Therapeutic creative writing.

Back in 1971 (I think, I’m not too clear on the exact date) I travelled down to London to do some full time voluntary work. It was an interesting and growthful experience; although it didn’t always feel that way at the time.
I was to join an organisation called Patchwork Community. It was a short life housing project in the Westbourne Park area of London. Providing cheap, temporary accommodation for the many people who were struggling to pay the very high rents in central London. Squatting was a big problem for local authorities back then. So P.C. drew up an agreement with them. Put simply, the authority would provide an empty property that P.C. would tidy up with light repairs and decorating. The community would then accommodate people for a minimal rent. The authority, when the required the property was due for demolition, gave 6 months notice and another property; so the same tenants could be rehoused. Money from the minimal rents would be used for building materials and some other costs. The tenants and some other volunteers would provide the skills and labour. All very simple in theory. However, the reality turned out to be anything but simple.
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The start of my journey down from the North West to London was reasonably uneventful. I decided to hitchhike down. I don’t think I waited too long before a lorry stopped and the driver said he was going all the way down to the outskirts of the city, but would I mind sitting on top of his bedding! It was all neatly folded on top of the passenger seat and the only way I could sit was cross legged, so I was more than a little stiff when we finally arrived at our destination. I thanked him for the lift and he directed me to a bus stop that would get me to the city centre. I think at that point I’d have been happy to walk into town, but as I still didn’t know how far it was I decided to wait for the bus.
I’d forgotten that London still had two man buses, so stepping on to the platform of the old Routemaster when it came was a pleasant bit of nostalgia. I took my seat on the lower deck and paid my fare to the conductor who then disappeared upstairs. We hadn’t gone far when there was a bit of a commotion on the top deck. The bell rang and the bus stopped at what appeared to be an unscheduled stop. Then two young men came downstairs with the conductor just behind them; it seemed they were being “escorted” off the bus. We had only just started to move off when the bus came to an emergency stop; throwing everyone out of their seats. The driver was out of his cab in what seemed like a split second and chasing the lads down the street. He had seen one of them (in his wing mirror) spit at the conductor as the bus was moving away. However, he didn’t run fast enough and, after checking that everyone was ok, we were back on our way.
The next part of my journey was by Tube, but even that short walk to the underground wasn’t to be uneventful. I heard a very loud bang behind me and on swinging round I caught a glimpse of a body flying through the air. By the time I’d got to where they had landed there was already a crowd of people tending to the Police Officer who was lying on the ground. However, this was no terror or criminal assault. A few meters away there was a small motorcycle lying on the road. It seems he was on his way home off duty when he was hit by a truck. To this day I don’t know what happened to him. I decided that there were plenty of people attending to him and continued my walk to the Tube.
It’s something of a cliche I know, but picture if you will a young man having his first experience of the big city. Simple everyday things that people who live in that environment simply take for granted can be quite unsettling. And such was the case with my first taste of the London Underground. I found my station, managed to work out my route and get the right ticket and then headed for my platform. All pretty straightforward. Then I got to the top of the escalator; one going down and the other coming up, with a wide staircase between the two. I stared down into an abyss! It was so deep and so steep that the roof of the first stretch almost obscured the next flight. I decided to walk down; big mistake. About halfway down I was hit by a rush of air that nearly knocked me off my feet. I quickly realised that this was just the pressure wave from the train that I now heard pulling into the platform below. However, this did little to prepare me for the Tsunami of humanity that began to pile up the staircase that I had foolishly decided to walk down. This was obviously rush hour.
I was heading for an address just round the corner from Westbourne Park station. I was signing up for full time voluntary work with a short life housing project call Patchwork Community Ltd. Their headquarters turned out to be in an Edwardian semi that had been converted to part office and part living accommodation for the office staff. Nobody seemed to have a clue who I was or that I was coming to join them, but they were very kind and fed and watered me before deciding to put me up for the night while they worked out where to put me the following day.
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I was taken to a terrace house just a few streets away. I was to help refurbish this place to something like habitable. I was introduced to the current occupants; a young American woman and her partner. My first task was to clean the room I had been allocated, which proved no mean task as the local cat population had been letting themselves in through a broken window for some time and using it as a latrine; it stank! One small problem I had was that all of the plumbing had been ripped out of the house as lead and copper had high scrap value. I knocked on the door of the couple I was supposed to be sharing and working with to ask where I could get some water. They were an odd pair, to say the least. She was friendly enough, and looked a bit hippyish. He seemed completely the opposite; although he had shoulder length hair and a beard, that’s where the hippyness ended. He was always dressed in a three piece suit, collar, tie and highly polished shoes and in his manner rather brusque and businesslike. He managed to find me a mop and bucket and water from somewhere and I set to with these and liberal amounts of disinfectant. The room now smelling a little sweeter an old single mattress was produced and, digging out my sleeping bag, I crashed out for the night, trusting that my presence (plus the smell of disinfectant) would deter the local Tomcats.
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The next day I was shown to my first job in the house. Yep, you guessed it, getting the water back on. I was led down to what used to be the coal cellar, a very cramped space only a couple of feet wide. Someone had at least rigged up a bare light bulb, so I wasn’t going to be working in the dark. There, right in the corner of this space, was a stub of lead pipe just a few centimetres long. What the hell was I supposed to do with that! Prior to this I had done very little plumbing, and all of that with copper pipe and modern fittings. I knew it was possible to join copper pipe to lead using something called a “wiped joint”. This involved, opening out the end of the lead pipe (a process called swaging) so that the copper pipe could be inserted into it. The copper pipe had to be “tinned” a process that coated it with solder. The whole assembly had then to be heated just to the point that the solder became elastic enough to be “wiped” with a damp cloth to push it into the joint. The trick was in the application of heat with a blowlamp, too little heat and nothing happened, too much and there was a risk of not only losing the solder but also melting the lead pipe and given that I only had a few centimetres of that, the reader can imagine how much I held my breath while I was working. After a little trial and, thankfully, not much error, I managed to get the water back on.
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I’ve stated previously that I considered my housemates to be a little odd. My thinking changed a bit in that respect over the next week or so. I came to the conclusion that she was basically ok. Her partner however, I decided was more than a little dodgy.
They’d taken up residence in the front room of the house; which happened to be the door nearest to the front door. He made a point of always being the first person to answer this door, making sure that on the way he picked up a tool of some sort. Usually a spanner or hammer. These were always kept conveniently on a shelf near the front door. I guessed this may have been a security precaution, but I also suspected that it was to give the impression that he had just left some job he’d been doing. There was an expectation on tenants in these properties to keep the place in reasonable repair. However, in the short time I was there, I never once saw him lift a finger to do anything in the way of DIY.
Something else happened that just confirmed my suspicions about him. One morning I decided to check out what might need doing in the basement flat of the house. This just happened to be a separate residence with its own door just below the front door of the house. I’d assumed it was empty, but when I got in there I found obvious signs of occupancy. A sleeping bag and mattress on the floor and some bags with a few belongings in them. I left things as they were and went up to to check what was happening. As usual, it was himself that answered when I knocked on the lounge door. When I asked him who was in the basement, he rather hurriedly pulled the door closed behind him and insisted that there was no one in the basement. I was so nonplussed that I didn’t bother challenging him any further about it.
Later that day there was a knock at the front door. This time he was out, so I was able to get there first for a change. I was confronted by a young woman who asked me if she could help herself to some water as there didn’t seem to be any on in the basement. I reassured her that I would bring some down for her in a little while, but that I needed to check in with someone who I didn’t think knew she was down there. Sure enough, when I put the same question to the guys room mate that I’d put to him earlier, I got the same reply, but a lot less defensively.
I then took the water down to the basement and related the events of that morning to the woman that he’d moved in there. She didn’t need anyone to spell out, that if he hadn’t been straight with his partner or with her, then his intentions might not be entirely honourable. She immediately started to stuff her belongings into her bags and making to leave. I asked her what she planned to do and given that she wasn’t too clear about this, I offered to walk her down to the office which was just a few streets away. We told them our story and they were genuinely concerned. The decision was quickly made to rehouse her and, because I now also felt vulnerable, they decided to move me into one of the rooms above the office.
I had to return to the house to collect my own belongings. While I was there, I heard a commotion coming from the basement. I started down from my own room on the first floor only to have him brush past me, muttering something about a break in down in the basement. He then quickly disappeared into his own room. I went down to check it myself and indeed found a broken window. However, I thought it a little odd that all of the broken glass was outside of the building. I guessed that he had done this himself to try and cover his back. I decided to say nothing and discretely collected up my belongings and left.

This particular post comes with a warning, as it deals with the subject of parent suicide. It is a graphic description of the discovery of the body of my Father after he had taken his own life.

If you think you may find it too distressing or possibly triggering in any way then please leave this post now.

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Amazing, what one can absorb in a few seconds. When I opened that door I expected nothing but the usual landscape, doormat, stairs to the right, narrow hall, radiator on the left, hall table and chair on the right. Except this time the chair was on its side in the middle of the hall, which struck me as odd; what the hell had he been up to now? [there always seemed to be something] Then I saw his dressing gown, draped against the panelling in the staircase. I couldn’t remember there ever being a coat hook there, and anyway he nearly always wore it when he was in the house. Wore it?……..then I realised, he was wearing it. Time suddenly compressed, speeding up. My eyes flicked about to what seemed a multitude of different points, as I took in the scene. My Fathers face, his eyes closed, his expression somehow softened. But then his tongue bulging out of his mouth like some obscene balloon, coloured a dark purplish red. The cord stretching upwards past his left cheek and disappearing up towards the first floor landing. I remember thinking that he looked somehow insubstantial; as if his body wasn’t there, just the gown draped against the staircase with his head perched on top of it. I felt a powerful sense of disgust and revulsion and seemed to fall backwards through the door, pulling it closed after me. Reaching for my mobile I dialled 999; I remember screaming at the poor woman who took the call, “stupid, stupid man; there was no need for this, no need”. I was apoplectic with rage, I felt I could have kicked him around the housing estate. I became vaguely aware of my surroundings again; people going about their business as if nothing had happened, except, I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the guy next door had come out to see what all the commotion was about. He was standing there looking a bit lost, but managed to ask if there was anything he could do. I asked him for a chair, which I collapsed into and waited for the emergency services to arrive. The ambulance took an age to arrive; traffic was always heavy on that road. They took the door key off me and let themselves in, only to come out a few seconds later to confirm what I already knew, that he was dead and had been for a few hours.

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I think that it would not be an understatement to say that I did not have a good relationship with my Dad. I didn’t hate him, but I didn’t love him either. He was hard work and, apart from our genetic link, I felt I had little in common with him. Born in 1916 he was very much of that generation. There was little sentiment about him. Life was mostly about practicalities, and this also applied to raising children. We were fed, watered, clothed and educated. However, there was little in the way of positive attention. The main times he engaged with us was as disciplinarian and occasionally as an educator; with his own rather strict style of education, which was more inclined to put me off a subject rather than have me embrace it.

In the weeks leading up to his suicide, he gave no indication that he was going to take his own life. He had been ill with bladder cancer for some time. However, right from the early diagnosis, his arrogance and ignorance were such that he dismissed this diagnosis out of hand and refused treatment. It was the very early stages of what was referred to as a superficial cancer in his bladder, which could have been treated if he’d allowed it. Instead, he dismissed the consultants diagnosis and insisted he had Prostate (which he called his Prostrate!) cancer. Over time the cancer progressed; ultimately leading to regular blockages, severe pain and him phoning the emergency services in the early hours to rush him into hospital. I usually ended up with a phone call from a neighbour first thing in the morning, advising me which hospital and ward he was in. Eventually, the cancer worked its way to a Kidney. As Dad was 90 years old they didn’t want to risk general anaesthesia, so the surgeon had to use keyhole surgery under local anaesthetic to cut off the blood supply to the Kidney and isolate it in the body; allowing it to harmlessly atrophy. A few weeks after this he started passing blood again, and very shortly after…

To this day, I’ve never felt the need to grieve over his death. What I have felt, and still do occasionally, is rage. I’ve never seen his action as a sad act of despair by a sick man;  I see it rather, as his ‘fuck you’ moment. An arrogant act of power and control and a last slap in the face to me. Actually no, the last slap was to write me out of his will and make me his executor.

I’ve been giving some thought, as to what I want to do with this blog. You see, initially, I just wanted somewhere to publish my memoir. However, now that’s done, (in ‘Pages’) it does seem such a waste of this space if I don’t make some use of the blog itself. I guess there’s no pressure. I don’t have to contribute on a daily basis, or even on a regular basis.

One thing I’d like to do though, is to engage with people. I have the feeling that my memoir may be challenging for some. People may have questions, and I’d really like people to not be backward in coming forward. Nice comments are great, but they do kind of stop where they are. If you find something difficult or puzzling about anything I write, I’d love to hear from you.

:0)

I’ve changed the name of this site, and its associated URL.

I’m hoping I haven’t screwed up the connections I’ve made so far?

“Never get in fights with pigs, you get all dirty and they enjoy it.”

I love this one. Like all humour there’s more than a grain of truth in it. Too many times I’ve come out metaphorically bruised, from a discussion (?) with someone who turned out to be totally fixed in an illogical mindset, and simply not prepared to listen to reason. Some people even throw out bait to try and draw you into an argument. I’ve learned the hard way, not to take the bait.

“Oh no, not again!….”

Had this quote, from “Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy”, as the opening greeting on my mobile phone for years. The remark was made by a character called, “Agrajag”.

“Agrajag is a creature which, by coincidence, has been killed by Arthur Dent hundreds, maybe thousands of times. He has been reincarnated on multiple occasions, but Arthur Dent is, either directly or indirectly, responsible for his death in some way in every single life he has ever lived. He is first seen notably as a bowl of petunias. At this moment all we know about him are his thoughts: “Oh no, not again”. After which many people speculated that if we knew exactly why the bowl of petunias thought this, we would know a lot more of the nature of the Universe than we do now. The reason Agrajag said this is because he was killed by Arthur in many ways before.”

 

I don’t have a bucket list, but one of the things I’d wanted to do for some time was to hear Nightingales singing. About this time last year I got my chance. I’d booked an evening walk with the senior ranger at RSPB Fingringhoe Wick reserve in Essex. I turned up there, along with about eight other people, for about 7.30pm. There was a chilly breeze but it was dry and bright. Fingringhoe is a lovely reserve that used to be a number of gravel and sand extraction quarries that, over time, have filled with water. Nature has taken over; creating lots of scrub through which a network of paths has been created. We were led off down one of these paths and very soon brought to a halt by the ranger, to listen to our first Nightingale.

It wasn’t a disappointment. Sharp, clear and very fluid birdsong emanated from the scrub. Nightingales don’t sing from an elevated perch where we could easily see them. They’re very secretive and consequently very hard to spot. However, they are LOUD! The ranger told us that they try to out compete each other with their song and sheer volume. In fact, if there is any other noise nearby, they will sing even louder.

One of our group asked how we could see them. With difficulty, came the reply; in fact if you look for them at the point where their song seems to be, you won’t find them there. Apparently they can throw their voice, or rather their song, upwards. The better to be heard by other Nightingales, while staying safely in the scrub. One tip was to look about three or four feet below the point the sound appeared to be coming from and, if you’re lucky, you’ll spot it. However, if you are that lucky, and that day we weren’t, one thing’s for certain…. You’ll see its beak moving.

I daydream of compassion and the tears fill my eyes.
Of a hand reaching out not in rescue but just to touch.
To prove once again the existence of love,
In the face of bitterness, cynicism and pain.

A hostile world suddenly calmed by one light touch,
And a voice that gently says, “Hey, It’s alright, It’s ok”,
And watches and permits the tears to flow
As frightened eyes tentatively gaze
Into eyes that smile a caress of peace.

8/10/91