Contacts

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Chapter 3 Contacts

I was given a week to leave John and Linda’s. There was no discussion with them. They did not approach the subject. All information came via Pauline. There seemed to be an atmosphere in the house of determined avoidance and simple resignation to my fate. The nearest my ejection from their household was approached was when Linda enquired if I had said goodbye to my friends at school, and to make sure that I returned all my School text books to my teacher.

Each day I came home from school I found more and more of my belongings either packed in boxes or bin bags, placed neatly in the corner of my increasingly bare bedroom. I felt that my presence in their house was systematically being erased.

My behaviour during this week was impeccable. Naively hoping that they would change their mind. I recall trying everything I knew to prove that I could be good. That I could be the son that they could want, love and be proud of.

I wrote a letter, in my best handwriting, asking John and Linda to keep me. I even drew love hearts on the bottom of the page. It had taken me all of one night to get it right. I left the letter on the kitchen table as I left for school. I came home that night expecting them to mention my letter. It was not acknowledged in any way. I hunted through the kitchen bin and found my letter screwed up amongst the other rubbish.

Evening meal, my homework and bed time routine were executed in exactly the same way. I did not have the ability to explain how this silence and avoidance was making me feel. I vomited in the toilet that night. The powerlessness I felt in this situation made me feel sick. What else could I do? I was adrift on the whims of adult decisions about me and my life.

Pauline had always encouraged me to keep a “Memory Box” of items that were most important to me. I remember placing this stained letter in my box. It was originally a shoe box. I still have it, and occasionally explore its content and embrace the memories and feelings it generates. Wherever I have lived, I would ensure this box was placed in the most secret location that I could find. No one was to be allowed to have insight into my world to that degree. I had control over my box and I had control over my memories.

Purely by fate or chance another letter was to be placed in my box during this particular week.

Pauline had come to see me for the second time that week. Before she went onto to tell me details about my next home, she slowly and cautiously told me that my mother had written a letter to me. My mother had requested Social Services to pass it on. She gave me the option to read it or not. I remember my hands beginning to shake and my throat tightening, as I said that I did want to know what it said. We both agreed that it would be best if Pauline read it out for me. She reached for her bag, brought out a white envelope and gently removed its content. I think she realized how precious this moment was for me. She pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, and began to read;


Dear Son

I have wayted such a long time to wright to you because I didnt know what to say or even if you wanted to here from me. I do hope this letter gets to you.

I hope you are very happy and being treeted well. I would not blame you son if you are very angry with me. I could not give you the life that you need. I have to many problems myselve. But never forget that I am your mother I gave birth to you and that you will always be in my heart and brain. I am so sorry for the mistakes that I have made and what I put you threw. I do not expect you to forgive me. I will never forgive myselve. But as long as I am alive there will always be someone in this world that loves you.

I remmember your first words and your first steps. I remmember you getting your first tooth. I was the one that used to get up in the middle of the nite when you was upset. I was the one that took you to get all your needles from the doctor. When you had Chicken pox I was the one that put cream on you to stop you iching. Your favorite video was the wizard of Oz you used to flapp your hands when I put it on for you. Do you remmember feeding the ducks in the park. I have so many memorys of you my little darling it would be dead hard to put them all in one letter.

It would be wrong to interfer in your life now and I am sure that you are more happy with your foster carers than you would have been with me. You now have a great chance to become anything that you want to be. You are so speciall I am sure everybody will fall in love with you and see the wonderfull little man that you are.

social services have told me how well you are doing with your education and how you have come along with managing that temper of yours that used to make me and your Gran laff! Do you remmember? I am so proud of you son. I keep a photo of you in my purse. You will always be my son and who nows when you are old enuff we could meet again.

I am living in london and trying to sort my problems out. I didnt have an easy upbringing myselve and always wanted better for you. Robert I have done some bad things that I am not proud of. I never want you to turn out anything like I have. I do not beleive people are borne bad, but sometimes things in life can make you do things that you know are wrong. Please make the rite choyces in life. Please carry on making me proud of you son and remmember like in the film wizard of Oz dreams really do come true.

Good by for now my little man with hugs and kisses and all my love for ever,

Your Mother – Christine


[Silence]. Pauline carefully and slowly folded the letter back up and placed it in the envelope. She handed it to me. I laid it on my lap almost frightened to touch it in case it evaporated. “How do you feel Robert?” [Silence]. Pauline’s question was ignored whilst I tried to assimilate and deal with the information that I had just received. I am sure she was sensitive and skilled enough to allow me, uninterrupted, just a few moments to loose myself in my private thoughts.

My breaths were irregular, sharp and difficult. At this point I desperately yearned for my mother. I needed to feel her kisses on my cheeks. I needed to feel her hand in mine, stroking my fingers. I imagined her running her fingers through my hair. I wanted to hear her familiar voice saying "I'II be back soon son to pick you up".

She wasn't saying anything resembling this in the letter. She had let me go. Closure, end to any deep seated hope of re-union. She was gone, I now knew it. I heard it read to me - I wasn't that thick.

I wondered how far away London was? If I left now how long it would take me to find her? I wanted to jump about the room in a crazed and frantic fashion, shouting, screaming, banging and smashing. No, I froze to the spot. My brain didn't seem to be communicating with the rest of my body.

I think Pauline went to her car for something. She returned with a folder. I think she tried to show me a picture. I heard something about a Children’s Home, a short stay until they could find me a new set of Foster Carers.

Once again, my mind was elsewhere. Predictably, it was still buried in the content of my mother’s letter. Over time, this letter was to become the most precious item amongst all the other treasure in my “Memory Box”, for it was the first and only letter I was to receive from my mother. I have had no other communication with her since that day. I would scrutinize the hand writing, the choice and rhythm of the words to glean what I could about her personality and lifestyle. I would even smell the paper for any further hints to her human reality. It passed through my mind that Pauline had got someone from Social Services to write it because she knew I was upset about moving from John and Linda’s. My fertile imagination conjured up all kinds of weird and wonderful scenarios.

I chose to withdraw and go to bed early that night and woke up next morning still clutching my mother’s letter.

The move from John and Linda's is largely a blur. Splinters of memories are all I can offer. John was working when Pauline took me away. Linda shook my hand and wished me good luck. I requested that she said good- bye and thanks to John for me. She assured me that she would, with a pat on my shoulder. She walked me to Pauline's car and waved me off with a big smile. As much as I examined and wished for, I really did not detect any sadness or regret in her manner or speech. However, I did sense a coldness and distance between Pauline and Linda. Nothing overt, or impolite, yet there was a certain dynamic, under - currents of tension. Pauline had coughed, I think quite artificially, and said "Good- bye Linda", unlocking her car door and without even looking at her. It was all conducted in an uneasy and very business like fashion. It seemed to me like this was just another ordinary day in Linda's life. Maybe, her thoughts and feelings were all being engaged for her new baby

Woolsten House was the children’s home that myself and my belongings were transported to. Set in a remote and rural part of Sheffield, it was a rather tatty and neglected Victorian building set in its own grounds. It had belonged to a wealthy industrialist who donated it to the "poor children" of Sheffield. The whole building needed new paint and the numerous rooms were filled with an odd miss- match of old and new furniture. Noises easily echoed around this house and so did the unearthly sounds of the old heating system that frightened some children at night. For my little body the house seemed far too big, everyone seems to glide around in it. You could go for hours without seeing another soul. It reminded me of one of those very old type schools that rich children went to. There was always a musty, old kind of smell, which reminded me of my Grans old Wardrobes in her bedroom.

However, the private grounds provided ample space for outdoor play, "Hide and Seek" and building Dens in the woods near the stream. My bedroom was enormous, my single bed and bits of furniture were completely lost. The main feature was a giant old fashioned fire place and the grate was a perfect hiding place for my Memory Box. There was no carpet on the floor, just wooden floor boards covered in the middle by a small rug. The floor, my room and the rest of the house was freezing, especially in the winter months. Frost would appear on the inside of the windows. I would eventually sit on the large window ledge for long periods of time trying to spot some of the birds John had introduced into my life.

It provided rooms and a home for seven other children that had been taken into care. The rooms were located on four different levels. I was the youngest to begin with, the eldest being fourteen. Although residents often changed, I was a constant feature in this house for the next three years. Staff worked a shift basis, which was hard to keep track of. The profile of workers also changed rapidly.

The main exception to this change and flux was Mike, my own very special “key Worker” – who was still working at the house when I eventually left.

Mike was the one that shown me to my room. He helped me to settle in. He explained the rules of the house. Mike was the one that introduced me to the other residents and staff. Mike said that he was going to take me "under his wing". Mike was responsible for telling the other workers what to do and how to do it. Mike was described as the Senior Manager. He was the one that really decided on the discipline and punishment of the other children. The other workers seemed to instinctively respect, obey and adore him. Just like I was soon to do.

Mike was also the one that was to introduce me, so skillfully, to our blissful nights of tenderness, passion and sex. He was such a good teacher.

How little he would have known how I was to later use, what he had taught me, in my adult life. That, is yet to be described.

How I longed for those intimate nights. Mike was to become, in my young romantic mind, my special and secret lover. My loyalty and affiliation to him was unwavering.

Even at such a young age I knew that I was attracted to men or boys. I would get excited when John used to come out of the bath room wearing just a towel. At gym times at school I would take sneak glances at the handsome boys getting changed and examine their bodies. I would stimulate myself at night fuelled by erotic images and imagined role play. On TV it was always the good looking male actors that held my attention and stirred particular feelings. I had an infatuation on a young male teacher at the school I attended when I lived with John and Linda. There were many other signs when I examine my past now. Yet somehow, I had already picked up that this same sex attraction and relationships was not what society, generally, wanted. Although I was aware that opinions varied from total disgust to open acceptance, the weight of the evidence that I had managed to establish, told me that being “queer” or a “puff” was on balance, wrong. This compounded my sense of feeling different and strange on top of all the other things that made me stand out from other children. My emerging sexuality had not yet found an outlet with a real person.

I believed that Mike was the most handsome man that I had ever seen with his dark curly hair and deep blue eyes. He was 33 years old when I moved in. He was married with two young daughters. His upper and lower body was muscular, toned and hairy. I would enjoy the sight of Mike in his shorts in the warmer months. He was the outdoor adventure type and would often wear tight fitting T- Shirts. He seemed to have a permanent tan. His teeth perfectly white, his lips, full and soft. He had a Celtic ring tattoo on his left forearm. His warm, protective and buoyant personality was an additional attraction. I do not know to this very day if Mike knew or even cared about my sexual orientation – but he soon cast his spell on me and began grooming me to fulfill his sexual desires.

This grooming process started with him protecting me from the bullying that was attempted by certain other residents of the home. He would enter my bedroom sit on the end of my bed and assure me that he would not let any harm come to me whilst he was around. He would sit there stroking my leg under the bed clothes, whilst I lay there, hands over my groan, examining his sparkling eyes. It wasn’t too long after, on his sleep over shifts, he was sharing my bed and also my body.

Thanks for reading.
Take care
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