Unloved

By Stuart John Mills

In the emotionally immersive Unloved, read one man’s deeply personal experience of rejection – from the raw accounts of abuse and abandonment by his father, to being inexplicably stonewalled by Sue, his wife of 15 years. Stuart recounts the turbulent ebbs and flows of his life, from living on farms in South West England, to tours of duty in politically unstable regimes in South East Asia, to moulding trainees in the desert sultanate of Oman. His caring and trustworthy demeanour made strangers rely on him and even as a child, his foresight and willingness to work hard enhanced the lives of all those around him.

In this gut-honest narrative, retired Warrant Officer Stuart John Mills outlines his struggle to keep his family together and give his children a happy and well-adjusted childhood while conscientiously serving his country and delivering par excellence performance in all his jobs post-retirement. Read to find out:

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Aug 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463117231

Stuart John Mills

I was born on September 22nd, 1942, in Abercwmboi, situated in the Cwm Valley, South Wales. I was brought up sharing a three bed-roomed miner’s house with a family of nine others. Life during this period of conflict with Germany was a continual struggle with so many mouths to feed, where we had to eat our sparse food in shifts, owing to the extreme limited space, and at night time, three or four to one bed, with myself, I well remember having at a later date, to sleep on the floor each night, covered with an old ‘horsehair’ blanket until my mother returned from her daily/evening employment as ammunition operative in a munitions factory in Rhigos, where sometimes she had to do night-shifts. When she would come home, one of the beds would be completely free, and I would cuddle up to her in a pre-warmed bed. At six years of age, after the conflict with Germany had been finally resolved, my father, mother and I moved to Chute in Hampshire, near the birthplace of my father, who was brought up in Appleshaw, which was six miles away from Chute, but since my birth, my father had continually shown complete resentment to me. His hatred towards me continued on a weekly basis, which resulted in my receiving unprovoked attacks and beatings, and it became impossible for me to be in the same room as him. At 18 years of age, I decided to suffer this fate no more and joined the British Army on November 8th, 1960, where I served in Malaya, Borneo, Singapore, Canada, Northern Ireland, Taunton, Somerset and Germany, serving a further four years as Military Training Advisor with The Sultan of Oman’s Armed Forces, Oman, 1984–1988. With my ex-military world-wide experiences, I ended up as a Close Protection Officer/Chauffeur to celebrities and high-profile businessmen. During November 1999, I decided to sell my house in Pewsey, Wiltshire, and purchased a villa high up in the Andalucían Mountains in Fuente Armaga (Bitter Water), near Almogia, until November 2004, where after the deaths of both my mother and two aunties, I decided to return back to the UK to take my personal life into prospective and express these thoughts in writing, hopefully to share my thoughts and experiences with others, and took up writing in earnest. I have written and published a few short articles for the local newspaper, including a full-page spread about the highs and pitfalls of living in Spain based upon my own private experiences, desiring to express my inner most thoughts onto paper. Now at 67 years of age, life has been one continual struggle for me, and my 15 years of marriage to the most beautiful woman, in which we produced four healthy and beautiful children, whom I loved and adored so much, ended on May 4th, 1984, when the love and very heart of my life sought a divorce, as she had ‘found’ someone else. I have lived alone since May 1984, having lost the ability to trust another woman, and I took up gardening and chauffeuring at a private mansion in the Hampshire countryside, where I became a member of their family, where I found peace and solitude amongst the local country folk whom I knew as a boy, providing me with peace of mind where I can further put my ever-constant imaginative mind to work.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Following my birth on 22nd September 1942, I have many recollections of being alone for many hours each day and not seeing my mother, who would occasionally appear to provide me with her breast milk.

When she picked me up, I felt safe, yet I knew that she would shortly disappear and the cycle would start all over again. I was comforted during her absence only by the coldness of my grandmother, who stayed with me until I fell asleep, when she would lay me back into my bed and then proceed downstairs to carry out her daily chores.

As I grew older, spending most of my time on my bed, I was eventually carried downstairs by my mother, where, for the very first time, I actually met the remaining people who shared this house and who were all total strangers to me. Many fingers were pointed at me, which caused me to cry, but I would be calmed in the arms of my mother, who gently rocked me to and fro, sending me back to sleep.

I must have been about two or three years of age when my mother told me that my father was coming home, someone whom I had never met or seen, so I had no recollection of him or of what he looked like. On the afternoon of his arrival, my mother told me that I must stay in bed and that my father would come up to see me. She told me that he was a soldier who had been to different countries with the army and that he was given leave to visit us.

As we never knew when he would arrive, that day passed very slowly and the day soon became evening. Then my mother entered my room, switched on the light and said, Stuart, your father is coming to see you and will be up shortly, so be a good boy and stay awake, and I will bring him up.

I had never seen or met my father; he also would be like a total stranger to me, which he was for the rest of my life. Shortly afterwards, my mother re-entered my room and said, Stuart, this is your father.

A man stepped into my room, looked at me for a few minutes, turned and walked away, with my mother calling after him, Fred, this is your son, Stuart. Pick him up and give him a cuddle. He never returned, and my mother began to cry, and as she picked me up into her arms, her tears tasted of salt as they trickled down my face. I was very frightened of this man. She gently sat down on my bed and held me tightly, her tears continuing to fall. Then my grandmother came in as she heard my mother crying and asked her what had happened, so my mother, in between tears, told her what had happened and that Fred was not interested in his son and had simply and totally ignored him.

My grandmother went back downstairs, and after my mother had laid me back in bed, she also went downstairs, leaving me, once again, alone. It is very hard to explain the feelings that I was experiencing, except to say, although I was so very, very young, I felt somehow frightened and unloved. Throughout my whole life, I would never have a real dad.

Life in the 40s. Grandmother Mary, aunties Gaynor and Peggy, uncles Brian and Trevor

The heroic Welsh runner Guto Nyth Bran

My grandfather ‘William’ would sit me upon his knee and tell me the wonderful story of Guto Nyth Bran over and over again, as I never tired of hearing it. Guto was born in 1700 and died after a race in 1733.

It has been said, and is etched in the minds of all the Welsh, Guto could run from Mountain Ash to Pontypridd and back again, a distance of seven miles, before the kettle had boiled (Remember there were no electric kettles in those days, and kettles were of a thick metal and were placed on top of a fireplace to boil, eventually).

Such was his fame that he was challenged by many runners from all over Wales, Scotland and England, and eventually, a woman named Sian Y Siop, who became his sweetheart, thought she could make a lot of money taking bets as long as Guto was ‘managed’ by her.

Folklore enhanced his fame, proclaiming that ‘Guto could run and catch a hare’. This only added to his prestige, and competitors travelled to Mountain Ash to try to outrun him, but despite all their efforts, no one could.

Guto retired for a while, but then, Sian found him one last race against a man called ‘Prince’; there was a reputed competition prize of 1,000 guineas for the victor.

Once again, folklore mentioned that Guto ran so fast that he had time to talk to the villagers, and ‘Prince’ then sped past but, in 53 minutes, Guto won the race. Sadly, when Sian patted Guto’s back to congratulate him, the poor man dropped dead.

Guto was the equivalent of today’s modern athlete Usain Bolt. He was buried in the 12th century church of Llanwunno on a mountain in Mountain Ash, and a bronze statue of Guto and his faithful dog is situated in Mountain Ash to commemorate this fine athlete. To maintain his memory, the ‘Nos Galan’ race is held at night on New Year’s Day, with each runner carrying a lighted fiery torch held high as they run up through the valley, even to this day in the year 2017. His memory lives on.

I never tired of hearing that story from my grandfather.

Chapter 2

As the days and weeks passed by, I never saw my father again, possibly due to the fact that he was still in the army. My grandmother told me that the reason that my mother did not visit me every day was because she was working at the munitions factory in Rhigos, making bullets. Sometimes, my grandmother would take me on a bus to Aberdare, where we would meet up with my mother. She would buy us all fish and chips that we ate out of a newspaper when sitting down waiting for the bus, which we would board together and return to Abercwmboi and home.

Where the bus stopped, there was (and still is) an extremely steep and long hill to climb to reach 9 Graig Terrace, and sometimes, my thin little legs would not work and I became extremely tired. Then either my grandmother or my mother would take on the task of carrying me up to the house. (Shortly afterwards, I was diagnosed with acute anaemia and ended up in Cardiff General Hospital for a whole month, where I was to undergo several tests and a whole-body blood transfusion).

Although five of the eight people living in the house were working full-time and giving their wage packets unopened to my grandmother each week, she seemed always short of money! (Much later, I discovered why she was short of money, as she showed me a loose brick in the fireplace in the front room where she had scraped out the cement, leaving space where she could hide her money to save it up for Xmas. However, she later discovered that her young son Trevor had been watching and had taken the money; it was never found.)

As time passed by, I became aware that great festivities were about to happen (Xmas), and the house was decorated with home-made decorations such as paper chains, coloured lanterns and other small items. Then I saw my first real Xmas tree, which was standing in the fireplace in the sitting room and had been decorated with colourful tinsel and ribbons.

There was a large amount of alcohol and spirits available, as was ample food. Since there was not enough room for us all to sit at the kitchen table, my Uncle Trevor, three years older than I, Aunty Gaynor, two years older than I, and myself were relegated to sitting in the small pantry, which was so small that our elbows and shoulders touched each time we lifted our food to our mouths. My memories of those times are forever etched into my mind since after Xmas dinner, all the adults went into the sitting room whilst we children were left under the supervision of my Aunty Audrey to clear away all on the table and wash and dry all the dishes. Then, and only then, once our tasks had been completed, were we allowed into the sitting room to open our presents. Sometimes, I only received one whole orange and an apple and a few sweets, as times were very hard.

Entering the sitting room, we were told to hold out our hands, into which our presents were placed by my grandfather, and we were left alone to discover what ‘Father Christmas’ had brought us.

My present contained a plastic cowboy belt with a ‘six-gun’, holster, and a cowboy hat and plastic waistcoat in which my mother dressed me and told me to show off to everyone. What I was supposed to do, I did not have a clue, until my Uncle Brian said, Twirl your six-gun like the cowboys do. I remained stationary, as I did not even know what a cowboy was, since neither television nor even a radio existed in our house.

Uncle Trevor came over and snatched my six-gun away and proceeded to twirl it to show me how to do it, but despite me trying, the gun fell several times onto the floor. Trevor picked it up and proceeded to bend the