the exact curvature of the earth of the school grounds. The green, green grass went on for ever. And the football field and running track. The neat 1960s buildings. I preferred it to home; there was less static in the air.
Mr Graves was the headmaster. He entered the hall each morning and stood near the monkey bars with his arms behind his back. They said he was an officer in the army. The music teacher sat in front of the piano. Mr Graves gave a solemn nod. And the pianist would begin with the prelude while peering over her glasses and then we would sing the song we also sang occasionally at church:
All things bright and beautiful,
all creatures great and small.
All things wise and wonderful,
the Lord God made them all.
I looked at my headteacher in awe.
After the school holidays, Christopher will be starting at the same school and it will be interesting to see what happens because Norman does not like Christopher to be better at him at anything so this could possible spurt him on to effort or on the other hand he may give up if he feels that Christopher is beating him.
I hadn’t realised at any point that none of what I have told you so far is true. I wasn’t a happy child. I was a deceitful one. I was causing problems for everyone. It must be true. These are the words of Mr Graves from the social worker’s report of January 1976.
Spoke to Mr. Graves several times on the phone and eventually visited the school.
He felt that Norman’s successes were too many for Chris to cope with. Went on to talk about another placement for Norman – without any consideration of how the boy might feel. I put it to him that it was the only home the boy had known.
I told him that another placement was out of the question and went on to inform him of what I had discussed with the foster-parents themselves. We talked about specific incidents in the school when Norman’s behaviour had been inappropriately rewarded.
He is never going to learn to cope with disapproval if approval is all he is being exposed to. The boy is going to meet with negative attitudes being unreasonably displayed to him at some time or other and one wonders how he will cope with this when he is entirely unused to it.
Spoke to Norman’s class-teacher. It was obvious that the boy has a very special place in this school – staff, domestic staff give him preferential treatment. Norman has to experience more realistic handling and attitudes towards him have to undergo a change but not reject him.
Headmaster will keep in touch about both children.
Visit to foster home Norman seen.
I loved life. I was nine. My brother Christopher was eight. I loved school. I loved him. I showed my love for him by punching him. We had the same rivalry most brothers have. We fought with unbridled determination, the way brothers do. We wrestled. We sweated until one of us, invariably Christopher, would burst into tears. Catherine and David had no children when they took me. Christopher was their first-born but I was their first. I was the eldest. I loved my town. I loved my family. I loved the sibling rivalry. I loved the Market, the Flower Park, the Big Park, the books. The church. My friends.
The headteacher suggesting to the social worker that I be moved for the sake of Christopher couldn’t have happened in isolation – ‘Norman’s successes were too many’. How could a child’s successes be too many? The social worker said, ‘Norman doesn’t like Christopher beating him.’ Of course he doesn’t. He’s my brother. Something was at play. Something I didn’t understand. ‘Norman’s behaviour had been inappropriately rewarded. He is never going to learn to cope with disapproval if approval is all he is being exposed to.’ This inclines me to think my foster parents must have spoken to the headteacher prior to his speaking with the social worker, as there is no counter-narrative in the files.
All I can tell you is what my parents told me: my mum was a nurse, my dad a teacher. And my brother and sister were my brother and sister. This was our town. But I couldn’t help giving my brother a Chinese burn ’cause that’s what brothers do. Isn’t it?
CHAPTER 5
Smouldering embers
In the sky above
Anger is an expression
In search of love
28.7.75 I called to see Norman today, the family just having returned from their holiday in Scotland. Mrs. Greenwood was upset, it seems just this morning Norman repeated what he had been doing most mornings while on holiday. He is getting up in the early hours and eating sweet foods, particularly biscuits, he has eaten as many as two packets. Norman says he is sorry for his behaviour but cannot promise not to do it again.
Eight years old. For the record, I did steal biscuits but not two whole packs. This exaggeration would come back to haunt me. What I did was this: I stole biscuits from the biscuit tin and then rearranged them in the tin in a stacked ‘roof-column system’ to hide the fact I had stolen them. Genius.
One holiday in Scotland at my granddad’s home the family left me in the cottage, as punishment for lying about stealing some cake. Sarah, Christopher, David and Catherine walked down the hill to Lochinver. I thought I had been locked in my room but the door was open. I sobbed my way downstairs. The rich smell of silver birchwood from the embers of the fire filled the front room. Wiping tears from my face, I saw on the table a half-cut ginger cake. The tears evaporated, replaced by butterflies in my stomach. Maybe I can have a piece, I thought. If I cut it in exactly the same way as it was already cut then no one will notice I’ve taken a slice. Genius. And so I did. Macavity was much cleverer than that. The cake tasted so good that I figured one more slice wouldn’t do any harm at all. There were no witnesses, but then there was only one suspect. It tasted so good. So I did it again. To this day I don’t know why I got into this habit of stealing biscuits and bits of cake. But I did. They told me I was devious.
The problem was that my first instinct was to say, I didn’t take the cake. I hadn’t considered that the reason they had left me in the cottage in the first place was as a punishment for stealing cake. Still, I denied that I had stolen the cake. Macavity would have had more guile and more style. Soon enough, after another hour in the bedroom, I realised that I had to admit to taking the cake. What I didn’t realise was the significance of my transgression. The lies worried them more than the theft.
This habit of stealing cake was the crack in the dam. There was something bad in me. Something I didn’t understand. ‘Don’t look at me with those big brown eyes’ was the strange refrain my mum would shout at me. I didn’t understand what she saw. If I argued that I didn’t know what she saw, then would I be lying? How could I see what she and my foster father saw?
Back at home, the front room was where I was punished. Same place we ‘entertained’ visitors, same place the books were, same place the social worker would sit. The leather sofa was polished to perfection and smelled of Pledge. Stealing cake and lying about it was an indication that
