A Life Like Everyone Else

An Unmarketable Child- My Journey To Adoption 1969-1973

 

The aim of this entry is to give background, and a small insight into the problems that the care services had in the late 60s. I’ve tried, where possible and with an over-riding intention, not to appear to be critical of the authorities at the time. Names have not been included of anyone involved in the process or indeed the identities of family members on my biological side. This has not been done for two reasons. Firstly, I hold no grudges and secondly, although the account is drawn from actual correspondence and first-hand witness, there is no opportunity to correct the record for them. That said, anything that is not from documents that offers insight has come from those involved themselves and what was said to me in the 1990s.

It all begins on the 15th March 1969, in a cottage hospital in Frimley (not the village of Frimley Green as I previously thought- and not Camberley as handed down, although, until 1974, the two were held as one). I was born at ten to midnight, as has been told, and spent the next ten days at the hospital itself. Accounts vary, even official, as to my birth weight. The general consensus was that I was a large baby of nearly 10lb. It was suggested, due to clerical error, that I was born heavier. Later, however, the quick advance in weight was put down to being ‘grossly overfed’.

Unwanted babies, or babies who for whatever reason could not be kept, were nothing new for the late 60s although my ‘legitimacy’, a horrible archaic term, was less preferable to me having been a bastard child. I was conceived in June 1968 and, according to record, my young parents, only teenagers at the time, had broken up two months later. It could have all ended before it started around Christmas 1968. I was told this, first hand, in 1996. A single line in one of the documents also supports this.

‘threatened abortion or toxaemia of pregnancy ? Yes at 26/52’ (NCH doc 1969)

Piecing the scripts together it would appear that I never saw either of my birth parents’ abodes. I was moved to Aldershot for four weeks- although nothing is known of the carer excepting a name and address.

I was eventually admitted to National Children’s Home, at five and a half weeks, in Mannings Heath, West Sussex, on 25th April- and so the baby football began.

Forest House is/was a large multi room house in the Sussex countryside. We lived in, I think, two family units with various carers being responsible for our welfare. A number of the children were black or mixed race. When in correspondence with Action for Children last year I cited the plight of non Anglo-Saxon kids at that time as a sad concern. It was confirmed to me that it was indeed an issue. I wonder if much has changed.

The problem with my admission was that, seemingly straight forward at first with the permission of both parents, this soon soured as within two weeks my paternal father, again, in fairness still a teenager, was ‘talking of opposing an adoption’. The NCH began to get tetchy.

‘our available accommodation is very full at the moment, and we should not wish to keep Ian indefinitely if adoption is not going to be possible’ (NCH doc 15.05.1969).

In the late May concerns began to be expressed about my health. I was very overweight and had a ‘quivering lower jaw’ and a fontanelle that was ‘not right’. Some of tone used in correspondence shortly after was cutting.

‘It seems ironical that there may be something wrong with this baby now and that adoption may not be possible after all the trouble we have been going to get…consent’ (NCH doc 28.05.1969)

As stated, it was later admitted that my being overweight was down to being ‘grossly overfed’.

On the 16th June I was passed fit for adoption. Although not without, again, cutting reservations

‘He is a large child and is likely to be all his life. He is certainly not a child that is going to attract people from the point of view of adoption at present’ (NCH doc 08.07.1969)

What is surprising here is that, having admitted gross over-feeding, given a sweeping future diagnosis, and correcting it, it was suggested within three weeks that much had changed…

‘This baby has considerably ‘thinned out’ ! And is much better looking and more responsive. In fact, he has become rather an appealing little boy’ (NCH letter from Forest House to Adoption Department N5 28.07.1969)

Despite my retrospective relief at being ‘appealing’ enough to be seen an adoption prospect I do feel sorry for those who were not. Although later this was clearly not enough as the potential for adoption begins to stall and the authorities start getting nasty with each other and a little uncharitable about myself…..

 The problem that the NCH faced in 1969 was that babies placed with them were done so with a view to adoption. So, given the costs of keeping a child like me, any complexities surrounding the possibility of an adoption being completed were a drawback. So, with full permission of both birth parents not being confirmed (father withholding) the NCH began to search for other solutions. It was felt that local authorities should shoulder the burden. Certainly, the right steps to take but, in practice, it appears they had enough problems of their own.

Documents reveal that Aldershot Children’s Department had already been approached by the family before I was born. A request to take me had been turned down.

‘This, of course, is the kind of thing that local authorities often do’… (and is) … ‘expected by Children’s Homes these days’ (NCH 17/10/69)

A further turn of events then occurred in November. All indications suggest that the mother is wanting to take me back home. Despite believing that this is ‘not a satisfactory plan for the baby’ no attempt is made to advise against this as ‘it seems only right that she resumes responsibilities now that he is getting older.’ (NCH 26/11/69)

The decision to take me back was probably one based in motherly and emotional concern- I had been visited by my birth mother on the 17th November. The indication that I got twenty years ago was that there were others forces at work in farming me out. It is impossible to gauge the full picture of influence in this situation. Needless to say, the return home didn’t happen due to a change of mind and the NCH, strapped for cash, became more belligerent in tone.

‘We cannot continue keeping him in adoption accommodation, and I have in fact been making efforts to get him removed for some time, as adoption seemed out of the question. It is costing us £19 a week (£307-2018 costs) to care for him…. You will understand why we are concerned financially’ (Letter to Mother’s home from NCH 26/11/1969)

For a voluntary organisation this is an expensive business.

A further letter is sent to the mother’s home two weeks later upping stakes although applying a degree of brinkmanship…

‘I want you to understand that Ian cannot stay with us any longer, and that we are quite serious in saying that you must fetch him and take him home….. I now have another baby called in for Horsham at the end of the week and will be needing Ian’s cot..’ (8/12/1969)

The birth mother then indicates that she is unwilling to collect me giving reasons, quite reasonable, that I choose not to place here.

The following day my paternal grandmother writes to the NCH accusing them of ‘deplorable wording’ in their letter. The letter also indicates her feelings that authorities ‘don’t want to know’. The letter lists further reasons for concern that would suggest the decision not to take me back was the right one from their perspective.

In frustration, the NCH now fire a typed broadside upon receipt of her letter feeling that they are being mucked about. The letter doesn’t address the tone of the previous correspondence but, through continued discourse, rather upholds it. It seems that the moot point is who is responsible for what happens next as consent for adoption is still revoked by my biological father. Given that it appears that applications for placement elsewhere must come from the family, the NCH then contact the West Surrey social worker involved in the case and ask her to help with a second application to the local Children’s department for placement. The department reject the approach and advise that West Sussex, the area of my present residence, are contacted. Extracts from the various authorities’ thoughts are shown below:

By now, the NCH take on some of the leg work, possibly out of desperation, and receive various responses to their contact:

Surrey Children’s Department:

‘… Mrs X lives in Hampshire…I understand that this case is well known to the Hampshire Children’s Department and I therefore feel it would not be appropriate for this department to get involved at this time’ (23/2/1970)

Hampshire Children’s Office:

‘Our ability to receive children into care is… governed strictly by local authority boundaries, such as that we are unable to receive a child which is from an address other than in Hampshire (16/03/1970)

West Sussex Children’s Department:

‘I understand it your organisation has as its objective ‘The care of girls and boys deprived of a normal home life’ and payment is not a condition of acceptance. As Ian is already in your care it would not appear that the intervention of the Local Authority would be necessary in the interests of the welfare of the child’ (03/04/1970)

The NCH then prepare for the long haul with a memorandum that talks of a need for medical and physical assessment ‘We may find we have a seriously handicapped child on our hands’ (16/2/1970)

Having made these attempts to move me to other locations the overdue possibility of fostering is considered. The Horsham branch seek clarity from Head Office on the matter:

‘He is such a very nice child- he has gorgeous brown eyes, and is altogether very appealing. I am sure he would give so much pleasure to someone. Surely something can be arranged soon’ (24/04/1970)

Head Office have hatched a plan. They propose to move me to one of their homes in Hampshire. They first contact the local authority to ask if such a side step is suitable qualification for them taking me. It fails.

‘It has not been the practice of local authorities ever since 1948 to receive into care children who are already in the care of voluntary organisations’ (Hampshire County Children’s Officer 07/05/1970).

Hampshire then refer to law to justify their reasons for refusal

The NCH give up their efforts at that point and instructions are issued to look into the possibility of fostering. Having failed in previous attempts to get my father’s consent, on the 14th May it is decided to give it another go. He is now in Borstal.

A caseworker at West Surrey Association for Social Work agrees to start the ball rolling and establish my father’s location.

‘It made me depressed… (the verdict of Hampshire’s Children’s Officer)… and I am so sorry you have been landed with the long-term care of this child’ (19/05/1970)

In June, Indications are documented to suggest that on the whole ‘he is not a happy baby’ in slight contradiction to April. My thoughts are that perhaps the previous view was expedient in nature. By the end of July I am ‘just starting to walk and talk’ and am at an ‘interesting stage’.

On the 20th August, in a letter of veiled emotion, my birth father gives permission for adoption. The letter expresses concern about the type of family I would be going to and a desire to have non-identifying information about them when it happens. The path is now laid clear.

However, in September, a damning assessment of my development is made. I will briefly dwell on this and will, probably for the first and only time, be critical of the NCH. It is fair to say that the context of the time has to be considered, but nonetheless, whilst I have no anger or resentment towards the NCH (or my birth parents), being written off in the way I was needs addressing. Some things linger.

 Whilst the journey through the early years has been a subject of great fascination when testimony and correspondence are drawn together, I have always felt quite detached from it all. I have seen myself from the viewpoint of a third party, experiencing the emotion of the story, but somehow as if the narrative applied to someone else. Certainly, this is a healthy way of viewing it although the NCH, in its current form, were wanting to offer me a guide from a counsellor’s point of view. I never felt this necessary. I was happy with the outcome and familiar with the process. One emotion I wasn’t prepared for was an errant psychological fart in my thinking that led me to temporarily dismiss my inside knowledge of the story when piecing it together. My heart would often race for an outcome that I was already familiar with. There was a happy ending but, at times, it appears a long way from that.

There is, however, one document, that I struggle to get past. One that I would wish to dwell on to the point it gets its own short analysis. A document from NCH HQ on the 28th September 1970. A year later the journey to Brighton begins- although had it not been for a bizarre turn of events it would never have started.

A senior officer of the NCH visits me the week before and, confirming reports from the home itself, labels me as ‘a little backward for my age’.

‘Both matron and her deputy… said they anticipate that Ian will never rise to very much’

It is suggested that my background was the reason for this.

This statement then puts itself on trial.

‘The extent of his development is difficult to predict, but she (matron), is sure he will never attain much, though no doubt will improve if he had more stimulus such as an individual home might provide’.

It is felt that long term fostering is a better option due to my unknown limitations (which appear to have been decided upon already) but then comes the killer blow of opinion…

‘…but perhaps there has been some purpose in this long delay after all. Had he gone as a small baby we should have been less aware of his limitations and might well have made a wrong placement’

This suggests that what is later described as ‘showing signs of retardation’ was a fixed view and an image placed upon me. It also could infer that this was due to being from bad stock. I take a different view.

Let me tell a little story.

In my second or third year of primary school it was clear that I had behavioural issues. I had a permanent seat in the headmistress office. My mum was no great fan of hers and felt that at times I had been singled out. Easily led, I was a very passive child who was given to ignorant mischief. My social traits were then linked with my capacity of intellect. Then came the bomb shell. One day, the headmistress described me as ‘backward’.

My parents were incensed. I was dispatched to a child psychologist (I think it was a Saturday afternoon although this could be fog of memory). The psychologist, Mr Foster, took an instant shine. Adults seemed to warm to my inquisitive nature except, perhaps, Gerry Fell. He was the hapless Brighton & Hove Albion footballer who had the misfortune of sitting next to me on a Jubilee float in 1977. There is a picture of me seemingly directing one of many questions in his direction as he looks helplessly into the distance….

The results were received jubilantly. I wasn’t backward, I was ahead of my age. Later tests showed my reading age was three years in advance. This ran to my advantage. If ever I found myself in the main office reports were rarely sent home…

However, there was a drive to educate more at home. I was taught mathematics to a stage beyond primary. This had an amusing outcome once. Having been sent into class and told to do a six-sum sheet after a playground transgression. I returned a few minutes later. “I told you to do those sums” said the splendid Mr Perkins. “I’ve done them” I replied in genuine protest….

So here is my only point of anger- and it is not so much a protest for myself but a concern and hope that such attitudes no longer prevail.

It is doubtless proven that someone who comes from a disadvantaged background may struggle educationally. The key word is ‘may’. But an image laid is one that is hard to remove. The reason I was ‘backward’ was not an environmental one connected to stock. It was due to an inability to afford the one-to-one attention that was required in my situation. I was no different to any other child.

This is, of course, not to criticise those who took responsibility for my personal care. They were stretched and did the best they could.

No-one is ‘backward’ and their best talents and abilities should be harnessed to move them forward. Labels linger. Throughout my life the word ‘backward’ has permeated my subconscious and dented my self-confidence so much to the point that a feeling of inadequacy became a false prophecy that heralded its accuracy through my own confirmation bias.

I need no sympathy. I know it’s not true.

I just hope things have changed.

It’s the summer of 1971. Jean and Dennis, having already successfully adopted one child, decide that he should have a sibling. As I have little documentation for the 10 months prior to the August of that year I am not in a position to reveal how they came to see me first. I am sure more documentation exists, but have no desire to pursue it. What is for sure is that it is likely that I came through recommendation. What is also known, and was never hidden from me later, is that the family preference was for a girl. This is, of course, understandable. I never had an unhinged emotional quibble at the idea of being second choice.

So, Dad’s diaries, rather than any official documentation, reveal that my first contact with my future adopted family came on the 14th August.

‘To Horsham to visit Ian’

What comes next is the most crucial factor in this life defining encounter.

‘Not well in evening’

Not well is understated. This ‘viral infection’ lasted for some considerable period of time. Dad not being allowed to return to work until October 4th.

In the meantime, on 19th August, he sends a letter to the NCH in Horsham. At this stage things don’t look too promising:

‘We visited Horsham on Saturday and saw Ian who we thought was a very nice boy..’

Thanks. Oh….

‘… as we said before, we would like to visit (another location) to see Bryany…’

Reading between the lines it appears that Bryany was mentioned prior to the visit to Horsham which, having occurred before the annual fête in September, appears to have been planned. It looks like there is a choice of two. I cannot think but how this feels like a visit to a cat’s sanctuary but there is no other way to go about it.

Dad goes on to mention the possibility of visiting the girl at the end of the following week, the delay being due to his illness, and asks for her current location to be informed. But then, on the 6th September, a dramatic turnaround in events occurs. Ill and unable to make the visit, there have been new developments in Brighton.

Another letter is sent…

Having giving the situation much thought, and listening to their son’s conversations with others, Jean and Dennis decide ‘Ian is the boy we would like to have’.

Horsham reply straight away and, rather thinly veiled, it is clear they want to move quickly.

Although Dad is still unwell (glandular fever) further visits then occur on 18th September (day of the annual fête), and 23rd September. On the 2nd October I am brought to visit the house in Brighton for the first time. Meanwhile, my paternal father consents to any adoption and says that if things go wrong (such as death of parents) I have somewhere I could go. This is, of course, never going to be practical. Nonetheless, there is an affection end to his involvement. There are certainly no conflicts or feelings of resentment. Quite the opposite.

Family legend speaks of my relationship between me and my future brother being strained at first. I was once told that I used to chase him around the Horsham home and sink large bite marks in his back. This is unlikely to be a form of brotherly bonding and I am at a loss to work out how I could catch him given that I was much smaller and three years younger. Still, it’s a funny story that cannot be confirmed for sure now.

Further visits to Brighton now start in earnest. These include overnight stays. The 13th November is set for the day for me to be boarded out for foster care although this is delayed for two days due to Jean being weak upon returning from hospital after ‘D & C’.

The term ‘D & C’ as some will know, is reference to the process of dealing with the aftermath of a miscarriage. Sadly, Mum suffered a number of those and I wonder if it is possible that she didn’t know she was pregnant at this time. There are no references in Dad’s diaries and it is unlikely that they would have proceeded initially if this was known.

On the 15th November I arrive in Brighton for what was to be a permanent stay.

Sadly, on the 30th December, the old labels start arising in NCH documentation:

‘I should add that we have Ian’s medical records on file here…. I note the comments about Ian’s alleged retardation, and wonder if the foster parents are fully aware of this…’

However, Jean and Dennis are aware of this..

‘The foster parents are fully aware of possible retardation and quite clearly understand that it was on this ground that we had difficulty in finding a suitable foster home…’ It’s not an issue.

This single line provides the first and only evidence that this analysis may have stopped others from coming forward. As some correspondence from the previous year may be missing we will never know how this played out. But it is clear that such a label was a barrier- and this label was indeed incorrect or, at a minimum, over played.

Initially, I am reported as being ‘in a slight daze about it all’ and, whilst playing very happily with my new foster brother, keep involving other children from the nursery in my talk. I’m rather impressed that I was able to communicate so well at that age. You get my drift.

In January 1972, however, reports of problems start to emerge….

‘Ian went through a stage after Christmas of trying to break everything, usually succeeding with (foster brother’s) most precious toys…Ian shows quite pronounced jealousy and is demanding a lot of attention. He was all over me during the visit and begged to come in my car, his closest association with Horsham. I had to leave him screaming at the door’. (NCH report)

I do rather feel for Mum as this clingy stage continued to the point she could go nowhere without me. This continued for a while longer. Especially as in June 1972 it emerged that they might have a little Freddie Krueger on their hands.

‘A little disturbed recently when Ian cut a round hole out of the top of (foster brother’s) sheet. This seems to be an isolated incident and Ian quickly admitted he had done it…’

I honestly think I was probably the most disturbed to read this. Such occasional and unexplained acts of spite continued throughout my childhood which were at odds with what was a passive and affectionate nature. I often stole money from my parents and once pushed the cat out of an upstairs window. As an adult, where all these things have passed, I still cannot fathom why they occurred. Sometimes, though, I sadly ponder that, while these acts no longer happen, my heart has perhaps become harder.

It is clear from the documentation that Mum and Dad became a little nervous that the prospects of adoption could diminish at any time. The concern was understandable but the NCH appear to be confident that things will proceed. A further report is filed after a visit in October of 1972 with, despite what seems to be a little harsh and a tad inaccurate criticism of Mum’s apparently ‘slightly neurotic’ disposition, the final line comes….

Matters requiring attention ‘Agreement to applying for adoption of Ian’

Having filed the adoption papers and achieved permissions a court date is set in April 1973, for June 13th.

Dad’s journal entry for that day ends the long saga:

‘Went to court with Ian. Finalised adoption’

A Life Like Everyone Else- 1973- Aged 4

Friday 13^th June 1973 and, aged four, I’m off to court. Having no memories of the day itself I am resigned to the tale of adults present. The format of adoption hearings is something alien to me and, at the time, would have been as confusing as it was boring. The judge, adjudicator, had doubtless seen the whole process as a formality from the start. However, in a slightly cruel and playful manner, he turns to my foster brother and asks him if he wants me for his sibling. There is no mention of my older brother in the diary entry for the day, but who would want to mention the moment you died a thousand deaths for eternal reference ? Needless to say, despite there having been no rehearsals for this spanner, the potential for embarrassment passed without an awkward response and the adoption was approved. Three days later the official papers arrive and we all take a walk in the park.

The adoption itself had been fraught with difficulties, the permission of my biological father being the main stumbling point. Mum was a worrier for much of her life, a trait which I have most enthusiastically inherited. The NCH had recommended that I be cleared for adoption as long ago as the previous autumn. But the elongated administrative process then kicked in. Myself, I was unwise to the surrounding events, naturally more concerned with Lego blocks and making a nuisance of myself at the nursery. In the March of 1973, I turned four and had become accustomed to the ways of my traditional family. It is therefore a blessing that everything did go through as the upheaval of return could have been a great catalyst for a troubled mind in someone so young.

Around the time an additional name for me had been up for discussion. Such a prospect may have been my parent’s way of putting the family stamp on their arrivals. There had been a desire to change my handle in totality that I only became aware of in later years. I was told such an alteration was not allowed. This came as a relief as it was clear that such decisions were not Mum’s forte, her preferred moniker being Kevin. My brother, also adopted, had our dad’s first name, Alfred, added to his certificate a few years previous. Unsurprisingly, given the slightly embarrassing nature of such dated titles in Generation X during the 80s and 90s, he has always been keen to only refer to it when absolutely necessary. For me, there was a discussion with Mum at bedtime one evening that summer. My offering, Christopher, was rejected despite my protests. On reflection this seems a bit bemusing, especially as someone of my tender years would likely offer up cartoon characters or action heroes. There was certainly no clash of cultures in the discussion and it probably wasn’t that hard to make a final agreement. David, the name of two of my closest playgroup and church friends, was settled upon. Although to what degree that was fed to me, I’m unclear.

The nursery called ‘Tarnerland’ is situated on St John’s Place, just off the steep hill of Sussex Street that leads to Queen’s Park Road from what is almost the centre of town. Set in what is relatively plentiful grounds for such a small enterprise it survives to this day. I had begun to attend whole days there although, being so young, memories are few and far between. I was sure that my brother had attended with me at some point but that thought seemed implausible given that he was three years older and would have been at primary school. However, the memory of him joining me must have been pivotal in some way and research in the family diaries shows that it did in fact happen on a singular occasion on the 10^th May. This may have been to help my adjustment to the longer day, or, as I must confess, due to behavioural issues. We’ll settle on the former.

The highlight of the school was the ‘meadow’. A wooded area that still exists to the south of the main building. Muddy, full of twigs and uneven earth it was the sort of place that suited running around in bare feet at the time of fledgling health and safety. It was not a place I recall being overly enamoured by and have little memory of adventures. The most lucid recollection of the time, naturally, was the most embarrassing. One afternoon in class I had the miss-fortune of wetting myself. I’m not sure how I broke the news, but doubtless little sympathy abounded. I was taken to another room, stood on a chair or table, and changed. The door was left open for all and sundry to see my humiliation despite protest. The 70s were a little harsher on such miss-demeanours and doubtless there would have been flack once I arrived home.

Grandad, who would have been in his early 70s was sometimes assigned to pick me up. This, as would have been excitedly appreciated by me, meant a bus ride albeit just two stops. Even at the time I had wondered on the necessity of the journey given that Tarnerland itself was less than a ten-minute walk from home. Nonetheless, bus journeys were a pinnacle of my existence at the time. The Corporation light blue Leylands were a thing of beauty, staffed with conductor and a ticket machine that, however much it may have entered my Christmas list, was never forthcoming.

There were two weddings that summer, both of cousins. The best bib and tucker reserved for what was, at the time, mainly hatches and matches. Despatches, of course, were still not as common place. As the 70s wore on though they started to appear with more frequency. This is something that I have gravely noted throughout my most recent existence and have come to the conclusion that the 40s is the time in which the balance starts to shift. Funerals, should they enter the diary, were events that I was spared. The thought being that exposing a child to death at a young age would be a thing of trauma. Thus, I never attended the funerals of any of my three living adopted grandparents. Instead, such days were potentially a time of adventure being off-loaded to the parents of friend or relative. It almost made such events worth looking forward too. ‘Your fifteenth cousin has sadly passed away’ would likely be met with an unsurprised and slightly faked countenance. The question ‘Can I go to Toby’s ?’ being the most likely response.

On the subject of best bib and tucker, my 70s outfits seemed to be a mix of attempted simulation with the culture of the time, general tradition, classy choices and dreadful misses. This was, naturally, combined with sandals. Sandals for velvet trousers, sandals for tracksuits, but shoes for the scratchy worsted wool defaults that formed many a trouser leg. It was a time to invest in the stocks of sandals, a perfect way to land a ten-bagger with a well-managed start up PLC. One of my cousins in Woodingdean always seemed to buy me slippers for Christmas, the last and most predictable present to be opened. The feigned, reluctant and grimacing thank yous delivered with the poorest of acting skills at the post-Christmas meet up.

In the July of 1973 we packed our bags, or our parents did, and went on holiday to Paignton, a popular venue at the time although the years have sadly taken their toll since. It was decided that, to save money, the journey would be made by overnight coach from Manchester Street. Flash memories of the journey are limited to two. Walking down Manchester Street in the late evening for a 10.30 departure and waking up as we came into what was probably Exeter coach station the following morning. The journey in total took ten and half hours. There may have been some waiting time at the changing point but such an arduous trip suggests that the overnight decision was a wise one. On long journeys, given my clingy disposition, I would always sit with Mum. Her tolerance to my fidgety and ever questioning nature being more considered than Dad’s. My brother was more independent and probably a lot more interesting. Even at that time it was clear that we were very different in character, me being Mummy’s boy, he taking more after Dad. Hardly a unique situation.

The holiday in Paignton, if not coach trips on which I would invariably be sick, was the beginning of a love affair with that part of the country. We weren’t well resourced as a family but the summer holiday was generally a two-week affair that mum and dad saved hard for. The activities that ensued, although hardly luxurious or adventurous, were the things that stick in joyful memory. Torbay was such an example. The Flying Scotsman, the famous steam engine, would pull coaches over the old railway to Dartmouth from Paignton station. We only went on it once, such a trip not being cheap for the family, and 1973 was the year. Doubtless sleeping the previous night would have been a chore. In 2019 I returned to Paignton for a few days, the place seemingly tired and dated as society has moved on its expectations. Or perhaps it was that my own expectations had changed and the place is no longer for me. There is something destructive about trying to re-create the excitement of childhood in an adult mind. The old places will always be a disappointment when viewed through ageing eyes. Such memories belong in the past, accessed in times of reflection, but never re-enacted.

By now I was wearing glasses due to a lazy eye. This was to be for a period of three months initially although family pictures suggest this went on for longer. This, naturally, was not a popular decision in my quarters. It was even less popular when a child in my infant class decided that smashing them against a wall was a playful, or malicious, pastime. For me such aggressive action may have been a source of mild relief when all was considered. I stopped wearing them around the age of five but was forced to re-consider when my eye sight began to show signs of deterioration around the age of 18. Given my love for the game of cricket they became an essential although the emphasis has been on a more fashionable approach as I have aged. I look upon pictures in my early twenties, with the barnet of the age, with acute embarrassment.

At the start of September, it was time for big school. St Luke’s is the most sought-after primary facility in the country if catchment property prices are a guide. It’s reputation, or perhaps its facilities, even then were much in demand. I was awarded a place due to my older brother having been there already. On the morning of my journey into formal education I was chaperoned by my father and entered the classroom which had already swelled in number by the time we arrived. Like any such process to a four-year-old, I was in a bit of a daze.

Initially, reading had been a bit of a struggle. There had already been concerns raised the previous year about ‘signs of retardation’. My parents were aware of this but to much credit paid little attention to them. Indeed, it was mainly the view of the matron of the children’s home I came from that I would never amount to much. If my struggles with my first reading effort ‘The Big Red Lorry’ (or was it little ?) were anything to go by then this was to be more of an uphill struggle than the vehicle’s calamity with all its pots and pans on board. Yet any child who is brought up on the King James version of scripture is bound to steal a march at some stage. Perhaps if I had been taught Shakespeare from the age of four then events would have moved apace. I later won reading competitions and had a literate age three years in advance of my own. Knowing one’s thee from thou certainly had its merits. I was more Barnsley than Brighton.

My understanding of mathematics, or just general logic, was still wanting though. A boy in the class was given a group of sums the answer to every one of which was ten. I requested the same from the teacher and was most perplexed at her refusal. Even knowing the answers to all the ensuing questions was still a challenge to my fledgling intelligence.

At home, much of the activity would centre around the local church, Islingword Road Mission. There was the odd tupperware party, that bemusing essential in 70s neighbourhood life, but the church was at the heart of our family’s community engagement. The most common book in the house was the Word. For a child just learning to fathom numbers and letters this proved a challenge. My christening took place in October, another confusing affair with a spattering of family members present at Dorset Gardens Methodist Church. With next of kin surrounding, I was lifted up to the font, the pastor cupping water and pouring it onto my forehead. The traditional pastime perhaps more for a free insurance policy on my salvation than meaningful. The christening of a child in those days was a hollow and conforming celebration of hope rather than an entry through the turnstiles of Christendom. Of course, it meant sandwiches and sausage rolls after. If the fondant fancies were rolled out, along with the best china, then it was really special. This, of course, would be topped off if the pink ones hadn’t been snaffled by my brother or young cousins. Teas for adults were about community and meaningful talk about the newly appointed vicar. For me they were competition. None of us kids liked being last to the cake stand. I hated fruit loaf.

Back in the 70s, if one of us got ill then so did the rest. At the time there were five of us in the house. The spirit of the age, less so in the modern era, dictated that parents of age were not left to fend for themselves. This act of family unity was played out well at our abode. Grandma, on my mother’s side, had been a widow since 1963. Although only 70, she was not at her mobile best. Mum’s devotion to her was laudable and it was clear the bind between them was strong. Even after she died in 1978 my new space was always known as ‘nanny’s room’. My brother and I shared a room with its nightmarish Diddyman wallpaper, Ken Dodd’s creation of horror.

Throughout the final months of 1973 I spent a lot of time away from school with various ailments. Being in such close proximity to each other, and given the time, it was not uncommon for three family members to be out of action. Mum’s life seemed to be a great struggle with illnesses, later diabetes, and eventually the cruelest of all, dementia. She rode it well, along with the miss-carriages. One hopes if there is another life, she may be getting a better hand.

I was ill over that Christmas too, but the parents would not spare the celebrations. Father Christmas would make a visit to the school, and I definitely remember seeing him, the visit probably being suitably timed by my Mum as an essential journey due to her involvement in activities there. That afternoon I was wheeled into the classroom, duffle coat on, and placed into his hands. My primary concern was the present I would get as Santa was a little boring and peripheral. As long as he turned up on Christmas Eve all was well. I had already, like most kids, seen him at the Co-op in London Road anyway where, perched on his knee, I had been asked what I wanted for Christmas. A simple question to get through the gate of an early gift. I just pointed at a small present wrapped in purple tissue paper. He asked again, I pointed again, he then just gave up and handed me the bloody thing.

The year ended with another visit from the doctor, this event to see Mum, grandma, and myself. My introduction to full family life had been holidays, power cuts, adult angst, happiness, confusion and illness. A life like everyone else. The most important thing was I finally had stability and a family that genuinely loved me. The kids I left behind had no such fortune.

A Life Like Everyone Else- Five Years On- 1978

1978 was my favourite year- ever, which is seemingly some statement. In writing this I’m aware of a slightly melancholy tone of the most sub-conscious kind. As if the year has a permanent right to such a title and cannot be displaced. It was very much a year of introduction to cultural life, but also to death, which I will touch as this entry develops.

The first outing of the year had been a visit to the Ice Show at the Brighton Centre. This event was the first of its kind at the new venue, and most likely to my mind, preferably the last for me. Going ice skating was not something that lit my enthusiasm, least of all watching an affair of dated music with posh and bizarre costume. I hadn’t yet reached the age of choice so would doubtless have daydreamed the event away.

Still, the guest who accompanied us was coming back for tea so the best culinary efforts of Mum were something to look forward to.

The family had a dear and close friend, Roy. My parents had known him for many years through the Queen’s Park Methodist Church that we occasionally attended when there was a special evening on, or perhaps when the guest speaker was more charismatic, or less controversial, than the one invited to their regular church. Roy would often ferry us around to different events that he was attending and was very kindly in nature. Such events had a habit of being dull affairs to the younger mind. The most mind numbing of all occurring at St Marys Church down the road in the form of an afternoon Epiphany pageant on the 8^th January. St Mary’s was not the most casual of C of E gigs and seeing oddly cloaked men, more in keeping with a supremist cult than a welcoming Christianity, walking down the aisle whilst swinging vessels of coma inducing frankincense, was probably too much even for the parents. Needless to say, it was not an event that featured again…

One would have thought that my parents had long learned the lesson of not taking me to nauseous church productions. A number of years previous we had journeyed on a chartered coach to London for a choir evening. Traveling to London in those days involved the old A23 and a trip through the suburbs. I was easily travel sick and later was given the magic pill before I boarded transport. Such maternal legislation was not yet in place and when the service began I was feeling groggy. Up we rose to sing the first hymn and I threw up over the hapless bloke in front, his Sunday best splattered in a fashion that hometown seagulls would have applauded in unison.

Saturdays would see a customary visit to the London Road shops, the Co-op being the centre of many folk’s universe. Out of town shopping was a thing of the future, Woolworths was a dream of the present, especially its collection of chart singles, purple Quality Streets in the pic ‘n’ mix, and the opportunity to see the latest toys of fashion. That said, Gamleys it wasn’t. A Brightonian will understand that last sentence, and if they don’t, they didn’t have a childhood. As my brother and I walked along the grubby pavement one afternoon the conversation turned to music. Up until that point I had taken little interest, my only indulgence being Mum’s Val Doonican albums on a Sunday morning. You can’t beat a bit of ‘Delaney’s Donkey’ before Junior Church. If I heard a song, especially one I liked, it was etched in the mind. Some of this would have been down to Radio Brighton, the local eyes and ears of the wireless. There was clearly a lack of co-ordination in its musical sets. If a song was played once it would be played again when the next presenter came on. A number of years ago I remembered a couple of tracks that I hadn’t heard since their time of release. I was quite taken aback to find them in the charts at around the time of me being three and four years old. This is less to do with the memory of a savant and more to do with Radio Brighton’s scheduling.

The talk turned to the charts, specifically the Sunday evening Radio 1 show, at that stage presented by the soothing tones of Tom Browne. I explained to my brother that I had a distaste for pop music, citing my dislike of glam rock, something which has mostly persisted until this day- Wizzard excepted. ‘It’s not like that anymore’ he returned, and I agreed that I would listen in to see what new offerings the pop world afforded my finicky tastes. At that point there would be no return. Throughout the rest of the year the Sunday evening show became a must, as did racing home from school at lunch time on a Tuesday to catch the new top 5 presentation. I found myself fixated with climbers, droppers and non-movers, a forerunner to a wider obsession with statistics, and eventually started to create my own top 40 with a friend copying it out in handwriting which was becoming neater and more regimented by the month. Pop music became a passion, its birth in my soul that nubilous winter day in London Road.

With my brother, and failing badly to show off my bubble blowing skills

On the subject of handwriting, it was, and always has been, an irksome task to write in a joined-up fashion. This was falsely interpreted as a lack of effort in the lessons that I received at school, the teacher, perhaps understandably, not realising that I have an obsession with neatness and order. Rather than questioning my reasons, this once resulted in a slap round the face for failure to comply. The advent of the qwerty keyboard has helped immensely as I am inclined to re-write, at the least certainly not keep, something that is not neat enough. I have often been told that my writing is the neatest a person has ever seen. But this comes at a cost. In a less complimentary way, my writing has been compared to that of a school girl as well as that of a serial killer.  Perhaps ‘I don’t like Mondays may have therefore been written about me had I been of a more unhinged disposition. ‘Why don’t you like Mondays ?’ asks the presiding officer after the playground carnage, ‘It’s hand writing class…’.

The attempt to join up writing is conspicuously aborted in my earliest efforts

The 70s was still a time when youth organisations flourished. If you were religious, you would be sent to Boy’s Brigade, if you cared little for religion, the Scouts. I got the short straw. Boy’s Brigade was a Thursday night event that my soul groaned at the prospect of even as Wednesday dawned. Much of this was down to the uniform. A silly Garrison cap upon my head and, far worse, worsted wool dark grey trousers. Scratchy, rough and just generally awful, I hated wearing them and at times took to putting on another pair underneath. It was almost like they were a punishment for the sins of the previous life. Not only that, Thursday night was Top of the Pops. Sometimes I might get home in time to see the number one but that was the best hope available. A year on, in 1979, Gary Numan had topped the charts with ‘Cars’. This was new electro pop. I loved the track. Trouble was, again, Boy’s Brigade was threatening my viewing. Thus, a plan was hatched. I pretended to be unwell. This didn’t immediately succeed as my temperature was to be taken. The thermometer was placed in my mouth and Mum needed to go to another room. Knowing that a reading would offer me little prospects I thought quickly, removed the thermometer, and held it close to the kitchen fire. Once the footsteps returned, I placed it back in my mouth. A temperature of 104 and sympathy abounding. How I enjoyed the front row seat that night.

Throughout the year we would visit relations, mainly two sets. I had distant cousins in Woodingdean and Southwick, both with kids around my age. I would often be in trouble after these visits, one trip resulting in the Great Telling Off in the dining room upon return. My brother and I standing heads bowed in disgrace. For him to be in the dog house was quite rare, the advantage at my end being that he would have been seen as the one who should have known better. There had also been another Great Telling Off, which should really be referred to as GTO due to its likely frequency in these accounts, that occurred at Auntie Angela’s in Southwick. The convenient sponge of amnesia has wiped the transgression from memory, but, as delightful as she was, a telling off from Angela was a show stopping prospect. My parents just sat there and said nothing, quietly pleased, and doubtless the physical sentence may have occurred once I arrived home.

The world was becoming larger but my naivety and trusting nature was not growing with it. Even as an adult it has often been said how I can be easily influenced in a desire to assume the best of others. There is much of me that would wish to remain that way. But if you were trusting and easily led back then it was dangerous in the wrong environment. The influence of racism, prejudice, discrimination, and bullying were more prevailing in the environments I knew best. I often look back wishing I knew then what has transformed me now. This is no better exemplified than the moment a class mate approached me in the playground one afternoon encouraging me to follow him and others to the gate. Coming up the pavement was an older lad with Downs Syndrome, or a ‘spastic’ as he would have been institutionally or cruelly described as at the time. As he approached the group began to make the bent arm gestures and mock with much mirth. The emotion of the event is one of a slight confusion and apprehension, although my mind may have long since archived the truth of my involvement in the baiting, not wishing to be associated with its painful ignorance however much mitigation can be applied.

In the mid-summer of 1978 I had made a new friend. A classmate who I had paid little attention over time, except to admire his footballing skills, had began to converse with me more. There was naturally mutual interest and the tea invitation, that cementing of buddies, had been discussed. An arrangement would need to be made, and cleared through headquarters, for such an event. The spare kitchen chair was to remain unused. A little later, one pleasant afternoon, we all sat in class. I looked behind and saw a disturbing commotion. My new friend lay on the floor convulsing. The teacher was immediately in attendance and, I think, was joined from another classroom. The memory is now hazy, but I’m sure we were then ushered out. The following morning much talk abounded but news soon broke. He wasn’t coming back; he was never coming back. The haunted look in his brother’s eyes the next time I saw him lives with me to this hour.

Later on that month Nan also passed away. She had been a fixture of the home for all my time there. An almost anonymous character at times who said little but had an unbreakable bond with Mum. Dementia had slowly started to set in and she died in the Brighton General shortly after being admitted for an illness unrelated. We had been on holiday the previous year to the Isle of Wight and on this occasion she had gone to a rest home nearby, the journey and outings deemed too strenuous for her. Upon our return it was told that she had been sitting near the doors with bags packed for hours, willing our arrival for her collection, like a pining pet looking for its master’s return. To their credit, my parents were never a fan of ‘homes’. The option had been muted by the authorities where Mum was concerned when her dementia advanced. It was refused. Instead, Dad continued by her side and sometimes in lonely separation as she stared at the ceiling uttering unintelligible sentences. I asked him how he managed to which he responded ‘I said till death do us part’. Yet at the end she was a shell, an image of human misery, a reminder that the countenance of death is not always as unappealing as the dissembled smile of existence.

A short while after I moved into grandma’s room. Her death had saved my parents the prospect of needing to move. This had been explored on a few occasions although only in the local area. Having a room to myself was a liberating prospect. I have always been a person who likes to control their own environment and the moment finally arrived. We holidayed again in the Isle of Wight, another place of which my return reminds me of how much I have moved on in mature years. In 2014 I went over for a day and was as glad to come home as I was to go. The cultural stop was pulled in about 1982. Now Shanklin sits suspended in time, the pier never re-built after the 1987 hurricane, with elderly folk pottering along the promenade as if sentenced to reside by their resentful children who may visit once or twice a year- or never.

As the new term arrived, I found myself under the instruction of a teacher who took a dislike to me. Perhaps some of this may have had foundation but much of it seemed random in nature. Still socially awkward at times, I was more of an irritation than an actual problem. I was passive in nature, and some of the punishments adults inflicted on me had no justification. My class cunning was ingenious at times though. We would be awarded team points for tasks which could lead to sweets on a Friday. Myself and my friend David had a cheating pact by which we would declare more than had been awarded and back each other up in the event of query. The masterstroke occurred when David, who had advanced through the coloured stages of the ‘Reading Routes’ educational material as quick as I had, failed miserably on one of the tests. He was sent back to the start of the cards as a punishment. Of course, such a stage was easy and the guaranteed team point for a full house in the subsequent questions was a piece of cake. Realising this loophole, I then deliberately failed one of my tests and received the same punishment. I still laugh at this little victory when something jogs the memory. Team points galore and Jelly Tots on Friday.

Meeting new people and learning about other cultures and countries was a continued fascination. I knew most of the world flags and loved the countryside. My parents would indulge this obsession where they could. Visiting preachers would often be invited to dinner and the task given to me of escorting them around the nearby town, the poor souls returning in dishevelled state having failed to shut my enthusiastic discourse with the distraction of the ice cream van. Two regular visitors, Mr Andrews and Mr Bridle, were anticipated with great enthusiasm, their kindly and engaging spirits being remembered long into adult life. Indeed, ‘Uncle Ron’ had been called by on more than one occasion when behavioural issues had worn my parents down. His gentle talks and plentiful Spangles being the perfect antidote.

The year ended with a visit from the Southwick cousins, Roy, and some of the wider family- as well as four inches of glorious snow on New Year’s Eve. By now I had a cassette recorder and an orange transistor radio to listen to Radio Luxembourg late at night under the covers. If an FA Cup replay went on into the late evening my ears were there while my parents nodded off. Time was flying by, and as I one night contemplated my age in the year 2000 it seemed an eternity away. A milestone that now seems an eternity gone.