Tell Me Why, Mummy: A Little Boy’s Struggle to Survive. A Mother’s Shameful Secret. The Power to Forgive.. David Thomas

down to the last detail; if anything is slightly unsatisfactory she’s onto the school immediately to put it right. I find this a bit of a mixed blessing. It’s good that she cares, but I’m always anxious about her seeing my reports, and sometimes I find her interventions on my behalf – the way she makes a fuss at school – over the top and embarrassing. But I put up with it, because I’ve got no choice, and I know she has my best interests at heart.

      At school one week we’re doing history and the teacher tells us all about people called dictators. There was Adolf Hitler who was the leader of the Nazis who Britain fought in the last war under Winston Churchill. And there’s Joseph Stalin who was a ruthless dictator in the Soviet Union though he wasn’t quite as bad as Hitler. Then there was Mussolini, who my teacher calls a tinpot dictator. They want to be big and powerful like the really bad dictators but they don’t quite make it.

      And there are others, says my teacher, who are good dictators. She calls them benevolent dictators because although they’re very strict they want to make life better for people. One of these, she says, is a Cuban leader called Fidel Castro and she shows us a picture of him. I decide that Mum must be a bit like a benevolent dictator. I wonder if Fidel Castro also gets drunk at night.

      Mum’s like a benevolent dictator over my reading. She’s an avid reader herself and she takes me down to the local library every week, telling me I have to choose a book. She gives me complete freedom to choose any book I want, but I’ve got to choose it and I’ve got to read it. My favourite is Billy Bunter.

      Mum’s a benevolent dictator about my health. It seems to nag at her. She’ll stand over me to make sure I clean my teeth properly every day and I never miss an appointment at the dentist or the doctor. And every Saturday we go to Halifax town centre. Reg never joins us, which makes it better too.

      We go first to the Good As New shop on Clare Road. Mum always gets me secondhand clothes, a simple, effective way to ensure I always have plenty of clothes. As long as they’re in decent condition, that’s fine by her. She is also an incredible knitter and on evenings and weekends knits me many jumpers to wear. The only things she always buys brand new are shoes. During this period – the mid-1970s – plastic shoes are popular as a more cost-effective option, but Mum makes sure I have leather shoes because they mould to the shape of my feet properly even though they cost more money.

      After a swim in Halifax pool we go to the library and then it’s time for lunch at a café. I spend ages pondering over the menu, deciding what to have. There are lots of meals I never have at home or at school. I always have bread with margarine: at home we only have butter and I much prefer the taste of margarine even though it’s considered the poorer option. Finally we go to Halifax indoor market to buy fresh meat, fruit and vegetables. I love the hustle and bustle of market traders with their patter and special offers.

      Those days are special and I feel like a son should towards his mother, like she’s the best mother in the world. But as much as she has the ability to give, she can also take away without a moment’s hesitation or warning. I know this from our time at Calder Bridge as I can still vividly remember the Special Time and the drunkenness. Mum’s behaviour can turn in an instant and the contrast can be as different as night and day. But I also know that alcohol is the trigger for all the bad things that happen, and she hasn’t been drinking much recently as far as I am aware.

      But that is all about to change.

      * * *

      Even though I have often feared it, I haven’t really appreciated until now that the dark side of Mum’s personality is never far from the surface and it’s certainly too much to hope that it has gone away for good.

      I don’t know what has triggered her drinking again but suddenly it’s back with a vengeance. She has never developed the ability to control her alcoholism and it is now time for it to reappear. Once it does, it’s back for good: for the rest of her life she will never again get it under control. By now she has developed a definite drinking pattern and I know exactly what she does.

      When I arrive home from school these days, she has very occasionally already started drinking – even if only in small amounts – and I have learnt to tell the signs. She will be slightly unsteady on her feet, her speech fractionally slurred, but only in a way that I would notice – I have no idea whether Reg also notices as he never speaks to me about this or anything else. More often than not, though, she is still quite sober and remains so until after supper.