The Letter (September 1967)

I enjoyed sport at the school, playing football and cricket and I used to do the shot putt and the javelin.  I used to do quite well in competitions too.  However the downside to my stay at Wishmore Cross really started after the summer of '67. 

I am not sure what happened whilst I was away at school the previous term, but when I went home for the summer holiday it seemed to be a summer of friction and argument.  On one occasion there was a row about something or other and Patricia said to me, "Your not one of us anyway."

I was struck dumb.  What does she mean?  I am not a member of this family?  It almost felt as though I had been hit on the head and was totally stunned for days afterwards.

This was the same summer I threatened to kill 'dad'.  I don’t recall what he did to upset me, except he must have hit me.  I had gone into the kitchen and grabbed a large knife.  As I came charging out of the kitchen I could hear 'Mum' and 'Tricia shouting at me to stop, that it was alright, but I had lost it, I was totally out of control.  I chased him from the hallway halfway up the stairs to the landing where he slipped and fell.  I crouched over him, ready to kill, instead I just screamed at him and warned him that if ever he touched me again I would kill him.  I ran out of the house and went to Grandad’s. 

I stayed with my Nan and grandad for the rest of the holiday.  I remember thinking that I was sure my 'family' had planned this as an awful holiday as an excuse to get rid of me.

Back at a school I started showing very anti-social tendencies and was increasingly violent.  What sparked it off was a letter from my foster parents. I was in the art class at the time and was given the letter by the teacher, Mr. Budd.  I opened it and read it, and re-read it.  I went into a state of shock - I kept re-reading it - I just couldn't believe it. 

They were telling me that they never wanted to see or hear from me again.  I was about 12/13 at the time and the whole of my world had just fallen apart.  The teacher started to talk to me but I didn't hear him.  When I became aware of him I could see and hear him speaking but I just couldn't understand what he was saying - I just nodded my head and said yes, not knowing what he was saying and followed him.  He took me into the kiln room (I was very fond of pottery) and left me there.  I just cried and cried and cried. After about an hour of uncontrollable crying I stopped.  I smashed every pot and piece of work in the room - and I made a vow - that I hated this world, all the people in it and that I would destroy everything.  I vowed that nobody would ever have a claim on me or be a part of my life again. 

Rebellion
And so it started. I left the kiln room and wandered around the grounds for an hour or so.  I then went and sat in the middle of the playing field for 4 days.  Teachers and boys used to come up to me and ask me what I was doing and I would attack them with hatred and extreme violence.  I sat through rain and shine.  On day 2 of my madness the playing field was put out of bounds to the rest of the school, and I was left alone.  I never ate or drank.  I stewed.  I hated.  I swore revenge.  I didn’t move except at night time when I used to go for walks.

The headmaster came to speak to me on day four.  I really liked him, he was a very kind and caring man.  It was raining and I was sitting on the cricket field and he came and sat next to me and made no effort to speak.  He was a very understanding man, he just sat for about an hour adjusting himself to my emotional wavelength at that time.  When he spoke he spoke to me he did so in such a way that I could respond to him.  No speaking down to me. No bullying me.  He spoke straight to me heart and in a way that I could understand and respond to.  He asked what was wrong and though I couldn't speak about it I gave him the letter which I had still been reading continuously for the past 4 days.  I think that letter hurt him almost as much as it had me.  Tears rolled down his face as he told me he had no idea, he knew nothing about it.

He left me there.  I could feel the violence and anger and bitterness welling up inside me like a volcano.  It frightened me.  I walked out of the school and over to the army training ground at the back of the Old Dean Estate.  I just wanted to lose myself.  I stayed there, wandering, for about 3 days.  I slept in the open air not caring about the weather.   I eventually made my way back to the school. Only because I was hungry.

I re-entered school life, but this time I was doing what I wanted to do.  I went to the lessons I wanted to go to.  I smoked openly in the school.  After a week of my personal anarchy and a physical attack on Mr. von Berg the science teacher, the headmaster called me to his office.  He told me this couldn’t go on and he was going to cane me, six of the best.  I took the cane from his hand and beat him with it.  

I was expelled from the school because of my violence and antisocial behaviour. I had been seeing a child psychiatrist (an adult that deals with children not a...._) but that hadn't dome any good.  I was now aged about 12.

Wishmore Cross
Wishmore Cross was a large red brick building with a military background.  It was a residential school for maladjusted kids.  It was situated on the London Road at Camberley, Surrey, just 300 yards or so from the famous Jolly Farmer roundabout at Bagshot.  This was a terrific school with very caring teachers, most of whom were real characters. 

Jim Mothersole was the Headmaster, a very caring man who I held in very high respect.  He was a diamond.... and had a very beautiful daughter, Jane.  

David Maclean was the math’s and sports teacher, he was  a one-armed war veteran.  He again was very caring.  If you asked 'for a hand' whilst working he used to walk past your desk and leave his artificial hand on the desktop.  If you weren’t paying attention he would throw a piece of chalk at you with the accuracy and velocity of a bullet.  Another diamond geezer.

Eric von Berg. He lived in a house on the premises and was a keen caravanner.  Von Berg was our science teacher and apart from that I remember very little about him.  But he obviously left an impression.

Mr. Ng was our art teacher, I remember him only because of his unusual name, he left very soon after I arrived.  His replacement was Mr. Budd.  Mr. Budd I remember very well.  Again a very caring man with a big bushy beard.

Mrs. Beaver was the school matron.  She too was a war veteran and had lost both legs during World War 2.  She was caring and not easily fooled by 'random sickness' when we fancied a day in bed.  She also used to live in the 'loft' above our dormitory and if there was any noise made after lights out that disturbed her she used to descend upon us with a hell of a temper.  More than one boy was caught in bed with another by one of her surprise visits too.

For quite a while I settled down at this school.  I enjoyed sport, playing football, softball, and cricket.  I used to enjoy some athletics and cross country running.  Mind you the cross country running was mainly because it took us up by the girl's school and because it was an hour or so out of school with as many stops as we wanted for a fag break.  Unfortunately our cross country running was stopped for a term or so because someone used to take potshots at us with an air rifle.  Those pellets did sting!!

I also found myself attending St. Martin's Church of England Church on the Old Dean Estate which was just a stones throw away from the back of the school.  I do not recall how I came to be involved there - unless it was to be close to a girl who I used to call Diana Bolognese.  I called her that because I couldn’t remember or pronounce her surname. 

Diana was my true love of the time and we used to meet on the bus which ran from Old Dean Estate down to Camberley town usually on a Saturday.  But we used to meet up as often as possible.  Her home was near the Old Dean parade of shops and I used to hang around by the shops to try to speak to her and make plans for when we could get together.  We often would often walk back towards the school together and spend sometime in the play park behind the houses and just by the school. 

Rev. Cave was the boss at the church and I became involved in their youth group.  In 1967 (I think) I was baptised at the church and a local couple were my godparents.  I never saw them again.  A few months later I was confirmed by the Bishop of Guildford at St. Michaels Church in Camberley.  This felt quite important to me at the time.

Dens
This school was no different to any of the schools or homes I had been to.  It had dens.  Dens were the places where teachers never came.  Where we could smoke and be ourselves.  Dens were also a hive of sexual experimentation.  By this time I was enjoying sex with boys, whilst also fancying girls.  I hadn’t yet had sex with a girl though.  The question of sexuality or understanding about sexuality never arose though.  We all just enjoyed the experiences.

I once got caught when I was unwell in the sick bay, in bed with a boy.  I had been confined to the sick bay for some reason and Barry came in to visit me.  I don't know how it happened but we ended up in my sick bed together and in came Mrs. Beaver.  "What is going on?" she asked.  I wonder what it looked like if she had to ask.  "Nothing miss"  we both said.  Barry rushed out, bright red.

I had not been at this school very Long when I was raped in the dormitory.  One night after lights out 5 or 6 boys came over to my bed.  I was a little concerned, I wondered if I was going to be beaten up.  I couldn’t think what for though.  Most of the boys jumped on me and held me down, I struggled to get free but couldn’t.  Whilst they were holding me down another started fondling my genitals.  I was soon erect and the boy continued masturbating me, whilst I pretended to struggle.  Eventually I orgasmed and the boys left me alone saying that was my initiation.  I never complained about this, and the thought of it being rape never occurred to me because I actually enjoyed it, but later in life it caused enormous problems for me. 

I ran away from this school a lot.  I  was never away for very long, usually no more than 3 days.  One occasion I was away for about 2 months though.  I travelled to the Isle of Wight and got a job on a fairground on the green at Ryde seafront.  I couldn’t believe it at the time; I was 12 years old and in charge of a fairground ride.

I slept on the seafront and turned up for work each day.  After about 3 or 4 weeks I got bored with life and decided to move round the coast.  I went to Seaview and slept under boats on the beach.  I stole food and milk from the hotels and eventually met up with a young gay chef from one of the hotels.  I stayed with him for a couple of weeks until I had begged borrowed or stolen enough money to move back to the mainland.  I travelled back to the school just a couple of weeks before the next term started.

 

Dens

We also built 'cave dens' in the clay soil at the rear of the main school building.  This is where we used to go for a smoke, a fight and where teachers didn't come unless they really had to because it was so muddy.  We used to dig out a hole, then use wood or corrugated iron sheets to cover the hole over and then pile twelve inches of clay on the roof.  We were secure from teachers prying eyes.  In some of the more intricate and well built dens there were fireplaces and chimneys and cooking racks for jacket spuds or anything else we could steal from nearby farmer’s fields or more rarely, the kitchens.

Sometimes we used to have battles between the dens of older boys and younger ones.  We would hide in the den and pop a head out to lob a ball of clay or small rock at someone else’s den.  They would respond likewise.  No one ever got hurt, it was just good dirty fun!

Sex

I had my first experience of gay sex, or sexual abuse depending upon perspective, at this school.  A milk lorry used to come and collect bulk milk from the local farms.  The drivers always used the lay by near the end of the school property for their lunch breaks.  There was one driver who used to give the boys cigarettes or money.  When I discovered this I decided to find out which driver it was and see what I could get out of him.  I found out who it was and one lunchtime managed to get to him before any of the other boys.  I soon discovered how they made their money or got their cigarettes!!

He told me what the score was.  In the hedge by the lay by was a hollow that had been made into a den.  We would go there and play and if I was good I too could make money.  It happened, and it wasn't too bad, and I made money this way a few times.

As the older boys got to know what I was doing with this man they got me involved in their games in the dormitory and dens.  Because of my age (I was only 10 or 11 at this time) the games always ended in their pleasure rather than mine.

Disaster

The school had its own bulldozer and dump truck.  This was because they were still developing the property and liked to build their own buildings etc as projects for us maladjusted kids to get involved in.  I learnt to drive the dump truck and got the hang quickly.  For some reason they wouldn't let us kids drive the Platypus bulldozer though.  This must have frustrated me immensely because one Sunday when all was quiet, I think all the kids and staff were in the TV hut watching the Sunday film, I was messing around near where the Platypus was stored and I found myself in the driving seat.  I started the engine (the staff always left the keys in the ignition, probably to save them getting lost or stolen),  I messed about with the controls and suddenly it started moving forwards.  I panicked, where is the brake?  Oh heck where is it?  Press this, pull that, oh heck where is it?  I didn't have time to find it now - I leapt off the dozer just seconds before it plunged into the swimming pool!!

Oh no - that will ruin the swimming gala this year!

Beginning of a criminal

Before being moved out of this school I had my first lessons in crime. 

Local houses and farms must have got fed up with us kids from the local school.  We were always breaking into their property.  Houses, cars, farms, shops, even the local church lost their money box a few times, they all suffered at our hands.

It was usually petty thievery, money or cigarettes.  Though, a grapevine suffered at our hands once, heaven knows why!! 

I was eleven or twelve at the time and a group of us ran away from the school and broke into a house to steal food, cigarettes and money.  We invaded a quarry, in the process breaking into offices, sheds stealing anything and everything.  We also demolished a bulldozer by driving it over a huge cliff.  We were caught shortly afterwards and I received a 12 month conditional discharge.

I never returned to this school from the court.  I was expelled after the court case was concluded and I was sentenced to a 12 month conditional discharge.  I am not sure if I was being a bad influence on the other kids at the school or vice versa, but expelled I was.

After this event I was moved to a children's home near Leatherhead, Canons Court at Great Bookham, for the summer holiday.  That holiday, coincidentally was spend in beautiful Torbay in South Devon where I was to later live with my own family.  We stayed in  what is now called Paignton Community College on the Borough Road site sleeping on camp beds and mattresses on the floors of the classrooms.

After that summer holiday I was then sent to a residential school near Camberley in Surrey.  

Walton Elm

The school was a good one. It was set in the beautiful Dorset countryside, about 8 miles from Gillingham and Shaftesbury, 2 miles from Sturminster Newton and in the village of Marnhull.  There were about 60 boys and it was run by a headmaster called Johnson who was really very kind and cared about the lads.  There was also a housemaster called Trethewey.  He was a very military minded man (he even used to carry his swagger stick with him everywhere).  We used to have to march everywhere when he was around and everything had to be 'square and Bristol-fashion' (whatever that means).

One Saturday shortly after I arrived at the school I got a visitor.  This was a complete surprise.    It was Timothy in his bubble car.  When he got it, it was a grotty white colour, he had painted it red and black check.  It looked really funky.   I was so pleased to see him.  It was difficult to understand why I couldn’t be at home with my family.  Incidentally, no one else ever bothered to come and visit me other than social workers!

I learned a lot at Waltom Elm.
Lesson number one was swimming. We had our own swimming pool and each year used to have a 'gala-day'.  This combined an old boy’s reunion, parent’s day, and us showing off our dubious talents in a series of concerts, plays and sports events. 

It was during "nosh-up" time at the end of the day that I again learnt to swim (after my near disastrous experience on holiday a few years previously).  All the parents and old boys used to crowd into a huge marquee towards the end of the day and try to make it all worthwhile by stuffing their faces with as much free food as possible.  Whilst this was going on a few of us boys were diving off the boards into the pool and I was standing by the side of the pool throwing cups of water over them when something very strange happened.  I went to throw the water but didn’t let go.  Somehow in the throwing motion I threw the water the cup and myself straight into the deep end.  The water was about eight feet deep and I was about four feet tall.  I touched bottom kicked off and just naturally started swimming, fully clothed.

Church
Another lesson I learnt was about churches.

Every Sunday morning, come rain or shine, we had to march 3 miles to a quaint little church and then march back afterwards. As if the marching wasn't enough to put us off church for life we had to sing dirgy psalms and sleepy hymns and listen to boring sermons about death and despondency and how the wages of sin was death and if we were not good we would go blind or deaf and if we were really naughty we would be punished with both afflictions.

Within the church we were seated in the gallery.  This was probably to stop us annoying the good local folks during their worship.  It didn't stop us however.  Missiles of one description or another, usually paper balls, would often fly mysteriously from the gallery only to cop some old dear behind the ear.

The only reason we used to carry on being naughty was because after the strenuous march and a couple of sleepy hymns and monotoned monotonous prayers we would all be quietly snoring or playing snap or poker. Either way we didn't really take a lot of notice of what was going on. Church was boring.

Handel’s Water Music
One of my most valuable experiences at this school was musical.  I  had told the music teacher that I played piano and she got me started to learn to play violin too!  This experience, which I proved good at, gave me a love of music which has stayed with me all my life to date.  I continued piano for several years gaining qualifications over a number of years.  My musical tastes today are wide and varied, though regrettably, I no longer play.

I played Handel's Water Music and Jesu, Joy of Mans Desiring, as a solo, on piano in a concert, and also violin with the school music group in the same concert, and this I blame for my love of show biz and showing off.

Frome

When we had settled into our house in Nunney Road, Tim and Wendy went round the corner to the Oakfield Road Secondary School opposite the Police Station and I was sent to Milk Street Primary School which was down the hill and through a few back streets.

I am not entirely sure why but I never really settled in Frome.  I didn’t last long at Milk Street Primary and apparently I nicked my sisters dinner money.  Looking back, I think that the problems I was having settling were related to my insecurities.  I didn’t like change it seemed.  My life at home felt so insecure and hostile that to add to my insecurities with a new environment outside of the home, like a new school, was just too much for me to cope with.

I only have two real memories of this school; one is that instead of getting a free bottle of milk at break time as I did at my previous school, we got a free bottle of orange squash! 

My other memory was being embarrassed in class when the teacher asked me if I had brought any pumps.  I looked blankly at her - what on earth are pumps I thought to myself?  She shouted the question again at me.  I shrugged my shoulders and mumbled about not knowing. 

The class started laughing at me until someone said "plimsolls?"  Oh plimsolls - "yes miss I have some plimsolls".  The whole class was laughing at me as we trekked out to the playground for PE..

My only other memory of this school was the walk home.  At the bottom of Nunney Road is a big junction with a car park.  Each day when we came out of school there was a woman who was always sitting on the bench in the shelter at the back of the car park.    She was aged about 55, grossly overweight, dressed in dirty old-lady type dresses.  Apparently her name was Mavis and she was a prostitute.  Even at my age I knew what a prostitute was, and I also wondered why anybody would pay to have sex with someone like that.  The car park was her patch and she would be there until late at night plying her trade and all day Saturday.

Nan and Grandad Garland

Prior to moving to Frome Nan and Grandad Garland had not been anything special to me.  They were nice people we used to visit each week as they lived about 2 miles from us in Molesey.  They were my 'mum's' parents - I think my dad's family were in South Africa.

However, when we moved to Somerset, they moved with us and I became much closer to Grandad.  I think he could see how I was treated at home and tried to befriend me and make up it up to me.  At every opportunity I would walk the 4 miles or so through the country lanes to go and see grandad.  As well as after school I used to spend most Saturdays and Sundays there.  Dad just wanted me out of the house as much as possible.

When I was over at grandad's for whole days I used to go for walks along the quarry railway lines.  Walk up to the quarries and throw stones.  Put threepenny bits on the railway tracks and watch the trains squash them.  Alongside the railway line was a little river.  Me and Grandad or sometimes Timothy, used to go fishing for trout there too.  I really enjoyed my life away from home and in the countryside.

I used to enjoy helping grandad with his vegetable garden, digging it over, planting and picking.  I never got into his love for his aviary and cage birds though.  I never did manage to learn whether it was a finch or a canary - to me it was yellow, brown or whatever.  The best thing about the birds though was the special feed we used to give them on Saturdays.  Boiled eggs and digestive biscuits all mashed up and mixed together - it was delicious.

Timothy

I used to admire and look up to my foster brother Tim a lot.  He is about 10 years older than me so I never really got involved in his life, but he got involved in mine and treated me like a real brother.  On occasions he came up to the quarries with me and we rode the quarry trains together. 

He used to have a James 125cc motorbike that he taught me to ride.  We used to ride through the woods, over the fields and have a good laugh together.  We even explored over the land at the top of the quarries.

Shortly after we moved to Frome Tim bought an old three wheel bubble car.  He was going to do it up and use it.  I have loved bubble cars ever since and wish I could afford to buy one. 

Wendy

I never really had much to do with Wendy.  She was about 8 years older than me and very pretty.  She was also very talented and artistic.

Patricia

'Tricia was a nice girl.  There was only a couple of years between us, she being the younger.  I think we used to play well together. 

Highlight of the Week

Highlight of my week used to be the shopping trip on Saturday mornings.  I used to love walking round the streets of Frome.  Dad used to drop us at the car park at the bottom of Nunney Road and the main supermarket was just across the road.  He used to come and do the main shopping there with us which we then took back to the car and he would take it home. 

We kids could then relax and start to enjoy ourselves and Mum would then take us down through the town.  Without 'him' around Mum was ok. I don’t think I ever remember her being 'fun', it wasn’t her way, but she was a kind woman and loved us.

We used to stroll down Catherine Street, Catherine Hill and Stony Street.  This is a steep hill with lots of little local shops of all descriptions.  I used to love all the little shops.  I was so pleased as I wandered down there recently to find it is largely unchanged. 

We used to turn right out of Stony Street into Bath Street and just a few shops along we used to pop into the Wimpy bar.  Mum always had a coffee.  I usually had coca cola or milk shake.  I don’t remember what Tim and Wendy had, I think it was cokes though.  Patricia usually had orange juice I think.  We then used to wander down Market Place to the river and back up the other side of the street strolling up Cheap Street with the stream running down the centre of it and down King Street. Dad then used to pick us up outside the cinema which was nearby.  Very occasionally we kids would then be allowed to go to the cinema.  This was where I first saw one of my favourite films of all time - Blackbeard's Ghost.

Unmanageable

My 'parents' decided when I was about eight years old that I was totally unmanageable and sent me to a children’s home called Woodrough.  It was set in a little village called Bramley near Guildford in Surrey.  I don’t remember too much about this period except that I was very unhappy and confused and kept on running away.

I was in this home for about nine months and was then sent to a boarding school at Marnhull near Sturminster Newton in Dorset.

 

to be continued...........

Running Away to Australia
I do know that even at this stage in my life I was very unhappy at home.  A friend of mine, Billy Price, who lived just a round the corner in First Avenue and his family were emigrating to Australia.  On the day he was due to leave I ran away from home.  I crept out of my bottom bunk in case I woke my 'brother', grabbed my clothes and took them to the bathroom to get dressed.  Having completed that part of the operation the problem was now to get downstairs.  We had stairs that creaked.  I knew where the creaky steps were, and I thought I had worked out how to get around them.  Miss that one completely, step on the far left of that one, far right on that one, and just on the edge of that one.  The stair creaked... too bad. Nobody moved. Everything was still quiet, so I continued downstairs.

I got out of the house and ran round to Billy Prices house.  It was light but must have still been very early in the morning.  I sat on his front step with a small bag holding a few clothes, waiting for him to wake up.  I awoke with a start when his mum opened the door and I fell through it.

She took me inside and asked me what was going on.  I told her I had runaway from home because I was so unhappy and my dad hits me.  I asked if I could go with Billy and them to Australia? 

She took me into the kitchen for a hot drink and some toast and called Billy from his bed.  When I told Billy what I done and planned he begged his mum to take me with them. 

After a little while she explained I couldn’t go with them and that I had to go back home.  I begged her not to send me home.  As I recall I even cried, mainly with unhappiness but also with fear at the thought of what 'Dad' would do to me if I went back home.

Billy's mum 'phoned mine and 'Dad' was going to come and pick me up.  I said goodbye to Billy and said I wouldn’t go back home.  I ran out of the front door straight into my dad who was just walking up the garden path.  He grabbed me and put me in the car and took me home.  I was grounded for a month, though we didn’t call it grounded in those days.  I wouldn’t be allowed out with my friends or on my bike at all.  I was allowed to go to school and straight home and that was it.

I don’t know whether it had anything to do with the Price family moving to Australia, but my foster parents started to make enquiries at Australia House in the Strand in London about us moving to Brisbane, Australia.  The whole process was very lengthy and I didn’t have very much to do with any of it.  But when we were all called up to Australia House a while later for an interview we all went as a family.

There were health checks, and work checks and all sorts of stuff going on and a long while after the interview we received a letter from Australia House saying we couldn’t move.  I am not sure whether it was because I a foster child or because I had a weak chest (I seem to think it was the latter) but we couldn’t go and it was made clear to me it was my fault!

Illnesses

As a child I suffered greatly from asthma and chest complaints.  The doctors now say that this asthma is largely an emotional illness, and from experience I can see that this was so in my case.  It was nearly always after an emotional upset at home, usually my 'father' abusing me one way or another, that I suffered worst.  My 'illness' always upset him more and so the vicious circle went on.

My worst experience was an asthma attack that I thought was going to kill me.  As always I never called anyone for help.  It was a really bad attack in the middle of the night and the only thing I could do was to open and hang out the bedroom window to try and get some air.  'Dad' walked in and belted me without asking what was going on and threw me back into bed.  I remember wondering what was the point of living with a life like this!

I had my tonsils out when I was about 6.  I went to Kingston Hospital for this and remember having the pre-med injection and I got as far as 5 in the countdown.  I remember waking up though as they carried me on a stretcher down the stairs.  I don’t know if this because the lift was out of order, or maybe there was no lift.  But the experience has given me a fear of hospitals that has stayed with me ever since.

I do remember at some time going into West Molesey cottage hospital but I don’t remember what it was for.

Park Street Primary

In the natural course of things I moved to Park Street Primary School.  I was not happy at this move.  I had been very happy in my infant school (Chandlers Field Primary School as it is now called).  I remember being bullied extensively at Park Street.  I started having all sorts of difficulties because of my fears and insecurities.  It didn’t help that when I got home I was then humiliated and abused over those!!  It didn’t last for long fortunately as it coincided with us moving to Frome.

MOVED TO FROME

It was only a year or so after we couldn’t go to Australia that we moved to Frome in Somerset.  We moved to 84 Nunney Road, which mother named 'The Hollies' after her favourite band of the time.  Nan and Grandad Garland moved with us.  They bought a cottage in a nearby village called Great Elm (pronounced 'Gert Elm').

to be continued..........

 

Holidays

An amusing incident occurred when we were on holiday at a place called Ugborough in Devon.  I was aged about 4 or 5 at the time.  'Daddy' decided that he wanted to emulate his hero, Stirling Moss and went speeding down a country lane and had an accident, hitting a car coming in the opposite direction.  We all got out of our car and there was this rather good imprint of the front of the other car on the front of ours.  We kids were standing around giggling and sniggering and this other chap was telling Dad that he didn’t realise Woolworth’s still sold driving licenses.  'Dad' was getting more & more embarrassed, when yours truly stepped forward in all innocence (honestly) and said, within earshot of just about everybody, "Don't worry dad, it's only the firm's car".

As I explained earlier, in those days it was not as socially acceptable to have a company car as it is today.  I think it is probably true to say that my 'Dad' was not too impressed with my command of the English language.  I remember not having any supper that night, which didn’t really matter as I would have been unable to sit down and eat it anyway.

On one occasion, we went to a coastal resort for a holiday.  When we down to the beach for the day.  On the beach my 'dad' started teasing me about not going swimming and what a coward and baby I was.  I ended up crying and told him I could swim and would show him.  I stripped off my clothes ran into the water and started swimming.  And kept on swimming and kept on and kept on and kept on.  I was heading out to sea and not really thinking about it when I heard all this screaming and shouting from the beach.  I stopped swimming and looked back at the beach.  I saw all these very tiny people waving their arms about.  My brother was swimming toward me and eventually caught up.  I thought we were going to play a game or something but he told me were going back to the beach.  It seemed to take ages to swim back but our feet touched sand and I noticed dad was standing on his own; nobody was talking to him as they looked at me as if to say things like "Oh poor boy with a wicked daddy".  I didn't particularly like my dad and was secretly pleased he was being told off.

Religious matters

Considering that my 'Mum' was a Quaker and used to march with CND (dragging us all along including 'Dad', prodding us to keep moving and if we moved too much it was the old slapped legs routine), I suppose they were quite nice people really.  Everybody has their good points, it was just a pity I discovered few of theirs.

My foster parents must have been one of the last to send children to Sunday school in the great British tradition.  Whether it was a ruse for the grown-ups to have an hour's peace and quiet or truly for the spiritual benefits I don't know.  What I do know is that along with the other children I had to go each and every week, and I can remember absolutely nothing of these occasions and so presume they had little or no impact at all on my life at that time.

However it did lead to my joining the church choir at St. Mary's Church of England Church in East Molesey.  I'm not too sure how long I was in the choir but I recall spending almost the entire service sending slips of paper to the girls in the choir around the stalls throughout the service to relieve the boredom.  I was eventually 'removed' from the choir. I don't quite recall exactly why - for which I am sure I am extremely grateful.

Piano Lessons

My 'sister' Wendy used to have piano lessons each week and it was decided when I was about 5 that I would have them too.  I used to have the hour long slot after Wendy on a Saturday morning.  We used to travel to Ember Court Road near Hampton Court which is where the elderly lady lived who gave us our lessons.  I often found it laborious, especially learning scales, but I persisted and am glad I did.  Wendy became a very proficient pianist and passed a lot of examinations and for a short while she taught piano to others.  I used to practice at home, but more out of fear than desire as 'dad' stood over me.

to be continued........

 

THE EARLY YEARS (June 1955)

I was born in Kingston-upon-Thames hospital quite a long time ago, on 6th June in 1955 in fact.  This took place when I was very young so I don't remember too much about it, nor did I have an awful lot of say in it.  My mother's husband was not my father, and in 1955 this was quite a serious scandal.  My mother and her husband split up, as did my mother and my father.  My poor old mum couldn’t cope with bringing me up on her own so she put me into the care of the local child welfare office.

I had lived happily in a nursery at Woking until I was two when I was fostered by some people who lived in Belvedere GardensWest Molesey in Surrey.  He was ex-RAF, and at this time a fairly successful business-man selling the latest Crittal windows to the building trade.  She was very respectable and had two children of her own, Timothy and Wendy, but yearned for another.  Unable to have another in the natural course of events they fostered me and a couple of years later adopted a young girl, Patricia. in

Horace Charles (foster father).......

My relationship with my 'father' was always strained. He always seemed to resent me but wanted to keep his wife happy.  I am not sure why they adopted Patricia a year or two after fostering me, maybe he needed another 'play-thing' for his wife.  I not sure if he ever knew what fatherly love was, or even thought about the role of the father towards me or his own children; maybe his lack of positive feelings for me was just because I was an 'outsider'.  Our relationship was based on his wife's need, so I was tolerated, and over just 9 years our relationship deteriorated to the point where I held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him if he ever touched me again.

My 'daddy' was a very proud man, and very proud of his car.  It was a black baby Austin (Austin A30/35) as it was called in those days.  He would wash and polish it relentlessly.  He was not proud of the fact that it was a company car though.  Today nobody thinks twice about having a company car, in fact some people are affronted and offended if they DON'T have one!!  In the 1950's and 60's though, it was considered socially unacceptable to have a company car.  Or maybe only to snobs!!

As a child I suffered very badly with travel sickness.  I only had to look at a car and I would feel sick!!  I brought the subject up once, all over the back seat.  I got a good hiding for it, but that failed to cure me.

It did make afraid to say anything though whenever I did feel sick.  What always used to make the situation worse was that my 'brother and sisters' sitting with me in the back seat used to find it all hysterically funny and roll about the car laughing.

My father knew this amazing cure for my sickness.  It involved first slapping the left leg, then the right, then the left ear, then the right and then back to the legs again.  This "cure" used to continue until Dad thought I was feeling better again.  I really don't know where he learnt it, but it never worked.  He never seemed to realise that it didn’t work either - twenty miles later we would be back at the cure again and Mum would be cleaning the car and sure enough the kids would be laughing hysterically.

As this section is about my 'Dad' perhaps I should conclude it with these two notes. 

I only learnt one thing from my 'dad', the art of hate.  He stirred up in me all that is negative and horrible in human nature.  He taught me about snobbishness and hate for 'lower classes'.  He taught me about everything that was wrong with men, but more than anything he taught me how to hate, hate society and hate people.

My last note on this man is this:  I got in touch with the family in 1984 when I was preparing to get married to my first wife, Ginny.  I felt it was an episode I really needed the closure of.  It was as if I couldn’t fully love my wife to be if bitterness and hatred towards him was still in my heart.  I needed to forgive them all and especially him.  I put it off for ages, only because of 'him', however when I did get to Frome where they lived, I managed to trace the family who had all moved across town, and found that he had died just months earlier from heart failure.  Inside I rejoiced, but I kept quiet. 

As I spent the day with the family I asked them about his death and not one was bothered.  I got the impression they would all, including his wife, dance on his grave at regular intervals given the chance.  His wife was so grief stricken she ran off with a man friend just month's after.  I guess I find healing in that even today, that it wasn’t just me that he hated and abused, it was everyone.

 

Grace (foster mother).....

Grace was a wonderful woman really.  It is a real shame she was let down by her husband.  She was very caring.  Whether it was towards people, kids, animals, the planet, her parents - she cared.  It was her that was the driving force behind the local Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) group.  It was her that was a Quaker.  I think she probably had issues with needing to mother, hence her fostering me and adopting 'Tricia, but that doesn’t matter when you are as compassionate as she was.  She often tried to stick up for me, but she did what she was told by her husband.  She was a peace loving woman who was easily emotionally and intellectually beaten into submission by her husband.  In stature she was a little woman - probably just about 5 foot tall - in comparison her husband was a giant in stature standing at about 6 foot and well built.  In moral stature though - he was dwarfed by her inner beauty and gentleness.

 TO BE CONTINUED......

He started trying to smash my windscreen with his truncheon and when that didn't succeed he rummaged in the boot of a police car and returned with a chainhoist.

Meanwhile I was laughing hysterically which didn't make matters any better.

As he started swinging the chain hoist the look in his eyes told me that he was no longer concerned about my safety. His eyes told me that if the chain hoist crashed through the windscreen and hit me, he would be unconcerned. It seemed that the most important thing was for him to stop me making his police force a laughing stock. He obviously derived no pleasure from Keystone Kop movies!!

I surrendered after the first swing of the chain hoist. I knew the windscreen wouldn't survive a second swing, and that with flying glass and the flying chain hoist I could end up severely injured!! I stepped out of the car and felt policeman grab me from all directions.

The mad inspector was about to put me into a car when the detectives took charge. They were certainly saving me from a good hiding by taking me themselves.

The score for the day was; One police car written off, three damaged, I was captured, charged and in custody, and now looking at a 7 year prison sentence.

I had been on the run from the police for about 18 months after the theft of a payroll in London. I was wanted by police in London, Margate, Sussex and Surrey on charges of theft of the pay-roll, fraud, and various other thefts and burglaries.

I had been caught once before on these matters and had had a word with a magistrate friend of mine about bail. This had been arranged with the police and I had been bailed unconditionally, with no charges having yet been made.
I had jumped the bail and fled to the South Coast, moving along the coast between Margate and Hastings to Eastbourne and Brighton. I had spent my time defrauding banks and credit card companies with stolen cheque books and credit cards along the way.

It was the continuing and repetitive story of my life. Conning, manipulating and if all else failed, stealing, to meet the ever growing demand for materialistic satisfaction. This time though, having only been out 2 years after 5 years inside, I was guaranteed a more permanent address, courtesy of Her Majesty's government for at least 5, probably 7, years.

I suppose my life of crime really started when I was eight years old. I was living in Somerset with foster parents in a small town called Frome. We had moved there about six months previously, and my first crime was to steal my sister's pocket money.

A year later I was at a boarding school near Sturminster Newton in Dorset where I was supposed to be learning spelling and other educational subjects, instead I was learning and practising the art of burglary and stealing from cars. These crimes culminated in my appearance at a juvenile court charged with burglary, theft and criminal damage. We had also driven a bulldozer over the edge of a quarry, and this was the start of my enjoyment of being destructive, which ended in my burning down a supermarket and a factory.

But let us go right back to the beginning.....................

I thought for a moment that I had made a great a mistake. I started to shake inside. Everything seemed so quiet, were they waiting for me to make a move? Was I waiting for them to open fire? It seemed a long time until someone stirred. The detective who was still pressed flat against the side of the car asked me very politely if I would give him the gun. He seemed to have changed his tack. From the aggressive, demanding instructions he had given only a few moments ago, he changed. Maybe he had tried to bully me, found it hadn't worked and would now try a different approach. His politeness surprised me for a moment and I found myself agreeing.

It occurred to me that they then might put their guns away which would give me a breathing space to do some very quick thinking. I might even get a chance of escape.

The detective moved to the back of the car. I opened the front passenger window just enough to slip the rifle through, and picked the weapon up. I was suddenly aware that everybody was staring intently. The holiday makers and locals that had gathered were probably hoping for a 'bit of action' to liven up their mundane lives, and the police were waiting for me to make a move that would signal their opening fire and blowing me from the cliffs of Beachy Head to who knows where.

I hesitated for a few seconds as I picked the rifle up, it occurred to me that I was now on my way to prison for a long time. Life had never been a lot of fun, why not go out in a blaze of glory? Hit the headlines!! No more worry, no more running scared, no more looking over my shoulder waiting for the long arm of the law, or the revenge of other villains, that one of these days would catch up with me.

A second thought came into my mind, is this all really worth dying for? It all suddenly seemed so ridiculous, like an american movie. I almost started laughing. I pushed the rifle through the window, shouted a warning to the policeman that it was loaded and closed the window again.

I was lighthearted again now, the danger had passed, the fear had gone, let's have some fun. The police were putting their guns away and taking their protective jackets off, now expecting to just talk me into surrender.

I started the engine with a roar and shot away, tyres throwing up gravel from the surface of the car park, weaving between the parked police cars......the chase was on again.

I don't think they had considered for a moment I might try to escape. They had left enough room to almost get a double decker bus through. Or maybe their day needed brightening up too!!

Now it seemed like a game, and the prize was my freedom. We were off, just like the movies. I had spun the car around in the car park only to see that the car park entrance was sealed off with a police car parked across it. Only one way out, up the embankment.

Before I had been stopped up on Beachy Head the chase had taken place all around and through the town, through the pedestrian precinct, the wrong way down the one-way street outside the police station, up and down the sea-front. Dangerous enough, but now we would go up on to the cliff top. Let's see if they will follow at 40m.p.h. along the edge of the cliff, I thought to my self!!

I left the car park, bumping up the steep grass embankment and drove up onto the cliff. I figured they would bottle out on the cliff-edge, it would be too dangerous and they wouldn't follow.

I looked in the mirror and saw how wrong I was. There were eight police cars and an ambulance chasing after me. It was certainly the most hair raising driving experience I had ever had. The cliff top was covered in pot-holes and craters which made for a very rough ride.

As I approached a crater I realised it was deeper than most and slowed down just in time to slip into it and be able to drive out the other side, the first police car following was not so fortunate. He hit it at speed, went in and never came out, I heard later the chassis had snapped.

The chase went on for a little while. I would stop for a breather and a chance to think, they would try to surround me and off I would go again. Slowly they were depleting their stocks of police cars!! One by one they were falling victim to the craters and rough terrain.

Eventually I was stopped. I had been cornered after playing cat and mouse and having been rammed by two police cars. The officers chasing had thought it a lot of fun, but one inspector had really blown his top. Maybe his car has been wrecked!!

BANG!! The door slammed shut. The heavy tumblers of the lock fell with a thud, and then....silence. I was alone, alone with only my thoughts for company.
I had just been chased around Eastbourne by the police. I was in a stolen car with a .22 rifle in the passenger leg space, it was loaded and somehow, the police knew.
After a chase lasting an hour they had stopped me on Beachy Head and, wearing bulletproof jackets, they surrounded the car pointing their own fire-arms in my direction. This was just about the nearest I had come to death and I was terrified. Gone was all the bravado with which I had burgled houses and businesses. and with which I had always kept one step ahead of the police all the time they had been looking for me. Gone was the confidence and brashness with which I had conned my way through the last year or so as a professional criminal. Gone was the arrogance which told me I was brilliant at my chosen profession.
I was sitting in the car almost a quivering wreck, trying desperately to recover my composure from the frightened little boy I had become. I realised that one false move on my part, however innocent, and I could be gunned down where I sat.
The way I had often threatened others in the past was now being inflicted upon me. I had sowed violence and now I was in danger of reaping a violent death.
One detective had crept up to the back of the car. I had been watching him in the mirror, dressed in his bulletproof jacket, with a pistol in his hand, wondering what he was planning to do. He crept up the side of the car and told me not to move a muscle. I listened very carefully to what he said, I did not plan any misunderstandings at this stage.
He tried to open the passenger door but I had locked all the doors. The lifestyle I led demanded that for my own protection I had to keep doors locked. Whether it was for protection from the police or other villains it had become instinct to lock all the doors of any car as soon as I had got in.
The hard man had become a prisoner of his own hardness. I was living, running scared, locked up in my car, my hotel room, even in cafe's and restaurants, never sitting with my back to the door. Choosing positions where I could keep a constant watch on the comings and goings.
I had wanted to be thought of as a hard man, someone to be treated with respect for fear of attack, and now I had that reputation I had to protect myself like a frightened rat, hiding in a darkened corner. So much for the hard man!!
The detective who was now pressed against the side of car, out of sight except in the door mirror, told me to lean over very slowly with my hands visible and open the front passenger door. Despite my fear, and without really knowing why, I refused.