. I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me before I came across a teacher who called 999 and then took me inside to comfort me.

  Once in hospital, the full extent of his injuries became clear. He had fractured his skull, which required 14 stitches, and hip and also broken his nose and leg. Reuben spent the next six weeks in intensive care before eventually making a full recovery. He still sports the scar on his head and celebrates that day every year as his second birthday. When he was 18, he was given a payout for the injuries he sustained as a child, which helped to pay for some of his university tuition fees.

  The shock changed the way I treated him forever, and since that day we’ve been the best of friends, even if we did occasionally clash when our mock wrestling contests got out of hand. His star sign is Aries, which is pretty accurate, because he’s a real fighter at heart. If he wants something, you’d better get out of his way because he’ll make sure he gets it, no matter what. He has different qualities to me, having always been very academically gifted and talented at maths. After graduating from Leeds University, he moved to the north-east and now lives in Newcastle, where he works as an accountant. I couldn’t be more proud of him and nor could my mum; he’s a credit to her and the family.

  The incident had repaired our relationship, but it pushed mum to breaking point. While Reuben was in hospital, dad was again nowhere to be seen, and tried to justify his absence by claiming that he despised hospitals. It was left to my mum’s friends, Jackie, Maggie and Laura, to help out when she needed someone to look after me while she spent weeks splitting her time between home and the hospital. She was also concerned about my reaction to the incident after my teachers called her in to tell her I’d been drawing dark grey pictures of sad events.

  She eventually split from my dad 12 months later. By that point he was spending more time with other women than he was with his family. Years later we found out we had several half-siblings from his casual relationships, which revealed the full extent of his cheating. I have a half-sister, Liberty, who is four years younger than Reuben, meaning he must have fathered her while he was still with my mum. There are also two boys, Malachi and Marley, who were born to two different mothers. I believe there is also one other girl, called Phoebe, who I think has ended up in care because both dad and her mum are now in prison.

  This is going to sound like a sweeping generalisation, but his behaviour is stereotypical of a lot of men from Jamaican families, especially in the 80s and early 90s. After visiting the country a few years ago, I realised that many of them believe it’s normal to see multiple women at the same time and they certainly don’t want to be told what to do by the opposite sex. They also abhor responsibility. A lot of them even have nicknames to go with their alter egos. Dad’s was ‘Biko’ though I’m not sure exactly what it meant. I’d never try to justify his behaviour at all, but all of those things tally with his actions and I can only think he thought they were normal, having grown up with Jamaican parents and frequently visited the country.

  I try to keep in contact with my half-siblings because I have nothing against them; it’s not their fault they were born into this mess. I don’t see them as much as I would like because they all live down in Bath, but they know I’m only at the end of the phone if they need to talk. Our fractured family created a thirst inside me to one day
have a solid family of my own. I’d love to have another child as soon as possible, though my chemotherapy treatment means that could be more difficult. I also felt that desire to be part of a solid unit at school, which sparked my decision to start playing football a few years later.

  For mum, the pain must’ve been unimaginable and the way he treated her, combined with Reuben’s accident, prompted her breakdown one afternoon when I was eight. My memory of the day is crystal clear. Two ladies from the flats directly above and below our own came inside and sat on the sofa with me, while mum was questioned by three or four psychiatrists. They weren’t wearing white coats but they may as well have been. They told us she would be taken to a psychiatric hospital where her bipolar disorder would be closely examined. I was scared and frightened of the unknown. Dad wasn’t around and mum was being taken away. What would happen to me and Reuben?

  There was a very real possibility that both of us would be taken into care, unless someone was willing to look after us on a permanent basis. My mum’s older sister, Bernice, who I still call Niecey because I struggled to pronounce her name as a child, came to the rescue, and not for the last time during our childhood. She couldn’t bear the thought of a stranger looking after us and hatched a plan for us to start a new life in Manchester. We would move up north and live with her and her two daughters, which would give mum the time she needed to recover before finding a new place for us to live. Mum agreed. After everything she’d been through she was ready to break free and give her kids the best chance of having a decent upbringing.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but the first eight years of my life had provided me with some valuable lessons. Bath is a picture of perfection, but you never know what is going on behind someone’s front door when the curtains are closed. In every prosperous city there are rats, sewers and poverty. Lots of people head to the city when they’re young and go in search of their dreams, but before they know it life has swallowed them up and they’re left chasing what might’ve been. We were lucky, we were still young with our whole lives in front of us. The struggle would eventually be worth it because in the space of a few short months my life would change forever.