Simon Mark Smith’s Autobiography
CHAPTER 16
Unforgettable
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Love turns everyone into imbeciles
Forgetfulness
I wake from a dream, and in a moment, it is gone. I have lived with a woman for ten years and now I struggle to remember our time together. As I drive, someone annoys me and I forget the morals I thought I lived by.
By the time I was ten, I had pretty much forgotten myself.
* * *
M23 – 23rd July 2008 – The Burgundy Jag – Part 1
I’m driving north on the M23 towards London and am about two miles south of Crawley. I look in my rearview mirror and see a police car speeding toward me; it’s about half a mile back. Don’t worry, this is a different story from the one involving the blue car. My memory hasn’t got quite that bad yet.
I take my foot off the accelerator and gently move into the nearside lane; I’m feeling slightly anxious regarding my speed and whether they’re after me. Then I notice another car, just in front of the police, it’s a burgundy-coloured Jag. Its lights are on full beam too and as they pass, I quickly take a look at them, they look like elderly police officers and they’re laughing. They’re doing about 120 mph, so I surmise they must be important.
* * *
1975 – Educating Simon
Mr Garriock, the headmaster, requested my presence. When I got to his office there was a queue. I, along with two other boys, stood in silence outside his office. As I waited, I began to collate all the dodgy activities I’d got up to recently and couldn’t help but wonder which of them had brought me to this corridor of doom. For each of them, I began to build defence cases along with mitigating circumstances and appropriate punishments should my opinion on such matters be requested. The two boys went in ahead of me, one after another, each coming out with tears in their eyes. The door opened and Mr Garriock called me in.
“Sit down Simon,” he took a puff from his pipe. “Well, well, what are we going to do with you, Simon?” He paused, just like the man in the Condor pipe tobacco adverts. “You’re a bright boy, but you keep letting yourself down. You fight, you’re disobedient, and God knows what else you get up to. If you carry on like that you’re going to end up in a lot of trouble. Is that what you want?”
I mouth a silent no and look down in shame.
“If you don’t focus on your education, what will you have?”
I’m tempted to point out my naturally proficient criminal mind, but having such a mind means I know it’s best not to.
He sighs.
“After the summer break, you’ll be doing an exam, the result of which will determine the school you go to, and in turn that’ll partly dictate what happens to you for the rest of your life. So, either you pull your socks up now, or I fear it’ll be too late. And let’s face it, you are not going to have as many options available to you as most people.”
I’m like a man facing the gallows.
“So,” he says, “from now until the exams I’m going to teach you a few hours a week.”
And that’s what happened.
The fact that he was willing to pay me attention meant I felt indebted to him and so I tried my best, okay, almost my best, to do well.
* * *
It is a cliché, but the attention I received from individuals who seemed to genuinely care had an effect, and their actions found a place in my heart a long time after they’d gone. It’s a big temptation for teachers to focus on students who don’t need much help, but the real struggle is not lesson plans and reports but resisting that temptation and doing one’s best to help those who need it too.
* * *
2008 – Bullying
One of my sons has drawn a smiley face on my touchpad.
A couple of days ago, a boy from their school threatened to follow them home and smash our windows. Their crime had been a friend of this boy had punched my son in the head from behind and my son had turned around and punched him in the stomach. The boy fell against a locker at which point a teacher intervened. The boy then felt the fight had been stopped prematurely, making it appear as if he’d lost. From then on, he’d set himself on a path of vengeance.
A few weeks later the same boy went up to a skinny bespectacled Indian boy, called him a “paki” and then with a well-placed coin between his knuckles punched the boy in the eye. The boy collapsed immediately and was unconscious for some time. His vision was permanently damaged by this attack, yet the attacker is still at the school, apparently receiving, “special attention”. Meanwhile, his friends are continuing to persecute my sons.
* * *
July 2008 – Knife Crime
I’m sitting in front of a video camera; a group of youths are making a documentary on knife crime.
“Did you ever carry a knife, Simon?”
I nod, “Yes, from about 11 onwards I had a fascination with weapons and violence. I bought a large ‘Green River’ knife and strapped it to my leg, then tucked the handle into my sock. I wore a strap on my arm so I could hold it and continued to carry it until I was 13. What stopped me was this. I was jumping around in Roundshaw Youth Club when it flew across the floor. One of the youth workers who I liked, picked it up and went ballistic. It was his intervention and disapproval that persuaded me to stop wearing it.”
“Why did you carry a knife?”
“Because I wanted to create an impression to others that I was hard, so people would either leave me alone or show me some respect.”
* * *
1981 – Revenge Attack
I have cornered a boy in a stranger’s porch way. He’s pleading with me to leave him alone, but he’s been taking the piss out of me for weeks and I know I have to teach him a lesson. I go to punch him on the nose but miss, so spin around and strike my stump hard on it. His face is covered in blood. I pull back my leg and kick him hard in the shin. He immediately drops to the ground in tears. A woman comes out from another house and shouts at me. I walk off. I feel sorry for him, but I also know this had to be done. He kept taunting me and then telling the teachers at school I’d threatened him. Which I had, but it wasn’t without cause. He forgot there were other options available to me. Six weeks later he apologised to me and showed me the bruise was still dark on his leg.
* * *
M23 – 23rd July 2008 – The Burgundy Jag – Part 2
The police car is now a few hundred metres ahead of me and I can see other police cars further ahead too. There seems to be some kind of incident, I have to slow down, as the traffic is building up.
* * *
5th August 2008 – The Gloves are On
I walk into a place I’m working in today and as I do there’s a group of people standing in the corridor. One of them, who always reminds me of a gangster who’s gone straight, has got a couple of very large boxing gloves. “Hold on a minute mate,” he says to me, “I’ve got an idea, put these on.” He helps put them on my arms. We’re standing there laughing, I do a quick karate kick towards his head. He looks impressed.
* * *
M23 – 23rd July 2008 – The Burgundy Jag – Part 3
It’s difficult to know what’s going on ahead. There are lots of police lights flashing, and then I notice the burgundy car is trying to get past the police cars. First, he feigns an attempt to drive up the bank to the side of the road but is blocked by a quick-witted police driver, then he tries to weave between the gap created by the movement. The police aren’t having it, and four police cars ram him into the central reservation. I hold back about 100 metres in case they pull out any guns. The police are all over the vehicle in seconds, opening the doors and pulling out the old geezers.
After a few minutes, a couple of other officers beckon us to drive past. As I do I see one of the burgundy Jag occupants, handsome as an ageing film star, laughing as the police handcuff him.
I can’t help but wonder if these criminals were so sick with the humdrum of normal life that they couldn’t stop themselves from doing one more job.
* * *
2008 – Bullying the Bullies
What do you do if your children are being threatened by someone who’s shown they’re willing to attack a defenceless person? My kids’ mum says they should just walk away, but when one of my kids returned from the latest incident, he was pale with fear because he recognised the risk this kid posed. This stirs in me the same characteristics the boy demonstrates, but I know, that path will lead to too much destruction. If I tell you I’m more scared of what I’ll do than what others may do to me, it’s not me trying to be a hard man, it’s me recognising that many of us have such feelings, and if we give into them then the consequences are very likely to be disproportionate.
* * *
1975 – Aged 10 – Mayfair in Paddington
My mother and I are in Paddington Station. We’re waiting for a train to take me to Devon. I’ll be travelling alone for the first time. We mull about for a while then, out of the blue, Mum says, “Follow me”, so I do. We end up standing in front of a newspaper vendor’s hut.
“Simon,” she says, “I’m going to buy you a girlie magazine, you know what they are don’t you?”
I nod, “You mean a porno mag.”
“Yes, but I don’t like that name, it makes it sound dirty and bad, and sex isn’t.”
“One of our teachers says porno mags degrade women.”
Mum looks at me and frowns.
“Anyway,” she says, “when you come back from your holiday, I’ll let you look at it. The reason I’m doing this is because I don’t want you to think sex or relationships are things you can’t talk to me about”.
I’m a bit shocked by all of this and as she points at one of the magazines to the vendor, I can’t help but feel a big surge of embarrassment. The vendor put the magazine in a brown paper bag and passed it to my mother.
A bit later we walked past the station’s WH Smith’s shop where they were selling Monopoly board games cheap, so, Mum bought one and put it and the magazine in a carrier bag. A bit later, as she waved me goodbye from the platform, my eyes became drawn to the bag and all it had to offer. Looking back, I can’t help but think the carrier should have had the words, “Simon’s Future” written on it.
For many, what Mum did that day was inappropriate, however, her desire for us to feel like we could speak about sex and love did come about from my late teens onward. Again, some may say such openness isn’t appropriate between a mother and son, but this will have to be a discussion for another day.
* * *
1975 – Jollymead – Part 1
200 miles and five hours later, I arrived at Newton Abbot. I’d spent the whole journey in the guard’s van sitting on sacks of mail, back then that was where most disabled people were ‘seated’.
Once we stopped, the guard went off for a few minutes, then returned with a man called Robbie. Robbie looked like a woodcutter from a fairy story, well he didn’t have a green velvet Robin Hood cloak or an axe, but he was bearded and wore a check shirt. As he helped me get off the train, he smiled and said, “Hello Simon, welcome to Devon.”
Robbie ran an outward-bound centre for disabled children on Dartmoor, called Jollymead, which my mum had sent me to for a week. When we got to the place it felt as if we were in the middle of nowhere. Jollymead was a white-walled bungalow with two large bay windows at the front while various rooms were going off from the corridors inside, including Robbie and his family’s living quarters. The ones we had access to were the playroom in the left bay-windowed room, the boys’ dormitory in the right-hand one, the girls’ dormitory right next to the boys’ one, a bathroom and a kitchen dining area. Around the house was a garden that rose above it to the left.
Once I’d been introduced to Robbie’s wife Judy, and their two daughters, I was shown to my room. There were 5 beds in it but only a couple of other children were holidaying with me. A boy whose name I can’t remember, and a girl called Susan.
I unpacked and was soon called to the kitchen where we were informed of all the rules and their expectations of us. To my horror, we were told we had to wash up after every meal. “Hold on a minute,” I thought “We’re on holiday and we’re paying you to make us wash up. I don’t think so.” Unfortunately, I suddenly realised I wasn’t just thinking these words, but speaking them. Judy wasn’t impressed.
In a not very well-veiled tone of anger, she said, “You may have everyone waiting on you hand and foot at home, but here you’ll be treated the same as everyone else, you’ll wash up or you’ll be on the first train back to London.” She paused to see if that’s what I wanted, then added, “Everyone works as a team here, is that understood?”
I obviously didn’t look too convinced, so Robbie interjected, “This isn’t a holiday camp, you’re here to learn. You’re here to start growing up and becoming independent.”
Even to me, aged ten, I got the idea this was so well delivered, that they may have already had this conversation with others on countless occasions. It may even have been a weekly ritual designed to break any revolutionary attacks before they could even begin.
“Well, no one told me that,” I said.
“So do you want to go home?” Said Judy.
I shook my head.
Not satisfied with the clarity of the power structure she added, “Is that a no, I can’t hear you?”
I said no very clearly.
The revolution was over!
* * *
The next day we were told to put on our swimming costumes and meet at the main gate. From there we walked along the road for 2 minutes, over a bridge and down to the riverside. We waded into the clear cold water, slowly letting it numb us bit by bit. Sue had an artificial foot which she took off, then, able to walk on her stump, joined us.
“The fish are nibbling at me.” She shrieked.
“Fish! What fish!” I muttered. I’d recently seen the film Jaws and was still scared to get in the bath without clearing the bubbles first, let alone swim with fish. Yet here I was surrounded by hundreds of them. After a few minutes, we realised the fish didn’t think we were very tasty, so we splashed each other and swam across and up and down the river until Robbie told us it was time for our next activity, canoeing. He’d probably been assessing us all this time to see how confident we were in the water. Given we were, our next exercise was practising capsize drills in canoes.
That’s pretty much how most of the week went on, find our limits, then push us a little beyond them, and then the next day go a bit further. I’d eventually return to Jollymead many times, and a few years down the line Robbie had us surviving nights by ourselves on Dartmoor in the snow in mid-March.
* * *
2008 – Christmas
I’m writing this and my legs feel like blocks of ice. It’s Christmas 2008 and the credit crunch is biting along with the weather.
* * *
1975 – Jollymead – Part 2
After the capsize drills, we walked back to the house and dried off on the lawn. Sue put her towel down on the lawn and told me to lie beside her. She put her arm around me and kissed me.
* * *
When it comes to falling in love Billy Bragg puts it most aptly in his song Life With The Lions when he sang about hating the arsehole he became every time he saw someone he fancied. Even at ten years old, changing how I behaved when someone told me they liked me seemed the worst thing to do, but I still couldn’t stop myself. Even with experience and years of self-discipline, I’m often unable to resist doing everything possible to make myself less attractive, and so it was with my first venture into adolescent love!
* * *
“Oi you two, stop your canoodling!” Robbie shouted up. “There’s potatoes to peel.”
With my paw in Sue’s hand, we floated into the kitchen where, for the first time in my life, a chore became a joyous activity.
* * *
Of the many embarrassing traits that falling in love brings out, being overly chivalrous and humble are perhaps the most cringe-worthy. Suddenly I was no longer a street urchin but metamorphosed into an upper-class lord. Had I been able to acquire a monocle and top hat I sadly would have adorned them.
“After you, my darling,” and, “Please, there’s a lady in the room.” All needed not to be said, but I couldn’t stop myself. Instead of the naughty sexually deviant rascal, who Sue’d found attractive, she got a slightly prudish and coy pseudo-gent who was willing to wait ‘til “we’re married” before enjoying the kiss she offered as she pulled a sheet over our heads.
* * *
1975 – Jollymead – Part 3
Amongst the other activities Robbie introduced us to, were shooting, archery, survival techniques such as building shelters, cooking and identifying edible foliage, climbing rocks, horse riding, caving, learning the country code and thinking about wildlife. We also visited local tourist sites such as Princetown and Newton Abbot as well as sitting around campfires listening to Robbie telling ghost stories. For a child without a father, this was a dream come true.
* * *
In the garden, Sue paraded up and down in front of me, pouting and posing whilst I took photos. Without them, I’d have forgotten what she looked like, but with them, I’ll remember her clearly forever.
* * *
The other boy staying with us, whose name and face I can’t remember, had a father who worked for the Metropolitan Police. It was with him and his parents that I’d be journeying back to London. I should have been grateful but instead, I sat in silence, the tip of my tongue pushing out my bottom lip, trying with all my might not to cry. For the whole journey, the dad told his son how the policeman who’d popped in to say hello to us during our stay didn’t know what real life was. How compared to the Metropolitan Police the Devon Police’s job was like working in Toy-Town. Even back then I couldn’t help but think he was a jerk.
* * *
2005
I recently ordered three microphones from someone on eBay. One of the microphones arrived but the other two never turned up. I emailed the seller, but he didn’t get back to me. I then sent him an email from a different account to see if he’d respond and he did, so that confirmed he was ignoring me.
I thought about how to deal with this situation, yes, there was the small claims court and eBay feedback, but I doubted I’d get anywhere doing that, so, this is what I did. I bought an Internet domain name which included the words ‘metropolitan police’ in it. I then emailed the seller a message using the domain name email address and wrote, “I’m emailing you from work. As you can see, I’m not someone to be mucked about with, please can I have my microphones?” Technically this may have been illegal, but I got the feeling I hadn’t been specific enough to get myself into too much trouble.
Within a few minutes, I received a very apologetic reply, including an offer to send me both microphones plus an extra one for free. I declined the free one but did receive the other two the next day by special delivery. As far as I was concerned, I hadn’t broken the law, (although some may disagree), your honour, but by the end of it I got what I wanted, albeit at a slightly extra cost. Still, it was worth it for the speedy resolution and the pleasure of a bit of revenge.
* * *
1975 – Jollymead – The Journey Home – Part 4
When I got home, I remained very quiet but when Mum asked me if I was alright, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out crying. She hugged me, but when she said, “You must have had a good time.” I felt resentful because she didn’t understand why I was upset, which was because I was in love and missing Sue. Why couldn’t she see that?
At no point was there any recognition of the part I played in her lack of understanding. I’d set her up and betrayed her by communicating nothing while expecting to be understood. Perhaps this was a misguided attempt to break the bond with her now I’d found a new love, but instead of being comforted by her caring hug, I felt angry because I still needed it.
So often in life, we turn the tables on those we yearn for because we resent them for the power they have over us. It’s akin to saying, I desire you, but as you won’t give yourself to me fully, I’ll hate you for rejecting me.
I am pretty certain this was the last time my mother comforted me as I cried. In the 1989 film Hideous Kinky a guru talks of teardrops being a gift from God to remind us we are human, and so, for those few minutes of crying, I reconnected with the part of me that yearns, needs to be loved and fears loss. A part I’d wanted to forget for a long time. But there was anger in the mix too, and from then on there was a distance between us caused by me.
* * *
There was, of course, the porn magazine to distract me, and although I still didn’t know what masturbation was, I took some comfort in the glossy pages of the Mayfair Magazine mum had bought. There were women in it I liked the look of, and a few I didn’t.
I’m not sure if it had been Mum’s plan all along, but I never felt the need to buy a porn magazine as I got older. Obviously on the Internet one comes across porn, but it’s never been of much interest to me. Was that because of Mum’s porn policy or would it have happened anyway?
* * *
2008 – State of Misunderstanding
My mother and I haven’t spoken for a while. I doubt we both know why the other isn’t speaking. It’s a kind of agreed-upon state of misunderstanding.
* * *
1975 – Susan M
I sat down and wrote Sue a letter which ended with “I love you”. I also wrote, “I love Sue” on my schoolbooks and bought a bracelet with two hearts that had, “Sue and Simon” engraved on it. She wrote back polite newsy letters that didn’t end with, “I love you.” But as some people say, love isn’t blind, it’s just a bit short-sighted.
* * *
1975 School
The 11-plus examination was approaching fast, and Mr Garriock made good his promise to tutor me. In turn, I did my best not to let him down. I passed the exam and was put forward to go to the local grammar school, Wilson’s. The headmaster interviewed me but declined my application because in his opinion I wouldn’t be able to cope with such things as science lessons because of my disability. Instead, I was offered a place at another school, Wallington Boy’s Grammar.
* * *
1976 – Councillor Bassett
Roundshaw Community Centre was situated inside the top section of a rectangular concrete building, next to the shopping precinct. From the centre’s entrance, a large concrete slab formed a slope down to the shops. This whole area was meant to act as the hub of the estate’s communal life, but it was grey and charmless.
My mother and I sat in the community centre’s vestibule waiting to meet the local GLC councillor, Phil Bassett, a tall, heavy-set man with greasy black back-combed hair.
He walked out of his office and called, “Mrs Smith?”
“Miss Smith” my mum corrected him.
“Pleased to meet you,” he put his hand out and they shook hands.
“Please come this way.”
We entered his office and took our seats. He reclined slightly while we sat upright.
“So how can I help you?” he asked.
“Well, I’m sorry to bother you but I didn’t know who to turn to. It’s just my son here, Simon, he’s been refused entry to Wilson’s school on account of him being handicapped.” (Political Correctness hadn’t landed yet).
She passed Councillor Bassett the school’s rejection letter which he read and passed back.
“Well,” he laughed, “I wonder why they think if Simon can’t cope at their school, he’d be able to at Wallington Boys? They’re just passing the buck.”
Mum, relieved to hear he was on our side, smiled and said, “That’s what I thought too, it’s ridiculous isn’t it?”
“As it goes, I’m one of the Governors at Wilson’s, so I’ll bring this matter up at the next meeting. If you could give me your address, I shall get back to you as soon as I can with a response.”
* * *
1975 – Puberty
At ten years old I started going through puberty. During one swimming session one of my teachers came up to me in the changing room and said loudly, “My! You’re a bit of a hairy monkey Mr Smith!” and promptly grabbed my talcum powder and covered me in it. The other kids in the changing room roared with laughter. Don’t worry, I didn’t feel abused, I kind of knew it was something to be proud of.
Along with being hairier, I started to become sexually aware. Instead of just playing hide and seek with the daughters of my mother’s friends, we’d end up in cupboards or under beds touching each other. It was exploratory but not romantic, and kissing was not part of the repertoire.
Perhaps for most of us, this sex and love split is a common experience but for me, I tend to see it as a split that’s almost a consequence of my mother and father’s genetics. Mum was a romantic, my father a sexual predator looking for seduction and casual sex, and I became both.
* * *
2008 – Familiarity Doesn’t Breed
I’m standing in a bar in Eastbourne with Steve, the one I write songs with sometimes. He’s introduced me to a friend of his who’s just split up from her boyfriend.
“So, why did you split up? Did you leave him?”
“Yeah,” she says, “we were becoming just friends.”
I’m interested in this scenario, so I ask, “Don’t you find that with most of your boyfriends then, that the more you get to know them the less sexually attracted you become?”
“Bloody Hell, how do you know that?”
“I think most people start off feeling very attracted to someone because they can imagine them being everything they want and at that point, it’s not complicated.”
She interjects, “A few months down the line and you get to see their insecurities”.
We look at each other like we both know the end of a joke and I say, “Then if you start pulling away, they become needy or they bring out needy feelings in you which make you feel uncomfortable.”
There’s a moment of silence and then she says, “We’re doomed then.”
I laugh and try to reassure us both by saying, “Maybe not, maybe some people find their sexual feelings come from feeling close emotionally to someone.”
“Now I’m really confused,” she says, “surely that’s what you feel at first?”
“You do, but it’s not for who they really are.”
* * *
2008 – Breaking Point
I’m at a party, a woman is talking to me, and tears are streaming down her face. No one can see but me. A moment beforehand we were chatting casually, when she mentioned her husband had been affected by the credit crunch and I asked if she was getting extra stress from him as a consequence.
“I don’t know what to do, he won’t talk to me. I’m sure he’s having an affair but he denies it. He keeps telling me how he doesn’t deserve me and I’d be better off without him. But I love him and I have for the last 18 years. We had a great physical relationship now he won’t touch me. I feel helpless.”
I nod and say, “You need to know the truth”.
“Yes I do.”
“Did you get married in a church?”
“Yes”
“Then surely making a vow to God must mean something to him?”
And here is a point that many people will diverge on. Do you force yourself to abide by a commitment created by a religious regime or do you accept that, in reality, humans are fickle and cannot be forced into feeling for someone? The sensible answer is to at least try to work it out, to make an effort, but at some point, there may well be a breaking point.
“Have you mentioned counselling to him?” I ask.
She breathes in sharply, “Yes, but he won’t”.
I add, “It’s like he’s determined to destroy the relationship, most of us have a self-destruct part of ourselves, maybe that’s what going on.”
I pass her a napkin from the buffet table, someone says goodbye to me.
“Excuse me for one moment.”
“No please don’t let me stop you, I’m sorry,” she says.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
But when I come back, she’s speaking to a couple of women and laughing.
I say goodbye to her and we never see each other again.
* * *
2005 – Boris
“You should remember the five F’s.” Boris says, “Find ‘em, Follow them, Finger them, Fuck and forget them”.
I look at him and shake my head in disapproval.
He tuts at me, “Well it’s you who suffers, I never lost any sleep over a woman.”
I’m curious and ask, “Do you ever feel lonely?”
“Listen I’ve been on my own since I was 12, I like my own company.”
“Have you ever loved a woman?” I ask.
He tightens his lips in a ‘that’s not an easy-to-answer question” expression.
“Well, there was Rebecca, she was Eurasian. I did have feelings for her.”
“So, what happened?”
“The only way she could stay here was to marry a Scotsman. So I told her to be with him because I knew I wouldn’t be good for her. But I did have feelings for her. But do you remember what that sex worker in Soho once said to me?”
I quickly interject, “Yeah, I know, business is business and love is bullshit. I don’t think that’s true though. I think love and loss have been central to your casual approach to women.”
He raises his eyebrows and shrugs a little, “Maybe, but there’s nothing I can do now.”
“Well, I guess you’ve had an interesting life,” I say smiling.
He looks at me askant, “It’s not over yet. I’ve still got to win you a million or three”.
I shake my head, “I won’t hold my breath”.
There’s a pause.
“You know Boris, I want you to know I’m grateful we met. There was life before meeting you and life after. I’ve learned a lot about who I am, and enjoyed being with you far more than I ever thought I would.”
Boris nods.
I continue, “Do you fancy a cup of tea?”
“Go on then,” he says looking a bit excited at the prospect of me finally making him a cuppa for him.
“Well,” I laugh, “whilst you’re making yourself one, I’ll have one too”.
Desolate, he moves his head from side to side, then gets up and heads towards the kitchenette.
* * *
1976 Winter
There’s a knock on the door. I can see it’s Mr Phil. He comes in and Mum makes him tea. He tells us he’s made in-roads and thinks he’ll get the decision reversed and we’ll know in a few days.
He stays for hours and after he leaves Mum says, “I didn’t think he’d ever go, anyway he’s offered to take you to a sports event at Crystal Palace, do you want to go?”
“Yes. Are you coming too?”
“No.”
“I think he fancies me. I don’t want to encourage him even if he can get you into a good school.”
“So, there are limits when it comes to motherly love after all.” I think to myself.
* * *
1976 – There’s a Price to Pay
Only two boys from Roundshaw Juniors got into Wilson’s and I was one of them. But there’s no such thing as a free lunch and Mr Bassett came with a price tag that I’d be paying for.
During my first year at Wilson’s, he thought it would be good for me to have him teach me Maths. One day we sat in my room, and he said he’d been getting reports of me shouting out to everyone that I was a bastard.
“No, I haven’t,” I said.
“I know you have!” He insisted.
“But I haven’t!” I protested.
He wouldn’t relent, “There’s no point denying it, I have proof, I have a witness.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Never you mind.”
I became doubtful as to whether I might have said something like that. “I don’t know, maybe I did say it but I can’t remember.”
He sensed blood, “You did say it. There’s no point denying it. Don’t let me hear that you’ve been saying such things again. Have I made myself clear?”
We then went on to work on converting fractions into decimals, which is done by dividing the bottom number into the top one.
I kept on making mistakes – apparently – and finally I was warned if I made one more I’d be punished. I started to shake. My mother was in the front room, just a few yards away.
“I want to go,” I said.
“No, you’ll stay here and do this properly, I’m not having you bother your mother. Now get on with it.”
So he set me a conversion to do and very carefully I got on with it. I was sure I’d got it right and beamed with relief.
“It’s wrong,” he said.
I couldn’t believe it, “What?”
“It’s wrong,” he repeated, “You divided the top into the bottom. Now stand up.”
He pulled my trousers and pants down and smacked me across my bare bottom ‘till I cried.
“Now if I find out you’ve told your mother there’ll be worse to follow. Do you understand?”
So, I didn’t tell her until I was an adult.
* * *
When I was in my late teens, I saw Mr Bassett in Sutton Library holding the hand of a very pale and timid-looking little boy. Mr Bassett nodded hello to me and asked how my mother was.
* * *
1976 – Jollymead – Part 5
Because Mum thought I loved the holiday in Devon so much she got me booked for another week there during the Easter break. But this time the weather was bleak, and not wanting to miss an opportunity to test our resolve, one of our tasks was to sleep in bin liners on the Moors in the snow. This time Robbie wanted to push us, however, a few hours down the line even though he thought it might be going too far, so he picked us up and took us back to Jollymead. Because it was so cold and there were only three of us, Robbie and Judy let us sit with them in their living room, watch TV and cuddle up to their German Shepherd dog in front of the open fire. They also helped me find Sue’s number – which in hindsight was technically aiding and abetting stalking – and arranged for her to come over for a few hours the following day. Of course, once she arrived, I turned into a blithering idiot again and probably didn’t make the best of impressions, however, it couldn’t have been so bad as she agreed to join me at Jollymead again the following summer.
* * *
1976 – All Set
My life was set. I’d got into a good school and it looked, well at least from my delusional vantage point, like I’d got the girl.
* * *
Christmas 2008
My son who’s now 14 asks me, “Daddy, do you remember when you used to tell us you got coal for Christmas?” – that is the translated version, the original was in teenage mumble.
“No,” I replied in proper adult English.
“You did!”
I’m sure I’m right, so I add, “I don’t remember ever saying that. You must be getting me confused with your grandfather.”
My other son interjects “No Dad, you did. Ask our Mum.”
So I do and she tells me I used to tell them that if they were naughty, they’d get coal from Father Christmas.
So much for having a good memory!
* * *
If this chapter has partly been about forgetfulness, it’s also about what is unforgettable. Our lives are both full of small and big details, incidents and other people who touch us enough that we can never forget them.
* * *
End of chapter 16
