Tell Me Why, Mummy: A Little Boy’s Struggle to Survive. A Mother’s Shameful Secret. The Power to Forgive.. David Thomas
got a headache/toothache/earache/my tummy/ foot/elbow hurts.’
Usually Mum won’t have any truck with these excuses: if I’m able to get up and eat my breakfast then I can go to school. Then, miraculously, I come down with a real stinker of a cold and sore throat and she keeps me at home for over a week.
When it’s time for me to go back to school, I am more anxious and nervous than ever. But by this time, to my huge relief, Karen has grown bored with taunting me and apart from an occasional verbal swipe the bullying seems to tail off. Probably she has found another victim, but after that she leaves me alone.
Besides, things have started to change for me slightly. Maybe Karen has picked up on this and thinks twice before having a go at me, but for whatever reason, she has moved on and so have I.
What’s changed is that I’m learning how to defend myself – and it helps that I wear clogs as shoes at school. There’s a working clog factory a few miles from where we live and as they are sturdy and long-lasting, they seem not only practical but it also makes economic sense to Mum for me to wear them.
The front of a clog is very hard and hurts if you come into contact with it. Unfortunately, I choose to employ them as a weapon at school and start kicking out at any kid I fall out with. I have become physically aggressive to defend myself against being bullied.
This kicking out makes kids more wary of me. Upon kicking another pupil, they start screaming in pain and I find myself getting hauled up in front of the teacher. Despite my protests of doing it in self-defence, I get into trouble. As a rule I only tend to do it in the classroom and these incidents are few and far between, but I’m always unrepentant, which never helps.
‘But Miss,’ I plead, ‘they were hitting me first.’
‘I don’t care, David,’ she insists, ‘you can’t wear them any more.’
This scolding hurts me more than the bullying and I try to control myself. I also hate going home and telling Mum I have been in trouble at school.
It never occurs to me that there’s anything very wrong with what’s going on between me and Mum. I think of the peculiar physical intimacy between us as our ‘Special Time’ and I like it in the way that a child in a normal relationship with their mother is aware of and understands a cuddle. I don’t want to spoil what we have between us, and so from now on I’m a model student at school, well behaved in class, hardly ever getting into detention and never being sent home from school.
After this I stop kicking out at other kids and I avoid conflicts. If someone tells me to do anything – whether it’s grown-ups or other children – I agree to it or find a way round it to make sure that other people don’t get angry or upset with me. I don’t want to be hurt and I don’t want to get into trouble for hurting anyone else. It’s in my nature to be submissive and I don’t want to be bullied – but that’s going to lead to far greater problems for me in the years to come.
In my first year at Calder Bridge I win a gold star from the Head and I’m overjoyed. I’ve just discovered how much I like being the centre of attention. I enjoy the feeling of being good at something. When a few weeks later I see another older lad getting a lot of attention because it’s his birthday it makes me feel very jealous. I wish it was me who they were all making a fuss about. I also discover something else.
Walking home from school with another boy, we race each other and I beat him.
I love beating him and I love winning.
* * *
At home, we have very little money to live on. After my parents split up, Dad pays Mum maintenance but it’s never much according to her – although I have no idea how the money from the houses has actually been split up. I don’t know any different and am grateful for what I have or what is given to me. Although I have some books, board games, Lego and toy cars, I don’t have many toys; they are mostly secondhand. Around this time, 1974–75, Mum is a member of a Halifax Gingerbread Group for single parents who meet at each others’ houses and take it in turns to hold a gingerbread evening. She makes friends and does things with them that also involve children, and she sometimes comes home with toys for me, which is always exciting.
Although we have little cash, Mum always makes sure I have the things I need and it’s the same throughout my childhood. One day my friend George who lives across the fields gives me a bike. Mum can never afford to get me a bike because it’s too expensive. I sometimes wonder whether Dad will think about buying me one, given his love of two-wheeled machines, but he’s hardly ever around nowadays and I can only assume he’s preoccupied with his own problems.
There’s no point in my complaining about wanting a new bike, I’m never going to get one. George’s old bike is definitely the next best thing. It is light green and beige and doesn’t have a saddle, which makes it difficult to ride, but I’m not bothered. I think it’s great. In any case the road we live in has a small dip so I stand on the pedals going down, get off at the bottom and push it back to the top.
For my sixth birthday, Mum gives me a red articulated truck. It is new, not secondhand, and I’m thrilled with it. I take it to school to show off to the other kids. It’s great being the centre of attention for once and I feel so proud. Then one of the children takes a swipe at it, knocking it out of my hand. It crashes to the floor and breaks into pieces. All the kids go ‘Ooooohhh!’ and run off to avoid getting the blame.
I stand there, crying my eyes out, not because the toy is broken but because I know I won’t get another new one. I hide it in my bag and don’t tell Mum.
* * *
When she’s not drinking she wants the best for me and she does this by being strict with me. She is anxious for me to do well in school and when we go on trips to other places in West Yorkshire and even to the seaside at Blackpool, she’ll drag me around historical sites – maybe not kicking and screaming but sometimes a little reluctantly when I’d just like to have fun. Like her mother Sandra did to her, she pushes me hard, and keeps a close eye on me when it comes to schoolwork.
In stark contrast to how she is when she’s drinking, when she is sober she won’t tolerate bad behaviour. Once she makes her mind up on something, that is that. She always gets me to wash my hands before each meal and after I’ve finished eating I have to ask to leave the table. She believes in good manners and behaving myself in public, although this doesn’t stop her doing embarrassing things herself.
One Saturday, when we’re shopping in Halifax she buys me some fruitdrops and when I put one in my mouth I realize it’s blackcurrant.
I pull a face and immediately take it out.
‘Come on, David,’ Mum is saying, ‘we’ve got to get back home.’
‘Can’t we go to the toyshop and see the model railway, Mum?’ I plead.
‘No, I’ve told you once, we need to get home now.’
Mum has made up her mind and starts walking me towards the bus stop.
But I want to go and see the model railway in the toyshop and in a fit of pique I throw my fruitdrop on the ground.
We’re in the middle of the town centre, milling with people, probably including children from my school. That doesn’t worry Mum. She pulls down my trousers and smacks my backside in full view of anyone who is watching.
If Mum has decided on something and laid down the law, that’s final. She won’t allow any argument.
One evening, she makes kedgeree, a rice dish with fish. She is brilliant at baking but awful at cooking and as this is one of the few meals she can successfully cook, she often makes it. Although I can eat it, kedgeree is probably one of my least favourite meals, so I eat as much as I can stomach and leave the rest.
‘Are you leaving that food?’ Mum asks.
‘Yes, I’ve had enough, Mum,’ I reply.
‘Right,