Hospital years continued

I have racked my brain, and that isn't easy at the moment, to find more memories of my time in the isolation ward but I can't come up with much more. There are feelings and impressions and olfactory memories but little else. There was, for a while, in the bed next to mine, a gypsy boy, who was probably suffering the same disease. He was not strapped down however and was very protective of me. I guess that we were friends of a sort but that concept was pretty alien to me at that time, never having mixed with anyone outside the family. He is shown in one of the photos, along with my brother who was visiting at the time. Whenever the nurses arrived to issue the dreaded streptomycin, he would threaten to kill them if they hurt me. I don't even remember his name but I remember that link between us. Eventually I was allowed out of the frame and fitted with a leather support that kept my leg straight. At least with this i could walk around, albeit with crutches and later when the legs got some strength, a stick.

I think that once the disease was under control, I was moved from the hospital to a special school even further away from home. This was a Tudor building, set in woodlands on the outskirts of Birmingham. Dark and dreary and panelled in oak, smelling of wood polish and surgical spirit. I was taken there by my mother, with a man who I can't recall. I suspect that he was trying it on with her and much of their conversation in the car on the way was beyond my understanding. I suppose I must have been five or six by then. Even the novelty of a car ride did not take away the fear of the unknown and the journey was long. I remember it was raining and dark when we arrived at Tudor Grange. I was whisked away immediately into a dining vault, where the children were eating. All heads turned in my direction and I was seated by myself and a plate of tinned spaghetti with bread and butter was put in front of me. I was crying and could make out very little through the tears. I don't remember seeing mother again before she left.

I am sure that the school was a pleasant enough environment and that the staff were decent too. I recall some names and have vague memories of some faces. We were not abused at all, though I seemed always to be hungry. We had no radio or TV and had to make our own entertainment. The day was rigidly organised into an institutional routine, and for the first time in my life I sat in a classroom with other children. I could already read so I had a slight advantage over some, though others were much older than I was and therefore more advanced in many ways.

At the end of each school day there was a quiet time, where we would all go into a room where we could sit in comfortable chairs and listen to soft music or hear a story. On piece of music that haunts me and carries me back to this time is a piece called - All in an April Evening. This made me cry at the time and in the right circumstances can do so now. If you want to hear it I can send you a copy on request. This was a time for reflection and for allowing feelings to emerge.

Oddly I do not remember having anyone that I could turn to for help with anything at all. There were plenty of staff to cater for physical needs but no-one that I could confide in or ask for explanations. I was one of the herd and that was it. Self reliance is born in such circumstances and that has remained with me for life. I still cannot confide in anyone.

The house may have been austere, but the grounds were extensive and well kept, and even more importantly, accessible. We could wander and explore and play, and did so in all weathers. We had trees to climb - not easy with a restricted movement- bushes to hide in, and grass to lie in. No doubt, we residents found an equilibrium, if not happiness in our enforced confinement.

Visits from family were even more restricted. I saw one parent every two weeks, just for saturday afternoon. I would prepare for the visit by removing my leather support so that I could sit more easily on a bus on in a cinema seat. Visits must have been a strain on the family, both financially and otherwise. I know that my father's resentment of me just grew and grew as I became more of a burden on him. I rarely saw my brother and sister and really almost forgot who they were.

Institutionalisation is a defensive mechanism I am sure, and it became my way of life. I went home for brief holidays now and then, but never felt that I belonged with the family. Eventually being away was where I was supposed to be and it felt right.

There was a rugby ground next to the school and we'd often spend saturday afternoons watching very large men, hurtling around a field, getting very muddy. Occasionally we'd wander out to the front of the school and watch cars trundling up and down the main road on the other side of the fence. Leaving the premises never crossed my mind. I was there until I was nine years old.