Ah Harold,

the last time I saw you was a summers day, I’d gone to my stepmother’s house

to find the back door locked. you were there inside on the phone. you kind of

acknowledged me but did not open the door leaving me standing for ten minutes or so.

I pushed off to come back later. in hindsight I wonder now if you knew she’d (stepmother) your sister, had already decided to leave the house-my old family home-to her son. leaving my sister & me nothing.

the first time I met you I remember your shiny BSA motorcycle & joyce your girlfriend, I’d be 5 years old then. later you helped me to read, spending time with me going over my letters.

I liked you while I was growing up, you were generous & kind at first, thinking of us birthdays & Christmases but as your sister Gilly grew more bitter, your kindnesses fell of the cliff.

I know you tried with me in my teens, but you also forgot me, happy to leave me outside pubs etc while you & the old man were drinking. this was all seasons, I’d be sat in the car outside reading until the light went: the old man had taken the interior light out ‘in case I flattened the battery’

you tried to talk to me on Friday nights, inviting me into your home & I’d try to head you off from prying, because if I told you of the violence, the abuse both mental & physical from your sister you’d not believe me & I’d get more violence meted out for talking to you.

I learned to handle you Harold, as I did all adults & everybody around me, learning not to trust any of you; because all & any of what you did only resulted in more violence from your sister onto me.

I do not hate you, don’t ever think that, I just saw you as ineffectual in helping this poor kid. your humour & attempts at kindnesses will never allow me to think of hating you.

instead I feel you too were conned by ‘gilly’ hearing her poor me stories raising two ungrateful kids to gain your sympathies, sure we weren’t easy, but then: two kids who’d lost their mother, did not know where she was, had spent a year in care only to come out from that to a violent family (the beatties, supposedly our carers) who thought that smacking cured everything.

then a stepmother who offered hope of being in a family who quickly lost patience in the whole deal & resorted to violence & put downs. you never wondered why I left home so early, I’m sure you got one story-she was good at stories. but you never asked my reasons why.

and that’s where I am with you, left with a sadness of an uncle who offered the potential of more but never came through, all down to a lack of curiosity on your part.

I doubt we’ll ever talk again & that is the sadness here, we were never able to talk properly, you probably didn’t notice: any time I saw you after I left home, your sister was always there as a chaperone.

the policing never stopped