Duckett Paul - Stolen voices. Part 2

My parents, John and Cynthia, were childhood sweethearts. Their relationship had begun like a storybook romance, but with their marriage their dreams died.

Mum intended to follow in her fathers footsteps in Northamptons traditional calling, designing shoes, until she naively showed her designs to a local shoe manufacturer during one lunchtime, who stole them. Dad joined the parachute regiment and aspired to be part of the SAS until he failed their selection course.

In 1968, with both their dreams in tatters, life was to change irreparably again. Mum discovered shed accidentally fallen pregnant. To say Dad was not best pleased was an understatement, but in 1968 pregnancy meant marriage and that was that. So Mum abandoned her place in college and went up the aisle or at least the corridor of Northampton register office.

She didnt tell her parents, my Nan and Pap Gladys and George at first. Not only had she let them down, but they believed she could do better than my dad. However, by the time she told them the damage had been done, and at the very least they felt hed done the honourable thing.

I arrived on 27 June 1969 in Aldershot, the garrison town where Dad was based. For the first month of my life we lived in married quarters, though Dad was desperate to be released back to Civvy Street, not being able to face being returned to his parachute regiment after failing the SAS selection course. The only way he could be discharged was to buy himself out, so Mum raided her savings and stumped up the required 200 a prohibitive sum, but a small price to pay to keep her new husband happy.

Mum and I lived my first year with my Nan and Pap in their cosy two-bedroom house. But the first home I remember clearly was a council maisonette in Moat Place. It was a bit sparse; the kitchen and lounge were downstairs and the bedrooms were up a white-painted stairway that had a thin carpet runner tacked loosely to the wood. Two wooden slats ran down the side of the stairs, with a narrow gap between them, so that as a small child I could peer through. I spent a fair bit of time sitting in nervous silence on those stairs, listening to Mum and Dad argue their way through life.

Dad worked away a lot of the time, stopping home for clean clothes and food maybe once a fortnight. When he wasnt there to argue with Mum, I felt happy and relaxed. I had my mum all to myself and we had our routine. We didnt have a lot of money, or many belongings, but she had time for me even though I could be more of a hindrance than a help, as a simple trip to the shops could turn into an adventure.

At the age of four, whilst I was dawdling back from the shops with a loaf of bread for tea, I thought of Hansel and Gretel. I wonder what would happen if I dropped a trail of bread slices? Imagining a magical creature might appear, I pulled slices of bread out of the bag and began placing them carefully on the pavement. Skipping along, I looked over my shoulder, pleased at the snowy trail until Mum suddenly appeared, looking up the road for me. Terrie! she cried. What are you doing? Thats our tea!

I held a slice of bread mid-air and my face crumpled. Sorry, Mummy.

She scurried to scoop up the slices and put them carefully back into the bread bag for later.

The weekends Dad came home left their impression on me. One such weekend, when I was three, I was sitting in the kitchen waiting for Mum to dish up dinner when he arrived. I looked up as he walked in, but he didnt seem to notice me.

Hurry up, Im hungry, he complained to Mum. Mum seemed flustered and rushed to place the plates of macaroni cheese in front of us. Is this it?