What’s Your Story?
Published by Writing on the Wall Copyright Š remains with the authors, 2013
Writing on the Wall info@writingonthewall.org.uk 0151 703 0020 www.writingonthewall.org.uk
What’s Your Story? 2013
Contents Foreword ......................................................................i Stella Denton .............................................................. 1 Neil Kerr...................................................................... 5 Maureen Thomas ..................................................... 10 Clare Shaw ............................................................... 13 Richard Eves ............................................................ 16 Irene Campbell ......................................................... 20 Richard Adamson ..................................................... 22 Sophie Smith ............................................................ 25 Bob Carruthers ......................................................... 27 Liz Stokes ................................................................. 29 Al Morgan ................................................................. 35
Foreword From childhood friendships and falling outs, to hospital beds, a dog called Fred, and heart-breaking memories of a friend in St Petersburg, these writers take the reader on a journey that is deeply personal, emotional and uplifting in equal measure. The simple question ‘What’s Your Story?’ reveals that one is not enough; these writers have many stories to tell us, some brought up from the deep well of personal experience, and others as observations upon the lives of those they have encountered along the way. What unites them is a gift to tell their stories in a way that draws us into their world, sometimes for no more than a fleeting moment, to share their hopes, fears and dreams, to leave us thinking about spiders, what became of Seamus, and what will be found in the notebook Dad left behind in his shed. The work in this book comes from an inspirational course delivered by poet Clare Shaw for Writing on the Wall in partnership with the Liverpool Mental Health Consortium. We’d like to thank all those who took part for their commitment to the course, and offer special thanks to Claire Stevens and the Liverpool Mental Health Consortium, Liverpool’s Library Services, tutor Clare Shaw, and to Sophie Smith our volunteer who is responsible for gathering together the material for this book. We would also like to thank the John Moores Foundation for their financial support for this project. Mike Morris & Madeline Heneghan
Foreword i
Stella Denton Winnick When I first went into hospital I was very tired. I couldn’t stop crying or switch my brain off. I was sleeping odd hours and didn’t know what was wrong with me. I would get my son ready for school when I could, then go back to bed or sit in the chair all day staring at the closed curtains. When I first went into hospital I met a lady called Vivien who was suffering from post-natal depression brought on because she wanted to go back to work, but had pressure from her family that she should stay home with her child. May was a small lady who would walk round all day just tidying up and picking bits from the furniture. Daily she would grab my arm and ask me to go for a walk with her calling me John. I would walk her up and down the ward until she went back to her cleaning. Marion used to stand by my bed waiting for me to wake up and say, ‘who’s going to lay the table, dear?’ After the meal she would be at my elbow saying, ‘who is going to wash the dishes, dear?’ This used to happen at every meal time. After a few weeks of it, I was having a bad day and I said, ‘I don’t give a flying fuck who is doing dishes or laying tables.’ I was not allowed home that weekend because I had been aggressive. Flo had put her hand in a pan of scouse resulting in her losing it. She came back from a weekend leave and threw the wardrobe and bed across the room. I sat with her for two hours while the nurses had their teas and she was fine. She was a lovely lady. Stella Denton 1
Maria said she had seen the Mother of Jesus by a tree in the woods and was convinced that she had a picnic with her. I used to have petty arguments with her over the dish-washing. She would put the dirty ash trays in the sink with the pots which I would find repulsive, but she couldn’t see the harm in it. I went to the pay phone which was on the main corridor and I met a man who must have been about seven foot tall. He towered over me shouting, ‘we are not nuts in here, it’s them lot out there that are crazy - we don’t have to pay bills or cook meals, those lot are the loopy ones.’ Although he scared the life out of me, I could see his point. Next time I went to the pay phone a chap walked up to me with his willy hanging out and grinning like a Cheshire cat. I ran back to the ward sobbing. The nurse explained that they had been to see Confessions of a Window Cleaner, and that was probably why he did it. Marion - a young dark-haired girl - was brought in running and screaming and shouting and wouldn’t let the nurses go near her. She was like a crazed wild animal avoiding her captors. After a week or two it was lovely to see her smiling. Violet was not allowed coffee because it was a stimulant. She would grab the jar from the table and try to run with it, only she wasn’t able to run because she walked on her heels. We used to call her coffee-no-toes. Every morning I used to help feed the elderly patients in the basement. One lady’s name was Grace; she was a retired head teacher. Her name suited her. She was in a wheelchair because her legs had been amputated. I remember her telling me about her interesting life; and the sadness in her voice. I really don’t think she should have been there. 2 What’s Your Story?
Lynne, a nurse who was very kind to me, wore a collar on her neck and a wrist support because a patient had hurt her. She thought it would be good if I was allowed to see Ken Dodd who was appearing at a charity night in the hospital. My psychiatrist refused to let me go. I met a lot of people in the hospital. These are the ones I remember.
Nature’s Revenge It was a dull autumn day and Gill Poole was crying behind the gym. She had really put her heart into making friends with Betty and Margaret again. The ache inside her was as dull as the day and Gill knew it would last as long. The friendship between Gill, Betty and Margaret was very much like the English weather. Like the summer: bright and beautiful, hearts skipping, the fun and laughter when things were going well. The time when they had decided to make up with Gill felt like spring. Crisp and new budding friendships after the long winter haul; the flowers and blossoms starting to bud. When they felt they wanted to end the friendship, the atmosphere was cloudy and dull like grey skies. The good times fluttered away like trees shedding their leaves in the autumn, the bond holding them together gone, the rain Gill’s tears. Then came winter: icy stares, frosty atmosphere. The snow falling, everything still, their hearts the blocks of ice, oblivious to her feelings. Gill waited as Margaret and Betty approached her grinning; about to break her heart again. A gust of wind came from nowhere, and before Gill knew it, they were lifted and deposited into a large puddle. Gill couldn’t help but giggle, seeing them in a different light, vulnerable like
Stella Denton 3
she had been for years. Gill walked away, knowing she would survive.
YOU ARE! You are the place I yearn to be: among the giant conifers stood in unison sturdy, strong, flexing gently when hazardous winds come along. You are where I relax from this world of confusion. You leave me in peace without intrusion. You are fish from Five Ways, my meal on a platter; the fish face you pull creases me with laughter. You are my water with ice, fresh from the spa, keeping me hydrated in my home and my car. You are my hiking boots as I walk for miles, through the country and over stiles. You are morning, greeted by my lovely pets; a sense of belonging and no regrets. The hope in my heart and my inspiration; you help through my hours of frustration. You are the patience and love I needed to guide me back from the darkness of despair. You are my wonderful family and I now realise and thank God that you still care. You are my favourite song, You’ll Never Walk Alone; You are there. I am not on my own.
4 What’s Your Story?
Neil Kerr For a Friend During June and into early July St. Petersburg celebrates ‘white nights.’ It is possible to have warm sunshine at midnight, and when the sun sets at 1am the city is bathed in a magical silvery light giving an air of enchantment to the many palaces and large squares. I woke early, had breakfast, dressed and left my flat, crossed the inner courtyard with its broken playground and ubiquitous cats scavenging in huge bins, and emerged into warm sunshine. I crossed the wide boulevard and boarded the tram bound for the Metro. At the Metro I walked between lines of people selling all sorts of junk or simply old people begging. I boarded the train. Kupchino > Zvezednaya > Mokkovskaya > Park Pabieda > Electresila > Moskovsky Vorota > Fruzenskaya > Technologichesky Institut > Sennaya Ploschad > Nevsky Prospekt > Vasileotrovskaya > Primorskaya Stations on the Metro on my way to see Maria. At Primorskaya Metro I bought her six red carnations – then I hailed a car to the Lenin Hospital. I waited outside and opposite I saw people arriving at a registry office to be married. They looked so happy; the universal gladness at the beginning of a new life, the seemingly endless possibilities, the optimism, the hope, and I thought about Maria. My friends arrived and we went into the hospital, into a large room – there Maria lay, blue eyes closed to the world, and I lay the carnations at her side. Then we took Neil Kerr 5
our last journey with Maria to a small wooden church, which inside was richly adorned with icons. We assembled in a small room redolent with the pungency of candles, where it seemed we had to face not only our own mortality, but the triviality and even futility of our lives, and where for some the only escape was into further triviality. Afterwards I walked alone, in warm sunshine through Serafimov cemetery. Alone past monuments to victims of the siege of Leningrad and the Russian Civil War. The sunshine on the emerald green leaves of the trees distracted me for a moment, as I thought about the happy times we once had together visiting cafés, jazz clubs and rock music clubs – sometimes in large company of friends, sometimes just me and my friend Paul, Maria’s boyfriend. Maria was an artist, so kind, with a childlike quality; and whilst she spoke little English it didn’t matter – she spoke the universal language of the soul. I took a taxi back to the city. There I walked by the Winter Palace and through Palace Square bathed in hot sunshine, through the vast archway which had thronged with revolutionary forces in 1917, and then to Nevsky Prospekt, the main street of St. Petersburg, which thronged with people and a rich panoply of life. So much movement compared to the still life scene in the little wooden church in Serafimov cemetery, where people stared transfixed, disbelief mingled with tears in their eyes, and where Maria’s mother caressed her daughter’s marble brow. Maria was just 23.
6 What’s Your Story?
The Sheriff One Sunday in December my father died. A week later at that time I made the journey down the garden to his shed that many years ago he had built himself and spent years and days and hours working at long forgotten tasks; Herculean achievements in a temple of wood where we had sometimes worked together. On the door a sign, a symbol of his humour from some Cunard liner that sailed to distant lands it read: DRAWING ROOM, SMOKING ROOM, BALLROOM, CINEMA. Maybe this shed had meant as many things to him where he could dream and securely retreat from the world from boredom’s tyranny, where creativity could bloom. Silent as a tomb I entered, and reverently stood transfixed by memories of years gone by no more the sounds of engineering nor candescent light of welding no sawing or hammering, nor precision, but silence. Ideas and inventions lying on the floor, amidst the dust so many redundant tools and machinery unemployed and looking at his bench, at the tools and pencil lying still I saw his notebook. On opening it a tear danced in my eye Neil Kerr 7
he had been teaching himself to spell the words that eluded him. I turned an oil stained page and there they were like premonitions of this day the words GRIEVE, GRIEVING, DYING, DEATH words that I knew well, but words that he now knew better.
The Gift It arrived one day long ago a tin plate fire chief’s car ‘New York fire department’ emblazoned in gold upon the door. Red car – blue light speeding, speeding thro’ make believe Manhattan night toward a glorious conflagration. Tin plate fire chief driving, driving forever young, forever heroic forever in my clockwork thoughts.
8 What’s Your Story?
You Know it Ain’t Easy ‘The Beatles are more popular than Jesus now,’ John said. Something in the way he was misquoted - now he’s dead. Killed outside Dakota Building, New York City. Oh Yoko! Christ is still at number one – isn’t it a pity?
Neil Kerr 9
Maureen Thomas Hungry for Love I cry so often, my heart’s too sad when I have a good day my heart is glad. There are too many like myself to be left like this is such a disgrace. Hungry for love, hungry for care will this ever cause a stir? All will help, but no they don’t, except a few kindly people who don’t know you through and through. They don’t get paid but still they help to try and get me out this place. Where am I, I do not know, but God is good and He knows the reason why. Try to eat, try to be good but more often my name is mud. Capital of Culture is all the go for people like me it’s a no go. I’m not racist I’m not cruel but for me life is such a gruel. Pick yourself up from day to day to get yourself on your merry way, helping whoever and wherever you can, some needy soul to meet their goal. 10 What’s Your Story?
Hold Your Head High Too many homeless and on the streets when homes are closed and phones are bust, who can I phone or who can I trust? When no one's around, someone's a must. I am the must who people can trust but get myself well and I'll sure be swell. Head held high and walking tall, I never again want to be this small. People don't see you as you are when trouble comes your way they are far when you are well they gather around just a little piece of what is found. Many don't see past the grime of a troubled life that's been found. Up and up we must go to see a life that could be so swell.
Joe Going to the Pub He looked at his watch. I knew he was getting itchy feet and wanted to go out. 'I just think I will go and see the lads.' 'OK, Dad.' A big smile came to his face, and he most probably thought phew, that was easy. He went to the cubbyhole, took out his big beige coat, and said like always, 'This is my coat from the forces.' It was given him from a relation of my husband, but he loved it. Maureen Thomas 11
'Come here and I'll help you fasten it.' He had dementia, and this was a skill he had to relearn. Off he went; and so did I, but unknown to him. Many children were playing outside and I wondered how he would react to them, and vice versa. As I looked on, there he was bending over them talking; next he was slapping his hands against his legs and the children were copying him. He says his goodbyes and off again, next he's waving to a neighbour. He gets to the bottom of the street – now it's my turn. I run to the bottom of the road so I can watch him go out alone, following until he gets to the pub where he sits watching. An old man sits in the same place all the time so people know where to look for him, and this they did. As you walk in the door the bar is opposite with a table in the middle, which is usually full with workers. At the end of a long bar sits Billy, a rather larger than life character, who was a marvellous friend, joker, carer. When dad got in the pub, they made sure he was ok; when he was coming home I would get a phone call to say he was on his way, so off I went to make sure he got home safe.
12 What’s Your Story?
Clare Shaw You are morning, early. Coffee and light, you are the day all new and all’s right. You are the world still clean. You are new start, over, again.You are green of new bracken, back-lit, you are heart and its plum-coloured knuckle and ache. Its series of minor explosions. Right tune and the lyric to suit – you are Spain and all of my favourite places. You are the lake like a dream. Oh sugar, I don’t care how it’s delivered, you are good news. You are water when I’m thirsty and I’m thirsty. Let’s swim.
Clare Shaw 13
I come from From not-quite-Yorkshire; I come from the borders. From shadowy gardens and crowds of hydrangeas, from hand-outs from neighbours; motherless summers of sun and bare feet. From free school dinners, a house full of lodgers, too many sisters, too many brothers, too many rooms to heat, from spiders in corners and rats in the cellar. Cobbles and grit and backstreet. I come too clever for my own good from spare the rod; from fear of God, from unquestioning faith in nuns and ghosts and all authority and Dad. I come from the silence of fog on far-off fields; from farm and bog and crops gone bad, from priests and Sunday’s boredom. I come from the butter mountain and the steady drip of fruit in bags over buckets of stewing wine and I come from the moors, as angry as flame; from the hills with the wings I was handed; from the blank, blank page of the rain. From Look and Learn, I come from a dream, I come from stone. 14 What’s Your Story?
I come from never did me any harm and I too come from one bad man. From silence. But not my own.
Clare Shaw 15
Richard Eves My Journey Life’s weight – several journeys – high expectations – further, further – unknown tomorrow – respectable self – expecting love – many disappointments. My journey – all mine – tiredness, stress – new energy tomorrow – sleep revives me – stay fit – who knows what’s ahead? – share life – who with? – lonely journey. Variable journey – try something new – try something known – consciousness always expanding – body grows – taste goodness – breathe air – exercise mind – be there – be strong. Hateful journey – wickedness everywhere – stay unpunished – be careful – have fun – try luck – maybe gamble – rise above – dance, sing – curse lots – maybe win – get wealthy – seek charitable causes – pleasant journey. Join group therapy – chat, laugh – contribute something – take part – make friends – share experiences – avoid trouble – be comfortable – smile perhaps – sexual relationships hardly ever happen – life goes on – amazing journey. Find work – earn money – do something challenging – live abroad – marry someone – start family – my journey goes on – sun setting – darkness comes – world revolving – heart beating – journey done. 16 What’s Your Story?
The Doctor’s Waiting Room In a doctor’s waiting room a professional dog walker, an overworked businessman and a person born with a twosecond attention span were all waiting to go in to see the doctor. But the doctor wasn’t in this morning. He’d slipped out a back door abandoning his post. The pressures and strains of his job led him to go on unauthorised and unannounced leave. Where? Who knows? Anybody can suffer from mental illness. One in four are affected in the UK each year.
I Come From I come from a street that has changed so much since I lived there, modernity has moved in, the people that used to live there have moved out. I come from a house that when the tourists passed by they used to stop and stare and say, ‘how lovely it is’. I come from a Victorian house with a marble fire place where in winter I remember the sound of burning wood crackle and spit on to the floor. I come from the days when black and white television was the norm, with episodes of Tarzan and the Apes and Flash Gordon. I come from a house with an elaborately coloured, stained glass, front door. I come from a home where mum did all the cooking, which I liked very much before I turned vegetarian. Richard Eves 17
I come from a childhood home where we were relatively well-off with prosperity that in my adulthood I am unable to match. I come from a home where aged 12 I urged Dad to buy me an LP, Dad gave me the money, and I bought a Beatles LP that we used to listen to together as a family.
Sophie and her pet dog called Fred When Sophie was little her family had a pet dog that I’ll call Fred. Fred was a cross between an Alsatian and a Great Dane and as you can imagine, because these are big breed dogs and Sophie was only little, Fred was bigger than her. Fred was mostly a placid dog of good character but one day Sophie was stroking Fred’s ear when Fred suddenly reacted in an adverse way by biting Sophie on her hand drawing blood. Sophie can’t remember if she went to get a Hepatitis jab or a jab for rabies, what she does know is that eventually, when she was older and when Sophie was bigger than Fred, Sophie wasn’t as scared of Fred and Sophie could forgive Fred for what he did. Then some years later again when Fred had died and Sophie missed a friend, Sophie began to look at other dogs and started to think that one day she might like to have another dog as a pet. Sophie has recently seen a Labrador that she likes and it may just be that Sophie will take this Labrador into her home, which will help alleviate some of the fear Sophie has of dogs brought about by Fred.
18 What’s Your Story?
What’s Worth Knowing What’s worth knowing should be sought out and found because it is likely to be of great value and importance to that person and it will change that person’s life. It will be like a long hard struggle come to an end, a battle having been won, and the realisation that you now know what you didn’t know before. It will be a revelation to you.
Richard Eves 19
Irene Campbell My road A long suburban road. Gardens tended with loving care. The pond where my brother, sister and I spent summer days with fishing rods, jam butties and juice. Catching tadpoles, we would take them home. Watch in awe: the tiny bodies turn into frogs! Butterflies and bees on Mum’s lilac bushes. Rhododendrons. The smell of honeysuckle after the rain. Pushing our play prams – not with dolls. Our rabbits and guinea pigs enjoyed the ride! My sister has gone now to God. She was only sixteen years old. The road has changed and so have I. Necessary changes, but painful. I still feel twelve sometimes. 20 What’s Your Story?
I keep on learning how to smile. Growing up to face the days of sunsets, rainbows, stars.
I praise spiders I have much gratitude for their webs. Drops of morning dew cascade: intricate lines of brightness.
I remember you You seemed so quiet. Was it that you had little to say? Or didn’t know if what you had to say was valid? Your head down in a sort of upright slumber. Like a tree, afraid to look up and see the sun.
Irene Campbell 21
Richard Adamson Seamus and Me When I first met Seamus, over 20 years ago now, I thought I knew him from somewhere before. His face was familiar – a big soft-featured face. Everything about Seamus was larger than life, from his bushy eyebrows, to his huge feet. At that first meeting we were dressed casually in trainers and loose-fitting clothes, in readiness for a drama workshop. For those unfamiliar with such things I’ll try to explain. Participating in a drama workshop requires one to do a variety of warm-up exercises for body and mind. Often the group members don’t know each other at the start and the workshop leader will introduce games, some recognisable from the school playground, to get people comfortable with each other. I discovered this stuff in my early 20s when I returned home to Liverpool following a breakdown. At that time the classes and the confidence that grew out of them was massive for me, and even five years later I still approached these exercises with some of the zeal of a recent convert. On this occasion I was attending this drama workshop as part of my work. I am a support worker with a mental health organisation and the sessions are aimed at clients using mental health services. Having persuaded a service user to attend the sessions, I am allowed too. I am hopeful to be doing something that I believe can have a positive effect on mental health, and relieved to be away from the dreary smoke-filled confines of the centre where I usually ply my trade. 22 What’s Your Story?
Seamus arrived late but once there he throws himself into the games with gusto. I wonder if he too is a veteran of this form of therapy. The workshop leader counsels caution as some of the more physical games have this large chap, over six foot in height and above fifteen stone, barrelling around the studio space. Seamus finds no shame in checking and rechecking the instructions for each of the games. On recognition that he is on the right track, a smile creeps across his face, his eyebrows stand to attention and his head nods laconically. He feels free to be negative about the session: ‘Well, that’s a load of old rubbish.’ He smiles, his eyes twinkle: ‘This is just stupid kids’ stuff.’ At times, these comments grate against my earnest approach to the discipline. Yet, his obvious enthusiasm and commitment is infectious and I become to make some sense of this curious, eccentric character. As the weekly sessions continue his attendance and commitment remain; he always arrives late and takes his leave promptly. This is how I get to know him a little at this time. Plans for future sessions never materialise; all participants go their separate ways. Over the years I saw him, always within that same area of the city. He would invariably be on his own, walking in a purposeful fashion, his appearance and demeanour detached from passers-by. Wherever he was heading was not giving him much of a spring to his step. I concluded he was having a pretty hard time of it. These sightings spanned years when I was often struggling with my own stuff. Who, what and where were familiar in my thinking and internal conversations. I seldom found answers.
Richard Adamson 23
If we fast-forward fifteen years I am now using mental health services on a regular basis. The project that I have been receiving support from is running a drama-therapy course. Most of the other attendees have been on similar courses and know each other quite well. Seamus arrives late. I don’t let on that I know him. I find comfort in his presence, his distinctive mannerisms more in evidence here in this environment; his mischievous smile and his low chuckle. When did I break it to Seamus of our first meeting? I can’t quite remember the circumstances - many things in my life over the last five years have a similar vagueness to them. What I can envisage though is the scene: he will almost certainly pause for thought, his bushy eyebrows raised, his head nodding; a smile and ‘mmm’ of recognition. He will recall a vague memory of such an event. ‘Of course- it was a lot of old rubbish.’ Over the years I have found this dark, humorous take on life a powerful tool in grappling with this thing called depression. Through remaining in contact with various groups and activities for people with mental health issues, I have been able to get to know Seamus. Over time our friendship has slowly evolved and although we often don’t see each other for months at a time, I believe it to be a strong one. I now know enough about him to state that he is a bit more content with his lot of late. I too share this state of being. I would like to think that our friendship has been one of the ingredients that have brought us to this place.
24 What’s Your Story?
Sophie Smith Goodbye First stop Leeds explore, get lost, drink coffee, chain smoke. Leeds to Liverpool to Leeds to Lincoln to Leeds. Go home, get changed, new book, cup of tea, catch up. Time for uni, Hyde Park, still dark, seminar cancelled, coursework. New day, try again sunshine, beer garden, weekend, train ticket, off again Leeds to Liverpool to Leeds to Lincoln to Leeds. Time to go next stop Liverpool unpack, photograph, pint on the docks, job search. Under-qualified, over-qualified, we’re not interested but please keep checking our website for positions. No time, home time, Liverpool to Sheffield to Lincoln to Sheffield to Liverpool. Cheer up, Bold Street, museums, library; writing course, new friends, feels like home. Time to go. Next stop Reading. Sophie Smith 25
I come from I come from the middle of nowhere my whole world the size of a football pitch. I come from Brownies promise, from school pantomimes and you’re too quiet. I come from doctors and nurses, from what do you want to be when you grow up? From expectations. I come from lunch boxes and Clarkes sandals, from grazed knees and your mother will be hearing about this. I come from Ribena in a wine glass at Christmas and Doctor Who specials. I come from mint humbugs by the fire and one for the road. I come from Springsteen’s Born in the USA from the Yellow Submarine, long car rides and are we there yet? I come from a large house down a small lane from no trick-or-treaters from loneliness.
26 What’s Your Story?
Bob Carruthers I come from Lockerbie Violence was never far off the agenda. Or the threat of it. Parents, siblings, cousins, schooling, etched into my psyche, my sense of identity. Given the constant levels of threat, it was no wonder it was hard to find a voice. So I sought solutions. Having four elder sisters, I’d race home from school on Thursdays and repay them. I’d have the last laugh. The back page of the Bunty comic had sets of clothes that you could cut out. I got in first and cut the tabs off. Another battering but it was worth it. Wickedness had a price. When I wanted a Batman outfit as the Rag & Bone man came down our street I would give my sisters’ best clothes to get the gear. Kerrunch! Kapow! Then there was the lunchtime incident when my brother used the f-word. ‘What did you just say?’ Mam screamed. ‘You fucking heard’ Jim said. Quick as a flash, she whipped the worn, black gabardine raincoat belt from the pulley and started leathering him across the face. Buckle and all. Brilliant to watch. Ace. Ringside seats. When Mam ran out of steam my brother got up from the table, left, and said nothing. That was bad. ‘Take Bob out to play.’ Irene reluctantly had me in tow. When out of sight she hung me on a picket fence by my reins and left me there. Some neighbour detached me. Irene still denies it but smiles when I remind her.
Bob Carruthers 27
Bridge Street – early morning. Mrs White. ‘And what did you have for your breakfast?’ she asked innocently. ‘A sausage and half an egg.’ Whack, whack, whack. ‘Don’t you show me up like that.’ How come it was OK to lie when you had it drummed into you to tell the truth? Repression and guilt in equal measure. Nothing like a Protestant, God-fearing upbringing culture to mess with your head. Three miles from home in the summer and standing in the River Milk I decided not to come out of the water. Sister Rosemary lobs a Coke bottle at me to encourage me. Big thick bit of glass in my left foot. Nice. Whilst convalescing, I told Bett Findlay, our neighbour, the truth. Me mother overheard the conversation. Slap - that’s for lying. Slap - that’s for thinking you’d get away with it. Slap - because I’m on a roll.
28 What’s Your Story?
Liz Stokes To the extremes The party was just starting. The dance floor lay empty but for one girl. Energy surging through her body, she danced like never before. Music pulsated through her veins, playing just for her. Lyrics had great meaning. Others were captivated by her, joining her fun. She got up onstage loving their attention all so happy simply fantastic life just so good Let this euphoria never end! * It’s four in the morning. I just can’t sleep. My mind’s all abuzz. Brilliant ideas flitting, one revelation after the other. Bombarded, overwhelmed. Liz Stokes 29
I close my eyes. I must try to rest, if not sleep. Ideas still flow. Excitement mounts. Can hardly wait for tomorrow world is such an amazing place! * At unchosen intervals, events come flashing back. With great vividness, the film rolls; sketches of another lifetime, the past feels threateningly close. Memories. Flights of fancy evoke embarrassment which refuses to fade. Sense of horror. Inhibition and judgement were far away. Freedom from this enduring shame will arrive. With passage of time, memories will lose their power. No longer will they distress or torture, incorporated comfortably into personal history. * Here again – wrung out. Places, people change every time strides forward made in self-confidence, handling of myself. Whack! Floored again.
30 What’s Your Story?
What effort it takes. Living on edge my whole body tense my mind a ball of anxiety I don’t trust myself. Oh, to be at one with myself! Not wrangling, tied in knots for life to flow! * On this summer afternoon children skip by. Families picnic under the shade of a nearby tree. An elderly couple walk by arm-in-arm. A boy throws bread to the ducks. A breeze blows, scattering leaves. The sun warms my back. I watch but I am not there. I do not feel a part of this scene everyone enjoying their Sunday afternoon. What is there to be happy about? The hum of chattering between folk. What is it like to enjoy a good conversation? I don’t remember. I don’t belong in this world. * Why did it have to be this way? No chance to say goodbye. No way to make amends.
Liz Stokes 31
A multitude of questions, pondered countless times. Never answered. Why did it have to be this way? Caught in our own worlds oblivious to your despair. We let you down. Now we live with that guilt. No forgiveness can be granted. Why did it have to be this way? Life shattered by your loss. Sudden, unexpected. Death left so much unsaid. So many avenues unexplored. An unfinished story. Forever. * Apathetic to life. Losing the will to live. Sinking to depths of despair. Responsive to all wonders. Loving every minute. Soaring to heights of elation. Swinging from high to low. Trying to find a middle ground; to enjoy life at a steady pace. Just trying to get home…… 32 What’s Your Story?
I come from I look towards the horizon across field after field of golden sheaths almost ready to meet their maker. My brother’s pride in his red replica harvester emulating the labours of our father. Hours spent amongst wheat, potatoes, sugar beet beneath the elements. Watching sitcoms together. Dad, a great mimic of many characters ‘Nice to see you…to see you nice!’ Respite taken with family fun. Favourite LPs spun on the turntable, the lounge, our impromptu dance floor. Happy times. I’m proud to be a farmer’s daughter. So much a part of my identity growing up and now, again I’m reconnecting with my roots. Laughing as we always laughed together. All is well.
Liz Stokes 33
Butterfly A butterfly does not know straight off how to fly. With wobbling, trembling wings, she crawls from her chrysalis. Through simple trial and error, she’ll learn to flutter. But by taking lessons from those a little older and wiser she may find the confidence to wing her way, without a stutter, up, up into the sky.
34 What’s Your Story?
Al Morgan A Man of Flowers and Acquainted With Grief If my story was a book it would be a paperback. A Life a Loan. It would be cheaply made, aged with neglect. It would have a broken spine. Pages would spill out randomly if anyone picked it up. If my story was a poem the rhymes would be strained and the imagery bleak. The metaphors would be relentlessly morose. The reader would turn against me long before the final stanza. My story could not be a soap-opera. Nothing happens. If it was a documentary it would be on C4 late at night with much made of the few sordid bits. If it was a song it would be a Leonard Cohen without the love. If a film, it would be called A Man of Flowers and Acquainted With Grief with an indeterminate ending.
Al Morgan 35
In Praise of Flies I want to praise flies. A large fly buzzing noisily as it bounces off the walls is a timely reminder of how quickly I become irritated and how little it takes. Flies here, flies there, flies everywhere. They test my ingenuity as I race to I divert them out the window. Then you see them flying around the garbage. Flies around the garbage. Life.
St Blaise (Aged 11) I pick lilacs from a bush at the end of our empty driveway. Wrapped in their perfume, I give them to Mother for the church. For the English Baptist church next door. Though Mother became a Catholic to marry, she never learnt a word of French. I walk to French church with my sisters. Dad goes the mile in M. Boisvert’s car. Mark, one year older than me, works on the farm. From Mr Paridis I get peonies. Their heads heavy in my hands. Petals scarcely holding on. Home across the fields. 36 What’s Your Story?
To Mother for the church. At church I gaze at a young Jesus talking to his elders. If only the flowers could come home. Would they calm Mother’s anger, prolong her moods of quiet? Would they ease Dad’s failing lungs? But no, Pastor Colgan keeps them. After I mow her grass, Madame Boucher gives me marigolds. Old Ruby shows me her crochet work. Her sister knits me a sunhat from plastic bags. They give me roses for Mother, for the church. Mark is letting Michael shoot his new BB gun. I see on Michael’s face the excitement I lack. Mark looks at me with contempt. I take daisies home to Mother. A Saturday with Mitch, weeding his family’s vegetable garden. A big lunch and a fun day. His mother finds an excuse to beat him with a broomstick. I leave with tiger lilies. And so summer passes. In October I pick the last dahlias lining our driveway. For three days they greet aunts and uncles I meet for the first time and older siblings I seldom see. Mourning knocks Mother. Al Morgan 37
In the New Year, Pastor Colgan decides he cannot abide a Roman Catholic in his midst. Mother struggles to keep her dignity, but I see the wounds. Come spring, there will be no flowers for the church. Instead I gather wild lilies from the wet forest floor and pussy willows from the wood’s edge. Approaching home I can hear laughter ricocheting around the house. From brother to sister to sister to mother. Even dead Dad joins in. ‘Oooooo, look what faggot-boy has brought home for Mommy!’ From brother to sister to sister to mother. Even dead Dad joins in. I arrive home empty handed. My gift on an altar of cow dung 300 yards away.
38 What’s Your Story?