Nicky discovers he has a hot younger sister, Ashley and the unexpected. (Enjoy)
______________________________
When I was just over 2 years old, my father left my mother and took me with him back to England, where he was born. I never knew this until much later in life. I always thought his wife, Barbara, was my mother, although he insisted I always called her by her proper name. As I grew older, I began to realise that my father was not a nice or pleasant man. He had few friends, and we seldom had visitors, and those we had were usually people like him; abrupt, driven, money-obsessed, and consumed by the need to protect and hoard their possessions, including wives, children, everything they could buy or grab for themselves, at all costs. I was kind of the exception there. Through my formative years I knew I didn’t like being around him, and avoided him as much as I could; he seemed to have the same aversion to me, and so his wife, a sweet, quiet lady, brought me up, almost in isolation from his other children, with whom I had soon discovered I had nothing in common with whatsoever, probably because they were smaller, piggier versions of him
When I was 11 years old, he decided I should attend the local secondary school instead of being tutored at home, for which I breathed a sigh of relief; being tutored with my two piggy little half-brothers was an excruciating experience, and I’d had enough of their spoilt whining and excessive demands for attention. Now at least I would be among kids my own age and could finally make some friends. I never understood why my father had forbidden us to attend primary school; I never asked, and he never volunteered an explanation, but at least now I would be free of the house and those poisonous brats he called sons.
I ambled through school, not the most gifted of students, not a slacker either, but definitely not academically brilliant. I wanted to be a mechanic; I loved cars, the thought of driving, of stripping down and rebuilding engines, transmissions, the thrill of firing up a rebuilt engine and having it turn over sweetly the first time was a recurring day-dream of mine as I laboured through calculus and trigonometry, or dissected Gray’s ‘Elegy In A Country Churchyard’ to find the deeper meanings in it.
When my old man discovered the only class I was good at was machine shop, where I discovered I could rebuild overdrives and gearboxes almost instinctively, he literally blew a gasket. In his world mechanics were grease-monkeys, to be hired and fired at whim, and he was furious that the only effort I seemed to be making was a determined one to join the working classes; Oh yes, as well as all his other sterling qualities, my father was the worst kind of arrant snob, and the distaste I felt for him as a child soon transformed into active dislike. His other two sons were just like him, and, distant as we were, I couldn’t help but try and put even more distance between us; I couldn’t believe that I belonged to such an appalling family, and began to dream of running away, joining a ship and running away to sea, going off and being a vagrant, anything rather than live amongst these people and eventually come to be like them
The only saving grace was Barbara. She was the only person I had any real connection with, her warmth and kindness was a constant reminder of how little else I had from this family, and she seemed to save her best time for me, rather than her own sons, who she seemed to barely connect with at all. When I had sports days at school, she would be there, cheering for me; when we put on a production for the drama class, she’d be there with the other parents, watching raptly and clapping hardest. She was a lovely lady, and didn’t deserve what my father did to her; Oh yes, I knew, I could hear, and I’d see the bruises the next day, soon figured out why she sometimes wore long sleeves on even the hottest days. I tried to get her to leave, asked her why she put up with it, but she was so thoroughly cowed all she would answer was “Where would I go, Nicky?”
I went to the local technical college when I left school at 16, to study for my BTEC Certificate in Automotive Mechanical Engineering, and City & Guilds of London Institute L6 Certificate in Automotive Engineering, and eventually qualified as an Automotive Mechanic when I was 21, much to my father’s disgust. I tried to ignore what was happening at home, tried to block out the sounds at night, but it never stopped, never eased up, and I grew more disgusted with myself for doing nothing to help that poor lady who’d done so much for me.
It all came to a head one night when I couldn’t take the screaming and crying any more, and barged in to see him standing over her with his belt, Barbara huddled in a corner with her hands over her head. I tried to pull him away, got a crack across the mouth for my pains, and he started on me with the belt. Barbara put herself over me, trying to shield me, my father, big man, screaming and frothing as he lashed us both until his arm was too tired to continue. That night I discovered what kind of man he truly was, as the individual cuts from the belt-buckle all merged into one big hurt that burned in every nerve-ending.
Barbara helped me to bed, rubbed ointment on the worst of the cuts and weal’s, and I did the same for her. My father was nowhere to be seen, most likely guzzling 12 year old scotch in his study, and that was when she told me about my mother, why he’d left her. She had a picture of my mother, and seeing it woke ghostly half-memories of this pretty woman with dark blonde hair and golden-brown eyes like mine, smiling at me.
“Nicky, your father left your mother because she had an affair and got pregnant. I don’t blame her, knowing what I do about your father. You were 3, and you belonged to him, so he took you, and came back here. He didn’t want you, but he wouldn’t let your mother have you, because you were his, and you know what your father’s like when it comes to his… possessions”
She handed me a packet and inside was my birth certificate. I was astounded to see I was born in Albany, New York State. “I’m American?” I asked her, incredulously, and she smiled. “Yes Nicky, until you were sixteen, your father could pick your nationality; he chose to make you British, but now, if you want, you can walk into any American Embassy or Consulate in the world and walk out an American citizen, with the passport to match. I want you to go home, Nicky, you need your family, a proper family, this is no place for you, your father doesn’t care one iota for you, and he’ll make you suffer. Now that he’s done this, he’ll keep on doing it. There’s some money in that packet, it’s all I could scrape together, but it should be enough for you to pay for your documents, and an airline ticket to Albany. Your mother’s address and her telephone number is there as well, although I don’t know if it’s still correct, but it was all I could find out, that and her name. Her name is Lowry, Julia Lowry. Please take it and leave, Nicky, I can’t protect you, and you’ll get badly hurt if you stay. Don’t worry about me; I’m taking you to the train station, then I’m going to fix this once and for all, I can’t take this anymore, either.
Barbara helped me pack a bag and took me to the station, and waited on the platform with me until the London train came in, then hugged me, kissed me goodbye and said “Take care of yourself, little St Nick, I love you, sweetheart. Please remember me.” Her use of my childhood nickname brought a lump to my throat, and I clung to her, trying to convince her to get on the train with me, but she gently disengaged me. “No Nicky, I can’t. You don’t know what your father’s really like; he’s never let your mother go, he won’t let me go! I have to fix this, once and for all! Please, go, I’ll be fine, it’s all going to be fine, don’t you worry about me, just you take care of yourself, and please, remember me.” That was the second time she’d said that, like she was trying to fix it in my mind, and I was beginning to get an uneasy feeling about it.
The doors started to chime, so I jumped on and stood there, watching her wave goodbye to me; if only I had pulled her onto the train with me…
I arrived in London at about 10pm, and immediately made my way to the United States Embassy in Grosvenor Square, determined to queue all night if necessary. Many other people seemed to have the same idea, as there was already a long queue outside the barrier, so I settled down to wait, sitting on my bag and leaning against the barrier.
When the Embassy opened its doors at 8:30 I was ready, and queued in the American Citizen Services section, directed there by the imposing-looking US Marine on guard there, his chest a riot of ribbons.
The very helpful lady at the Enquiries desk listened to my story, and disappeared with my birth certificate, qualifications, driving license and two photographs I’d taken in the photo-booth in Euston Station, then briefly reappeared to call me into an Interview room, where a man not much older than me asked me some searching questions about my circumstances. I told him about my father, and his removing me from America when I was three, and my reasons for wanting to return to America. He asked if I wouldn’t mind showing him my injuries, and that I wasn’t required to, and when I unbuttoned my shirt he gave a sharp intake of breath.
“Ok Mr. Davies, I can understand why you want to return to the United States, I’ll try and fast-track your passport application, but it may take a while. Take this and show it to the guard on duty if you need to leave to get something to eat or drink, there’s a very good sandwich place around the corner, and several deli’s where you can get a decent coffee. Welcome back, Mr Davies, I just wish it were under better circumstances.” He handed me a plastic card with a number on it, and I took a seat in the waiting area, which had enough seats for an auditorium, already almost packed to capacity.
At about 1pm, I was called to the desk again, and was once again escorted to an interview room, where the same man had a package for me. “There you are Mr. Davies, one new passport, and all your paperwork, please guard them carefully, and I would like to wish you well, I hope you can locate your family and that they’re well and happy!”
I thanked him, zipped and locked my paperwork and passport into my bag, and left, heading for Heathrow, where I bought a standby ticket to Albany via Newark; I had enough money, thanks to Barbara, to buy the ticket without the tedious business of booking; she had given me 8, 000 sterling, almost $14, 000, so after I bought my ticket, I changed it all to US dollars; I wouldn’t need UK pounds any more, I was never coming back.