Thanks also to my fabulous friends, Sue Cox, Pat Fletcher and Rosie de Courcy.

And last but not least, thanks to all my lovely loyal readers.

God bless,

KC xx

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THE FAMILY MAN

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PROLOGUE

I was born in 1943, in Stratford, East London. A war baby, I was my mother’s first child and would turn out to be her only.

I never had a dad, but I had lots of different uncles who’d visit. Some were nicer to me than others.

Then Uncle Pete turned up on the scene and, unlike all the others, he didn’t disappear. Quite the opposite, he moved in with us.

Even though I was only six, I could tell Uncle Pete couldn’t stand the sight of me. I tried to be a good boy, keep out of his way so I didn’t antagonize him. That didn’t stop the beatings though, especially if he’d been down the boozer. He’d just stroll into my bedroom and start on me for no valid reason.

One day, after being whipped on my bare arse with Uncle Pete’s leather belt, I caught two buses and managed to find my grandparents’ home in Canning Town. I was in agony, had to stand up throughout the journey as it was too bloody painful to sit down.

Me granddad went ballistic, shot straight out the house. My nan comforted me, bathed my sores and made me numerous cups of sweet tea.

I never lived with my mum again after that. I moved in with me nan and granddad. I was much happier there.

Life was good for a while. Nan and Granddad never seemed to be poor like a lot of people. Granddad didn’t have a normal job, but sometimes he’d come home with lots of money and give me some. I recall asking him how he earned his money once. I was about nine at the time and I’ll never forget his words to me. He looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Kenny, one day when you’re old enough, I’ll teach you all about my world. I promise.’ After that I was always intrigued about Granddad’s world. Sometimes he’d go missing for almost a week, but Nan never seemed too concerned when I asked if Granddad was OK. ‘Your Granddad’s fine, boy. He’s on a bit of work,’ she’d chuckle.

Tragedy struck first just after my tenth birthday. Nan went off to Rathbone Street market one day, came home complaining of terrible stomach pains, spent the night on the sofa, and me and Granddad woke up to find her dead the following morning.

Granddad was never the same after Nan’s death. He lost his sparkle, seemed to give up on life and earning money. He rarely ate and started hitting the whisky. Would sit in his favourite armchair and drink a whole bottle before lunchtime. So I was packed off to live with me mum’s sister, Aunt Nelly.