Aftermath , livre ebook

Contents
A note from the author
Chapter 0ne
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen











Aftermath






Dyna








2QT Limited (Publishing)
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by
2QT Limited (Publishing)
Settle, BD24 9RH
North Yorkshire

Copyright © Dyna 2015
The right of Dyna to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The events in this memoir are described according to the Authors recollection; recognition and understanding of the events and individuals mentioned and are in no way intended to mislead or offend. As such the Publisher does not hold any responsibility for any inaccuracies or opinions expressed by the author. Every effort has been made to acknowledge and gain any permission from organisations and persons mentioned in this book. Any enquiries should be directed to the author.




Cover design by Hilary Pitt
Images supplied by Shutterstock.com



ISBN 978-1-910077-56-6
This book is available as a paperback ISBN 978-1-910077-39-9





A note from the author
The book you are about to read tells the story of life’s challenging moments that we had to endure.
We had some good times, some bad and some laughs along the way… And by delving into the unknown we would suffer the aftermath of our dangerous adventure.
This book is dedicated to my sister, who lost her life through cancer. I lost my sister and my best friend. But I know she is among us, giving me the courage from above.
Your star shines the brightest of them all.
God bless x








Chapter 0ne


Somebody asked me, “Do you believe in angels?” My answer was easy.
“Yes, I do. I believe in demons too.”
My answer was profound and direct, with no hesitation. Looking straight at her I felt for the cross I wear around my neck. I could see the questioning look in her eyes.
“If you’d seen things and had things done to you like I have, you would understand,” I said, matter-of-factly.
In retrospect we brought the darkness into our lives, and at times I still feel surrounded by it.
“Do you want to come to church with me?” she asked. “I go to a spiritualist church. You are more than welcome to come.”
She said this to me at a time in my life where I felt like giving up so many times. I find every day a challenge and a struggle to keep my head above water ‒ and I feel like I’m drowning slowly.
Looking back at her I simply said,
“Yes, please.”

What follows is my story ...

The year is 1961. I was aged two when we moved to the farm: a farm that would leave its mark forever.
The youngest of six children ‒ my mum pregnant with the seventh ‒ it really wasn’t the ideal time to move. Mum really had her work cut out, but it was Dad’s opportunity to fulfil his boyhood dream. Opportunities were rare in the early sixties and, with the seventh child on the way, Dad really couldn’t believe his luck. It was if it was meant to be.
Mum, however, didn’t share Dad’s enthusiasm: she was leaving the house she loved so much, with the countryside surrounding it and beautiful sweet scents wafting through opened windows from the abundance of fragrant flowers she had painstakingly planted.
Our house was the last one of a row of quaint whitewashed houses: the house where my siblings and I were born. Our only neighbours were my grandparents. But with our growing family our house simply wasn’t big enough.
The farm, however, was. It was a no-brainer for Dad: a bigger house and the potential of a thriving business, giving Dad a new lease of life. Dad had thought it was perfect: it couldn’t get any better. There would be nothing quaint about our new abode: no countryside, no sweet aromas wafting through opened windows, only those of traffic.
It was situated on a main street. My observation of the huge black wooden double gates that stood before me was of an ugly gaping mouth that opened to reveal a veranda and a cobbled yard that seemed to go on forever, pigsties, a coalhouse, a dairy and an outside toilet. It was a far cry from what we were used to. It was another world.
Dad had reassured Mum that once the farm was alive with pigs, hens and Mum’s magic touch the house would soon feel like home. But Mum would need a miracle.
What do you do with a building that ‒ rumour has it ‒ is said to be in the Domesday Book , apart from knocking it down? That was exactly what it needed.
It seemed unreal it was still standing … standing tall through the passage of time, harbouring centuries of existence within its ugly stone walls.
The main entrance was through the back door, down two worn stone steps to reveal what we called the back kitchen.
This huge space had the characteristics of a graveyard. It had an eeriness that would make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end: it would make you want to turn on your heel and run a mile. The flagstoned floor was absent of any carpet ‒ a dismal old black fireplace taking centre stage domineering the old shell of a room, which would serve as nothing more than a dumping ground.
There were doors leading off to other rooms. The door on the right was the old wash house, although it was never used as one and ‒ by the look of it ‒ it hadn’t been used for the past century. It had a sliding door and, as a child, I would peep through the cracks ‒ never daring to go in, curious to see what was inside. Looking back at me were hooked-up poultry, their long necks dangling, their dead eyes black and soulless, just like the cold room they were suspended in. I always thought the bogeyman hid in there, lurking in the shadows.
To the left was the door to the living room, the heart of the house, in which we would have the most amazing fun times. I remember with great fondness all of us sitting round the fire, which was our only source of heating. I would often lose myself ‒ mesmerised with the kaleidoscope of coloured flames bouncing about, caressing the blackened walls off its stack. We would play, tell each other stories and toast bread, which always tasted better on an open fire.
The room next door ‒ the kitchen, which was the smallest room in the entire house ‒ was Mum’s domain, but Mum never complained even though she had a huge family to feed. She had only the basics back then ‒ which consisted of a large pot sink and a kitchenette that was relatively small, leaving hardly any room left to swing a cat in. Only having the basics never deterred Mum from making the most delicious meals. Sundays was her baking day, and she made good use of the old cooker that was looking the worse for wear but still doing its job. The lino on the floor had seen better days but was always kept clean, even though it was a busy household.
We knew the cooker was placed over a trapdoor. The ageing lino was giving way to the deep ridges and contours, showing the telltale signs of the cellar below. We never questioned or wanted to know what lay beneath. As far as we were concerned it was firmly shut, and best left that way.
Leading out of the kitchen and passing down the hallway you came to the sitting room, which we were all banned from. It was by far the nicest, sunniest room, and it had a nice fire surround. It was even nicer with the fire made and lit in its grate. The furniture was quite modern and, taking pride of place, was a brand-new radiogram. The sitting room was the only room Mum was proud of, and it was strictly out of bounds to us kids.
Most of the rooms downstairs had the original oak beams, which added lots of character and gave each room its own personality. My mind used to wander off looking at the indentations the carpenter had left behind. I wondered how old they really were. Who had the man been who had painstakingly used what limited tools they had in those days? I had such an overactive imagination.
Our door was always open, and we were always inundated with visitors. Neighbours would call for nearly all the wrong reasons possible, along with family and many friends.
Our house was always buzzing with fun and laughter that would deafen the sounds from upstairs in the attic. The attic where we girls all slept.
Five of us slept in one room, one very large room. We had two double beds: three of us slept in one and the twins in the other, and because I was the youngest I had no say to which side of the bed I slept. I was forced to sleep in the middle. Sometimes I would feel claustrophobic with my sisters either side of me.
We often heard bumps and unexplained noises in the night which we had put down to the house being so old, and basically dropping to bits. I never had the feeling of being watched. None of us did … not in the early days, anyway.
The attic had felt it was our very own secluded retreat, with our very own private staircase. And as the years unfolded, that was exactly what it wanted.
My earliest memory of living at the farm was when I was just three years old. So traumatic was the event that it has alway