More Than You Know

Dedicated to my grandad, Samuel Matthew Read – aka Harry – I love you

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

1 Innocent As Snow

2 This Lonely River

3 Some Roses In My Cheeks

4 Redirected

5 The More I See The More I Want It

6 If I Was A Wishful Thinker . . .

7 A Righteous Way Of Getting Paid

8 A Pocket Full Of Green

9 Dreams Cannot Rescue Me

10 Even Angels Have A Past

11 This Crazy Life

12 Regret Ain’t Meant To Last

13 When You’re Not Here

14 When I Wake I Must Do More Than Exist

15 The Best Part Of Me

16 Chasing Demons

17 All Those Who Don’t Believe

18 I Can’t Hold My Breath That Long

19 So Many Miles From Here

20 Freefall

21 My Heart Has Had Enough

22 Life Is A Slow Dance

23 My Solitude Will Fade Away

24 Waiting For The Light

25 Where You Are, Can You See The Moon?

26 Just Me And My Thoughts

27 I Think I’m Gonna Fly

28 Gangster Or Spiritual Leader

29 It’s Good To See You Again Postscript

Picture Section

Postscript

Index

Acknowledgements

Picture Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

ONE

Innocent As Snow

When I was a little boy and had toothache, my grandad would lay his hand on my cheek and the pain would go away. I can still feel the roughness of his builder’s hands on my young face. His home, a flat in Crawford Road, Camberwell, south-east London was an emotional anchor for my childhood, one of the few constants in my early life, along with my twin brother Luke and my mum. We moved house so often, nine times in all. That flat was the only place that stayed the same. At that tender age, I knew so little of what lay ahead. No one could have possibly predicted I would lead a life as exciting, traumatic, extreme, painful, loving and rewarding as I have. There would be so many moments of such exhilaration that I felt as if I’d been blessed. There would also be several times when I would wish that Grandad could have laid his hands on me and made the pain go away. Back then, as long as the toothache subsided, I was happy.

For the first five years of my life, everything seemed normal. Mum and Dad had fallen for each other in, of all places, a hospital, when my mum and her sister Ann were visiting their gran. My parents were both very stylish, shared a passion for music and quickly fell madly in love with each other. My dad, Alan Goss, was a bit of a Mod and my mum, Carol Read, liked the way the Mods dressed. They were both barely into their twenties but the relationship was immediately very intense – so much so that less than a year after they first met, Mum accepted Dad’s proposal of marriage, at Christmas 1967.

Mum was the middle of three kids and, unusually, was exactly twelve years older than her younger sister, my Aunt Sally. There must be something in the family genes about babies arriving on the same day! Reading between the lines, I think Mum sometimes felt a little bit of a piggy-in-the-middle, with Ann being the first-born and Sally being the apple of her parents’ eye, the baby. But Mum never complained, ever. It’s just not her way. Besides, she was very close to both her parents. When her mum died, on Bonfire Night, 1971, my mum was devastated.

Grandad was bereft. His wife Win was everything to him. She was a very spiritual lady and their hearts were seamlessly dovetailed. Grandad’s full name is Samuel Matthew Read (which is where I get my Christian name) but most people know him as Harry. He was a gunner in the Second World War and his trade throughout most of his life was as a builder’s foreman. He’d planned on studying to become a surveyor but the army interrupted that; on his return from war, he found work in a trade desperate for labour to help rebuild the capital. Consequently, he worked on the construction of some of London’s many important buildings.

When he lost his wife, rather than disown his faith, Grandad leaned towards it. Although he was a bit of a ruffian, Grandad found that he had a gift and subsequently became a faith healer. Obviously, many people are sceptical of this whole subject, but I have seen what he is capable of with my own eyes. I could choose from scores of incidents to illustrate this. For example, many years ago, a man who’d heard about Grandad’s gift came to Crawford Road, explained that he had been diagnosed with brain cancer and given only three months to live. He asked only that Grandad help him to prepare for what was coming. Along with a friend, Grandad gave this man intense healing. One month passed, then two, then three and still there were no signs of this man’s physical or mental deterioration. Then the cancer started to regress. Eventually, the disease was just a single, small tumour which surgeons were able to remove successfully. That man is still alive to this day.

You can call that the power of the mind enhanced by positive energy if you like, but in essence that is what healing is. The fact is, this actually happened. It is also true that my toothache would miraculously dissipate when Grandad placed his hand on my cheek. But I don’t know how he brought my goldfish back to life one day! This fish was as dead as can be, completely still and I was crying my eyes out. Grandad went upstairs and gave it a little rub and next thing I knew, it was alive again. My cynical side might think he replaced it with a new one, the sleight-of-hand approach to faith healing! But it meant the world to me regardless.

Grandad can also do psychometry, whereby you give him an item – a necklace, ring, or a coin for example – and he will give you a reading from it. I believe that both my twin brother Luke and I have inherited some of these abilities. We can both do healing to a degree, and I definitely have psychic tendencies. Yet, if I had foreseen the life I was about to lead, I would not have believed it.

My father’s family situation was altogether different to my mother’s. His own father left the family home when Dad was just a little boy and his mum later remarried. His family lived in a council house in Dulwich but he never knew his father growing up (although he eventually went looking for him, more of which later). Unfortunately, once I reached the age of five, there were certain parallels in my own childhood with what my father went through.

Luke and I arrived on 29 September 1968 at Lewisham Hospital. It hadn’t been an easy pregnancy for my mum – at twelve weeks there was a concern about a possible miscarriage which required her to be hospitalized. We were born eight weeks prematurely and even after Luke was delivered from my mother’s womb, no one knew that she was carrying twins. In fact, they cut the umbilical cord after Luke was born, thinking that was that, but that meant I was inside my mum being starved of oxygen. Doctors later said that Luke and I had been curled up back-to-back and thus our heartbeats had been exactly synchronized. As my lungs did not inflate properly, I was a ‘blue baby’ so along with my brother I was rushed straight into an incubator and fed intravenously. The early arrival meant that we had no eyelashes or nails and were both worryingly underweight, coming in at just over four pounds each I was slightly heavier than Luke even though I was born eleven minutes later. Mum spent only ten days in hospital, despite it being a distressing birth, but she and Dad had to visit us in our little plastic hospital cocoons for some time – Luke for a month, myself for six weeks – before they could take us home.

Mum and Dad were living at 94 Tressillian Road, a one-bedroom flat in Brockley at the time, with Mum working as a hairdresser and telephonist and Dad working long hours within the souvenir supply trade. They had very little money and with Dad away working so much, Mum was faced with most of the day-to-day demands of looking after twins. Perhaps inevitably, the stresses and strains on this young couple gradually began to take their toll and erode that idealistic and exhilarating love they had felt when they first met. Dad left briefly when we were less than three years old, but he and Mum soon reconciled.

I’m not going to pretend that I have vivid memories of every house we lived in and every street on which I wandered as a child: I don’t. My mind is a scramble of different addresses, friends made then lost, countless new school gates and the repeated realization that we were moving once more and it was going to start all over again. What I do recall are certain events, particular moments of extreme clarity in that transient haze, like stark rays of sun piercing a mist. When I think of these moments, they are absolutely crystal-clear, as if I had lived them only yesterday.

One of my earliest memories is of a house in Bramdean Crescent in Lee, before I was even of school age. It was a three-bedroom terraced house with an extra feature – it was haunted. Mum hated it there because of this presence – a very dark spiritual energy – and eventually we left. We weren’t going to be one of those families in the horror movies where they check out the cellar and make friends with ghosts. It was very unsettling indeed.

In 1973, when Luke and I were heading towards our fifth birthday, we all went on holiday to Majorca. Put simply, this was the last time in my childhood that I remember feeling part of a family. My mum and dad just looked so good together. I thought my dad was incredibly handsome (and still do), with his dark hair and piercing blue eyes; Mum was beautiful, so fair-haired and with beautiful green eyes. Of course, during the holiday they acquired lovely sun-tans – the weather was amazing – so I have this overriding memory of them being very brown, healthy and just so good-looking. They were wearing Seventies gear that was the height of fashion and they looked extremely cool. I was bursting with pride.

I cherish so many good memories of that holiday. My parents would go out for dinner looking fantastic and come back full of chatter, having had a great night. I can still see myself running through the streets of Majorca with Luke, both of us holding Dad’s hands as he said, ‘You’ve got to see the bull in this shop! You’ve got to see this!’ When we got there, breathless and laughing, there was a huge stuffed bull from a local bullfight. It was quite scary, but it was so exciting as well for Dad to run with us all that way to make sure we saw it. That’s what dads do.

We stayed in a lovely villa. One night when Mum and Dad were out having a meal, there was a violent thunderstorm. I was upstairs, walking around in the dark looking out of the windows at the black clouds and torrential rain. Next thing I knew, I was lying winded on a bed downstairs. Luke was shouting out, ‘Matt! Where are you?’

‘I’m downstairs!’ I replied, totally confused. I hadn’t noticed the edge of a balcony and walked straight off, falling down a floor and on to a bed. We laughed so much.

I also squashed a cockroach with my bare feet, a big black cockroach, which was fairly unpleasant. Luke and I would play in the pool for hours – I had a Dumbo inflatable and Luke had a Mickey Mouse; I can still smell those rubber rings to this day. Silly memories, important memories. Family memories.

Reminiscing about that holiday, I can still sense the sun-tan oil in my nose, I can still picture Mum and Dad looking so bronzed and stunning, I can still feel the excitement and emotion of being a proper family welling up inside me. In my adult life, I have been fortunate enough to travel the world many times and enjoy some wonderful holidays, but that time in Majorca was easily one of the best holidays of my life.

Unfortunately, it was also to be my last happy memory of childhood for a while. Three weeks after we came back, my dad left home – for good.

Who knows what undercurrents had been bubbling between Mum and Dad in Majorca. They certainly did not allow any problems between them to spoil that fabulous holiday. In retrospect, that must have been very difficult for both of them and I am grateful that we were shielded in that way, even though it made what was about to happen back at home a very sharp shock.

I have a vivid memory of the night when my dad actually left. Mum sat Luke and me on the windowsill, and said, ‘Dad won’t be coming home, me and your dad aren’t going to be living together any more, he loves you deeply but . . .’ That was the beginning of a feeling of strangeness in my life.

From then on, my childhood felt somewhat transient, emotionally and physically. It was very disjointed and hard to feel connected to one place. To feel safe. That’s never changed, particularly with what I do for a living. I have such a need to feel safe in my life – but I don’t feel safe. I think this undercurrent started that night on the windowsill.

While we were in Majorca, I thought, This is so fantastic, I hope we can do this all again next year. That’s how you view things when you are so young. But it wasn’t to be. With Mum and Dad separated, there would never be enough money to take us away to such glorious places again. Even if there had been, that sense of family would not have been there anyway. It just wouldn’t have been the same.

I am so conscious of talking about these events, but I must preface it by pointing out it’s just one of those situations that happens in life; it’s nobody’s fault. Separation is not easy on anyone. Dads go through loss, mums go through loss, and husbands and wives go through loss. But purely on the level of being a child, the starkest realization was that we were not going to go back to Majorca next year after all. It’s also strange how after Mum and Dad separated, I became so much more aware of certain elements that I’d previously been blissfully ignorant of. Suddenly, school was full of other kids from broken homes, little people with secret histories.

By the time my parents separated, my father had been a policeman in the City of London force for over two years. He’d trained when Luke and I were two and a half, and even back then there were tensions between him and Mum. When we went to Majorca, we were living in a police house at 17 Priestley Road, Mitcham; that provided our family with a level of security that was very welcome. Unfortunately, the crumbling edifice of my parents’ marriage never matched the solidity of a safe, secure police house.

Separation and divorce were not looked upon in a very good light within the force, so it was an especially difficult time for both Mum and Dad. One unsettling memory I do have of the police house in Mitcham is that for a couple of weeks, a man stood outside our home. We were never sure of what was going on but it might possibly have been someone watching to see if Mum was living with anyone, because there are obviously rules about who lives in a police house. We reported this to the police, as did several neighbours. Sometimes this man would be sitting in a car and other times he would stand by our hedge reading a newspaper. We were only kids and it scared the hell out of us but it was especially disturbing for Mum.

My early childhood was painful, constantly seeing my mother in tears, genuinely aching. Every night she would come in to our bedroom and give us a kiss, then sing us to sleep, songs like ‘American Pie’ and ‘Fly, Fly Superbird’ – I can hear her singing them now. But then she would leave the room and we would wait for her to start crying. Many years later, I wrote a song which my mum doesn’t know about called ‘Ms Read’, her maiden name; ‘I can hear you crying Ms Read’. It was very sad to see her like that.

Mum always did her crying in private, and tried to shield us from as much as she could. We knew she was upset but we were only little and we didn’t always know how to approach her; all we really wanted to do was give her a cuddle and make her feel better.

The break-up of my parents’ marriage hit us very hard. Its effects manifested themselves in many ways. One night my mum went out of the front door to go to the phone box. It was dark, being around nine o’clock, and Luke and I flew into a blind panic. We screamed and screamed, tears pouring down our cheeks, and ran out of the house. Mum was really startled and said, ‘What’s wrong? What on earth is wrong?’ We’d thought she was going to leave us.

I can still feel the chill of the fear that I had, thinking she was not going to come back. It’s an awful memory. ‘Of course I was coming back, my loves. I’m just popping to the phone box.’ Mum was brilliant, she went back inside and zipped us up in our parka coats over our pyjamas and held our hands down to the phone box. She was smiling and being so lovely with us to cheer us up, but inside that must have been a terrible thing for her to see.

I don’t know how we got by. One afternoon, Luke and I wanted to do something but we had no money. We asked Mum but she said, ‘Look, I’ve got nothing,’ and she opened her purse to show us a single twopence coin. Then she went to the phone box and, as we followed her, it started raining heavily. We stood outside and watched Mum put the coin in to phone her dad – that was what calls cost in those days. We had to wait outside and watch Mum hunched over the phone, absolutely sobbing to her father. It was pouring down with rain by now and it was an awful moment. I just felt so useless.

But then, we looked down at the ground and there was a one-pound note, just lying there in front of us. That was a lot of money, a week’s food at least. A crumpled, green, old one-pound note. I picked it up and started banging on the phone box window. No answer from Mum. Again, Bang! Bang! Bang! Mum was still crying and shouted, ‘Hold on!’

So I did it again.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Finally, she looked round and there we were, standing in the teeming rain, proudly holding up this note. We didn’t say anything, just held it up. Mum looked at the money and then at our beaming faces and said, ‘I’ve gotta go, Dad!’

We ran home holding her hands, sprinted upstairs and put the note on the boiler, then just sat there, the three of us, waiting for it to dry. And as the dampness evaporated, the edges of the note started to curl up and there was another one stuck to it. It was one of the most insanely amazing moments ever. I just kept thinking, ‘You could buy two hundred Black Jacks with that,’ but in my heart of hearts, I knew that putting food on the table was more important.

Another time, my mum slipped a disc and my brother and I kept her alive on jam sandwiches for a week. She could not move out of bed, so we made her cups of tea and jam sandwiches. We were really proud of ourselves, looking after her when she was always so doting on us. Luke and I are her life, always have been, sometimes to the point where I feel guilty, she has put so much into us. She is my angel.

One time when I was eight, I really needed my angel. For some reason, my knee had swollen up to quite a size, it looked very odd. They took me in for a check-up and said they would have to investigate further as it wasn’t clear what the problem was. I was taken to the local hospital and all sorts of doctors and people in white coats busied themselves around me. Eventually, they inserted a huge needle into my leg to scrape cultures off the kneecap. Unfortunately, it is very difficult to anaesthetize the kneecap because of the lack of muscle and the proximity of the bone to the skin, so I had no painkillers. I was in agony. To this day I have a very strong phobia about needles and I don’t think you have to be a psychologist to work out why.

Tests were done and I was told I’d have to stay in for ten days. One day, Mum came to visit and was talking to a doctor by my bedside when he asked her to go outside. Once they were out of the room, he talked to her in somewhat hushed tones. Mum came back in all teary, although desperately trying to look cheerful. I later found out that they suspected I had septic arthritis and among all the sheaves of paperwork Mum had had to sign and agree to, one had asked for her consent to amputate my leg. That’s a dreadful position for any parent to be placed in.

Fortunately, the swelling began to subside and it turned out that there was no lasting damage. Nonetheless, I had to sit there for ten days which, to an eight-year-old boy, seemed like for ever. My dad bought me a little wooden box that had a maze and some ball-bearings in it. It was like some Stone Age Gameboy, it predated hand-held computer games, but I bloody loved it, it was such a good present. I spent hours every day trying to get the little silver balls to tumble their way through the maze to the finish. That simple little toy got me through those ten endless days. I wish it had been as easy for Mum and Dad. Eventually I was sent home with a clean bill of health (a bout of measles had also sent me to hospital so I should have been used to it!).

There was still the fear within me though, a constant sleeping partner. One result of this was that I wet the bed up until I was in my early teens. I used to put three felt-tip pens vertically under my wet sheet to lift it off the mattress so it could dry, then I would try to sleep on the floor. When I heard Mum coming to my room in the morning, I would knock the pens away quickly so that when Mum felt the sheet it would be dry. There was so much fear. As trivial as it sounds, I truly believe in talking about this unwelcome habit – kids go through hell, the fear of not wanting to wet the bed so badly it makes them do it anyway.

Eventually, my dad took all the pressure off me and his intervention really helped. He told me to hit the pillow with my fist the number of times that coincided with what time I wanted to wake up and go to the toilet. I did exactly that, I woke up and went to the toilet when I wanted to and the next morning I hadn’t wet the bed. It took me a further two years to believe I had finally stopped.

When I try to claw back memories of that time, it all feels very musty to me, not lived in, painfully desolate. I don’t like remembering back then and I don’t get a nice feeling when I think of those early years. The house in Mitcham holds very little but cold memories for me. I didn’t wake up looking forward to the day, I genuinely didn’t. That’s a sad way for a young chap to feel.

I always used to like lying under things, tables, chairs, hiding. Always hiding. There was one particular table made out of a solid piece of wood and that was my favourite hiding-place, my sanctuary.

One Saturday, my mum’s sister got married and Lukie and me were asked to be pageboys. We were both so excited; we were given tuxedos and were even bought new shoes from Clark’s – they were expensive and it felt like we’d won the football pools because we were shopping there. It was a great day but when we came back to the police house, the back window was smashed and there was blood smeared on the remaining shards. Bloody fingerprints were on the window and the door handle. It was very frightening. We didn’t know if an intruder was still in the house and Mum was on her own with six-year-old twins. We anxiously walked in through the damaged door to find that every stick of furniture had gone. Everything – even my little table.

TWO

This Lonely River

Luke and I were eight years old when my mum met her future husband, Tony Phillips. Prior to that, she had been very considerate to us, she hadn’t really had any boyfriends, even though times had been very difficult for her and she must have craved adult company and support.