Peter Roche - Unloved: The True Story of a Stolen Childhood

PENGUIN BOOKS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Peter Roche lives with his wife and children in Hampshire. This is his first book.

The True Story of a Stolen Childhood

PETER ROCHE

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephens Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

www.penguin.com

Published in 2007
1

Copyright Peter Roche, 2007
All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject
to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

EISBN: 9780141900919

To All My Children

To my wife: my partner, mother of my children and my best friend, the one who pushed and prodded me in her own quiet, determined way until I stopped talking about writing a book and did something about it. I am the luckiest husband in the world, and I know it even though I dont say it very often. I dont even want to think about where I would be without you.

To Vincent and Johnny: you were the only adults who showed me compassion and kindness when I was a child. Im sure you would have done more if you could, and perhaps thought that what you had done wasnt enough. I can tell you that your humanity made all the difference to a confused, mistreated, starving boy.

To the big detective in Coventry: I remember your name how could I forget it? But I wouldnt want to embarrass you in what I feel sure must be a well-earned retirement. All I can say is that I am more grateful than you may ever know for the break you gave a frightened, foolish kid when he really needed it.

To Miss Zils: thank you for all the kindness you showed me and for doing all that you could.

To all my children, big and small: I am proud of every single one of you, proud to be able to say that I am your father. You have taught me what family means. Without you, I could never have understood what people mean when they say blood is thicker than water.

To Pat Lomax, my dedicated agent; Cheryl Stonehouse, for helping me to turn my feelings into words; and Carly Cook, my editor at Penguin, who saw the books potential right from the very beginning and allowed my voice to be heard: a tough threesome whose skill, compassion and sheer hard work got this book out of me. None of you ever stopped believing in me and my story for a minute, and that still amazes me. Thank you.

Finally, to Dave, my dump-yard soulmate, the person who first showed me friendship without any thought of what might be in it for him: I have never forgotten you, mate, and wherever you are, I wish you well.

The day my father died was just like any other. I was walking along my road in Lambeth where a row of tall early nineteenth-century houses stood set slightly back from the main road. Back then most of these old houses had been condemned by the council and a lot of them were boarded up with sheets of galvanized metal. Most of the front gardens were scruffy and full of rubbish, old furniture, bits of bikes and prams, any old junk.

I was heading back from the corner shop. An old bloke had seen me sneaking out from my safe place, the dump yard at the back of the condemned houses, and had asked me to run round and get him a loaf of bread. Id done it because I never minded doing an errand like that. It was something to do, something with a purpose to it, and there was always a chance that Id get a few pennies for doing it.

Id delivered the loaf and got my tip, and as I turned back into my road I saw a little crowd gathered a bit further up where an ambulance was standing at the bus stop right outside my house. These were still the days when Sundays were deathly quiet in London, with most of the shops shut, not much traffic and very few people about, so there was obviously a bit of an event going on. I wandered up and had a look for myself.

My house didnt have its windows boarded up, even though it looked completely derelict. It was filthy from top to bottom and there was no glass in a lot of the windows, no paint on the woodwork. From inside the house I could hear screams and all kinds of commotion and the ambulancemen were just coming out of the front door carrying a man laid out on a stretcher. It was hard to tell whether he was alive or dead. He had thinning, greying hair and his skin was much the same colour. He looked rough, unshaven and half-pissed, a man who wasnt in the best of health even when he wasnt on his way into the back of an ambulance. His head was lolling back and his mouth was slack, hanging open, and although he was covered by a blanket you could see he was only wearing a vest. A boy standing next to me suddenly looked straight at me. He thought he recognized me but he wasnt sure. He was puzzled because I was standing with him, as if I was just another rubber-necking local kid like him whod happened to come along to see what all the fuss was about.

He stared at me for a moment and then asked: Isnt that your dad?

No, I said. I put my hands in my pockets and walked off in the opposite direction. I was almost nine years old and that was the last time I saw my father alive.

There cant be too many Londoners who grew up south of the Thames and have fond memories of police stations, but the one I visited in Lambeth holds a special place in my heart. I had one of the best days of my life with my best friend, John-John. We were both little more than toddlers when we ended up spending an afternoon at the station, being fed and made a fuss of by the officers on duty.

It was quite a new building and it seemed really posh. The staff there gave us sweets and, better still, took us to their swanky, shiny cafeteria with its clean, modern Marley-tiled floor and Formica-topped tables and gave us a hot dinner. They dug out a few toys from somewhere and played with us from time to time through the day. It was warm, everyone was friendly, the police station was great. I didnt want to leave. In fact, I didnt have a single thought about my mother or the rest of my family until Mum turned up with John-Johns mother to take us home. Wed been there hours by then and it was already dark outside.

That was when I got upset. I asked the police officers whether I could come back to see them sometime, half hoping that one of them might say: Dont go home at all, stay here with us.

All you know when youre that young is that life is as it is. The police seemed to find me easy to have around, so why wouldnt it be simpler for everyone if I lived there with them? In every possible way I could think of, the police station was a lot nicer than home.