Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

July 2015

A Living from Fraud and Deception - Reg Pound

Have you noticed that when writing their autobiographies the rich, famous and infamous seem to be able to recall everything and everybody from the time they were conceived? I can't do this.

I heard somewhere, probably on a Radio 4 programme, that educationalists and psychologists believe that what we learn and what we are exposed to in the first five years of our life determines how we turn out and what we are.

Could be. If I tell you something of what I remember of my early years, you can judge for yourself.

I was growing up. Every day seemed to bring a lot of questions which even when answered did not result in satisfactory replies. Questions like why must I eat my dinner before having dessert? or for tea could parents not understand that you could be hungry for cake but not for bread and butter? or why must I go to bed when I'm not tired? or what are parents for? That got them! And so on.

But the most significant influence in my life was the year before I was due to go to 'proper' school. In those days it was when you were five. I was at my most vulnerable.

It was coming up to Christmas and I was looking forward to a visit from Father Christmas. I had already sent him a letter listing what presents I would like. A letter was sent by burning it in the fire and getting the ashes to be taken up the chimney by the draught. It was when most houses had chimneys and real fires. The letter going up the chimney meant Father Christmas would receive it.

Something happened that year. Billy, my friend next door, had an older brother. He was a bit of a know all and liked showing off. He reckoned there was no such person as Father Christmas and that it was only your Mum or Dad pretending. That only fools believed Father Christmas to be real.

I didn't think that could be true. My parents didn't believe me when I told them Teddy Bear had broken one of our best tea cups. They told me always to tell the truth. Surely they couldn't lie to me and let me make a fool of myself in front of Billy's brother.

So I had a plan.

Each year on Christmas Eve we had to leave Father Christmas a drink and a mince pie because he would be thirsty and hungry from delivering all the presents. The drink this year was to be lemonade. It used to be whisky but Mum said by the time the pubs closed Father Christmas would have had enough. I said what did she mean? She called it a slip of the tongue and changed the subject.

I asked if I could get the lemonade and mince pie this time. She agreed – anything to keep me quiet. I knew she would think it was just a way to get some lemonade for myself.

My plan:

What I did was to mix the lemonade with some Andrews Liver Salts from the medicine drawer. I knew how they worked. Mum had given me some when I wasn't well and couldn't poo.

I thought that if Father Christmas drank that and Dad was on the loo all next day. Billy's brother would be proved right.

Christmas Day . . . Dad was ill . . . he spent the day in the loo.

I was disappointed I had been deceived . . . there was no Father Christmas.

What I had proved was that a child's early experience dictated their life. I hate lies and deceit. What do I do? I get a living from lies and deceit. I joined the police and I'm a Detective Chief Inspector in the Fraud Squad.