They still come – the children – even after all these years, and they’re welcome, despite the baggage they bring with them.
The ones from before the Hospital visit less often now, usually just Kat and Billy. The ones from the Hospital drop down like pigeons in the park coming to feed on the old man’s scraps. We revisit old times – the fun they had making puppets, mucking about with clay, hiding and seeking, beachcombing, swimming, hill rolling, crushing spikey chestnut casings under foot to get the sweet nut inside, pond dipping, camp building, making handprints in the clay. Of course, more often than not, the bad times come up too.
…
He jumps down off the wall, right in front of me grinning and lairy.
– Alright Mr M. – heading up to school?
He’s off his face and twitchy, enjoying having shocked me. Head shaved, crooked inked swastika on his forehead, ACAB on his fingers, attempts at daggers, mum, and hearts and stars on his neck and arms. Bovver boots, braces, Lacrosse shirt and Levis – all the gear and clean too. He’s got a stub on and raises it to his mouth, takes a draw, eyes me full on, then tilts his head back and slowly puffs the smoke up into the air.
– Spare us a quid? No? Ok I’ll be up later.
He hops back up onto the wall and into the graveyard.
—
He’s struggling and sweat’s pouring off the three of us. Not what any of us want to be doing in a heat wave, him in a writhing frenzy, us trying to hold and restrain. It’s just not right – how did any of us get in this position? His eyes are wild, teeth clenched; he’s spitting and jabbering calling us cunts.
– Come on Billy, it’s ok, no need for this, just calm down.
We get him off the floor and into the office. How do you calm someone down who is this high?
Peter sits at his desk and smiles at him.
– Ok Billy? We’ve been here before eh? You calm down, we can let you go and we can talk.
– Cunts, let me go. Just fuck off…
The struggle continues and we are all soaked with sweat. Finally his fizzing energy seems spent and he’s crying, but also laughing. We laugh with him and, relaxing with the tension release, we let him go. Then wham! He’s up on his toes and up onto the desk. He launches himself at the window, which gives a sharp crack like a rifle, makes a spider’s web and shatters. There’s blood and glass everywhere and Billy’s lying on the floor, blood streaming from his face and arms, laughing like a maniac.
Later it was refitted with toughened glass.
That’s Billy – wild, don’t give a shit Billy. A few days later and he’s back with a swagger. We want to help but we are powerless against his electric wildness, his challenge.
—
I open the door and they’re there, him and Theresa, all skinned up. I note the wariness in me – Theresa is the least of our worries, acting out but doing well…but is this good, that she is with Billy, won’t it all get messy and destructive and end in tears? They’re here ‘cause they are keeping out of trouble…staying away from the glue. Billy’s in the home but now spends a lot of time with Theresa and her Mum.
They come in and I lead them down to the kitchen. I make them tea and eggs on toast. He’s due in court soon and faces DC. He has plasters on his arm and forehead. He rips one off to show me he’s been having tattoos removed. They are on their best behaviour and in love. It all seems rosy and when we finish up I wish them well.
He avoids DC and gets IT and me – he’s under an order – one miss step and he’s back before the judge. He struggles. We play pool in the back of the centre and listen to UB 40, he’s even allowed out back for a smoke. But he’s on thin ice, he knows it, we know it. When the split up comes it all shatters…he doesn’t show up, is arrested for ABH on a foreign student.
He’s spent the night in the cell, no adult was available for him then, he’s covered in bruises and probably got a working over…we do the examination and get it all down. Later he chucks his books and the classroom furniture about then when the anger fizzles out he’s in a heap in the corner. He’s back into don’t give a shit aggression and all that goes with it and in the end he’s gone. DC, later prison, later an overdose and a successful wrist slashing session.
Too much damage done to early.
I still see him, in all his phases…
…
It’s a cold wet day and I get off the bus up at the Race Hill…wind driving the rain into my face as it gathers pace over the top of the Downs. I walk up the street and find the house. It’s grey and drab like the rest of them but distinguished by the amount of black bags and broken furniture scattered over the grass and out onto the pavement.
Kat’s a bundle of strident, combative energy, and I’m not expecting her to take kindly to the visit. In the small group I teach she’s the leader…in there with the demands before I even get started. She has the technique down to a T – keep asking questions, flatter, ingratiate, avoid and get round whatever’s being asked of her. She also does a good line in telling the other kids that they’re out of line.
The front door has seen better days with the bottom panel half kicked in. I take a deep breath and knock. I’m about to walk away with a sigh of relief when the door is pulled open.
– Yes?
– Jim Meech…Kat’s teacher…
– Oh…she ain’t here.
– I wondered if we could have a chat, talk things over…she’s not been at the unit this past week. I wondered if everything’s ok?
She squints at me through her patched up glasses, she’s round, dishevelled, not looking on top of things at all.
– Oh alright you’d better come in then…I’m not supposed to let anyone in…ain’t got no milk though…come on then you’re wet through.
She turns and head off down the hallway and I step up in after her. The hall walls are damp and mouldy, and there’s an odd sour smell off the carpet, and a more acidic vinegary smell off Mrs P. The house is dirty, full of discard and clutter. There’s no door on the living room and it’s piled chock a block with furniture. In fact all the doors are off their hinges.
– Her brother, Pete, the one with the shop, kicked her door in coz she’d locked herself in, then she kicked the others in – she was in a right mood and he took them off the ‘inges – you know what she’s like.
She rinses out a mug off the table and makes me a black coffee.
– I came round to see what’s up? She’s not been at the centre for a few days. The truancy officer said…
– Not seen her in days, she was round at her brother’s…I told her to come back…it’s not good round there…all sorts drop in, she scavenges fags and whatever she can lay her paws on, you know…she’ll be back soon, you’ll see, and we’ll make up.
…
I’m outside their house in the car; they totter out and down the path, looking pleased with themselves. Mrs B’s in a raincoat and a scarf, Kat in a skirt that’s way too short, she’s got lipstick on and has painted her nails too. She’s clumping about in white heels that seem to be a size too big.
They hop in…Kat in the front and Mum in the back and we set off for Ford.
– Pretty int she?
Kat’s thirteen and she’s bargained me into this – given me a whole series of promises I’m gullible enough to think might get us somewhere. We’re off to the prison so she can see her ‘friend’, he’s nineteen and Mum’s dead proud Kat’s made the catch. I’m out of my depth – what am I doing, what’s driving me to drive them over, what’s the pull? She worked on me ‘til I cracked and offered it up.
– Here Mr M. – want one of these?
She offers me a Number 6 and I take it. She pushes the cigarette lighter in and when it pops out she lights it for me. I take a long draw and wind the window down – it’s a bit ripe in the car, what with Kat’s ‘perfume’ and her Mum…but they’re enjoying this day out, chatting away, Mum trying to give a good impression.
I drop them off outside the prison and arrange to pick them up in a couple of hours. I drive off to buy a paper and a pint and make something of this sacrificial Saturday.
When I pick them up they look dishevelled and flustered. They’ve been rowing.
– You shouldn’t ’ve done that Kat – you knew they was keeping an eye on you…”
– Oh leave it out, he wanted it didn’t he – wasn’t going to get the ring if I didn’t make him feel grateful.
She laughs – oh come on mum…Here Mr M got any fags? – we’re all smoked out.
—
Here she is again. This time her and Ricky pulling me along on the ice rink, picking up speed and letting me go so I go straight through a scattering crowd and end up on my arse.
—
I’m in the Open Market and there she is with two kids in a double buggy, one sucking on a bottle the other wailing. She looks good and is smiling.
– Alright Mr M. You still at St Anne’s? We had a right laugh didn’t we? Gave you the run around eh?
I never had any doubts, she’d make it.
—
Things are different at the hospital – they’re younger for a start.
Dani sits there on the bench outside the classroom like some wild doll, squashed between her Mum and the social worker. Curly hair all frizzed up as if she’s stuck her finger in a plug socket, eyes rubbed red, she’s tattered looking, sad almost, like she’s seen too much.
– Mum, mum, mum. Fuck, you cunt, where’s me Dad? I want my Daddy.
Her mum tries to grab her hand but she’s not having any of it.
– Sit still now Dani.
She breaks free and runs into the padded playroom with the ball pool and the toys. She launches herself over the side and into the coloured balls and half buries herself, peering out defiantly at her Mum and the social worker who have followed her in.
– Come on now Dani – out of there – you’re not supposed to be in here.
– Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Her Mum moves toward her and a ball whistles past her ear.
– I can’t do this.
The social worker gets close and kneels on the padded mat.
– Now Dani. We need you out of there so we can have a good look round. Do you like this ball pool – great isn’t it?
Dani spits and a gob lands smack on the social workers cheek. She stands up and pulls back in disgust. Wipes the gob from her cheek with a tissue.
– Cunt, cunt, fucking cunt. I want my dad.
…
She’s sitting on the bench again, between two nurses. One of them has Dani’s hands clasped in hers.
– You’ll be ok Dani – it’s fun in the classroom. Look here’s Jim. He’ll look after you.
– Bastard. Cunt. Bastard.
She frees her hand up to her eyebrows and it’s then I notice she doesn’t have any – she’s pulled them out.
She is escorted in by the nurse, the one who soothes her most, she makes a grab at one of the girls at the middle table but the nurse is too quick for her. They make their way to the round table in the tower corner, where the younger ones sit.
Annie is doing a Maths session, tens and unit from SPMG books, using plastic counting cubes.
– I’m not sitting down with that bitch. Fuck Maths, I hate Maths.
But she does, with the nurse next to her. Then she grabs the cubes from the table and starts pulling them off and chucking them at Annie and the other kids.
– What you staring at cunts?
She lashes out at Jenny who’s sitting next to her and grabs her hair. The nurse grabs hold of her while Annie moves round to prise open the grip. Jenny is screaming and screaming. It’s get Dani out or get the class out. Annie gets Dani’s hand out of Jenny’s hair and I help the nurse lift Dani out of the corner. Soon two more nurses arrive and they take over getting her out of the classroom. Jenny is surprisingly accepting and ok – such a placid little thing, so quiet.
There are screams and shouts from the room next door as the nurses try to hold, soothe and calm.
– Cunts, bitches. Let me go don’t you fucking touch me. My Dad’ll sort you out. He’ll give you what for, he will. I want my Daddy.
They are trying to hold and soothe, we have all been trained in this; it seems so wrong, but if you let her go, then what?
—
The other girls visit too, the girl who listens in door locks and keyholes and is instructed what to do – break things, shatter them, cut herself. The girl who is mute, who won’t say, she just sits there frail and pretty and nods or shakes her head, she makes us desperate to engage, but she won’t say. The girl who becomes a disobedient and dangerous pony who neighs and bites and loves to turn over tables and lunge at the others to bite them. She likes to see the fear and panic, to have that power. The one who runs at every opportunity; who promises not to. I hold her hand as we walk to the swimming pool and she breaks the bond and is off, straight up to the gates and the road and I chase after her and hear the horn and the screech and skidding and the van just misses us. We try reins on her, just so we can take her out on Wednesday outings…
—
Dani is rage, eruption, struggle, soothing and then engagement. She can be fine one minute, playing quietly with her doll, but then she brakes free of her comfort and attacks whoever is near, child or adult. It’s cunts, bitches, pricks and it is pushing kicking, spitting biting. She is set on harming herself and others; the damage has been done.
She has her own calming methods and we are the reluctant witnesses. She’s at the round table, joining in, accepting praise and reward, but then her hand slides down into her pants.
– No Dani…don’t do that please.
She withdraws her hand and puts a finger to her nose, then licks it. Sometimes she uses a pencil. It points to what we know – her daddy, her daddy who is now locked up, her daddy who she wants so badly and her mummy who she can’t forgive for getting her daddy locked up.
She is beginning to grow some brows back now and is more accepting of cuddles from the nurses. It is good to see her flying a kite, running down the beach to the sea holding a nurse’s hand, jumping wavelets. Learning to swim with a float keeping her head well up out of the water; spurting water out of her mouth and giggling. Enjoying story time, drawing and painting, cuddling chicks at the farm.
On her last day we are all there in the hall, waiting for the taxi. It is agonizing – we are all bonded to Dani, we have tried hard to ease her pain and offer comfort. Why make these bonds when we all know they will be split?
She sits on the bench, a black bag of her belongings in front of her. The taxi with the social worker pulls up, she is walked swiftly to the cab and we all wave and say ‘Bye Dani’, in tears or numb. They drive off. We never see her again.
…
When the more disturbing visitors are too much I summon Timothy.
He sits on the bench in shorts and T-shirt, legs crossed and puffing on a pretend cigarette. He’s about twelve, big but wanting to be dainty, ready with a quip, looking for repartee and aiming at high camp nonchalance. He’s not defiant, just matter of fact. In the classroom he simply sighs and gets on with work that he plainly sees as being beneath him. He produces the goods, does what is asked of him. But he’s been through it; going up to secondary will be a challenge. The quip and innuendo are armour of a kind, but it’s a hard ride being gay where he comes from.
He loves the art sessions, while some can barely cut with scissors and have poor fine motor control he is at home with drawing, painting, collages – and loves to get his hands on women’s magazines… he flicks through them, cutting out models and soap heroines, legs, crossed, puffing on his imaginary cigarette.
Then there’s New York. Timothy knows everything about New York skyscrapers. He can reel it all off – height, architect, history of the project, where they are situated – he’s a walking/talking Dorling Kindersley. He draws them out, sheet by sheet with all the details in his pencil scrawl to the side of each drawing –The Empire State, The Chrysler building, the Twin Towers. Then he’s into the cardboard and making large models of them, seems he must have done this before because his work is rapid…before we know it the classroom is full of his New York models and drawings.
I say, half jokingly, that maybe he should just skip secondary school and fly direct to New York, I’ll buy the ticket. I have no doubt that that is where he will end up, as an architect or set designer.
And what a set designer he is. We sit at the table with modelling clay, the whole group. Timothy makes wee models of Wallace and Gromit– the other kids are delighted and he helps them all make Gromits. What he really wants is to design and make the set – the famous Wrong Trouser set. He uses a cardboard box for the two rooms, upstairs and downstairs, makes a model bed, a chest of drawers and the trapdoor. In the room below he needs a rack and of course, the trousers, for Wallace to drop down into. We are all pulled in. He gets the others to do a wallpaper design and paint the floor and furnishings; and we all ‘research’ by watching the film repeatedly.
He gets Jenny to promise to make the trousers and she does – she takes some measurements and comes in the next day with them.
We are there, me with the new school video camera and the kids in position to pull on the strings attached to the bed and trap door. We are all ready, the trousers are in place, Wallace is on the bed, the trap door is raised, Timothy pulls the chord, the bed lifts and Wallace slides down the bed, through the trapdoor and…into the trousers. We are all laughing and clapping with delight. What joy! For the month or so of his stay Timothy did our work for us, he entertained, talked, consoled and encouraged. The other kids loved him and were slightly in awe. He was in control, in charge and didn’t have to hide.
I never bought him the ticket. He left happily enough, doing his ‘model walk’ to the car, giving us all a wave, puffing on his imaginary cigarette before stubbing it out under his sandal. He blows a kiss before sliding into the back seat. Giving us the regal wave as they pull off and away.
…
…
– Shona, it’s reading .go get your book and bring it over, show Jim how well you can read.
She’s chewing on a strand of hair looking out of the window.
– Shona. Come on now.
– I don’t want him. I want to read with you.
– Oh come on Shona…what kind of a welcome is that?
She shoves back her chair and squeezes round the back of me. Then shoves me in the back
– Move then!
– Shona…please!
She stomps off to the book corner making fart noises.
Annie reads with Melissa, helping her break the words down and sound them out.
Shona gets to the book racks and then just stands staring at them. Melissa and Annie just get on with reading.
I need to do something. It is my first day, I feel useless. It is as if they are all waiting for me to act.
I follow her over to the racks and then stand beside her, maybe I should have knelt down, not been too looming a presence?
– Which book are you on? Annie tells me you’re a great reader.
She won’t look at me, just stands, rigid, staring at the books.
I reach round her and pick out a book – The Tiger Who Came to Tea.
– Shall I read it to you?
Her head shakes. Her body is trembling. She turns to face me and I back away to give her space. She stares straight into me.
– Fuck off!
She stands there staring, rigid. Then she begins to shake and pee flows down her legs so she is standing in a pool.
Peggy is now beside me. She takes her by the hand.
– Come on now Shona. This is all a bit unnecessary. Let’s go clean you up.
And she leads her off. I’m left standing there with The Tiger Who Came to tea and the pool of pee.
We never really bridged that gap Jenny and me. She wasn’t that keen on men.
…
Is she a victim? Or, as the local press reports would have it, evil? A young girl left alone with a baby while her mum and dad were out on the drink. The grisly death of the baby. No need for the detail here. She brought out our protective instincts, a desire to hug and put arms around her, to care, to give her time and help her in knowing how to be, how to get to ‘normal’. We encourage her to talk and let it out, we try to discourage her from thinking she was a powerful, evil, murderer. Yet the adults around her give her power, she learns she has some control; she has emotional pull and is learning about manipulation. There she is, vivid before me now, with that little half smile, that uncertainty over whether she was allowed to be happy. There are moments of joy and love – stuffing in the sweeties and collapsing into a fit of giggles at the panto, trying so hard to get her five metre swimming badge, demanding we take the minibus fast over the bumps down the Beacon, cuddling in to those she finds comforting and protective.
When she plays with dolls she knows she’s under observation. People want to see what she will do with them – she knows she will get a reaction if she pokes a finger into a doll’s head. She has play therapy sessions that are reported on in the ward rounds – is she adoptable, are there parents out there who would take her on? These therapeutic sessions are seen to be key. Psychiatrist, nurses, psychologists, social workers, teachers – we are all seeking answers as to how to move her forward. She can’t stay with us forever.
Some fantasize about how they could take her on, how they could be her new mother and make everything right again…maybe the frisson appeals; maybe folk have good hearts and want a way out for her? Who will save Jenny, who will offer the most caring, nurturing environment?
The image that accompanies her, that sets the tone, is that of a cracked eggshell. The baby’s fractured skull won’t leave my view of her despite the good times.
The day she is taken there are tears and a pervasive feeling of failure, the change we all wanted was now a seeming impossibility.
Once again we gather to say goodbye, the social worker holds her hand and leads her to the car
Later it is reported that she is settling in to the secure unit. But we hear no more.
…
Who was that superman/boy?
He springs at me from the bench.
– I want to be a superman.
– Ok, let’s see what we can do…
We decide to do the session in the classroom – the dressing up box and the paper and scissors are there.
He wants power and he wants control. He wants to be in charge and command me. Nothing new here.
We cobble something together using stuff from the dressing up box – a shawl for a cape; he’s not interested in the old tights. We paint the Superman badge on paper and cut it out to stick on his front. He wants wings.
– I don’t think Superman has wings.
– This one does…he’s a new version, a boy version, with extra powers. He can transform himself to swoop and fly like an eagle and peck his enemies to death.
They always want extra powers. So we get some cardboard cut out in wing shapes and paint feathers on them and I rig up a riggidy framework from a couple of wire coat hangers that hang off his shoulders.
Needless to say, he isn’t that happy with the results. It takes a while to convince him that he looks magnificent and full of strength and power.
– OK let’s see if they work then. If not I want proper feather ones.
It’s all in the imagination and I suspect his imagination is letting him down a little.
He climbs up onto the table and points skywards.
He shouts – up up and away.
There is a pause while he waits for his powers to kick in. They don’t. He takes a little, slightly unsure jump off the table and manages to plant his feet firmly on the ground. His wings droop and he stands and looks disconsolate and sad.
I give him a hug.
It’s Ok I say. You probably just need to work on those powers a bit more though. You’re nearly there.
…
We sit on chairs in the freshly tidied living room, a tray of tea and biscuits on the table in front of us. The mum leans forward and pours our tea.
Flo says – So as you know, Jack has been referred through to us and part of our process is to make a home visit and to let you know more about how admissions work and what an admission to the hospital might mean. We’ll also need to talk over how things are with Jack at the moment.
The mum nods. Jack appears from behind the back of the chair where he has been hiding and listening.
He moves to the tray, picks up the sugar bowl, stands in front of his mother and pours the sugar over her head. He turns, bows, gives us a smile, and then retreats behind the chair.
She sits there, smiling weakly.
…
We are not now who we were then – we are all long gone. Kat and Billy will be nearing fifty now, if like me, they’ve survived.
I’m picking gooseberries from the bushes by the fence.
A voice from the other side says
– Hello, what are you doing?
– I’m picking some gooseberries and then I’m going to make jam.
– Jam?
– Yes gooseberry jam. My favourite.
– Oh.
– Um do you know you have a spider hanging from your hat?
It’s the wee girls – two pairs of eyes staring through the fence, taking it in.
Sure enough, hanging from a long fine thread, is the spider.
– Aha, so there is.
It is green with a yellow belly, I let it drift and attach to a gooseberry bush.
– The garden is full of plants and flowers and so the insects come to feed, as do the spiders.
– Oh, I see the flowers. What is the yellow flower? It comes through our side of the fence…
– That’s a honeysuckle – the bees love honeysuckle.
– Why do bees like it?’
– They come to feed on nectar and to collect pollen from the flowers.
– Oh…
– What other flowers are there?’
– There’s foxgloves and daisies and poppies, geraniums…
– Oh…
– And the bees love them all.
– Can we come and see your garden?
