Simon Mark Smith’s Autobiography
CHAPTER 10
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Pastens
One night when Monica was on holiday still and I was driving home to London from a dinner party in Kent. As I sped along hard windy country roads, I climbed a steep hill and sensed I’d once known this road. When I reached the top, I realised I was right next to the place the social worker had brought me three decades years previously.
On the night of December 21, 2004, Monica was on holiday still and I was driving home to London from a dinner party in Kent. As I sped along hard windy country roads, I climbed a steep hill and sensed I’d once known this road. When I reached the top, I realised I was right next to the place the social worker had brought me 34 years previously.
This new “home” was called Pastens. Originally, in 1946, an orphanage was situated here but the old house burnt down in 1958 and five years later the buildings I lived in, the ones I was now pulled up next to, were opened. Pastens was situated on the Surrey/Kent border, in a leafy semi-countryside area called Limpsfield.
JCH had been run by Barnardo’s, but Pastens was a National Children’s Home, an organisation run by the Methodist Church. I don’t remember much about being shown around the place the first time, but I did meet the two women who ran it. They were stern figures with gull-winged glasses and immaculate wavy hairstyles. Don’t be fooled though, the only coolness they displayed came in the form of Victorian harshness. Likewise, the buildings were soulless too, with blank walls painted in sickly pink or pallid green colours, and an atmosphere drenched in the scent of disinfectant. No doubt purposefully echoing the notion of ‘Cleanliness being next to Godliness’. A phrase attributed to John Wesley, the co-founder of Methodism.
The place did have a few redeeming features though, amongst which was its garden. It had at least four descending large terraces, the last of which we weren’t allowed to enter. We were told it was overgrown and full of snakes and even as a child I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the original Garden of Eden.
After the introductory tour, to my relief, I was dropped off at my mother’s, but it would be Roehampton Hospital where I’d be spending most of the summer break. I was to be operated on, the main aim of which was to straighten my right foot.
* * *
1970 – Roehampton Hospital
A few days before the operation was to take place Mum took me to Roehampton Hospital to help get me settled in and ready for the surgery. The woman who ran the ward was called Sister Gwen Mears. She’d looked after me there since I first visited it when I was six months old and had taken a keen interest in my welfare, not just when I was on the ward, but also when she’d visited me in the nursery in Epsom. On that occasion, she found I’d been left alone for many hours and had a go at the staff there for being so negligent.
Gwen later became the matron of Roehampton Hospital and went on to receive an O.B.E., however, her first love had been working on the ward I’d come to. At that time, it was known as CPU and had originally been set up to help deal with children who had disabilities caused by Thalidomide. Later its specialisation spread to include limbless children generally, as well as many other forms of disabilities. It was then renamed the Leon Gillis Unit (LGU).
* * *
1966 – Cut off
In many ways, the children of Thalidomide, and the ensuing generations of other disabled children became the unwitting guinea pigs for some of the doctors at Roehampton Hospital, and while I have the utmost respect for many of them, there were a lot of mistakes made resulting in many of my peers bearing both physical and mental scars.
I too almost became a victim when the doctors at Roehampton asked my mother if she would give them permission for my finger and both my feet to be amputated, even though I was barely six months old. Fortunately, she said no. Their reasoning behind my feet being taken away was I could have artificial legs fitted to both legs which would overcome the difficulties I faced as a result of my clubbed feet. It’s hard to tell if this would have been beneficial, however, I would have always relied on prosthetic feet to walk with and the psychological impact of that may have been just as impactful as the difficulties I’d come to face as I was.
With regards to my finger, the only reason given for having it removed was its appearance. It was, and still is unsightly, but it’s extremely functional, so, I’m glad to have it. My finger and I are friends. I once cried in a dream where I was offered normal arms because I knew I would lose my finger if the transplant went ahead.
A friend of mine who was born with similar arms and short legs to me also had a finger that sprouted from close to her elbow as well, but hers was removed before she ever got to find out if it might have been of any use. Her parents were pressurised into giving permission for her feet to be amputated so artificial legs could be fitted more easily, but they declined the ‘buy one get two free’ special offer, tempting as it was.
Many other children who had parents who blindly followed the doctor’s orders, as well as those children who’d been handed over to the authorities, and therefore had no parents to defend them at all, were operated on without question.
Often the main criterion for doing such operations was to effect a more cosmetically acceptable image rather than to improve functionality. For instance, some could walk even though their legs wouldn’t bend. For them, having their ligaments cut resulted in them being neatly sat in a wheelchair, which ironically was now a blessing, given they could no longer walk.
The distrust between the medical world and the disability political one was partly due to this period of butchering. The stem of the problem arose from the power doctors had when it came to not only making decisions about ‘solving’ functional and cosmetic issues relating to disabilities but also whether certain disabled people should live or die. This was particularly pertinent during the 1980s when the government in the UK changed the law regarding abortion time limits. For non-disabled foetuses, the time was decreased significantly, whereas, if a foetus was found to have a disability, it could be aborted at any point right up to the moment just before birth. The main criteria used to determine whether this should happen or not was based on the doctor’s judgement as to whether the child’s quality of life would be worth living. But how could most doctors determine this?
When the mother of my sons was first pregnant, we went to meet her obstetrician. As soon as we sat in front of him, he openly expressed his disbelief that this could ever have been a planned pregnancy. Firstly, he presumed there was a risk my disability was hereditary, which it is not, secondly, I would not be able to be a supportive father because of my disability, and thirdly, if my child was born with the same disability then its quality of life would be so awful it wouldn’t be worth living. Given my life has been such a rich tapestry I begged to differ with his opinion, as I politely made clear to him.
Had my mother ever had an ultrasonic scan when she was pregnant with me, I’m pretty sure the pressure applied by medical practitioners to abort me would have been immense, so it was fortunate for me she didn’t.
* * *
1970 – Life on the Ward
When Mum dropped me off at the hospital, she told me she’d come to see me the next day. We kissed goodbye and waved to each other as she walked down the corridor and out of sight. Still a bit sad, I went to the TV room where I quietly sat on the floor and proceeded to pick my nose and eat it. This was possibly taking self-sufficiency a bit too far, which I soon realised as a din of disgust emanated from those around me. I looked up at them in horror, still not fully aware of my faux pas. A slightly older boy with no arms at all, Christopher, who was sitting nearby, looked at me and said, “Don’t you know if you eat your bogeys they’ll turn into worms and eat your brains out”. I have to say I was quite disturbed by this and swallowed my last ever bogey once and for all.
I must have looked distressed because the other mothers and children started to laugh. I got up, slightly tearful by now, and attempted to walk out of the room. As I did Christopher grabbed my pyjama bottoms with his toes and pulled them down.
Abandoned, with my brains being munched at by bogey-worms and my pyjama bottoms around my ankles, I lurched at Christopher with a pyjama-constrained foot carefully aimed at his head. He pushed me away with his legs while the other mothers pulled me from him. He laughed, I screamed in rage, and Sister Mears came in to see what all the commotion was about. She gave the other adults in the room her look of death, pulled my pyjamas up and carried me to the kitchen where she got a block of ice cream out of the freezer, sandwiched it between two wafers and passed it to me. I sniffed back my tears, bribe accepted.
* * *
The next day Christopher and I were a bit quiet with each other until a new toy was brought in. This was a traffic light that could be switched on by pulling and pushing buttons below it. The green light one was very stiff and neither of us could lift it. I looked up to see a nurse who’d just entered the room and asked her if she could help us. She was about the same size as us, in other words, she was a midget. That probably isn’t the politically correct term, by the way, but her nurse’s uniform was what caught my eye.
“Oi miss!” I said, “Can you come and do this for us please”.
She came over with a big grin on her face and helped us with the lights.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Murphy,” she said.
“Thank you, miss.”
This was Murphy’s induction into the world of looking after disabled kids and this moment was one she’d carry with her from then on as one of those, “I’ll never forget when…” stories that she’d always tell me whenever we met later.
Another nurse, Mary Colohan, also took me under her wing during this time too. She was very tall, leggy, and had long black wavy hair, with a Pre-Raphaelite-looking face and deep red lips. She would often carry and hug me, so, in return for this, I gave her a nickname that stuck with her from then on. “Mary Lamb” was my first love or at least the first I can recall. I would yearn for her when I left the hospital and when I’d return, I’d feel heartbroken if she wasn’t working there.
When I was twenty-two, we’d get to meet again and I still felt a bit of a spark for her, but, alas, to her I was still that five-year-old who touched her heart with affection and life with a nickname. Still, I did try as hard as I could to seduce her, just for old times’ sake, but she wasn’t having any of it!
* * *
For most people, the association of going to a hospital is a negative one, but for me, and many of my peers, Roehampton was half home and half horror house. When I got older and experienced normal hospital stays in pain, I soon changed my opinion though.
* * *
1970 – Pre-Med
On the morning of the surgery, the sun shone brightly through the gaps in the curtains, which were still drawn, no doubt to help keep me calm. Unbeknown to me, I was to be sedated with an injection known as a pre-med. A nurse came into the room and asked me to turn on to my front, which I did. She pulled my pyjamas down then I felt something cold being wiped on one of my buttocks which was soon followed by a sharp pain. I jerked suddenly, the syringe tore my skin slightly and the needle broke. The nurse swore, I screamed, and Sister Mears ran into the room. When she saw what had happened, she tried to reason with me to let her get the needle, out but I wasn’t too inclined to go with that plan, so, she called in reinforcements.
Within a few minutes, I had people holding my legs, arms, torso, and head down, and given I was only five, I couldn’t help but feel quite proud of myself as I write this. Anyway, by this time I’d managed to get myself into growling mode and continued to struggle against my oppressors. Eventually, I heard Sister Mears say that it was impossible to do anything. “Success!” I thought. However, just as I started to relax, she came up to my face and said if I let her do what she had to do, then she’d let me do an injection. That seemed like a fair swap, so, I said, okay as long as I could do it to her. She agreed, although a little too quickly for my liking.
Still held down, she got the first needle out and put an unexpected second one in, this time successfully. Now it was my turn. It was then Sister Mears informed me she wasn’t going to let me inject her after all.
“You bloody bastards”, I thought, “You inflicted pain and lied to me, and if that’s not adding insult to injury what is?” Or something along those lines in a five-year-old’s words. As a compromise, they allowed me to inject a teddy bear which got its vengeance because as I pushed the plunger down on the syringe the liquid squirted back out into my face. This wasn’t one of my days and I should have known then the surgery wasn’t going to go well.
* * *
The procedure involved breaking the bones in my ankle, repositioning my foot, inserting metal rods, known as pins, to keep my foot in place, and then plastering me up. A few months later, the plaster was removed as were the pins and a new cast with a rubber foot sole was put on under anaesthetic so I could try walking. The bones were supposed to fuse together in a good position, but they didn’t. By the end of it all, my foot was still quite twisted, and I mainly continued to walk on my big toe.
I’d spent nearly all this recovery time at Roehampton. Mum would visit me most days but at one point she went on holiday with Janet, one of the staff nurses from the ward. I felt a bit angry about her going off and even though she bought me a bag with an Olympic logo as a present, I wonder if this served as a catalyst for my feelings of jealousy to become more infused in me.
I can’t recall consciously thinking Mum had abandoned me for someone else, but it may have possibly crossed my mind. After all, if she wasn’t with me then who might she be with? The idea of her having time for herself which may lead to her being a better mother for me never crossed my mind, but, for a 5-year-old, I guess that’s probably a little too much to expect.
* * *
Contained
As my relationship with Monica approached its death knell, she bought me a bag because she didn’t like me carrying my paperwork around in plastic carrier bags. Maybe to me, the memory of Mum buying me the Olympic logo bag was echoed in this gesture too. The symbolism being around the notion of things being held, contained, in a container that didn’t show what was inside.
I always analysed everything and wanted to expose what was being said or meant because I felt something was being hidden and perhaps, I sensed both Mum and Monica didn’t want these things to be visible. These may, of course, be the thoughts of a paranoid mind, but it’s possible I’d got that way because there was at least some truth in it.
* * *
2005 – Dream of Escaping the Nazis
The other night I dreamt I was in charge of a group of captives trying to escape from the Nazis. The significant factor was we could go back in time and attempt an improved escape whenever we made a mistake, a bit like the film, “Groundhog Day” and eventually, we hatched a plan that worked.
As I grow older and see the mistakes I’ve made, I also see the opportunities I now have to do things differently and possibly with a more successful outcome. The problem is, sometimes, even though I know what I’m doing isn’t going to help matters, I still do it anyway.
* * *
1970 – Pastens – The Long Haul
When Mum brought me to Pastens she was shown where I’d be sleeping, the gardens and the lounge. She was then asked not to come back for a month. This was, the social worker explained, so I could acclimatise to my new environment. But mum wasn’t having that and insisted she would return in two weeks and given I was there on a “voluntary” basis, there was nothing the evil social worker could do about it.
As Mum pulled off that day, I stood on the porch crying uncontrollably. I have no memory of what, if anything, consoled me, or what happened next at all, but the feeling of loneliness shook me to the core. Now with children of my own, I couldn’t imagine leaving them alone for such a long time and no doubt for Mum too it must have been very painful.
* * *
The Others
Most of the other children residing with me in Pastens, and there weren’t many of them, had either learning difficulties or had been neglected, subjected to violence, or sexual abuse. There were two sisters who seemed to have a genetically related learning disorder, and then there was Janet, Tracey and Paul. For just the six of us, there was a matron, several “nurses”, a cook, and her husband, who was the gardener.
* * *
1970 – School Stuff
My new school, St Peter’s Church of England Primary School was situated just over half a mile away from Pastens. It was built of sandstone and had stood there for over a hundred years. We had to wear a uniform which included grey shorts, a shirt, a grey sweater, a school tie and a cap with Saint Peter’s Keys embroidered on it. To the front of the school there was a playground that faced the main road and surrounding the school were fields, a golf course, and woods.
Every morning we’d be lined up in the playground and would march into the classroom to a tune played on the piano by one of the staff members. We’d approach our desks and when the music stopped, we’d take our chairs down and sit on them.
My teachers were not quite sure of my needs and didn’t spend too much time working out what they might be. Instead, they presumed what they were and came up with what they imagined were appropriate solutions. While this was all done with the best of intentions, being given extra-large exercise books – as in they were almost larger than me – and being kept in during break time so I wouldn’t get injured, were not gratefully accepted by me and within a few weeks, I was penning my great works in the same size books as all the other kids and playing contact sports in the playground with everyone else.
Perhaps a good indication of having good schooling is we don’t remember much about the place. So outside of playing in the woods, sliding down a big embankment on a journey to the local town, staying in the classroom during dark stormy afternoons, saying hello to the lollipop man (who was on TV one evening talking about how dangerous the road was) and winning the egg and spoon race but losing the sack race, on sports day, all that remains are a couple of mildly traumatic events.
The first was of a girl shunning my advances. I don’t remember her name now, but she had blonde hair and was pretty. When I asked her if she’d be my girlfriend she laughed and walked away. This became somewhat of an annoying pattern throughout my life, hence my penchant for brunettes.
The school was around a 25-minute walk from Pastens, well, it was when a member of staff would push me in a buggy through the woods. However, if I tried walking it, it’d take about an hour. On most days when we came out of school, the staff member would be waiting there with the buggy for me and reins for Paul and Janet.
One day I’d acquired an apple and wanted to eat it before being pushed back to Pastens, so, I stood in the corridor eating it when Janet, my co-inmate at Pastens, came to tell me to hurry up. I told her I’d come when I finished the apple. She then let me know that she’d be telling the woman what I’d said. I looked her in the eye, a look Martin Scorsce would be proud of, then kicked her very hard on the shin. We looked at each other for a moment as her eyes welled up with tears and then came the shrieks. I ate the apple as soon as I could and marched out of the school with Janet limping and screaming behind me.
“He just kicked me!” she shouted through her tears.
“Did you Simon?” The care worker asked.
“Well, she hit me first!” I lied.
Janet paused in disbelief, “No I didn’t!” she yelled.
She looked to the care worker for support, who saw through my complicated web of deceit, grabbed my arm and sternly said, “Listen, Simon, you shouldn’t kick girls, or boys come to that matter, in fact, don’t kick anyone.” So, like those couples, the ones you see in cars who’ve just had a row, both looking out of their windows, Janet and I sat together in the buggy this time looking away from one another the whole journey back to Pastens.
* * *
Boris – 18th October 2005
I gave Boris a lift this morning. He looked at me and said, “Sometimes I look at you and wonder if I was as stupid as you when I was your age and you know what, I think I was!” We both laughed and he said, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”.
* * *
2005 – Sleep Patterns
I do not remember how my first live-in girlfriend would fall asleep. Sometimes I’d hold her hand and wake from some strange, almost nauseous dream, where, for instance, I had to make a ring of match sticks in the ground, to find I was making love to her. In our last days, I looked upon her body, which had become quite thin after a period of depression and knew in a short while I would no longer see her anymore.
A year later I was sleeping regularly with someone else, she would cuddle up to me for a while as she drifted off, and as she did, she’d start to feel irritated, so she’d tell me to either stay or go. I wasn’t ready to sleep yet, so I’d get up and work for a few hours after which I’d get back into bed with her, where she would wake a little and welcome me into her arms.
At first, my next lover and I didn’t sleep next to each other. I didn’t want her to, but as I started to fall in love with her, I would come to bed even if it was too early for me and fall asleep anyway. I would lie in the half-light of the morning, looking at her beautiful face and wanting to touch her but not wishing to wake her up. Sometimes I would see her body as if it was a prison wall then one day, she said she preferred to sleep alone so we granted each other her wish.
Monica and I would chat for hours until we got tired, and the conversation would fade away. I’d move away from her as I’d get too hot and she’d reach her arm out, maybe touching my face or arm. In the middle of the night, we’d cuddle up to each other and in the morning, she wouldn’t want to talk for a while. Then there’d be times when we could spend all day in bed, looking at the internet, snacking and sleeping.
And now, there’s someone else. The first night we spent together I was drawn to her by the way we slept together. I would wake with her lips touching my mouth, or her arm wrapped around mine, or her breath breathing in and out of me. This conversation between our bodies spoke to me of the depths my heart will go to find dreams in reality.
* * *
Kate – Late September 2005
One evening after work, a friend from another department invited me along with 8 of her friends to a Japanese restaurant in Soho. Finally, after the pain of recovering from splitting up with with my last love, I realised I felt I was back to normal.
A woman called Kate sat opposite me, she had long brown hair, was tall, and had a strong London accent. As the night went on, we kept making each other laugh, so, when the meal ended, I asked if she wanted a lift home. She did, but she had her bike with her so, I said we could try fitting it in my car and with a bit of breaking the laws of physics and probably the land too, we got it in.
Initially, we went back to her place, where we ended up kissing, and then went out again to meet one of her friends, who immediately made it clear she didn’t understand what we were doing with each other. Then after dropping her off, Kate came back to my place as the sun rose and got into bed with me.
For the next few months, we’d meet up a few times a week, then one day I realised I’d stayed at her place for some time, and we both acknowledged we were going out with each other. All was going well till she mentioned she’d have to go on holiday with the friend who hadn’t approved of me that first night. I got a sense of deja vu, and not surprisingly, once again, started to feel anxious.
* * *
November 2005
I have just spent the last two weeks sleeping next to Kate nearly every night. This morning, I dropped her off at a station with the disapproving friend and from there they made their way to the airport. They are going on holiday for a week. I went back to her place to get some of my belongings and as I walked out, I looked back into the early morning rooms as if I might never see them again.
I’d made it clear to Kate that if she becomes sexually involved – which to be specific, covers anything from a drunken kiss to an affair – then I won’t see her anymore. It’s not so much the act itself, that I possibly could forgive, but it’s my inability to cope with mistrust. I need a woman who marks out the boundaries of our relationship to other people without me interjecting and I want someone to love me enough that they don’t need anyone else. Typically, though, these are all qualities I tend to lack myself.
A friend of mine recently told me his wife would be “confounded” if he ever got involved with someone else. I was touched by that notion. But with all these rules and hopes, if I’m incapable of following them myself, how can I expect someone else to do so too?
* * *
1970 – Tearing Us Apart
When I stood crying at the doors of Pastens I probably cried because I knew I’d miss my mother, I’d miss home. I knew I’d feel isolated and vulnerable, but perhaps worst of all, I also felt an amount of hatred toward my mother for leaving me there, and maybe that upset me too. To feel such anger towards the one I loved meant in time I’d tear myself from her and, even now, the same process often fills me with anxiety as an adult. I have fallen for Kate but if she “betrays” me then I would have to dislocate myself from her, yet, in the process I’d lose someone I’ve come to love too.
* * *
2005 – The Cyclist Dream
I had a dream a few months ago about a girl on a bike careering towards me on a road. She nearly bumped into me, so I shouted at her as she cycled off. She turned around and put two fingers up at me.
One of the things that came to me after this dream was, if I see someone coming at me, I have a choice to either get out of the way or remain in their path and increase the risk of getting run over.
From the moment I met Kate, she had a bike with her, and I couldn’t help but associate this dream with her.
* * *
2005 – Jealous Guy
It’s been a day and a half since Kate went away. My mind has been wandering all over the place and my body is filled with fearful sensations. Cold sweats, weakness, aching, nausea, and a lack of hunger.
A couple of months ago, before we met, I was feeling pretty good. I had, as I said at the time, got over separating from Monica, and was enjoying life. However, over the last few weeks, the relationship with Kate has deepened to such an extent that both of us feel there’s something potentially significant going on. The feelings I have for her are so strong that the thought of being with someone else sexually is almost repulsive. So, if she has the same feelings for me then I’d feel secure, but I can’t hold on to that belief for some reason. Instead, I visualise her getting drunk and getting involved with somebody else.
* * *
1970 – Seeing Red
When I was in Pastens, I didn’t know what sex was. I would sometimes play with the girls and get them to let me put my head on their stomachs. I sensed that this was both naughty and intimate so tried it on with all the girls in the home, still, the idea of looking at or playing with each other’s private parts was not yet in my mind. One night though I was put to bed in a room upstairs with a girl I’ll call Tracey. It was still light outside and one of the care workers came upstairs to tell us to get to sleep. After she’d gone, Tracey called me to her bed and told me to look between her legs. When I did, I saw a red hollow and smelt a strong odour. She asked me to touch her there, but feeling scared and perturbed I ran back to my bed. Years later Mum told me that Tracey had been a victim of sexual abuse. Back then, the lack of intimacy in my life was mitigated slightly by putting my head on a tummy, but for Tracey, at five years old, it was already found via genital stimulation.
* * *
1970 – Echoes
So, at five years old I was playing the girls around me off against each other. It wasn’t deliberate, it was more a case of wanting to have access to all of them but not being sensitive or caring about how they felt. One can excuse a five-year old but whenever I feel like I want attention from lots of women nowadays I justify it by believing I’m not connected with anyone. As soon as a woman comes along who feels like she’s enough for me, I don’t want to see any other women at all. Well, not until things start falling apart; again, this might have been something I learned at age 5. The woman who could have been enough, my mother, wasn’t available, so, instead, I found echoes of her in those around me. It’s easy to blame one’s mother, after all, if it’s not one thing, it’s your mother, but lots of people are unfaithful even though they had loving and devoted parents. So, maybe infidelity is caused by multiple reasons.
* * *
2005 – Shallow Grave
A few years ago, I read some notes compiled about me by one of the matrons at Pastens and in them she said I was shallow, craving attention and affection from anyone willing to show me any. When I read that my heart went out to the child that had been me and, of course, felt like killing the matron.
* * *
1970 – Maria
There were a few relationships between me and others at Pastens that did have some depth to them. Firstly, there was Janet and Paul who for almost two years were my “siblings” and then there was a couple of night staff who would cuddle us before we went to sleep.
One was called Maria, she had long dark hair and olive skin. I thought she was beautiful and became very attached to her. She would talk to us in our beds, put her arms around us and kiss us goodnight. Perhaps it was because she looked after us through the night that meant she could see our need for intimacy. She would watch us fall asleep, see our bodies move or hear our voices call out as we dreamt and, to both us and her, she was our only protectorate through the darkness. Even though she wouldn’t see us in our daily routines, perhaps her view allowed her to see our core identities, which were most likely those of lost children.
Her heart reached out to us, and we grabbed hold of her with all our might. But, one night she put her arms around me and told me she would be leaving soon and not coming back. I started to cry and asked her not to go, but she told me she would be getting married and moving somewhere else. Recently my mother told me she could have kept in contact with Maria but didn’t see the need.
* * *
2005 – Straight on till Morning
For many years I have led a nocturnal life. I tend to find I can work for hours without a break during the night and early hours. I don’t feel lonely and have no desire to communicate with others during this time, which I’m sure is a big relief to my friends. The opposite is true of daytime though. I find it hard to get on with work, I want to meet up with friends, and I am very easily side-tracked. Given the night can be so isolating, it seems a bit of a paradox, but maybe it’s the feeling that there was someone there for me if I needed them at night when I was a child that’s behind this. Perhaps though, maybe I keep busy at night because going to sleep then would remind me I’m still one of the lost children.
* * *
2005 – Silence
In one of my songs I sing, “Silence, they say is golden but sometimes it’s deadly too, so why is it so quiet tonight, between me and you?”
Over the last few days, Kate has telephoned me from Turkey, and just by the sound of her voice I’ve felt reassured that she hasn’t been unfaithful to me while she’s been away. Tonight is her last night away and she hasn’t called me. I wasn’t expecting her to, but the silence allows my mind to fill in the gaps with every scenario it can come up with.
Some people think it is what is done or said that has the most profound effects on our lives, but in a way, what is acted out in action, or said in the heat of the moment tends to paradoxically be a result of silence or inaction. As we lie down to sleep our minds find long periods of inactivity and fill the time with dreams. When we are awake, we do the same, but when we wake from dreams, we tend to automatically differentiate between what was dreamt and what is real. However, when we dwell within our imagination within non-sleep silence spells, we can become very unsure as to whether what we are considering is real or just fantasy.
When I play chess, I tend to use the time my opponent takes thinking, to work out what their next move will be. When I’m in a relationship I try to imagine what my partner might say. When, in chess, my opponent makes the move I thought they’d do, I tend to react very quickly, moving my piece almost immediately. This has the effect of making me look like a very quick thinker and tends to intimidate them, especially if they’re a beginner – a good player will probably think I must be a beginner – especially given most of the time I get it wrong. When I start to imagine what might be said in a relationship, which I know is not a competitive game even though it can be, I start to feel what I would’ve felt, had those words been said. The residue and mental exhaustion that ensues are also accompanied by a belief that what’s been imagined is the truth.
* * *
If everyone I love goes away, then I cannot help but presume that those I will come to love will go away too. Consequently, I’m constantly on the lookout for warning signs that this is going to happen, and it’s no different tonight. The silence could be a sign of anything, it might have no meaning at all, but I automatically see it as a bad sign and go through the pain of fear and dread without knowing anything for sure. If silence might be golden or deadly it might also be nothing more than what it is, nothing. But when you’ve been damaged, even nothing doesn’t go unnoticed.
1970 – Death
One day I was colouring in a picture with felt tips when one of the care workers told me the ink was poisonous. A few minutes later I ran to her screaming hysterically because I’d put the ink end into my mouth and thought I would die. Fortunately, she reassured me I’d survive, so, I continued with my masterpiece.
I can’t remember thinking about death before this time, I’m sure I did, but the notion of having to die one day didn’t tend to fill me with dread unless, of course, I was in the midst of perceiving I was just about to die, in which case there was a fair amount of panic.
Possibly being made to go to church twice on a Sunday and attend Sunday school pretty much softened the blow of realising death might well be the last thing in a chain of meaningless events we ever experience.
One of the churches we went to was a large traditional one. We had to sit quietly, but apart from that, and the pile of cans of food, vegetables and bread that appeared at the Harvest Festival I hardly have any memories of it. The other church was small and made of corrugated iron sheets, and had a tall, thin, greasy-haired vicar who spoke vehemently of damnation to his flock. Again, I have no memories of what was said, but when it came to their harvest festival there was a much smaller pile of gifts on display.
Religion for me between five and seven was where we listened to stories, sang songs, and gently avoided the issues that underpin the reason for religion existing in the first place. You know, death, despair, and God knows what else. The church though still underpinned our community as most activities for kids took place in the church hall. The school was a church school, and the community festivals were organised by the church and so on. Even Pastens was run by the church. But still, there was no escape: materialism, sex, and violence were dominating factors even in my little 5-year-old world.
I would lie in bed in the summer evenings, the bright sun blazing through thin flowery curtains, calculating how long it would take to save up my ten pence per week pocket money to buy a toy gun. If the coast was clear I’d jump into bed with one of the girls for a quick cuddle and exploration, and when pushed, I’d think up violent ways to get back at members of staff who’d unfairly “oppressed” me. So, no change there then.
* * *
1986 – Janet
When I was 21, I found Janet, who’d been adopted by a family who came to the home to help occasionally. At 21 she was working as a shop assistant in a department store and seemingly happy, but she didn’t want to talk about those times, in fact, they were pretty much a blank to her.
1971 – Pastens
Janet and I once sat on stage together and dressed up as the black and white minstrels (I’ll probably get cancelled for doing that so don’t tell anyone) and sang, “If you were the only girl in the world”. I mimed it – about a verse out of sync – and she gazed on lovingly at me in front of everyone in the Christmas Show at the church hall. She didn’t remember that, or that just like an old couple, we’d bickered and fought many times, or that we’d hugged and played with each other’s bits, bathed, slept, and shared the pain of the oppressive regime together. To her, it was all a blank. I even told her how my bullying of her had filled me with guilt as I got older, but she didn’t remember the apple incident at all. Was it all a dream? Well, the newspaper cutting of the singing on stage said not, but the rest might be.
* * *
The staff
I had been naughty, and Sandra, one of the new helpers wasn’t having any of it. We were now at the point where the victim is strapped, metaphorically, to the bed and the evil angel of death is about to administer the death sentence, normally the removal of sweet rations. As if I’ve suddenly taken on James Bond’s persona, I’m calculating just how hard and where exactly to deliver my death kick.
“Don’t even think about it!” Sandra warns.
“Fuck!” I think, or at least I would have if I’d known the word.
“Great, a bloody mind-reading Nazi… what next”? I think to myself.
I turned over and sulked for ten minutes, at which point Sandra entered the room and said, “Right if you’re going to play nicely you can come back in.”
I wonder how often a child has actually waltzed back into the room there and then and said, “Thank you, I can see your point of view and I’m genuinely sorry to have mucked you around, please don’t hesitate to scold me again if ever, and I hope it never comes to it, I am disobedient in any way again”.
Perhaps some genius sociopath managed it, but for the rest of us, muttering under our breath as we shuffle slowly back into the room is about all we can muster.
* * *
1971 – Liver
“If you don’t eat your dinner you’ll stay at the table until you do.”
This fascist was new but old in years (She was probably 40). Her hair was grey, and her heritage Indian. She looked soft but was as hard as the liver she was forcing me to eat. I don’t think I was a fussy eater, but she’d deemed I had to be shown who was boss. I cried as I placed the leather-textured morsel in my mouth. But in the end, she won. Although for years after I didn’t eat the stuff but when I did, maybe 20 years later, I discovered I liked it.
Differentiating between a child genuinely not liking a certain food and just playing a power game is probably not so hard to determine and perhaps it was exactly these scenarios that helped British prisoners of war resist being tortured. After all, some might say eating British food is good enough training in itself.
* * *
1971 – Pastens – Ear Infection
In the middle of the night, a light shines in my eyes.
“The doctor is here to see you.”
Something hard digs into my ear
I scream out in pain
I’m crying
Nauseous crying
There’s a taste of cough mixture
Then sleep.
* * *
1970 – Pastens – Dr Who
“At home my mother lets me watch Doctor Who,” I cry out in protest.
“Well, she shouldn’t,” the gull-winged glasses commandant shouts.
“But it’s the last of the series.” I implore.
“There’s no Doctor Who Simon! It will give you nightmares.”
The gardener’s dog, a golden retriever walks up to me. I hug it. As I walk along the path outside there’s wool on the fence, left by itchy sheep. I want to make a ball of wool from it and use it to find my way home.
* * *
1972 – Pastens – Seventh Birthday Party
Mum has come to my seventh birthday party at Pastens. I’ve been allowed to invite one friend from school. Mum too has also brought a friend along with her. It turns out his name is Michael. He’s tall, dark, thin, and wears glasses. Just before Mum leaves, she asks me if I’d like to live with her after the summer. The idea of being with Mum all the time and escaping Pastens filled me with joy and hope. It was as if all my wishes were just about to come true, but you know what they say about wishes.
* * *
End of Chapter 10
