JOSEPHINE: Anthoney was my daughter Beverley’s first child. I guess she was in trouble even before she had him. When Beverley was growing up, she never behaved herself; she didn’t want to go to school, and when she did go she refused to answer questions in class. I tried my best, so did my husband, but it never worked.

Beverley left Nottingham and went down to live in London. First she said she was a model, then she said she was doing this go-go dancing. I didn’t know what that meant. But I think she was taking drugs even when she was pregnant with Anthoney, even though she said to me she wasn’t.

One day I got a call from one of her friends saying Social Services were going to take Anthoney away. Beverley wasn’t looking after him; the kid wandered out on the streets on his own. I had to go to London and I took him back with me the same day. I think she was glad I took him, and he was glad to come with me. At first he was sad and asked for his mum, but in a day or so he would chat to me and play until he’d forgotten about it.

Anthoney was a willing little boy. He was very bright, and handsome with it. All the little girls he played with liked him. He did well at school. But as he grew older he’d get worried about his mum. “When is she coming, Gran?” he’d say. But she only came to see him once in a blue moon, and when she did, she’d break him down. Instead of saying she was leaving, she’d say: “I’m just going to the chip shop.” Then she’d disappear for months. She thought it was kinder. But he’d be looking for her and not finding her.

When Anthoney was four she went to jail. It was to do with drugs, I think. She’d say to me: “I love you, Mummy. I promise I’ll clean myself up.” Yet she never has. And I think she’s still taking it. It makes me feel sick in my heart to think about her. It drains everything out of me. Because when I look at her she’s not an ugly girl, she’s such a nice girl. So why? I think it’s the company she keeps; they’re a bad lot. She just listens to what her friends them say. She doesn’t listen to us.

Anthoney’s father, who they called Curtis, I don’t think he cared, so I didn’t speak to him about it all. I had to bring Anthoney up. I raised Beverley’s middle son, Ainsley, too. I still like having my grandchildren around, and on Sunday I like to provide their meals, so they can all come and eat. I make them roast potato, and rice and peas. I devote all my time to them — I love them.

I’m so proud of Anthoney; he could have walked the way his mum showed him, but he never does drugs himself. I am sure he loves his mum, though I think he has anger, too. If you see a person you love not trying to help themselves, it can make you very angry. And when he thinks about her, he could kill himself. But I think God is with him and helps him stay alive.

We don’t see Beverley at the moment. We’re not wicked to her; I just want Anthoney to put it all behind him and move on.

My late husband, Harty, he loved music — reggae, ska, Sam Cooke, Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley. He spent all his money on music. As Anthoney was growing up, I notice he dive his brain into music too. Harty wanted to send Anthoney to college to study music, but he took sick and he was a lot of time in hospital. And then he died. Later on, Anthoney he took music lessons, and now he’s doing his music full-time, and I think that’s brilliant. I am his No 1 fan. When he goes out touring I pray for him. But I’m not worried for him; he’s a sensible guy.

His music is a big help to him. It’s a hard road, but you got to fight it. And I like to see children fight for the life. Sometimes he’s down and he will ring me, and I say: “Patience.” And he says: “Yes, Mum, I’m patient. I have a lot in me.” I know he is struggling. But the Lord will take him there. I know he has the power. He will move on.

ANTHONEY: As a kid all I remember was my mother came and went, came and went.

I was always left in tears. When she came, it was for 12 hours, never a week. She wore the finest clothes. She was tall and glamorous and very good-looking — to the point of Naomi Campbell good-looking. She would say: “I’m just going to the shop — be back soon.” She wouldn’t come back for six months. I spent most of my childhood crying.

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