I promised earlier to tell you a funny story. It illustrates the frustration that builds in all of us when a difficult situation is not improving. It also illustrates that children, not just adults get frustrated.
Every day in our house was a routine of dispute between Mum and Dad. The year was 1964. In the middle of the night my three-year-old brother, our German Shepherd Dog Blackie, our few possessions and I were collected together in the small living room of a council house that had been our home. Quietly we left the house, having no idea what was happening.
Within the hour we were boarding a Robin Hood coach out of Nottingham, whose destination was Manchester. My Father was doing what most people do when in trouble, going back to his own roots. He had been born and educated in Manchester, so perhaps he felt that familiar ground would improve his life. I doubt he was considering ours.
We finally arrived in a suburb of Manchester, in a street of terraced houses. A man met us, let us in and gave my Dad some keys. The rooms were small and the kitchen was tiny. As we opened the back door we entered a small yard with a silver metal dustbin minus its lid. To the left of a green wooden gate that separated us from the rest of the street, there was a covered coal shed holding a small amount of coal.
When we stepped back into the house my eyes tried to draw Dads attention to tell us what was happening.
I felt horror as he told us that this was our new home, a new start. He had not told anyone. My school with all my friends would find out later that we had moved. I would never see them again. Everything I had and had learned had gone.
My new school had normal northern friendliness but part of me felt ripped from all that had been mine. Within the week the school bully came looking for me. I dealt with provocation well, knowing that if and when it became too much I would deal with it. There is a lot of truth in the idea that a bully feeds off what they see as your weakness if you wait too long to respond and it seems to empower them to belittle you more. Eventually I followed the school tradition, a showdown after the school day.
A hundred kids must have gathered to see the outcome. My enemy at first found me confusing. I was not going to run but he had to give me a reason to fight. A good enough reason would be to throw a punch. Sure enough we were soon in the throes of battle with what sounded like the cries of a football crowd around us, eagerly egging us on. It’s fair to say we had reached the point of looking like two boys who had been scrapping, when suddenly the huge crowd began to disappear at speed! As a gap appeared I saw an elderly lady waving a dark wooden walking stick in the air. Her words were like blows. This was uncivilised behaviour that would be reported to our headmaster. She had got our attention.
What happened next says something of the human condition. My sparring partner, whose name was Neil, asked me if I wanted to come to his house nearby for a drink!
It soon became clear to me his parents were never around either. Next morning, sitting with our wounds on display in class, we gave the usual answer to our form master when he asked what we had been doing, “Nothing Sir”. Neil and I became great friends. He was a brilliant football goalkeeper and we went on to play some outstanding football together. I am happy to report his bullying stopped and he later developed into a fine parent.
I was never at ease with violence as a means to resolve issues. It was a last resort for me. Inevitably there came a time when Dad stood in front of me and I would need to take such a decision again.
Close to midnight I heard Mum and Dad return from the pub. Actually I had heard them coming when they were half way down the street, as had everyone else. Once in the house the argument increased. My Brother lay asleep. It was time to act.
I walked downstairs in my striped pyjamas, not quite knowing what I was going to say. I walked into the living room. The TV was on and Dad sat in his sacred chair. He would be master in his own home. I told them Mike was asleep and they would wake him up.
In a dismissive voice my Dad told me to go back to bed.
I began to reinforce my point that they would wake my Brother but even before I had finished my sentence he was out of his chair. He looked like a man on the deck of a ship in raging seas. As he wobbled towards me he said, “You are not too old to get a slap”. This had never happened before but perhaps at thirteen he was now seeing me as a threat. This did not seem to be the new start he had predicted.
In good Mancunian tradition he “asked me out”. This meant we should take our jackets off and fight. It seemed more sensible to keep my pyjama jacket on! It was cold outside and I had nothing on my feet. By now he had gone into our backyard and was beckoning me. Mum told me to go back to bed, but this was a man thing.
Here I was then, in our backyard, freezing, frustrated and sick of this man, who called himself my Father, being a dictator.
My fight with Neil had prepared me. I offered him the first punch. Dad delivered it but it was more likely to land next door, it was so far wide of me. No doubt embarrassed he promised his next effort would be better. He decided getting up close and cosy would help, so we stood nose to nose. By now my fear had gone. As in everything else I had seen in him, he looked pathetic. His breath had more power so to make him step away I pushed him in the chest with the tips of my fingers on both hands. I must have caught him off balance, because he began to move backwards, each step looking unsteadied until he found a place to land. That place was in the bin that had no lid. It was if he had sat on a chair where the bottom had fallen out! Even funnier, he was stuck and could not raise his backside out. His hand reached out. I walked back into the house, locked the door, told Mum not to let him in and then I went back to bed. I looked in on my Brother who was still sleeping. It seemed a very satisfying night’s work.
Next morning it seemed like a dream. We had heard nothing of him since I had locked up. It seemed to me I was in for some trouble but my priority was to get to school. Curiosity made me check he was not still in the bin and sure enough he had escaped. As I was about to go back in I heard a noise. Walking to the back gate, what I saw next is imprinted on my mind.
There was Dad still dressed in his suit, fast asleep on the coal with his arm around next doors Dog! It was priceless.
**Extracted from “Some take the Biscuit....Others get the crumbs”
Further reading at: http://dcarpenter1.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/book-on-social-comment-that-can-only-be.html
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