James and his two sisters, Amy and Hannah, spent their childhood in a 400-year old Welsh stone cottage with an acre of ground, in a tiny hamlet of 5 houses and a Baptist church, so far out from civilisation that the locals called it ‘fairyland’. We had a large stream, a tributary of the river Ithon, running just beyond the bottom of the garden, and an assortment of odd pets with whom to share this idyllic childhood. There were twin Shetland ponies (Itsy and Bitsy), a retired 16.3 hh police horse called Falcon (he took early retirement because he bit a police officer’s ear off), three golden guernsey goats, a gaggle of volatile geese who had to be escorted to the stream at the bottom of the garden because they were unable to fly over the fence, and an assortment of chickens, rabbits, hamsters, guinea-pigs, cats and dogs. 

Over the years they all came and went, but the children's love for the country never waned. Their childhood was spent playing on the surrounding hills of this beautiful valley, swimming in the pools created by the sharp curves of the stream where we lived, and riding horses through the fields full of sheep and mole hills. There were chickens to feed and eggs to collect each day, or else you'd find us foraging for wood for our three wood burning fires in the nearby Forestry Commission. When the wood was collected, it had to be dried and chopped, either into kindling or logs for the open fires. It was a hard way of life, but we all loved it, and it kept us very healthy.

The hamlet itself was a former commune, bought in it’s entirety by a group of post-60s hippies, each with their own particular craft or skill, who were determined to make a living off the land. The resident carpenter renovated each cottage one by one, so everyone’s kitchen was identical, using local pine and ceiling beams and joists from ships, and they tried to grow vegetables in the wet, clay soil of the hamlet. Because the topsoil was sparce, and a thick layer of grey clay was found about 6 inches under the surface, they were never going to be self-sufficient. The clay came in handy for the little models we used to fashion every Christmas - snowmen and Santa Claus, in fact anything remotely festive. Eventually, over the years, the commune disbanded, and the last survivors were our neighbours, who made a living from making ‘posture chairs’ (the type you neither sit nor stand on, but they’re good for your back).

Despite all the beauty of where they lived, James and his sisters still had to go to school. The ‘local’ primary school was 6 miles away by road, or 3 miles over the hills as the crow flies. As soon as he started school, James excelled in everything he did. I have three very clever children, all of whom were expected to go to university, said their then headteacher, Mr Strong.

When James was 10 years old, in 2001, I decided that the children's social lives were such that we needed to re-locate to the town, in order to save me from becoming a permanent taxi service to all and sundry. That said, to this day we all miss the country, and our beautiful Saddler's Cottage. James' father, Andre, is a Master Saddler by trade who was in the army when I married him, in the Blues and Royals Regiment, the Royal Horse Guards (the ones with the red feathers in their helmets at the trooping of the colour).

In 2001 we all moved into a large Victorian house right in the centre of Llandrindod Wells, an enchanting Victorian Spa town, with virtually no garden and central heating! What a culture shock!

James and his sisters settled into their schools, and I remember back then that all his school reports brought a cheer to my heart, and a tear to my eye. Most of them were too good to be true. James was very selective about his friendship group, and tended to keep his personal life separate from his academic one. He was so different (to my great relief) from the other lads his age, who wanted just to go out and roam the streets, play football or indulge in drink and/or drugs. He was far too clever to succumb to any sort of peer pressure, and far too individual to follow the crowd. Some people might have thought him arrogant, but it wasn't arrogance, it was simply James being James, very much his own man and a special type of person. Witty to the core and opinionated, sarcastic and with a very dry sense of humour, and quite unable to suffer fools gladly. But whenever he remonstrated with anyone, it was always with a very subtle smile on his lips. And he was always champion of the underdog. Many times I caught him watching old movies, with glistening eyes.

William was born 12 weeks prematurely, and died when he was just 5 days old. 2012 would have seen him celebrate his 26th birthday. No parent should ever have to bury their own child.

I had suffered with a massive Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT) during my first pregnancy, and, because of this, I was put on the anticoagulant drug Heparin, which induced early labour. When William was born at 28 weeks he too had received doses of the anticoagulant while in the womb, and as a result his blood was much thinner than it should have been.  He weighed in at a healthy 3Ibs 7 oz.

William was a very active little man, despite being highly sedated to try to make him conserve energy.  He was too weak to cry.  His little mouth would open but no noice would come out.  Very rarely he would open his little eyes, and when he did it was usually because he heard the sound of his father's voice behind him.  We would take it in turns to gently put glycerine on his lips, because they used to dry out quickly.  He spent his time flailing his little arms about, giving the nurses a high old time, and making sure those drip feeds and lines didn't stay in him long.  The nurses told me "No matter how much sedative we give him to try to make him stay still, he fights against it, and once even managed to knock the line out of his arm".

I had a feeling that William wouldn't leave the hospital.  It's a feeling only a mother can know.  Everyone was very reassuring, telling me he was a good weight, and that he would be ok.  Respiratory Distress Syndrome (RDS) was quite common among premature babies whose lungs weren't properly formed, and hadn't got enough surfactant on them to make them well lubricated and stop them sticking together.

I had a feeling William also knew he wasn't meant to leave that hospital.  He spent a lot of energy trying to get the nurses to leave him alone, and stop putting all these lines in him, as if he knew it was a waste of time.  He was such an animated little baby, and my clearest picture, even now, is of him peeking out of the corner of his eyes, chucking his arms in the air and spreading his tiny hands out as if to say "Don't bother me with all that!  I'm not going to be here long!"  No matter how much they sedated him, it had no effect.  He was rarely quiet.  He did sometimes calm down enough to grasp my fingers in his little hand - he had such a tight grip, did William, but he never seemed to want to open his eyes much.  He simply didn't have the energy.

William died at 2:00 am on 9 November, 1986, of a pneumothorax (collapsed lung) brought on by the RDS - this basically meant his lungs were not fully functional. Post-mortem showed that, because his blood was so thin, William had suffered a massive brain haemorrhage while being born. If he had lived, he would probably have been blind and brain damaged to a considerable extent.

Nevertheless, one is left to forever wonder what might have been.

A whole lifetime of cuddles and kisses never given, words never spoken, ideas never expressed and achievements never realised....

I love both my sons.  I miss them every day.  I spent so long mourning William, and thought I would never be lucky enough to have a baby I could keep.  I was wrong, of course, because I went on to have three very beautiful children, two girls and, last of all, another little boy.  You can imagine how precious they all were, more so because of losing William.  Little did we know what fate had in store for us 24 years later, when the same thing would happen again, to my 19 year old son, James, William's younger brother. 

I hate the way she looks at me, 
it really makes me mad
And when she goes away for a day
It really makes me glad.

Her mouth is like a drill, 
Her eyes are those of pigs,
Her nose is like a witch's,
I'm sure she wears a wig.

I like it when she gives me money, 
But not when she wants it back,
All her shouting and screaming, 
Is more than I can hack.

I must admit I like her,
Though she can be a pain,
I'll just have to put up with it, 
Even if I go insane!
 

They're funny, they're scary,
They're frantic, they're weary,
From Sky Kids to The Ring
They're all so exciting.

The Fast and The Furious, 
Makes you so curious,
The Lord of the Rings, 
Makes you think of loads of things.

From Gimli to Arwen,
To Aragon and his rough skin,
My favourite's a horror, a good comedy too,
The fear, the excitement, I laugh 'til I'm blue.

So movies beyond doubt are the very best,
Head and shoulders above all the rest,
You can knock out Corrie, Eastenders too,
Cos movies are coming, coming after you.

 

Ding Dong.  I froze to the spot as I looked at the time.  It was 6:30, the time that the babysitter was due.  Suddenly, this awful smell travelled through the front room.  "Erghh," I screeched.
    She walked in as though she owned the house. She smelt like a decaying piece of cheese, blended with sweat.  I saw in front of me what looked like an overgrown, dirty ape.  Urgh, I saw three-inch long scabs all along her arm.   Her nose, or whatever it was, looked disfigured.  It had a huge wart on it leaking funny green stuff every few seconds.
    "All right then James, we'll be off to the pub now, have a nice time".
    She smiled and shut the door.  It was just me and it.  We exchanged grins.
    "Pass me that remote and pizza box" she roared.
     I shivered and quickly did as I was told.  I didn't feel confident now that I had heard her voice.  She gobbled up the pizza, slumped on the sofa and switched the channel to Corrie.
    "Right I'm going to the bog!" it muttered.
     About three minutes later she re-emerged, her dirty, greasy face turned to me.  "Wanna sandwich?"
     "Y-y-yes p-p-p-p-please", I stuttered.
     I caught a glimpse of a loose scab.  A moment later she came back into the lounge.  She gave me a Branston pickle sandwich.  I took a bite, there was something crunchy in the sandwich I had eaten.  I crunched it up like a crisp.  I looked at her amr and realised the loose scab was missing.  I wanted to vomit.  In fact, I spent an hour in the bathroom making myself sick.  I came out to her sitting there picking huge scabs and eating them and grinding them down.  Yuck!  After that she made me rub her smelly, sweaty and dirty feet with my hands.  The hard scaly surface made my insides churn.  I wanted to cry.
      At last 10:30 came, the phone rang.  The babysitter answered.  "it's for you!" she grunted.
     "Hello", I said.  It was Mum, she said she wouldn't be getting back till the morning, there had been a hold-up.  "Noooo!" I screamed down the phone, she said goodbye and hung up.
     The babysitter looked at me and winked.


 

GCE

HISTORY                             A*
ENGLISH LITERATURE       A 
MATHEMATICS                   D

GCSE

ENGLISH                             A*
ENGLISH LITERATURE       A* 
HISTORY                             A
MATHEMATICS                   A
WELSH 2nd LANGUAGE     A
ART & DESIGN                    B
GEOGRAPHY                      B
RELIGIOUS STUDIES          B