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Ian James was born in 1948 in the town of Cheshunt in Hertfordshire, England. After qualifying as a chemist at Trent Polytechnic, Nottingham in 1970 he took on several positions as both an analytical chemist and development chemist before establishing himself as the technical manager of a Speciality Chemical Company at Telford in Shropshire. It was just before this time he met Béatrice, a French student spending a year in England as an au pair. They settled down to married life in Shrewsbury and had two daughters, Chloé and Lucie. Ian became a teacher of science and mathematics at several schools in Shropshire before retiring and moving to France where he still lives.
The house in which I was born (20A Lordship Road), had only been occupied by my future family for a few months before my birth. Coming from the London suburbs, they settled in the green-belt area of Cheshunt in Hertfordshire. Unlike the other two-storey houses in our street which were parallel to the road, ours, at three storeys, was not only bigger than all the others, it also faced at right angles to them and parallel with Cheshunt Great House. In the stained-glass window on our front door was a picture of Oliver Cromwell. Why Oliver Cromwell should be depicted, as he had no known attachments to Cheshunt unlike his son, Richard Cromwell, who resided, using a hidden identity in the form of John Clarke in Cheshunt around 1680, until his death in 1712, remains a mystery. Though recorded as being buried at Hursley, in Winchester, there was rumour that his real resting place was, in fact, in an unmarked tomb in the grounds of St Mary’s church, in Cheshunt. St Mary’s church was close to, or in part of, the former grounds of Cheshunt Great House, which was gifted to Cardinal Thomas Wolsey by Henry VIII; and, as the crow flies, St Mary’s church was less than two minutes’ walk from our house. In fact, Cheshunt Great House was only ten minutes away. Our road was a cul-de-sac; its name was ‘Lordship Road’. Oh, I forgot to say...our house was haunted...
This is the true story of Anna, a Thai girl being raised in poverty in a poor area of Bangkok. This story is about real people and real events; it tells the tale of not only from rags to riches, but that of emotional trauma and how a beautiful child, and then woman, suffered throughout her life. Poverty such as Anna experienced is not an isolated event, it just happens to be one of which I became aware after meeting her and talking to her. As emails and messages flowed, the story of her life began to unravel.
At times, her recount of events is tragic; the feeling of despair and pain, merely because she was raised on the wrong side of the tracks, is as heartbreaking as it is pathetic. As her story began to unfold, it didn’t feel real, it felt as though it was an imaginary tale, based on imaginary people… but the account and people are very real. It defied credibility. This is the story of Anna… a Thai girl.
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