Friday the 13th: The Day Childhood Ended
A Date I’ll Never Forget
I’ve never been superstitious, but on Friday, 13 December 1985, our family’s luck truly ran out. That was the day my dad had a heart attack – just four years after we’d lost our 39-year-old mum. I remember it all with a clarity that time has never dimmed.
Life with Connie
After Mum’s death, Dad remarried in 1983. Her name was Connie – a violent, alcoholic Jehovah’s Witness – and life at home quickly became strained. Our relationship with the neighbours deteriorated to such a degree that we requested a transfer to another local authority house. Eventually, we moved just half a mile away, from Wigmore Road to Fellowes Road.
The Day It Happened
I was 13 years old then, using my second-hand Chopper bike to ferry small loads between the old house and the new. Dad was in the back garden, dismantling his shed. I can’t remember who called the ambulance, but I’ll never forget the sight of him being wheeled down the steps in an ambulance chair, a mask covering his face.
As the ambulance doors closed, I knew what that meant: I was now solely responsible for my younger siblings – aged 11, 9, and 6. The weight of it pressed on me even as I pedalled back to Fellowes Road.
A Tower of Strength, Brought Low
We visited Dad in the hospital the next day. The shock hit me like a wave. My dad had always been a tower of strength – a big man, loud and forceful – but lying there pale and fragile, hooked up to tubes and monitors, he barely looked like himself. I felt my head spin and had to step out before I fainted.
To my surprise, Connie had come with us that day in a rare moment of relative sobriety. As I left the room, I heard her in the corridor coaxing one of my younger siblings to go in. I knew how much I’d struggled just seeing him like that, so I stepped back in to spare them the same distress.
The doctors gave us one lifeline: if Dad survived three days, he’d likely recover. That became my focus. I went home that night with everything crossed.
The Knock at the Door
On Monday, 16 December, there was a knock at the door. My heart leapt – surely Dad was coming home. Connie answered, with me right behind her. But instead of hospital transport, there were two police officers on the step. In that instant, we both knew.
To her credit, Connie played her role convincingly. She presented herself as the responsible adult, ready to comfort four grieving children who had just lost their second parent in four years. If those officers had known what I know now, I doubt they would have slept easily that night.
A Grim Arrangement
From then on, Connie and I struck a grim bargain: she would be the “breadwinner,” fraudulently claiming my dad’s benefits, and I would keep house and do the shopping.
It was on one of those shopping trips that Connie offered her version of comfort. “Have faith in the Lord,” she said. “Like Jesus, your dad will be resurrected in three days.” Even at 13, I had my doubts – but when grief is raw, you cling to any thread of hope.
Alone in the World
In the days that followed, Connie’s appearances were rare and mostly fuelled by drink. When she did turn up, it was usually for money. One afternoon, she intercepted two of my dad’s brothers-in-law at the door. I don’t know what she said to them, but they left without speaking to us. After that, we spent the next eight days home alone.