by Mary Hayward
We must have been travelling for hours, and by now I was starting to get hungry and tired. Perhaps I slept the rest of the way as I remembered nothing of that part of the journey, until finally we arrived at the convalescence home. Miss Maria promised that if we were good boys and girls, we would be in for a special treat, and we could all join someone’s birthday party.
As I recall, the garden was decorated like a scene from the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. One side of the garden was decked with long white trestle tables, laid out with cakes, sandwiches and jelly-trifles. One might have been forgiven for thinking this was some sort of magical treat. But I didn’t remember it that way. I was lifted up and sat down amongst strangers. I refused to eat with them. I just felt so overwhelmed by the journey, and so very angry with my Mum that I was all in. I just would not be cajoled and they appeared completely baffled as to why I would not join in. They simply did not understand what I had just gone through or how fragile it had made me feel.
I stared up at this seemingly large boarding house. I was shown into my bedroom where I was introduced to the other three girls who would be sharing with me. I was shocked to find they were all so much older, talking about all the boys and swimming. Unpacking my things onto my bed, I started to look around, peering in cupboards and drawers. Without warning the other girls started fingering and pulling at all my things, like a pack of wolves at a kill. One girl who seemed to be the leader of the pack picked up my swimming costume. She paraded it around like she was on a fashion shoot, posing for the other girls to see, showing off and stuff.
“Can I borrow it?” She swept it up from my bed. She pulled at it and pranced around the room, wiggling and holding it against her. Then she looked in the mirror to see if it might fit.
“What do yer think, girls?” she mocked, flicking her eyes around the room. “Do yer think it suits me then? New girl eh? Eh, new girl?”
“Well,” I said sheepishly, feeling myself going red with embarrassment.
“Want it back then?” Suddenly she snatched it away behind her once more, taunting me with it all the time, and then making funny faces, pulling her mouth sideways and flicking her eyes up.
“Hey!” I reached out and made a grab for it. But my response was drowned by the noise and heckling of the baying mob, and suddenly the girls all started screaming and shouting, jumping up and down and caught in a wave of excitement.
“Can I borrow it then?” she asked once more. Then she turned. “I’ll take that as yes then,” she said as she whipped it away and danced out of the room.
I didn’t like the idea of someone else using it, especially as she was much older than me. But she took no notice of me and the girls quickly followed her as they all disappeared out of the room together, all laughing and joking to each other.
I avoided the older girls after that and tried to be a bit streetwise, hiding anything I valued and keeping my head down. Sometimes it didn’t always save me, and it was clear they seemed to pick on anyone who was different. I tried to be hard and spiteful like them, but it wasn’t really me. In the end, I just avoided them whenever possible. Eventually they lost interest in me and went on to bully someone else.
It was my first experience of real bullying. Name calling and the normal rough and tumble that girls do to each other I had learned to cope with; although, I was never picked on by older girls before. It was a new experience that made me realise I was moving into a different phase of my life. Although I didn’t have much in life, and anything I did have I had to fight for, it didn’t harden me like these girls.
When I managed to talk to one of this group, a girl called Jill, I found out that she had quite a privileged background. On the surface at least, she seemed to have everything so I didn’t understand why she had to behave in the way she did. After a while I got to know her quite well, but that was only when she was on her own, and I think she must have realised I simply didn’t possess anything of value she might want to nick. Experience became a hard lesson, and by God I learned not to approach her when the other girls were around. She would turn on me, tearing into me, leading the others like a pack of wolves. I found it quite interesting that she was quite a nice girl underneath, and the bullying was a behaviour she only switched on when she was in sight of the other girls. Even at that age I realised she felt weak and probably thought the other girls would bully her unless she took on the role. It started to dawn on me that I was the stronger of the two of us because I had to struggle in silence.
Bullying wouldn’t work for me, in the main part because I just did not have the build for it, and then, I just did not see the need to hurt other people. What was the point? They would only hit back at me! But for other girls it seemed to be a way of surviving their inner weakness. Were they jealous of me in some way? I couldn’t imagine why—I had nothing. However, in the days that followed, my weakness would be fully exposed.
Thunder rocked the house. The walls shuddered, and as night fell, the lightening scorched eerie shadows upon the wall. The other girls were probably gathered together and having a good laugh somewhere, but I huddled under the covers of my bed, my face firmly buried in my pillow, hiding all alone, frightened. Sobbing quietly, I worried that the other girls might have heard me crying, and I didn’t want to attract another dose of bullying.
The door flung open. My heart stopped. I burrowed under the covers like a dog on a bone. I felt a hand pull back the thick woollen blanket. A cold chill hit my face. I did not want to look. I shut my eyes even tighter than before.
Recognising the scent of fresh soap, I knew it was Miss Maria. My quiet whimpers had summoned her; she just cuddled me up in my blanket, and then in complete silence, she took me the short distance to her own room. It was sparsely furnished with a simple wardrobe, a small dressing table with a table lamp and a large double bed pushed into the corner of the room. As I recall, I seemed to be more concerned with trying to hide the hole in my pyjamas as she gently laid me on her bed. Her arms wrapped around me, as she pulled me into the pillow of her tender bosom; she cradled me like a baby and whispered reassuringly throughout the night, until eventually I remembered no more.
I never forgot this first sign of comfort and warmth. Most people would probably expect it from their mother as part of the natural nurturing act. But not from my Mum. I cannot remember any sign of affection or comfort from her, for she was always stern and distant. I think she was frightened to show love. I didn’t know why.
Waking up in fine sunshine the following morning, I felt I was in a new calm day, and I remember feeling much brighter and fresher, as if the storm had somehow cleansed my mind. Perhaps this was because of the comfort I received from Miss Maria the previous night, although it did occur to me that it might have been more fundamental than that. Was it the realisation that I was loveable in the sense that someone could pick me up and comfort me and feel pity for me, love me and accept me as a child? That someone could see the innocent honesty of my plight and that I wasn’t the ugly duckling after all?
I ran downstairs for breakfast, playing with the other children, running around the room and screaming and shouting with joy. It seemed to be great fun, and everyone was talking excitedly about the thunder and lightening the night before. In the rush of excitement, I hadn’t noticed the hole in my pyjamas had grown bigger, and suddenly my bottom was starting to show through. I worried that the boys would see and laugh at me. Despite my best efforts to stuff a hanky down, my bare bottom continued to show, until I was forced to sit down.
Why couldn’t Mummy just think of me for once and sew up my pyjamas? I felt it was like a punishment for having fun. As soon as I was enjoying something it seemed it would be snatched away from me. My parents could reach out like some invisible monster with long tentacles—no matter where I was. They had the power to spoil every moment of play, no matter how small.
Putting my upset aside, I remember one little boy who was making me laugh and scream. We were jumping up and down when Matron came in the
room.
“Who’s doing all the screaming down here!” She scanned the room as if to sniff out the culprit.
It was me who had been screaming. But for some reason I couldn’t say anything—I was struck dumb. I remember looking at the boy who was playing with me, and then suddenly he stepped out of the line.
“I am sorry Matron—I think it was me,” he said softly.
Turning, her face now red and flushed, she bellowed, almost spitting in his face, such was her annoyance.
“To your room Master Timmings!” She raised her finger, pointing as if to shoot the unfortunate boy. He bowed his head and sheepishly skulked out of the room and upstairs.
I didn’t know why he took the blame for me. I felt really guilty about that and felt very sorry for the little boy who took the punishment. I returned upstairs and got ready for the day, making my bed and all that stuff.
“Sunday is coming!” the other girls cried out with excitement and jubilation.
“What’s special about Sunday then?”
“Oh! Don’t yer know?” Jill said. “It’s visiting time.” She turned back to the others to see their reaction. I sensed she was about to make fun of me, her eyes flicking back and forth between me and the other girls.
“Mummy and Daddy will be visiting,” she added in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “Aren’t yours?” she blurted out.
She turned to look back at her mates, then, giving me a sideways glance, I noticed that she signalled something behind her back. I didn’t see what it was. But standing there, I suddenly realised that all the other girls had stopped and were silent. I sensed something was about to get nasty.
“Oh thanks, I’d just forgotten what day it was,” I said, trying my best to be as convincing as I could.
There wasn’t the response that I expected, just silence and the other girls looked at me. I stood my ground and waited for what seemed ages. But it didn’t go Jill’s way. If Jill was hoping to start a bullying session, the rest of the girls didn’t have the stomach to start an argument; after all, there was the hope that their parents might yet bring them something nice. One girl started to get on with clearing up her bed, and then slowly, one by one, the girls turned and carried on with what they were doing. Soon I was left on my own in the dormitory.
I wandered downstairs. I looked out the window expectantly. Other parents arrived and picked up their children for the afternoon. No one came for me.
Minutes turned into hours and I lost all hope of my Mum or Dad appearing through the door and the rejection and darkness descended upon me, so hurtfully, so publicly.
I felt so alone—never in my life had I felt so alone. I could not endure the pain; it was so crushing that I wanted to curl up inside and sleep. But people would see and I couldn’t let people see.
My faith in people was bankrupt and I found myself with no room in my mind for faith. Faith implies hope and trust and yet I had no trust, and what trust I had in others was only wicked trust—in the sense that I could not let myself believe in them. It was too painful and so I had only myself to trust—then I should never be disappointed or be let down. I felt so unloved! The demon in my mind and perhaps my wooden leg was upon me. My crutch seemed constantly kicked away by the baying mob and the hounds were in for the kill.
I sat at the window, staring out into the street, looking for nothing, for nothing ever came for me.
Miss Maria quietly opened the door, picked me up and lifted me up to her shoulder, and then, sitting me gently on her lap, spoke to me softly. “I have something I need to tell you.” She reached out and held my hand.
I remember looking up at her, almost mouthing the words as she spoke, like a puppet master. I knew the script. My Daddy would not be coming to visit, I whispered inside my head.
“Mummy isn’t coming—is she?”
I looked up at her. I saw the look in her eyes. She was unable to hide it from me. I was too practised at it. I knew all the looks and she thought I didn’t know, but I had.
I shivered with silent tears.
“Your parents won’t be coming to see you, I am afraid,” she said softly. “They find it too far to come.” Then, as she turned and lowered her head, I saw her pity.
“I’m going home soon though, so I don’t suppose it will be long,” I said.
“Well, I am afraid the doctors think you should stay another three weeks so that you can get better,” she said.
By this time she was stroking my hair and giving me a cuddle, sensing I was not going to take this well.
“NO! Not three weeks. NO! NO! NO!” I screamed and wriggled to be free.
I remember shaking off her arms, and jumping down so fast that I fell over, banging my elbow on the hard floor. The feelings of disappointment overwhelmed me. I thought it would be hurtful, but I didn’t think I could feel like this.
Just one week, then perhaps I could handle that, but THREE weeks! Why did I not learn? Round and round, everything seemed to repeat. Was I going in circles, or perhaps better, was I in a spiral? But if a spiral, then which way was it going—up or down? If it was going down then perhaps there was no hope for me, and I was condemned in purgatory?
I could not think and the pain in my head burned excruciatingly into my mind, exploding in on itself and falling down a pit of despair. I screamed inside. My sobs were uncontrollable. I lay prostrate on the floor with my head in my arms. I didn’t care that it was cold and hard. I banged myself and thrashed against it until my hands hurt, in the hope that the physical pain would mask the real pain I felt inside.
Miss Maria picked me up. But I was limp. In my sobbing she pulled me once more onto her lap, cradling me and rocking me in her arms.
“I am going home. I am going home,” I muttered through my sobs and stuttered breath. My bottom lip started to quiver and my nose ran continuously as I looked up at her, pleading with my blotchy panda eyes and red cheeks.
She pulled me up to her face and tried to comfort me once more. I struggled to be free, trying not to accept her kindness. I fought her, but she kept a firm hold of me until I started to calm down.
“All right,” she said softly, “let me see what I can do, and perhaps we might be able to let you go home early,” she added. “But I can’t promise, mind.” And for a moment she held me. She gave me a glimmer of hope, and I found comfort in her words.
Later that week she collected me from my room and took me to the care team in charge of the home. She walked with me into this big room. It had large bay windows, which overlooked the town. Opposite the door around a long wooden table, were seated three sad-faced men in smart suits. They just asked me my name and how old I was, and then I had to wait outside the door as they discussed my case.
I didn’t hear all the conversation, but I heard some as I listened at the keyhole. Miss Maria was telling them about me and the lack of visiting, and the way I was put on the train and so forth. She expressed concern for my well being at home, and that she was worried for me.
I found out later that they wanted to get social workers to go round and find out how I was living, to see if I should be taken into care. In the end they decided it wasn’t in their remit to pursue the domestic situation. Instead, they decided to let me go home as soon as I was eating and putting on some weight.
I decided to try and make the best of it for the remainder of my stay. I had done all I could!
I remember vividly those times when I received love, finding it so rarely in my life, that it shone like a beacon, so brightly amongst the hard realities of the world I knew. If there was any problem, difficulty or responsibility required from my Mum, it would provoke the answer, “It’s all yer father’s fault!” Though I never fully understood why.
Paradoxically I would realise later in life that it was my Mum who would make do, and make the meals and keep the family going, but only up to a point—food never came before fags.
Of the two of them, it was Dad who cared. It would be Dad who showed some compassion and t
ucked me in at nights. He would be the one searching for me if I was out late, although it was my Dad who would be irresponsible in a financial sense. He would drink or gamble the money away, and despite the hardship we suffered, he would continue to buy his drinks, until he literally fell off his chair.
6
Drowning
THE BLUE SKY FRAMED THE HOT SUN. It bathed my body with such warmth that I swear it lit within me a little flame of joy. We were all so excited as the chattering group loudly showed off their swimming costumes. They were still busily wrapping them in their towels when the Matron, Mr Gordon, and Miss Maria came into the room and marched us out of the Convalescent Home, along the lane that led to the beach.
I had never been to the seaside before, and certainly not on a beach swimming. At first I thought it was a boating lake, and then I saw the water plunge and tumble as if it where drunk. It sort of staggered, rolled and then toppled before throwing itself down on the stony beach—shingle, Mr Gordon called it.
I wandered close, but still I didn’t know what to make of it. I found myself holding back from the others as I stood gazing out at the vast expanse of it all. There was nothing but endless, restless water, foam tops spraying a fine mist, as if from a kettle, and the occasional giant wave that crashed with such thunder that it blotted out the startled screams of the seagulls overhead.
Miss Maria came over to me, took my hand and as she bent down next to me, she pointed out to sea.
“Look,” she said, “look at the Sea Horses.”
“What Sea Horses? I can’t see any.” I stared out, but I couldn’t see anything and I thought she was just teasing me. I was more interested in being shielded from the summer breeze by the generous gathers of her skirt.
