Thirty-six. More family stuff.

Wow. The response from family about my observation of my father has gone down like a lead balloon. Everyone sees my father as a really nice guy. It's a shame of mine that I've always been backed into a corner by the way speak honestly. My mother always was afraid I might say something far too close to the truth to her mother, sisters and family friends?

Actually our closest family friends - Jean and Milton - have first hand experience of my father's ruthlessness and his inability to stop holding a grudge and they have never questioned my authenticity.

A while after mother and father had separated - a couple of years - when he was living back in Rawmarsh, having returned from Melbourne Australia (and his boomeranging back and forth from 1992 until 1995), and after forcing mother to give him half the value of the property they shared, when he couldn't get back into my mother's life because of the "other" thing which was going through his mind. A thing I can not talk about, as it up to my half sisters to reveal that horror. He tried to confront my mother by locking her inside their bedroom ... She was truly frightened and we had to break in to get him out. In fact the police were called and he spent the night fermenting at Milgarth, Leeds police station, for which he never forgave me even though he had tried to force himself upon his estranged wife.

On at least two occasions dad was unbelievably arrogant towards Milton - who was dad's best man. Firstly he always thought Milton unbelievably tight, a real skinflint. Dad often said he was that tight that he'd be able to peel an orange in his pocket. Whenever they went out as couples when I was quite young dad was convinced Milton never paid his equal way when it came to rounds: this I have no direct experience of, but when I was 13 or 14, before we emigrated to Australia, they took me away with their son Andrew to spend a great, and sunny (when we had real summers in the UK ...), holiday in a static caravan. This was, up until then, the best, most relaxed, happy week away with anyone as if was laughs all the way. Jean and Milton took Andrew and I to the pub on an early evening, after we'd messed about at the beach or in the caravan park all day, and I'd have half a pint and a packet of crisps. Out of this wonderful and happy week Andrew and I had been reunited after the other occasion when my father got the hump with Milton; bloody hell!

As Jean and Milton were my mother and father's best friends, without a doubt, and even though dad definitely had this actual or misperceived issue with Milton's greed (dad used to watch him at the dining table too), their son Andrew became like a brother to me. Slightly older, less than a year, we were the best of friends and my trips to Rawmarsh: (where I feared the conflict going on in Grandma Sherburn's home between the various siblings of my father: he kept himself away from his sisters, mostly, by going out with Uncle Alan (who was a true gent and an honest soul), or to the Cricket Club or seeing another quieter Uncle Steve (who lived a little way off from the hubbub of grandma's abode)) were always exciting and fun. Especially when I could stay over for the night: which happened quite regularly as the adults would go to the Queen's (I think that's the name) while older Nicola would babysit my sister, Andrew and I.

The time of a massive upheaval in my life came through what I think was my father's pent-up anger at Milton's perceived selfishness. One Sunday we headed down the A1 to Rotherham when my mother and father's relationship had become to fray over what I think was again a misperception. Out in Wetherby with dad I had spotted mother in a car with another man - some boss of mum's at the Co-op - this made his blood boil. The rage was incendiary and they had such a war when she arrived back at home: dad was convinced she was being unfaithful (this was the early 1980s when unfaithfulness was all the rage on TV, in newspapers, etc). However, I have no direct experience of my mother being disposed that way and I think it was dad's possessive fear he might lose the one thing he treasured more than anything or anyone.

On this Sunday, which I now think was an unexpected journey to see relatives, mother and my sister were dropped at Grandma Mitchell's and dad took me to see Andrew. When we arrived the family were already eating Sunday lunch and were genuinely surprised to see is there. However Milton welcomed us in, as he'd accepted my dad warts and all, but then the problem began. Clearly there was little or no food to share with me, probably starving by this point, so Milton was apologetic and offered me Beans-on-Toast - I've always loved them(had to be Heinz) - dad lost his cool and became apoplectic. Like an over heated pressure cooker he exploded and covered everyone in that room with his boiling hot fury. At that moment my relationship with Andrew stopped. It wasn't until that trip to the coast a few years later I was allowed to see Andrew again. Talk about innocent lambs?

Perhaps my father was further pissed off that day, as he dragged me away from Goosebert Street, because he was forced to take me with him, when he went to be with his Cricket Club pals, and introduce them to a son he didn't like: this was the only time I ever got to meet any of his "real" friends - as they appeared to be clearly some people he respected more than his best man?

This was the final time I ever happy visiting Rawmarsh. Now I was left with my mum's mother, aunts and sisters (where I was always in the way) or at Grandma Sherburn's home where my only happiness was grandma's fantastic Sunday roasts, dripping, etc, and the rabbits Uncle Alan kept in the cinder rich plot out back of her house. Definitely my love of animals began with those rabbits and his giant breeding male Fred.

But what does this really matter? Why can't I ever seem to let his memory go? Even now, I'm laid comfortable in a bed in a chateau in rural L'Isere, France awake before the cockerel, with this bad stuff taking over my nocturnal thoughts. It must be similar for any one who has suffered endless abuse, either physical or mental, when they should've been nurtured. Please try to nurture not hurt; things can then be ship shape and Bristol fashion.