The Runner

Jun 16th, 2007 by jan2 Edit |

Alan ran. He didn’t jog, he ran. He enjoyed running. He had spent so many years running it was like a drug; he definitely experienced ‘jogger’s high’ but in his case it was not quite correct because he ran. When anyone asked him why he ran so much he told them it was because it cleared his head. He suffered from schizophrenia but advanced medication, good care and love allowed him to function very well. Hardly anyone knew he even had the problem and much of the garbage in his day, stress, tension and worry was pushed out and forgotten when he ran. Besides he needed plenty of fresh air because he worked down the pit; he was a coal miner. He had been born with asthma but didn’t tell them that when he applied for the job; they didn’t bother with thorough medicals in his neck of the woods.

When Alan ran he focused on what was ahead and in summer, if he had gained a little weight, he wore a plastic bin bag over his head like a poncho because it made him sweat heavily. It looked comical, especially when his baseball cap was placed with the peak facing backwards but he was a familiar sight. There were a number of routes mapped out in his head and over the years people had grown accustomed to seeing him pass by, head down, relentless, come rain or shine. He worked three different shifts but always contrived to run at dawn.

Alan lived in a small mining-village where parts of the landscape were still blighted with slag heaps. Beneath his feet was a warren of tunnels where the coal had been mined out many years before he followed his grandfather, father and brothers down the pit. He was a strong, rugged man who was not easily rattled, had a great sense of humour, a good marriage with two young sons and basically a contented life. Given a choice he would not have worked underground where the coal dust swirled and settled on his chest but he enjoyed the camaraderie and with no academic qualifications there had never been any doubt that he was going to be a miner.

How far he ran varied because he knew that his body needed days when it had to tick over and three or four miles was more than enough. After years of constantly changing his routes he’d decided in March that all of them would wind up over the pit fields which he’d previously avoided on the grounds that he saw enough coal at work. It meant that he made his way home down a long, winding path that had been worn down by generations of miners who had worked the local pit until it closed fifteen years earlier. There were lumps of coal and potholes all over it and a small slagheap to one side which attracted the mountain bikers. The path ended just before a large grassed area where a small children’s play ground had been built as part of a regeneration package. Al always sprinted through the tarmac car park, which had been provided for a small supermarket next to the renovated railway station, then across the road and home.

One overcast and rather grey daybreak in April he was near the end of his longest run, twelve miles, and approached the old, rubble strewn path as drizzle pattered onto his cap and back. He glanced up and was surprised to see a figure in the distance, a miner from the way he was dressed. He was standing very still and Al wondered where he had been or was going at that time of day. He was a reasonably young chap, probably not quite forty and gave the impression that he was in a world of his own. Alan didn’t recognise him but spotted the red glow of a cigarette as the chap looked out toward the west enjoying a smoke and watching the sun force its way through the cloud. Every man has his own way of starting a day and for a miner every minute spent above ground is precious.

When Alan was within a hundred yards of him he glanced up and noted that the chap was still absolutely motionless and also rather quirkily dressed. His shirt was collarless and his jacket and trousers did not match in addition to being made of a rough, coarse cloth. He was wearing the traditional flat cap people associated with a northern mining-village; even Al’s generation usually had one hanging in a cupboard that got an occasional airing. He was slim, thin really with greying hair, a rather gaunt profile, a grey moustache and about six feet tall. At fifty yards Alan sensed the man wasn’t going to acknowledge him or (more annoying) move out of the way so he put his head down and surged forwards. Fifteen seconds later a piercing scream echoed skywards and the sweat on his back froze; he’d run through him.

Jennie was asleep when Alan got home and as a rule he would have showered and had breakfast before going up to bed. He was very careful to keep the noise down because the boys did not have to get up for school until seven thirty and once Jennie had seen them off she carried on to her part-time job at the local post office. It was unusual to hear the doors bang and when Alan grasped her shoulder to wake her she knew immediately that there was a problem. His face was drained white and he was shaking.

“Al? What’s wrong? What’s up love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“ Jen… Jen!”

She was bolt upright by now and clasped his hands in hers.

“For God’s sake Alan, you’re shivering. What’s happened?”

“ Jen… I’ve… I saw… I’ve seen… Jen!”

“What the hell have you seen Al? Get me told! What’s gone on?”

He breathed more slowly until he had calmed himself and was able to relate to his wife what had happened. If he had simply seen the man… ghost… apparition… it would have been bad enough; what he could not cope with was the knowledge that he had run through him. Jennie sat and hugged him until he’d stopped shaking then persuaded him to take a hot shower and eat some breakfast. He’d been at work all night, arrived home, changed and gone straight out for his run. He would have been very tired by the time he reached the old pit lane and though she didn’t voice it aloud she couldn’t stop herself thinking that a tired, hungry man on a grey morning in a deserted area could have imagined the experience. It was not unknown for exhausted people to hallucinate and she had never been happy about Alan running straight after the night shift. On the other hand he was not given to letting his imagination run away with him. Jennie was a grounded, down to earth woman and she wanted to see what he’d be like after some food and five or six hours sleep. Her first priority was to get him warm because all the time they’d been hugging his body had felt unnaturally cold, almost icy.

As soon as he’d finished Jennie bundled him off to bed before the boys got up and once they were safely in school made her way to the post office where she worked part-time. She would be there for over three hours and hoped that Alan would sleep through until she arrived home. They had been married for twelve years and at no point had she ever seen him so frightened. Sheila, who worked in the post office with her, was busy with a customer but could see that Jennie was not herself. Once they got a minute she made them both a cup of tea and asked her if she felt poorly. Jennie told her what had happened and was taken aback when Sheila showed absolutely no surprise.

“Was he standing at the top of the pit lane, old fashioned clothes, smoking, never moved?”

“Yes, yes! How do you know? Who told you? Who is it? It’s spooked Alan witless; his eyes are bulging out of his skull. I’ve never seen him like that in all our married life.” 

“It was Seth, well that’s what they say, I’ve never seen him myself but Tom’s dad says he has and that’s how he described him. A lot of the old men say they’ve seen him but usually in the evening if they’ve fancied a walk out with the dogs or a breath of fresh air.”

“How do you know all this stuff? Who is this Seth? I’ve never heard any of this mentioned by anybody and there’s not much gets past Al’s mum and dad; there’s not much gets past Al if it comes to that.”

“Well from what I’ve heard and it’s not much mind, people who have seen him never say much about it. Perhaps you’ll have to ask Alan’s dad, he’s bound to know something – he’ll know more than me at any rate.”

At that point a steady stream of customers kept them busy because it was pension day and the old folk had to go in to collect their money and maybe pick up a few groceries. In some ways Jennie was glad because she was fretting about Alan and needed something to occupy her mind. On the stroke of one o’clock she had her coat on and was already half way through the door.

Alan had slept fitfully and Jennie arrived home to find him in the twilight zone between sleeping and waking, muttering and thrashing about with pillows and duvet thrown to the floor. He was wet through – and icy cold. She decided he would be better off awake and gently held his head in her hands. His eyes shot open and his neck snapped backwards like a startled rabbit facing a fox. Jennie couldn’t help noticing that there were a few grey hairs near his temples that she had never seen before. Normally they would have made a joke of it but Al was far from normal.  

When he seemed less agitated Jennie put some more blankets on the bed and gave him hot milk and biscuits. A quick glance in his drawer confirmed that he had taken his meds. She looked at him carefully, accustomed to seeing a face tanned from hours spent running, thick black hair and a powerful, muscular body. He seemed to be a shadow of the husband she loved so much as though the shock had somehow diminished his body. As soon as he was asleep she rang her father-in-law  George to tell him what had happened and find out if he could cast any light on the ‘Seth’ issue.

George knew more than Jennie expected; more than Jennie wanted to know.

Seth had worked down the pit from leaving school at fourteen. He came from a long family of miners but in his first month at work one of his uncles (Ezra) had been killed in a roof collapse. The rescue team had wanted to go in and dig him out almost before the dust cleared and the deputies agreed but the overman (Cecil Harris) told them to get up top and it didn’t go down well. A lot of the men and particularly Seth’s family thought Harris was spineless and stopped any chance of Ezra being pulled out alive.

At the end of Seth’s first year his mother’s brother was killed in a gas explosion. The whole area was supposed to have been checked and the men were told they could go down to the coalface. Jed (Seth’s uncle) said it didn’t smell right to him but Harris (again) told him to stop whining and get on his way. Jed was right, there was a gas problem and he got killed with six others badly injured. Harris took a lot of stick for that but he was an overman and it was always his version of events that went into the enquiry. The mine owners wanted accidents cleared up quickly with no blame attached and Harris obliged. Jed’s wife received no compensation because Harris said he’d told the men to hang back until they were sure any gas risk was gone.

Over the next ten years other members of the family were involved in all manner of accidents. There were no further deaths but one cousin was paralysed, another had his thumb severed, Seth’s eldest brother was badly burned and another blinded in one eye. These ‘accidents’ always occurred when Harris was in charge but no one could ever attach any blame to him and not one of the injured was ever properly compensated. The mine owners did offer to pay for a glass eye; needless to say it was turned down.

Seth’s youngest brother Eward worked down the pit – there were no other jobs for unqualified young men from poor families – and had what was then referred to as a bad chest. He should never have worked in a mine and there were occasions when he could scarcely breathe. One day in April Eddie was working in a damp area when the joists gave way and there was so much dust it was thicker than smog. He tried to make his way out but it started to flood, that’s why the joists were breaking up, the water had rotted them. The emergency horn sounded and Seth knew immediately that it was coming from the area where Eddie was working. He raced through the tunnels but the water was rising quickly. Eddie should have been able to drag himself away but he was still struggling to breathe. Seth could see him going under the water but Harris appeared and told him to go back, the water was rising too quickly and they only had a few minutes to get to the shaft and into the cage. Seth pushed him out of the way. He told Harris he was going in to get Eddie and he’d run through him if he had to because he couldn’t leave his brother to drown. Harris was too busy saving his own skin to argue so he stepped aside.

Seth wasn’t able to save his brother and they both died, trapped underground in freezing, stinking black water. Harris made it to the cage, got to the surface and that was that. When the water had been drained and the joists strengthened or replaced the rescue team went down and brought both men out. It wasn’t a pretty sight; they’d been in the water for almost a week. Seth’s wife was expecting a child but she didn’t know at the time; the lad never met his dad, Seth never met his lad. The men who knew him and said they’d seen him reckoned he couldn’t and wouldn’t rest until he’d seen his son. He stood at the top of the pit lane because directly underneath him was the place where he and his brother had drowned.

Jennie thanked him and replaced the phone; part of her wished she’d never rung him. At least it was quiet upstairs so Alan must have gone to sleep. 

The boys came home from school and went into next door’s garden to play football. Jennie made a cup of tea and some sandwiches in case Alan felt hungry. When the boys had asked where he was she told them he had a fever and needed to rest so they didn’t go up to see him. It was a miserable evening, damp and prematurely dark. Jennie, tray in both hands pushed open the door. A piercing scream echoed from the depths of her soul; sandwiches and tea somersaulted in every direction.

 

Gareth ran. He didn’t jog, he ran. He enjoyed running. It was twilight and he was half way down the old, rubble strewn path that snaked its way over the pit fields. He glanced up and was surprised to see a figure in the distance, a miner from the way he was dressed. He had a tanned face, thick black hair and a powerful, muscular body.

                                      

Jan

                                                                         

One Response to “The Runner”

Tales from the Asylum:Out Patient

May 3rd, 2007 — jan2 | Edit

There is something to be said for the solitary life. It affords time for quiet reflection, contemplation and languid stretching of the toes. It makes few external demands and requires little by way of conformity. It delivers both freedom and loneliness; freedom from those who would thrust you into the mainstream of reality and loneliness when you lie awake at night knowing there is no one else there. I inhabit this peculiar twilight life away from the world which makes men mad and now there is a subtle rapport with time. A love, hate, fear affair - but most quintessentially my affair. It is the hourglass of my existence, my comrade at arms and my warm blanket. It is the suffocation of days spent communing with no other living soul and the thick, heavy blackness of silence; it is both my liberator and my captor.       

Inside the dungeon of days I am allowed to wander where ever my body is willing to be dragged, where ever my head has the fortitude to roam. When the pain is bad I can sit hunched and listless waiting for it to pass or I can enter into combat twisting the knife further - I will endure more and yet more because I am perversely strong. When the pain is moderate there is the astonishment of idleness without punishment - I curl guiltily into the arms of time, seemingly endless and eternal. No telephone to ring, no letter to be answered, no work to be done. Give me the agony of pain in exchange for this chance and the gift of time that must not be filled. Give me the empty, desert days; give me minutes,  hours,  days, weeks, months and years of empty and let it remain so until I have remade myself - let me be giddy and drunk on each intoxicating second. I will know time more than time knows me; I will give birth to myself but no one will know it - I will be unrecognizable, unknown, untouched and new.                                 

I am locked in a dangerous embrace with my dungeons for they lead to passages of thought once kept at bay with alarm clocks and bells. Now there is the piercing shriek of nothing - the internal meltdown of my own timeless chaos. There are no bells here in this out of time space; ticking things signify only that a hand has moved from one place to the next. I hear and see them but I don’t jump or run or dart from this room to that, up those stairs and down the next. When am I late? I am never late because I cannot be early or even precisely punctual - time’s beckoning finger  never gestures to me and so, for the world, I have ceased. Having walked in the shadow of Alice’s white rabbit, forever looking at the watch and nattering, I cannot fall into the bottomless pit of lateness, or sail off the edge of the sea, or disappear into a cloud because the world has forgotten I am here. I lie in someone’s file conveniently signed off on a dotted line. They will never unfile me because they know I have fallen out of step and forgotten how to count; how many minutes to the end of an hour, how many hours to the end of the week, how many weeks to the end of a month. Without a label I have lost the need to count but without a label I do not count and thus both time and I are invisible. All those who are lost in the pressure of a parcelled hour, a day in units, a week in numbers can no longer see me, I am as vapour in the slipstream of their rushed importance, colourless and without form - and just as I have ceased for them so now must I cease for me.                                                           

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Yesterday, I think it was  yesterday but it may have been much further back in time, I considered the possibility of going out into the world to see if anything had changed. Someone was meant to be calling on me but I don’t recall the meeting so perhaps no one came - it hardly matters, maybe we had all got confused with the date. I remember thinking that it would be interesting to walk to the garden gate, to touch the rotting wood and look out further into the street beyond. At the side of the path there were tubs of late geraniums and a cracked strawberry pot, I had no idea why the pot was cracked but I did see that pieces of it had broken away and the soil had spilled out. I meant to go much further than the gate, I intended to go as far as the post box and then up the hill and onto the main street. I did not get any further than the gate. When I saw that the pot was broken it seemed that someone had invaded my little area during the night, or during the day when I wasn’t looking, or when I was looking but couldn’t see. At any rate they had invaded my area and the knowledge of their intrusion was vast and inexplicable. My head fretted at the truth but there were no messages or tell-tale clues, the intruders had left no note to say why they had felt the need to smash the pot. I could only sit on the garden bench and consider the enormity of their offence; how could I have failed to see that outsiders had been into my area? Why had I not learned better and more complete vigilance? What was the point of staying awake if I could not keep the world out? With such terrors poking their shrivelled little tongues at me the trip beyond the gate had to be postponed and the world left to its own devices. It is far too complex a place when those outside the gate have gone beyond control, especially when they have intentions which are entirely incomprehensible to those of us who are waiting to see what will happen next should we have the temerity to move. I decided to go back inside the house and be very still. In stillness it is possible to combine existence with a degree of safety knowing all the while that the time it takes will never matter.                       

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She knows that she cannot hide behind the rotting garden gate and the heavy wooden doors. She knows even as she reads her Alice that the walls must crumble and she will be entirely unprotected. There is no real hiding place even when you think you are beyond time. Even as dreams twist and turn into nightmares, the rabbit-holes-cum-tunnels must lead to the mad and ranting queen. White rabbit cannot be white enough, red soldier cards will fold before her gaze and no amount of fussing over time will hide the ghastly stains she sees. Who thinks to placate her with tarts? Who imagines that an abundance of offerings could ever quell the rage that she will spill into the palace gardens? In sweat soaked sleep the merciless  refrain will echo and where will there be to run? “Off with her head! Off with her head!” It resounds through time and space, it never stops and whose head does she mean and does she really mean your head? “Off with…” Off with what and how? With an axe or a hammer or a huge carving knife? In a guillotine with the head later staring from a basket? With people knitting and the lady round the corner who pops up from no where to ask if anything is wrong? Are they all in the dream together to see if someone will summon up the nerve to ask the raging queen what on earth she means and what it is they have done? Will towering queen stop at the one head or ask for more? Will the head be yours…? No one comes to wake her. She is not asleep so she cannot be wakened. She is simply experimenting with time and in doing so it seems she that she sleeps but she does not sleep. If the world likes to think she is peaceful, sitting comfortably and taking her medicine then they must think it. She will not draw attention to herself. She will wait for the pictures to subside, for the noises to cease and then perhaps it will be safe to close her eyes…or open them…who can be sure?               

                                                                *  *  *  *  *

I kept extremely still; indeed I played dead which has long been one of my favourite and most uniquely secretive pastimes. I have seen animals adopt the ‘dead’ pose as one of their best lines of defence and by and large it seems to work. I have spent many hours of darkness practising the complete non-being of death. It does not work unless you can purge your mind of everything that links you to the consciousness of life. Playing dead is an art form and if you truly aspire to it you must use up much life in order to perfect the complete purity of ceasing to be. It is a bizarre and yet compelling mode of self-defence because once perfected it is the ultimate barricade, a giving up of life in order to stay alive. I was etremely still and waited for the horror to pass.The failure of my visit to the gate required much time to slip by before I could reconcile myself to the knowledge of the world’s intrusion. I will not grow fuchsias again if the process is to be fraught with danger. In truth I do not recollect planting them in the first place but they will not be allowed back now that I know that the lurid garish pinks and purples are magnets to those beyond the gates. In the main I aim for that state of being which will most successfully attract least attention. My clothes are black, brown and grey; my face is nondescript and my hair lank and lifeless. I do not wear jewellery or make-up  and when I am walking I keep my head down and look at the floor. If it is at all possible I do not make eye contact even with the people who come to the house with their appointment books and their mobile phones and their needles - especially the ones who come with their needles. I watch for them sometimes but they don’t know that I’ve been watching; I sit by the window and see them park their fancy cars against my house. They have much confidence and sometimes they talk into the phone and I can see them laughing before they arrive at the door with their serious face. I do not like it when they come in pairs and I will not answer the door unless one of them goes away. They never come in pairs now unless they are taking me somewhere but I have not been anywhere with them for a long time - I think it is a long time. I am never too sure how I get from one time to another because I have forgotten how to measure the gaps.The clock ticktocked and the sand trickled on its relentless journey through the hourglass; ticktock never stopped but with each movement forward the fear released me until, quite incredibly, I was finally calm and almost peaceful. It was extremely pleasant; it was no trembling or hands shaking or night terrors - it was, simply, peace. Sometimes there are flashes of this peace feeling  and when it comes I almost do not what to do with it; I have only just learned to recognise it. It is not like my ‘death’ pose and it is not the same as when I an hunched in a corner trying to annihilate myself. It is plain, uncomplicated peace and as such when it does come I fall in love with it straight off. We are trying to make it stay with me so I will have some of the confidence that the needle people have and be able to talk into a phone. It is very elusive and I have found that there is little point in searching it out as though to make it appear on demand, it comes when it has a mind to come and otherwise it stays away - perhaps there is little room as yet. I have also found when it comes that for a while I see everything in colour but normal colour, not the rioting fiasco of my nightmares. Not the bold and terrifying colour that leads to blindness and then to brown and grey. I recommend this peace to you if you do not have it already. I wish it would stay when it comes but it seems only to pop in for a visit, as if to taunt me a little with what I am missing.                                              

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There is no escape no matter how many people turn up at the house, she knows full well that there never has been any real escape. The queen marches on in all her power and glory and she sees everything. The cat in the tree only pretends not to be in on the act, if you look closely you will see the smile that lingers long after the body has disappeared into the corridors of power. There is much to be done and so little time to do it. Everything must be perfect for the arrival of the queen, everything dusted and polished, germ free and sparkling in the sunlight. There can be no excuse for being slipshod and it is well  understood that failure to achieve perfection is punishable by…. by what? Surely nothing too extreme; since when has a little dust been a hanging offence? A simple beating will suffice for just a speck of dust with a prolonged and public flogging for more serious deficiencies. Of course the queen must have her fun so who is to say from one day to the next or from one hour to the other how much dust is a little dust. The matriarch is monarch of all she surveys and the rules were set down long ago, they are not open to question or debate and they must be internalised. She knows all this and she has known it forever so why does she look now to challenge the unalterable laws of time? Who has put into her head the very idea that what has been learned  in fear must be in some way overthrown? Why struggle with it now when it would be so much easier to accept the immutable laws of pain - pain is pain and it must be suffered. Who is she to suggest that there is another way to be, a better way to live? Who is she indeed? She is the helpless rocking one with the eyes that plead silently because she dare not ask too openly to be reprieved. She is throwing all the pepper she can find into the large cooking pot because that is what she has to do; mix the stew and warm the plates and clear the dishes and sweep the floor. And who is this now working beside her, giving advice and juggling the cups, wiping the sweat from her brow - none other than the queen herself  who seems to forget her own lofty position and thinks for a while that she is the scullery maid. They work together and between them prepare a banquet for the soldier cards. When the cards have eaten their fill and left the kitchen she stands quietly by her companion and waits patiently for what ever will come next. The blows rain down; the queen is lost deep within the spell of her own fury, all camaraderie fast flown away.                                                                     

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I can hear them knocking at the door, there are two of them this time because they want to review my situation. I know that I must let them in or it will be a black mark against my name and on their report they will say I am difficult and not prepared to co-operate. I have seen them both before and they are all right when they come alone but when they come together they glance at each other and make signals. They are knocking and calling my name so I must let them enter, there is no chance that they will go away and if  they do they will come back later with the police so I know I must give way. As a child it never occurred to me that if you had the wrong type of head it could turn you into a criminal.The police do not come for good girls just  for bad ones so I must open the door to the needle people even though there are two of them which is never a good sign. They will want me to talk and I am never sure if I get the answers right; sometimes I am not even sure if they have asked me a question, they sort of stare and smile and make notes. The tall dark-haired one makes the most notes and the young blonde one watches my face but they are not the ones who really count - it is the slight grey-haired one back at the hospital who really counts - she is the one who makes all the big decisions and ultimately she is the one I must please. They tumble into the kitchen eager to get started, desperate to wrap their mission in the usual cloak of polite euphemisms.“Hello, hello, nice to see you, isn’t it lovely weather, have you been outside in the sunshine? Let’s go and sit down shall we and have a chat. Oh what a pretty plant, it’s striking, now then, let’s have a talk.” They arrive, they decide, they comment - we sit down.“Now Izzy Doctor has asked us to call today because she’s a bit concerned that you may not be so well.”They flip through files and click pens, slick, hustle bustle, professional –friendly fire.“What have I done? What have I done wrong? Does it take two of you to deliver a message? Haven’t you got other people to visit who actually want you to drop in?”“You haven’t done anything wrong and we haven’t come to have a go at you…come on, we’ve talked about this before… Doctor’s concerned, we’re concerned.You missed your last appointment and she’s asked us to call in and see if there’s a problem. You know that you have to keep those appointments so that she can make sure you’re well…but she’s not cross with you, not at all. We just need to check that you’re managing.” They pause to gaze at me in that vaguely patronising manner generally reserved for toddlers, people over ninety and the mentally ill. My body, rigid with tension cannot stop the involuntary spasms of its agitated hands.“You seem to be quite angry today. Are you angry with us for coming or is this another angry week?” The young blonde one says very little but watches my hands and facial expressions, makes observations which I know she’ll report to the grey God……………….for a second she appears in front of me, a vivid image in my mind’s eye. She sees almost everything and in my head I have already decided she will not be pleased, not happy with the situation, not keen to keep her distance and leave me be. When she speaks I know I won’t want to hear her, I sense mounting trouble and she makes me panic. She is a volcano waiting to erupt, the heat from her decisions will spread out until there is no room to breathe. I have to think fast, summon up all my energies and power so that there will be a decision in my favour. I have to change my demeanour and sound calm, steady the rocking boat, rob her of ammunition. Most of all I have to keep her away from the room where they hide the lightning, the electric horror box that sits next to the bed with its taut white sheets and its tidy space for your shoes. The place where they all take you in the end…..………the vision disappears and the tall dark-haired one is back in view, inviting me to sit comfortably in my own home, clucking and cooing and making cups of tea - aren’t they nice people, isn’t that sweet.

Jan

Tales from the Asylum

May 3rd, 2007 — jan2 | Edit

When I was a kid growing up people made jokes about a hospital in our nearest big town about ten miles from where I lived but I’d never seen it and in the early years I didn’t understand why it was the source of so much sniggering. I heard it mentioned, (it was called Benfield Hall, nicknamed Bennies) and the other, older kids laughed and called it the loony bin but I didn’t properly understand until I was about eight years old by which time I knew it was where they put the loonies. Men in white coats came and got the loonies and took them to the hospital in the big town and we smirked and chanted ,”Loonies, loonies” when an elderly woman and an oafish young man went past in the street. I had no idea why we were doing that but my village was small and my main source of information came from older kids who had been to the town and said the loonies were all locked up behind bars frothing at the mouth and rolling their eyes round their heads. They described how the loonies wore rags and shouted at people who weren’t there and how they pulled out their own hair and howled as though wolves were attacking them. They told me some of the loonies were murderers who had axed people to death or poisoned their families and should be in prison but they were different to normal axe murderers, they were loonies so they had to be in the loony bin. I worried about those people because if they were just in a hospital they could escape and do terrible things to anyone who upset them. The big kids made out they were always escaping so we should never go over Trevor’s fields (Mr Trevor was a local farmer) alone, even in the daytime because the barmy inmates always tried to hide in fields or follow cart paths and if they saw you on your own…..slash……the big kids showed us how we would have our throats cut or be strangled. I never forgot playing out and listening to those terrifying tales relayed with such gusto by the older kids who knew absolutely nothing about that hospital or its patients but had heard their parents talking and learned that loonies were freaks, figures of fun to be to be jeered at and mocked - Bennies.

As the years passed it was my turn to be one of the big kids but I didn’t spend much time playing out. I was different, I liked to stay in and read, play school with one of my brothers, make up scenes in my head. I was one of those kids who fretted but kept it to myself. The News at 6 o’clock became so terrifying I couldn’t watch it and made sure to leave the room when it came on. They were forever talking about nuclear weapons or the first man to have a heart transplant and lots of people in a block were plotting against us behind a giant cold wall which never seemed to melt. Perhaps it was always icy cold and they never had any sunshine which was why they always wore those big furry hats. The Russians had very stern faces and lots of giant bombs so we had to be careful not to upset them. I used to wonder if the loonies had a cold wall to stop them from running away but I never heard anyone talk about it so maybe the bars and locks were enough.

Mam didn’t slap me again and her rages calmed down but one day she did something that I’d never seen her do in my whole life. She started lieing down on the sofa for longer and longer periods, sometimes she went to sleep and other times she just stared into space. I tried to see what she could have been staring at but there was nothing there, she was staring at nothing. I tried to talk to her but she never answered and it was awful so after a few weeks I gave in; mam never looked at me when I was talking and it made me feel like I wasn’t there. My little brothers played out and had fun but they missed mam, she didn’t cuddle them or give them their baths or tuck them in anymore. They wanted to chatter to her about little boy things and they couldn’t because she didn’t respond and it made them feel bad. My two older brothers had to help dad cook, clean, wash the dishes, wash the clothes and generally run the house. They didn’t want to do the chores but they had to help out more even though they were upset and sad because they missed mam and didn’t know how to behave in front of her. In the evenings when we wanted to watch TV together there weren’t enough chairs for us to sit in because mam needed all the sofa so she could lie down and stare at nothing. We all wanted things to go back to how they had been when the house was tidy and there was Shepherd’s Pie in the oven and mam baked buns and scones and sometimes gingerbread men for a special treat.

We had to wait for a long time before things went back to normal and when it did we’d moved house to live in a village a couple of miles away. Mam ’s doctor brought another doctor with him one day and he said she had to stay at the hospital in the big town so they could make her better. We cried. My older brother’s tried not to but the younger ones sobbed and kept asking where the ambulance was taking mammy so I tried to console them but it wasn’t me they wanted. Dad talked to the doctor who had been visiting for weeks and he looked upset and serious but he didn’t cry because grown up men never cried.

 It was very difficult for all of us and dad arranged for us to go and stay with relatives but we had to be split up because none of them wanted or had room for five kids. We didn’t know them very well so we were a bit scared but it was no fun to go out and play because the big kids pointed at us and laughed and shouted, ‘Here come the loony’s kids, their mam’s in Bennies.’ It wasn’t funny but kids don’t understand that until they grow up - or find themselves watching their mam being taken away.

Jan

Lassie

Because Jed was frightened of dogs and would take a two mile detour to avoid passing one in the street our dad decided to get one for the family. We were very excited and our mam told us she was a girl dog so I spent hours thinking of names even though there was only one I really wanted. We pestered mam to death about what she looked like and was she a puppy or already grown up into a lady dog and what colour was her fur and did anyone near us have one like her so we could imagine her better. Jed didn’t keep asking, he was quiet and didn’t want to think about names but scowled and said she might bite us and then we wouldn’t be excited. I heard our mam tell him she was not a biting dog, she was a nice, happy dog who would lick his hands and wag her tail so he would know she wanted to be friends. They always told Jed that if a dog wagged its tail it was friendly and only wanted to be patted and stroked but he couldn’t make himself believe it and avoided them as much as he could.

I couldn’t wait for the weekend to come and spent all my time wondering what she would look like and if I would be able to call her my special name for a dog. When Saturday came she arrived with our dad who had brought her from the farm where he worked sometimes when they were very busy. She had a white flash of fur on her head and round one eye. Her coat was black, shiny and quite long and she had large brown eyes. I thought she was the sweetest, most beautiful dog I had ever seen, not a puppy but not a full grown up lady and when she woofed her mouth smiled. She wagged her tail and panted and then she jumped up at me a little but not in a nasty way, in a nice way that showed she was curious and wanted to me to play with her. I asked our mam what kind of dog she was and mam said a mixture, half Collie and half something else. I didn’t really know what that meant because she didn’t look mixed up to me, she looked perfect in every way. Jed said we should call her Panda because of her black and white eye but who ever heard of a dog called Panda, it was a silly name. Mam said Lady, we could call her Lady but that was a boring name and dad said he didn’t care. I wanted to call her Lassie, like the one in the film who always rescues the little boy and finds her way home even if she is sent away. Jed liked that film so that’s what we called her and I thought all of our friends would look at us and stare at her when they heard us shout, ‘Lassie, time for dinner Lassie.’ She was wonderful.

On Saturday night dad took her for a walk because it was too late and dark for Jed and me to take her even though we didn’t feel a bit tired. We waited for him to get back and she looked so excited and happy; her paws were wet from where she had paddled in the stream so mam wouldn’t let her out of the kitchen until the mud was wiped off and she didn’t stink so much of dog. I didn’t really understand that because she was bound to stink of dog, she couldn’t stink of camel or cat but mam dried her all down anyway. We played with her for a while and told her to sit and lie but she didn’t; Jed said we would have to train her and then she would sit but she was used to running round the barns at the farm and no one had ever wanted her to sit. I decided I would train her to give me her paw and jump up to catch dog biscuits because that’s what people did when they had a sweet dog for a pet. I asked our mam if Lassie could sleep in my room with me but mam said she wasn’t allowed upstairs and they’d put some paper down in the kitchen for her to sleep on. I didn’t think a paper bed would be very comfortable but that’s where she had to stay. Dad said maybe he’d make her a kennel and I wanted to cry because she was our pet and should live in the house with us, not all cold and shivery and lonely outside in a kennel. Our mam said to stop asking for her to sleep upstairs or she’d be in the back garden quick sticks so I thought a paper bed in the kitchen would probably be all right. I slipped her a tiny piece of stew meat left over from tea and she gobbled it up and smiled and I just knew she would have loved to eat a whole pot of stew but we had food for her in a tin that mam said didn’t come cheap. Before I got into bed I said my prayers and asked God to look after Lassie and always keep her safe. My mam and dad didn’t know I said prayers and I never did in front of them or Jed because they were my secret thing and Jed would have laughed at me anyway.

The next morning mam asked Jed if he was going for a walk with Lassie and I could go with him. I was desperate to take her but Jed wasn’t sure what would happen if we met another dog who was walking on its own and it came over and got nasty. I said other dogs would not want to be nasty to Lassie because she was friendly but Jed was still scared. I told him to cut a stick from one of the thick shrubs at the top of the garden and shape it with his penknife. Everybody who walked a dog took a stick to swing or to lean on so it wouldn’t look unusual and he could make one for me too. If we had sticks and Lassie we would probably be safe from dogs who were wandering about waiting to attack innocent people. Jed said he’d make two sticks and we’d walk down the farm lanes at the back of the corn fields where it was usually very quiet. It didn’t take him long and we put some water in a bottle in case we got thirsty and then we set off. Lassie leapt into the air with delight and excitement, dogs really love to go walking. We had a great time and once Jed was sure we were completely alone he relaxed and found a small stick for Lassie to chase and bring back  -  except she forgot that part. We took her every day for months and she loved us both, we shared her, she was our dog, the kids’ dog

Lassie cured Jed’s fear of dogs and as we got older he got braver until you would never have known he was ever frightened of dogs. Sometimes he didn’t want to take her for walks and I took her on my own or dad took her at night. When we left our house to move to another village a few miles away we were near the big school and Jed spent more and more time with his friends playing football and tigs and cricket. Lassie was my dog. She came bounding out to me when I arrived home from school and she had learned lots of tricks. Over the years I had taught her to sit, lie down, stay, beg and shake hands - well my hand and her paw. She was very quiet, not ‘one of them dogs that barked at now’t’ as mam said and I told her all about my day at school and if I was unhappy or sad or anxious. When I got poorly I would snuggle up against her and pretend we were on an island far away where horrible things never happened. Our mam got very poorly and had to go away but she never wanted to snuggle up to Lassie because of her dog smell and having germs that got on her hands which made her wash them over and over even when every germ must have been very dead. It wasn’t nice when mam got poorly and went away because I really missed her and wanted her to hurry up and come home.

When our mam was away we lived with my auntie and she didn”t want a dog at her house so I had two people to miss and I hated being there. Eventually our mam came back but then Lassie got poorly and didn’t want to eat or go for a walk. I told mam Lassie must have a cold or an upset tummy because she just wanted to lie down and drink water like I did when I had a fever. Jed said Lassie didn’t just have a cold, she wasn’t a person, dogs got other things that made them poorly. He told me dad said her ‘back end’ had gone but I didn’t really see what that could mean - it made her sound like a tractor.

One Tuesday night I came home from school and went upstairs to take off my uniform and put my playing out clothes on. Lassie put her head in my hands and half opened her eyes to look at me even though she didn’t feel well. Mam and dad were in the garden but the window was open so I could hear them talking but they couldn’t see me, on the floor, stroking Lass and telling her she would start to feel better soon. I heard dad telling mam they would have to get rid of her because she was dying and he would have to do it soon. Mam said they couldn’t afford to take her to the vet and dad said he would knock her on the head, put her in a sack and drown her in the quarry pool. If he gave her a sharp knock she wouldn’t suffer but she was suffering now. I wanted to scream and held Lass close to me so they couldn’t take her anywhere; I wanted to scream at them but they didn’t know I’d heard them talking and I was working out how to save her. My eyes were burning with tears that felt like someone had poured bleach into them; I don’t know how I  breathed. I couldn’t say anything to mam and dad or let them know I had heard or let them see I was crying. I don’t really know why I had to keep it a secret but I know I was supposed to because they didn’t like us skriking in front of them. When I looked into Lassie’s eyes and put water on my hand for her to drink I think she was crying but my eyes were blurred.

I went to school on Wednesday after giving Lass a really big hug and telling mam and dad to take good care of her because she was going to get better soon. At school it was hard to concentrate and Mrs Henderson kept asking me if I was all right because I looked flushed. I didn’t eat school dinner and when the bell rang for home time I raced down the street and into the house so I could check on Lassie. She wasn’t there, I looked all over the house and she wasn’t anywhere, she had gone. I asked mam where she was and mam said she was sorry but Lassie got really poorly when I was at school and she had gone to sleep for ever, she had died. I wanted to scream but no sound came out, I wanted to ask her if they had thrown her into the quarry pool but I didn’t dare, especially when dad walked in to get his cigs. Jed came home and he could see Lass was gone but he didn’t say anything, she was my dog, she had always been my dog.After tea I raced back up the street and over the Bull fields towards the quarry. I kept shouting her name because I couldn’t believe dad could have put a living dog into a sack and thrown her into the quarry. I kept shouting her name, ‘Lassie, Lassie’ and I tried to see if there was any way I could check to see if there was a dog in a sack but it was unbearable, I couldn’t see down into the murky black water and I heard myself screaming and screaming which was fine because there was no one there to hear me.

Jan