TASHY DID - A LIFE
1963
On reflection, now, this year was far more important, framed far more of my future life, than I could possibly know at the time. If you read last year you will be aware that since the end of November I had refused to attend school. I had made up excuses about being unwell or had just plain said I wasn't going. I had really no idea why I couldn't do what everyone else found normal.
In my own mind, I had decided to return to school after the Christmas holidays but I couldn’t do it. I now believe that it would, today, be described as a mental health illness. In general I think it was a combination of reasons. Having been off, I was actually embarrassed to go back as I knew everyone would ask what had happened. It had been the time of the Cuban Missile crisis and I know mother had been talking about this at home, wondering if we might all be hit by nuclear weapons and I do believe this may have played a part in not wanting to be away from family and, indeed, familiarity.
But there were two other reasons. If you study mother’s diaries around this time, it would appear that, last year, Wednesdays and Fridays were the days I had been taking off before
the complete stop in late November.
Friday was woodwork. I hated it. It was also the day we spent some time in the chemistry lab and I hated that too. In these lessons, not only might you be asked a question and embarrass yourself, you could also make a mistake and not only look stupid but also cause an accident. Wednesday was the time in the big gym. We did gym twice a week and, at the start of the year, we were divided into the “A” group and “B” group, no fear of streaming at UCS. You could if
you could and you couldn’t if you couldn’t but whichever, you were still a human being and treated equally. You were not branded a failure, we just appreciated that in some areas people were more skilled than others were.
This grouping process was pretty arbitrary. Certain boys, especially those who came up from the junior branch, were known to be good sportsmen and went into “A” group. The rest of us were chosen on the “you’re A, you’re B” system and I ended up in group A. The guy who took this group, the guy on the left in that photo two years ago, also ran the rugby 1st XV and had, until it was disbanded in the late 1950’s, been in charge of the OTC, the Office Training Corp. This was the only part of the school where discipline was barked at you and barked at you in front of everyone else. We had two gyms, a large one and, guess what, a small one. In the small one, “A” group tended to play volleyball, but in the big gym it was circuit training or apparatus work.
I now think that the Friday and Wednesday absences were at least partly about these three subjects. At least, that’s how it started. After a few months, I was missing so many lessons I was behind with work and also not making any friends. If you remember, I started with none and no one in my year lived within two miles of me. It was lonely, I was unhappy and, by then, I couldn’t cope academically either. I had always been able to perform well with little effort, now I had to work at it. Of course by missing the sixth form at prep school, see last year, I was already behind; the days off made it worse.
By 21 January, as I had still not gone back, my father rang the Head. The next day, in his superb Jaguar, he arrived at our house. We talked, alone, for about an hour and he explained to me that, if I could return, he would do everything he could to make sure no fuss was made of things. He asked me what the problem was but, in those days, I didn’t really know. He gave me the impression that, unlike others, he did not believe I was simply a naughty child, avoiding school.
The following week, father went into hospital for a minor operation that kept him in for 10 days, off work for a month and sitting on cushions for some time after. This happened to coincide with the harsh winter of 1963. Two days after he had entered hospital the frost was so bad our gas pipes burst, the snow so heavy our telephone line snapped and we had no food and no water either. Neighbours would bring us a Thermos of hot water and we continued with our lives. All these problems meant mother had no time to focus on my school difficulties.
Meanwhile, our family doctor had arranged an appointment with a friend or colleague who was a psychiatrist. On 5 February, mother and I went up to Harley Street to see him. I don’t think we made much progress as three days later we were asked to go to their recovery home called Temple Hill House in Hampstead. The reason; I was to be given the “truth” drug to try to find out why I wouldn’t go to school. Mother and I duly went there and I can remember being injected
and then talking to the doctor. I believe I was aware of everything that I said, maybe I wasn’t. In any case, mother’s diary entry says we went up at 11.00am and came home by 2.30pm so, if I was out for any time, it wasn’t long. I do seriously wonder if, in our modern world, a 13 year old child would be given such treatment.
At the end of March, the doctor asked for me to be admitted to Temple Hill House, which was a part of Charing Cross Hospital. It would appear my parents couldn’t agree and the date went by with me still at home. Summer term came and I was still at home. I think my parents had now agreed to let the medical experts sort this out. I was now telling everyone I would return in the new academic year. The Head came to see me again and seemed happy with this, telling
me he would keep my place open and, as before, smooth as many things over for my return as he could.
The summer term ended on July 24 and, on that very day, the hospital phoned to say they had a place for me and that an ambulance would be picking me up within the hour. The ambulance men arrived but I refused to go with them. I was going on my terms and told everyone I would go with father by train the next day. This I did.
Thus began a quite amazing experience in a quite amazing summer. In the modern world, I have no doubt that such things as I witnessed, such images that I saw, such experiences that I had, would not happen to a child just into their teens but it did. Mother’s diaries say that on the day I left, her world stood still. To be honest, I think mine started turning The home was in a large house in beautiful grounds. Most of the time I was free to do what I wanted, even being allowed out across the road on to Hampstead Heath. I shared a large bedroom with all other male patients, all adults and all, remember, with a mental health problem.
During the first two weeks, father would come and see me every other night on his way home from work; mother would come on alternate days in the afternoon. However, most of mother’s visits involved her seeing one of the assistant psychiatrists so my time with her was limited. I now have a feeling they didn’t think I was the one to blame and that mother’s over-protective attitude was, at least, a contributing factor. If you go back to the beginning of my story and remember that
she experienced a miscarriage, father already had a daughter, then this son was not only a child she loved dearly but also an important part of what she felt she had given to father. I had to be protected.
I was allowed home the second weekend but not again. I spent the whole of my summer holidays there and not unnaturally with the travel involved, parental visits became fewer. I would never see father less than three times a week and it must have taken an awful amount of time out of his life. If he left work at 5pm, he would be with me by 6. He would usually spend a couple of hours and then leave for home, getting there no earlier than 9pm. I always felt the award he got in 1970 was not for his time at work, but his time as a parent to me.
My fellow inmates varied. There was a concert pianist who couldn’t face her audiences any more. Downstairs, in the games room, was a piano and one day I wandered in as she was playing and she stopped immediately. I asked her why and her reply was to ask me if I wanted to learn the piano. Over the next six weeks I had regular lessons with her daily until she left, although no one told me she was going. One day I went down for my lesson and she wasn’t there.
There were several mothers, and their babies, suffering from post natal depression, the mothers, the babies were so cute. There was a mid-twentyish artist who once or twice drew my portrait and would spend hours sketching in the grounds. I have no idea why she was there. There was an author and a retired, or invalided-out, policeman. These two caused an amusing incident one night when the author left his bed in the middle of the night to relieve himself and on his return was pounced upon by the policeman who thought he was an intruder. The scuffle obviously woke me up.
There was also a lady in her fifties who was suffering from depression. Her husband would come in most nights, always carrying an old woven bag. One evening I asked when the old bag was arriving and, from then on, this became a standing joke between us. I also amused her with other jokes and, some weeks later, when she was discharged, her husband thanked my father for my role in her improvement. For one week only, one week only, sorry, there was a young girl
in there. No idea why, no idea for what, but she asked me to go out for a walk with her on her second day and we then repeated this each day until suddenly, with no warning, her parents came in, packed her bags and she left. I missed her and only she and I will know where the walks took us and how much they meant to me.
Possibly the most traumatic experience for a 14-year-old was Wednesday afternoon. There was a room, off the main lounge, where we took our meals. On my first Wednesday I noticed several of the house mates being escorted into this room, a couple rather forcibly and tearfully, and then coming out a little later, like vegetables and being helped up the stairs and laid in their beds. I subsequently discovered these poor people were having electro-convulsive treatment
where they were given an electric shock. My little lady was one of these and it was quite horrifying to see her after one of these sessions and also quite
weird to see her normal the next day. Would you allow a 14-year old to watch this? I thought not. This whole experience came back to me when I watched the film “Requiem for a Dream”; very realistic portrayal and not a very pleasant thing for me to watch.
After that weekend at home, I remained based at the home until school term started on 18 September. I spent time practising the piano, playing table tennis with anyone who wanted, especially when my father came in at night, walking on the heath, probably a pretty dangerous time for a young boy all alone, and worked on those catching skills in the large garden. I found a large tree in the centre of the lawn and would throw a tennis ball against it which would then rebound at different angles. Some nights father and I would go onto the heath and set up a wicket and practice there.
One of the things this did do was make me far more independent and also more confident. I, again, found I could make people laugh, not at me but with me. I still took time to get to know people but, once I did, I was better able to communicate with them. Two days before term was due to start, the school arranged for my house master, or deme warden as we called them, to come and see me. I would be in the same house as last time so he already knew me and, funnily enough,
he had taught at the school when my uncle was there. We chatted for an hour or so and he said if I had any problems I should just come and see him. We would be starting afresh to all intents and purposes. He also said that, providing I was happy about it, he thought it would be a good idea to tell my ex classmates, who would now be a year ahead of me, that I had contacted a virus infection and even now the doctors were not sure what it was. I cannot ever thank the school, their staff but particularly this guy and the Head, for their support during this time.
In later life, as you will read, when I experienced another problem I did not have anyone with so much understanding. In fact, quite the reverse. My problem, as it was, became a way of amusing our friends but more of this later.
On the first day of term, accompanied by the retired policeman, I left the home and walked to school. Unlike every other new boy, I knew what was going to happen and this gave me a little more confidence. My policeman met me after school and, for the next five years, I enjoyed a great education and had some good fun at this most fantastic of schools. They kept me at the home for a further week, although I was now allowed to go to and from school alone, and then I was allowed home. I had one bad experience when another pupil, cycling to school, saw me coming out of the home one morning and he came and accosted me later that day. I explained that an aunt was in there and I had just paid her a quick visit before school.
My only other concern solved itself, although I am not sure if my deme warden or the Head had anything to do with it. At the first gym lesson, using the arbitrary system from last year, I was placed in “A” group again. After three weeks, the guy came up to me and said he thought I might be
happier in “B” group and off I went, for a while.
The rest of the year passed uneventfully, Father took me to my first Motor Show, as opposed to the Racing Car Show, which we continued to attend for a while. The bad times had gone; mother was almost totally fit while keeping to her diet and I had overcome my school phobia or whatever it was. It still wasn’t perfect. There were days when I could easily have stayed at home because there was some lesson that I didn’t like or was frightened about. But I didn’t. I had the rock I
needed to allow me to continue; the Head was always there. I never needed him, we only really ever spoke on one more occasion but he was there and knew about me.
That was all I needed and have needed throughout life. Would I have gone back anyway in a new academic year; who can say? However, as of now, I would not have missed that experience at Temple Hill House for anything. I think I may have helped a few people and I sure learnt a lot. At the time I still subscribed to the view that I had just been a naughty boy who refused to go to school but I certainly became aware of what mental health problems others went through. To this day I still believe that these problems can be conquered but it is very difficult to do it on your own. What to you seems insurmountable, can, with help, be got through or, better still, evaded. We do not necessarily need to get through problems, just get around them.
I would, in a way, love to be able to help young people who find life too much but no one would let me unless I was properly trained and that won't happen. Again, later in life, I worked for a year with kids with emotional and behavioural problems and watched as so-called qualified experts, in my view, just made matters so much worse. Can you imagine anyone asking a 9 year old what is their inner anger. I saw it.
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