Richard McCann - Just a Boy: The True Story of a Stolen Childhood

R ICHARD M C C ANN is 35 and lives in Leeds. Since finishing his first book, he has been studying how families can survive and recover after being shattered by trauma, while also finding out more about his mothers life. He has become a Samaritan and is involved with SAMM (Support after Murder and Manslaughter). He has been contacted by readers from all over the world wanting to share their own experiences and has been invited to speak at conferences on how people can rebuild their lives and deal with loss and anger. Becoming a motivational speaker, Richard is studying for a degree in Sociology at Leeds University and has written his second book, The Boy Grows Up.

The Boy Grows Up
The Inspirational Story of his Journey from Broken Boy to Family Man

With his book Just A Boy in the bestseller charts, Richard sets out to make sense of his past, attempting to meet the other children of Sutcliffes victims and to discover the real woman behind his memories of his mother.

Richard grows in other ways. He becomes a Samaritan and is invited to set up a support group for grieving families and through these actions is privy to many stories of heartbreaking pain and incredible strength. He decides to go to university and study Social Policy, hoping to gain insights into the wider causes of much of the suffering he has encountered.

Richards salvation comes with the decision to help others in a way he and his sisters were never helped themselves. And with this comes love, and a family all of his own. The Boy Grows Up will bring you tears, swell your heart and inspire your future.

Ebury Press

6.99

ISBN 9780091908645

In loving memory of my mum, Williamina,

whose love has proved to be irreplaceable.

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Copyright Richard McCann 2004

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This edition published in 2005
First published in 2004 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company

penguin.co.uk

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Interior by seagulls

ISBN 9781473502857

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Although this book is predominantly about my elder sister, Sonia, and me, what happened in our childhood caused as much pain and suffering to my other sisters. Twenty-five children were deprived of their mothers by Peter Sutcliffe, all of whom will understand how far reaching the effects of his actions have been. I believe that writing this book is already helping to heal some of the pain. I have often felt ashamed for the things that have happened around me, but realise now that they were not all my fault. I no longer have to be looking over my shoulder all the time, wondering what people do and do not know about my past.

I know that our father will be hurt by some of the facts in this book but I am convinced that our story needs to be told, to be out in the open. I have forgiven him for the way he brought us up and the writing of the book has helped us to begin to bridge the gap between us.

Children are precious and we must all help them whenever we see they need protection in order to turn them into stable adults. We all need to learn to put others before ourselves and to forgive rather than to carry grudges. I feel that in writing this book and discovering these things I am no longer just a boy.

Leeds, October 1975

I didnt want to wake up, but my sister Sonia was shaking me urgently.

Mums still not home, she whispered, trying not to disturb the others.

I slept in one bed with Sonia and our younger sister Donna. Angela, the baby, was in a cot next to us, and had cried all night. She always seemed to be crying. Mostly I liked sharing with the girls because it helped us to keep warm. There was no heating of any kind in the house, and when we went to sleep we huddled under two or three blankets and any coats we could find. The only drawback to sharing was that when one of us wet the bed which happened quite frequently we all got soaked.

The previous evening Mum had sent us upstairs early. A few minutes after seven we heard her taking a bath then going downstairs. Sonia sneaked down after her. Mum, she told me, was in her white trousers and green jacket, and doing her makeup in a piece of broken mirror, salvaged from one of her many fights with her boyfriend and propped up above the square pot sink in the kitchen.

Are you going out, Mum? Sonia had asked.

No, Im not. You get back to bed. Go on.

But Sonia knew she was on her way out and had asked for a kiss.

Come on then, before I put my lipstick on.

As she kissed her on the lips, Sonia noticed how nice and clean she smelled, a mixture of soap and perfume.

Hours later, in the middle of the night, when no one came to answer Angelas screams, Sonia ventured downstairs again. The house was silent and empty.

Sonia had taken charge of the situation as she always did. She had turned the bedroom light on and read to Angela to calm her down. I had drifted off to the sound of her voice.

There was never any predicting what time our mother would roll in, or what state she would be in when she got there, but we normally had a babysitter, and Mum was always there by the time we woke up in the morning, even if she could barely drag herself out of bed.

What time is it? I asked Sonia now.

Twenty-five past five.

What shall we do?