It Could Have Been Better

By Robert Chard

It Could Have Been Better is a story of Raymond, a young man who grew up with three different fathers; all of them are challenges for Raymond to surmount. At a young age, he got involved with gang wars from his place. His journey took him to many places around the world, but he missed home. Finally, he met Sally, and she painted his life with wonderful colors. Everything has been great for both of them until before their wedding when a terrible news came to their attention.

This is a story that many people can see themselves in. Feel how Raymond hated, dreamed, and loved during his journey through life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728390567

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© 2019 Robert Chard. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/09/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-9057-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-9056-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019909245

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4 Arrest

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 Hammers And Nails

Chapter 9 Ann

Chapter 10 Back To Work

Chapter 11 Success

Chapter 12 Weights And Judo

Chapter 13 My Reputation Grows

Chapter 14 A Change Of Pace

Chapter 15 Home Again

Chapter 16 Wedding Plans

Chapter 17 Lock Up

Chapter 18 Had You Fooled!

Chapter 19 Ecstatic Delight

Chapter 20 Home Sweet Home

Reader’s Synopsis

Author Description

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CHAPTER 1

W HEN I WAS A CHILD, HAD I BEEN STRONG ENOUGH, I could have grabbed the cat and swung it round in front of the house, and after my letting go, it would have gone for a swim in the River Thames. That’s how close the house was to the river.

The house was situated in a lovely area in southern England, in Berkshire, in a town named Reading. Caversham Bridge was nearby. The boathouse was a one-minute walk away, where the rowing club kept their boats for the coxless pairs and the coxed eights.

When my dad was courting my mother, on Sundays, if the weather was nice, he’d hire a punt. To propel a punt through the water, one stands close to the bow with a long pole. The end of the pole is pushed into the river bottom, and the punt is walked forward. This is repeated over and over again, and it is obviously the man’s job. It would be so anyway, as he wanted to show his lady how strong and manly he was while she reclined in the bow, fluttering her eyelashes and looking admiringly at her hero.

My parents, Bill and Helen Saber, had married when they were 19 and 18 respectively. They lived with Dad’s folks in the aforementioned house. Sixteen months after I was born, the twins arrived. They were named Reginald and Iris. When I first set eyes on them, I made a noise like yuck! I hated them on sight. So, with the new additions to the family, the house became too small for all of us.

Dad’s father, my grandfather, was a miserable, grumpy old sod, which didn’t make life any easier.

I was tired of hearing him shout, Raymond, go outside and play, you bloody pest.

I was Raymond, not Ray, when he was upset. And with Reg squealing at night, the atmosphere was not very pleasant for my grandparents.

So we had to move. The house had two bedrooms. At night, there seemed to be bodies all over the place, and it was much too noisy for the old folks.

When I was about 3 years old, the five of us moved in with my other grandma, Mum’s mother. I loved her to bits, and the feeling was reciprocated. But no favouritism was bestowed on me. She treated us all the same, which was a shame, as she was a bit too handy at dishing out thick ears. I wondered why I did not go deaf.

She did not like my dad, not one little bit. I don’t know why. I mean, if she was nasty or rude to him, he would never respond or show any disrespect. He must have bitten his tongue sometimes.

The year was 1944. The Germans were still trying to conquer the world.

Dad was a toolmaker, which meant he was needed at home to help with the war effort, so he was exempt from military duty. He rode a bicycle to work. One particular morning, it was very foggy. While eating breakfast, he said to Mum, I don’t think I’ll go to work today—difficult to see where I’m going in this thick fog.

Gran overheard what he said. She stood behind him and said in a withering tone, Why should England fear?

He said no more. He stood up, put on his coat, grabbed his rucksack containing his lunch, and went quietly off to work.

When we moved into the house, which had a big back garden and a small front, we found two rabbits and a duck that had been left behind. The duck was christened Beaky. He and I teamed up very quickly. He followed me everywhere, probably because I was the one who always fed him.

There was a war raging, and food was scarce. Times were hard, so the rabbits soon became the main ingredients in two stews.

One day, two or three months later, I was out walking with my grandma. When we arrived home, I went to find Beaky, as I usually did. I could not find him anywhere. I ran around the garden, calling his name, but there was no sign of him. I stormed into the house and asked my dad in a tearful voice if he had seen Beaky. He said gently, Understand, son, there is a war on, and times are hard, so we are having him for dinner. I am very sorry.

Needless to say, I went hungry that day. I cried for a week. I felt that I had lost my best friend.

At that time, I had not considered the twins as friends or playmates. I suppose I unconsciously resented them for taking Mother’s love and attention away from me.

While Ma was away at work in the Huntley and Palmers biscuit factory, the twins spent part of the day in a double pram in the garden.

One day, I managed to pull it over. Unfortunately, they survived. They had safety straps on and were covered with blankets, which softened the impact. After this incident, the pram was chained to the fence.

In my childlike mind, I hated them so much that I tried to hurt them, even murder them. At that tender age, though, I hadn’t thought of committing such an act. It’s ironic that in a relatively short time I grew to love them both and we became inseparable. But my attempts at trying to end their lives continued.

I could not pull the pram over, so I took house bricks from a nearby heap and completely buried Iris. Luckily, I left her nose and mouth clear. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe I was starting to like her.

She used to wiggle her fingers in front of her face. One time, it was too tempting, and I bit them.

Gran ran out from the house when she heard the screaming and boxed my ears. She knew that I had done something nasty. I was also confined to the house for the rest of the day. When Ma came home, she slapped my legs after she heard of my latest attack.

The most serious attempt had occurred in the garden while the twins were in their pram.

I found a four-prong garden fork with a broken handle. I must have been really evil, although I was still too young to be responsible for my actions. Nevertheless, a terrible thought entered my tiny mind. I carried the fork over to the pram and stood next to my brother. I raised the fork upward as high as I could, intending to plunge it into his head. But God must have been watching. At that very moment, a voice called out from a second-floor window.

Raymond, put the fork down.

My aunt, who was paying us a visit at the time, was busy upstairs and had just happened to look out the window, catching me in the act. My brother and I were fortunate that our aunt had caught me. If I had succeeded, it would have been a terrible thing to live with for the rest of my life.

My dad used to show me off to his friends; he was so proud of me. But soon after the twins were born, he gradually changed for the worse. The main reason was likely that Mum could not pay him much attention, especially in the bedroom. The lovey-dovey side of things had gone off the boil, which was not good for two healthy young people. Men, in particular, suffer more than women in these circumstances anyway. Ma was always tired because she was so busy with the twins. Reg would scream at night, and someone always had to see to him—usually Mother, of course, as Dad had work in the morning. Consequently, Dad did not have his end away as frequently as he would have liked.

He quickly turned against his children, blaming us for his unhappiness. He became violent, taking his spite out on us, although he never hit Iris. I guess two punching bags were enough for him. Iris was coerced into becoming his spy. When he returned home from work, he would say to her, Right, what have they been up to?

He was always looking for an excuse to belt us. If no excuse was forthcoming because we, the boys, had not behaved too badly, which was by no means usually the case, he would inspect our hands to see if they were clean enough before eating dinner. Of course, they never were. So it was thick ears all round, a punch to the stomach, or hard slaps on the legs; then we were ordered to wash our hands.

Around the time I was 4 or 5 years old, Reg became my friend and partner in crime. I was so happy that I hadn’t killed him. We were adventurous boys. A more apt description might be mischievous!

The problem was, Iris was always with us. We didn’t know that it was a problem, though. We didn’t know that she was Dad’s spy, albeit an unwilling one. So, if we got into any mischief, which we usually did, Dad heard about it and happily exacted what he thought was an appropriate punishment. One time, he forced a Shippams paste jar into Reg’s mouth while sitting on my head. Thankfully, he placed a cushion over my head first, which was fortunate for me, as he used to pass wind a lot!

After some time had passed, Dad came home one evening and asked Iris about the bad things we had done that day. Iris said, "I’m sorry, Dad, but I can’t tell you any more. I don’t think it’s right, and I feel bad about it.’’ Bless her little cotton socks! After that, though, we were hit more often, just in case we had done something terrible.

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CHAPTER 2

M Y FATHER DID HAVE A CONSCIENCE, THOUGH. HE WAS basically a good man—a hard worker and a good provider, and he absolutely loved my mother. I think he needed professional help, although he never realised it. There weren’t many options available at that time, and most resources were allocated to our soldiers. The war had only recently ended, and some of our brave boys had returned home badly traumatised and in need of treatment.

I know that the British government did not fully appreciate the sacrifice the country’s young men had made. They promised them homes fit for heroes when they returned, but what did they get instead? If they had nowhere to go, they were given what constituted accommodation that was dubbed heroes fit for homes.

Dad said to Mother, more than once, Helen, why do I do it, why?

Of course, Ma had no answer for him. She was still a very young woman, with little experience of day-to-day life and no knowledge of how to cope with or even understand what was happening, much less understand what was affecting someone else’s mind, causing him to act against his true nature.

Things came to a head when I developed a nervous condition and had to be taken to the doctor. He diagnosed St Vitus dance, which causes involuntary movements, scratching of the arms and legs, and so on. I did not actually itch anywhere at all, but I did suffer from uncontrollable jerky movements, particularly with my shoulders. The visit to the doctor was the last straw. Mother was distraught, and she finally realised that she had to end this; there was no other way.

So, with Gran’s support, she confronted him and said, Bill, this is very painful for me, but I can’t take any more. Neither can the kids. I know you don’t want to treat them as you do, but you can’t help yourself. As much as I love you, I feel you have to go. You can stay with your parents until you sort yourself out. You have ruined our wonderful marriage and our children’s lives, so leave now, please.

He left, just like that. No arguments. Packed a couple of suitcases and left. He was crying when he went through the door.

I was around 7 years old when Dad left. A very happy day for us kids! But not for Mother. She cried a lot. But she knew that what she did had to be done.

My nervous condition vanished immediately.

Mother was crying one time, still very upset. I put my arms around her and said, Don’t cry, Mum. Will Dad be coming back?

She said, I love your father, but he can never be allowed to come back.

I was immensely relieved, I can tell you. So were the twins. Freedom, at last!

Which meant that we ran riot and got into more trouble, always up to mischief.

Reg started losing his temper quite often, too often, to such an extent that he would run at the wall head first. There was, we thought, the possibility of brain damage. He was in the throes of a temper tantrum when, for some reason or other, Ma grabbed him and sat him in our farmhouse sink full of cold water. He gave out a shriek and lots of ah and ohs. Reg was not fond of water at the best of times. After that incident, Ma had control. If ever he started losing it, she only had to say, I’ll put you in the cold water, and a miraculous change came over him. He returned to normal very quickly.

The sink treatment did not stop him losing his temper with me, though. He would run at me, fists flailing. But I was sixteen months older than him, bigger, and stronger, so I could handle him easily enough. In fact, sometimes he made me laugh when he jumped me. This did not improve his mood!

Around this time, I was in love with my English teacher, Ms Ayres. I desperately wanted her to take me home with her, although I gave no thought as to what this soppy little kid would do with her when we got there. I just wanted to be with her and have her undivided attention and love.

One day, I was making my way home across wild, undeveloped land. I stopped in a grassy area. At this time of year, it was nice and dry. I made a pile of grass and set light to it. I thought I was Davy Crockett surviving in the timberlands. As I watched, the fire spread. I ran around the edge of it, trying to stamp it out. My efforts were useless. The fire just got bigger and bigger. I was in a state of panic. I ran like hell, heading for home before anyone noticed the blaze. Soon after, I was looking out of my bedroom window and saw two fire engines speed by with bells ringing. I still felt scared, thinking that someone would come for me and take me away. But eventually, I calmed down and felt safe again when no one came.

We three kids would sometimes go to Dead Man’s Lake, about an hour’s walk away. The lake was on a huge private estate, all fenced off. This acted like a magnet to us. We always felt a sense of danger when we were trespassing there.

The lake was quite deep, but weeds grew to the surface, making it impossible to swim. It was christened Dead Man’s Lake by the locals after a man in his twenties, making his way to the island in the middle on some kind of makeshift raft, despite being an excellent swimmer, fell off the raft, got tangled in the weeds, and drowned.

One fine summer’s day, seeking excitement, I walked along a huge tree that had fallen into the water. I got to the end, to the part where the tree became submerged. It was a bit slippery underfoot, and I slipped. To save myself from falling into the water, I grabbed a handy branch. I had my favourite six-gun in my hand. During the act of saving myself, I threw the gun up in the air and into the water. I thought, Oh no! Not my favourite gun! (Actually, it was the only one I had!)

When winter arrived, and as it got colder as it went on and the ice took hold, puddles of water were frozen solid. We three and Noddy, a close friend, set off for Dead Man’s Lake. Maybe we could skate! Well, slide on our shoes anyway. After checking for gamekeepers or forest workers, we saw that the lake was frozen over. When we arrived at the fallen tree, I said, I’m going to walk out on the tree and look through the ice, try to see my gun.

If I located it, I thought, maybe I could fish it out come summer. I made my way gingerly along the trunk, reached the spot where I had slipped last summer, and then, while holding on to a branch, stepped out on to the ice with one foot and tested it by putting more weight on my leg. It seemed to be solid enough, so I took two steps out, away from the tree. I stopped, and as I stood there, looking through the ice, it broke. I went under and came up under the ice. Sure, I panicked. I could not find a way out. Maybe if I had been capable of rational thought, I might have seen the hole where I went through. The cold was numbing. Then a hand grabbed my hair and pulled me up into the open area, gasping and spluttering for air. Brother Reg had saved my life. He had hooked a foot in a V-shaped branch, stretched out on his stomach, and managed to reach me.

This was the second time he had pulled me out of the lake’s weedy grip. The first time, however, I don’t think my life was in danger.

I was shivering badly. Noddy gave me his long, wide scarf, which I wrapped around my neck and used to covered much of my front and back. I had taken off my jacket, jumper, and shirt and put on Reg’s thick jacket. He was beginning to feel cold without its warmth. I had to get home as quickly as possible, so we all ran at a good, steady pace, thinking physical exertion would keep us warmer than if we walked, which it probably did. My legs and feet felt a bit numb, though.

We reached the house OK. As soon as we walked through the door, Mother took one look at me and said, You’ve been in that lake again, haven’t you?

I didn’t answer. Just stood there shivering, teeth chattering.

She said, No answer? I don’t need one, you little sod. Get those wet clothes off and dry yourself off. Put warm clothes on. You will both stay in your room until tomorrow. No dinner, nothing.

She slapped our legs and ordered us upstairs in disgrace. But she did say, It’s against my better judgement, but I will bring you a hot drink to help warm you up. Don’t ask for anything else, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.

After some considerable time had passed, I felt ravenously hungry. I mustered up enough courage to venture to the top of the stairs and called down to Mum. She said, I told you to be quiet.

Please, can I have something to eat? I’m so very hungry, so hungry that I feel sick.

I told you—nothing to eat. And I meant it.

Just one slice of dry bread.

I didn’t even get that!

The next day, after we had been forgiven and fed, we were all in the kitchen with Gran. When Reg walked in from outside, as he passed through the room on his way to the wee room, we were treated to a generous helping of Gran’s famous wit.

Look at the way he walks! His backside looks like two eggs in a handkerchief. He could be a bit ‘funny’ when he grows up.

We all laughed. We kids, of course, had no idea what she meant. Maybe Ma wondered?

As we got a bit older, we came to realise that Ash Crescent, where we lived, was not as neighbourly, peaceful, or harmonious as we thought. The crescent turned left off from a bigger through road in an elongated U-shape, then rejoined the bigger road. The crescent was unofficially divided into two halves, our end and their end. Whether by accident or design, the families living in their end were predominantly more well-to-do. Stuck up we called them, noses so high in the air they couldn’t see where they were going. The ruffians and undesirables lived in our half.

Fights amongst the kids were commonplace. Gang fighting, like three against one, was unheard of in those days; it was all strictly man-to-man. Many a thick ear was dished out by an irate parent. Sometimes, mostly mothers, got involved in a slanging match. Not a pretty sight! It was a rough neighbourhood all right. I remember Franky, who was usually a friend of mine, did something unforgivable and made off running. I grabbed a stone from our path and threw it at him. It struck him on the side of his head. He continued running for a few paces and then fell onto the grass unconscious. I thought he might be dead, so I fetched Mother and told her what happened. After making my legs red, she frog-marched me over to Franky, who was thankfully sitting up. Ma helped him home and explained to his parents. They were understanding, as Franky had been nasty and what I had done was obviously a bit of an accident.

The same thing happened to my main rival, Clifford Camp. He was bigger than me, but neither one of us could best the other in a fight. One evening, he and Noddy were fighting with bean sticks. Noddys