‘Some guff about poetry.’
I perk up because poetry is a kind of secret pleasure of mine. No one knows that I inhale it in the dead of night, that it answers many questions I have swirling in my head. I’ve even, you know, tried to, like, dabble myself.
‘Pure nerd fest,’ she says.
We snigger.
Teacher clocks it and marches up to us.
‘Something to add, Bel?’ teacher says.
‘No, miss. Just chatting about what you were saying.’
‘Really?’
‘Really, miss.’
‘So what was the last thing I said then?’
‘Poetry stuff,’ Bel replies.
Giggles from the class fill the awkwardness.
‘This is an important year, Bel. I suggest you take it seriously.’
‘Will do, miss. Thanks for the heads-up.’
Teacher dismisses Bel as a no-hoper, then focuses on me. Her expression relaxes. Soft focus. The face of pity.
‘You OK, Bobby?’
‘Just a bit tired, miss,’ I say.
‘It’s to be expected,’ she says.
Bel’s eyes whack the ceiling.
‘I think the poetry element of the course will be a strong point for you this year, Bobby.’
‘Hope so, miss.’
Teacher gives Bel the sneer-face before turning on her high-rise heels. Clickety-click.
‘Right, everyone turn to page sixty-six. “Poppies in October.”’
After the long summer hanging out with Bel, making sure Danny didn’t get the shit kicked out of himself for whatever reason – staring sternly at someone in his you fuckin’ want some? manner or letting his tongue run before engaging his brain (‘Look at that woman’s giant arse!’) – I thought that going back to school would be a breeze compared with the daily demands of being me:
Can you change these sheets, son?
Bobby, is my bath ready?
Where’s all the Rice Krispies gone?
Have you taken the washing out?
There’s clothes still on the line.
Is Danny eating properly?
This is cold!
This year is a biggie: exam year. Making-informed-decisions-about-the-future year. Getting-the-finger-out-the-arse year. Total stress. Naturally, being seventeen, I have no clue what to do when school’s over, and I can’t stop the constant motherly jabs on the issue.
‘What do you want to be when you grow up, son?’ Mum asks.
‘As in grown up like a man?’
‘Well, the jury’s still out on that one, but let’s imagine you’re all grown up, and, yes, we can pretend you’re a man too.’
‘I’m honoured.’
‘So, what are you thinking then?’
‘Apart from being a priest?’
‘Apart from that, Father.’
‘Think I’d be suited to the astronaut life.’
‘Well, I’ve always said you’re a bit of a rocket.’
The chats never really develop beyond nonsense. Mum knows I’ll be OK; she knows I’ll make the right choices. She understands the gulf between teen life and adulthood is vast, so why waste those years trying to leap forward?
‘Seriously, Bobby, what are you going to do when you leave school?’
‘I’m thinking boxing trainer or lion tamer.’
‘Good practice with our Danny. Go for it.’
That’s generally how we play it.
I’ve always thought something creative is a possibility. Now, when I say creative, what I mean is writing. Hey, I can rattle off a short story or poem like the best seventeen-year-olds: angsty and lamentable. Any loot to be made in that game? Probably not.
Food. I like to eat. I enjoy watching MasterChef. Being chief cook for Mum and Dan, MasterChef is essential viewing. Mum finds it hard to swallow at times so soup is a staple on the Seed menu.
I read books. Librarian/editor?
I like clothes. Fashion designer/blogger?
I like money. Banker/accountant?
I like brushing hair. Hairdresser/up-stylist?
I like school. Teacher/student?
I like staring into space. Philosopher/dole sponger?
I like not having an illness. Doctor/nurse?
Not sure my talents stretch to any occupation.
Lunchtime, and Mrs Sneddon, the school counsellor, practically drags me into her office for ‘a little chat’. Don’t get me wrong, I like Mrs Sneddon – she genuinely cares about the students, no bullshit there – but sometimes she plays the role of God’s true disciple, plonked into our school with a single remit: heal the infirm and needy. Ladies and gentlemen, and those unsure, I give you Bobby Seed!
‘How was your summer, Bobby, love?’ Mrs Sneddon calls us ‘love’ and ‘darling’ and gets away with it, but imagine Mr Conroy, Mr McClair or Mr Melrose saying that. I see frogmarching, cameras flashing, blankets draped over heads. Careers and marriages shattered. Can’t beat a double standard.
‘Summer was fine, miss.’
‘And your mum, how’s she doing?’
‘Same, no change really.’
‘Well, that’s good, at least she isn’t deteriorating.’
Mrs Sneddon doesn’t have to listen to the painful howls when Mum’s muscles spasm uncontrollably. Mrs Sneddon doesn’t have to witness the look of mortification on Mum’s face when I’m fumbling around her listless body during ‘bath time’. Mrs Sneddon doesn’t have to hear the humiliation in Mum’s voice when I’m reminded that the baby wipes are running low. No, Mrs Sneddon, Mum isn’t deteriorating, but maybe I am.
‘And what about your brother? Is he OK, love? Is he coping?’
‘Danny’s doing fine, he just plods on with life. Being back at school is good for him.’
‘The school he’s at is perfect, I know it well.’
‘Yeah, he likes it.’
‘He feels safe there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you, darling. What about you? How are you doing?’
‘I’m doing OK,’ I say, which is sort of a grand lie.
‘It’s all a huge pressure on you, Bobby.’ I stare at my feet. ‘Don’t think we don’t recognise this, love.’
‘It is what it is, miss.’
‘It’s not easy being a young carer, Bobby.’
Tell me something I don’t know.
‘Yeah, well,’ I say.
‘It’s OK, I understand.’ Her hand rests on my forearm. I nod a type of fake thanks for her understanding.
See, child experts will tell you that I’m way too young to carry such a burden of responsibility on my tender shoulders. Their job is to make assumptions and evaluations. Really, what do they know other than what I’m prepared to tell them? I’ll tell you what they know, shall I? Assumptions and evaluations. Teachers feel my pain. I can tell by the way they look at me, giving me a wide berth that no one else seems to get. Thinking they know the score. They don’t. Thinking I can’t handle it. They’re wrong. Thinking I’m psychologically damaged by it. I wouldn’t use the word ‘damaged’ to describe it. Funny how no one ever uses the word ‘love’ when discussing my case. I do what I do because she’s my mum; she’s the only one I have, so wouldn’t mind holding on to her for a bit longer. That pure and that simple. Now, tell me this: do you need a PhD and a sack of certificates to work that out? I reckon some common sense and good judgement. Makes me laugh that they all think they know me. I could fill a book about what they don’t know.
Thing is, I’m just your average seventeen-year-old: same fears, same desires, same hang-ups, same, same, same. Dull, dull, dull. OK, hands up, there’s the seventeen-year-old in me who’s poles apart from everyone else as well. Unique. The seventeen-year-old who has to brush his mother’s locks every day, sort out her medicine, sponge her clean three times a week, ooze positivity when all I want to do is punch the shit out of a wall or wail in the shower.
Same yet not.
‘I understand,’ Mrs Sneddon says aga
in.
Worst thing anyone can say is that they understand what you’re going through when, clearly, they haven’t a scrap of understanding. Ever want to rile someone? Tell them you understand their pain: that’ll work a treat. Unless somebody has walked an inch in my shoes they couldn’t possibly understand what I’m experiencing. Yes, they might get the sadness or loss part, but it’s the whole gamut of other emotions they’re clueless about. Emotions that consume my every waking hour. Occasionally I flick out of them, reflect on other things, normal things, but it’s too fleeting; I’m quickly yanked back into its clutches. Fear, obviously, is the worst. Fear of losing Mum, of me and Danny having to fend for ourselves. I fear a life of hovering above all the action because I’ve had to care for everyone else.
Then there’s the head-numbing isolation. I don’t get to experience what my peers are doing; I don’t get time to hang about the streets or go to the cinema or attend some crap nightclub or sit in a mate’s bedroom listening to tunes all night. No, I have stuff to do, stuff I can’t share with anyone. Sharing isn’t part of my grind. OK, Bel knows that Mum is ill and Danny is, well, Danny, but she doesn’t know the inner workings of my mind, what I want, what I need. Bel doesn’t know how tearful and resentful I often get, or how certain thoughts scare me to death.
Then there’s the fact that I’m seventeen. Seventeen, for God’s sake. My parents should be chastising me about my internet use. I should be teetering on the margins of criminality, having furtive meetings with online strangers; I should be full of angst and nervous energy and spending insurmountable periods in the bathroom. But I’m too buggered for that. Life equals exhaustion. So what’s the point in blurting out all this to Mrs Sneddon? She understands, right?
‘I want you to have a look at this, Bobby,’ she says, handing me a folded A4 leaflet.
‘What is it?’
‘You don’t have to read it now. Take it away with you, look at it in your own time.’
I open the flaps. It’s from the Department of Education, but has the logo of a group calling themselves Poztive. How cool, hip and down-with-it are they?
‘Now, you don’t have to make any quick decisions this minute,’ she says. ‘Mull it over first, OK?’
I scan. Read bits. Look at some smiling teens. Lots of teeth.
‘Erm …’
‘Now, I know what you’re thinking …’
‘I’m not sure about this, miss.’
‘Just thought I’d let you see. No one is forcing you, love.’
‘I’m not really into the whole self-help thing.’
‘It’s not self-help, Bobby. It’s a type of peer-group meeting.’
‘It all seems a bit circle time to me.’
‘That’s not a bad analogy.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
‘It’s about shared experiences with people your own age. You might get something from it.’
‘Yeah, apathy or eczema,’ I say.
‘Some people can be energised by these groups,’ she says, pointing at the leaflet. I wince.
‘Not for me.’
‘Well, I’ll just leave it with you for now, love. You make up your own mind about it.’
‘Thanks.’ I stand. ‘Why are you offering this to me now?’ I ask.
‘Because it’s a new initiative,’ she says. ‘Solely targeted at young people your age, people who might be facing issues outside the realms of being a carer – you know what I mean, Bobby?’
Couldn’t possibly have a clue who she’s talking about.
‘Right,’ I say, tucking the leaflet inside my school blazer pocket.
‘I applied on your behalf. I hope you don’t mind, sweetie?’
‘No, I don’t mind, miss.’
The bell rings.
‘OK, you best be getting off.’
‘See you later, miss.’ I pull the door towards me.
‘Bobby?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Any thoughts on what you’re thinking of doing?’
‘I’ve got double biology, miss.’
‘No, I mean when you’re done with this place.’
‘Not completely, but it’ll definitely be something in the sewage industry.’
Mrs Sneddon giggles.
‘Go on. Get out of here. Sewage! Would you ever listen to yourself.’
On the way to biology I feel the leaflet rubbing against my nipple. I’m late. I smarten the pace. The leaflet attacks my nipple with vigour. I hate being late for class, having to stand there while some jumped-up power-hound teacher gives you a bollocking. I enter.
‘Sorry I’m late, miss,’ I say.
Mrs Lennox is a teacher to be feared in the school. She’s on the total-nuts spectrum. Bel says she’s a people hater and would rather live on an island, fawning over plants and frogs.
I spy Bel behind Mrs Lennox’s shoulder. She’s wearing an oh-you-are-so-dead face, revelling in my tardy transgression.
‘Bobby!’ Mrs Lennox blurts.
I’m like, what? Seventy-eight seconds late. What’s the stress?
‘I was with Mrs Sneddon, miss. In her office,’ I explain.
‘That’s no problem, Bobby.’ In a nanosecond, Mrs Lennox’s face changes from reinforced steel to squidgy putty. ‘We’ve barely started.’
Honestly?
No belittling in front of the class?
No insulting my intellectual capacity?
Nothing?
Suddenly I feel myself wanting to be scolded. I don’t need special treatment. I want to be on par with every other dickhead and downbeat.
‘Right,’ I say, and make my way to a clearly exasperated Bel, who mouths, ‘You fucker.’ I raise a victory eyebrow.
‘Perk of the job,’ I whisper. I might enjoy fleeting moments of special treatment, but I don’t crave the full-time sympathy vote.
‘Section six, Bobby. We’re starting the Krebs cycle.’
I open my book and scratch my chest.
Bel slowly leans into me.
‘I hate you, Bobby Seed.’
‘My nipple is killing me, so a little kindness, please.’
‘I hope it falls off.’
Positive Thinking
Before you attend your first Poztive meeting we’d love to hear a little about YOU.
1.Tell us about your daily routine as a young carer
2.Tell us what your plans and/or ambitions are
3.Tell us about your hobbies and pastimes
4.Tell us about anything else we might find interesting
1.
I get up around 6.30–7, have a quick shower, get dressed then wake my little brother. I make sure he gets washed and dressed properly and has everything he needs for school.
Around 7.30 we have breakfast. I fix my brother cereal, followed by toast and apple juice. When he’s comfortable in front of the TV, I go back upstairs to check on Mum.
I’ll rouse her, prop the pillows and switch the radio on. BBC 5 Live or 6 Music.
Usually she needs the toilet so I help with that.
I return downstairs, look in on my brother, and get Mum her pills. Some days she’s feeling strong and wants to get dressed and come downstairs, other days she’s weak and prefers to remain in bed. I take her some jasmine tea. She enjoys a boiled egg and toast. Most days she wants nothing.
I might have to change the sheets, but not every day. Mum still tries to do this herself, but it’s best if I take charge as this usually exhausts her.
I keep an eye on Mum’s mood, making sure she is relaxed and happy.
I inhale a bowl of cereal and a glass of water.
I try cleaning as I go.
I sniff through my brother’s school bag, make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything.
I walk him to his school, point him in the direction of his first class.
I like school, but it’s hard being away from Mum; I tend to worry the whole time I’m there, thinking of her safety.
The worry of death never leaves you.<
br />
I try blocking these thoughts out and concentrate on schoolwork. By midday I’m shattered.
After school we generally head to Lidl or Aldi to buy dinner or essentials.
Once home I make my brother change his clothes and do whatever homework he has. Always a struggle.
I ask Mum about her day, give her any medicine she needs, then I dive into my civvies.
I come downstairs and do general cleaning chores, just to make sure the house isn’t a kip.
I’ll scan the fridge and find a meal to cobble together, making sure it’s nutritious and that Mum can physically eat it.
My brother is very fussy – he likes pizza, pasta and McDonald’s. Veg is tough.
I get my brother to lay the table.
Another struggle.
And, if Mum’s legs are in good nick, we all sit down together. These days she has hers in bed.
Once dinner is over, me and Danny do the clean-up.
I can’t even tell you the struggle this is.
I go see if Mum needs anything and we chat for a while. She likes to wag on about my future or tell me how great music and stuff was when she was my age. She asks about my day, we talk general rubbish and laugh loads. This is our time in the day to forget about the obvious.
If I can catch some downtime (hate that phrase), I might read or write something.
Very relaxing.
Then all I want to do is sleep.
I get my brother ready for bed: teeth brushed, face washed, computer off.
My Lord, the struggle with that!
I help Mum to the toilet so she can get cleaned and prepared for the night ahead.
When I’m sure there is silence, I might need to put a wash on or do homework or something else.
After that I’m beyond being wiped out.
I go to bed.
Then the day starts again: worry, tiredness … and so on.
I put the pen down, shake my arm into life again, look at questions 2, 3 and 4 and think: Someone give me a gun!
In Arms
Mum’s care while I’m at school is far from perfect. Some white coat comes to give her a laughable sponge-down, a bit of food (mush) and administer afternoon medicine. Then they bolt. No circulating the muscles. No fresh air. Zero craic. A twenty-minute in and out job. Gets right on my goat, so it does. But it’s the NHS and it’s free, so step away from the goat.
The Weight of a Thousand Feathers Page 2