When my grandparents realised how deeply involved with drug-taking I had become, they kicked me out and told me that I was on my own now. If I was going to break the law and screw things up, I could do it without running back to them every time I needed a hot meal and a shoulder to cry on. Although Grandad was usually the one who liked to lay down the law, Nan was the one who told me that I had to leave home. She was upset and red-eyed the day she called me into the kitchen for a chat.
“Stevie,” she said. “You’ve got to go. We just can’t live with you any more. You’ve got to sort yourself out.”
Nan and Grandad were getting old. They knew they couldn’t deal with me any longer. They were sick of seeing me coming home after a bender and crashing out for three days. They were sick of wondering when they would see me again, and whether I’d be all bruised up or not. They didn’t know how they could help me, and had reached the stage at which they knew they just had to do what was best for them.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I don’t care.”
“And Steve,” Nan said. “Try to stay away from those friends of yours. They’re no good and you’ll just end up getting into even more trouble.”
My grandparents understandably felt that they should no longer have to be responsible for someone who kept getting himself into scrapes. Nan liked to think that “bad company” was responsible for all of my bad decisions. She had often said, “Steve, you’re a good boy really, I know you are. But you’re easily led. You just need to learn how to stay away from bad company.”
As well as just needing some time and space away from me and the chaos I inevitably brought home, I imagine that Nan and Grandad may have felt that a short, sharp shock was what I needed to help me get myself under control, and that being asked to leave home might be just the ticket.
At first, I had no idea where to go. Then I remembered my best friend, Brian, who had a car. Although Brian didn’t approve of my drug-taking or general bad behaviour, he was a great friend and he was always there for me. I went round to his place and asked him if I could use his car to kip in for a little while, and he said that that was OK. For a number of weeks I lived outside Brian’s house in his white Sunbeam Rapier Convertible. It was winter and I remember trying to sleep in the back, wrapped up in a blanket, but being unable to do so because I was so cold. It didn’t help that the back window was made of torn PVC.
Brian’s mum knew that I was sleeping outside in the car, but did nothing either to stop me or to invite me in. By now, I had figured out that she had a drinking or a psychiatric problem. She was a recluse who almost never left the house. I was one of the few people Brian knew who was trusted enough to step through their front door. He was usually very wary of people meeting his mum and seeing what his domestic situation was like. I was perfectly happy to sleep in the car, not wanting to impose myself on anybody, or ask questions that they might not want to answer.
I was not completely cut off from my grandparents at this stage, and I still went home once in a while for a meal and a wash. They fed me and put up with me occasionally, but they weren’t that keen on seeing me, which was fair enough; they had done all they could for me and I had repaid them by throwing it back in their faces. I wasn’t even pretending not to be taking drugs any more. This was my way of life now, and I didn’t really care who knew about it.
Even though Nan steadfastly maintained that all my problems were the fault of the nameless people who she considered were leading me astray, they must both have been very disappointed with how I had turned out. At the time, I gave little or no thought to how they were feeling because I was busy with my young life; with impressing my friends and acquaintances, growing my hair, listening to music – I still loved music and it was one of the few things that gave me some time out from all the hassle – taking drugs and doing whatever it took to get my hands on the funds to continue doing so.
* * *
After a while, I moved into my own flat in Wallington, about six or seven miles from Carshalton. I’d managed to get a little money together myself, but I’d borrowed the money for the deposit from Tony. I was on probation at the time for stealing a motorbike. I hadn’t really stolen a bike, but had been driving one of Brian’s around without a licence or insurance. It was actually a bike that the two of us had been building together. Well, as I was still a minor, when I got caught I knew that if I told the truth Brian would get the rap for it, so I said that I had stolen the bike, and I was nicked. I was arrested for TDA – Take and Drive Away – and put on probation for twelve months.
I loved the flat. It was at the top of a tall building and had its own little kitchen, its own little living room and a bedroom. It was just for me, and I was determined to keep it nice. Grandad had trained me well, and I was always very neat and orderly. I smoked a lot, both joints and cigarettes, and I went to immense effort to ensure that there was always an ashtray in place. I emptied the ashtrays regularly, because it mattered a lot to me that everything was clean and proper. My friends would come over and I would fuss around them, making them take their shoes off, not letting them throw their things around and endlessly removing ashtrays to empty them.
“Cor, Steve,” they would say, “you’ve got your own place; what do you want to be fussing over everything for?” I would just keep tidying up around them, because the one thing I hated more than anything was a mess. It was a relief to me when my mates moved on or when we decided to go out to a concert, because I couldn’t stand it when the flat became untidy. We went to lots of concerts. I saw The Rolling Stones at Hyde Park when they were in their strutting glory days, and I used to go to the Coliseum and a lot of the clubs on Wardour Street, such as the Temple. At the flat, I had graduated from a record player to a cassette player and listened to my favourite bands all the time.
I repaid Tony’s generosity with the deposit, and with countless other things, by working hard and well when I was actually at work, but I ignored the rest of his good advice and even began to resent it a little. Who was he, to tell me what to do? What did he think he was? He wasn’t my father. He wasn’t anything to me. He had no business trying to tell me how to run my life. I was a grown-up now and I could make my own decisions, with no help from anyone. I paid Tony little attention.
I saw my father occasionally during this period, albeit mostly when I was in serious trouble and had nowhere else to turn. By now he had settled down somewhat and was living with a woman called Theresa, who was doing her level best to keep him calm. Theresa was a good woman and, although I never got to know her very well, I had a lot of respect for her because I knew how difficult Dad was, and what she must have had to put up with from him.
More than my father, Theresa did what she could to help me out when I got into trouble yet again. She did this out of the goodness of her heart. When I went round to their house, it was usually on a Saturday, and Dad would be down at the pub having a few jars. After the pub he would go to the bookies’ to place a few bets, and after that he would come home and want to watch the racing on the telly, to see whether or not he had won any money. Despite the fact that he always lost much more than he won, he never lost his interest in gambling. Dad had no interest in conversation, least of all with me. My father was prepared to tolerate me, but not interested enough to exchange more than a few words.
In those days, very few people owned their televisions; they used to rent them, instead. Televisions were expensive then, and more likely to break than they are now. It was a lot easier to rent. Dad rented his from an outfit called Radio Rentals, which had a little shop just down the road from his house. One day, his telly wasn’t working when there was an important race on that he wanted to watch. He went down to Radio Rentals and said, “My fucking television isn’t working and I want to watch the horse racing. I’ll give you half an hour to get down to my house and fix it and if you don’t, I’ll throw it out the fucking window.”
Half an hour passed and no repair man came. So Dad threw the telly unceremoniously out the window. It hit the road hard and broke into pieces. I thought that this was hilarious and we both cracked up laughing in a rare display of father-and-son solidarity. When the repair man finally came round to fix the broken television, Dad went to the door and said, “So you’re here at last, are you? Well, the fucking telly’s in the road, so fix it. And if you can’t fix it, give me another one.”
I remember feeling great admiration for my dad that day, for standing up for himself and not letting anyone muck him around. This was the sort of thing that I felt I should do too whenever anyone got in my way.
I don’t know if my father and Theresa were happy together, but she was a strong person and the only one who was ever able to even come close to managing him. I imagine that Dad was as happy then as he ever was. Theresa still had her work cut out, though. Dad was a very jealous, possessive man and if he thought anyone was looking at her when they went out together, he was all over them like a rash before they had a chance to deny it. Dad would always pick a fight if he thought that people were looking at his woman.
When Theresa was out at work, where Dad couldn’t control who looked at her, he got very anxious because anything could be going on, and there was nothing he could do about it. He always had to know what time she expected to be home, and if she was late, he had to know why she was late so that he could be sure that she wasn’t really out with another man, getting up to no good behind his back. He was clearly desperately insecure, because Theresa had given him every reason to trust and respect her.
Over the years, Dad lost a lot of friends because of his violent, possessive nature. The moment he thought that someone had trespassed on his area, he was furious, even if it was someone he had been friends with for years. He didn’t care; he just lashed out with all he had and worried about the consequences later, if at all.
Very occasionally, however, Dad did something nice. When I bought a silver Honda CB72, he blew me away by agreeing to be named as the guarantor on the hire-purchase agreement. This was an incredible bike. It had been built by Frank Dunstall, a name you will know if you are interested in road racing. My new bike had rear sets, goldies, clip-ons, American cams and American springs that allowed the engine to run around 1,200 revs per minute, rather than 9,500. When I rode that amazing bike, I felt and looked like a film star; I really did. Even with a part exchange on my previous bike, a red and chrome Royal Enfield Crusader Sports, I would never have been able to get it without Dad’s help. To this day I am surprised that he agreed to my request.