I Think I'm OK Page 5

  When we were not doing any of the outdoor pursuits or the time between visits to my dad was quite long, I tended to become bored easily and start with the bad behaviour. I don’t know if it was attention seeking though I guess most people would probably think it was, I seem to remember it as a strange type of thrill seeking. It sounds a little odd I know, but when things were going smoothly I didn’t particularly like it and would find a way to stir things up a little. I often found myself with an urge to rock the boat. Most of the time I did things that would be described as stupid or childish; occasionally I would behave in a way that quite frankly was bizarre.

  There was a clock tower on the roof of the school and one day as I looked at it I thought, ‘I wonder what it would be like to sit up there in the middle of the night smoking a fag.’ Where the thought came from I have no idea, nor do I know why it wouldn’t go away. That was how I found myself in the middle of the night, sat on the roof by the clock tower smoking a fag.

  Report by Mr Beall. Summer Term 1972:

  Meantime in school he has, during the latter half of the term, used the opportunities presented to him whilst in camp, trekking and whilst ostensibly seeking asylum with us during the half term holiday and for some weekends, to indulge in getting out at night to smoke, enter staff rooms, steal, climb onto roofs and through skylights.

  I suppose time is still on our side, I know Dr _____, the referring psychiatrist, has accepted the apparent need for Steven to act, test out and be controlled whilst he works through his problems, but at the end of two years, the situation has become one of attrition.

  On another of these occasions I stirred things up more than a little, I went way too far. It started after one morning session of rugby. Part of the basement of the school was a boot room, locker room and showers. I don’t remember what had started the incident but I do remember arguing with the P.E. teacher, Mr Kay I believe it was. We had walked through the boot room and into the locker room where everybody had a pigeon box in which we kept our clothes when we changed. Each box had a number painted on it, we were all allocated a number the day we entered the school and I was number nine.

  I still don’t recall what had prompted it but for some reason I was very angry with Mr Kay and was stood by my locker letting him know. He was across the room stood in front of his office door, hands on hips, legs apart and laughing at me. I suppose it was fairly funny, a twelve or thirteen year old boy stood in nothing but his underpants shouting threats at a grown man, he must have been shitting himself, not.

  I picked up one of my rugby boots and drew my arm back as if I was going to throw it at him. I promise you I had no intention of throwing it, I felt as though he was belittling me in front of my friends, it was more a show of bravado than anything else. That was until Mr Kay said, “Go on then, throw it.”

  So I did.

  It bounced off his chest and he just stood there laughing.

  “Anything else you want to throw?” he asked.

  So he got my other boot, then my shoes and then my pumps. He was finding it funnier; I was getting myself worked up into a right state. I was crying, shouting and swearing and then he asked, “Is that it?”

  “No,” I screamed at him, and dug into my locker for my shorts. Having found them I took my camping knife out of the pocket. The look on Mr Kay’s face was pretty much what I was hoping for. I could see he was surprised that I had the knife in the first place; it was completely against the rules of the school. I was sure he would now stop laughing, get angry and storm across the room to me and end this nonsense, but he didn’t. He just held out his arms and said, “Go on.”

  The knife was similar to a Swiss army knife but it had fewer blades and had a knife, fork and spoon on it. I opened up every blade it had, even the spoon, what I thought a spoon would do to him I have no idea; I think I was playing for time. He just stood there smirking.

  “Let this bounce off your chest, you bastard,” I screamed at him, and let fly with the knife. Mr Kay quickly moved to one side and the knife hit the door. I remember hoping the knife would stick in the door, for effect, but it just dropped to the floor. Mr Kay stopped smirking and was now striding towards me. The flight or fight theory? Well I wasn’t going to run away in just my underpants so I ran at him, arms flailing. In no time at all I was on the floor, kicking, punching and screaming abuse at the top of my voice, none of which had the slightest effect on Mr Kay as he held me down.

  All of that nonsense continued as other members of staff joined in and dragged me up the stairs. With a staff member holding each of my arms and legs they carried me, still futilely struggling, through the corridor of the school and up the stairs to the sick bay. By the time a doctor had arrived I had calmed down. That didn’t stop them giving me some medication, I don’t know what the name of the medication was but I know I lost a couple of days.

  Once I thought I was fully with it I wasted no time in absconding. It didn’t take them long to find me as it turned out I was not as with it as I had thought; after about half an hour in the woods I was fast asleep. It was decided in my best interests to send me to a secure unit for a week. After a week I must have appeared to be back to normal so I was returned to WHS School.

  Report from the Medical Director of Bradford Guidance Clinic:

  This boy was recommended for admission to William Henry Smith Residential School because of his persistent stealing and absconding. He was admitted there in October 1970 and initially made very good progress. Early this year he became very depressed and made abortive attempts to abscond. I saw him again because of this and it seemed that his depression was largely related to his increasing insight into and realisation of his family circumstances. It had begun to dawn on him that his natural father was plausible and unreliable and his mother and step father were not enthusiastically interested in him. At the time we were able to assure him that he could rely on the support of the staff at William Henry Smith School and the Head Master did much to convince Steven that he was genuinely interested in his welfare. This produced a temporary improvement but the boy seemed unable to accept the general indifference of his responsible adults and reacted to this by persistent and wilful delinquent activity. The situation has now reached a stage where he would have to be placed in an establishment with good security until the present crisis situation has passed. It should then be possible to offer him the support and help that William Henry Smith School has given him so far and Mr Beall has assured me that he will give sympathetic consideration to the boy’s readmission. A period of remand will not only provide an opportunity for further assessment but will probably have a therapeutic effect and give Steven the opportunity to come to terms with what in fact is a very tragic situation.

  It was after this hissy fit that I was put on daily medication, Librium. I have to say that the medication did calm me down; well it kept me quiet which I guess was the plan but I didn’t like taking it. I knew what the Librium was doing to me because I managed on a number of occasions to avoid taking it. Using my tongue I would tuck the capsule between my back teeth and my cheek. Even though we had to open our mouths to show the nurse we had swallowed it she couldn’t see it.

  Hiding the medication depended upon who was administering it; some staff members were more thorough when it came to checking. I say ‘We’ because there were quite a few of us taking medication or as the other lads used to call them, ‘Fit Tablets.’ Once out of the sick bay I would take the capsule of Librium from my mouth, open it up and pour the powdery contents onto either my dressing gown or my pyjamas before rubbing it in. I would then swallow the empty capsule.

  I reckon when the psychiatrist told me the William Henry Smith School, ‘specialised,’ in dealing with children like me, he didn’t know that drugging them up was one of their methods, or maybe he did. While I’m at it (I’m getting the hump now) at that time I also resented being labelled Maladjusted. Mr Beall once gave us his definition of a maladjusted child. He gave this as an example.

 
“When a maladjusted child bumps into a table, he invariably blames the table because he believes it was the table’s fault.”

  Whether that’s right or wrong I’m not sure but I can see the logic of the theory. However I do remember thinking that if a child bumps into a table it’s his own stupid fault for being such a clumsy twat and that included me. I also think that when a child of the age I was is being abused physically and mentally with nobody he can turn to for help, the sort of behaviour I was presenting rather than being maladjusted, was only to be expected. I think it more likely to be the norm. Surely a child that doesn’t shout at the world under those circumstances would be maladjusted. On reflection, they did have a point, I certainly wasn’t well adjusted.

  I don’t think my self-medicating tactics did me any favours.

  Think? What a ridiculous thing to say.

  My self-medicating tactics did me no favours. My behaviour became more and more unpredictable and I began absconding from the school on a regular basis. When I was running away from home and I was hungry I would usually go to people’s houses, people that I knew. In those days it was the done thing to leave a house key hidden outside and I knew where most of my friend’s parents left their keys. I would let myself in when I knew they were out, get something to eat and lock up after me. I don’t believe any of them knew I had ever been there. Though I guess somebody in the household probably received an undeserved bollocking for eating the last of the corned beef.

  Now that I was running away from the school in an area where I didn’t know anyone I couldn’t do that. So I started breaking into places. Houses, shops, anywhere I could get food, until the first time I found some money. It made sense to me from then on to go for the money. With cash in my pocket I could eat when and what I wanted. Stealing money meant I would be breaking in somewhere maybe once a week, depending upon how much cash I stole. Stealing food meant breaking in somewhere just about every day. Going for the money cut down the risk.

  I put to good use all the things I had been taught by the school with regards to getting from A to B. With a map in my pocket, even in places I had never been before, I wouldn’t get lost. You may think I wouldn’t need a map what with street signs and such like, however I tended to avoid roads if I could, the countryside was where I felt most comfortable.

  Whenever possible I only travelled at night. I would follow railway lines; they were the straightest and therefore quickest routes although somewhat dangerous. Canals were my favourite, flat, fairly straight, and at night usually void of people.

  One other great advantage of canals was something I found out when I was about fourteen. Being on the run and trying to avoid capture at all costs I was prepared to jump in and swim across the canal, a police officer wasn’t. There were no mobile phones and no police helicopters so by the time the police officer had found somewhere to cross I was long gone.

  As the sun began to rise I would look for somewhere to get my head down. If I couldn’t find a suitable natural or man-made shelter I would make my own, again, thanks to the school knocking up a bivouac wasn’t a problem. If I needed to venture into populated areas to get some supplies I would do it around tea time, though there were more people around they were less likely to take any interest in me at that time of day. Most people just wanted to get home after a day at work.

  I was thinking about what I was doing, that is until it came to where I was heading. For all my ability to get from A to B it was B that let me down. I still headed back to the places and people I knew, I guess that was the child in me and as before, I was soon collared and carted back to where I came from. Then once again I would be physically punished. I must point out I was no Ray Mears; things didn’t always go to plan. I would quite often find myself just tucked up in some corner out of the wind and rain, sat down with my stomach rumbling, knees under my chin, arms wrapped around my legs, shivering and crying whilst questioning myself about what the fuck I was doing.

  I think it was around this period that I stopped blaming my behaviour on my past. I do acknowledge that had I not, through no fault of my own, found myself in a situation that I was desperate to get out of then I wouldn’t have voluntarily gone into a home.

  There may be people out there with occupations that have ‘ology’ in them, who could argue the nature or nurture thing, or some other reason for my antics. However I was intelligent enough to know that if I had kept my head down and worked at it I could have had a pretty decent education and probably set myself up for a decent and normal life, I chose not to.

  The ologists may say my choice was influenced by my childhood events, I would disagree. I would probably be wrong but I would disagree nonetheless. Besides, I would ask them not to take this away from me because I have done some good things in my life too. In order for me to take full credit for the good I have done I believe I have to take full responsibility for the bad.

  Bloody hell I went a bit serious then.

  It was whilst I was on one of my escapades that the police found something on me which they could link to a burglary. I was never sent back to WHS School.

  Before I was due to appear in court the powers that be had to find somewhere for me to stay. Luckily my dad’s older brother Tom and his wife Beat said they would take me in. My Aunty Beat was one of the most honest and open people I have ever met. She was a skinny little thing about six stone wringing wet but to be honest I reckon four stone of that was her mouth. She didn’t pull her punches when it came to saying what she thought. They reckon Yorkshire people call a spade a spade, well my Aunty Beat is a Londoner and she has no trouble in calling a spade a, “facking spied.” I stayed with them for a few months and I enjoyed being there, I must have done, I brought no trouble to their door over that period. Both my Aunty Beat and Uncle Tom were extremely good to me, in fact they went through the whole process of sorting out the red tape in order to foster me. Sadly I managed to put the kibosh on that too.

  There were other reasons that are personal to my Aunty Beat, very good and perfectly understandable reasons which I won’t go into but my persistent absconding didn’t help in the slightest. It may have helped if the powers that be had made it clear to me that plans were in place to get me out of the system and into a caring home with a loving family. They didn’t, my behaviour didn’t change, so fostering me was out of the question.

  At the age of thirteen on 9/11/1972 I made my first appearance at Bradford Juvenile Court. Mr Beall turned up at court as did my Aunty Beat. I know Beat came to court in an attempt to get them to let me live with her and Uncle Tom. I had always assumed that Mr Beall came to get them to send me back to WHS School. The records I now possess tell me I was wrong in that assumption. Mr Beall was there because as head of the school he was officially my carer.

  Social worker’s report:

  Steven has an abhorrence of further institutionalisation. The Head Master of William Henry Smith School claims he would accept the boy back, but his staff will not hear of it. I feel we should accept that the boy’s problems and his relationship with his stepfather is a factor in his persistent absconding and that the boy’s own father is not a suitable person to offer the boy a wholesome life and could not provide him with proper care, because he himself is nomadic and unreliable by temperament and tends to move fairly regularly, so I feel we should aim towards enabling the boy to live with his Uncle.

  As it turned out the Courts decided to put a Care Order on me. I think they had decided that rather than being maladjusted I was just a little shit, which is how I found myself being taken to a children’s home by the name of Springfield Reception Centre in Bradford.

  Chapter 5

  Before I go on to describe the joys of Springfield Reception Centre I feel at this point I should set the record straight. It was probably at the age of about sixteen that I started calling Nelson by his first name, Philip. I mention this now because from the time I went into Springfield to about the age of 16 I had very little contact with him, which means he will prob
ably get little mention from now on. That would not be right.

  Philip died in 2008 a couple of months before my dad, Michael. As with my dad, Philip and I had long since made up our differences. I know I had a great deal of respect for him and judging by some of the things he said about me I feel he may have had some respect for me too, I hope so.

  Philip was ill for a very long time and a braver and stronger fella you would be hard pushed to find. I know my mum misses him dearly as does my youngest brother Andy. Philip was a father to our Andy and for that I thank him.

  For Philip’s funeral my mum had found a poem that she asked Andy to read out. Andy agreed but called me saying he didn’t think he could do it without breaking down and would I read it out instead, I said I would. I know my mum was surprised that I was willing to do it and that she still feels I, in some way, must blame her for my earlier experiences, I don’t. Reading the poem was an honour and was done out of respect.

  This is not just for my mum (I doubt she will want to read this anyway) but also for you the reader. If it looks at some points as though I’m writing about certain events flippantly, I can assure you it’s not meant that way. It just means that I have dealt with it; I’ve got my head around it and I’ve moved on. I’m sure Philip would approve of my attitude.

  Philip and Michael