Book Extract: Llyfr Agored by Ant Evans

Ant Evans

The is an extract of my autobiography, Llyfr Agored (An Open Book). Translated by myself, the following extract looks at my late mother’s response to a rather grim prognosis after my first brain surgery when I was five weeks old.

“Your son will likely be a wheelchair-bound vegetable, unable to move, speak or do anything for himself. It is highly unlikely that he will learn one language, let alone two. So, it would be in Anthony’s best interests if you spoke to him in English.”

To this day, I have mixed feelings about that statement. On the one hand, this bloke was wrong (and I love proving people wrong). But his suggestion that my mother should only speak to me in English suggested that Mum, before that day, spoke at least some Welsh to me.

If that is the case, that then came to an end. Aside from chats in the company of Welsh speaking family members – once I’d mastered the language in school – and the very occasional one to one conversation, until her death, the language of my relationship with Mum was English. As Mum explained years later: during every hospital appointment in Liverpool, she was keen to ensure that I understood everything that was being discussed about me, and that I was able to communicate with the doctors and nurses.

If anything were to happen to her, Mum was keen to ensure that I wouldn’t have to rely on an interpreter during appointments or hospital stays. That being said, years later, she would be keen for me to meet and be able to depend on one specific interpreter, for non medical related reasons.

Mum had experience of dealing with a monolingual Welsh patient during her time in Alder Hey, and I’m reasonably certain that this experience resulted in her willingness to raise me speaking English. During one particularly quiet night shift, Mum was called to the other end of the hospital. Mum was the only Welsh speaking member of staff on duty that night, and she was asked to speak to an upset monoglot Welsh speaking patient, who was about eight years old, according to Mum:

“What’s the matter?!” she asked, being slightly frustrated at having had to walk so far.

“I want Mam and Dad!” he replied.

“They’ve gone to bed. They’ll both be here by breakfast time. Go to sleep.”

Once he’d gone to sleep, Mum was expected to stay beside his bed, in case he woke up again during the night. The following morning, his parents got an earful from Mum. Though she was a very patriotic Welsh woman, Mum thought it was awful that this boy hadn’t yet learned English.

Mum had been bilingual since she was six years old! That being said, perhaps it wasn’t a lack of English that was the problem, but a difficulty in understanding Scousers specifically. I remember Mum telling me that she found it impossible to understand people when she first moved to Liverpool. “I had to learn a brand new language, Ant!” she said. Mum swore that, to her, Scouse was completely different to the respectable, standard English that she mastered in school.

Another fear Mum had, and another reason for her to raise me speaking English, was what would happen to me once she died.

One of the first decisions Mum made was that I had to have a brother or sister who was closer to me in age than Mandy and Jamie. Someone who I’d have more in common with than the two Scouse teenagers.

To be fair, Nat is only a few months younger than me. But, she’s my niece, not my sister. And from Mum’s point of view, that wasn’t the same. Nick arrived in November 1991. I remember very clearly the day I first met him, in Ysbyty Wrecsam Maelor.

The first thing I remember thinking to myself is how boring he was. In my defence, being a three year old boy, I think that’s quiet a normal response to a sleeping newborn. Mum then asked me to take a look under the blanket, as Nick had a present for me.

As I did so, I was over the moon to find a yellow plastic guitar! I’m certain I must have spent the rest of the visit playing the guitar and completely ignoring my new brother! Over three decades later, there are many adjectives you could use to describe my younger brother. But “boring” isn’t one of them!

Care home

Mum was only thirty-seven when I was born, and worried as she was about me at the time, the future was of great concern to her as well, up until her death in 2012. Mum’s main concern was that I’d spend the rest of my life in a care home.

This was another reason for her to prove the “specialist” wrong. Ensuring my independence was Mum’s objective for nearly a quarter of a century.

The first step, was to teach me to talk. To achieve this, Mum decided that she had to talk to me all the time. Have real (albeit one-sided) in depth conversations. Including, according to Mum, chats when she’d take me out for a walk in the pram and call Maggie Thatcher every name under the sun.

Being the son of a committed Welsh nationalist, I was never going to be allowed to become a Tory, that’s for sure! Frequently, Mum said that older ladies would look at her having these full blown conversations with a sleeping baby in his pram as if she was mad.

After some time, Mum decided that my first word needed to be a long one. Most parents would be made up if their child’s first word was ‘Mum’ or ‘Dad’. Not my mother. She wanted my first word to be “Hippopotamus”.

Learning to speak

The reason being that this would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’d be capable of learning to speak. Mum went about including the word as much as possible in our conversations, and in any stories.

Then, aged six months Mum reckoned (though I’m not sure I believe I was quite that young) I said the word “Pippopotamus”.

OK, my pronunciation wasn’t perfect. But to Mum, that was the best possible sign that I was capable of learning to speak. Mum: 1. Specialist: 0!

Llyfr Agored by Ant Evans is published by Y Lolfa and is available from all good bookshops from the 30^th of March 2026