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]]>I had a cell with a bed, a desk and a chair. That was it. The cell was searched at least weekly. The only time I came out of the cell to associate with other prisoners was when we had a 30 minute exercise period each day, so long as the weather was fine.
Apart from reading books and counting the bricks in the wall my only occupation was polishing dustbins! Each morning at about 9 o'clock the screws used to bring me a dustbin. A galvanised metal dustbin complete with lid, and I was supposed to polish it inside and out until it could be used as a mirror.
The only interesting thing that happened was when I was seen by a Home Office psychiatrist. He asked me, "What would you do if you saw a battleship coming down the High Street?". I thought for a moment and replied, "I would blow it up with my submarine" I replied, with a brow furrowed with confusion. "Where the hell you get a submarine from?" he asked, "same place you got your battleship" I replied! That was the full extent of an interview that formed the basis of a report for the court!!
My Trial
My trial was held at the Central Criminal Court at the Old Bailey in London about 6 months after my arrest. The only argument in the court room was whether or not I was sent to Broadmoor or another mental hospital. It seemed to me that I was "an interesting case", now labelled as having a 'psychopathic personality disorder'. It seemed everybody wanted to get their hands on my brain to twist and manipulate it until it conformed to their image of 'normal'. I just hoped the Doctor that asked me about battleships didn't get his hands on me!!
Long Grove Hospital, the home of Farmstead Villa, won the court room tussle. I was to be confined to Long Grove Hospital under Section 65 of the Mental Health Act. This means that the Home Secretary would have to sign the approval for my release.
Because I was now sentenced and subject to a Mental Health Order I was kept in the prison hospital. This was even worse than being on Rule 43. I had no work at all and didn't get out for any exercise. However, within a month I was transferred from Ashford to Long Grove Hospital at Epsom. I was put on an adult ward under the care of Dr Pilkington.
Pamela Pilkington was too nice and caring to be a forensic psychiatrist. Or maybe she was cleverer than I give her credit for? What I do know is that, from my perspective, whilst I was at Long Grove I got away with everything!
I behaved myself for 3 months when I arrived at Long Grove. Then bit by bit I started rebelling. I started taking drugs again and stealing cars from staff and visitors in the hospital. I stole one car and crashed it head on into the art therapy department.
I bought my own first car, a Triumph Herald, and kept it in the hospital grounds. Whilst the staff thought I was out walking in the grounds I was actually out and about driving around thieving and getting drugs. I loved that Triumph, unfortunately I crashed it and wrote it off. I was travelling down toward Brighton and forgot to stop for one of the new roundabouts they had just built. The car tried to go over the roundabout instead of round it, stopping on top, snapped in half.
I went back to the hospital, gathered together some more cash and bought an old Austin Somerset Saloon (A40).
I had one or two sexual encounters with female patients in the ward. On one occasion I was in my private room in bed with a woman doing the business when a female nurse walked in. "What are you doing?" she asked. "If you don't know now you never will" I replied!!
One of my favourite hangouts was up at the cricket pavilion at the sports field. I used to go there quite often. Often with girls from Farmstead Villa that I had tempted with drink or drugs. We would sit smoking weed or drinking cider. Sometimes we would have sex, sometimes we would be incapable. It was a good hangout though, we never got caught and there was a good shortcut through the woods to the off licence at Ewell.
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I walked back up to the bus station and past it. I would see what I could find up this way.
As evening drew in I found various possible places I could sleep for the night. I chose a bus stop. It was covered and it seemed to be in the tourist area of the city, it would be quiet at night time, hopefully. I retired to bed early that night, snuggling down in my sleeping bag. Tomorrow would be a busy day.
I awoke about 6 the next morning. I hadn't been disturbed at all during the night. I rolled up my sleeping bag and went for a wander around the city centre. I found a shop the milkman and the baker had already delivered to, leaving the bread and milk outside the front door. I helped myself to a loaf of bread, pint of milk and a pasty. A very pleasant breakfast, I thought to myself, I must come here more often!
I spent most of my days begging outside the Roman Baths and the cathedral. It was a very worthwhile business! I used to do very well, sufficient to keep in me food, cigarettes and drugs, and I would still have enough to save for a rainy day!
The Burger and Cider trips
I was taking LSD and smoking dope regularly at this time. One night after taking an acid tablet I was having a fun trip as I wandered around the city. I came to one of the city squares where the night time hamburger van was parked. "How many Burgers you got mate?" I asked. "Enough for you" he replied. "Good, give me a hundred" I said. I gave him a handful of money, I do not know how much, but he started serving up the burgers. When I had about 10 lined up on the counter I started throwing them at cars driving past. I fell down to the floor after a while laughing hysterically. I don't know whether I had my moneys worth or not, but as it is with a 'trip' my mind was on another track now and off I wandered laughing like a maniac to myself.
On another occasion I was tripping on LSD and went for a drink at a pub near the bus station in Bath. As I drank my pint of cider, the apple taste was enhanced by the drugs and I thought I had an apple stuck in my mouth. I was sitting at the bar with my mouth wide open and speaking as if there was an apple blocking it. I then thought a tiny drip in the bottom of my glass was half a pint and nearly got into a fight when the barman tried to take it away.
There was also a downside to the drugs. Because of depression and anger and what was going on in my head at the time I had more than my share of bad trips. I had to be rescued from a multistorey car park as I tried to catch aeroplanes. I was taken to hospital for a check up and place on a casualty trolley. I was terrified though because the floor was made of small mosaic tiles in neat rows and to me they looked like escalators. All moving in different directions. When they told me get off the trolley I nearly fell over because I thought the floor was moving.
I was pulled off the top of traffic lights where I had climbed because I had fallen in love with the beautiful lights. I also fell in love with the blue of a policeman’s shirt.
I do not in any way approve or encourage the taking of drugs. I did it and from my experiences I would encourage people to steer well clear!
Frome
I decided to go and visit Frome again. It was a place I always liked to visit. My foster parents never enjoyed my visits though. This time I sent the Fire Brigade around to their house on a couple of occasions early in the morning. I also used to 'phone them in the early hours and hang up when they answered. They had hurt me beyond forgiveness, now I was showing them what it was like to be hurt, to have no peace.
Back in Bath the police were starting to pay me attention. This I didn't want, so decided it was time to move on. I did some extra hard begging for a few days to get some cash together and decided to move back to Woking. I was, for now, satisfied at expressing my anger.
I travelled back to Woking and went straight to the social services. They found me a place in a working lad's hostel in Maybury Hill. The warden gave me a lot of hassle here because I had no intention of finding work. After I had been there a week he told me that if I didn't get a job within another week I would have to leave. He was starting to make me mad again. He sent me out every morning to get a job and told me not to come back until 3pm. each day. I wasn't going to put up with this.
My anger boiled over on the Sunday morning. I hadn't been sleeping properly because of the turmoil my mind was in, so I got up at 6 am and went down into the town. I had woken up bitter and decided the time had come for my revenge. I first of all set fire to the rubbish skip behind Tesco's for what they had done to me. Then I set fire to the Superdrug store. The store had to be closed for a while whilst repair etc had to be made. Behind the store was a little lane, this was where I started the fire. In a parking space opposite the back door of the store was a really flash sports car. Bastard - bet he had got it from exploiting the workers!! I set fire to the car too!! I was so angry this day.
As I left the area fire engines and police cars were flooding the area. I didn't want to get caught so I started walking down by Victoria Bridge and up Goldsworth Road. A police car drew alongside me. The copper in the front passenger seat unwound his window and asked me if I had seen anyone around. I replied that I hadn't seen anyone, why were they asking. They told me about the fires and asked if I knew anything about them. I told them I didn't but the officer asked me why my clothing smelt of smoke. If it did it was because I had just been walking down that way I told them, but I hadn't seen anything. They arrested me anyway.
I was taken to Woking Police Station which then was on the corner of Heathside Road. I was questioned by a copper called Parrott, I think he was a detective sergeant. I denied any knowledge but he held me in the cells anyway. On two occasions coppers came down to 'convince' me to own up. Feeling rather battered and bruised, I did admit them when Parrott questioned me again that Sunday night. I was charged that night with arson and was asked if I wanted any cases taken into consideration. They told me it would be better to do it that way than to be charged with them at a later date. I said I did and that I would clear up all their fires for them. On one of the occasions when I appeared at Woking court for remand they presented me with a list of fires for every area I had lived. If I recall correctly there were 168 of them. I signed to admit the lot of them. As I had looked through list of offences there were fires at opposite ends of the country at the same time, and I admitted them all. I don't know why I did that, I think I just didn't really care anymore.
The magistrates at Woking remanded me in custody to Ashford Remand Centre. This was my first occasion in jail, and I was apprehensive of what would happen to me. After a long 5 hour journey on a circuitous route collecting prisoners from other police stations along the way we arrived at Ashford. The journey had been most uncomfortable. The van was what we used to call a 'horse box' because the van was made up of some twelve cells each no more than three foot square. The seats were made of fibreglass and very hard on a long journey and the cells were very small and cramped.
When we reached Ashford my first view was of a massive wire fence with razor wire across the top. It appeared as a top security prison. In reality, that is what it was. It was no different to an adult jail except in name and the ages of its occupants. The rules were the same as for adults, the regime was the same, if anything the screws attitudes toward their youth prisoners was harsher. Maybe they justified their sadistic tendencies with the thought that harsh treatment would act as a deterrent for the future.
]]>That night Donald's father returned from the pub drunk as usual. As we sat in the sitting room he was taken ill. He couldn't breath properly and collapsed in a heap on the settee. I am not sure what was wrong with him but the ambulance crew put a neck brace on him, gave him oxygen and rushed him off to hospital at Guildford. I was left alone in the house and felt very uncomfortable. I thought Donald’s dad was going to die and just felt I shouldn't be around. So I left there the next morning and made my way to the child welfare department at Woking.
My first bed-sit (June 1972)
The social workers got me a bed-sit in Hook Heath Road Woking. It was large and spacious and felt comfortable, though I wasn't very happy at living on my own. I started drinking heavily to counter the loneliness, but started looking for work. I wasn't afraid of work, I enjoyed it and thrived on it.
Before I had a chance to get a job in Woking I had a visit from the police. I was questioned over the theft of Donald's dad’s wallet on the evening he was taken into hospital. For once in my life I was innocent and I resented being questioned.
Work at Woking
My first job in Woking was at Tesco's supermarket in Chertsey Road (now a pub). I enjoyed the work there. Again I was working in the storeroom sending orders down to the shop floor for the shelf fillers. The job involved picking the goods from the shelves, pricing the goods and then sending them down on the conveyor belt. I stayed at that job for a while enjoying the work and the pay which had been better than the £5 a week at Milford.
I got the sack from that job after I needed a day off on a few occasions because of my asthma. This was the first time my asthma had come back to afflict me since I was a kid. Why it should come back at this stage I don't know. Maybe it was my smoking that had triggered it. It was ironic that the person who sacked me, Terry the manager, had sick days off every week to cope with his illness.
The injustice made me angry, but I had rent to pay so I concentrated on getting another job. Within a week I had landed another job, this time store man at Superdrug, also in Chertsey Road. I think the money was about the same as at Tesco and the job wasn't too bad. One drawback was that we had no conveyor belt between the warehouse and the shop floor. Everything had to be carried down by hand.
I didn't last very long in this job. Less than a week. I lasted until we got the first delivery. An articulated lorry full of goods that had to be carried by hand upstairs to be put away in the store room. I was quite, well reasonably, happy with this until I developed massive blisters on my feet. I hadn't been warned we were having a delivery and if I was I could have brought my trainers into work and worn them. My blisters started to bleed and be really sore but the manager wasn't interested. he insisted that I continue to do it. I started to boil over with my temper. "Do it yourself" I told him, and walked out the store. Bastards!! I would get my revenge.
This incident made me very angry. The big businessman stamping on the working classes without care or consideration.
I later set fire to this store one Sunday morning. It was my revenge on them. The store had to be closed for a week or so whilst repair etc had to be made. That morning I had woken up bitter and decided the time had come for my revenge. I first of all set fire to the rubbish skip behind Tesco's for what they had done to me. Then I set fire to the Superdrug store. Behind the store was a little lane, this was where I started the fire. In a parking space opposite the back door of the store was a really flash sports car. Bastard - bet he had got it from exploiting the workers!! I set fire to the car too!! I was so angry this day.
Islington (July 1972)I joined the protesters. I seemed to be a natural leader. People gathered around me. I stirred them up. I had picked up key phrases from people I had heard speaking and spouted them with venom. Exploitation of the working classes. Stomping on the right to protest. throwing men out of jobs. Increasing poverty, unemployment and homelessness.
It worked. The people were angry. By the time I had been there 2 days people were mad as hell. Buses were hijacked and set on fire. Those that weren't torched were driven across the road and their tyres punctured making them immobile. Our aim was to make the Caledonian Road a no go area. The police struggled to regain control. They used ambulances with blue lights and sirens blaring to try to break us up. We were wise to their tricks and started to refuse to let the ambulances through.
By the 6th day of protests we were starting to win the battle. Increasing numbers of genuine protesters were arriving each day. Increasing numbers of rent-a-crowd, rebels like myself who would jump into any opportunity to get even with society were arriving also. Just as we were starting to build up an effective fighting force, getting the crowds angry, the government ordered the release of the 5 dockers. The protesters had won. The rug though, had been pulled from under my feet. Suddenly I had no cause to fight. I will now have to find something else to vent my anger at.
Squatting
During the riots I had been living alone in a squat about a mile away in Kings Cross. During the protest I had made friends with others who were of a similar mind to me some of whom lived in squats nearby. They invited me to move in with them and so I moved my stuff from Kings Cross up to Leslie Street. Alas Leslie Street is no longer there, the local authority has built over it. We had a relatively clean and comfortable house, the electricity was on and we had running water. So I stayed in this area for about a further week.
One couple I had met during the protests was Dr Rose Dugdale and Wally Heaton. They lived in a nearby street and taught me a lot about the workers and society's struggles through the ages against the government. I was shocked when I discovered a year or so later that they were members of the IRA and were convicted of related crimes. I came so close to being recruited, and knowing my frame of mind I would probably have gladly along with them. This memory puts a shiver down my spine now.
Julie
During one of the many parties I went to in this short period I met Julie. We were both very stoned and Julie was very cute, very attractive. Julie and I ended up in bed together. It was then I got a shock. Julie was a guy!! How could I not have noticed? I had enjoyed 'her' snogs, and petting 'her', but suddenly everything was turned on its head. This completely threw me and I was disgusted. I told Julie I couldn't go through with it and beat him/her up and left the house. My anger was bubbling again.
I made my way back to my own squat. Hurrying so as not to be on the streets when the alarm was sounded. I lay awake all night. I just didn't understand. I had enjoyed gay sex. What was wrong with me?
Bath and revenge (August 1972)
Early that morning I caught a bus to Victoria. I packed up my few belongings in a rucksack, and left Leslie Street and Kings Cross behind me. At Victoria Coach Station I bought a single ticket for Bath, found the coach, and boarded it. Confused and angry my anger was bubbling away. I now wanted revenge on my foster parents for their rejection of me and all the hurt they had caused me. I wanted revenge again on society. Over the period of just a day or two I fell apart into a bitter seething mess. All this time it was my anger keeping me going. I was going to have revenge.
The next morning I was called before Commander Preston. I was charged with a whole range of offences including being drunk on duty and causing undue alarm and panic. I do not recall my punishment, or maybe I left before punishment could be announced. But I still laugh about this today.
Mutiny on the Bembridge
It was shortly after this event that whole crew mutinied. We were at anchor off Ryde on the Isle of Wight and I do not remember the reason for the punishment but shore leave had been cancelled for the whole crew for a month. Everyone was being extremely aggravated and wound up by Preston and his dactatorial ways. We had just about had enough and the lads started talking about just walking off the ship. We were well aware of the possible consequences of such an action but didn’t believe for one minute we would be shot.
I think it was about lunchtime when the whole crew met on the port side of the ship. We clambered into the liberty boat, a motor boat that was used for landing pilots on ships and the crew ashore, and headed away from the ship to Ryde. As we looked back we could see the solitary figure of Commander Preston on deck calling for us to go back. We all laughed especially at the thought that he was all alone and had no way to get ashore.
The liberty boat was grounded on the beach by the pier and as we all scrambled to get ashore we saw police cars with sirens and lights heading along the beach towards us. We had forgotten he had the radio to call for help. Holiday makers were running for cover as the police cars slipped this way and then that way in the fine sand as the tried to raced across the beach to reach us.
We all split up and ran in different directions. I ran into the town and after an hour or so headed back towards the beach. It all looked quite normal now. The liberty boat was now gone off the beach. The police cars were all gone and all the holiday makers were lounging again on the sand.
I never went back on the Bembridge. I hung around Ryde for a few days trying to work out what I should do next. Finally I had a plan. I caught the ferry to Portsmouth, hitchhiked up the A3 and found my way to a mate’s house at Chiddingfold.
Chiddingfold (April 1972)
After I was landed at Portsmouth I went to stay with a friend in a village called Chiddingfold in Surrey. I don't know what had happened to the mother but Donald lived with his father and brother. I had met Donald at Wishmore Cross. He had been one of my few true friends there.
I told Donald how I came to be there and was currently homeless and he talked to his dad about me moving in with them temorarily. They agreed to let me stay for a while I got something sorted out. Donald and I got on really well as we had at school and became the village hooligans. Apart from us the village was dead. The only nuisance was his little brother who was about 9 and wanted to come with us everywhere.
I got a job fairly quickly in Milford, a village a few miles away. It only paid £5 a week but it was a job, it was a start, and it showed Donald and his dad I was trying. I was assistant store man in the village supermarket and was happy to stay at it for a while. I resented the low wages, but it was a job for now. I got paid more than that when I was at the training school.
Helen Green
Donald’s dad used to take us each weekend to Working Men's Clubs in the area. On one occasion we went to the Saturday Disco at the Milford Club. There I met Helen Brown. She was the same age as me and was beautiful. We danced a few dances and I managed to steal a few kisses and few cuddles. At the end of the evening we swapped telephone numbers and she said she would like to see me again. I had learned from her that usually she and her dad went to the Haslemere Club but her dad had been poorly this weekend so she had come to Milford with a friend.
The next weekend I managed to talk Donald and his dad in to going to the Haslemere club. I met Helen and her dad at the Club. Helen was wearing red hotpants with a yellow blouse, and I immediately stood to attention. She was beautiful and so sexy. Her dad was a postman and I learned that the club was mainly for postmen, their wives and families. Helen and I had a few dances but felt watched over by Helen's mum and dad. We managed to slip away for a while and went for a wander around the town. We stopped from time to time in a shop doorway for a snog and by the time we got back near the club we were so caught up in passion that I would have made love to her in the street. She led me round the back of the club where there was a little green area and some benches and we settled down on a bench. She wouldn't let me go all the way with her. We had about an hour of snogging, petting and cuddling until another couple came out the back. Helen felt all embarrassed to be there with me and wanted to go back inside. I sent her in first so we wouldn't appear together. I took my time going back inside, I had to allow time for the evidence of my arousal to go down.
I saw Jane a few more times and even stayed at her house, once sleeping on the settee. Once her mum and dad were asleep I tried to creep into her room but she heard me and came out to meet me. She told me she didn't want to have sex yet. I felt totally deflated. I believe I had genuine feelings for this girl, but fate would determine this would be the last time I would see Helen.
]]>Whilst we were all excited when we were told we were going to cruise over to Guernsey from Portsmouth Harbour, I guess a few of us wondered if she would ever get there. She did though. It took 24 hours instead of 16 though. We tied up at the quayside at St Peter Port and in the evening the officers held a reception for the town mayor and cronies. I was duty officer on the bridge and whilst on one of my patrols of the decks I popped down to the lounge where the reception was being held, only to check everything was ok you understand. When I got back to the bridge to write up my log entry for that patrol I found a bottle whisky hiding inside my juacket. It must have slipped there from the lounge.
As the evening progressed the reception was going well. I was also having my own little party on the bridge. I didn’t bother with any more patrols of the decks, I just tucked into this bottle of whisky.
I think it was about 2230hrs (10.30pm) when I remembered I was supposed to be doing security and safety rounds of the decks. I lifted myself out of the chair I had been slumped in and lurched across the bridge. The door to the starboard side of the ship swung open as I grasped the handle, almost causing me to fall over. The fresh night air hit me hard. As I stood erect and straightened my uniform my head began to swim. I grasped the rail that ran round the top of the stairs outside the bridge and steadied myself.
I remember half slipping down the stairs and banging my legs and knees. I was too drunk to realise how painful the knocks were. Once again I straightened my uniform and started strolling down the deck, checking no one had stolen lifeboats or left garbage on the decks. As I drew level with the engine room I noticed smoke pouring out of the engine room skylights. Fear and panic took hold of me. I flung the door open that led down to the engine and smoke poured through. I couldn’t see my hand before my face.
I tried to concentrate my thoughts. Turning on my heel I ran back up to the bridge. Whilst we were at sea, and normally when we were moored in Gosport Reach we had a fire crew allocated. For the 24 hour period that we were going to be in St Peter Port as far as I knew no fire crew had been allocated.
The drink once more took control as I swigged at the now near empty bottle of scotch trying to think what I should do. I remembered the fire drill and alarm procedure. The alarm was to be a rapid succession of blast on the ships horn. I grasped the cord and pulled and pulled and pulled. I must have let off around 25 or 30 blasts and collapsed on the bridge deck laughing hysterically. Oh no!! That was the abandon ship signal; the fire alarm was, was, was, I couldn’t remember!!
I recalled what was happening and got to my feet. This time I exited the bridge on the port side. I don’t know why. Maybe it was for a change of scenery. The sight that met me has confounded me ever since.
Looking down from my position two decks above everyone else I could see There we were, tied up in harbour and people, visitors as well as crew, were jumping into the water. What on earth was that all about? I know the emergency routine was to abandon ship from the nearest available position but this was ridiculous. We were tied up in harbour!!
The island fire brigade turned out as well as local police and an ambulance and it seemed half the town came down to the harbour to see what all the fuss about. Whilst everyone was on the quayside and milling about, I made my way down to the lounge area to sample the culinary delights on offer. This was where I was found a short while later, slumped in a chair and incapable of anything other than feeling ill.
]]>Hi Ho Hi Ho - its off to work we go
I had been refused the opportunity to go to university. Pat had tried her best to get Surrey County Council to finance higher education for me but they wouldn’t take responsibility for my further education and were insisting that I should leave school and go to work. So I left school at 15 and joined a merchant navy training school, based in the Priory at Arundel Castle in Sussex. The school was specifically for youngsters like myself who had come from institutions and were looking for a step up the ladder of life. One thing was for sure, the local authorities were wiping their hands of us!
The idea of the school was that it should be land based for basic training and education in seamanship at Arundel and then we would transfer to TS (Training Ship) Bembridge which was to be based at Gosport Reach in Portsmouth Harbour. The Bembridge was a 500 tonne ex Trinity House (pilot) ship. She was an old lady, but to this 15 year old, it was a ship and a new adventure.
In addition to the seamanship we were also to specialise in one subject. I was going to specialise in catering, and did well in learning the trade and putting it into practice (Initially, on leaving the training course, I worked at a popular and well known restaurant in Ewell. I gave up after just a few hours though when I realised that the job involved opening packets and tins with some drunken Scot shouting at me!! I hadn’t undergone making 'real' food just to work with this drunk and opening tins or the freezer door!!
Whilst we were land-based the head of the trainings school was Eric St. John Foti. When we took delivery of the Bembridge and moved onboard Lt. Commander Preston RNR was appointed as Commander of the Bembridge. Preston was a member of the Royal Naval Reserves and obviously had a naval background. But as far as handling teenage boys with our sort of background was concerned he was green as cabbage!
Preston used to bark orders as if he was still in the Navy and we used to carry out the order.... eventually. I remember him as a nasty piece of work and have never forgotten one thing he said to me.
Cowes
We took the Bembridge from Portsmouth to Cowes Harbour on one occasion. I do not recall why, but I was on the wheel of the ship as we entered the harbour. Normally I would have been on galley duty being a catering student but I think I must have been on seamanship duty on this day. As we entered the harbour we were taking the correct line for a ship of our size, on the right hand side of the mouth to the harbour. Within a moment the ship had been 'thrown' over to the left hand side and was solidly aground just by the quay wall.
We were now obstructing the East - West Cowes Chain Ferry!
Preston shouted at me something like "what have you done you stupid boy?" I replied that I hadn’t actually done anything and had no idea what had happened. He continued ranting at me and being the stroppy lad I was I squared up to him and said "You were in charge of the ship - you got it wrong". He replied to me, "I make mistakes but I am never wrong boy!!" This has been my mantra of hatred towards authority ever since. I have never found myself able to forgive that comment. It seemed to cut right through me.
The press and TV along with the whole population of Cowes, it seemed, all came down to the quayside to ogle. It felt so embarrassing because everyone was blaming me and I felt the public all knew it was me at the helm when the ship ran aground.
The inquiry into the incident cleared me of all blame. Preston was ultimately held responsible but with the mitigation that when we entered the harbour there was a spring high tide. That spring high tide produced its own unique and dangerous undercurrents, resulting in what had happened to the Bembridge. Preston didn’t know the harbour and its tides, but he was the commanding officer.
He became even worse after this incident. He didn’t like being wrong and he took it out on us with increased discipline. As a result he became more hated by us all.
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When I arrived I was shown into the Day room. It was full of youngsters like myself, boys and girls. All looked relatively normal. I wandered around the areas I had access to. The boys dormitory was one side of the day room and the girls the other. At the end of the dormitory were some single rooms. Some had mattresses and no furniture. There was at least one padded cell, blood, snot and shit spread on the walls.
Later as I settled in I found the girls side was the same but was prettily painted in pink whilst we had green and cream.
The place wasn’t proving to be as hostile and nutty as I expected. Certainly not as nutty as Brookwood.
Farmstead School
The school was in a separate building just a hundred yards or so away just across our playing field. We went to school weekdays, 9-3.30. School was easy going which was irritating because I have always been keen on learning. I have a hungry mind, but I soon fell into taking it easy along with the others and bunking off for a fag when I could.
In all the time I was there one teacher took a special interest in me. Pat. She was a very kind and caring person who somehow had a knack of seeing through how we appeared and acted and saw the real person inside. She had taken a few of us under her wing as 'friends'. Once she got to know us she used to take us to her home and family and treat us as family. She was a wonderful person who I loved very much as a friend and regret having fallen out with her.
Pamela
One girl latched onto me almost soon as I arrived. Pamela was 15, a year older than me. She seemed very normal, if quiet, and I liked her. We used to go for long walks around the woods and fields that surrounded the hospital and Villa and talk and generally just hang out. I wasn’t looking for an exclusive girlfriend though, and after a bit of disappointment she was content just to spend time with me when she could
It was Pam who took my heterosexual cherry in the woods one summer evening. She was good. She was very experienced and taught me well. She also gave me an appetite for heterosexual sex which I pursued whenever I could.
Drugs
Farmstead was the location for another first for me. Drug taking. Chris W was another lad that became a very good friend. He introduced me to drugs. It wasn’t too soon before Chris and I were regularly smoking grass and resin together. We would while away many a sunny evening lying in the cornfield at the back of the Villa smoking and laughing. I really liked Chris and we spent a lot of time together.
Chris also introduced me to acid (LSD) and heroin. The acid I liked and took as regularly as I could afford. The heroin I tried once. It made me sick and scared and I never went near it again after the first time.
Runaway
Chris and I decided to 'leave' the Villa for a while. We travelled up to London where he had a girlfriend who had a flat in Holland Park. The next week or so are a pleasant haze of sex, both gay and straight, drugs, music and rebellion. We smoked weed so often the cat was permanently stoned.
I did a bit of thievery to get some cash and with Chris taking me to parties with people he knew, he introduced me to a world I could only have dreamt about.
This era unravelled as I started suffering drug withdrawal from the medication the hospital had had me on. I had been on an anti-depressant called Tryptizol and suddenly coming off of it was painful. Too painful, and at the time I had no idea what was happening. The last straw was when I nearly collapsed at Notting Hill Gate tube station. I telephoned Farmstead and spoke to a nurse who explained what was happening. She advised to me to get a train to Epsom and come straight back to the unit. I did, and never have I been more pleased to take myself back to a place I had runaway from.
Despite their asking I never told them where Chris was, or what I had been up to. I accepted the injection they offered me to get drugs quickly back into my system and settled in again.
I never saw Chris again. I heard a few years later that he died. That, if it is true, was such a waste.
Holiday in Wales
In the summer of 1970 I was sent on a holiday to Wales. It was called an adventure holiday and involved sailing on Lake Llangorse, horse riding over the Brecon Beacons and much more. I had a great time. The second half of the holiday we transferred to another centre at Ross - on - Wye. Here most of the activities involved canoeing, getting cold and getting wet. Ugh! It was on the last day of this holiday at Ross on Wye that in packing my clothes and gear up ready to leave that I came across a wallet, I forget how much money was in it, but it was sufficient to tempt me, and so I stole it. I remember pushing the wallet down the front of my trousers into my underpants so if I was searched it would hopefully not be found. When I was safely on the train, which fortunately happened before the theft was discovered I took all the money out and threw the wallet out of the train window as it sped towards London.
I started work and used to help with the cleaning and setting up of tables and chairs for whatever event was occurring and the women helpers used to prepare and serve the refreshments and cold food snacks. I was soon 'promoted' and was allowed to call numbers at Bingo, play the music for the disco and take on some of the more responsible tasks. The rest of the time I used to circulate amongst the members of the club, the patients, trying to work out who was mad and who was one of society's rebels. Who was worth knowing and who should I avoid.
I used the social club job as an excuse for keeping out of the ward as much as possible. The less time spent there the better as far as I was concerned. I discovered I could also use the long hours to be out and about around town and nobody would be any the wiser. This led to me drinking in the local pubs with the money social services game me for pocket money, plus the money the hospital gave me for working in the social club plus the 'commission' I stole from the club takings!
It was on one of my forays into the village of Knaphill near Woking that I came across a local motorcycle gang. This group of 'hells angels' were hanging out at a local cafe that called itself a 'tea rooms', near the hospital. The Copper Kettle, as it was called, was a nice clean place that served good tea and cooked food and had a quaintest look about it, but it just couldn’t shake off that cafe feel.
I made it my business to get to know the bikers and to let them know how much I hated society and just how much of a nutter I could be. I obviously appealed to them because after I met up with them a few times, the leader, complete with dirty leather and bug bushy beard invited me to join them. Yes!! This fitted my plan beautifully. Now the world would discover just how bitter and twisted and angry I was.
Hells Angels
I rode pillion with the leader of the gang and so started a new era in my career of mayhem and violence.
I started my 'biker career' at Bisley village hall. It was the local weekly disco. We, the bikers, turned up in force. I guess there was about 20 of us on about 14 motorbikes of varying makes and descriptions. We forced our way into the hall, refusing to pay the door money. We were eyeing up the girls but apart from one or two brave, or was it foolish, blokes everyone was keeping well clear of us as we moved around the hall. The foolishly brave blokes got a push and shove. If they didn’t heed the warning they got a good kicking.
As a gang we got involved in some local pub brawls. Some we started, most we finished. The only consistent thing was that it was always over in five minutes so that we would be well away from the scene by the time the police would arrive.
Whilst all this had been going on I was still doing my job at the social club and being the person they wanted me to be. I was questioned once about being seen in town with the gang, but I lied my way out of it.
After I had been out on a few 'forays' with the bikers, I met with them at the Copper Kettle on a Saturday afternoon. In front of the whole gang I was confronted about why I hadn’t got involved in any of the fights yet. It was true and I had no answer for them. In the past I had never really been cold bloodedly violent. My violence in all its various forms had been the result of temper, of being hurt. My violence had always been an emotional response to circumstances. I was now being called upon to prove myself. This would be my initiation.
That very evening, a Saturday, we were riding around Woking town. As we sped down Goldsworth Road towards Knaphill we passed a couple. Someone shouted some sexual encouragement to the guy as we went past and the man shouted back and raised a fist. That was enough. The whole group turned around in the road and rode back. The leader told me, this was it. Prove myself. I got off the bike and asked the bloke if he had a problem. He replied, "Only you lot". The girl had run off by now and this poor guy was facing us up on his own. I hit him hard in the face. As his hands went up I kicked him where you shouldn’t kick a bloke. He went down, retching and writhing on the ground. I casually climbed back on the pillion with the cheers of the group ringing in my ears and off we rode.
This was my first, and thank God only cold blooded attack in my life time.
My last act of rebellion against society in this phase of my life occurred at Knaphill police station. I call it a police station but really it was a police house. I expect the village bobby lived upstairs and downstairs was his police station. The bike gang (including me) had called at a local pub for a drink and the landlord had refused to serve us. There had been a little argy bargy but no violence, but already being a little pissed up we were most indignant. We had gone to the police house to complain. You can imagine the chaos as twenty of us tried to fit into the little reception which was just about big enough for one old lady and her dog. It was a nightmare and somehow we managed to spill into the office area behind the counter. As we made our complaint the lone copper ushered us out of his office with placations, and one of our group nicked his helmet.
We ran off back up towards the village playing with his helmet. It was a great laugh. Before we got back to village centre we heard sirens in the distance. I threw the helmet over the hedge into the grounds of the hospital, my plan was to retrieve it later. The police found us and stopped us. They questioned us and searched us but had to let us go. We knew nothing about a lost helmet. As we walked away we could see them tracking our steps and looking in gardens and hedges and eventually they retrieved the helmet. It was a harmless laugh.
It was about this stage that I got moved on from Brookwood. I had spent about 9-12 months in this mental hospital. They had been looking for somewhere to put me that could handle me and cater for my age. By this time I had almost completely stopped communicating with people on any but a superficial level. I was completely wrapped up in myself and my problems and creating new ones. Revenge and hate were my foremost thoughts and though I didn't realise it at the time I was building up quite an effective hatred against myself. I was also being very successful in making other people hate me.
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This period culminated one Sunday in an attempt by me to kill another boy. We had been playing football and I knew nothing of what happened until one of the staff members was trying to beat me off of Paulo. I knew nothing at all of the attack but apparently I had leapt on him and started strangling him. What made it very strange was the fact that this boy who lived in the home with me, was my best friend.
Suicide
After a couple of hours the boy was brought back from hospital and was OK. I was very confused and frightened. Attacking my best friend, nearly killing him and not knowing anything about it! To say I was upset is probably an understatement. I ran away from the children's home about 3 hours after the incident and climbed up on Victoria Bridge in Woking town centre. This is a railway bridge that runs over a road and is quite high. I sat on top of it and decided I was going to jump. I spent a few minutes preparing myself and just as I was pushing off some one shouted at me from behind. I looked around and there was a swarm of policemen running across the tracks from the direction of the railway station and from the opposite direction. It looked as if there was about 20 of them altogether. As soon as I saw their uniforms I leapt of the bridge (on the railway side fortunately, a drop of only four feet) and started running across the tracks. For those that do not know Woking it is quite a large junction and shunting area. I was leaping across the tracks (not thinking of the electricity which they had probably shut off anyway and we ended up having a game of cat & mouse amongst all the railway carriages and wagons. The police eventually (probably quite soon) cornered me. It was quite a friendly inspector who grabbed me and took me away to a waiting police car. I was now aged about 13 and the police drove off to Brookwood Hospital, taking me with them.
Brookwood Hospital is a mental hospital. It was a local hospital so I knew of it. But I knew it wasn't really a hospital - it was a loony bin - a nut house. I was terrified. I imagined people frothing at the mouth strapped up in straight jackets. Big burly guards who carried special knock out injections with them all the time, ready for when they would be attacked.
Brookwood
When I arrived at the hospital I was considered dangerous. I had tried to kill some one and then tried to kill myself. I was locked up in a padded cell and 3 big burly male nurses came in told me to roll over on my front and gave me an injection to put me to sleep for a day. I later discovered that injection was called the 'Largactil cosh'. I was kept in that padded cell for 3 days until I had calmed down. (their perspective). Most of that time I was asleep after the 'largactil cosh'. Each time I awoke 3 nurses would come in and inject me again.
These injections were always readily available at anytime of day or night for those who became violent, upset or wouldn’t do what they were told. The staff also used to threaten us with them. It was their power trip to control the patients even for matters as trivial as getting what they wanted on TV or for us to do for them.
After 3 days a nurse came to the door and threw me a multi-coloured candy striped dressing gown and told me to put it on and follow him for breakfast. I did so with apprehension. I didn’t know what to expect from this nuthouse. When we had finished breakfast a nurse took me on a tour of the ward. I was shown the day room and treatment rooms, the TV room, laundry, kitchen and occupational therapy room. The grand finale was, the padded cells! They actually had about 5 or 6 of them. As the nurse showed me it he said, "Any more of that nonsense you tried on Sunday and this is where you end up".
My god - this really was a loony bin. I had lived locally for a little while and we called it the loony bin, the asylum, the nuthouse; and it was right. I was 13 years old, in this place with nutters and power crazed staff - and I was crapping myself.
Padded Cells
I did end up in the padded cells a couple of times. One time was for crying because I felt so lonely and afraid. They obviously couldn’t handle it because they came to the day room where I was and took my hand and led me out of the room. I thought I was going to the office for a chat but as soon as we left the day room and were out of view of the other patients, other male nurses were waiting and they picked me up, carried me down to the cell and injected me again. Again I was left in the cell for about 3 or 4 days. Most of that time I was asleep after the 'largactil cosh'. Each time I awoke they injected me again. But when I was awake I was plotting. They weren’t going to do this to me again.
At this stage I was coming to quite a few conclusions. My real parents had never wanted me, my foster parents didn't want me or like me, I had been kicked out of schools and homes because they didn't want or like me. I had tried to kill my best friend. These nurses thought I was mad because they kept locking me up in padded cells. I decided I didn't like me. I obviously wasn't a very nice boy.
After I had been at the hospital about 3 months I was given jobs. First of all it was cleaning the ward, then I progressed to sweeping the roads in the grounds. After about 3 months I asked if I would like to work in the patient’s social club. I said yes eagerly.
]]>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.
]]>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.
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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!
SexI 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.
]]>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.
]]>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.
TimothyI 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...........
]]>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..........
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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........
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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......
]]>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.....................
]]>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!!
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