We'll never forget you

Biki’s comment on my last post made me realise that I haven’t passed on my one piece of sad news.

In October, Gary and I took the terribly painful decision to have our beloved Kyril put to sleep. Unfortunately the anti-inflammatory drugs that were relieving the symptoms of his arthritis caused his kidneys to fail. He was in a lot of pain and couldn’t eat. The kind and the right thing to do was to let him go.

I have made some difficult decisions in my life but this was one of the hardest. We’ll miss Kyril and we’ll never forget how much joy he gave us in the 10 years he was with us.

I’m not sure where things will go, I may continue with history or I may focus more on life as a student; we’ll see.

Sorry to have been so careless of all you lovely people who followed my blog for so long. I really do care about you all and feel quite guilty for being so self-absorbed over the last few months.

Love

The event that Chris remembers most clearly, and possibly the one that supports the accusation most strongly, was the fake funeral I conducted for the Head. That in itself might not have been too terrible had I not chosen to perform on the sixth form lawn, outside the “deceased’s” office window, a spot that was also overlooked from the staff room and several classrooms. Thus my atrocity was witnessed by many Masters and Mistresses as well as members of both upper and junior schools. The Head felt that his authority was being badly, possibly fatally undermined which was, I admit my intention.

For some reason Mr Fisher had taken a dislike to me from our first encounter when I was but a lowly third former. I honestly have no idea what he found to dislike so thoroughly about me but as time passed things just got worse. Prior to the fake funeral my worst offence had been a stand-up row with him in an assembly for the whole upper school. Being in lower sixth I was standing at the back of the hall and he was on the stage with the Vicar of Midhurst who was acting in his role as School Chaplain. I shouted the length of the hall “you can’t say that!” when the Chaplain stated that fighting for one’s country was a sacred duty. The Head intervened and a full scale argument developed while the whole upper school watched agog, looking from the stage to the back of the hall like a crowd at Wimbledon.

The final straw was when I got a laugh and applause for a very witty put-down and the Head lost his temper demanding that I attend his office forthwith. After we had continued the argument in private for a while he dismissed me, threatening to call my parents and to suspend me. I possibly didn’t help the situation by shrugging my shoulders and saying “do whatever the hell you want”.

I didn’t get suspended but my parents did get a letter and a request for a meeting with the Head. I won’t detail the punishment that followed as part of the deal to avoid suspension. The school may have banned corporal punishment, much to the Head’s chagrin I suspect but no such proscription was in place at home.

Do I regret that flagrant act of provocation? Not really, it is a part of who I am.

By achieving this and by specifically getting into the University of Exeter, I’ve reclaimed a part of my life from my abuser of many years ago. That I didn’t take up Exeter’s offer in 1971 was entirely due to the problems arising from abuse in childhood and the subsequent breakdown of my relationship with my parents.

It feels good to have won this battle against my past and I now have the genuine belief that I can win more. I can’t have my childhood or adolescence back but I can stop their loss so thoroughly ruining my present.

 Bonfire Night

We don’t bother with it at home anymore we’re all too old apparently.

I don’t miss it, to tell you the truth. Whenever my family are having fun and laughing I just want to scream, run upstairs and smash my room up or something; at least then Dad would have a legitimate excuse to lay into me. It does seem a bit tough on my kid sister though; she’s only twelve and probably still enjoys fireworks and all that drivel. That’s the real hassle; I have to be so bloody grown up all the time because I’m the only boy. I haven’t actually had a proper birthday party since I was ten, most of the other kids in the village got parties right up until they were thirteen or so. Do you know I can’t remember ever having a teddy? Bummer!

It’s a bit like the whole ‘Mum’ business when I was nine.  It was arbitrarily decided that I shouldn’t say ‘Mummy’ any more, it was too childish; the other kids might tease me. I couldn’t care less what other kids say or think, I never did give a toss about other peoples’ opinions. I’ve been seriously ill a hell of a lot since I was a toddler and saying ‘Mummy’ made me feel safe and secure. I couldn’t win though; the decision had been made. I needed to be more like a normal boy and that was that. I suppose you could say ‘Mum’s the word’, eh?

Anyway, back to the present. One of my friends, yes I have got a couple merci bien, said he was going to a Bonfire Night do at Heyshott and then Mr H said he was going as well; why didn’t I go along with them? I almost said no then thought bollocks, why not? I didn’t bother phoning home to let my parents know what was happening. I suppose I could’ve hunted down my kid sister at school and told her but the way I look at it is what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. I’d do just about anything to avoid getting her into trouble. It’s bad enough that she gets to hear all the shouting, screaming and smacks night after night; leather on skin makes a really horrible sound. There’s going to be hell to pay when I do get home but for kid sis, pas de danger.

Mr H, my Form and English Master, is one of those young, hip teachers; he likes us to call him by his first name when we’re outside school. I’m having a hard time calling him John; he’s the only adult in my life that lets me use their Christian name unless there’s an ‘Uncle’ prefix. He likes me, I’m far and away his top pupil and he suspects there are some fairly heavy problems in my home life but so far he’s had no joy getting me to open up. I nearly blew the lid off things in second form when I wrote a poem that no twelve year old should be able to write. He grilled me for ages about where all the violence and sexual stuff came from; so I used my famous charm and a few tears to divert him. Yeah, I know I’m a manipulative little sod but sometimes you just do what you have to; it’s called survival.

You see, that bastard Kenny was still making me do all those things almost every weekend and I didn’t dare say anything. If Mum and Dad found out they’d go berserk and Kenny would probably beat me half to death for telling; he threatened to more than once. The police would get involved and I’d have to go and tell the whole story in court. I was convinced that even if my name was kept secret some bright spark at school would put two and two together and then the bastards who’ve been making my life hell since my first day would really have something to throw in my face. I’d probably have to change schools, not that I’d mind; I hate the place. I wanted to go to the Royal Grammar all along. Mum and Dad might have decided we needed to move away from Lurgashall because of the scandal and that would have disrupted my kid sister, she’s got loads of friends at school unlike her screwed up big brother. Somehow it would end up as my fault just like everything seems to be my fucking fault!

So here we are, the Unicorn in Heyshott and there’s quite a lot wrong with this picture. For one thing I’m fifteen and OK, I can legally be in a pub but not half way through my third pint of bitter and starting to slur a bit. There’s no way the landlord thinks I’m eighteen, I don’t even look fifteen and I’m still in most of my uniform. I’m sans blazer but the grey trousers, white shirt and royal blue with gold tie rather give the game away. If I’d known this evening was happening I’d have sneaked a pair of jeans and a scruff shirt into my bag this morning. My best friend John is here so is Mike and, of course Mr H although just to confuse things I’m supposed to call him John. I think I’ll carry on calling him Mr H. So, I shouldn’t be drinking and Dad is going to flip if he finds out, more than he’s already going to flip that is. I really don’t want to go home tonight.

I’m glad John is here, he’s the best friend I’ve got and has been since we met in second form. To be honest I want him to be much more than a friend but I’m scared of saying or doing anything in case I screw up our friendship. I’m almost certain he feels the same way but almost isn’t completely; I just can’t take the risk. If I didn’t have him as a friend I don’t like to think what might happen the next time one of those arseholes has a go at me. John’s the only person who can calm me down most of the time and while I might be an under-developed runt I’ve got an evil temper and I don’t fight fair, balls to that! The sporty types think that because the doctor’s banned me from playing rugger ever again I must be a weakling; spas is just one of things they call me but one of these days I’m going to prove them wrong and there’ll be carnage of biblical proportions if someone doesn’t hold me back.

Oh, cool! Another round’s just arrived. I don’t even know who got these in so I just hoist my glass and say cheers in my still uncertain voice; I really wish it would break properly. I’ve pretty well decided that I’m going to get legless and so far nobody seems to object. Trouble is I’m getting moody now because I’m thinking about what’s going to happen at home. I’ll get a belting at least and my social life is probably finished until hell freezes over but que sera sera; God, how I hate that bloody song!  Actually I’m pretty well past caring what happens; it’s all shit anyway. Maybe Mum and Dad will finally give up and dump me in the threatened boarding school; probably one chosen for their enthusiasm with the cane. Let them. I really can’t be arsed anymore. If they think that someone whacking me every day is going to magically sort me out then they don’t know me very well; Dad laying into me with his belt hasn’t exactly done the trick.

Mr H wants to know what’s wrong; why I’m so down. Bollocks! I wanted to be fun tonight; everybody loves me when I’m fun. I don’t want to piss on anyone’s campfire. Ah, sly dog! That’s what tonight’s about isn’t it? He probably cooked this up with John and Mike; get a few drinks in me and I’ll cough up the truth about what’s happening at home. Sorry, Sir; I think the world of you but that stuff has to stay locked away. Oh, apparently we’re going out to watch the fireworks. I didn’t get a vote but what the hell; better than sitting stewing I suppose. Christ! That fire is huge and the heat is making me a bit faint. The flashes, whizzes and bangs are making my head hurt so I stumble away and shit! The ground’s disappeared; the lights just went out.

And the lights are back on again.

John is trying to haul me out of a ditch. I’ve never seen him so worried and he always looks sort of nervous around me; I could swear I can see tears in his eyes but my vision’s more than a bit blurred. Mike pitches in and between them they get me out of the ditch and over to a bench. Mr H is sitting beside me; he looks and sounds pretty worried as well he might. Even my messed up head can suss that if this gets back to school or my parents his job isn’t worth a wank. My Form Master, standing in loco parentis shouldn’t be taking a fifth-former out drinking, especially one as monumentally screwed up as yours truly.

Oh bloody hell, I’m crying! I don’t mean a few sniffles; this is the full-bore my-life-is-utter-shit thing. Shitshitshit! All the stuff I’ve been hiding for so long is coming out and I can’t stop it. I’m shouting about how I don’t want to go home, I can’t take another fight with Dad, why does he hate me? I’ve got to get a grip or all the other stuff, the filth I’ve kept bottled up since I was ten is going to come out; if that happens I’m up shit creek! John’s sat on the other side of me with his arm round my shoulder. Mike’s sort of hovering nervously in front of me; between the three of them they’ve calmed me down enough to stop the noise. Just in time! The real secret stays safe for now although Mr H has a look on his face that suggests we’re going to have a talk in the very near future; I’ll need to practice my lies.

More by luck than good management I’d staggered off to a secluded corner and a quick, guilty look round tells me that nobody is watching us; Mr H should survive tonight with his good name intact. I couldn’t cope with the guilt of losing him his job and I doubt I could survive another term, let alone two and a half years without him watching over me. The Head hates me; I really don’t know why. What I do know is that Mr H has already talked him out of suspending me once and phoning my parents God only knows how many times. Not even Mr H could stop the gating though; I’m not allowed out of grounds for any reason unless I’ve got a signed, sealed letter from Mum with an appointment card for the optician or dentist or whatever. Anyway, back to more pressing matters I don’t want to go home tonight. I don’t actually want to go home ever again but that’s not one of my options is it now?

“You can’t go home in this state, Mac.”

That’s one of the things I love about Mr H. I’ve been called Mac since first form and even he uses it rather than my proper name. Boys are called by their surname although the Head usually calls me Mr McLachlan; I’m not sure what the ‘Mr’ is supposed to signify. Nicknames are traditionally assigned by the games Master and in my first rugger lesson he went with the predictable and absolutely unacceptable ‘Ginger’; maybe the angry glare I fixed on him had an effect because second lesson he changed it to ‘Mac’ and that stuck. The only place I get called Malcolm is at home, if I’m in trouble; most of the time Mum, Dad and the girls call me Malc.

No, I definitely can’t go home in this state. If I turn up pissed Dad’s going to go approximately fifty times as insane as he’s going to go anyway. The mood I’m in, the moment he opens his mouth I’m going to say something that I’ll regret until the subsequent injuries heal. I might even try to fight the punishment and that would end in casualty. John’s holding me even tighter now and I wish to God he’d stop; my thoughts are going in highly inappropriate directions.

“Why don’t you stay at my place, Mac? Mum can phone your folks and tell them you’re ill or something.”

Or something? I think my parents will decipher that pretty easily but hopefully they’ll decide it’s not worth getting the car out; they’ll have ample opportunity to deal with my heinous crimes tomorrow evening. I could kiss John I really could but perhaps not here; not in public.

“I’ll get Mum and Dad to pick us up; you stay here.”

With that he’s gone and I’m already missing his arm round my shoulder. Mike sits down and put’s his arm there but while I love Mike like a brother it’s not quite the same. Oh well, probably for the best. There’s an uncomfortable silence; seems that nobody wants to go near the obvious conversational gambit just now. I’ve certainly got nothing to add; said it all in a stream of drunken babbling mixed with a quite stunning array of swear words.  Mike puts a ready lit fag in my hand and I take a huge drag; bloody hell I needed that! One of the few things that Mum and Dad never got in a tizzy about was me smoking. Mum was disappointed, she hates the habit but Dad smoked until about three months ago so he’s in a pretty weak position. He even made a joke about the whole thing when we were on holiday at Nana’s last year; just to get things out in the open. I can’t smoke in the house but that’s not a problem, I only have about four a day anyway.

“They’ll be here in about half an hour, Mac.”

Ah, John’s back with the first good news I’ve had today. I’m freezing, shirt-sleeves isn’t ideal for November and I feel the cold more than most people.

“Let’s go inside and wait.”

Mr H, sensible as ever makes a good point; I’m back in control now so it’s safe to be in company but no more beer for me thanks. The pub is still fairly empty, the fireworks and bonfire are still going so we get a seat by the fireplace and none too soon; I’m starting to shiver quite badly and my right hand is getting a bit blue. Our Doctor thinks I might have a circulation problem but says it’s too early to tell yet, me being an underweight, under-developed, barely-into-puberty adolescent and all that. Everyone’s got a half of bitter except moi, I’ve had more than enough. By unspoken agreement we avoid mentioning the evening’s more startling events and talk about music instead; a much safer subject. I never tire of talking about music and as the school’s star musician I have no modesty about it.

John’s Dad is here, time to go. Mr H and Mike walk to the car with us and, being me I start to apologise; promptly being told to stop. I can’t help it I apologise for everything, even the things that I know for a fact aren’t my fault; that’s what happens when you start blaming yourself for stuff. John and I get into the back seat of his Dad’s huge car; his Mum says hello from the front seat.

“Hello, Mrs B. Sorry to drag you out like this”

Off I go again; apologising and I get nicely told off once more. Mr H leans in and looks me straight in the eyes, for a moment I feel like a trapped rabbit.

“We need to have a talk, Mac.”

Well, I knew that was coming.

“Yes, Sir.”

There doesn’t seem to be much else to say. The door closes and the car starts to move.

I love this car! I was twelve the first time I rode in it; the first weekend I stayed with John. His Dad took us out for a meal on the Saturday night and I felt like royalty getting out of the biggest car in the restaurant car park. The evening’s drama is starting to catch up with me now, I don’t feel drunk anymore but I do feel incredibly tired. The car’s warm and quiet, nobody’s saying anything; I suddenly twitch awake and find that my head is resting against John. He doesn’t seem to mind so I doze off again. Warm, safe, cared for; why can’t my life be like this all the time? John is gently shaking me; we’ve arrived at his house.

We sit round the kitchen table and have a mug of cocoa; something so normal that it makes me want to weep. I’m really tired though and John’s Mum tells him to get me up to bed.

He helped me out of my clothes and into a pair of his pyjamas. Thank the good Lord, nothing inappropriate happened. His Mum came in to tell me that she phoned my parents who send their love. Really? I’m too exhausted to question that and it was sweet of her to kiss me on the forehead. I’m staring into the darkness wondering what’s going to happen when I get home tomorrow but that’s a hangover, a day at school and an hour’s coach journey away.

Tonight I’ll sleep properly for a change.

I had meant to start posting again about a month ago but I don’t seem to have much to say at the moment. Creatively I’m a bit drained having written what I consider to be one of my best ever pieces for the writing module. I took one of my early stories, tore it up and completely rewrote it and I’m very pleased with the result. I may have finally found the “voice” I’ve been looking for. The feedback from my lecturer was fantastic and he’s not an easy man to impress.

I hope that I’ll have something to say before long but, as you know, I’d rather say nothing than simply put words together for the sake of it.

As soon as I get time I’m planning to post the next section of my presentation for you to (hopefully) enjoy. One of the things I’ve got on my ever growing to do list is a shorter and more structured version of the presentation which I’ll be giving to an A Level class. That’s a lot more challenging because the youngsters I’ll be teaching don’t know me and have no reason to be biased in my favour. I’m really looking forward to the challenge.

I hope to have something a bit more interesting to say soon

All the best

Malcolm

Malcolm’s Presentation from Malcolm McLachlan on Vimeo.

Part one of my presentation on creative writing and my childhood.

Not only did I now have a bath every night, I had it in the privacy of a proper bathroom with a bolt on the door. No more zinc bath in front of the living room fire while three sisters looked on and no more being banished to my bedroom to spare my sisters’ blushes; a consideration that had only ever worked in their favour.

The bathroom bolt didn’t actually last very long. Mummy asked the man next door, who’d been helping us with things like how the Rayburn worked, to take it off as a safety measure. Thankfully the bolt on the toilet door stayed. I didn’t even mind waking up in the small hours needing a pee now; all I had to do was pop my slippers on and walk across the landing to do the necessary.

There was definitely less nervous watching of the sickly little ginger haired boy as winter approached. Even when I did get the inevitable cold it stayed as just that and only cost me two days off school. No more cold and damp to help turn every cold into a major illness.

I spent quite a bit of time with the man next door. He had a big garden shed with an enormous workbench and what seemed like an endless variety of tools. He was very good at carpentry and I watched in awe as he turned boring old bits of wood into all sorts of useful things. I was even allowed a little go, using some of the less lethal tools on little bits of scrap wood.

In those days Mr Boxall, as we all knew him worked as a coppicer and one November day while I was in the shed with him he asked if I’d like to go to work with him the following Saturday. I was thrilled at the idea and so was Mummy. Of course with hindsight it’s obvious that she was happy for me to finally have a male role model in my life, something I hadn’t had since I was 4. I was just caught up in the magical idea of being a proper workman for a day, even if I was only 9.

I have been offered a place to read English at the University of Exeter, starting in October 2011.

The place is conditional on my achieving certain grades on the Access Course so I’ve got a lot of work to do but at least I now know that there’s a real goal.

Onwards and upwards!