Live today, learn tomorrow … Learn today, live tomorrow - Stories by Nicola Allen, Gillian Coe, Phil Dickens, Nick Osmond

Introduction

These stories were written by the “Go write ahead” group, a special interest writing group designed for people who, having been through an apprenticeship as adult beginner writers, were ready to take off, forget their limitations, spread their wings and … just write! The group aimed to build a bridge between “beginner” writing and independent writing.

Advertising through the local Adult Basic Education networks drew a lot of interest, but in the end the number of people actually able to commit themselves was small, and the group eventually settled to four members, including myself as facilitator.

We were a mixed bunch. Phil had good reading and writing skills, but felt his education began only after leaving grammar school at fifteen. Gill and Nicola were exactly the kind of people the project was meant for. Both had left school with serious reading or writing difficulties and had had to carry this disadvantage through their adult life. Recently they had taken steps to gain more control of their lives by signing on for courses at Brighton’s Adult Basic Education Unit. I was an ex-University literature teacher with advanced writing skills, but I had only recently taken up creative writing and I knew these skills were no guarantee that I could write a good story.

The group was very informal and we soon got to know each other and feel at ease. We decided we would each write an autobiographical short story, but with different names and written with a certain amount of poetic licence.

We spoke about our schooling and how it affected our lives and gradually ideas began to emerge. At our weekly meetings we were all given time to talk about our writing, read out what we’d written and hear each others’ comments. At this point we paid no attention to spelling, grammar, punctuation or style: the story was what mattered.

It was only after the first drafts were complete that we started on the editing, fine tuning and proofreading. Each writer typed up their draft on the computer. My role was to read each successive draft, suggest a few changes and draw attention to any points that had been missed in proofreading.

The four stories are very different and at the beginning of each we have placed an autobiographical note which will help the reader understand where the story has come from.

Although the book isn’t the anthology of stories by Adult Basic Education students that we planned, it has, I think, turned out to be a worthwhile QueenSpark product in another way. The four writers obviously start from very different places. The stories of Gill and Nicola celebrate liberation from a lifetime’s inhibition about writing. Phil has always had writing and story-telling skills but had never used them for creative writing. As for me, I learned how hard it is to shape an idea into a story but also how liberating it is to transform your past into fiction. So each story is the product of a particular writer at a particular moment in their life. What this little collection shows, I hope, is that all writing is equally valid and equally worthy of close attention; and also, I believe, that all writers are equal.

We have all gained a tremendous amount through the project and have all continued with our writing.

We hope you enjoy the four stories!

Nick Osmond, 22 September 1994

Our best wishes go to Bill Grant who had to drop out of the group. We hope he will finish his funny and touching story about Wee Stuart, Specky Mac and the snowstorm.

My name is Nicola Allen, and I’m aged thirty.

This is a brief outline to my story, The eyes can see dearly now, and explains why I found it necessary to seek out an education when I was twenty-eight.

At thirteen I was expelled from school for being rebellious, thus the school did not miss me and I was never to return.

The reason for being rebellious was because I needed glasses but refused to wear them, as I felt I had enough inadequacy. I had to wear a brace and also had acne, so spectacles seemed about the last straw. At sixteen it was time to leave school. The school I had not stepped inside of since being expelled. So there was no good-byes, no “I’ll keep in touch” and no end of year school dance.

During the next four years I travelled around the world with my sister, Alex.

To get jobs I took Alex along to the interview. She would fill in my application form, then pass it to me when nobody was looking. This was sly but it worked nearly every time. The jobs were menial ones, where writing was not needed. I never thought about what I would do when I got older. When you’re young you never visualize yourself as growing old. But as we all know time passes fast. When I found myself in situations where I was asked to write anything down my stomach just churned, I went bright red and felt dizzy. I would practise writing for a while then give up. I felt I needed help and guidance but with different things happening in my life I never got around to getting it.

At twenty-eight, I was going through some of my belongings when I came across some old diaries and journals that I had written when I had been travelling. Some of the stories were good and made me laugh. I thought it was about time to seek the education that I had missed out on and rewrite my life’s adventures, so that I could show them to people. I made inquiries about attending the Brighton College of Technology to study English, part-time. I was successful and got a place. With help and guidance and a lot of studying, and of course my glasses, I am now achieving my goal of rewriting my journals. I have just written my first short story, the one you are about to read, and hope to write many more.

I would like to thank everyone who has helped me. But a special thanks to Alex, my sister, who has always been there for me and supported me through the years.

The eyes can see clearly now by Nicola Allen

Anna sat at the desk just staring at the letter she had received a few weeks earlier. It was from Weekly Woman, a magazine that she had submitted one of her short stories to. Her mother said, “You will wear it out if you look at it any more.” They said they would be using her story but due to the amount of work they already had it would not be for about a month, but they would let her know nearer the date.

All around her desk she had stuck letters that she had received from magazines and newspapers. Some were acceptances and some were refusals. The refusals did not discourage her, in a strange way they just made her more determined.

When she thought back to the first time she had seen her name in print, she smiled gleefully.

She had sent her letter to a local newspaper. Although they cut it down they did print some of it. When she actually saw it in print she felt like the cat that had got the cream, just thinking of all the people who would be reading it. That letter had pride of place over her desk as this to her was like her first kiss. Unforgettable.

Sitting at her desk gave her great pleasure. Her sister and brother-in-law had bought it for her as a surprise. They set it up in her bedroom one evening while she was out at a writing class. That night she came home tired and irritable from a long day. When she reached her bedroom there it was, a mahogany desk with a matching chair. She was speechless. It was a wonderful surprise that was to change her life.

From that day on any spare time Anna had she was at the desk. It was like a drug to her. If she did not spend two hours a day at the desk she felt the day was wasted.

Anna would write letters or short stories, read books or enter competitions. Boy! Did she love entering competitions. She had been entering them solidly for six weeks. Every one she could find she would enter. Her most recent competi¬tion was sitting on top of her desk. You had to say in fifteen words why you would like to win Marley floor tiles. This was known as a tie-breaker. She had played around with a few ideas and come up with:

“Waking up to a grand Marley floor, I’d be smiling for evermore.”

She had won a few things. Nothing major, just a few cinema tickets and tickets to a local theme park. But it was a start and after all it was early days.

As Anna sat at her desk her eyes began to feel tired. She took her glasses off, placed them on top of her desk and began to rub her eyes. She looked at her glasses and thought how much she needed them, but at the same time how much trouble they had caused for her in her younger years.

She walked over to the bedroom window and looked out. She hadn’t lived in Brighton long but she loved living there. From the minute she got off the train she knew she would not travel any more, this is where she would make her roots.

As she stared out of the window her vision was blurred due to her short-sighted eyes. She returned to her desk to get her glasses and placed them over her eyes, so she could see clearly. As she stared at the view she thought how beautiful it was, as her bedroom overlooked the sea. Watching the sea was so relaxing and it gave her lots of inspiration for her writing. The sea was like her moods, sometimes rough or sometimes flowing, sometimes prickly or very still. How-ever she could sit by her window and watch the sea for hours on end.

She noticed two schoolgirls busily chatting to each other as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. Their uniform was similar to the one she used to wear, her mind started wandering back to her school years.

Her primary school years were happy ones. She loved to learn. Miss Cherry her teacher always used to praise her on her reading skills.

Her secondary school was not so pleasant. The school was called Abraham Moss or nick-named Abey-Doss by the pupils. Anna spent five long years at Abraham Moss from 1975 till 1980. The school had not been built long. It was a school, college and leisure centre all under one roof. The school was supposed to be the shape of schools to come, with this being the trial one. The first time she saw it, it was as white as snow and looked enormous with a circular shape. It had a really futuristic look about it and would not have looked out of place in a space centre.

The school tried a whole new concept of teaching, with an easy-going attitude, where you could call teachers by their first names. The school was so big the teachers didn’t know what was what, who was who or where everyone was supposed to be. The first six months she made a lot of friends and was picked for the school sports team.

Abey-Moss had a lot of rough, tough pupils and a lot of bullying went on. Anna was tough. She had learned to take care of herself on the day when some older girl had hit her. Anna ran home sobbing uncontrollably. When she got home her mother asked, “What’s happened to you?” When Anna told her, her mother went into the yard, got a big stick, gave it to her and told her, “Go back and give as good as you got.”

Anna looked bewildered. Her friends’ mums never sent them out with sticks. At that time she felt a great injustice had been done to her, but this was a situation that was to turn to her advantage. She hit the girl and when word got around she was never bullied again. Her mother knew this was a tough world and wanted all her children to be able to take care of themselves.

Anna jumped. There was a knock on her bedroom door.

“It’s for you,” her sister Alex shouted.

The phone call was from a Mr Don Harman to tell her he was interested in using a letter she had sent him for the letter page of a national Sunday newspaper.

When she got news like this it really made her day. It was only a week ago that she had received the letter from Weekly Woman, so this was two bits of good news in one week. To her this was a really big achievement. What made it more special was that two years ago she would never have sent a letter to a newspaper or in fact anyone.

That week Anna told everyone she knew to buy the paper. When Sunday came the paper had not printed the letter. She felt deflated. How could they do this to her? It was like two steps forward, ten steps back. When Alex saw her face, she said, “Don’t take it so personally, perhaps they will print it next week.”

This was supposed to make her feel better.

How was she going to face everyone? If she could have got hold of Mr Don Harman that day, she would have strangled him.

On Monday she phoned the paper and asked Mr Harman, “Why did you not print my letter?”

“I said Sunday the twenty-first not Sunday the fourteenth,” he replied. “Oh it’s my mistake,” she said meekly, knowing for a fact it was the fourteenth he had quoted.

When Sunday came and she saw the letter she could not stop smiling to herself all day. She thought only educated people sent letters to the paper, so now she must be educated.

But it hadn’t always been like that. At at one stage in her life she did not want to write anything down for fear people would laugh at it.

Sitting at her desk that evening, her mind slipped back to her school days again. She had been thinking about school a lot lately, perhaps it was her desk, because it had a school room look about it, or maybe seeing the letter in the paper had made her think of her old form teacher Mr Rope and his last words to her.

“Allen,” he shouted, “you will never amount to anything because you don’t want to learn.”

Mr Rope’s words could not have been further from the truth.

I do, I do want to learn, she wanted to shout. Anna knew there was a profound yearning to write somewhere in her.

During her first year at Abraham Moss, she started to get bad headaches. She was referred to the opticians. After her check-up she was informed she needed glasses. No I can’t need glasses, I’ve got acne, I wear a brace. Fate cannot be so cruel to make me need glasses as well. She thought about all the pupils who wore glasses in Abey-Doss. They had their own little network. ‘The Specky Brigade’, all the other children called them. Wearing glasses in Abey-Doss was like a deer running through a hunting field with a bullseye on its backside.

When Anna returned from the opticians her mother asked, “How did you get on?”

At that very moment she looked at her mother, her heart felt sorry for her as she looked tired and withdrawn. She didn’t want to bother her with her troubles.

“Fine, the optician said my eyesight was fine.”

Anna did not like lying to her mother but she felt her mother had enough on her plate as she had been working in two jobs to keep the family together, since her father left.

Anna was only ten when her father left. It was no great loss as her mother and father were always fighting and if the truth be known her father liked a tipple. When her father left her brother took over as man of the house and a tight loving family unit was born.

After the optician’s visit Anna started acting really rebellious at school. Because she was so unruly none of the teachers liked her.

One day in particular always stuck in her mind.

She just glared at Mr Rope, a feeling of hate rushed through her. How dare he show her up like that in front of all her friends? He was always picking on her.

When Mr Rope went in to use the toilet Anna had an idea. She would show him she was a force to be reckoned with. The toilet door would only open outwards. She got a bench and put it between the door and the wall so it would jam the door. Next he was pushing and shoving the door.

“Whoever’s done this, open this door or you will be on detention for a year.” Boy! Was he angry and he seemed to be getting angrier and angrier by the minute.

She could just imagine him with his black greasy hair, handle-bar moustache and face purple with rage.

Anna went into the playground and told all the other children. They were laughing so hard one of the girls wet herself. This, they had to see for themselves. All the pupils started marching to the staff toilet. As they were walking more children joined the group. This was like a scene from The `Pied Piper of Hamelin’ only Anna was the piper and the pupils were the followers.

When they got there Mr Rope was saying, “Come on let me out please. I’ve got a class in five minutes,” only this time in a gentle tone. Then he pushed the door with an almighty shove. The bench started to wobble. All the children’s eyes met and they started to run like rats from a sinking ship. They weren’t going to get the wrath of Mr Rope’s tongue.

Mr Rope’s dislike of Anna was instant, she did not know why, perhaps she reminded him of someone. A nagging wife, an ex-girlfriend, a former pupil or even worse, himself as a child. What seemed to make it worse was the Valentines card she had left on his desk. This was no ordinary Valentine, all the children in Anna’s class had written horrible verses in it like:

“Mr Rope’s a greasy dope,
can he get a girl?
No hope.”

And:

“Roses are red
violets are blue,
why doesn’t Ropey
use shampoo?”

And these were the milder ones.

Anna had bought the card and egged the others on. She was the one who left it on his desk. She could still see his face now as he walked into the classroom. When he saw the card a big smile came to his face.

“Oh! What’s this,” he said happily.

He opened it. After reading a few lines, tears sprang to his eyes. “Allen!” he shouted, “are you chewing gum?”

“No sir.”

“Get out of my class now.”

He knew it was Anna’s idea, no doubt about that.

As Anna was waiting in the corridor Mr Davidson passed.

“In trouble again, Allen?”

“So what if I am.”

“That attitude won’t get you very far.”

“Get lost,” she mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Perhaps not sir.”

Then Mr Rope came out, stared her in the eyes and said, “I’ve got your card, get it Allen card, well and truly marked and from now on I’m going to make your life Hell…”.

After the card incident Anna and Mr Rope’s hatred for each other grew stronger every day. In class he picked on her constantly, making her read out aloud. This was something every child dreaded. In return she was always playing dirty tricks on him. Like the day she put a squashed oxo cube on his chair. He sat on it and it made a big brown stain on his trouser bottom.

“Allen! You will be laughing the other side of your face when your parents get the cleaning bill for this.”

Another day that always sprung to her mind was `The mother of all days.’ The school had a little chicken coop in the schoolyard which was just outside Mr Rope’s classroom. This was a new method to give the pupils a chance to study livestock.

One morning Anna arrived very early and went into the chicken coop, got the chicken feed and led a trail to Mr Rope’s classroom and put lots of chicken feed all over his desk. By the time the pupils and Mr Rope arrived there were chickens all over the place. Mr Rope looked at her. He looked tired, withdrawn. It was as if this was the last straw.

“Allen! Go and tell the head what you have done.”

“How do you know it was me?” she replied.

“Because you’re the only one stupid enough to pull a stunt like that.” All the other pupils sniggered.

“Stupid, Stupid.” The words rang in her ears. Tears welled up in her eyes. Mr Rope then shouted,

“Just go and get out of my sight.”

Anna dragged her feet to the head’s office. This would surely mean suspen¬sion.

She should have been glad but all she could see was Mr Rope’s eyes when he saw the chickens. He looked so sad.

When she told the head what she had done he said, “What is it with you and Mr Rope, have you got a private feud going? Do you know Mr Rope’s very unhappy and there’s talk of him getting a transfer? Could you live with that? He’s got a hard job and you are just making it harder. It is not doing you any good and it is not doing him any good either.”

Anna wanted to say, “Mr Rope should know I can hardly read and write. He is with me nearly every day. He’s the one who asks me to read in class and doesn’t question why I can’t. He’s the one who humiliates me. I could blame him. I could also blame myself or my parents but where do I start to point the finger?”

Guilt suddenly washed over Anna as she thought about all the horrible things she had done to him.

The head went on to say, “I will inform your parents and suggest they come to see me.”

Anna felt so bad she thought she might try being nice to Mr Rope. Next day when she went into the classroom she said, “Good morning Mr Rope.” He nearly fell off his chair.

“Are you feeling alright Allen?”

Things settled quite well and Anna started to realise Mr Rope was human after all.

Christmas was approaching and Anna bought Mr Rope a present. It was the last day of term and she waited until all the pupils had left the classroom. She stared at him and he looked up.

“What is it Allen?”

She went into her bag and gave him the present.

“If this is a trick or bad eggs you are going to be in trouble.” He opened it, it was a set of coasters. It was Anna’s way of saying sorry, not something that came easy to her.

Mr Rope was choked.

“I don’t know what to say.”

This to him must have been one of the few moments in teaching when it all seemed worthwhile.

“Thank you very much, Anna.”

Now it was Anna’s turn to be amazed as he had never called her by her christian name before.

Was this to be a turning point for both of them?

After Anna started to be nice to Mr Rope he started to take a keen interest in everything she did. If the truth be known, a little too keen.

While all this trouble was going on Anna’s education had suffered badly. When nobody had time for her nobody noticed how bad her spelling, grammar, punctuation and writing were.

With Mr Rope’s new-found interest in her, surely he would notice and make her wear the glasses she so desperately didn’t want to wear. But it wasn’t her education he was interested in. He didn’t even seem to notice her bad eyesight or her difficulties with writing. All he saw was the innocent little schoolgirl.

In the classroom, when something was said, Mr Rope would say. “Did you understand that Anna dear?” Or, “Do you need that bit explaining?”

At the school concert he saw Anna going into the hall and said “Save me a seat next to you, I’ll be in soon.”

Her friends started to notice this special interest he was taking in her and started teasing her about it.

“What’s he up to?” She had asked her sister.

“He’s probably scared of you,” Alex had said in a youthful, naive sort of way. During one lesson he said, “Class read quietly to yourselves, Anna you come up here and read this passage to me”.

All the class sniggered. Oh how she longed for that word, “Allen” to be shouted out again. What had she done being nice to this twerp? When she started reading the passage he slid his arm round her waist. She squirmed, she could hardly read the words that were in front of her. This wasn’t through nerves, she just couldn’t understand the words before her eyes.

“Take your time Anna. It must be hard for you to concentrate with a handsome beast like me beside you!”

He was so wrapped up in himself he didn’t notice the problems Anna was having reading the words. It might as well have been in Chinese.

“What cream do you use on your face, it looks so soft?”

“N-nothing, just soap and water,” she said shyly. Surely he was joking as shy had awful acne. Some of the other pupils had called her `golf-ball face.’

“And your hair’s like fine silk.”

Fine silk indeed, she had slept with rollers in it the night before, so her hair would fall on her face and hide her acne.

“Anna, if you’re having trouble with this bit of reading perhaps you could stay after school and we could go through it together.”

“No way,” Anna said.

She was going to have to do something about this situation fast, in fact very fast.

Anna looked down at her watch. It was 1.30 a.m. Goodness! She had been at her desk in deep thought all that time. She would have to get some sleep as tomorrow was a big day for her. It was her morning at the ALU, the Adult Learning Unit, and her yearly check at the opticians in the afternoon.

Who would have thought Anna Allen would be back, at the age of thirty, trying to learn all the things she had missed as a child? Oh how different it was now. She enjoyed going to the unit and found the teachers understanding but never patronising. She wanted to learn and they seemed to enjoy teaching. Anna was like a sponge, ready to absorb all the information that was given to her. If she was so willing now, why wasn’t she so willing as a child? Perhaps as an adult it doesn’t to matter if you are sitting with glasses on, or if you are sitting on your own, or even when someone gives you constructive criticism.

Criticism is a form of telling off when you are thirteen. Oh yes! When you’re thirteen you know it all, you’ve been everywhere and done everything. The reality is you’re just embarking on a long, tough journey into your adult years. The words `school days are the best days in your life’ are often quoted to you.

Anna never liked them and was glad when they were over. Was she just too sensitive? Was it the clashes with the teachers? Anna never blamed the teachers as she always aggravated them first, but she did feel resentment that no-one bothered to find out what her problem was.

In the afternoon the optician said her eyes were fine. She got into a bit of banter with him and told him about her first visit to an optician.

“I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was only thirteen and he put these hideous NHS glasses on me, then he said, ‘There, they don’t look so bad.’

‘So bad,’ I cried, ‘so they must look a bit bad.’ As I was leaving he handed me a bill for eighty pence.

‘Give it to your mother.’

‘You must be joking if you think I’m going to pay to look like this.’

The optician then interrupted her story and said, “Nobody likes glasses, but if I had a choice of seeing or not, is there any competition?”

“None,” she said, “none whatsoever.”

Why did it all seem so simple as an adult?

Later in the afternoon, when she got back from the opticians, her sister said, “There’s a letter for you. It looks important. I left it on your desk.”

Anna raced upstairs, sat at her desk and opened it. She could hardly believe her eyes! It was from Weekly Woman. They wanted to print the story that week, and wanted her to send some more. It was six weeks from the first letter.

She threw her fist in the air. Yes! Yes! Yes! This letter had brought her wonderful news. A chill swept over her body.

The last time she’d felt like this about a letter was when she was sixteen. It was a letter offering her a job she had applied for. Alex, her sister, had seen the job in a local paper and said, “Why don’t you apply for this, Anna?”

They cooked up a scheme between them, then both phoned up and arranged interviews.

When they arrived they were both given application forms. Alex wrote hers but with Anna’s details. Anna just sat making it look as if she was filling hers in. When nobody was looking they slyly swopped them over. Alex then said to the receptionist, “After reading the job details I don’t think it’s the job for me.”

Then she left.

Once Anna was in with the interviewer she used all the research she had on the company, and did her best to soften up the interviewer.

When the letter came telling her she had got the job she was overjoyed, as twenty people had applied for it.

It was only a job cutting elastic in a factory, but it was a job. It meant a wage, and anything had to be better than school.

She often laughed to Alex about that job, saying it was the most boring, mind-destroying job she’d ever had, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that she’d got a job twenty people who were educated had applied for. Here she was with hardly any education but soon to be earning a living. Through her cunning and wits she had got a job.

That day she said to her mother,

“Mother, Mother
I am standing tall,
I am the brainiest of them all.”

How young and naive she was. The feeling of that letter when she was sixteen was the same as now she was thirty. A broad smile came over her face. If only Mr Rope could see her now ! She had come a long way from the gawky school kid with what she felt was a handicap, to a mature confident woman.

Yes! The eyes could see clearly now.

Gillian Coe

I was born in Lewisham in 1953. I had a happy childhood living with my parents, older sister and three younger brothers. I went to an all girls comprehensive school. I was constantly in the bottom stream. I was always being put down and whenever I tried to do anything it was always crossed out in red pen. I never seemed to get into anything, and only read a few books which I had to read at school. I missed a lot of school through not being well and liked to be at home with my mum and brothers.

The careers officer offered me factory work but I wanted to be a copy typist. My sister filled out an application form for a typing job at an insurance company, in London. I was given a copy-typing test and did very well. Then I was given a maths test. Panic! Maths was even worse than my English. The interviewer had great pleasure in telling me to start looking for a different job instead of typing.

I lost all confidence in myself after that.

As soon as I was fifteen, my sister helped me to become a punch card operator at the travel agents where she worked, but she left before I started work and I always thought it was because she was ashamed of me. The work involved copying documents onto a machine so I didn’t have to worry about writing. I met my ex-husband working for the same travel agents in the City of London. I stayed at the company for one year until I had finished my training.

My next job was working for a Market Research Company. I was extremely happy working for the company for nearly four years, I was even offered the post as supervisor. I should have been thrilled, but instead I was terrified, as it meant they would find out how bad my writing and education was. I had to leave an extremely good job, frustrated.

I was married at eighteen and I and my husband took on the burden of buying a house in Kent.

I managed to get another punch card operator’s job in Kent.

After working for the company for two years, a friend working as a computer operator talked me into taking a job as an assistant computer operator. My friend knew all about my education and said that it didn’t matter. She would teach me all that I needed to know. After a few months, I was expecting a baby and asked to go back to my old job. This was very lucky for me, as I would have had to go on a computer course and write things down.

I was now twenty-three and profoundly contented at being a wife and within twenty-one months a mother of two sons. I taught them as many things as I could, as I didn’t want them to grow up as disadvantaged as I was. My biggest fears started when my boys went to school. I felt so stupid as my boys soon knew more than I did. I dreaded my boys being ill and felt ashamed as they always used to get into trouble for not taking in a sick note.

I went back to work when my boys were seven and nine years old. My first job was working in a caravan cooking snacks all alone in a layby. I then worked with my husband on a building site, cooking. I did a few part time jobs before finally selling our house and leasing a cafe in Sussex.

These traumatic changes of life after years of working extremely hard brought me to the point where I didn’t want to live.

This story starts in 1992 when I just couldn’t go on any longer. It tells how seeking help to overcome a writing phobia helped me to achieve writing this story. In the story I have called myself Elizabeth.

PS. Since completing my story I have had a test and found out I am audio-dyslexic.

The Call of the Sea – Gillian Coe

Waves swish on the shingle.
The sea is calling me.
I am walking out to the end of the harbour arm.
Exhausted, gloom and doom.
No interest in life.
Anxious, depression, panicky feelings.
Bouts of being highly active.
Guilty, worthless, dizzy, compulsions.
Playing love songs throughout the night.
Sense of hopelessness.
Attention-seeking.
Ha Ha Ha, sobs, laughter.
Breathing rapidly, black-out.
Inward turning of self-hate,
needs to be directed elsewhere.
Compulsive eating, mood swings.
Expectations, weakness, aching all over.
Suicidal feelings, recurring nightmares.
Is this only make believe,
or my fantasy taking over?
Let me sleep never to awaken.
For it’s all about to restart, once again.

Once again, Elizabeth found herself at the edge of the sea, wanting so much to just keep on walking. How very easy, she could take her own life with the hatred of herself. She used to wonder how anyone could think of taking their own lives. Now she understood only too well. The pain over these years was getting so much worse for her, how could she get through the next three months?

Now! When she couldn’t go on any longer, her dear sister Ann and her family were coming over for six weeks, their parents were helping them with the air fare from New Zealand. Elizabeth had dreamed of the moment for eleven whole years.

Her sister, best friend and togetherness is what she lost, when Ann emigrated in 1981. Elizabeth couldn’t just pick up the phone or walk for one hour to be shoulder to shoulder. What had happened to her since, was like a bereavement. Elizabeth always looked up to Ann so very much, it was like losing her other half. In a lot of ways, they were quite different, with how they acted. There was no doubt that they were sisters though, Ann would always write such lovely letters and remember everyone’s birthday. Elizabeth would have to leave all that to Ann, as she would worry too much about her writing and spelling. While they were growing up Elizabeth would climb into Ann’s bed, where they told each other their dreams and secrets, sometimes staying awake half the night. Ann never had a bad word to say about anyone. Ann was the eldest of five children, three young brothers and Elizabeth, who was three years younger. Ann was never bossy, in fact she was like a mother hen protecting her four chicks. Elizabeth wanted so much to be like her as she was so good, kind and clever. It’s a wonder Ann put up with Elizabeth, always putting on her clothes and copying her all the time, not to be nasty but she loved her sister very much. Elizabeth got herself a job at the same firm as her sister. Ann left before she started working there! Elizabeth must have been more of a pest then she thought she was.

Bon voyage my sister.
Our hands hold on
until our fingers have to let go.
Oh! I miss you so
I should have said, “don’t go.”
My life will be so empty.
Try to put people in my family ties,
a replacement for you to find.
They all take me the wrong way.
They’re not you!
How can they be.
Why did you leave me?

A new ballroom dance class was starting on Monday 13 January 1992. Somehow, she must get herself to the class, dancing had been her life saviour over these tormented years. It must be the answer for her now!

It took Elizabeth half an hour to walk to the dance school. When she arrived, her whole body just went into a state of panic, standing outside for a good five minutes, before plucking up enough courage to go inside. This dance class must get her through, for her dear sister. Now she was late, going inside the dance class, the other people were already dancing together. She put on her dancing shoes, then the instructor took her hand for a quickstep. Luckily she knew the basic steps for this dance.

When the dance finished, the instructor had to show the rest of the class the steps for the waltz. Elizabeth stood there, quite alone. When she looked across the room, their eyes somehow met and time seemed to stand still, as they both seemed to read so much about each other in those few seconds, which seemed like a life time. The man walked up to Elizabeth, and asked her if he could have this dance.

“Yes, thank you.” He held her hand, and put his other around her waist, she put her hand on his shoulder. He told her to relax, as she was far too tense. They started to dance to the waltz, she soon felt herself unwinding in his arms. She asked the man his name, which was Edmund. While she was dancing, she could at least be happy, in her lost world. On her way home, those dreadful feelings soon came rushing back in her mind. She hoped that Edmund would be her dance partner again next week.

At last! Monday night was here. When Elizabeth arrived at the dance class, Edmund was already there. They looked across the room, waiting for the other one to make the first move. When everyone else had found their partners, Edmund then asked if they could be dance partners again. The same tense feelings were running through her. Edmund could sense that all wasn’t right with this lady. He asked her where her husband was, she told him that he didn’t like dancing.

After a few weeks of meeting they found out that there was to be a dance on Friday nights as well. It would give them time to get in some more practice. When they arrived, Elizabeth soon had Edmund up on the floor. After a while, disco music was put on, Elizabeth was soon quite lost, going far far away, shutting her unhappiness out, for a few hours. Edmund thought that she must be quite drunk.

But! She didn’t need to drink, dancing was her “escapism.”

Edmund had felt so much grief over these months. His dear wife, who he had loved for over forty years, had taken her own life. He was at last beginning to feel happy, in the company of another woman, but why did Elizabeth have to tell him, that she was a very happily married lady, running a cafe with her husband? He felt that something wasn’t right with Elizabeth, she was always full of fun and laughter, but her eyes told him that she was very very sad.

Elizabeth was very busy working in the cafe as usual, and was so frightened to stop, in case she couldn’t get going again. There were now only two more weeks to go before her sister arrived. She was busy trying to decorate the lounge, even artexing the ceiling. Her husband and two sons had gone to bed, when she heard a noise. Looking outside she saw a man trying to break in. “Oh no! Not again,” she screamed. The man ran away. This was the fourth time in two years that they had been broken into.

The next day, she had arranged to meet Edmund for their usual practice dance. He knew straight away that something was wrong. He asked her if she would like to go for a drink and have a quiet chat for a change. But she declined. She needed to dance, to keep herself going for one more week. While she was in Edmund’s arms, dancing to “Two Hearts,” she put her head on his shoulder.

“This is strange,” he thought, but he wasn’t going to complain, as he had wanted this for so long. He pulled her tighter to himself, as he held her so close in his arms, he kissed her neck, as she stroked the back of his head. She didn’t know where she was again, only quite lost in her make believe world of fantasy. Her head went round and round as the music played. On the way home, he asked her for a kiss, but she said, “No! Let us just stay as dance partners.” He couldn’t understand this. He thought, at last she felt as he did about her.

She started to sob in desperation, she couldn’t stop shaking with fear. Edmund felt very concerned for her to be in such a state, for he knew how much she was looking forward to her sister coming. When at last she calmed down a little bit, she mumbled, “How am I going to carry on when my sister goes back?” Edmund had been quite right all along about something being `adrift’ with her. He told her, if she ever felt like that again to call him anytime. On the way home on his own he felt so much anguish for Elizabeth, and hoped that he wasn’t going to lose her, as he had lost his dear wife.

Blackness, I can’t find my way.
Daze into space.
Round and round I go.
Feelings of loathing for myself.
What have I done?
Just wanted to be loved.
Help me help me, for my husband won’t.
Oh no! I have got to thank someone yet again!

When Elizabeth arrived at the airport, she just didn’t know where to start looking. Then she heard a voice calling out, “Elizabeth!” It was her dear sister. They were soon in each other’s arms, laughing and crying, as they held each other. She had longed for this moment for so long. Ann and her family were going to stay with their parents for four weeks, and two weeks with her. As soon as Ann came to stay with her she knew something was desperately wrong. Elizabeth felt very guilty, as she couldn’t spend a lot of time with Ann, as she was busy working in the cafe.

The time had gone so very fast, there was going to be a big family farewell party. Elizabeth was normally first on the floor, getting everyone up, but now she was just too tired and had no energy left. The family kept saying, “Come on!” She had to keep going upstairs and crying. On the last night, Elizabeth had a big argument with Ann, which caused bad feelings within the family. It was as though she lost all self control. The nightmare of that night would always be with her, as she couldn’t even go to see her sister off at the airport. The sadness of seeing Ann go like that would always haunt her.

Elizabeth’s parents kept on talking about what had happened.

But! She just felt so very numb inside. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. She knew now what she had to do. She would jump off the train on the way home, but her dad kept on insisting he would accompany her. She felt cross, mumbling that she was a big girl now! But it was as if he could see the despair within her. In the end an aunt and uncle took her home in their car. She had to pretend that everything was alright, which was very hard for her to do now. The journey should have only taken one hour, but ended up taking nearly three, as she just didn’t know where the hell she was going, or was this just another nightmare and she would wake up and everything would be fine again? As she opened her eyes, the pain went right through her.

“We have made it at last,” said uncle. She pulled herself together and started to cook everyone dinner, as soon as she went inside. When her uncle was going, he held her very tight and told her to look after herself.

Elizabeth kept on cuddling her two boys. She told her husband what had happened.

But! As usual he just didn’t understand how bad she felt. He then started to talk about getting a loan. She told him she couldn’t take in anything at the moment, and that she would go and have a bath.

So many feelings have I.
But! Year after year in vain.
He just can’t look at me, in my eyes,
he’s cold as ice.
Twenty years how I tried.
Oh really I did.
A good wife and mother
is all that I wanted to be.
My two boys, I love so very much.
Now! I must say goodbye.
For I can’t go on any longer.
Why did you have to hurt me?
All those years, I loved you so.
“Now I must let you all go.”
Can I “come through”?
I really don’t know.

As she sat on the bed her head went round and round, as she thought, “what the hell am I going to do?”

Well! There were three choices for her, kill herself, stay here and end up in a mental home, or she could phone up Edmund. She had planned for this day, and written her letters to her boys and husband. As for herself there was just no point in carrying on.

Something stopped inside her and said, “phone Edmund.” She emptied her case into a black sack and quietly left, leaving everything else behind. She walked down to the main road, in case anyone saw her. Edmund was so worried about her, that he didn’t see her waving her hand up to him.

“I don’t believe this,” she thought, as Edmund rode straight past her. She had to run back up the hill, with her black sack. Edmund helped her into the car, but she couldn’t say anything. She was shaking and sobbing again. Edmund just managed to hear her say, “I am so very very tired, just let me sleep and never wake up again.”

Sleep for a few hours.
Awakening into a strange room.
“Where the hell am I!”
Tired, very tired.
Shut my eyes,
long dark black tunnel,
never ending on and on.
Everywhere I turn, they’re coming,
pulling me this way and that way.
But! Trapped in my own spiders’ web
I just can’t come through.
Screaming out! “Why won’t they go away.”
Fighting, shaking for all my might.
He holds me, tight within his arms.
“You are safe, everything is going to be alright.”
The sobbing starts, “What’s happening to me?”

Five months had gone by of ups and downs. Edmund had managed to make an appointment at the ABE Unit for the October 1992, as using the phone and writing had always frightened Elizabeth. He felt that she was in need of so much confidence, to help her come to terms with what had happened and the guilt that she felt within herself. He could tell that she was a very good caring woman, who needed to start a new life for herself, and he would be here, waiting in the wings, for when she needed him.

It had been a very long time since she had been for an interview, her mind went completely blank again. Luckily Edmund had written down her name, address, birth etc. The lady told her not to worry because the note was all that she needed for now. Then she took Elizabeth to meet her tutor. She introduced herself as Jane. It wasn’t at all like it had been at school, thank goodness, she wouldn’t have been able to stay. The tutor asked her where she needed help, Elizabeth just burst into tears.

“I am like a five year old,” she said, “with a hell of a lot of problems going on at the moment.” Jane the tutor was very kind and understanding of her needs. In between her sobs, Elizabeth managed to say, “I haven’t got a clue about everyday life.” Again the tutor was very kind. “Now don’t worry,” she said, “would you like to come on Tuesdays and Fridays?” Luckily Edmund had waited outside for her as she had no idea where she was or how to get herself home. What would she do without Edmund’s help? Well she knew only too well that she would never have been able to survive, but of course no-one else could ever understand.

Elizabeth felt so very nervous as she walked into the ABE Unit, but Jane her tutor, and the other students, soon made her feel welcome with smiles and `hellos’ and being introduced to each other. Jane asked if she had thought what she would like to do first, again her head went blank, as the tears started to fill her eyes once again. Elizabeth blurted out, “cheques, I can’t write cheques, I can’t spell numbers. Oh! I am so thick.” She was panicking and just wanted to go out. Jane once again calmed her down, saying, “well that’s the first thing we will have a go at then.” She found her a book, with numbers, which she could practise writing first. At 10.45 all the students went to the canteen, for tea-break, and straight away asked her if she would like to join them. It made her feel a lot better to know that the people here were very friendly. When they returned, Jane showed her a book with pictures of cheques, and had photocopied some for her to practise on. She was actually getting the hang of writing cheques, for the first time in her life. Jane asked her if she would like to write a few lines, about herself at home.

A few days later, Elizabeth sat with a pencil and paper, but what could she write about? She had always run away and hid, if writing was involved, as it always made her think of school, when she would get a great big cross through her writing and red pen covering the page with all her spelling mistakes. This was going through her mind, as she went hot and cold at the thought, she had got quite a phobia now! In case anyone looked or saw her writing. She looked down, as the pencil had started to move across the page, and before she knew it, she had actually written a whole page. But she couldn’t look or read what she had done, for it would have gone straight in the bin.

At the next class, the tutor asked her if she had managed to write a few lines. Elizabeth didn’t want to get her writing out, in case the big cross went through her work. Jane managed to have a look and told her that she had done very well, to have produced a whole page. The stabbing pains were in her stomach, as Jane read her work, but for once, she wasn’t told how useless she was. Her writing and spellings weren’t as bad as she thought, help was needed with her grammar and sentence structure. Could she be hearing right?

Yes! For once, she had been brave enough to let someone look at her writing, the first time since she was at school, apart from her sister in New Zealand. Elizabeth was so glad that she had managed to get into the ABE Unit. She had also started going to Maths, Tai Chi, Egyptian dancing and literacy classes. Half the time what anyone was saying couldn’t go in her head. But it was a big therapy booster for her, just to get herself to these classes.

On 10 November 1992, her divorce was finalised, six months after her breakdown, and leaving her husband and the two boys she loved so very much. But there was no way that she could have stayed, and now it was all over, she knew that she would have to go and see her husband, as she had never said goodbye but he had done nothing to bring her home. Now as she sat there cuddling her two boys, she could see that nothing had altered with him.

Falling in love at fifteen,
had to grow up too soon.
A grown up woman.
So naive, lost in my fantasy world.
A child dressing up,
oh how pretty.
It’s not me! or is it?
One of six:
Fat, thin,
happy, sad,
hyperactive, depressed –
which me is me?
They all follow me around,
every hour of the day.
Will I be able to survive?
Who knows.

She was still that fifteen year old and could never have been anything else. This time she said goodbye. And hoped that one day her two boys would forgive her.

My two sons.
What a very lucky mum I am.
You were both wanted and loved,
oh! so very very much.
I still love you both, as much as then.
Looking back at all the pleasure
you have given me.
Your first cry, smile, tooth, word and step.
Helping me with jobs around the house.
Fetching me home
little things that you made at school.
Coming to see your plays.
Stand tall my two fine young men.
Count to ten when things don’t go right.
My thoughts and heart are with you.
Now and For Always.

She had to get herself better now, as she couldn’t look after herself yet. A great weight had been lifted in going back.

Now! She must try and go forward, and learn all that she could, at the ABE. The guilt was still with her, of course it would never go away. She got through the whole weekend without crying.

Approaching the end of November 1992,
since leaving my world behind me,
six months ago.
Looking forwards instead of backwards,
for a change, head held quite high.
Hip hip hurray I’m on my way.
For a chance to learn at the
ADULT BASIC EDUCATION…
… BUT! Walking across the road,
suddenly! every torture of pain
went right through my whole body.
Screaming out!
A car has reversed
over the side of my foot.
Woozy floating memory,
blackness is taking me over.
“Do you need an ambulance?”
Just! Take me home.
I am so frightened
I don’t know my address.
But I need my safe house.
“Drop me here?”
His name or car number
was never to be known.
Who, What, Where or How,
I hopped up my road.

“Oh yes! I’m fine,”
I told the ABE on the phone.
Collapsing, and all alone,
for four hours
until Edmund reappears.
The doctor said, “nothing’s broken,
put your foot up for ten days.”
Which turned into four months on crutches.
The ups hadn’t lasted for very long.
Is this going to be my punishment?
No more dancing or walking for me.
Brave no more.
The pain went right through
every part of my body.
“No broken bones,” Doctor said,
But! What about my Broken Soul?

Run away no more.
Now! Trapped in my bed
can’t even go down to the sea.
Going down very fast.
Vanishing far far away
into the snowy white clouds.

The end of my mind has taken its toll,
I’ve tried to do without any pills.
A counsellor has been helping me
come to terms with my guilt.
This time I must take the doctor’s
antidepressant tablets.
Outside my safe house
I’m afraid to go out.
The raging sea
haunts into the depth
of my innermost feelings.

The struggle is very hard to bear,
once having so much energy.
Now! Putting on so much weight.
The thought of yet another diet,
plagues me through and through.
Impossible, hopeless, tormented.
This life-time of ups and downs.
The blackness has trapped me
once again inside myself.

At the end of May 1993, Elizabeth was going on a `dream come true’ trip. The journey was a very long and lonely flight. She had to sit in the middle of two people, who slept most of the way. At last she was coming out of the customs where she was nearly not allowed into the country for not filling out a form properly. Her sister and family were waiting to greet her with a red rose, balloon and cards. They were soon all hugging each other. Ann’s bungalow was really nice with a big garden. It was so nice to be able to spend time with all the family. As for the eldest nephew, who she hadn’t seen for eleven years, she needed a ladder to give him a kiss. The middle nephew had made a lovely banner with “Welcome to New Zealand.” The youngest nephew she could really identify with and would help him with his spelling, reading, writing and maths.

One day he wrote a lovely story, which straight away her sister started to correct. He soon lost interest, Elizabeth asked her sister to leave the checking of his work until another time. She knew exactly how he felt. It gave her a lot of pleasure to be able to help. This was something she couldn’t do with her own two sons once they went to school, as she was always so thick. Elizabeth even managed to listen to some children reading at her nephew’s school. She had a lot more patience than the other helpers. Six months ago, there would have been No Way of her even anticipating helping.

Elizabeth told Ann a lot about those last eleven years, of how hard she had worked and the change in her as a mother and wife, which she had just not been able to cope with. At last Elizabeth could really say how sorry she felt and cleared a lot of uncertainty she had felt over those years.

She loved being with her sister and realised that although they were miles apart, sisters as close as them are never apart in their hearts. New Zealand was a beautiful country and her time spent with her sister and her family was just incredible, each one giving her their own very special love.

The four weeks had come around far too quick, now she must say her farewells, which was extremely harrowing. At last she had put her affairs into a proper perspective and was at peace within herself, she had at last let go.

She now knew where her true happiness lay and wanted to return home to the man she loved. Edmund was waiting with his arms open for his Elizabeth This was where she belonged. She was alright now and didn’t want to run and hide any more.

How can I explain to you, my love.
what I feel deep inside.
At last you have come to me for real.
No more make believe dreams.
You are the one I want to be with.
Now! For me there is no other.
A grown woman at last, one side I am.
The rest has a rope around,
just dangling me down and down.
Hands waiting to catch me.
Good or evil I still don’t know,
so very frightened I can’t let go.
No-one else can do no more,
the responsibility is all mine.
I can’t be so naive again.
Don’t let them take me away.
For in your arms,
how very safe I feel.
My Everything You are to Me.

It seemed very funny, as she had never really done a lot on her own before. Now, a week later, she was off on a creative writing weekend. This was her fortieth birthday present to herself. She had booked it up before her trip to New Zealand. Again on impulse. Hopefully it would help her to get over her writing phobia.

When Elizabeth arrived at Corsica Hall on 9 July 1993 the organizer was waiting to greet her at the reception with a very friendly welcome. Everybody was given a name sticker and a folder with the agenda of the weekend.

A buffet had been laid on for them before they were introduced to the tutors. Elizabeth was pleased that a few of her ABE friends had come on the writing weekend. She also made lots of new friends and one lady wrote such lovely poetry. Elizabeth could see so much about herself in her poems.

It was a nice evening so the group of friends walked down to the sea front and afterwards went back to Elizabeth’s room for a night cap.

On the Saturday morning there were to be four workshops, Poetry, Storytelling, Drama and Autobiography/Personal Histories which Elizabeth and her friends were to be in. The leaders made the group feel very relaxed and told them a bit about themselves. The theme of the weekend was “I do like to be beside the sea side!”

The students had been asked to fetch along any photographs that would help. them to think of a story to write about. Elizabeth had brought along a photo of her first trip to Brighton, coming from London when she was five… .

SEASIDE

I woke up feeling very excited, we were going out today. Mum had packed sandwiches and drinks to take with us. I had never been to the seaside before. would now actually be going on the big green train. I used to run to see it every morning as I crossed over the bridge on the way to school, you couldn’t see t thing through the thick clouds of smoke, as the train went puffing by.

The train at last pulled into Brighton Station. How big and noisy everything seemed, train doors banging, whistles being blown and I had never seen so many people. I held on tight to my dad’s hand. By the time we reached the beach my legs ached, but how happy I felt.

“I can see the sea.” I shouted out! There was so much to see and hear. I saw some big white birds which made such a loud screeching sound. “They make more noise then I do,” I said to Mum.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Seagulls,” said dad. My brother and I ate our sandwiches sitting inside a boat on the beach, mum and dad sat on deckchairs.

“What’s that funny smell,” I asked.

“Seaweed,” dad replied.

The sea looked nice and calm. I took off my white socks and sandals. The pebbles hurt my feet as I walked down to the sea. The water felt good in between my toes. I started to jump over the waves, when all of a sudden a big wave knocked me over and started to carry me out.

“Daddy, daddy!” I screamed. I was so very frightened. A man swimming at the time caught me and took me back to my mum and dad anxiously waiting for me. A big towel was put around me. I was then given a cup of ‘Mum’s tea’ out of her flask. I was alright, but very very scared. On the way back to the station we had fish and chips as a treat. My first trip to the seaside was one that I would never ever forget.

When the students had finished doing their writing, the tutor asked if they would like to read out their stories. Elizabeth felt very pleased with the story that she had written but wasn’t brave enough to read her story out, so the tutor read her piece of work for her. In their group was a mixture of people from different backgrounds. Some students had a tutor scribe for their writing, but it was still their own story that they told.

In the afternoon the whole group walked down to the seafront, to see if they could get some more inspiration. A leader’s papers blew right out of her hand, oh, how they all laughed together as they all tried to catch them. The weather had been very windy and miserable, so the outside inspiration hadn’t lasted for very long.

The students soon settled back to do some more writing. Elizabeth started to write about her trip to New Zealand, as she was writing a list came round to help you with ideas, one being “Are you waffling?”

She looked down at her paper. Yes! She was, and talked like that as well. She felt so emotional. She had to get out before she started to cry. She walked back down to the sea, thinking of her sister.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have come back to England so soon. She must stop this torment! For she had felt really happy writing about the seaside story in the morning. It was her own fault for writing about her sister which had brought all her memories floating back. When she walked back into the room the others were reading out their work. When the class had finished she went up to her room and was thinking about going back home. Then her friends knocked on the door with a large brandy, and helped her to get over her sadness.

In the evening the different groups read or acted out what they had done during the day. She felt a bit silly as she couldn’t get up to read out her work, but she really enjoyed everyone else’s. Later they had a social evening. Once the music was on, Elizabeth was soon up on the floor dancing and relaxing within herself, just as she used to do.

People probably thought she was a bit funny, as she had got no confidence with most things, until the music came on. Then it was a different story, she was always first on the floor wanting to dance the night away. At twelve o clock, everyone sang Happy Birthday to her, which brought tears to her eyes.

On Sunday morning, the different groups had a big discussion about the weekend, and how everyone had felt. Elizabeth wished that a tutor had been able to come from the ABE, as she was unable to say how much she had enjoyed the weekend but felt that the writing workshop could have just been done in the morning and other workshops done in the afternoon. But she was also very pleased that the creative weekend had made her fortieth birthday. She really knew that she had made the right decision, as the creative writing weekend had helped her to be recruited for a “Go Write Ahead” project for beginner writers, and had helped her to find poetry.

Poetry Workshop I’ve booked up for,
why I really don’t know.
Never could I put a rhyme together before.
My tutor gave me two poems to read.
Looking quite blank until it is explained to me.
At night I can’t sleep,
worrying how to write a poem down.
I’ve a lot to get out of myself.

Arrived quite confident for a change,
Pleased at my achievement,
until a quiz is mentioned.
My head goes into my heart
or is it the other way round?
Panic, pains in my neck,
head exploding.
“Let me out of here!”
I want to cry,
but end up laughing, at what, I really don’t know.
The group split into pairs,
I didn’t imagine it would be like this.
I can’t run any more,
I must stay to face up to these fears of mine.
Half the time I miss the drift,
worrying about being so very very thick.
I want to hide away
but make myself stay.
My head aches as I don’t want anyone to know
how very blank I am inside.
I keep putting myself
through all this anguish.

At the end of the class,
I told the tutor how she inspired me,
which she really had.
Chatting, laughing, talking about ideas.
Until I get home.
Now I can’t stop shaking and crying.
Why! Oh why?
I so want to learn. It’s so very hard,
when your mind has been on a different planet
for most of your life.

My life has taken a good turn again.

The only way is up as my Edmund is always telling me. New Horizons await me now, I have joined some more classes, which have helped tremendously.

Before now I have tried to hide a very scared and lonely person through laughter and helping other people.

Now! It’s my turn to build up a new life and confidence, as I stride forwards.

Writing this story in the “Go Write Ahead” group has been a very good therapy, coming to terms with so many difficulties, although it is still a long haul.

I AM DETERMINED TO GET THERE IN THE END!

I would like to thank Edmund so very much for believing in me and giving me this second chance to live again and for all his encouragement to carry on when I wanted to give up. Thank you to all my family, friends, Edmund’s sisters, to my tutors and counsellor and to all the new friends I have made over this very hard struggle. They have never given up on me just kept on lifting my spirits so that I couldn’t give up again. Thank you all so very much for standing by me when I thought that I didn’t deserve to live.

Now! I want to learn all that I can `this time round.’

Phil Dickens

I was born in a Northamptonshire village in 1936, an only child, and spent most of my formative years there. From a very early age I learnt to read, most of the books being Victorian weepies from my Mother’s treasured collection of Sunday School prizes. Later I read at least three books a week from the school library.

My formal education began at the village Infants School (some of my teachers had taught my mother) and progressed to the “Big School”. I was an average pupil, not really showing any aptitude for a particular subject, yet seemingly managing to get reasonable marks in exams without any great deal of effort.

At eleven years of age I passed the 11 plus exam for the Grammar School and spent the next four years in complete disinterest. I did just enough to keep me out of trouble. I never studied for exams, my theory being, if you didn’t know the subject after lessons, you never would. Most times I came up “smelling of roses”, getting top marks for essays which I always found easy to write whatever the subject. This was my “laid back” approach to education.

I left school at fifteen educationally very much disillusioned, to take up an apprenticeship in engineering. I managed to last for eighteen months. The culmination came after an argument with the foreman who sustained a bloody nose after it had connected with my fist, and a chase round the factory floor to the office to see whether sacking or resignation got there first. I won. Having shown a disinterest with the apprenticeship and factory life I was advised that I would perhaps be better suited to work in an office. I duly obliged and was accepted to to start as a Yardmasters Clerk on the Railway.

The next year and a half increased my education in life with a period of fun and tragedy. A number of school friends worked in various offices at the station and a lot of time was spent away from the desk “chatting up” girls. But death was always a factor with railways and I witnessed the aftermath of several suicides and major accidents. A raw seventeen year old.

In 1954 I was called up for National Service and after initial training, spent the next twenty months in Hong Kong and Malaya. This was a period when a boy became a man. I remember the first thing we were told about Hong Kong was that there were twenty thousand prostitutes in the colony. A boy asked, “what’s a prostitute?” How green we were.

When I came out of the army I worked as a clerk for a large chain of butchers during which time I married and we had three children. When the children were young I used to make up and record stories for them to listen to when they went to bed or perhaps record other stories and play the various characters. It kept us all amused.

At a later date I went back into engineering but this time as a white collar worker.

In 1981 I moved to Brighton after a divorce and remarried. Two of my children came with me. We became a family of three children, one dog, two cats, two gerbils, one rat, one rabbit and a slow worm.

After a period of stable employment I was made redundant and became one of the unemployed, trapped in the age gap. During this time I joined the Adult Learning Unit to brush up on computers. As a computer exercise I began to write short articles. I wrote of anything that came into my mind at the time. My tutor. enjoyed reading these articles and it was through her that I was invited to join the “Go write ahead” writing group. The Interview was born.

The Interview by Phil Dickens

Fifteen. The awkward age. That twilight zone between child and adult. Eleven years of school behind you, and you think you know it all, well most of it. Just the odd one or two things that perhaps you should know, but at the time, missing the occasional “Omertry” or “Ology” is no great loss. Can always pick them up when you’re a bit older. There’s another world out there away from school. Places where you’re paid to learn. An apprenticeship to a trade, Uncle had called it. “Finest education you can get. Sets you up for life.” Sounded good.

“Are you sure it’s what you really want?” asked a concerned Mum and Dad. “After all, there’s lots of opportunities at the grammar school to give you a good start in life.”

“Yes, I’ve made up my mind.”

Uncle said. Uncle said. Looking back it appeared that Uncle had said a great deal to an immature youth viewing this new world through rose tinted glasses, who needed very little persuading if it meant leaving school.

“You come and work at my place. Finest Engineering Works in the country. And don’t worry lad, I’ll see the right people and get you fixed for an interview. Know them all, so its easier for me to do it than for you to write in.” Could it be that he knew everyone personally?

Sure enough, a few days after our talk a letter arrived inviting me for an interview. It asked that the whole day be kept free as in addition to the interview a tour of the works had been arranged. Parents were also cordially invited and lunch would be provided. Would I please confirm my attendance, also that of my parents, so that the appropriate catering arrangements could be made. Well that was a good start.

“They do it right don’t they,” said Mum after reading the letter, which arrived while Aunty was visiting, this one being Uncle’s wife.

“Course they do, and it’ll be such a nice day out. It’s a big firm as Uncle will tell you.” I was certain he would, over and over again.

The day of the interview arrived, and with it the start of a new adventure. I came down for breakfast but didn’t feel hungry and there were butterflies in my stomach. On the table was Mum’s “Sunday Special.” The full English breakfast including black pudding. At six o’clock in the morning I was still half asleep very confused and began to have doubts that it was Thursday. My face must have shown that I was not keen on eating, and when my unsteady voice proclaimed, “not hungry,” Mum briskly maintained that you need a good breakfast inside you.

“If you’ve a touch of the nerves and feel sick, there’s always something to come up.” Oh God, Mum, always the pessimist. To pacify her I managed to eat most of it. Black pudding, bangers and butterflies. What a combination.

When it was time to get ready, Mum decided she would wear her new coat with matching hat, Dad his best suit, only usually seen at weddings and funerals, and I should wear my school uniform.

“The grammar school blazer and tie would create a good impression.” Mum was organising the clay. I began to wonder who was having the interview.

Just before leaving she asked if we’d been to the lavatory. “Yes” we both replied in unison. She rushed off to “spend a penny” for the third time and on her way downstairs adjusted her hat for the fourth time.

“Come on, what are you waiting for?” she enquired opening the front door. A shake of the head. A time for diplomacy.

On the way to the station she continued her orders. Dad was instructed to make conversation but not to go on about his allotment. He was very proud of his achievements on the allotment, particularly his onions which had won many prizes at the local horticultural show.

“Just say what a nice factory they have and that you’re very impressed.” I hoped that Mum would not become too involved and be an embarrassment. I had visions of her telling me to “Blow my Nose” during the interview.

We arrived early, but there was Uncle to meet us at the Gatehouse, clad in a newly laundered overall which sported a carnation in the buttonhole, strutting about like a proud peacock. He always wore a fresh flower in his buttonhole every day which he picked from his front garden when leaving home in the morning, transferring it from jacket to overall when he arrived at the factory. After mutual greetings, which included being introduced to the Gatehouse security men, he took us to the meeting point. Mum’s first enquiry was the whereabouts of the toilets.

“You went before we came out,” said Dad.

“I know, but it’s best to know where they are in case of accidents.”

“There she goes again,” I thought, “all Doom and Gloom.”

Finally everyone was assembled and welcomed by “One of the Big Nobs,” to use Mum’s expression.

“I didn’t know there would be this many people,” she said.

“Well” answered Dad, “you didn’t think they’d lay all this on just for us did you? I know I’m well known for me onions, but not as much to warrant a personal tour.” This humorous remark was beyond Mum.

“Well you never know, there must be lots of onion growers that work here, and word gets around, ” she replied.

Dad raised his eyes to the skies in disbelief.

We were split into three groups to make the tour more manageable, and set off to walk round this huge complex.

It was a very long walk, with so much to see. We climbed up and down very many stairs, guided through vast turbine sheds where overhead cranes moved enormous machines in various stages of construction, and led on through to the foundries where molten metal poured into moulds like waterfalls of fire. We passed through lamp factories, tool rooms, tinsmiths shops, control gear assem¬blies, each with a particular point of interest. I was very impressed and so was Dad. Mum thought it “Nice,” but should have worn her other shoes as her corn was giving her a bad time, and you would have thought they could have stopped for a cup of tea.

At the end of the tour (three miles round the whole works they said) everyone had worked up an appetite for lunch. Once seated in the staff restaurant (Mum informed us that it was really the canteen, or it was when she worked in a factory) we were quickly served with roast beef, yorkshire pudding and a variety of vegetables. Yes, today was like a Sunday. When I saw the yorkshire pudding, I sat waiting for some comment from Mum. She was very proud of her own puddings, the recipe being handed down from her grandmother, and was always highly critical of other people’s.

“They didn’t wait for the fat to sizzle before they put in the batter. Have to do that else it won’t rise proper.” The roast was followed by apple pie and custard (could have done with a bit more sugar) together with a cup of tea.

Tea drinking immediately gave rise to conversation and put everyone in a more relaxed mood. The boy sitting next to me offered a cigarette.

“No thanks I don’t smoke,” I lied. (Mum didn’t know I smoked but Dad turned a blind eye to it).

“Don’t smoke,” came Mum’s voice like an echo. “Dirty habit.”

This remark caused immediate embarrassment to both myself and the boy and gave Dad a choking fit just as he was nonchalantly rolling one of his “specials” (this was the highest category of his cigarette production, the others being classified by varying degrees of thickness).

“You see,” she exclaimed, “it can give you a bad cough.” It didn’t matter that he’d not actually lit it, the cough and the tobacco together were enough evidence to make her diagnosis plausible. End of conversation. Surprisingly I had never ever heard her say anything to him about smoking. Perhaps she knew it would be a waste of time. Dad was his own man in most things. He knew when and when not to turn a deaf ear or a blind eye.

At about 2.30pm a very smartly dressed woman arrived to take us to the interview room.

“This must be one of them secretaries,” observed Mum. She looked her up and down. The look on her face revealed that in two seconds flat she had taken in all the woman was wearing, decided she didn’t like her dress sense, was certain she couldn’t make a Yorkshire pudding, and with them fingernails had never done any proper housework. Thank goodness this time she didn’t voice her thoughts aloud.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, would you please follow me.” The woman led us out of the restaurant, through a maze of corridors to the interview room.

“I hope someone shows us the way back,” Mum said, “I’d never find my way again round all them corridors, its like Hampton Court.”

“I never knew that she’d been to Hampton Court,” I said to Dad.

“She hasn’t,” he replied. “Next door neighbour went there on a day trip last week and told her all about it. So far I’ve heard of half a dozen places she said that’s like it, including the alterations to Woolworths”.

The “interview suite,” as our woman called it, comprised a large waiting room with comfortable modern-looking furniture and three interview rooms, which this afternoon would all be in use. The floor was covered with a fitted grey cord carpet (industrial – according to a certain person) and the walls painted in green and cream. Modern upholstered arm-chairs were arranged in small intimate groups and around the walls there were shelves and cabinets holding trophies or awards, mostly for sporting activities, but some held models or tiny prototypes of various products the Company manufactured. Small occasional tables held magazines like a doctor’s waiting room. On the walls hung lots of photographs showing sporting groups holding cups and shields, top apprentices receiving awards, retiring management, people in long service (yes, Uncle was among them complete with buttonhole), and others of a more nondescript nature. The two opposing end walls carried pictures that had “Pride of Place.” The back wall had a greatly enlarged photograph of King George V1 and Queen Elizabeth touring the works at the end of the second world war.

“Do you think she had trouble with her corn?” questioned Mum after reading the inscription.

“I doubt it,” said Dad, “she wouldn’t have walked as far as us.”

“I bet she had a cup of tea though,” came Mum’s indignant reply.

The opposite wall which was facing you as you entered the room held a very large oil painting of the company founder.

Each interview would be conducted by a personnel manager and a representative from the local Technical College. Prospective candidates would he called in alphabetical order, but must first fill in the application form, now being distributed by a much younger version of “our woman” as she had come to be known, who had suddenly appeared from nowhere with a large sheaf of papers in her hand.

“Please answer all the questions,” said the second woman with an air of self importance. “If there are any difficulties, please ask. Anyone requiring a pen, and I stress that the forms must be filled in by ink or biro, there is a box on the end table,” this high falutin voice concluded. She then retired to a desk in the corner and left us to it.

“Stuck up little madame,” commented Mum under her breath.

“Let’s get seats near the front,” she said, pushing her way like a scrum half to three vacant seats adjacent to the first of the interview rooms. “Shouldn’t be long as we’re near the front of the alphabet.

“I did not like to say anything, but I knew an awful lot of people whose names began with A, B, and C.

Mum picked up a magazine, which was mainly about engineering, and began to browse. After flipping over a few pages she came upon a picture that interested her by the fact that it had been taken in this factory.

“I’ve seen one of them”, she exclaimed.

“Have you dear,” said Dad, “Where was that then?”

“At the fair,” replied Mum. “They used it to work the dodgems.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied in his diplomatic way. “That’s a turbine for a destroyer.”

“Well it was nearly like it.”

“Did you bring a pen with you,” Mum enquired.

“Yes,” I replied, showing my fountain pen.

“Oh good, you brought the nice one that Aunty bought for your birthday. You can’t beat a good fountain pen. It shows a bit of class.”

This last remark seemed to have been made with her voice a few decibels higher than normal. I could feel heads turning in my direction. I shrank lower in my seat as the colour began to rise on my cheeks. I think she was about to follow this with a further comment, when Dad, seeing my embarrassment, broke in and asked if we thought smoking was allowed. This immediately diverted Mums’ train of thought away from the subject of pens, and while she contem¬plated the possibilities of Dad smoking, my colour faded back to normal.

The first part of the form was easy. Name in full, address, date of birth, schools attended etc. Then Mum’s head appeared over my shoulder.

“Do it nice and neat. Show them how nice you can write, and don’t make any mistakes.”

“Yes Mum,” and “No Mum,” and “I haven’t made any,” I said beginning to feel that hot flush rising again. “Please go away,” I thought to myself. “Go anywhere. Go and look for a toilet in case you have an accident.” I think my prayer was answered. Halfway down the form there was a question with the heading, “Have you suffered any serious illness,” and of course, Mum immedi¬ately spotted it. Now illnesses were her forte. In our house, apart from the family bible, used more to press wild flowers than read, the most thumbed book on the lower bookshelf (it had to be the lower shelf to accommodate her shortage in size) was `The Household Doctor’.

Now what could be better than one illness but two or three or more to contemplate. She was immediately transported into an ethereal realm of measles, whooping cough, mumps, scarlet fever and of course chickenpox. They rolled from her tongue like a river in full spate.

“He didn’t have chickenpox,” interpolated Dad.

“What, what, what was that?”

“He didn’t have chickenpox,” he repeated.

A flustered Mum returned once more to the healthy present.

“Course he did, I remember the spots. All over his face and back. Couldn’t stick a pin for spots.”

It was German measles,” Dad argued.

“You don’t get spots with German measles, they’re blotches,” came her knowledgeable reply.

I then thought it was my turn to say something.

“I didn’t have chickenpox or german measles. It was an allergy.” “You don’t know anything about it,” she replied haughtily.

“Yes I do,” I said, daring to answer her back. “The doctor said it was.”

There was no answer from her. Was she struck dumb? Had I had the last word? The elation was premature. That look on her face told all. How dare he go to a doctor for a second opinion.

I waited for the explosion, but it never came. Just a pregnant silence. Only the rustle of pages turning from the other people in the vicinity, who had obviously heard the argument, and sought sanctuary in their magazines, or raised their eyes to the ceiling tracing minute cracks which disappeared into the coving. I fell I was sitting on a time bomb. I tried to put my mind into another time warp, but couldn’t.

“This is a dream,” I thought “No not a dream, a nightmare.”

Suddenly I was brought back to reality.

“The first names are being called,” said Dad, prodding me in the ribs.

“Oh good,” I nervously acknowledged, at the same time glancing around the room to see if I was still the object of attention. Not one eye looked in my direction. I sighed with relief.

I wondered how long it would be before my turn. I counted the applicants and tried to work it out, first allowing fifteen minutes for the interview and then translating it into time at various positions in the queue. I became so absorbed with these calculations I did not hear my name called.

“Come on, its our turn,” said Dad rising to his feet.

Mum was one step ahead. She was out of the chair like a greyhound bursting from the traps and had reached the interview room before either Dad or myself had made a move.

“Hurry up you two, don’t keep everyone waiting,” came the command in a voice that still showed more than a hint of petulance.

In our haste Dad and I collided in the doorway and bundled Mum further into the room where she narrowly missed crashing into the large desk, behind which stood our interviewer, hand outstretched in welcome. She grabbed the hand like a lifeline and with an agility which surprised us all, managed to control her headlong rush, turn the hand grabbing into a hearty handshake and utter a breathless, “Pleased I’m sure.”

When we had sorted ourselves out and had obtained some semblance of composure our interviewer introduced us to his companion, the representative from the local technical college, and indicated the three chairs for us to be seated. Mum immediately seated herself in the middle chair.

“Er, I think it would be more convenient if your son sat in the middle,” our man suggested tactfully. Then began a shuffling of bottoms, for of course if she could not have the middle chair it had to be the one that Dad was sitting on.

Finally we were settled and I was able to take stock of the two men seated in front of us. The Personnel Manager was quite tall but very thin with iron grey hair growing a little long on the collar and a very large adams apple which intriguingly bobbed up and down when he spoke. He wore a well worn charcoal grey pinstripe suit and sported a red and blue striped tie, the stains on which showed an over-zealous approach to either Brown Windsor or Tomato soup.

“Old school tie,” Mum informed us later.

“Regimental,” corrected Dad.

Another fit of pique.

His voice sounded plummy and he gesticulated a lot with his hands in the continental fashion.

Our technical man was quite different. On the short side but of medium build, he was dressed in a dogtooth Harris Tweed sports jacket, cavalry twill trousers and school or club tie and could be described as dapper. A mass of black hair was plastered to his head with copious amounts of Brylcream, highlighting his parting which almost appeared to be a natural groove in his scalp. His eyes were sharp and piercing, darting first one way then the other, taking everything in. To me he was the epitome of a small terrier and I expected his questions to be short and sharp, worrying out the answers like a Jack Russell worrying a rat.

The personnel manager opened the interview.

“Well young man, what are your aspirations?”

“A good grammar school education,” piped a voice which was certainly not mine and definitely not Dad’s.

“Please let your son answer,” the manager said politely.

“I would like to become an apprentice and learn a trade,” I replied confidently.

“Your uncle mentioned that you would be interested in electronics.”

This remark gave me a jolt. Where on earth did he get that idea from? I hardly knew a light-bulb from a battery.

“I’m sure he’ll be ever so good at it,” the voice broke in again.

“Yes yes,” he acknowledged, “but please let your son answer. I will allow time at the end for questions and observations.” The frustration began to show in his voice. “Did you get good marks in physics?” he went on. “Any aptitude in this direction might well be a help to you.”

At this point I had fears that my nightmare could return. I knew what the reference to physics meant but to Mum physics meant something else entirely. Physic to her was something you took on Friday nights to keep your bowels open, be it Beechams Pills or Syrup of Figs. Surely she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. I looked at her and puzzlement showed on her face. I knew what she was thinking, I could read her like a book. What had keeping your bowels open to do with electricity?

“Average,” I said quickly, hoping he would get off this subject.

“Of course you would continue with these studies at the Technical College,” the dapper little man remarked. “That is my department.”

I was bewildered. I thought I was leaving school, yet this person said “Continue these studies.” Was I jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Seeing my perplexed expression he explained that all apprentices attended the college one day and one evening a week for further studies relevant to the apprenticeship being taken, also a certain amount of homework would he allocated.

I felt betrayed. No-one had said anything about studies or homework. It was back to school whatever they called it. My mind was in a whirl. Study, study, study. Why all this study? Dad didn’t study, well only the football pools and the occasional horse, and he did all right. Some unknown was getting at me, trying to stifle my life with study. It was a word to be hated. It should be erased from all dictionaries and everyone’s vocabulary.

A distant voice brought me back to reality.

“The first twelve weeks are spent in the apprentice department where the boys learn to use a variety of machines, tools and instruments under the guidance of skilled craftsmen. From there they graduate to various other departments, becoming adept in the knowledge and skills peculiar to their specific apprenticeship.”

The words flowed from his tongue with an eloquence that left Mum in a bemused state. Only once did she attempt to speak, only to be halted in mid-sentence by a hand held out, palm facing her. It was as if the word “Silence” was Imprinted across it. Not another syllable was uttered. This hand surely had magical powers.

The interview continued, informing us of starting and finishing times, meals, tea-breaks etc, on and on, it seemed for ever. My mind was working overtime. Seven-thirty a.m. God, that meant catching the six-thirty train. That was the middle of the night. Five-thirty pm finish, home six-thirty pm. Nearly night again. This was bad news, I’d definitely been conned.

“Now wages.”

My ears pricked. This was better. This is what it was all about. That stuff that clinked in your pocket and rustled in your wallet. A panacea for all problems.

The tall thin man and the dapper little man sat there, just bodies with pound signs for faces.

I awoke from my reverie.

“Are there any questions, or anything you don’t understand?”

I looked at Dad, who looked at Mum, expecting the flood gates to open. Nothing. Not a word. Hardly a breath. That hand certainly had magical powers.

“Well if that is all I will bid you a good afternoon. You will be hearing from us within the next few days.”

Mum led the way as we left the room looking neither to the right or left. A silence prevailed. It was as if she had become a zombie.

Her fears of getting lost in the corridors were immediately allayed. There he was, white overall, without a mark or crease, buttonhole still as fresh as when it was picked, the old con artist himself, Uncle, our guide.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ve finished work. I’ll go and get my coat and then we’ll have a cuppa before the train goes.”

Finished work, I thought, he doesn’t look as if he’d started.

Within a few minutes he met up with us again and we made our way to the station, and into the buffet for our tea. When we were seated and Mum had poured he asked me what I thought of the works.

“They were OK, but you didn’t tell me I’d have to go to the Tech and do homework. That’s like being back at school,” I answered in an aggrieved manner.

“All apprentices have to go to the Tech. Works is where you learn the practical, Tech’s where you learn the theory,” he said.

Theory! I had a theory I’d been conned, and he was the instigator. I resorted to a sullen silence.

During tea Mum said very little and in these quiet periods I could see she was mulling over the day’s events in her mind, going through it all, step by step.

Uncle informed us that the train left from Bay 9 and would already be in, and although it was still early it would be best to get our seats now as it was sometimes crowded.

We found an empty compartment in one of the old carriages that dated back to pre-war days. There were old sepia prints of seaside resorts and picturesque villages, displayed above the backs of the seats, and old hammock-style netting luggage racks. A large leather strap was used to control the opening and closing of the window and there was no corridor.

“Have to make sure you go to the lavatory before you travel any distance in one of these,” Mum remarked. “Just imagine being taken short when the train was going.”

“You’d have to stick your bum out of the window,” said Dad.

“Don’t be so rude,” she replied, “Anyway I couldn’t get up there.” “Well,” said Uncle to Mum, “what did you think of it?”

“It was so big, you could spend all day walking from one place to another.”

“Of course it’s big, big is always better,” he replied.

This was definitely the wrong answer.

“Big is not always better,” she snapped, drawing herself up to her full four feet eleven and he gazing down on her from his six feet three.

“Bigness has stability”

“Are you saying I’m not stable?”

“That has nothing to do with it woman, I’m talking business stability. When I walk round the works and see all the different products being made, I think to myself, this is a good company.” (At this point there should have been angelic choirs singing their adulations to “The Company.”) “I’ve watched it grow over the years.”

“Watching being the operable word,” I thought to myself.

“Another thing,” said Mum coming back into the fray, “you walking all round the works, I was told you had bad feet, yet how come you can walk all them miles?”

“They’re not all that bad and I don’t walk round every day,” came the reply.

“But when you get home you just put your feet up and don’t do anything else.”

“I know, I have to rest them for the next day.

There’s only a certain amount of mileage in these feet.”

“Yes I suppose so,” she continued in a sarcastic vein, “except on Friday nights when they manage to get you up to the pub.”

“That’s different, I like to support the licensed trade when I can,” came his holier-than-thou reply.

“Why not try treading grapes,” she countered, referring to his size fifteen hoots.

The antagonists were like boxers circling in the ring, each one waiting for the other to drop their guard and put in a punishing blow or counter punch. Mum’s snide little remarks, jab, jab, jab. Uncle’s slower defensive manoeuvres.

Verbal sparring. I just sat and watched the duel progress. Luckily there were no other passengers in the compartment to cause embarrassment.

It was quite amazing that it all started with one of the combatants declaring “big is best.” Only a spark, but in the right climate enough to start a large fire. In Mum’s case, her tinder was dry.

Dad sat looking out of the window, a sly grin on his face, watching the trees, fields and houses flash by, yet seeing nothing. He was the war correspondent just behind the battle lines, noting every advance and retreat, his ears taking in every word. I wondered whose side he’d be on, but knowing Dad I was sure he’d remain neutral until the end when he would exchange his correspondent’s cap for that of stretcher bearer and pick up the wounded.

I had the contest marked about even and judging from the time spent on the train, we had one more round to go, when Dad suddenly announced, “there’s the signalbox,” which meant we were running into our station. The timekeeper stopped the fight. A draw.

We left the station and walked up the long hill towards home in silence, the combatants licking their wounds and Dad and I content to let it be. At the top of the hill was Uncle’s street. He turned.

“Here we are, home again, see you all soon.”

“Yes, most likely at the weekend,” Mum acknowledged, “and thanks for helping make it a nice day.”

Dad gave me a look which showed we could break the silence. Everything’s back to normal. Mum had a cheeky smile on her face which registered satisfaction.

“We’ll have fish and chips for tea.” She had had a nice day.

A few days later as I was having breakfast, a long manilla envelope dropped through the letterbox.

“It’s for you,” Mum cried excitedly, “well go on, open it.”

This was my moment of glory. Whatever it said I held the reins. How sadistic could I be with this woman standing there all agog. I grew horns and a pointed tail. Casually I looked at the envelope, put it down, took another drink of tea, then glanced at it lying on the table.

“Nice typing,” I remarked.

“Blow the typing,” she cried, “open it, what’s it say?”

I imagined steam would soon be coming from her ears as the temperature rose. I slowly picked it up.

“Can you get me a clean knife to open it.”

“Use your fingers, use your fingers,” came her frenzied reply.

“Can’t do that, I might tear the letter.” Very carefully I sliced along the top of the envelope, pausing after every inch, supposedly to adjust the knife. The sound of heavy breathing wafted across as she leaned over the table. Sharply I pulled the letter out, making her jump back in surprise, then slowly I opened it. Quickly I took in the contents, noting the outcome but not disclosing my pleasure across the table. A poker face revealed nothing as our eyes met. There was an air of expectancy about her but no words came. The seconds seemed like hours before I released the news. “I start a week on Monday.” She was over the moon.

The day seemed endless. Mum’s routine went to pieces. She flitted about being busy, yet doing nothing, willing the clock on the mantelpiece to go faster until the time arrived for Dad to come home.

“Another cup of tea?”

“No, thanks Mum.”

“How about a piece of cake?”

“No thanks.”

“A piece of pie then?”

“Why don’t you take a walk and meet him?”

“No, he might come the other way round, he does sometimes you know.”

“Well why don’t you get the dinner?”

“Already have, its a cold one tonight. Is that him coming now?”

Footsteps were heard crossing the yard.

“He’s early. I wonder why he’s early? Do you think something’s the matter?”

“Mum just keep calm, you know he sometimes comes home early when he’s finished a job.”

“Yes of course he does. I forgot that.” Her agitation faded as Dad walked I through the door. Not even giving him a chance to say hullo, she broadcast the news.

“We got the job.”

He looked at me and then at Mum, took a deep breath and smiled. “We all did very well didn’t we.”

Nick Osmond

My involvement with QueenSpark Books and community publishing came about because I myself have spent much of my life in search of a community. I never felt I belonged to the Tory middle class I was born into. Although as a University teacher I enjoyed rewarding work and a privileged life-style, I gradually came to reject the beliefs of my class and family, and to adopt socialist values of equality, respect and co-operation, which for me are linked to warmth, imagination, communicativeness and humour in personal relations. I became a trade union and community activist.

Early retirement with a pension at fifty brought me great potential freedom. I tried my hand at various things, all connected with communication and part of my vague quest for community, but it wasn’t until the autumn of 1989, when I was fifty-six, that I became an active volunteer with QueenSpark Books and felt I had found a niche.

When the “Go write ahead” group started meeting I think people felt it was like a class with me as the teacher. After all they were adult students and I had worked as an Adult Basic Education tutor. I’d been a University teacher of language and literature, had written a Ph D thesis, various articles and a book. I knew all about writing. I was in charge of the group, encouraging their writing and giving expert guidance on spelling, punctuation, grammar etc.

But when it came to creative writing I was a beginner too. I’d written a few short stories but hadn’t yet got any published. In this sense I was on equal terms with the others, in fact behind Nicola who was getting some of her pieces accepted by magazines, and all along I’d felt I ought to be part of the group as a writer rather than sitting on the other side of the fence as a judge and expert. So I was very pleased when they insisted that I write a story myself.

Wondering what it should be about, I realised dimly that my problem as a creative writer was the exact opposite of the one that Nicola and Gill were confronting. They were being prevented from saying what they wanted to say by their uncertainties over spelling, grammar, punctuation etc, whereas I didn’t need to struggle with language, I was in my element, it was like a warm swimming pool in which I loved to play. What’s more, I had a very large vocabulary, had studied and taught many world-famous novels etc, knew most of the tricks of the trade.

No, my problem as a creative writer was that playing with words was almost an end in itself. But could I tap inner feelings, did I have the imagination to write a good story that would hold the reader and be true to life? I decided to write the story of a man who, like myself, had spent a lot of his time and talent writing about other writers instead of writing about life and, worse still, instead of living. Henry Blossom, my hero, gives eight years of his life to writing his Ph D. thesis, a very long typewritten book, which was never published. Years later he discovers that although it has been available in the library, hardly anyone has read it. This makes him angry and… but you’ll have to read the story to find out what happens! It seems in the end that he has somehow been redeemed by getting married and becoming a father.

Figure of eight – by Nick Osmond

The day after his forty-fifth birthday Henry decided to steal his own PhD thesis from the library of Southdown University.

It was a hefty volume with the author’s name and the title embossed in gold on the maroon cover: “Henry Blossom: Nerval’s Second Life”. Following the regulations, it had been typed and bound at his own expense and deposited in the library when, sixteen years before, he had been awarded his degree, had become Dr Blossom and been appointed Lecturer in French. He thought of the flimsy carbon copy he had at home, bound in three tatty booklets.

Nerval was a French poet who had committed suicide in his late forties. He was best known for a few dark, brilliant poems. Around the centenary of his death he had become fashionable among academic critics and had been suggested to Henry as a suitable subject for a PhD thesis. Henry had agreed because he knew a couple of the poems by heart and was in the habit of declaiming them in a loud tragic voice when he had been drinking.

He enjoyed teaching French language and literature. Nerval wasn’t on the syllabus but one of his students had read the dark poems and asked Henry to tell her what they meant. Henry said that the images in the poems were like coloured threads in the huge tapestry of Nerval’ s writing. You could only understand them properly if you’d read all his work, which ran into several fat volumes. The student smiled faintly and Henry tried to explain the poems but the more he blundered on the more he found he was referring to things she had never read and the further away from the poem he was getting.

“You’ll have to borrow my thesis from the library,” he had ended up by saying, and they had both smiled because they knew she would never have the time.

Remembering this, Henry opened the volume to look at the borrowing record slip pasted inside. He counted the entries. Eight. Eight people in sixteen years had read his labour of love. Eight people had followed his journey through the labyrinth of Nerval’s creative mind. Or had they? Quite likely they’d skimmed a few pages and decided it was too specialised. After all that’s what a thesis was, a hook for specialists. Not even a book: it had never been published. Not enough interest for students or the general reader, publishers had said.

Henry turned the pages, looking for traces of the eight readers. Some people scribbled comments in the margins of library books, a habit he greatly disap¬proved of. But there was only one, opposite a paragraph which read:

“Nerval was sad and unloved. He lived and loved at second hand, in his writing. The heroes of his stories struggle to fulfil his own desires. Not only that: each hero in his turn loves and lives at second hand, identifying with another man who he hates as an enemy because he has stolen his birthright, but also loves as a brother, a kind of twin who is living out his own destiny.”

The unknown reader, using thick pencil, had underlined “who he hates” and scrawled in the margin: “whom! – grammar!!”

Reading this, Henry made his decision. He snapped the book shut and went home.

“Steal it?” said Bridget.

“Steal it?” echoed Tom.

“Steal it!” said Sarah.

Henry looked round the table at his wife and two children. His wife and son had on their worried, disapproving frown, but Sarah was looking back at him with wide eyes and an expectant little smile.

“Well, not steal it, strictly speaking, because the whole point is I reckon it’s mine anyway. It certainly doesn’t belong to wobbly-arsed pedants who don’t understand the first thing about writing, who think it matters that you should write `a man who he hates’ and not `a man whom he hates’ and don’t give a tinker’s fart about the feelings behind the grammar. My thesis belongs to me because I’m the only person in the world who knows enough about the subject to really understand it, so I’m the only fit reader. I wrote it for myself. It belongs to me.”

“That’s arrogant,” said Tom. “What about the other seven readers? They might have understood, they might have got a lot out of it. And what about other readers who might come along next week or next year, thirsting to find out all about Nerval’s second sight?”

“Second life. You see, even you haven’t read it.”

“Well of course I haven’t, I’m only sixteen and I’m not studying French.”

“It belongs to the library,” said Bridget. “The PhD business is a sort of contract. They give you a degree so you can call yourself Dr Blossom and pose as an expert for the rest of your life, and you give them the thesis in exchange. So if we take it, it’s stealing and we could be done for burglary.”

“Did you say ‘we’?”

“Yes, I think I may have done.”

“So you’d be prepared to help?”

“Yes… well, yes. I think so.”

Sarah’s smile became a little broader. Her eyes shone.

“Right,” said Henry. “A foolproof plan has just come into my head. We take the thesis. If the librarians find out it’s gone, like next time a reader asks for it (probably in about three years’ time), they’ll obviously let me know and I’ll give them my tatty copy. So it’ll be fair exchange and not robbery.”

“But how will we take it, dad?” asked Sarah.

“Not by burglary,” said Henry. “At least, not by breaking and entering.”

One evening later that week, he was sitting at a library desk close to an open window, the maroon volume of “Nerval’s Second Life” open in front of him. It was Thursday, the day the library closed late. Outside the window was the darkness of the University park. Henry kept looking at his watch. At exactly 9.30 came the hoot of an owl. There weren’t any owls round the campus.

He looked round quickly to make sure no-one was watching, took from his pocket a long coil of string tied to a Co-op carrier bag, put the thesis into it and went to the window. Down below three white faces were looking up. The pale yellow coat of their dog, Daisy, shone in the gloom and he could see her tail placidly waving. Hand over hand he lowered the bag, which was quickly gathered up. In a moment the little party had vanished into the nearby beech-copse. He heard the crack of a branch, a sudden yelp, low laughter and then silence.

Back home together again, they were celebrating. The handsome book, with the names of Blossom and Nerval standing out in gold lettering on the cover, lay in the middle of the table surrounded by glasses, packets of crisps, cans of coke and a bottle of John Jamieson.

“Careful, Sal!” said Henry as his daughter waved her drink around. Tom retrieved the volume and started to leaf through it.

“It says here ‘Nerval spent all his life searching for a lost family, a lost childhood, a lost mother.’ Then there’s a quotation in French, what does that bit mean?”

He handed the book to his father. They settled down to listen. Henry took a deep drink of whisky and water and, holding the book on his knee, began to speak.

“‘Tu m’as visite cette nuit’.” It means `you visited me last night’. He’d had this dream and when he woke up his cheeks were wet with tears, because in the dream this beautiful woman had appeared and smiled at him and he knew she loved him but he’d lost her. She was like his mother but also she was like a sort of ideal sister or wife, a predestined companion.

“His mother abandoned him when he was a baby, she sent him to the country to be brought up in a foster-family, with a wet-nurse. Then she died when he was about two. He was an only child, he didn’t have any family life. His father was a distant, disapproving figure who thought writers were a lot of layabouts. When he started writing Nerval took his mother’s name.

“He was mentally ill. I guess he was schizophrenic, or manic depressive. He heard voices and had hallucinations, visions. He had to be hospitalised. He went through long periods of black depression when he felt permanently excluded from the light, and he hanged himself in the street one freezing January night, when he was forty-eight.

“But when he was in a manic phase he believed he was someone else, some powerful figure from history or mythology. He thought that when you dreamed you could go through an ivory gateway into another world which was more real than the real world and that was where your true destiny was acted out. In this other world he was with a family he felt he belonged to. Everything was harmonious and the faces all had a family likeness. But he could never truly be part of any family. He was always a lonely outsider looking in. On the fringes, longing to belong. He never married. In fact he never had a relationship with a woman, never had a settled home, never had children of his own.”

“So his books were his babies?” said Bridget.

“Yes.”

“Like your thesis,” said Sarah, looking at the way he was now cradling it in his arms.

“Well, yes, but I was married and Bridget and I had real babies didn’t we?”

“I’m not a baby,” said Sarah.

“Nor is Tom,” said Bridget. But you both were once. In fact if it hadn’t been for the thesis Tom might not have been born.”

“What’s your thesis got to do with me being born?” asked Tom.

“Well,” his mother replied, “it all started in the British Museum Reading Room.”

Henry and Bridget were proofreading and checking the quotations in Henry’s thesis. For the last ten days they’d been staying with friends in London so they could spend all the opening hours in the Reading Room and get it to the typist in time for the deadline. They’d been working in the evening as well, sometimes until the early hours, until they were red-eyed and stupid with fatigue. As for their love-life, with the weight of the thesis hanging over them it was as though normal activity and feeling was indefinitely suspended. There had been a bit of sleepy foreplay one morning but Henry’s penis, known as McDougall the self-raising flower, lay pinkly inert. Then the alarm went off and Bridget said that after all this time they wouldn’t be able to remember how to do it anyway.

This morning they felt heavy-eyed and dehydrated. There’d been a party with two-litre bottles of Spanish wine and communal smoking of thin hand-rolled “joints”, as they’d learned to call them. They giggled along with the others, but didn’t know anybody and felt rather left out. Then there’d been a night on a mattress next to the radiator. They weren’t used to central heating. Henry said it dried up your snot.

He was sliding a finger up his nostril when he caught Bridget giving him one of her little looks, a frown and shake of the head so fleeting you could almost miss it.

They had got to the Reading Room soon after nine o’clock and they were waiting for the two dozen or so books and periodicals they’d ordered to be brought to their seats. They’d got two side by side so they could work together, numbers 247 and 248. The readers’ desks were padded with pale-blue leather. Henry poked it. His finger sank in. He leaned to whisper in her ear.

“Maybe it’s in case you start banging your head against it.”

She didn’t smile.

They sat in silence.

You could hear voices murmuring, an echoing cough, the slam of a book, but the dry cavernous space under the huge glass dome seemed to muffle everything like dust. The air was thick with the accumulation of millions upon millions of unspoken words. Reading aloud was forbidden, and if you laughed readers would look up and tut between their teeth.

Occasionally you saw a reader following her text with moving lips, or another giving a little secret smile as he turned the page. One or two rocked gently as they read. But most sat rigid, only their eyes flicking to and fro, as if they were hypnotising themselves with print.

Lots of them were copying quotations, twisted like contortionists into unnatural postures. The woman at seat number 245, her dirty greyish-yellow hair falling to the desk like a curtain, was chewing her tongue rhythmically as she wrote, and a very faint squelching sound accompanied the scratching of her pen.

Suddenly the library assistant was there, dumping a pile of volumes without comment. After a whispered consultation, Bridget and Henry got down to their work. They hoped to finish by mid-afternoon, then they planned to have a meal at a nice restaurant and go on to see a new play at the Royal Court Theatre.

This was the first time Bridget had read the thesis right through. Of course she had got used to seeing the pages spread over the floor with Henry crawling among them with a pair of scissors, muttering and shuffling them around. And she’d learned to switch off when he went on and on about what he was writing.

They had to make sure that titles of books were in italics and titles of articles in periodicals in single quotation marks. Typing errors like “muscular spasms” and “farts and figures” must be unerringly detected and corrected. Each quota¬tion had to be tracked down, in the volumes they’d borrowed, to make sure that it was accurate down to the last comma and that the title of the book or periodical and the page numbers had been noted exactly and in exactly the right form. “‘Cromwell’, (1827)” must be changed to “‘Cromwell’ (1827),”.

By the time they’d finished it was nearly six. They stood on the steps hesitating among American tourists and shrill schoolchildren. They looked at each other. Henry in his white “shortie” mac looked tired and defeated. Suddenly they didn’t feel like making an evening of it. Anyway they hadn’t much money left.

“Sausage at the Robin Hood and then home?” she suggested. This was a pub near Victoria Station where the food was good, and not expensive. He nodded.

They didn’t say much during the meal. Sometimes when he was with people and could find nothing to say he felt so tense that his toes curled inside his boots under the table. But not with Bridget. Their silences were always perfectly relaxed unless one of them was angry and then there would be cold glances and unnecessarily abrupt gestures, which both of them knew resignedly would lead to a row.

But not this evening. This was something worse, a kind of foreboding which seemed to be congealing on the plates around the remnants of their jumbo Cumberland sausage and chips. His head was bent. He was doodling with his finger in some beer that had spilled on the table. He was tracing the figure eight when she spoke.

“They’ll never publish it, Hal.”

He raised his head. “Why not? How do you know they won’t? What are you talking about?”

“It’s too specialised. There’s only two or three dozen University Nerval specialists in the whole bloody world who could follow the arguments, and half of them probably can’t read English anyway. Besides, it’s too personal. It’s as much about you as it is about old Nerval.”

He knew she was right. He realised in a flash he’d always known this. He’d been living in a sort of trance, wandering by himself inside the paper labyrinth of his writing about Nerval’s writing.

He kept the knowledge at bay for a long moment like a child that holds its breath before beginning to sob, then he dropped his shoulders and it hit him straight in the stomach and he felt achingly sick.

He’d spent eight years working on the thesis, eight lonely years. Now it was finished, and it would never be published. A tear ran down his nose and fell into the beer. His finger followed the interwining loops of the eight, continuously. It was an exact figure of what he had achieved. The thesis said everything he wanted to say, everything he had discovered about Nerval in his writing. It was finished. It was perfect. It was perfectly self-sufficient. It started nowhere and it went nowhere. One loop was Henry’s writing, the other was Nerval’s. It went on and on endlessly, leading only into itself. It was perfect, and nobody, except three learned examiners, would ever read it properly. And even they wouldn’t be sympathetic, because it wasn’t learned enough.

He raised his head. Bridget looked ill and angry. She stared at him as though beseeching him to do something. He shook his head. There was nothing to be clone, except to stumble out of the Robin Hood and catch the next train home.

They sat in numb silence on the train and marched home from the station like sleepwalkers, but when they were getting ready to go to bed Henry began to talk and talk. Once he had started it seemed as if he would never be able to stop. He told her what he’d realised in the pub, all the feelings that had swept over him in a flash as he doodled in the beer.

He felt he’d somehow lost his own mother, she and his sister had always made him feel he was useless and didn’t count, his father was remote and unresponsive, his family wasn’t like a real family. He told her about the dreams he used to have when he was in his teens, of a mother with a small sturdy body, pale face and dark bushy hair, of brothers and sisters and cousins who somehow looked like her and of how happy and sad he felt when he woke up. He told her he felt Nerval was close like a brother and that he’d identified with him in exactly the same way that Nerval had identified with the heroes in his stories. He told her how he’d felt that all the girls who attracted him were looking through him as if he was invisible and that he knew they would go off with someone else.

“Until I came along?”

“Yes,” he said, “until you came along”.

He buried his face in the pillow and began to sob. She lay beside him and stroked his head. Again, once he had started it seemed as though he would never stop, but after a long time the sobs were more spaced out and quite suddenly they both fell asleep, still fully clothed.

Much later she woke and padded off to the bathroom. She felt surprisingly wide awake. On the way back she put the light out and the room was filled with the cool light of dawn.

When she looked at the bed she gave a little shriek. Henry was wriggling about taking off his clothes and a shiny erect penis had jumped out of his underpants like a jack-in-the-box. She smiled at it, then moved slowly and purposefully towards the bed, taking off some of her own clothes on the way.

“Hoots noo,” she said in their Highland voice, “is it young McDougall come back to us after all this scrawling and scribbling?”

“Och away, he’s just a puir wee laddie who wants a good time and dizna know where to go, will ye be showing him the way?”

Some time later she stopped what she was doing and looked down at him with a flushed, serious face. The ends of her hair brushed across his lips. “I want a baby, my love, a baby. Give me a baby. Give me a baby.”

Looking back on the project

Nicola writes:

When I joined I was told a brief outline about what the group was going to aim for. It was going to be a weekly meeting where we would be encouraged to write creatively, freely and extensively.

Before I started the group I had only written a few bits and pieces but nothing of great length. So what I felt I wanted from the group was to write longer pieces. To gain confidence in reading my work out to other people, something which I had difficulty in doing. At the weekly meeting we would read our work out and other members of the group would give their views and suggest ideas on how to lengthen it.

This was a great help to me as it gave me ideas and made a very pleasant evening. As the group got to know each other better we found not only did we work together but became good friends.

Nick was very helpful and friendly and always there with good advice. I feel I have learnt a lot from this group, and also it gave me a lot more confidence in other writing projects I am doing.

I enjoy writing, so I can’t express how much I have enjoyed this group. My personal view on writing groups like this one are:

They are very worthwhile as it gives beginner writers a chance to work with other writers.

Also the experience of reading your work out in front of other people and to listen to their views, and learn to take criticism and praise.

There is nothing I would have done differently in the group as I think it sailed along very nicely with captain Nick at the helm.

I for one will be spreading my wings and do what the aim of the group was, and, GO WRITE AHEAD…

Gillian writes:

When I first heard about the `Write ahead’ group, my tutor from the Adult Basic Education had to literally drag me there to put my name forward.

The day that Nick Osmond phoned me, I just couldn’t believe that anyone would really want me to join a writing group!

I had mixed feelings of excitement and apprehension. My tutor would say to me, “what have you to lose? You can always say ‘no’ if you are not happy.”

When I first arrived at Nick’s house there was the usual tension of meeting new people. But for me it was much harder as I had to confess my feelings of stupidity. Nick soon made us all feel welcome. At first I just looked on Nick as a good teacher. I soon realised that there was much more to this man. His generosity of sharing his knowledge and home with us, soon made us all feel at ease. We have shared deep thoughts of our past, and together we have become friends.

Until I joined the group I had never been able to edit any of my own work. I have gained a lot of confidence and can now write letters to my friends and family. There have been many sleepless nights, that I just wanted to give up, as writing this story I had to confess a lot of guilt and painful times.

My friends have given me tremendous encouragement and support, never letting me feel ashamed of my past or lack of education.

I still can’t believe that I have actually achieved finishing this story. I would like to say an extremely big thank you to Nicola, Phil and above all to Nick, for all their help, kindness and understanding.

Phil writes

I must take this opportunity to give a big thank you to the “Go Write Ahead” group. For me it has awakened a dormant desire to write. Through the guidance of Nick Osmond we have coaxed and nurtured our own personal stories and at the same time formed a circle of friendship that only fellow writers can really appreciate. From the first germ of an idea to fruition came frustration and for some heartache, but by pulling together we accomplished something more than we could have dreamed. A satisfying experience. A big pat on the back for the “Go Write Ahead” group and also QueenSpark Books who supported us.

Nick writes:

Working with Gill, Nicola and Phil has been a rich and rewarding experience for me. I believe that for all four of us the group meetings did truly facilitate the production of a story, from first gleam in the eye to final full-stop. In writing my own story I was led to confront some of my own problems with literacy and to explore a peculiar sort of closed circuit, writing about writing, in which I had been caught for much of my life..