Ch 2: Some Beginning!

ISBN – 0-909001-25-1

Bombed.
The siren wailed. My mother quickly picked me up. I think her fear transferred to me and I was afraid. I was held tightly, a fact which I’m sure I appreciated. The siren meant, of course, that the blackout immediately came into effect.

Still holding me my mother grabbed the torch and we set off a quick tour of the house. No lights were on and we returned to the living room. Using the torch my mother switched off the living room light. With the aid of the torch beam we made a way over to the table and my mother, still holding me, crawled under it. She was still holding be tightly and no doubt I was glad of her comfort. I guess in some way she tried to reassure me and not to be afraid.

Soon the air was filled with the noise of aircraft, aircraft guns firing, and soon after the first bomb fell. We lived near a munitions factory. It is somewhat ironic that to the Germans were dropping bombs on a factory that made them.

Suddenly a huge explosion rent the air. A few seconds later we heard the whine of another bomb falling. My mother screamed and suddenly a huge explosion filled the air. The blast was deafening. The house shook even though it was made of bricks and mortar.

The windows shattered sending glass flying around the room, a few bits fell near the table. The ceiling, or at least the plaster covering the ceiling, fell down sending a shower of dust into the air. All this happened, of course, in total darkness.

We huddled together underneath the table. My mother no doubt thought we were going to die. I was screaming also. I was only two at the time so how could I even begin to understand what was happening. We hung on to each other for what seemed hours. Suddenly the siren wailed again indicating the end of the air-raid. I could feel my mother’s body of relaxing. We had survived but we kept still and waited and waited.

Suddenly we could see the beam of torchlight and a voice called out “Anyone here?” I think my mother managed some sort of reply and switched on our torch. The man told us to wait and we saw the beam of his torch search the room. It flickered back and fore until it eventually settled on the light switch.

The man crossed the room and switched on the light. He told us not to move. Huge pieces of plaster covered part of the floor. Where the windows used to be there were huge holes with some jagged pieces of glass still in them. Glass covered the floor mainly near what remained of the windows.

He told us to remain where we were and he disappeared. A few minutes later he returned and told my mother to come out. She wanted to hand me out first. I protested as only a two-year-old can.

With me clinging to her she crawled out helped by the man. I suppose he must have said something to my mother for he then led us to my parents’ bedroom at the very back of the house.

Fortunately the windows, although cracked, were intact, as was the ceiling although there were cracks in it also. The man told my mother he would arrange for someone to come in tomorrow and clear up. He said he had other buildings to check so would have to leave.

I wondered in the later years why my mother didn’t pray. Unfortunately the thoughts never came to me when she was alive and once she was gone the chance of finding out was gone to. Besides being very badly shaken and traumatized, perhaps for life, we had at least survived physically. The repercussions and scars were to last as permanent reminders as the most dramatic events we experienced during our lifetime.

My father was away at sea. He was chief engineer on a merchant ship that crossed and kept crossing the Atlantic bringing valuable commodities, food and equipment. He did this for most of the war and never suffered a scratch.

Although he was in a convoy each time from which some ships were sunk, his ship was almighty lucky and he and his shipmates survived. He had a simple outlook on life and for whatever reason was at home for the last few years of the war. I assume that the Atlantic run became clear of U-boats and his services were no longer needed.

My mother’s illness
My mother, during his long absences, became quite ill. I was only a small boy and depended greatly on her but the bombing and subsequent trauma resulted in some sort of mental illness. I know that even has a four-year-old I felt responsible for her. I guess her fear was passed on to me and I suspect I lived my early years frightened that I would lose her.

Once my father returned home, life became a little easier but not much. He found an engineering job some 10 miles away from home. We didn’t have, of course, a car so he cycled to and from work. He also worked long hours during the war and after the warm the initial post war period.

I remember that throughout my childhood my mother kept having breakdowns. That was bad enough but my father had no idea how to deal with the situation. Those were the days when we had little idea of what trauma was about. One was supposed to pull oneself together and overcome whatever what was ailing one. My mother was totally incapable of doing that. I’m not sure what the doctor prescribed but I believe it had very little effect on my mother.

Those were the days too when very little was understood about mental illness. There was a local mental hospital. My mother eventually went for a consultation there. I’m not sure why I attended but I know the apprehension and fear that was around us as we waited to see the psychiatrist. I was left outside while the interview took place. Soon after, I was asked in. I guess I was scared stiff – it was more than a seven year old should be involved in, never mind asked to do anything.

I was told my mother was to have some treatment at the hospital and that on some occasion I would walk with her to the hospital and then walk home afterwards with her. I was told she might have to walk slowly because of the treatment. Some years later I found that she was having ECT (Electric Shock Treatment). I was scared stiff and very worried the first time I took her.

We entered the waiting room and eventually my mother was called. I sat there and waited patiently while whatever was happening occurred. After what seemed hours, my mother returned being led by a nurse. She told me my mother was all right but that I had to walk very slowly with her back home. I took my mother’s hand and started the walk home. She seemed ok but didn’t answer my questions.

Bedtime
I was lying on the couch. It was soon going to be bedtime. I waited for my mother to come. It was a cold night and she was boiling water to put in my hot water bottle. Suddenly I heard the whistling of the kettle. The water had boiled and my mother would now be filling my hot water bottle.

Before long, I would be tucked up in bed, my feet touching the bottle; it was a real, nice cosy feeling. Soon I would be in the innocent sleep of a seven-year-old. My mother came into the living room and muttered something about bedtime to me. She playfully swung the hot water bottle to give me a playful slapped with it on my thigh – catastrophe. As the bottle hit my thigh it burst sending the very hot water all over my thigh and leg.

I let out a scream. I was in terrible pain. My pyjamas were now stuck to my body. My father jumped up and had presence of mind to quickly get a pan full of cold water and poured the water over my thigh and leg. It brought some temporary relief.

My father got some scissors and started to cut might the pyjamas. He gently peeled away piece after piece. I was alternatively crying and screaming but my father patiently continued until every piece was removed.

Both my mother and father gently the dab the red and blotchy skin with cold water but it did little to alleviate my pain. I saw now that my father had a tin of cream in his hand. He smeared a little on to the burned parts and it did help a little. I so wanted to cry that kept myself from doing so. Little boys didn’t cry. It showed weakness and emotion and these could only weaken character building.

A few minutes later my mother came in with a bottle of calamine lotion. She gently damped the lotion on to my skin. It was cool and helped. A huge blister was beginning to form on my thigh and leg. They kept on dabbing up until the blister stopped them.

It hurt and hurt. My father asked me if I could move. I uttered a meek affirmative. He told my mother to sit in the easy chair. He put his arms and the my armpits and gently lifted me up and placed me on my mother’s lap carefully making sure that none of the burned part of my body touched anything.

Safe in my mother’s arms I found some comfort at last. But the pain had been too much for me. I desperately wanted to cry but boys of any age do not cry in Britain. I wanted to express something of what I had gone through.

I turned quietly to my mother and asked if I could cry. She gave me a huge hug and answered yes. Hugged and feeling safe I gave out sob after sob until through sheer emotional exhaustion I fell into an uneasy sleep.

The doctor had been called but I never saw him. I heard later that he said that there was very little he could do but that when I was awake to gently burst what had become a huge blister; then very gently to dab calamine lotion. He also gave my father some other ointment. Predictably I had a disturbed sleep moaning continually.

A Child’s Pain
I usually rushed straight home from school. Today was no exception. I was fearful of what I might find. My mother had been up both irritable and then quiet just before I left for school. Now was the time to find out what had happened during the day.

I entered the driveway and as I went to open the back door noticed my father’s bicycled leaning against the hedge. Instantly the adrenaline poured into my bloodstream. The situation must be serious if my father had come home from work. He was probably risking his job to do so.

I heard raised voices. I opened the dining room door. My mother stood near the window shrieking something at my father who was just a few feet away. Mrs. Johnson, a neighbour from a few doors away, was also there. For a brief moment there was quiet then suddenly my mother started crying. I was frozen to the sport.

Mrs. Johnson came over to me, put her arms around me and gave me a big hug. She said quietly to me that my mother wasn’t well. She started to let go of me. I hung on. I wanted to hug, I wanted those arms around me, I wanted to feel loved and wanted. More than anything else I wanted to go home with Mrs. Johnson.

If I hung on long enough she may take me home with her. I hung on. Slowly Mrs. Johnson let go of me and said that I would have to be brave. My mother was now screaming. Both Mrs. Johnson and my father were telling her to stop.

She did so and walked a few steps to the sideboard. She opened it and took out a piece of string. She put it around her neck and started tightening it. Mrs. Johnson and my father both stepped towards her some and struggled with her. I started crying. I was afraid and I stood paralyzed with inertia. The struggling continued and eventually they pulled the string away from my mother.

The effect of all this was traumatic. From that time onwards I was always afraid that when I returned home my mother wouldn’t be there. Would I find a body? What would I find? I never told any of my friends what was now my secret.

I got through day after day. My schoolwork deteriorated until I was near the bottom of the class. I can’t remember the teachers. Everything became a blur. I sat there not caring what was happening. I needed to get home. I needed to make sure my mother was all right. I needed her to be there for me.

I walked with her to the hospital where she received treatment. Slowly her condition improved. She started to take an interest in things around her. I had a mother once more although underneath I think I was traumatized that the bad times would come again. They did, of course. I’m sure there were good times but my memory is of the breakdowns, the crying and hysteria.
Would I get to grammar school? At least on the 11+ examination I would be answering questions on paper so I hoped for the best.

The examination to get into grammar school would soon be on us. In those days children were segregated by an examination which we all took at eleven years of age. It was appropriately called the eleven plus.

Those who passed the 11+ went to grammar school and were regarded as academic. Those who failed went to a secondary school. They were regarded as non-academic and were best suited for manual or vocational work.

It was all sorted out at eleven years of age. One’s working career was determined at that tender age.

It was with trepidation we that all took our seats for the examination. I was extremely nervous and worried. I know some of the others were of the same ilk. The gods were kind to me that day. I don’t know how but somehow I did scrape through and find my way to grammar school.

When the results came out my parents were overjoyed. It was one of the few times I saw my mother happy. They bought me a bicycle. Soon it was the summer holidays. It was one of the best I ever had.

School
The class was, as usual, self-disciplined. Mr. Brown’s level of tolerance was zero. We were there to learn and how could we learn if we were not silent and listening.

Mr. Brown’s voice droned on. Thank goodness, at least it was a cloudy day. I had a seat near the window and when the sunshine came pouring in it was difficult not to fall asleep, never mind absorb the pearls of wisdom flowing forth from the self confessed guru.

We were immersed in geography, learning how much of East Anglia was at or below sea level. It was an interesting subject to me but I could never fathom out how Mr. Brown expected us to learn anything since his a monologue continued with fact after fact. It was our task to listen attentively and afterwards all that was required usually was for us to write down in our own words what we had absorbed. In addition, we usually drew and coloured in a map and I liked that.

If the truth be known we absorbed very little. Our saving grace was that all that Mr. Brown had said was in our geography text book. We never had time, even if we were so inclined, to write it in our own words so we mainly copied. I don’t think Mr. Brown read any of our efforts but our exercise books were returned to us with the usual red tick and that was all that really mattered.

But at least Mr. Brown’s efforts were far better than that Miss Jones and her history lessons. These nearly ended in chaos. Her frail, echoing voice implored us to be quiet. She never stood a chance of gaining the respect from us that she so desperately needed. We could sense her indecision, her lack of authority and each lesson slowly, and sometimes not so slowly, disintegrated into chaos.

At least Mr. Brown’s authority was not questioned. Sometimes, but not too often, he even smiled. A sad smile, as if his best days were behind him but here he was making the best of what remained. Perhaps even a little of that rubbed off on us and we saw a little of the wisdom that we would need on the journey.

Not only that but I liked geography. Drawing maps and colouring them in was fun. I liked the finished product. No doubt we would eventually draw a map of East Anglia. Meanwhile it was very hard to try and absorb fact after fact.

At last the droning voice stopped. Excellent, now we could write and draw unless we were going to have one of his hated “question and answer” sessions. Thankfully, these did not occur too often. I don’t think Mr. Brown really liked them but it was way of showing that he was the boss and so it was needed from time to time.

He would ask a question and the first person with her or his or hand up got to answer it. That person receives question after question until he received a question that he or she got wrong or one that he or she couldn’t answer.

Anyone could try and answer it by putting up their hand and being selected, and so the whole procedure repeated itself. John was one of the first to put up his hand and found that he was chosen. He answered question after question – after all he was just about the brightest kid in the class. Question five came and went but on question six he stopped. What did you know but he couldn’t answer it! Mr. Brown asked the class – silence. He repeated the question – still silence. No one knew the answer.

I, amongst all those students, knew the answer. Should I say something and find myself the centre of attention. Not only that but I would then be asked the next question and if I managed to get that right, then the next one and so on.

It was one thing to answer one question but to answer other questions with all the class looking at me and some wishing that I couldn’t get the right answer was too much for me. I stayed silent. Not for me the interrogation from Mr. Brown. It was one of the few times in elementary school that I could have been successful and I avoided the situation.

In such ways the confidence that should be built up gradually is destroyed. So I continued being quiet and subdued in class and looked upon as not very bright.

Gym
It was gym day. I hated gym day especially when it was taken by Mr. Hutchinson or “Hutch” as he was known by all of us. Mr. Kelland was the other teacher. We were all afraid of Hutch but Mr. Kelland was nice and sort of avuncular.

I think that on balance we did better with Mr. Kelland than with Hutch. Today we were to be taken by Hutch.

I suppose I didn’t do that badly. I was small and fairly quick. When it was my turn to climb the rope or whatever task Hutch had set us I usually could manage. In fact as far as climbing the rope was concerned I was one of the quickest in the class. But I still hated gym with Hutch.

He only had to pick me out to carry out one of his detestable exercises and I felt my confidence draining from me. He liked to pick on somebody and if they couldn’t perform or performed badly he would describe in some detail why they were poor at that particular task until the victim was on the verge of crying. It was his way of toughening us up although I think it did little in that regard.

Like everyone in the class however good I performed it, it was not good enough. I, again like everyone else, was frightened or angry but of course one couldn’t show that or any other emotion. This was how we grew into manhood – fear and performing best as we could under the circumstances.

Some might think that perhaps this is a good preparation for life. As one who went through the ordeal, I can reassure you, it is not!

How I hated Hutch. When I got out of bed on those particular mornings the first thing that struck me was fear. What was I afraid of? Yes, that booming voice telling us how dreadful we were. How were to gain any sort of self-esteem? I imagine if Hutch heard that question he would let out a booming, hollow laugh. I can see him in all his glory pontificating before his terrified audience.

What had education to do with self-esteem? Nothing as far as Hutch was concerned. I can see him telling us in great detail how the British Empire was built. So there was nothing we could do. Our self-esteem was low or non-existence. Here was God telling us the type of person we should aspire to. What was there to question? No one dared utter a sound.

Then Hutch would pounce. “You Lewis, yes you – whom else do you think I am talking to? You’re the only Lewis in the class.” Lewis with trepidation stepped forward. He was one of the worst in gymnastics in the class. Only roly poly Collins was worse.

Hutch barked out his orders, “1 forward role, stand on your hands, climb the rope, over the vault, climb the bars, 20 press-ups and you’re done. Nothing like keeping fit Lewis – is there?”

Bastard we thought, bastard. He knew that Lewis couldn’t do half of what was being asked for him. Collins would try and try. He hardly ever gave Hutch the satisfaction of accusing him of cowardice. But Lewis was far too sensitive for Hutch’s pent up anger.

He rarely got through half of what was being asked of him. Sometimes he blubbed within a few minutes of starting. He would stand there lonely and forlorn knowing that he would now be humiliated.

“What do you think Lewis? How are you going to be a man if you can’t do these things without crying. What kind of boy are you?” We stood there watching as Lewis attempted to perform. I guess we felt for him but this was a case of individual survival. We knew our turn would come. We also knew given half a chance we would feel the wrath of Hutch’s attack as soon as we gave him an excuse.

I could never work out why most of the time we had to carry out the sequences individually, I realize now that he didn’t have the expertise and probably the confidence to take the whole class all at once for a whole lesson. I realized also that by giving each of us in turn the sequence of exercises he was able to keep control.

Today I was tired. My mother wasn’t well again and all my thoughts and efforts were concerned with her. I prayed that I wouldn’t be chosen even though I knew Hutch would try to pick every boy in the class to perform.

He also seemed to have a remarkable memory and could remember whom he had picked in the last lesson. It was rare that anyone wasn’t picked over two lessons so I had very little chance of avoiding being picked as I hadn’t been picked the previous lesson.

Sure enough my turn came and I tried my best or somewhere near it to perform. I did a forward role easy enough and climbed the rope making sure I touched the ceiling. If you didn’t Hutch made you do it all over again.

Then came the vault. I knew I couldn’t do that. I could just about vault on to it but Hutch wanted you to vault over it – only a few boys in the class managed that. Once more Hutch started his monologue. Meanwhile I had climbed the bars and barely did the 20 press-ups. My misery was over for another week.

Dr. Reed
My mother wasn’t well. She wasn’t well a lot of the time. She would sink into a mixture of anger and total withdrawal. Sometimes she would shout and shout. Other times she would sit there still with anger in her eyes but sullen and uncommunicative.

Today, before I left for school she had been in one of her moods. She wasn’t angry with me but she was angry with the world. Today there was going to be a French test. How I hated Dr. Reed the teacher who taught us French and German. I was no good at either language.

I wasn’t good at most subjects at school and was near the bottom of the class. The only subjects I was any good at were geometry and geography. Mr. Morgan or Moggy as he was affectionately known was our maths teacher.

Once, to everyone’s surprise including my own, I came third in geometry. Mr. Willets taught us geography. I loved drawing and colouring in maps. I managed to do the written work and ended up near the middle of the class. In all the other subjects I was near the bottom of the class. Geometry and geography kept me from being in the bottom three.

I was hopeless at languages and the sciences. We were taught four languages — Latin and Welsh as well as French and German. Failing all four put me off learning any languages for the rest of my life. I hated in particular Dr. Reed. He was always picking on me.

He knew that I couldn’t answer nearly all the questions asked and when I couldn’t answer he would show me as an example to the rest of the class as someone who didn’t work hard enough and who would fail at everything in life.

Did his other pupils want to fail also? Of course not. What was the answer? The answer was quite simple to Dr. Reed. As he informed the class, it was work, work and more work. He regularly set tests nearly all of which I did badly. Today all I felt was fear and panic. With the benefit of hindsight I should have feigned illness and stayed away from school.

I left for school and in doing so left my mother. She had that hunger in her eyes – they indicated pain and suffering but I couldn’t do anything but say good-bye and leave. I had learned very little for the French test. I had difficulty in swotting for the test. I had been very worried about my mother the night before and I was just as worried now.

How I hated school. I especially hated it today – no geometry but hated algebra. I had no idea what I was doing in that subject, one lesson of geography but gymnastics and then the French test. I managed the first few periods, the nausea building up inside me.

The French lesson arrived and the test was passed around to each one of us had a copy. Dr. Reed said, “Start”. The test was hard. I could answer very few questions and spent most of the period pretending that I was writing the answers. At the end I know I had done badly.

The week passed and on the Friday afternoon we had French again. Dr. Reed stood there and proudly announced who had good marks. He went through the class and still my name had not been mentioned. At last I was the only one left.

Dr. Reed started. “It has never been my experience for a pupil to fail so miserably. Mollet has excelled himself this time. He has managed the ultimate. No score at all”.

Dr. Reed carried on describing how only a moron could get no score. He humiliated me again and again. I could feel the tears welling up inside me. At last he finished and thank god the bell went for the end of the period. I rushed out and went to the far corner of the playing field.

I quietly crawled into a space in the hedge and slowly the tears came. I shed tear after tear until I was worn out. I know I should get home as quickly as possible. From that moment on I hated Dr. Reed even more. I was glad to leave school at the earliest opportunity. Damn you Dr. Reed, Damn you.

Many, many years later I recognized the impulse I was carrying, I also recognized the forces that would try and frustrate and even destroy that impulse. Did that process commence when I had just begun my teenage years? It would appear so!

This is my auto-biography. I have attempted to be accurate and speak the truth as I see it.

Homepage
https://someexperiencedotcom.wordpress.com/some-experience/

Chapter 1: I Meet Doris
https://someexperiencedotcom.wordpress.com/ch1-i-meet-doris/

Chapter 2: Some Beginning!
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/Doris/Ch2_Some_Beginning.pdf

Chapter 3: Meetings with Doris
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/Doris/Ch3_Meetings_with_Doris.pdf

Chapter 4: Consequences from Childhood
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/Doris/Ch4_Consequences_from_Childhood.pdf

Chapter 5: Our Relationship Grows (see below)
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/Doris/Ch5_Our_Relationship_Grows.pdf

Chapter 6: After Childhood
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/SomeExperience!/Ch6AfterChildhood.pdf

Chapter 7: Sharing
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/SomeExperience!/Ch7Sharing.pdf

Chapter 8: Teaching
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/SomeExperience!/Ch8Teaching.pdf

Chapter 9: Our Relationship Grows
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/SomeExperience!/Ch9OurRelationshipGrows.pdf

Chapter 10: Belle Vue
http://members.cox.net/non-violence/SomeExperience!/Ch10BellVue.pdf