So close, and yet so far - a true story in many parts - part 2

The temperature is dropping as the Indian Summer parts of England have experienced wanes, and bitter winter chills approach, the houseboat, which is my current abode, offers some insulation as it is made of steel, but more especially, wood, nonetheless, very soon I will need to get in some coal, kindling wood, and thermal underwear!

Life here on the boat is surreal. The boating community which inhabits the marina is close-knit. Everyone watches each other's back, perhaps a tad closely, however, I have no cause for complaint. I have been given, in the form of gifts: fleeces, cardigans, tracksuits, jogging leggings, plimsoles, even a hoody which I wear with joy as the wind just cuts through you when you live on the water.

Well, I'm getting better as the days pass I'm glad to report. The jaundice seems to be less apparent; at least passers by don't stare any longer, and my abdomen appears less swollen, though my mobility is still wobbly, and so I use a stick.

My larder is stocked. Yesterday, my daughter, Kathryn, accompanied my to town where I visited the social security people, and the Citizens Advice Bureau (where a kind man gave me a voucher for the food bank). I managed to get a nice bit of shopping in as well, and by buying only items that were reduced, or close to their sell-by date, I spent the princely sum of £13 ($20).

To be honest, I do get a bit lonesome on my tod on the boat, nonetheless, my son visits occasionally as does my daughter who takes me over to her mother's for Sunday roast, and I try to get to Alcoholics Anonymous as often as possible (twice a week at the moment, when I can get a lift).

I mustn't grumble though; there are many homeless souls who really do not have a pot to piss in, no shelter to speak of, and worst of all, no compassionate human contact aside from those warm-hearted souls who operate the drop-in centres like the Salvation Army.

On the boat, I am blessed with a wood burner, a halogen heater, wifi, and 'mod cons' and so I read, meditate, listen to discourses (Alan Watts); I cook, and l watch movies, and documentaries.

At any rate, and returning to where we had left off with the story, let us continue with understanding a bit more about Robert, my father. As mentioned in the opening chapter, unable, or unwilling to accept the sexual advances of two women, my mother and my governess, Robert upped and left for Hollywood. He had connections in the business, and so he slipped into the scene quite easily by all accounts, however, as do we all, Robert had his failings, and one of these was his temperament - he could not suffer fools or sycophants (of which Hollywood was full) gladly - indeed, it is reported that Robert, who was attending a party at Beverly Hills, once remarked to a 'budding' star, "what kind of sycophant are you" to which he received the response,"what kind of sycophant do you want me to be?"

In a bizarre set of circumstances, or was it a twist of fate, I met Robert when I was thirty-three years of age. Previously, I had had no idea where he lived, nor whether he was alive or dead. Nevertheless, I never gave up hope of finding him despite there being no easy way, and no Internet in those days. I just wrote letters, lots of letters. By this time, I had already embarked on a teaching career which took me to many countries dotted around the world, and so, each time I would arrive at a new destination, I would get another series of letters off with an updated address of mine.

One agency I wrote to was was Her Majesty's Prison Service, Manchester. Some time in the late 70s I had been informed by my cousin Sally that Robert had been considered the black sheep of the family, and that in his youth, and prior to his meeting my mother, my father had served time in Strangeways prison, Manchester, where he held the position of prison librarian - he had been sentenced to five years imprisonment - apparently, he had shot and severely wounded a Maltese mafioso in the West End of London who had slashed a friend's face with a blade (commonly known as a Glaswegian Smile).

One of my faults is definitely not a lack of tenacity; over a period of twenty-two years I never stopped writing. I put advertisements in the major newspapers in the UK; I wrote to the Salvation Army; the Home Office; the Actors' Guild; the Department of Work and Pensions, to mention but a few, even the French Foreign Legion!

Suffice it to say that my persistence paid dividends. In the late summer of 1990, I was sitting in front of the fireplace in a house in Sardinia, Italy, when the phone rang. My girlfriend at that time, Luciana, picked up the phone, said "pronto" and then passed me the phone accompanied by the words "it's your father."

To be continued ........