It''s all in the book--my psychotic father and the woman he married eight months after my mother's suicide. The worst thing of all is that Jeanne and I, and one of her sons, encouraged them. Within days it fell apart--the defining moment being after I returned from the cemetery after laying flowers on my mother's grave.
'I'm your mother now,' she said.
Like hell she was! She may have been a good mother to her brood, but I and the whole of my family loathed her. It's all in the book.
Then when Jeanne and I married the same year, these two and three of my 'siblings' said that we would last six months if we were lucky.
We've been married over forty years. And the siblings? Well, three of them turned out to be pretty decent. As for the other three who mocked us--well, let's just say that betwixt sojourns which involved Her Majesty's Pleasure and more broken relationships than you could shake a stick at, their personal lives have left a great deal to be desired.
And below, in honour of O.B., as his family called him after the way he had treated my mother, a little of what I write about him in the book is included below.
Evil, cruel, contrived, nasty, homophobic, slimy, pathetic, puerile, poisonous, loathsome, psychotic, despotic, anti-Semitic, bigoted, adulterous and loud-mouthed. These are just some of the terms—and I’m sure there are more—that applied to George Spurr, my adoptive father. Add to this roster child-beater, rapist and crook, and this just about sums him up.