My story hinges on a moment. But to appreciate that, you need to know my marital history. I was married in 1958. My wife fell pregnant on our honeymoon. We were Catholic, so contraception wasn’t an option. She was very sick during her pregnancy.

Before the child was born, she revealed she didn’t love me, but told me she married me, because she didn’t think I’d beat the children, in the way her father had beaten her. She suffered from morning sickness all day, throughout all four pregnancies. On her final pregnancy the doctor told her another pregnancy would be life threatening. After that, I had a vasectomy. We were intimate eight times in twelve years, and not again in the next fifteen.

In 1970, I became a probation officer. Five years later, I had a young lady attached to me, studying to be a social worker. She joined me at court, in interviews, and on home visits, and on the final day of her placement I went with her to see my client in a Liverpool prison. The client refused to see me, which meant we had the rest of the day to spend in Liverpool.

As we were crossing a busy road, she took my hand. It was like I was hit by a bolt of lightning. We kept hold of each other’s hands for the rest of the day. On the train back it became clear we were in the same situation at home. Un-reciprocated love. We embraced, we kissed, we sat, until we got to Batley.

I said to her, “I hate Batley”.

She said, “Why?”

“Because Leeds is the next stop. There we will part, and I’ll never see you again.”

I wrote a poem about it, and I’d like to share it with you:

You took my hand as we crossed the street
The feeling I had, nearly swept me off my feet.
We walked, hand in hand, like a young lad and his lover.
But we were forty, and married, but not to one another.
I still remember fondly,
that April afternoon,
When Liverpool was magic
And Batley came too soon.