House on the Hill.

My mother - my Guardian angle

My mother was born with the name of Irene Swales on the 15th February 1928. Her mother was called Minnie and her Father was called James (Jim to his friends.) She had a sister also called Minnie and four brothers called Harold, James, Alan and Alfred. She lived in Astley Bridge, Bolton in her early life on a street called Baxendale Street. She married her childhood sweetheart Sidney. (Sid to his friends) When she was 20 years old, in 1948, she gave birth to her first child, a girl called Denise. The same year, my mum followed Sid to the British Crown colony of Aden. Aden was located in the south of present-day Yemen. It was under British control from 1937 to 1963.
Aden consisted of an important port and its immediate surroundings covered an area of 192 square km (74 square miles).
Prior to 1937, Aden had been governed as part of British India (originally as the Aden Settlement subordinate to the Bombay Presidency, and then as a Chief Commissioner's Province). Under the Government of India Act 1935 the territory was detached from British India and was established as a separate colony of the United Kingdom; this separation took effect on 1 April 1937.
On 18 January 1963, the colony was reconstituted as the State of Aden within the new Federation of South Arabia. The federation in turn became the People's Republic of South Yemen on 30 November 1967, marking the end of British rule.
Sid was in the Royal Airforce and he had been posted there for two years. They both lived on the Airforce camp. My mum later had two other children, Diane and Derek.
Later, Sid was tragically killed in a roofing accident on Rose Hill Garage in Bolton in the mid-1950s.
My mum met my father in 1957 and moved to Didsbury in Manchester where I was born. She later had three more children, Patricia, Mark and Stephen. My uncle Jim bought a terraced house for the family in Lee street in Farnworth. During that time between 1960 right up till 1966 my mother was viciously beaten by my father along with me and other family members. She tried to stand up to him on various occasions and was punished for doing so. She always had bruises on her face and body and seemed to have a permanent black eye, such were the constant beatings she received. I heard stories that my dad was stabbed in the head and had suffered a head wound which needed stitches having been attacked by another member of my family. I also heard that my dad attacked my mother when she was attending to my baby brother in the cot. He attacked her from behind because my baby brother was crying and my mother split his lip with her wedding ring when she tried to protect herself. The family lived in impoverished times and my mum always did her best to put food on the table. She always put her children first, even after a severe beating. She still cooked, cleaned, ironed and looked after us which was a huge testament to the woman I called my rock. She still showered us with love and affection even though she was suffering at the hands of my father. I remember many times my mum would hold me in her arms sobbing and covered in blood and bruises.
Whenever we had any visitors, my dad would hide upstairs in his bedroom, out of the way, like the coward he was. My mother would cover the bruises on her face with plenty of make-up. She would carry on chatting with her friends as though nothing had happened and would cry her eyes out when they had gone.
I had seen her sitting in the front room even though it was freezing cold, because we couldn't afford any coal or wood for the fire, crying her eyes out for hours on end. She still protected my father and lied to her friends and neighbours whenever they asked about the bruises on her face so that she wouldn't embarrass the family. The only time my mum was happy was when my dad was working away or in prison (as I found out later.) She was so happy always listening to opera on the radio like Pavarotti, her favourable singer. She had a spring in her step she used to take us for walks to Farnworth Park where we spent hours at a time having picnics and generally having fun.
My mum used to invite friends and family around for a chat and cup of tea; something she didn't do when my dad was around as she was frightened of the backlash from him.
In 1966 we moved to Derwent Road. I remember it well. My uncle Alan, my mum's younger brother moved us and it was the year England won the World Cup.
My mother's suffering would intensify with the beatings she would receive. They would be more brutal and her injuries would become more severe. My father fractured her jaw which needed operating on in hospital. She also suffered broken ribs which resulted in another visit to hospital. A day wouldn't pass by without some kind of injury or mark on her face. My mother confided all her problems to Father Melvin our local parish priest who befriended her and persuaded my mum to see her doctor. His name was Doctor Preston. He tried his best to persuade my mum to leave my dad and go to the police but she never listened and still stood by my dad for the sake of her children. The doctor put my mum on medication. He prescribed Valium tablets for her to help her keep calm and sleeping tablets to help her sleep. I often saw my mum slip one in my dad's drink to knock him out so that she could have a bit of peace in her life. She did finally build enough courage to leave my dad and it was our local priest Father Melvin who would run us to the coach station where the driver let us all on for free after mum sobbed to the driver about my father.
We stayed at my sister's house in Brixham which was a small fishing village in south Devon. We didn't stay long, just a few weeks in total as my dad came and begged for forgiveness. So, there we were, back in the house on the hill. My dad would take my mum out and buy her flowers and shower her with all kinds of gifts. But it didn't last long. The beatings would start up again and the black eyes would appear on a regular basis. On a few occasions, I would see my dad chasing my mum screaming up the street and drag her home. Then things would stop for a while as my dad did another stretch in prison.
Denise and Diane left the house and moved away and lived their separate lives.
After my dad came out of prison he was very lucky not ending up back in prison again, for a very long time. It was only my intervention that stopped the inevitable by getting the police who stopped my father strangling my mother in the hallway in the house. I will never forget my dad begging on his hands and knees to my mum asking forgiveness and to my horror she told the police she didn't want to press charges. The reason she told me was, if my dad went to prison again she would lose the house and we would become homeless. She wanted to keep the family together.
Of course, the beatings would carry on. On one occasion, I saw my dad throw my mum down the stairs which resulted in her breaking her arm. The nightmare would come to an end when I was sixteen years old. By then I had finally built up the courage to stand up to my father by giving him a serious good hiding. He never touched my mother again after that. He took his anger out on himself by drinking bottles of sherry which my mum used to find all over the house.
Eventually, my mum fell in love with one of my dad's friends whom my mum had confided in. She finally left my dad in 1982 and married Jack in 1984. They lived happily together until he sadly died in hospital, of cancer, in April 2013.
My mum carried on her life with great strength after her loss. She went on holidays with my sister Diane to Benidorm in Spain where she spent six months of the year with Jack.
It all came to end when my mum died in hospital on the 8th of July 2016 of Sepsis (blood poisoning) which was caused by a bed sore which was badly infected. On the 22nd of July, I finally said good bye to her at the funeral. I cried a thousand tears; she was my rock, a shoulder to cry on. She was always my guardian angel who had always protected me against my father even though she often suffered the consequences.
She always tried her best to keep me on the straight and narrow and fought my corner in the courts for my rebellious ways. Many times, I would see her crying, not just because of my father, but because of me and the troubles I used to get into. That is something I will always regret. Throughout my life, she had always been there for me; always fed me and clothed me when I had been short of money. I will truly love her forever for always being there for me.
She was a mum in million, loved and cared by all. I thank her for giving me life and protecting me and standing my corner. She was the bravest of the brave. I will always love her till my dying day and cherish the memories we shared