Who I Am: A Memoir Read Online Free Page A

Ballroom in Douglas, on the Isle of Man, that would continue for ten years. That first season we rented a flat for the entire holiday, and Mum, still extricating herself from her love affair, got a secret box number at the post office where she would collect Dennis Bowman’s daily letter.
    The one-bedroom holiday flat we stayed in was on the lower-ground floor of a large block. My bed was in the living room, an upgrade from the dining room. I would wake occasionally to Dad creeping about in bare feet, coming in late from a night in the bar, or trying to slip out.
     
    I loved Jimpy like a brother. He and I played fantastical and elaborate games. We were also great explorers. In Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man, where Jimpy was staying with us, we discovered a crumbling old mansion surrounded by high walls that we climbed to steal apples. The house seemed abandoned. We managed to get into an outside room and, peering through a keyhole, could see an old vintage car. Through another keyhole we saw a table covered in what appeared to be treasure – old watches, tools, chains. We tried to force the doors, but they were absolutely secure.
    Being explorers was fun, but the biggest treat of all was watching the Squadronaires. This meant dressing up smartly and getting a few shillings from Mum for crisps and milkshakes. Before the dances began we’d stand in the middle of the huge empty floor and bounce gently up and down – the entire floor was on springs. Then we were free to wander, listen to the music and watch the bouncing hemlines of the teenage girls dancing. Sometimes we’d practise dance steps of our own at the edge of the oak dance floor.
    On Sundays there were concerts at the Palace Theatre next to the ballroom, where the Squadronaires would accompany visiting artists, some quite special: Shirley Bassey, Lita Roza, Eartha Kitt, Frankie Vaughan, the Morton Fraser Harmonica Gang, and a string of comedians – even, I think, George Formby plunking away at his silly little banjo. I remember a novelty guitar player who strummed an electric guitar while playing a tiny harmonica in his mouth. He looked ridiculous, and the harmonica was so high-pitched it sounded like a squeaking mouse trapped between his teeth. However, he became a regular at these concerts, so it obviously went down well with the crowd.
    Seeing this, I became keen on learning the harmonica, and began playing Dad’s quite seriously.
    There were wonderful times on the Isle of Man that year. I fell in love with the younger blonde girl who lived next door. One day, while playing at ‘Mums and Dads’, I had her wrapped in my arms in a play-tent and felt for a moment like a real adult. I remember her mother telling me later that the little girl would be a ‘heartbreaker’ when she grew up. I had no idea what she meant, despite my own rapidly beating heart.
    Near the end of this first Isle of Man holiday, Mum brought Denny over and left me in her care while she returned to London to end her affair with Dennis Bowman. Mum and Dad began to put their love life back together that autumn. They tried hard to have a second child to stabilise the family and provide me with a sibling. I know now that the reason it took so long – my brother Paul wasn’t born until five years later – was Mum’s battered reproductive system. She might not have put herself through all that abuse had she been clearer about which man she was going to settle on.
    It must have been difficult for my proud father to take Mum back after Dennis Bowman. I don’t believe he knew about her abortions, but if he had, or even suspected anything, it might help explain his drinking and his absences. It could also explain why, after they reconciled, he seemed most at ease with his wife and family when he was tipsy; only then could he express words of love.
     
    In September 1952 I started at Berrymede Junior School. I remember coming home to Denny’s face peeping out through the french