Mother Willies Aga

INTRODUCTION
After separation from my father in 1976, Mother Willies primary goal in life was to have her precious Aga installed. It had sat dormant in the kitchen since moving into our twee, fourbedroom bungalow in the hamlet of Tregorrick. And from its very introduction to Lansallos (our houses name) installation of The Aga, ungainly tumour of metal though it was, became a focal point of discussion whenever Mother Willie spoke with friends, family and lovers. For years it sat there in prime location, witnessing the stark events of the household whilst offering no praise or prejudice for its experiences. The saga of The Aga epitomizes life at Lansallos for my family who lived there during the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s.

Mother Willie during happier days. Left: with my father on their wedding day. Right (centre, front): at a Butlins Xmas play. (note Butlins reference at top and bottom-right of photo).

CHAPTER 1: Cookbury
Living in the tiny Devonshire village of Cookbury at the turn of the Seventies, I shared a room with my two older siblings in our two-bedroom family bungalow. My brother Adam was four years older, and sister Wendie sat between us; both by age and in quarrel-resolution. Adam and I never saw eye to eye as children, most probably because (as the eldest) he would take charge, whilst I would demonstrate the independence of not desiring an older brothers guidance or obeying his commands. Our father was regularly away, and to this day I am not totally sure whether it was due to his work (he was a manager at a well-known holiday camp) or because he and our mother had regular heated arguments. Perhaps it was a combination of the two. Either way memories of his staying at this bungalow are few, despite our living there for three years. Prior to that we had lived in both Minehead and Bognor Regis, which to most will offer a clear indication of my fathers true occupation. Being aged four to six during this period, I encountered many vivid imaginations. And some were very scary indeed. From the door of the bungalow and looking down the long driveway of about one hundred metres, at the bottom there was a scary face looking back at all who observed it. For the first six months into my fourth year of life I was totally spooked and would never venture to the bottom of the drive alone. Breaking out into a cold sweat each time we passed the face, the rest of the family could not understand the reason. They were fortunate enough to never see it. And even when I pointed from the house at the hedges yonder, they could not see the face that was looking back at them, with its menacing stare. They were puzzled; what was it I was seeing that they could not? It was clear from my fear that there was quite genuinely something there. Eventually the whole family walked me to the bottom of the driveway together. The truth is that they wanted to solve the mystery and their own curiosity every bit as much as help overcome my fears. From a safe distance of about twenty metres, I pointed at the face for all to see. Unsure of what they were supposed to be looking at, their eyes meandered around the hedgerow and rough, grassy, mole-hilled terrain that was the foot of our front garden. Finally all homed in on the old, abandoned cart which had lain in waste amongst the brambles for many years. Its single visible rusted wheel had a deep orange/brown colour and was secured to the cart by three large nuts, roughly assimilating the cartoon-like features of two eyes and a nose, whilst the roundness of the face (and brambles assimilating an uncouth hairstyle) completed the visage. Within twenty-four hours the cart, along with scary face, was moved and never seen or heard of again until you read about it here. Some weeks later I woke up in a cold sweat. It was dark, with a very tiny glimmer of moonlight in the area of the room I knew to be the window. And there, silhouetted against the window, was a lion. Just the head and mane. It stood there looking at me, dead still. So I lay in bed dead still also, too petrified to move in case it saw me. Blankets pulled up to just below my eyes I watched the lion for hours, praying that it wouldnt see me or move towards me. Thankfully it didnt. As morning brought some light into the room, my eyes (now as wide as saucers and having been that way for the past three hours or so) re-evaluated the lion. It was a pile of clothes which had fallen into a scary shape. Well, scary for a four-year-old anyway. Maybe this is why children are scared of the dark; their imaginations are open, letting in thoughts of both good and evil.

And then there was the crocodile under the bed. It was always there, preventing me from having the courage to enter the bedroom alone. This episode went on for some time until the whole family came into the bedroom with me to prove that no such crocodile existed. To this day I find some solace in what happened next. As my mother bent down, accompanied with the words there, I told you there was no crocodile under the bed she suddenly let out a shriek. At the moment her eyes came level with the underside of the bed, Eddie the cat leaped out, hissed and darted away. Life at our bungalow produced many interesting and pleasant memories too though. Our mother was a keen gardener; the lofty sunflowers which grew in the front garden one hot summer were taller than me and simply beautiful. Whilst in the back garden one day the rock plant had finally yielded three perfectly-wrapped sticks of rock. What a wonderful plant! Unfortunately it never fruited again and it took me many years to fully understand that sticks of rock dont truly grow on trees. It was just one of those nice parental touches all children should have plenty of during their childhoods. Shortly after moving in, our father employed some labourers to dig up the back garden and extend the property at the rear. And this lead to my first and only life experience of placing bricks onto mortar. At just four years old I felt myself as an important contributor to the construction work, though would have surely been nothing more than a burden in reality. And on another occasion my father was digging in the front garden when I shouted Dad, come and help me. Adam and I were playing Monopoly indoors and I was losing. With Dads help we mortgaged, re-mortgaged, built and expanded. And with 13 hotels on each of the light blue properties, Adams bankruptcy eventually lead to what was probably the only decent piece of advice my father ever gave me in life: Toby - never give up!. In the centre of the front garden there was a concrete toadstool. It was about two feet in height and made a prominent centre-piece, given its mature age and weather-worn look. And around this toadstool was a neatly positioned set of croquet hoops. As a family we often enjoyed playing the game, though at the tender age of five it was very hard to hold the heavy mallets. On one occasion just the three children played and, for our own amusement, the croquet hoops were re-arranged. The precise arrangement I cannot recall, but Adams opening shot is very clear in my mind even today. His ball went straight through the first two hoops and then hit the concrete toadstool in the centre of the garden. From there it bounced off at an angle of such serendipity that it went clearly through the third hoop and was beautifully lined up for the next shot; with a clear path through the final hoop and even to hit the finish post with just a single on-target second hit. With game victory so clearly in Adams grasp after his first shot, without having even taken a turn myself, I was furious. So I chased him around the garden, ultimately landing a croquet mallet swing firmly on his back. Such an angry response to Adams good fortune at croquet earned me a serious telling off, but at the time it was a small price to pay to be able to freely express my appreciation for his skill. At the bottom of the drive was the Splop Path. So called because it was covered in splop all year round. Splop was the only word the three of us kids could use to describe the mixture of rainwater, mud and wet cow dung which resulted in a two-inch deep trail of smelly wetness, through which we had to meander by hopping and jumping across any peaks and avoiding the potholes. The Splop Path was about two hundred metres long. To the right after a hundred metres was the farm and to the left after the same distance was the road. An insignificant road

really; certainly not large enough to be classified as a B road and nor did it have any road markings. But it was where the Splop Path met the main road and also where the few children of the hamlet would meet in the mornings to be taken to school. Sometimes on foot, sometimes by car. The place was landmarked by an oak tree, against which was a milk-churn stand whereby the farmer would take his newly filled churns ready for collection by the dairy. As the Autumn of 1973 began, our mother bought her three children a new duffel coat each. There is always something good about wearing new clothes and these were warm and comfortable as we set of for school. Nothing particularly special happened that day until we were all dropped off at the oak tree after school had finished. Hungry for tea our trio ran along the Splop Path as fast as we could, eldest running on in front and youngest trailing behind. And as the youngest I got the best view of my sister tripping over. She went facedown into the splop and, clearly stunned by the trauma, lay there motionless for a good few seconds. As she rose Adam and I could see her look of upset and disgust, along with a sense of fear at having soiled (quite literally) her brand new coat. Her face was covered in brown stuff too! As we made our way up the long, gravelled driveway to the front door, Adam and I held our hands to our face so as to cover up both laughter and smell. Mum was there to greet us, along with the pleasant aroma of our evening meal. It was only at that point (several minutes after the fall and when mum began to laugh too) that my sisters tears finally flooded out. The Splop Path had earned its place in all our memories, a memory lasting well into the next Millennium. Throughout our time at Cookbury we had a few visitors. The baker would drive in on a Saturday and although mum would have certainly bought a few other items (bread for one) I only recall the weekly collection of clairs, apple turnovers and custard tarts that would form Saturdays dessert. And one of the farmers from fields yonder would sometimes call round with a few freshly laid eggs and always a packet of sweets for the children. It never occurred to me at the time that, as he always seemed to call when my father was away, perhaps there was more to this visit than first met the eye. Same could be said for the owner of the nearby newsagent who visited some evenings. But one thing was for sure; Milko (as we fondly called the milkman) was most definitely an above-board visitor, stopping only briefly to deliver the milk in his tender, late years of at least sixty. We all liked Milko, and to this day I always wished that mum had (just once at least) asked for a gold-topped bottle instead of our regular silver topped ones. Milko once told me that these bottles were a penny more, but so much creamier. I longed to taste a sip of just one bottle for three whole years. Just offside the main property (and belonging to it) was four acres of grassland. The only true things of note in this terrain was a tree house built by dad (which we rarely used) and the Bum Tree; a remarkably odd-shaped tree which fruited oak apple style buds, each with a split down the centre, thus making them all look like bums. Being the wonderful children that we were, later that day our mum was treated to a delicious bowl of Bum Soup. And beyond the green lived the headmaster of our school. The school only had two classes; one for all the infants (up to six years) and another for all the juniors (seven to eleven). He had two sons and the youngest, at about five years old, was fixated with the word bum and repeated it at every opportunity. Ultimately his father grew sick of hearing this and decided to get the word out of his sons system. He painted (in huge red letters) the word B U M across his garage door and instructed the child to shout the word out (as loud as he could) every time he walked past the garage door. Often we would hear it from our own bungalow several hundred metres away.

One evening at dusk, we all came rushing out of the bungalow after a panic stricken cry from Adam. He and a local lad had been messing around by our Dutch barn and the entire haystack had caught alight. Buckets of water were brought along by all the neighbours as the flames licked higher and eventually it was so far ablaze that no rescue attempt was possible. So mum brought out hot chocolate for everyone as we watched and enjoyed the warming heat and glowing flames. The next day I wrote about it in my every day book at school, recalling the remains as just a charred pile of ash with a single pole still standing (kind of like a telegraph pole) with a large, bent nail poking out of the top. Adam was questioned as to how the fire started. He said that he and his friend were playing with flint stones, though it later transpired they were actually playing with matches. Either way, the hay was rotten and laced with toadstools, so he probably did our parents a favour from an insurance perspective. Mum would repeatedly say to her three children during dinner; one day kids well be millionaires. The words stuck in my head and I wondered then if it would ever come true. Given the way this phrase was repeated many times in a well-known British comedy several years later, I guess its just one of those things that everybody says at some point in their life. Well, everybody who isnt a millionaire that is. It was not just myself who had occasional scary but vivid experiences at Cookbury. Mum had one too. As the sun set one Summers night and the darkness enveloped the air, mum went outside to collect a couple of final garments shed left on the washing line. She heard some very deep and distinctive heavy breathing. Stretching out her arms and blind to more than a foot away (we lived in the thick of the country; there were no streetlamps for miles around) she called out whos there?. The darkness swallowed the noise giving nothing by way of answer. She heard the breathing again and turned her head towards the sound, but saw nothing. It petrified her and she ran back into the house. She checked again the next night and her invisible stalker was still out there, breathing heavily and not responding to mums request to reveal himself. After a few unrelenting days she became panic-stricken and went over to the headmasters house over the way in the pitch black; down the driveway, along the splop path, over the lane, across the green and she had made it, heavy breathing pursuing her every step. She begged the headmaster to step outside and confirm he could hear it also, and to help her identify who it was that had frightened her so much. He stopped and listened for a moment and nodded; thats the sound baby owls make he explained. Theres an owls nest on the edge of the green and the mothers just had some chicks. There were some very fond memories of Cookbury too, in addition to the obscure. Such as the day my father bought home a goat as a new pet!

Left & centre: Outside the bungalow at Cookbury. Right: a new pet joins the family.

CHAPTER 2: Middlesbrough
As winter 1973 came upon us it was clear to even a six-year-old that my parents marriage was also in its winter. What the arguments were about I will never know, but they were clear enough. And although dad hadnt been around that often during the last three years at Cookbury, it was clear we werent about to see that much more of him in the future either. During one particularly memorable argument the three children were sent to the bedroom. After much shouting mum pushed dad out of the bungalow and locked the door. He came around to the bedroom window and we let him back in again. It was six months later that I recall seeing him again, because over the Christmas holiday mum and the three kids went to live at Uncle Georges house, four hundred miles away in Middlesbrough. Mum grew up in Middlesbrough and her parents still lived there. Her father had fought on horseback in the Great War, never fully recovering after the death of his horse and inhalation of mustard gas. He was a monumental mason by trade and his business went bankrupt. What mum had hoped to achieve by our relocation to the North-East in 1974 I will never understand. Perhaps it was a return to the only true home she knew. But living at Uncle Georges three bedroom semi (along with his senile mother) meant that the place was always quite cramped. Uncle George had his room, his mother another, leaving the third room for mother and three children to share with a mish-mash of camp and bunk beds. Mum slept in our room most nights so far as I can recall. But not every night. Its only as an adult in recollection that I realise where she truly was, on those occasions that her own camp-bed was unoccupied on any given morning. Personally I never enjoyed my time at Middlesbrough very much and thankfully we were only to stay there until the Summer. There were a few new friends at school, a few kids parties and occasional Saturday mornings were spent sneaking off with my sister Wendie to the nearby rugby ground to eat the previously stolen Texan chocolate bars from Uncle Georges secret stash. Though Im sure he hid them in their box behind the sofa in the knowledge that we would find and take one from time to time anyway. Uncle Georges mother, Granny Blake, was an odd cookie. Shed sit in her comfy chair knitting almost all day every day. The centrepiece of the room was an electric three-element heater. It was one of those with a plastic covering shaped like a heap of coal, under which were two red lamp bulbs with a flickering gizmo so as to make the coal look like it was glowing. Every so often, after unwrapping a new sweet and scrunching up the wrapping, Granny Blake would throw the wrapper onto the fire. Needless to say the paper never burned, so each morning the now cold plastic coal covering to the heater was duly littered with small pieces of screwed-up and un-charred sweet wrappings. In the Spring of 1974 we all drove to the hospice. Mum went inside with Adam, whilst Uncle George, my sister Wendie and I waited outside in the car. They were in there for absolutely ages. And when they emerged we all drove home. Our mothers beloved father had died. As the years passed the children came to learn just how much our mothers father had really meant to her. He was probably the only truly upstanding and decent male to ever enter her life, and most certainly the only male of such calibre from her own perspective. It was obvious even back then that her own final resting place could only be alongside her father. Mum had two sisters; Margery & Peggy. Margery was some twenty years her senior and in her later life wrote the crosswords for some of the better-known (and intellectual) tabloids.

And Peggy was 17 years her senior, but died at the age of just nineteen. For grandads funeral Margery and her two sons (cousins Tony & Miles) arrived at Uncle Georges. That night Miles slept in mums bed (i.e., in the same room as myself and my siblings) so again I look back and wonder where mum slept that night. But completely unaware of Miles visit until the next morning, on awaking I looked over at mums bed and saw the back of what I thought was her head but with a different, curly new haircut. After prodding the body through the covers to see what was inside it gave me quite a fright when Miles turned around. His smiling face was warm and unthreatening so I soon calmed down and began to let my highly cheeky self reveal its true colours, teasing him for sleeping in my mums bed. By this time Adam and Wendie had awoken too, peering over from their respective upper and lower bunk beds. Eventually my teasing urrrr, your sleeping in my mums bed! was enough to prompt miles out of bed and to chase me round the room to teach me a lesson. But this just made matters go from bad to worse for Miles (who would have been fifteen years old, to my six) because all he was wearing was a pair of white Y-fronts which hardly complimented his already skinny physique. So I stopped running, turned around and pointed: Ooooooh, LOOK AT HIS PANTIES !!!. Adam and Wendie began to laugh and the embarrassed Miles jumped back into bed. My mums bed. At which point the taunts returned to urrrr, your sleeping in my mums bed!. And so he leapt out once again and so the never ending cycle began: Ooooooh, LOOK AT HIS PANTIES !!!. Poor Miles. It would be thirty five years before we would meet again (i.e., 2009), so reminding him of this incident was nothing short of irresistible. The death of grandad was clearly a totally devastating period for my mum and I am absolutely certain that this contributed to the reclusive and anarchic character which she created for herself over the years to come. This, and the imminent divorce from my father. As the summer began, my seventh birthday loomed. I remember attending school on 17th July 1974 and, after being a tad naughty, the teacher saying that she would not tell me off this time because it was my birthday. Do all seven year olds get this favourable treatment from their teachers today I wonder? But it was a truly special day for me because I got my first good bicycle. A Chipper. Once around the block and then straight over the handlebars as the front brake was applied to fiercely. Its all a part of growing up. And over the Summer we moved again. Mum, dad and children were to be reunited in St. Austell; a town on the south coast of Cornwall. A new beginning for us all, and just in time too, because brother Adam was about to start his first year of senior school. Mother Willie at Uncle Georges house, in Middlesbrough 1974 (aged 37). Only when I see this photo now does it become clearer why the widower George was so hospitable to her, with three children in tow. After we left Middlesbrough, we never saw or heard from him again, and Mother Willie never spoke of him nor phoned him. Why would that be, I wonder?

CHAPTER 3: A Blazing Summer

The Summer of 1974 was a scorcher. There was a heat-wave and water shortage throughout the country. Until then I hadnt built up many memories of my father. Sure, hed been around when I was an infant, and in-and-out as a toddler. But I dont recall seeing him so much as the time in 1974 when we all moved down to Cornwall as a reconciled family unit. For the first three months of living in St. Austell we stayed at the Butlins holiday camp (Duporth) where my father was the area manager of five sites across the county. We did some house-hunting and general visiting of nearby towns and villages to see where we would be setting up home. And all the while, whilst we stayed at Duporth, I spent many a long hour at the campsites swimming pool, on the beach, in the amusement arcade and in the camps ball room / concert hall. This meant occasional performances on stage for the other campers; telling jokes and (despite an abominable singing voice) singing. There were also some stooge appearances for some of the more serious acts. For example, I would walk onto stage in the middle of the comperes announcements carrying a suitcase. When asked I would repeat the line (in a loud voice, as only a seven-year-old can) Im taking my case to court. Five minutes (and one act) later Id be back from the other side of the stage with the suitcase on my shoulders. This time when asked what I was doing the line was Im taking my case to a higher court. And finally (after yet another act) Id walk onto stage without the prop and when asked where I was going now I would shout out the punch-line: Ive lost my case!. I never quite understood it at the time, and now that I do its nothing more than cheesy pap. But the campers seemed to love it and I guess thats all that really mattered. And these werent the only performances from this budding starlet. At the Christmas pantomime at year-end, Wendie and I both dressed in white stockings, vests, gloves & shorts (and had a fake white mane attached to our heads) and had the responsibility of pulling Cinderellas coach onto the stage just as she arrived at the ball. My father (who had apparently been a redcoat at the main Butlins sites around the time of Bruce Forsyth and Jimmy Tarbuck) explained to us both afterwards that whilst we did a very professional job, it was less than professional to turn our heads to the audience, pull faces and wave. Hey, we made the performance our own and thats what matters to junior school children. As our 30 seconds of fame finished, we quickly changed and joined our mum in our reserved seats on the front row to watch the remainder of the show. Mum had actually been cast as Cinderella herself, but father had replaced her with another of the redcoats shortly into the rehearsals. Its my belief today that he probably felt she would have not been able to control her alcohol issues on the big night. So as we sat and watched the remainder of the show, mum heckled her way through the show, with comments such as since when was Cinderella supposed to have a big, fat, wobbly arse? She had a point; the replacement Cinders was a tad on the plump side. And Im not convinced this particular Disney Princess was supposed to have auburn curly locks either. Blonde is more traditional wouldnt you say. Le piece de resistance; the campsite had a fairy glen. It is a small open area in the middle of the woods of the grounds, complete with running stream, wooden bridge, quartz crystal wall and several other features that make it look quite enchanting. Now every Sunday morning the holiday camp manager (my father was the area manager, the managers boss) would take a party of newly-arrived campers around the site for a tour. And when they entered the fairy glen, I would be sat there on a tree stump. Dressed up in a pixie costume, and banging away with a wooden mallet onto some slates, everyone would stop to stare. And once everyone was attentive, I would recite my well-rehearsed poem ...

Abracadabra one to ten Im the gnome of the fairy glen And Ill cast a spell on everyone here Unless you buy <insert camp managers name> a pint of beer Now there may not be many of you out there whod contemplate doing such a gig as this; it was nothing short of idiotic. But for just 15 minutes work and recital of a short poem I earned a small fortune. Once the poem was finished, the indebted camp manager would then say to the gathered crowd go on, everyone throw him in a coin, starting the ball rolling himself with 10p. The crowd (all feeling generous, just 24 hours into their holiday and pockets full of change) would all through in a piece or two for the gnome. They would then be on their way to continue the tour, and my brother and sister would scurry from their hiding places behind the quartz crystal wall to help me gather up the loot. Typically the takings were 3 - 5. To put it into perspective, eight years later (when I started working as a wash-up boy on an hourly rate) I earned 99p per hour. So this was really quite a tidy haul. And it wasnt the only income I had from the youthful ages of seven through to ten. The holiday camp car park was situated several hundred metres from the chalets. So a group of youngsters (myself and two siblings included) would work on Saturday mornings to help the holiday departures with their luggage back to the car park. And we would work again in the afternoons, to assist the new arrivals to their respective homes for the week ahead. This luggage boy work earned anything from 3 - 10 per day in tips. Our father had a habit of looking after our money for us, and we never did have this returned even after our parents got divorced. It was a classic case of parents using the kids to get at each other. On Sundays all the holiday camp kids would dress up as pirates and hunt Captain Blood. This culminated in the captain being made to walk the plank at the campsite swimming pool. All things considered this period of my life was really great fun, mixed with an introduction to working for a living too.
Top-Left: Hunting Captain Blood Top-Right: On Duporth Beach Bottom-Left: At Duporth Swimming Pool Bottom-Centre: Luggage Boy Bottom-Right: Abracadabra!

CHAPTER 4: Lansallos
By the Autumn we had found our perfect house. Lansallos. Just a mile from St. Austell town centre and located in the beautiful and isolated hamlet, Tregorrick. The four-bedroom bungalow cost 14,500; a figure that was etched in my head from the moment I heard it. Dad worked really hard on Lansallos when we moved in. Re-cementing the kitchen, putting sheds and a caravan in the garden (though we all knew where he got them from a benefit from his work), laying a garden path, building a stone barbeque, carpets, curtains, painting and decorating. In fact I have never seen anybody since do so much work on making their house look so nice. The finished result was a beautiful cosy bungalow with an open fireplace and genuine outside coal bunker, which could hold at least ten cubic metres of coal. Best of all was the completion of my room; initially just a tiny box room, dad expanded the walls to take some of the rather wide hallway, and then bought me the wallpaper of my choice. It had lots of Warner Bros characters; Bugs, Daffy, Porky, Yosemite, Wylie & Road Runner. Mum did her share of the hard work too. I remember the carpets were her doing. But at one point I found her crying and wonder now: was she still grieving her fathers death from earlier that year, or was there something amiss in my parents reconciliation? Amongst all the furnishings to our lovely new home came an Aga. The Aga is a stored-heat stove and cooker, powered by coal and easy to use. Using the principle of heat storage, it combines a heat source, two large hotplates atop and two ovens into one unit. The ovens are behind the doors upper left (hot oven) and upper right (warm oven), whilst bottom right is used as a plate warming facility. The coal fire is behind the bottom right door. On the top are two large hot plates, both covered by large lids. The hot one (left, directly above the heat source) is great for griddling, whilst the right is cooler; probably more suitable for toasting items. And finally, the top right hot plate lid is perfect temperature for sitting on top of on a cold day. There was just one drawback to this particular Aga; it required installation. Specifically, an exhaust pipe to enable to the fumes from the coal fire to escape safely through the bungalows chimney. Ideally these would pass below the water tank to enable piping hot water at all times, and the Aga itself would serve as a central hub of heat for the entire bungalow. It all sounds rather perfect! And Mother Willie would tell us so. Oh bliss, when the Aga would be connected the household would be warm, cosy and lacking nothing in its completeness. In fact, looking back, I kind of see what she meant. Interestingly enough this particular Aga joined us from the previous property at Cookbury. Wed all enjoyed its warmth through the long and cold winter nights. Indeed, sister Wendie warmed herself through with it on the occasion she came home covered with splop and had to change her clothes. So as she washed and dried herself down, the Aga had kept her warm. But I had hardly remembered the Aga from my earlier days, so now at aged seven Mother Willie had made it clear to us all; the Aga would give us all the home comforts we needed. But unfortunately it was not to be that year. Nor indeed for several years to come.

Christmas that year was the last we were to spend as a complete family and my grandmother (mums mother) came to stay. She was heavily spoiled by my mum, and I have to say that this was probably the only normal family Christmas I can remember, with all members present and a wonderful, magical time had by all. The Christmas term saw the three children in new schools. Adam started Penrice Comprehensive in the top set of the first year, whilst Wendie and I went to Charlestown Primary. This was a very old school in a small fishing village. So old in fact that the school was evacuated at the end of my first term there, as it relocated from the crumbling old building and porta-cabins from the village to the newly built premise half way between Charlestown and the up-and-coming Carlyon Bay. Both regions were in time to become highly affluent areas. It was about this time that mum told me she possessed magic abilities. After reminding me about the rock plant at Cookbury, she proceeded to (in her words) magic out of thin air a small bag of marbles, just like the bag I had excitedly pointed out in Woolworths the day before. And she went on to explain that there truly was a place beyond the rainbow; when we go to sleep we sometimes visit there, where everything is magical and our dreams come true. Mum told me that when she was a little girl she dreamt that she was holding a bar of chocolate and clenched her fists so hard that one appeared in her fists. But as she woke up the chocolate bar disappeared. Its plausible that mum herself really believed in her own vivid imagination. Unfortunately, now seven years old, I saw through it even back then. For the first year in Cornwall, we did much exploring as a family. Not just between the five campsites my father managed, but also to the many pubs in the area. The first one we ever visited was the Rashleigh in Charlestown. Located just half a mile from Duporth holiday resort (alternatively considered as the next beach along the coast), the Rashleigh had, and still has, a very pleasant beer garden. Sitting the three kids outside with bottle of Vimto and packet of smokey bacon crisps apiece, Mother Willie and our father would be inside. Often for several hours. It was possibly out parents favourite because the drunken drive home was a short one, and least prone to a breathalizer. Adam and I drink there even now on occasion, though I still shudder at the sight of the green and red topped capstans at the foot of the beer garden, being just seven when I fell off one and gained several head bruises and grazes. My father drank several beers at home too, under our Skoly. A Skoly was our house name for the beer garden umbrellas. Ours was branded with Skol, the lager, a word I later discovered to be akin to the Swedish word Skl, meaning cheers.

Left: an Aga (front view).

Right: my father having a beer under our Skoly.

CHAPTER 5: The Front Door

I loved Saturday mornings at Lansallos. Dad would always take us somewhere. Sometimes to Woolworths in St. Austell town centre, which today looks nothing like it used to. Other times to Truro, the only city in Cornwall. And on rare occasions we would spend the day in Plymouth. Other adventures would include the beautiful Cornish fishing villages of Mevagissey or Gorran, or just about anywhere that dad had looked at on the map and decided thats where were going this Saturday. Lansallos had two doors at the front of the house. The side door was actually the first door you came to as you walked up the drive. Whilst the front door (the door the postman used) required a sidestep at the top of the drive, half way along the front garden. The door had a small porchway, a step and was double glazed. And after one Saturdays excursion, it was never to be used again, except by the postman delivering letters as normal. Suffice it to say that the family never used it again. We were all getting ready to depart for another family day out. The five of us. Whilst mum was just finishing off getting herself ready (rather quickly I might add, if future timings for this small task are anything to go by), whilst my brother and sister went outside the front to wait. Adam hid himself behind a bush in the front garden, hoping to jump out and scare me. But things didnt quite go to plan. As I exited the side door of the house Wendie said hes behind the bush, pointing. At this point Adam ran to hide in the front doors porchway instead. But as he ran he tripped on the porchways step. His fist went straight through the first pane of glass in the front door, but was stopped by the second. At that point his body weight and momentum caused him to fall to the ground, with fist in-between the broken and in-tact panes of the double-glazed door. So his wrist was slashed as it fell down upon the broken pane. This became quite a serious incident, requiring emergency action by our parents and straight to hospital. St. Austell hospital at that time had no facilities to deal with such a case, but they bandaged the wound to keep Adam from losing too much blood. Then it became a 15 mile race to Treliske hospital in Truro. It was no straight journey either; at the time this journey would take 30 minutes due to the copious turns in the narrow road and this was long before all the villages in-between were by-passed. Adam recollects feeling faint at the time, made all the worse by our driving through one such village. As he saw the village name sign (Probus) he told me afterwards how it almost made him vomit. Thankfully Adam was seen in time and repaired fully. It was quite a scare for the family though, and is also my last memory of us all being a family together. Soon afterwards my father was shown the front door too, and from this point forward his name changed to Bumface. Well, our mother quoted it so often that ultimately the name stuck. Hell hath no fury! My father from this point forward will be known simply as ... Bumface. It wasnt that many weeks prior that Adam had ran out of the house just as suddenly, only to run back in again with a dollop of white bird shit on his collar. It was the first time Id ever seen a bird-poo land on someone and, lets be honest about this, who better than your brother to be the recipient of such a treasured gift?

For the next three years Bumface adopted the role of a Saturday Dad, whilst the lengthy divorce and court proceedings ensued. During Summer holidays, the three of us kids would also take on part time work. On Saturdays we attended Duporth holiday camp, collected our trolleys and offered the newly-arrived holiday makers help with their luggage. I recall spending my tenth birthday doing this job and thinking; it sure was a lot easier earning money as the gnome of the fairy glen! Having already experienced the allurement of the camps fruit machines (Penny Cherry, Alpine Leader and the 5p-for-two-pulls Colossus) Id become a bit of a gambler by the age of ten. And we were often joined by one of the camps regulars in our fruit machine gambling, who went by the nickname Caps. (he was always buying paper gunpowder caps for his popgun). So I also gambled amongst the other trolley kids that helped with the holiday makers luggage. There was the game Pitch whereby we would throw 10p at the wall and the closest won both coins. Then there was Pitch & Toss whereby the closest to the wall got the right to toss both coins and choose the outcome (i.e., heads or tails). If both coins landed as predicted you win, if they were different then youd pitch again and if both were the opposite call then the opponent got to toss both coins with their own call. Stakes got as high as 50p a pitch, which was a lot of money to a ten year old in 1977. Given that cigarettes were about 30p per packet back then, it could be argued that this was a ten year old gambling with about 10 per throw in todays money. At the end of our days work (and play) we had to report to our father who would duly invest our remaining earnings for our futures, ensuring our pockets were emptied before we started on our cycle ride home. Adam had further earnings from his hours working as a Greencoat; Cornwalls answer to the better-known Butlins Redcoats. Around about the age of nine to ten was quite a memorable period of my life. Not least because sometimes I would be lucky enough to sneak off to the nearby woods for a snog after school. And on one occasion the girl in question got far friendlier than nine or ten years olds should be aware of. Looking back, it concerns me that she knew so much and (more specifically) how she knew so much. But she taught me a lot and I just hope shes had a happy life through her twenties and thirties. With retrospect I am both glad and fortunate that this was my only sexual experience at junior school. These three years grew to become a very unpleasant period between our parents. Constant squabbles and a very thick atmosphere at home. Social workers came to interview the children and at one stage we even had the police asking us questions regarding apparent stolen property of one parent by the other. Much of that stuff has now long gone from my mind. What I do recall however is how Bumface would park at the bottom of the drive at Lansallos on Saturday mornings and the three kids would go down to meet him. We were under strict instruction from mum to say that we were happy and all was well, but also not to show him too much enthusiasm. And when hed ask do we want to go anywhere for the day? we were to say no. It was war and we were the three pawns. Sometime later in court (during my parents divorce and child custody hearings) mum explained to me afterwards that Bumfaces barrister had said (and I quote):

... and your honour, on one such visit to Lansallos, my client parked at the bottom of the drive as normal for a Saturday morning. The three children came down to see him, also as normal. As my clients car window was wound down to speak with his three children, the eldest child did raise his hand and held in it was a Jif Lemon lemon-shaped squeezy bottle. Eldest child proceeded to squirt the contents over my client. And my client claims that it contained urine. This whole episode gave our mother reason for great laughter, though in all honesty all who have heard this recollection since have found equal amusement. Adam has been open in acknowledging its truth and so it became clear; Adam led the way in taking the first steps to change our lives from that point forward. Bumface would become just a name in our lives from henceforth, and no longer our dad or anyone we would see again for many years to come. But dont get me wrong; our fathers absence from our future was most certainly better than the arguments and quarrels we had become pawns in. After 1977 I never saw my father again for about twenty years. And even that encounter was both brief and disenchanting. There were never any regrets on the part of any of the three children that he had gone, and nor are there today that we are all in our forties. There comes a point, even from Bumfaces perspective, where the best thing all round is just to part ways and go lead separate lives. But this did leave me and my siblings fatherless for the remainder of our childhoods, and with our mothers future inability to cope with life itself, there are some serious disciplinary lapses from my own childhood. In fact it got to the point where I just did what the hell I liked. It was Broken Britain in my own small world, though thankfully not with any current or future wrangling with the police. The question does pose itself at this point however ... what would our future bring? I was ten, Wendie twelve and Adam fourteen. And supporting our family from this point forward was the state. That meant the cheapest economy foods, hand-sewn repairs to well-worn clothes and just general financial hardship for through the next stage of my life. Mother was on Social Security. But in the divorce settlement there was a buy-out of Bumfaces share of the bungalow, resulting in a trust fund settlement. Another party got involved: step forward Cousin Tony. My mothers sisters eldest son. What a hero for fronting 5,000 to settle matters for my mother. Or was there an alterior motive?

CHAPTER 6: Aloha-Oh Mother was now emancipated with her three children at her side. There was Adam Willie (William), Wendie Billie and Toby Willie (Also William). And so mother became known as Mother Willie by the greater majority of the household: all three children. Her true name was in fact Wendie Billie, exactly as my sister. Ok, if you prefer vulgarities we can say Willy, but I think the word was always properly Willie. And as full circles come around even my wife calls me Toby Willie today, so there is no near end in sight to this family name. Likewise our own son and daughter carry these same middle names; Willie & Billie respectively. They do at least suit their first names! Mother Willie had many jobs in her teens and early twenties. This fact only came out recently because until then I had only associated her with just the one profession. She was an exotic dancer. No no no, not pole dancing or striptease. Mother Willie was a performer dont you know. Theatrical and professional dont you know. At least, that is how she would describe herself. Her greatest performance was a one-time appearance at the Bristol Hipperdrome, dont you know, or at least thats what we were told. Well I guess its believable because its hardly the London Palladium or Royal Albert Hall, as were once frequented by my personal favourites The Stranglers. And however she would describe her illustrious past, it would always be with a dont you know. As 1977 came and went my brothers taste in music was developing. The Stranglers, The Clash and The Sex Pistols were amongst his record collection, and it was from here that I took my eventual musical energy, focus and passion. Most notably from the one band that not only still plays today, but played Glastonbury Festival finally in 2010 (even if the BBC failed to film the gig). Yes, The Stranglers have always been there for me with great new albums, solid music and most notably of all probably the best bass guitar on this planet. But dont take my word for it; Bass Magazine voted Peaches as the best bass riff and quite frankly I just dont see Level 42s bass as coming close. To put my view of The Stranglers into perspective, I was walking home from school in 1983 and a friend grumbled my favourite band has already split up. It was The Specials. Although they reformed for Glastonbury 2009, they had been a dead band in the interim. The Stranglers continued, from as far back as 1974 and through to today. The departure of their lead singer in 1990 was a huge loss, and I feel they lost their way for many years afterwards. But today they are as good as ever; even better in fact, with an album due in early 2012. And theres been barely a day go by in the last 30 years when Ive not heard their music. I guess you love it or hate it. Mother Willie danced Arabic, Chinese Chopsticks and (her best performance) Hawaiian. Donning her long black veil of a wig, lots of make-up, coconut halves over the breasts and a long grass skirt she would enter the stage to the music of South Pacific. To this day I am proud to have liked The Damned before their bassist Captain Sensible had his number 1 hit with Happy Talk! And thats how our parents met. Bumface was a Redcoat, Mother Willie a performer. And I imagine in her day she was very good indeed. Certainly good enough to win the heart of the inner Butlins family circle, with both their attendance and gifts at our parents wedding. The engraved silver cigarette box remained at Lansallos for many years afterwards. I saw it for myself, with engraved signature by both Billy and Bobby Butlin. Though where this trinket resides now is anyones guess. Probably in a landfill site.

After our parents divorced Mother Willie began to find herself again, albeit briefly. She never lost the grief of her fathers death, nor of her divorce, albeit hidden behind fiery and spitting insults of her estranged ex-spouse. She practised singing and dancing in front room, hula-hula skirts on sometimes and she made herself a props room of all her theatrical costumes, baubles, bijous and doo-dahs. It was quite an Aladdins Cave of theatrical props, canes, top hats and tails. And she would watch other hula-hula performers on television too, frequently explaining to her children why she was better. Just look at their big, fat, wobbly arses! she would proclaim. Well, maybe they were big and fat by comparison to mums, but they were (a) there actually doing it on t.v. and (b) had a few years of youth advantage over Mother Willie too. So the children would be chuckling to themselves in realisation that here was a has-been with a touch of envy to boot.

She kept telling us (at nearly forty) that she still had the talent. We didnt quite get it ourselves. I guess in working mens clubs (full of 40 70 year olds) she would probably look quite dashing. But back on stage again? In theatre? So Mother Willie was ready to hit the stage once again. Question is, could she make it?

CHAPTER 7: They Came A Courting

As forty beckoned (Mother Willie was born in 1937) she still looked good. Having passed forty myself now I would honestly say that she kept herself looking fit up to that point. So where to begin? The next five years was little short of a sex-fest for Mother Willie, shagging anything that moved, grabbing anything she could and all the while taking longer and longer to prepare herself for an evening out. It got to the stage where shed start preparing in the morning and still be late by evening. For one particular night out at a concert she was due to meet at the pick-up point at 7pm, so she started preparing herself at 10:30am. She eventually left the house to meet the others at 8:30pm. Twenty minutes later was back home again, bitterly disappointed that they had all left without her. Well, an hour and a half is usually a sign that someone isnt coming. Not in Mother Willies eyes though. The first new boyfriend after the messy divorce was Richard. A few years younger than Mother Willie, he was a decent enough bloke with a respectable job. He would come round most evenings for the best part of two years, and sister Wendie most of all took to him very well. He bought me a racing bicycle too (I would have been about twelve), so he was actually a very good, steady boyfriend for Mother Willie. But it was also during those two years that big changes happened with Mother Willie. Either she changed or I just became aware of who she truly was. The progressively worsening lateness (for evenings out) clearly frustrated Richard, as well it might. He was generally a very patient person, but to plan a night out and then for her not to be ready until closing time must have been quite an annoyance. Not just once or twice but quite literally every time. And then there was Christmas dinner that year. Mother Willie started cooking in the morning. We all sat down to eat at 11:30pm, totally past any stage of hunger and actually more in desire of sleep than food. All the while that she was with Richard there would be Mother Willies coffee cup by her side. Even when she went to the bedroom or bathroom. It was a tall, thin, earthenware mug. Quite attractive, but surely not that precious to take with her everywhere she went? And to make sure the coffee didnt spill, she carried it around with a small saucer on top. Mother Willie always loved coffee, but little did I realise until a year or two later that the contents of this coffee cup was not coffee, and the saucer was only there to conceal the vessels true unrelenting curse, morning, noon and night. There were two great things Richard did do for Mother Willie during their time together, and one great thing he didnt. The didnt do was the plumbing in of her precious Aga. She asked him several times if he could help, or if he knew anyone that could. Living off Social Security since the divorce money was always tight in our household. We lived of Tescos basic range. And in those days the food was quite disgusting. Cornflakes that went soggy the moment milk was poured over them, low calorie lemon or orange squash (we never had fizzy drinks like other kids), watery baked beans on basic range toast. Some days we got basic range spaghetti on toast instead, or Mother Willies home-made risotto which (by comparison to other delicassies de la maison) was not so bad and usually lasted a couple of days.

Anyways, the Aga never got connected whilst Richard was on the scene, and that was a few years. But what Richard did do was get her back onto the stage again, albeit in a much smaller capacity. As a keen amateur photographer he got all his best kit and took some very professional photos of Mother Willie in her hula-hula costume. And between them they invented a re-branded stage name for her too. Princess Dewie. My understanding was that Dewie was a loose anagram of her true name (Wendie) and it kind of sounded the part. So with a large batch of glossy A5 promotional photos, both Mother Willie and Richard set out to promote her to various clubs in the county. And it was not long before she got some bookings. Richard even bought her a decent amplifier (a.k.a. The Amp) and made a cassette of a backing soundtrack for her performances. I went to one or two gigs, so got the gist of the typical performance. There was the opening aloha-oh track, which one might typically and best associate with a hula dancer or Hawaiian music. This was followed by some Hawaiian war dance. Well, it sounded that way with the way the bongos were being hammered and some kind of yakka yakka yakka type backing vocal. There were one or two other ceremonious type tracks in there too, such as a bridal dance. And the finale of the show was to pick some pissed-up gentleman from the audience and strip him down to his knickers (heaven help the poor bloke if ever hed not got clean ones on!), strap on some coconuts and a hula skirt and get him up dancing too. All said and done I have to say that the punters loved it and the act was something different. Mother Willie would get her 50 - 100 cash in hand for the nights work. Everyone was a winner, except perhaps the Social, who should have no doubt had their share in the form of income tax or other reimbursement for their supportive outlay to our family. Richard also bought Mother Willie a car. A second hand car, but well fixed up. His other hobby was car mechanics, so he made sure all was in good working order. It was a beautiful, red, sort-top MGB. A pokey, sporty little number and for a good while Mother Willie felt like the princess once again. I would guess that this was probably the closest and only time she had ever got to feeling loved (or in love) again. And theres no denying that the MG was a terrific upgrade from the rust-bucket Hillman Imp predecessor! In the thick of winter of 1977 grandmother died. Mother Willie decided to drive to the funeral with Adam in the soft-top MG. It was about 500 miles each way from St. Austell to Middlesbrough and this was during one of the thickest country-wide snowfalls I can remember. How they made it there and back is probably a miracle, but make it they did. It was at this funeral, or rather the wake, that I learned that mum had passed the boundaries of decency and truly commenced her path of senility, alcoholism and profanity. After getting incredibly drunk at the wake she went beyond the boundaries of flirting with her nephew (our cousin Tony) who was just seven years her junior. So Tony would have been about 33 himself. Unbeknown to them, whilst they were having sex that evening, the sleeping 14year-old son Adam was in fact awake and aware of all that was going on in the same bedroom. Adam only told me about this thirty three years later, so my relationship with Tony from this point in 1977 was with total ignorance of his carryings on with my mother. Soon after grandmothers funeral, and their safe return to St. Austell, Tony came down to visit. It was my first memory of him. He drove a beautifully valletted Mercedes Benz, which was not totally surprising having as he did the profession of a self-employed chauffeur. Uncouth in both appearance (apart from when suited and booted for work) and mannerisms,

Tony was a refreshing and welcome visitor to our family life. With him came boxes of new games and his teaching the kids (Wendie, Adam and I) the game of Risk made every visit to our house a highly anticipated and delightful memory for me. On one occasion I recall Tony arriving and before unpacking he went straight to Mother Willies bedroom with her, with door locked. They talked for what seemed like hours. I remember banging on the door a few times with the words come on, I want to play some games. But both he and Mother Willie told me to be patient, they were still talking and would be out in a few minutes. In my ignorance at the age of nine I believed it all. It wouldnt be until 2010 that I would think back to this moment and realise what could have been so urgent (other than lust) to have made Tony make a beeline to Mother Willies bedroom to talk so quickly upon his arrival. Would you believe that this incestuous act (sex between a man and his mothers sister) only became a crime in 2003? So perhaps one should say that what they were doing was perfectly acceptable? Its very hard to see it that way now I look back though. Over the next four years Tony visited regularly (three or four times per year) for what would typically be a week at a time. He taught is lots of new games and one in particular that I have played at World Championship level ever since. Diplomacy. Diplomacy is a seven-player negotiation game. Not totally unlike Risk, except that all movements are made after everyone has spoken (in secret) with everyone else, and these movements are written down in secret. They are then all read out concurrently, whereby it is revealed that some promises have been kept, whilst others have not. Some could regard it as an alliance game, whereby treaties and promises are kept. Others would regard it as an opportunity to lie, cheat and metaphorically stab your opponents in the back. Either way I loved it, and started straight away to play the game by post, though some of the (hundreds of) amateur postal Diplomacy magazines that were sprouting up at the time. In later years I would edit my own postal (and then email) Diplomacy magazine, become the first British player to win the European Championships and be generally regarded as comfortably inside the top ten best players in the World. Probably even within the top five best. Whatever my actual ranking (which is generally more accurately measured through player consensus rather than a mathematical statistic) it would be true to say that the Worlds best players would treat me as amongst their number. For the introduction to this game I am indebted to Tony. For his other antics and behaviour where Mother Willie is concerned, I am nothing short of disgusted by him. Though at the time I knew nothing of them. What I did know for certain though was that in the late Seventies my parents divorce settlement was coming to a conclusion. And to finalise matters Mother Willie needed to find 5,000 to buy out my fathers share of the family bungalow Lansallos. Much of it would be put into trust for the children, some to Mother Willie and the remainder required a 5,000 pay-off to Bumface. Tony fronted the 5,000. At the time I recall thinking what a good guy Tony was, how he had helped his wider family in their time of need and how grateful we all were to him for this. But in reality (and with hindsight of some 33 years later) it is clear that this payment linked directly to the sex and I wonder now whether Tonys generosity was only made after promise of reward from Mother Willie. It would certainly be in line with his character because I witnessed no future generosity from him for any genuine reason of family

need. He got his money back, many years later, with interest. It wasnt the greatest of financial returns for him though, and probably deservedly so because he surely had adequate interest in kind. Tony also knew of no person that could help Mother Willie with the installation of her precious Aga. As Tony had become a regular at our house from about 1977 to 1981 he ultimately commented that one day he would write a book:The Plumbing In Of Aunties Aga. Well, I beat him to it, and hes no longer alive to write such a book anyway. Richard was still on the scene whilst Tony visited, almost certainly completely unaware of their sworded secret either. But one day in 1979 my own perception and understanding of Mother Willie changed for good.

CHAPTER 8: School, Fags & Booze

Up until 1978 whilst living in St. Austell, Wendie and I attended Charlestown Primary. It was (or so I believed at the time) a great school with great teachers, good education and I was happy there. I was also a particular favourite of the headmaster; hed often sit me on his knee and gave me the leading role in the schools rendition of Peer Gynnt. He never once told me off and was always especially friendly towards me. On one occasion his hand went a little higher on my leg than I was comfortable with and, with a small jolt on my part, he took it away again. He never touched me again after that. But I was later to learn just how truly lucky I was. Several years later said headmaster was arrested and jailed for paedophilia. The stories that came out from this were totally horrific, and some of the children (mostly a year or two below me) were very badly affected. Some with permanent mental scars, Looking back I can see the signs. But thats all they were just signs, not proof. He would hold the towel around children as they got changed at the local swimming baths, and then take a private peek at their tackle. And some children (as they practised for school plays) would be standing on a chair and he would come up behind them and wave at the rest through their legs. These are just the things I saw for myself, but that was pretty much it. Nothing sufficient to convict him for, and it all appeared rather innocent. Amusing even. Well, I was nine or ten, so how else could these things appear? But the signs were definitely there now I look back. The worst sign being the red light above his personal office door. When the red light was on he was busy, and nobody was allowed to enter. That was the school rule and all knew it. The most sickening part of all when looking back at this now was exactly what that red light truly meant. Chances are that each time it was on it was concealing some young, innocent child being abused. Although he never did me any harm personally (and in fact was a very good headmaster from my perspective at the time) what he did to those other children was nothing less than sickening. However, he eventually got caught, was jailed and to the best of my knowledge, suffered a heart attack whilst incarcerated. Although this wont help the abused, in my mind it feels like justice ultimately prevailed. There is just one unanswered question for me though. And this is the bit that really bugs me today. There were seven other teachers at that school (at least five of them taught me over the years) plus two dinner ladies, a secretary, a caretaker and one or two other assistants. None of them (at any stage) saw and reported a thing to the best of my knowledge. It took a pupil to report it many years later, and then the floodgates opened. I would guess that if your mind is sick enough to commit such hideous acts (whilst holding down a position of such importance and trust) one would also take extra precautions in covering the trail. Its not a subject I would wish to dwell on and sincerely hope that anyone affected has been able to put it behind them long before now. In the Summer of 1978 as I left Charlestown Primary, I joined both Penrice Comprehensive and the Scouts. 2nd Charlestown. Life at that time could not have been better for me; despite the lack of financial family privilege I was happy, in blissful ignorance of the abhorrent perversities around me and was placed in the highest class of the first year at senior school. The previous school had already declared me a genius at mathematics, but looking back I was simply highly talented in this field. i.e., not a genius.

Scouts gave me something I never got from home. Holidays. I looked forward to Summer camps and loved the practical learning that the movement taught me. I was also fortunate to have such great pack leaders too; honest, genuine people who were there to help the kids grow up and teach them new things, whilst having fun at the same time. Although school friends would often come to tea, in 1979 there was a sleepover. And thats where my perception of Mother Willie changed for good. Being nearly twelve I was finally old enough to understand. As my friend and I settled down in our sleeping bags for the night, Mother Willie came in and kissed him goodnight about eight times. She was incredibly drunk, coffee cup and saucer by her side the whole evening, with the kettle remaining unused for the duration. The next morning my friend said to me; I dont know how to tell you this but your mother drinks. From then on in it became a problem to me and all the behaviours associated with her daily drunkenness would be as clear as crystal to me and all others. I also became more aware of Mother Willies smoking habit around this time. In one hand there was always a cigarette and in the other her precious coffee cup, saucer still atop; but now I knew it to be there not to protect the contents from spillage, but more to protect it from being visible (to both eyes and nose) to those around her. Most especially from me. Unpleasant events happened thick and fast after this point. Maybe it was because Richard had finally had enough and walked out, after coming to collect her for a night out but she was (as Richard worded it at the time) drunk again. Or maybe I was just becoming progressively more aware of the problem. But events sure did happen. Parading around the house in her theatrical costumes, swaying through her drunkenness, Mother Willie would perform mellow-dramatic high kicks in-between her highs and melancholic lows. And when she was low she was very low, often shouting and screaming at all three children, starting each sentence with And another thing!. It wasnt uncommon for her to be armed with the meat cleaver as she chased one of us around the house, which was actually a really scary moment even if no physical harm ever came to us from it. Many a night I was awoken at 2 - 3am with her playing her hula or Tom Jones music really loud, falling asleep and leaving it perpetually looping throughout the night. Or she would sit at the piano practising her classics. Beethovens Moonlight Sonata used to be played to perfection, years before, but now there were wrong notes aplenty. The volume of wrong notes being directly proportional to the volume of alcohol consumed. I found it quite ironic that she would regard some of my collection of punk cover versions as sacreligious, such as The Stranglers wonderfully artistic seven-minute rendition of Walk on By. Most especially as all the while she was destroying a Beethoven or Bach classical piece of music herself with a plethora of bum notes and the odd proclamation of No way, Beethoven Willie thrown into her home-made lyrical chorus. Mother Willies theatrical talent had most definitely passed its sell-by date, and she would never come to realise it herself, though all around her knew it. Over the Summer months, the best possible way for Mother Willie to spend each day would be to sunbathe naked in the back garden, accompanied with a bottle or two of wine. And she was accompanied with one or two visitors from time to time also, such as the solicitor who handled her divorce from Bumface. And perhaps most disturbing of all was the male social worker who was sent to our house to ensure the three children were mentally unscarred from the separation of their parents. Needless to say his report was glowing, as he himself glowed under the hot sun, topped up with wine and relieved by Mother Willie of any sexual stresses

his marriage may have been giving him at the time. What an absolute tosser. He never even helped Mother Willie to get her Aga installed either! All the while Lansallos was entering a state of disrepair. Having not had a lick of paint or decoration since moving in, clear signs were there that this once-sweet bungalow was becoming an unclean den. The wooden window frames were rotting from years of weather abuse; the paint had long-since dried, cracked and peeled off, leaving bear wood which had warped and split in several places. And that was the most in-tact parts; other areas had mould and fungus. The eaves were in a terrible state, almost rendering the house ready to collapse. The carpets were manky, having never been replaced since the day we moved in. And all the furniture was well and truly ready for the scrap yard. Just as things were going from bad to worse with Mother Willies health, she met Pommy. It was his nickname of course, but a suitable one at that. He had his flash zoot suit, flashHarry attitude and an appearance of one Hair Bear. But he was also quite a fun guy who took to the kids well and clearly got along well with Mother Willie. So as the Eighties commenced, we would make regular visits to Camborne to stay at Pommys place. He had a pool table which kept the kids amused, whilst he and Mother Willie would be getting up to whatever it was they were getting up to. He also had a huge stash of pornography, both in the form of magazines and videos. Maybe I wasnt supposed to find them, but find them I did. Whilst Pommy was on the scene (which he was for about a year and a half) Thursday night was fry-up night. I looked forward to the Thursday fry-up; sausage, bacon, eggs, chips, fried bread, black pudding and various other trimmings. By todays standards it was little more than a hearty cooked breakfast, but I loved it. Far better than the foul watery mash potato and cheap boiled sausages we would have before for our Thursday evening meals. Pommy liked to drink too, so they would often get drunk together; sometimes in the house and sometimes in the gardens sunbathing area, cordoned off by two camp-beds stood upright on their sides to form a low wall. So whilst the wall protected the eyes from harm, the ears suffered the full brunt of it, from the array of grunting and shrieking noises that emanated from behind. Not even the closure of windows would sufficiently shield the ears. I actually quite liked Pommy; he was a pleasant enough bloke and clearly a good time kind of guy, happy if all around him were happy. But he wasnt the most get-up-and-go kind of guy; he just liked to party. So when the subject of helping Mother Willie get her Aga installed came to the fore, he became all mouth and no action. The Aga remained nothing more than a cold, cumbersome ornament in the corner of the kitchen. For the last six years we had occasional visits from a family friend, Steve. Steve had worked on stage as a magician and compere for some of the Butlins sites, so he knew both my parents well. It was actually through him that I secured my first job as the gnome of the fairy glen. And he would often call round, bottle of wine in one hand and a spare packet of cigarettes in the other. I honestly dont know whether he and Mother Willie ever got up to anything sexual, but it sure as hell wouldnt surprise or shock me if they did. Steve called round one evening and said I just popped by to borrow your Amp because Ive got a performance tonight. It was probably a bit over-presumptious of him to expect Mother Willie to lend him her precious amplifier, because she sent him packing with his tail between his legs regardless. We never saw much of Steve after that, but no matter how much of a

friend he was he never helped his friend Mother Willie to get her Aga installed no matter how many times she asked him to help. My opinion of Mother Willie reached an all-time low one day in school. I overheard two teachers talking about her in the corridor. It transpires that she had visited the school for my open day the night before and was extremely drunk. They grew very red-faced when they saw me, and this was yet another example for me where shed overstepped the mark; turning up at any school drunk is beyond the boundary of decency in my view. Later that day sister Wendie and I spoke with Mother Willie and asked her to attend Alcoholics Anonymous. She promised to stop drinking (which she achieved for about three or four days) and dolled herself up for the first meeting. When she came home she told us that they had sent her away because everyone there were total winos and drunkards, so they all said to her that she had no problem whatsoever (by comparison) and should not be attending. At the time I bought it, but many years later (after attending AA myself) I realised just how much she had lied to us. There are many different strains of alcoholism, from the binger to the person who has vodka with their cornflakes. But each has a problem, and each is welcome at AA to share their experiences and openly come to terms with their problem. The first stage of resolving an alcohol problem is to recognise that you have a problem in the first place. So whilst Mother Willie would not admit to her problem, my name is Toby and Im an alcoholic. I dont drink every day, sometimes not every week and very rarely before 7pm. But when I do drink it can sometimes be a binge. I know, as an alcoholic, that if I were alcohol free for a whole year (as I have been, twice) I still regard myself as an alcoholic. This is because alcoholism is an inner-attitude (and a permanent illness) rather than a term to describe the volume of alcohol consumed over the past few days or months. By way of example, just because a gay person is celibate, it doesnt mean that they are not gay. It is a case of who you are on the inside, and both my mother and her youngest son are alcoholics. Whereas her daughter and eldest son are not. I am fortunate in recognising and acknowledging the problem; it has helped me to deal with it. Most of the time at least. Months later I came home from school and there was a van in the drive. The van had the words XXXs Driveways or Driveways R us kind of message painted on the side. Finally, someone was going to fix our worn-out, pot-holed driveway? Yippee! On entering the front room, a naked man (who couldnt have been more than about 25 years old) got off one naked Mother Willie and (as quickly as he could) got dressed and ran out of the house. Mother Willie explained to me afterwards that she had agreed to trade favours with him. The driveway never got fixed. Pommy soon moved on from the scene and we just got to see him less and less, rather than any specific bust-up. But with cousin Tony there was a big argument one evening. Mother Willie wanted to smoke in his Mercedes and he didnt like that. She wouldnt put the cigarette out and he wouldnt drive whilst it was lit. Ultimately it led to his leaving and never returning. But once I became fourteen I visited him a few times and we stayed in touch by post and phone. As previously stated, it wasnt until many years later that his true motive for visiting became apparent to me, and so it wasnt until then that I ceased speaking with him. He died just a few months afterwards, with severely progressed diabetes, amputated foot due to diabetic wounds and serious side effects from a life of terrible high red meat diet, excessive alcohol and a lack of exercise. I was the only member of his family to give him the

time of day during the last twenty-five years of his life, only to learn in his final year what he had truly been up to. After Pommy came The Mad Yank. A completely alcoholic madman, who was incredibly rough with both mother and children. He sexually abused Mother Willie a few times, though she never seemed to take too much of an issue with it. And when I confronted him about it (I was about fourteen) he grabbed my hair and lifted me above the ground by it. It hurt. He moved on within just a few days, leaving nothing but a sour memory and a continually dormant Aga in our kitchen. Come the Summer of 1981 Adam reached 18. Rather than stick around for his Alevel results he darted off to London (Kingston) to set up a new life with his new-found girlfriend, and work for her father in his removal business. Adam and I got on much better after that because when he was living at home we fought as many siblings do. He spent many of his later homebased years at Lansallos living in the caravan in the back garden. As the years progressed this caravan was to see more parties than most houses see in a lifetime. But that was more my own doing than anyone elses. Adam did come home for Christmas and occasional mid-year visits too though. But after his departure to London, Mother Willies state of mind worsened. She drank more and her violent mood swings became more frequent. In-between the younger visitors (several guys in their late teens and early twenties) some weirder guys came to the house. One was affectionately named Punch, due to his beaky nose and protruding chin. This tall, squeaky voiced fellow told Mother Willie that hed like to take her out for dinner the next evening. Despite all the giggles from Wendie and I about his odd look, she accepted. He picked her up at eight, which in itself was a miracle because she only kept him waiting for about thirty minutes. And off they went, all dolled up and looking good. They came home very late, so Wendie and I were in bed, but the next day Mother Willie told us all about their date and where they had gone for this wonderful meal. It was the local fish n chip shop, which also had a few tables where you could eat your meal. Wow, this guy really knew how to treat a lady! Alas he knew nothing about installing Agas either. Approaching the final year of secondary school, sister Wendie secured me a job. Washing up at the Cornish Leisure World complex. The place had a disco, arcade, Wimpy, crazy golf and a main concert hall which had in its day hosted many great names such as Tom Jones, Shirley Bassey, Status Quo, The Who. You name the band and they had probably played there at some point. I really loved this job because apart from earning me money (and feeding me!) it also enabled occasional sneaky peeks at the bands as they played or rehearsed. And of course the Wimpy bar, being waitress service, introduced me to literally dozens of friends over the years. So I worked there from 14 through to 18, and then for a couple of years after that during university holidays. At the start of 1983 my sister took me to a concert at the complex; The Stranglers. From that point onwards I was a devoted fan for life.

CHAPTER 9: College Days

The fifth and final year of Penrice was a goodun. Lots of parties at nearby village halls, beach parties and an all round introduction to alcohol. Well, bottled cider mostly. But I steered clear of cigarettes for at least another year and in general remained reasonably well behaved. As the fifth year received their Olevel results I had against all the odds passed twelve. Mostly B grades, with a few As and Cs thrown in. But the main point is that nobody else had twelve; several pupils achieved eleven, but nobody twelve. The school awards evening was announced and the pupil prize winners pre-advertised also, for their achievements in various subjects or grades. My name wasnt on this list so Mother Willie (in an extremely drunken state) telephoned the school and demanded to know why. Why was their only pupil who had achieved twelve Olevels winning nothing? The school had very little grounds to argue and presented me with an achievement certificate. It was funny really; teachers at Penrice tended to love me or hate me. I was rebellious, angry, always scruffy, not made a prefect in the final year (almost everyone else in my class was) and just generally back-chatted a lot of the teachers to the point of their putting me on report. So to collect this award felt like egg in their faces. But other teachers were truly proud for me, saying they always had faith this lad would come good in the end. And it is to them today that I thank for all their confidence and support throughout what was a very difficult period of my life. I was a happy child, but not without issues. Anger mostly. My mothers behaviour over the years had fed my anger. During my final year at school, Mother Willie met Frank the taxi driver. He was a good few years older than her. A very ham-fisted gentle giant of a guy really. All things considered he was one of her nicest boyfriends. I dont think she ever recovered from her divorce, still regularly spitting feathers as she spoke the name of Bumface. But Frank was kind to her and soon found her a Ford Cortina to replace the now clapped-out MG. He would regularly take us all (Mother Willie, Wendie and I) to his local pub at Polgooth. Mother Willie was happy enough, rarely leaving until shed drank both the bar and Franks wallet dry. And she thanked him often enough, behind the camp beds in the garden, often for whole afternoons at a time over yet more wine. Her coffee cup was never empty and by now there was no longer any need for a saucer. And when he visited, Frank would often bring cider to keep the kids happy. Im not sure if that was a good or bad thing now, but at least the whole family were in his thoughts. By now reputation of Mother Willies string of lovers had gotten around the town and she had become an embarrassment to me. Sometimes she would call into the Wimpy bar where I was working and start a drunken show. It was rarely offensive, but highly embarrassing. And the teasing I had from some friends lead to a couple of fights. In reality Mother Willie far from being a good role model was also causing me grief, both directly and indirectly. Wendie had now as good as left home, leaving me alone with Mother Willie. We just couldnt get along because she was drunk almost every night. Her alcoholism had let me down many times over the years before. One particular memory was having to walk home for two miles after scouts because she was too drunk to come and collect me. Two miles is not so far to walk, but the choice was not a pleasant one; it was two miles with no streetlights down very scary, dark, narrow lanes with high hedges or it was four miles by walking down the

well-lit by-pass, along the Mevagissey road for a mile and back up. So I braved the two mile walk in the pitch black. It was a very unpleasant memory. Another time she threw a glass at me in a drunken rage. The glass missed but smashed on the wall behind me. As she picked up some of the fragments (leaving plenty of shards behind) her finger cut quite deeply and was dripping pools of blood on the carpet. In her drunken state she stood there dripping small puddles of blood over my Scalextric track. It never worked properly again after that. And there were numerous times I would come home from school, college, work or play and find her with some stranger, frolicking naked in the front room or garden. Logic and reason played no part in Mother Willies vocabulary and it was simply a case of live with it. From the age of sixteen I got a motorbike, which gave me so much freedom. And I moved into the caravan in the back garden too, which basically meant Mother Willie and I could do our own thing whilst not getting in each others way. I was working part time so bought my own food, and in attending the Technical College I had my future planned to go onto University in a couple of years. So life wasnt so bad. But best of all, and to Mother Willies delight, in 1983 her boyfriend Frank got hold of some knocked-off piping and finally installed her Aga. There came a period where the house was warm, food was always cooking, water was always hot and Lansallos was a very pleasant place to be. Even Mother Willies drinking eased as she had something to focus her energies and happiness on. The relief this gave her took a few years off her face too. One of the hot plates was just the perfect temperature to sit on after coming in on a cold day, and there was always something hot bubbling away on the other. Unfortunately though, the Agas eventual installation was probably too little too late for our family which had already become incredibly disjointed, unharmonious and in disarray. The first year of college was much like any other year at home, save the fact that I rarely saw Mother Willie; she stayed in the house most days and I always wanted to avoid her because she was such an embarrassment. So I stayed in the caravan. Mother Willie stayed true to her embarrassing form when (aged 17) I brought a new girlfriend back. She entered the room carrying a Christmas stocking stuffed full of condoms (which she had recently been gifted by the Family Planning Clinic; apparently you could just go in there and ask for some free of charge), parked herself in-between us and asked the girl if she was taking precautions. Her reddened face gave Mother Willie the conclusion that she wasnt, so she passed her the stocking and invited her to help herself to the contents.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the second year of college something changed. My friends and I were approaching eighteen and staring to enjoy the delights of cigarettes, alcohol, cannabis and the opposite sex. And somehow Mother Willie adapted to that really well, joining in the conversation as groups of friends came back to the bungalow after the pub was closing. Initially just two or three friends back to the caravan, then more and then even more. Eventually there were too many to fit into the caravan and Mother Willie suggested everyone come into the house to drink, play music and smoke. So we all did. And she joined in. Within a matter of months she had transformed from being the most embarrassing mother in town to the coolest. Other mothers disapproved of their teenage children drinking and smoking, but here was Mother Willie welcoming all and sundry into her house. She was happy to welcome one and all, often crowds of forty or more. The whole bungalow would be filled (including some of the bedrooms) and the music continued until the early hours, as some made their way home and others just curled up in a corner and went to sleep wherever the mood took them. The town pubs were just great. The Sun has changed name a few times since and the wine bar has reverted back into Barclays bank. And although the main table has long-since departed from the Queens head (where our drunken mob would take turns to table-dance), the ambiance of the place I am pleased to say has changed very little. Well, its perhaps a little emptier today given that close by is a fairly recently opened cut-price-beer Wetherspoons pub. The most disappointing absence from the St. Austell pub scene is the General Wolfe. This was certainly my favourite drinking hole, having great music, fantastic atmosphere and occasional live bands. It was also frequented by local biker gangs too, who we were all very careful to be respectful to! The unfortunate few who did mess with them would usually exit the pub through the window quite literally. Perhaps it was these troubles that eventually led to the pubs closure, and its possibly no bad thing that all the town pubs are at the one end of the high street these days, near the church. A great location for gathering on New Years Eve, and often a buzzing area most weekends. No matter what the location we would spend out evenings, there would always be a great crowd to invite back to Lansallos after closing time. And there was rarely any shortage of party revellers joining the fun. On one occasion Mother Willie sat between two young lovers on the sofa, squeezing them apart to make room for her own posterior. She passed a cigarette packet to the guy, Dave. He was very grateful and thanked her as he opened the packet to take one out. But the packet was empty, so he looked at Mother Willie with a quizzical face, to which she answered just pass the packet around and get everyone to pop one in. She then passed a bottle of wine to his girlfriend on her other side, but as the teenager took the bottle she also realised that the bottle was empty, to which Mother Willie said go and see if someones got a full one. The point became clear; all were welcome at Lansallos. Just bring a bottle and some fags. And in general everyone did. Despite the large crowds over what spanned several years (Summers / Christmases only whilst I was at University) there wasnt a single fight break out. Everyone treasured coming back to Lansallos and the parties were simply endless. There were different crowds of people who joined us on different nights, as well as a hardcore of regulars. But no two nights were the same. Sometimes the evenings were very alcoholic and at other times the thick, pungent cloud of cannabis smoke would have floored

an elephant. We were all in our late teens and early twenties, save Mother Willie who was closer to fifty. But she blended in well and never took issue with any guest so long as they were courteous, had a good time and brought a bottle. She never went much for cannabis, drawing the odd puff when passed her way, but rarely showing much excitement over it. She often advised those around her that it had no effect on her whatsoever, and in general it was true enough that she showed virtually no sign of being stoned. None of the sickness that befouls the virgin smoker, nor an excessive sign of thirst (other than her regular thirst for alcohol), hunger, dizziness or a desire to flake out in a catatonic state. Not even the redness around the eyes which betrays even the subtlest of dope smokers. But all that said, it never stopped the leaves from gradually and mysteriously disappearing from the home-grown twelve-foot cannabis tree that grew in the back garden a few years later, during the Spring and Summer of 1989. Day times (when I got them free) could be fun too. Visitors would call round for coffee, cake and anything else on the menu. Be it a game of something plain like Scrabble or Chinese Chequers, or a game of something more exotic such as hardon-hoopla (dont ask it only happened the once!) in the back garden whilst mum was out shopping. More often than not any lazy afternoons were spent in the back garden smoking pot and drinking any available alcohol. Making love got to feature from time to time as well, but probably not much more than an average teenager today. The innocent horses beyond the flimsy wire fencing in the back garden would browse on innocently and without reprimand. Our equine neighbours attracted lots of visitors, from the owners and their families to the teenagers who would come to ride them. I knew most of the latter from school, work, clubs or just as general friends of friends. They (the horses, that is) often peered over the fence to chomp on the more lush grass in our garden, and I even got to ride one on one occasion as a good friend was over to look after them. It wasnt a great horsey experience, but clearly the girl knew how to handle him. I think with horses you either love or keep your distance. My approach is at arms length, with outstretched hand containing an apple. Beautiful animals, but not my kindred spirit like the smaller domestic pets. We had a cat. Another cat since the days of Cookbury. We called her Lucy, though why is beyond me. Its funny how dogs have three types of name: traditional, macho and soppy. But cats can be called anything at all. You would never find a dog called felix, but you could find a cat called Rover or Toby. Mother Willie went out on one of the horses once. The girl responsible for exercising them (someone I knew from school) befriended Mother Willie and often visited with wine, cake and conversation. After falling off I dont think Mother Willie went onto a horse again afterwards, but she would still feed them clumps of grass, fruit and anything else she felt they might like as a treat. It was fairly true to say that Mother Willie was a lover of Mother Nature, and more than just the similarity of their names. But she liked to party more. One particularly memorable party did attract a number of unsavoury strangers. They had a kind of wheres the booze? wheres the women? attitude about them from the moment they arrived, empty-handed. Everyone knew the rules; it was a sin to turn up at Mother Willies without a bottle of some sorts, even if you hogged it to yourself all night. The point being that you had paid your entrance fee and were not there simply to scrounge off the house. Perhaps, had they approached the party humbly, there would have been a welcome for them. But as word had got around the town (theres a cool place to drink after hours) they approached

as though their automatic entrance was their right, forgetting that it was also someones house. The true community spirit of Lansallos came to bare as soon as these strangers came in. Several of the guys dealt with it and, without need of co-ordination or agreement of how to deal with the issue, they all worked together to ensure the newcomers left without trouble, argument or resentment. Diplomacy can be a fine weapon. Looking back at these late night parties they would have been the nightmare of any staunch Christian. But in the days when pubs closed at 11pm there were only a few choices available. The first is to have a cup of tea and go to bed. The very thought would have had any of these parties roaring with laughter. The second would have been to go to Quasars (a nightclub open until 2pm, located on Carlyon Bay beach). It was expensive, required smart dress and the music was not exactly to everyones taste. The third was to go somewhere public, like a park, and chill out there. I daresay any decent community would have preferred our parties to have remained behind closed doors. And the fourth was to have the party at someones house. We did just that; at Lansallos. And we partied hard. The parties were often far too large to be hosted by merely a kitchen and (large) living room. There was always some overflow into one or more of the four bedrooms. Adam and Wendie had both left home now, so there were three spare rooms plus the caravan. Sometimes partygoers would go in there for sex (and not necessarily in pairs) whilst on other occasions it was simply to find a dark room with a comfy mattress just to rest the head. Whether that be for the whole night or just for an hour, the sleepy-head would be assured of a welcome roof over their head with coffee and conversation with the few other remnants in the morning. At one party there was a friendly piggy-back pillow-fight in the front room. Guys carried the girls and cushions galore were brought in from around the bungalow. These were to cover the floor for protection of falling, as well as to provide each team with a weapon. The scrap commenced. There was a lot of giggling and a few couplings were made that night, from individuals who had previously just been friends. Most just ended the night in each others arms; on top of beds, as it was such a hot evening. In fact there was nothing particularly seedy about the whole evening and if anything it was quite romantic for the new couples. Whilst some evenings yielded bonding, love and happiness, others produced hilarity. The first of recollection was the time when one of the male attendees recommended a game of strip poker. It was quite transparent that he wanted to see naked flesh, and this was not to be his lucky night. For the girls, only Mother Willie offered to participate. In turn all the guys dropped out too, except he who initiated the game. It quickly became a spectator sport with just two participants and lots of goading onlookers. Before play commenced she slipped away to her theatrical props room and returned clad in a basque, top hat, boots ... and several hundred bangles. Each time she lost a hand of cards, she removed a bangle. It didnt take long for the guy to be down to his (rather stringy) underpants, whilst Mother Willie had lost little more than ten percent of the jewellery from her arm. Admitting defeat he stood up to get his clothes on. But as he bent down to pick up his trousers, Mother Willie swiftly slid his pants to his knees to claim a true victory and applause from all. Oh, and two very embarrassed cheeks. My particular favourite however was the occasion when a female art student joined the party. She left to go to the bathroom and was gone for an hour before anyone questioned her absence. Two of us found her in Mother Willies theatrical props room which she found to be nothing short of a treasure trove. She was picking things up to inspect them, trying them on and then laying them back down again ever so carefully so as to respect their place and

position within the room. Eventually she said she was ready to return to the party, but as she followed us she was carrying two things. The first was a cassette labelled Mother Willies Hula Music and the second a Hawaiian skirt. She had broken the golden rule of the house: she had entered Mother Willies theatrical props room! But there was something special about this girl that Mother Willie really liked. A rustic honesty, a purposeful absence of make-up or perhaps her emancipation in respectfully standing up to any man she did not desire. The eyes surveyed the room from the doorway and, once she had everyones attention, she held up both skirt and cassette and said anyone for hula?. There were several volunteers but it would be Mother Willie who would select the bearer of her treasured costume. A Lansallos party regular and, dare I say, trustee. He stripped to his underpants as ordered by Mother Willie, as our female student married up the tape with the cassette player. And with all eyes fixated on the new Hawaiian of the household, Mother Willie announced you wont be needing these now will you! as she swiftly slid his pants to his ankles and wrapped the skirt around him; before anyone had a chance to witness any nudity. Well, he danced to the aloha-ohs, arms waving from side to side, in all the right motions and keeping his manhood comfortably hidden behind the long grasses. He was a hit. A storm in fact. As the tune ended he got his rapturous applause from all and took a bow. But then the Hawaiian war tune came on and he was pleaded with by all and sundry to do an encore. He agreed. If you can imagine this kind of tune (being more aggressive) our Hawaiian had to jump and kick a little in order to display a reasonable understanding of the war-chant rhythm. And thats when it happened; throughout the whole track his weener kept poking out from between the grasses and everyone found it hilarious. Even the dancer (becoming aware of the situation long after the horse had bolted, as it were) decided to carry on as normal and entertain his newfound fanatical audience. The whole party scene culminated with a marquee in the garden. The marquee had candles and drinks and its own stereo for the pop fans. The caravan was playing The Damned, The Stranglers and other punk delicassies, whilst the house had such olde classics as Neil Sedaka and Ken Dodd and the Diddymen. Everyone flitted from zone to zone and the whole place started to resemble a very small open-air festival. This was the last really great party I can remember at Lansallos, and without doubt it was better than any I would be able to arrange today. It brought together many friends from different backgrounds (school, college, the Wimpy, the pubs, nighclubs and just general friends of friends etc) and all seemed to get on really well together. Youth really is quite some gift and I look back delighted at not having wasted mine.

CHAPTER 10: Mother Willie Turns 50

July 2nd 1987. It was Mother Willies 50th birthday, and a few weeks short of my 20th. I had already returned home from Polytechnic for a few weeks work over the Summer (back at the Wimpy bar in Carlyon Bay) with plenty of intent on parties as well. This was to be my last full Summer in St. Austell because, by the following year, I had effectively set up permanent residency in London. Adam was down in St Austell too for this Summer, or at least some of it, and he had now become well known by all the Wimpy girls as the good-looking Billy Idol lookalike (complete with skull motif neckerchief and studded belt). As they stood by the wall waiting for the next customer to wait upon, they would take turns to glance at him reading his big newspaper. Throughout the day (starting from the moment she awoke) Mother Willie prepared herself for her special birthday evening out with her two sons. We were taking her to Quasars; a very modern disco (branded the Nitespot for the Nineties) which by lucky hap was celebrating its own second birthday that very evening also, since opening just two years earlier (rebranded from its previous carnation; Bentleys). In other words it was going to be full to the brim and have a party games and prizes atmosphere. If you wanted to spend evenings lazing around and smoking cannabis then Quasars wasnt for you. Nor was it for the punk, pauper, prude or peasant. But what Quasars was great for was late night drinking, and meeting a different group of friends and females. Besides, Adam (like Mother Willie) loved to dance. They were both good movers on the dance floor, whilst I never have been. A waste of good drinking time! Upon entering the indoor part of the lengthy entrance queue, Mother Willie spotted the decorative balloons and streamers. So she thanked each of the bouncers in turn for their consideration of her birthday, shaking many of them by the hand as well. Their smiling acknowledgements hid their own, true understanding of Mother Willie. Quasars was a part of the same complex as the Wimpy Bar where I had worked for so many years, so I would regularly go to Quasars after an 11pm finish. Not only did I know all the bouncers personally, and had cooked grills for almost all of them on many previous occasions (dating back for the last five years), but they in turn knew me and (by reputation) Mother Willie. They beckoned her into the disco, and bid her a very happy birthday for the evening ahead. First stop was the bar. Not simply because thats what blokes do when they enter a disco, but also because had it not been our opening move then it would have been ordered so by the birthday girl. We bought her a cocktail and a pint each for ourselves. Cheers, Happy Birthday and our traditional statement in moments such as these may you have another one. This phrase first originated from Uncle Georges mother back in 1974; she only said it the once but our small clan never forgot it and still repeat it at birthdays today. Quasars held about 700 but, after its various expansions, could comfortably host a thousand souls. And tonight it was at capacity with everyone clearly soaking up the party mood. The first thing everyone does after their initial drink has been bought is to do a little cruising. It is probably more of a term adopted by the gay community, though equally well applied to

the straight. Adam and I loved checking out the talent, though the most interesting thing of all was that we never really competed directly. He liked the tall, leggy sort whilst I preferred the shorter girls. It kind of made our mutual respect for each others preference easy to split the prospective pool somewhere around the 5 9 point. But if that werent an adequate division of candy then, in general, Adams girlfriends had to be skinny whilst I would be left with (to quote his words) the short, dumpy ones. Well thats not the most respectful way of describing my type, but I did find thinner and taller girls with model-like looks less attractive. And the best way to check out all and sundry was from the upstairs bars balcony. From here you could peruse the lower-level dance floor at ease. It was always the females who would be first to brave the light-encrusted floor. And to the left was the spiralling stairs with their cosy alcoves, typically harbouring groups of guys early on in the evenings and then attracting an equal gender mix towards the half way point of the night. Thats where the first bouts of snogging would typically take place. Half way down the spiral stairs was piss alley corner. It was a decorative water fountain, aptly named by the Wimpy Manageress some two years prior, just before the initial opening when the Wimpy staff (well, one or two chosen ones) were treated to a sneaky peak of the disco just before its grand opening. Quasars did have a buzz about it, and the draft Holsten really was great. The New years Eve prior I had snorted a line of speed after about six or seven pints, and as the dance-floor cleared when the clock stuck 2am, I was left in the centre of the room and collapsed, forehead-first onto the wood. Bump! Waking up in bed the next morning (minging clothes stuck to my body with sweat) the guys told me theyd sorted me out with a taxi and helped carry me in. I never did touch that stuff again. But on this night (July 2nd, 1987) of Quasars & Mother Willies joint birthdays, the place truly came alive. It seemed that everyone Adam and I knew was there. We were single and were gonna have a good time. At some point we separated. Memory gets a little hazy but no doubt I was in great company, somewhere near the bar. Mother Willie was left on the dance-floor because we knew shed be all right there; unable to drink and burning off any alcohol shed already downed. We did catch her mid-evening going up to the DJs and snatching their bottle of wine. It was there for them to quench their own thirsts throughout the night, but Mother Willie took it anyway, thanked them as she did and adequately justified her theft with a thats my prize for such good dancing. And to be fair, most who knew her would have said well, it is your birthday: go girl!. It certainly was. It must have been about 1am when it happened. The music changed. I dont even know what the tune is called, but its the classic stripper instrumental. The one youd know anywhere. I was well hidden away with a small group in the upper balcony and Adam pushed his way in by way of emergency. Quick, come and see Toby. Sure enough our worst possible thoughts were realised. Just two dancers on the floor: Mother Willie and an exhibitionist. He egged her on, she egged him on. The result can only be explained by the photos. Within seconds the Quasars manager barged through the crowds, aided and abetted by four bouncers. As they pushed passed me I grabbed the manager and explained it was my mother and I would stop this, but he retorted that it had gone too far. The music stopped for about five minutes whilst the bouncers (in all credit to them) resolved the situation through negotiation. We didnt stay long after that and Mother Willie had left her mark at Quasars on the memory of many hundreds of spectators.

Adam and Mother Willie strutting their stuff.

Mother Willie eggs the exhibitionist.

Things hotten up on the dancefloor.

Time to call the bouncers.

The photos were taken by one of the maintenance guys who (after showing them round to all and sundry) eventually succumbed to peer pressure and simply handed them to me in the Wimpy bar the next afternoon. If Mother Willie was in any way unknown before her 50th birthday, she was certainly the talk of the town now. That Summer was the last time I went to Quasars for a few years. Not through reasons of embarrassment; that had come my way many times before. But moreso because I was back in London and times were changing for me.

CHAPTER 11: University

With three Mathematics Alevels (the first at sixteen) this was always going to be my subject of preference. And today my lifelong working career with marketing databases has a reasonable synergy with the subject. Self-employed too, so Im grateful for both the learning and opportunity to be financially autonomous. Having already seen The Cult during freshers week at Exeter University, come the Easter of 1987 (after I had been expelled from Exeter and had joined Middlesex Polytechnic) Adam and I headed down to Carlyon Bay for their Electric tour. We arrived in the St. Austell vicinity just in time for the gig, greeted by a crowd of friends we knew and loved. There were some newcomers too. Even though I personally consider the Cults later music to be superior, and have remained a loyal fan, this was to be their last tour with full commercial success. Given our positioning at the back of the room, one of the new girly friends we had just met asked for a shoulder ride and I more than willingly obliged. Now whilst I realise that these concerts can get sweaty, there could be no clean justification for the streams of fluid that drenched my neck than from her nether region. Actually, the music was great and she was light so I didnt care. But it did make holding onto her rather slippery! Exeter had dispensed with my attendance at their fine university after I failed both year-one exams and the re-sits. Fair dos. To be honest I spent most of the re-sits (which lasted a few days) playing the bars club fruit machine, whilst the other remnants around me were frantically revising. I didnt deserve a second-year place. I came home in late September having failed the re-sits and with no future. Just for the record, my best result in the original exams was 25%, and even that was of course a fail. Mother Willie was great and, for once in her life, stern. She made many phone calls that day and eventually secured me a telephone interview with e course leader at Middlesex Polytechnic in Hendon. The Mathematics for Business course had already started but they invited me to join the group. Adam helped with my assimilation to Londons way of life, regularly making the drive from the Kingston area to Mill Hill, and in turn I began to enjoy his company more and his own party-scene at Hampton Court. Adam had become that cool big brother that made me proud to be his sibling. As each of the three main student holidays approached, I would really look forward to the drive back home with Adam. As we both now lived in the London area we could go back home together in his blue mini. On one occasion it was to attend the aforementioned Cult concert, on others it was to attend other parties: Lansallos was not the only house in town to host great events. One of our friends lived with their parents just on the edge of the town centre, which always made for really great convenience after a nights drinking in the General Wolfe, Queens head or Nicholas Nicklebys Wine Bar. Much to my dismay only one of these three great establishments still stands today. The former is now a toy shop, as the Bodmin Road curves sharply upwards to avoid the west side of Fore Street. And the latter has been reclaimed by its owners (Barclays Bank), in prime location as it is in front of the town church where folk congregate for cheers and kisses each New Year. This time Adam and I were coming down and starting with a party at this house just off the town centre. We met because an ex-girlfriend worked with the lady of the house. The daughter of the house (during a previous party) hooked up with a close school-friend. After that the Harris Brothers were regular attendees at all that houses receptions, get-togethers,

knees-ups and shindigs. We cared not for the name of the evening, just to know we were in for a good time. A bit like Lansallos there were often two parties happening at once. One in the seedy out house (which was effectively a one bedroom flat in the back yard) and the other in the house itself. Both locations were good and Adam & I would regularly mingle between the two. But the house location came at a price. The father of the house was protective over his teenage daughter (and good for him!) so would be rather quizzical of all and sundry who came to visit. The Harris Bruvvers passed that little test ok, but then came the drugs test. He hated drugs any kind of drug. We came to a mutual understanding (as we were neither his daughters boyfriend) that we would each respect our mutual stand-off on the subject. Unfortunately for him, our friend who was dating his daughter faced a stauncher inquisition. As he (wrongfully) assumed the coast to be clear in the kitchen to skin up. Now dont get me wrong, Adam and I had already developed our own thirst to do this ourselves. But we had established a mutual respect with the man of the house and were not about the breech this trust. The joint got rolled and the joint got lit ... father walks in. Although he was one of the nicest, most tolerant and easy going guys you could meet, to see his daughters boyfriend doing drugs was a bit much for his levels of tolerance. And in a very downing tone he said And how much did that SHIT cost you ?. What a line, with real emphasis given to the word shit. But by response the future son-in-law retorted thirty quid with a cheeky, nonchalant wink. To some it may have appeared a rude retort, but in reality what else could he say but answer the question to hand? The two of them spent the rest of the night in a kind of man-to-man discussion. And the rest of us just enjoyed the party. The following morning was a late starter. At least ten people had stayed the night at the party, and all had sore heads. In fact my head was very sore indeed! But after a hearty start with coffee and toast the remnants made their way down to the Sunday Market at Par. It was becoming clear to me why these markets were so popular; as a child the cheap one or two pound toys (the kind of thing you see in modern day pound shops) were a can I have? and a parental actually, yeah, you can have that one response kept the youngsters loving these premises. Today I needed refillable lighters (five for a pound), Rizzlas, some quick nosh and some Polos cover the horrible smell of both the night before and the newly generated one from the repulsive boiled meat-between-two-baps. I was minging, and in an attire of punk clothing was not so aesthetic to the eye either. But my new girlfriend stood by me, held my hand tightly, kissed me often and gave me regular security throughout the day. Maybe this was the one? By the end of that day after I had learned that not only had she not yet separated from her last boyfriend but also that he would have had no idea of what she had done in the last twenty four hours. But it wasnt to deter me. Wed had something special the night before and it meant a lot to me. The day flew and by the night we were all at Quasars for some heavy drinking once again. Not just our small group but pretty well everyone who had attended the party the night before. It wasnt long afterwards that I had to return to Polytechnic, shortly after the Easter of 1986 and a great start to this very brief but memorable Easter excursion which had begun with the Cult concert of such memory. The polytechnic years were just fantastic as those prior, and that was just the Cornish aspect of it all.

EPILOGUE
I only truly lived in St. Austell for eleven years of my life. Approximately one quarter of it. But on returning there at any stage since there are butterflies in the stomach as I cross the Tamar bridge, or enter the Launceston area through the Bodmin Moor route. Sadly Mother Willie departed this World in 2010, and Lansallos (with Aga) was demolished and rebuilt. She died of lung cancer, with only three attendees at her funeral; Adam, cousin Adrian and I buried her in her parents burial plot in Middlesbrough. Whatever our mothers do, we only have one. In my case, one was more than sufficient. Whilst to some Cornwall is better known for its Eden project of today (or the Doctor Who and the Daleks television of the 1970s), its sandy beaches, windsurfing, pasties, inaudible accent, being a heck of a long way away by car, cream teas, fishing villages, Lands End, Roche Rock and the Luxullyan Viaduct (of The Omen III fame), Poldark, The Eagle Has Landed, Wycliffe, St Michaels Mount, Goonhilly Downs, The Jamaican Inn (Es ist Spukt!), the china clay tips & pits, Restormal Castle, The Royal Cornwall Show, The Lizard Point and of course being a beautiful, relaxing place to retire ... for me this Wombles-nose-shaped stretch of the English terrain is a place of parties, fun, great pubs and always knowing theres someone unexpected youll bump into on your next visit.