by Susan Tarr
What others are saying about
PHENOMENA the Lost and Forgotten Children
(Formerly published as SEACLIFF a Regular Boy Within)
PHENOMENA’s characters are so endearing. The story winds through historical facts with ease and a gripping tale is introduced to the reader. It reminds me of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It is very well written. What an amazing story! - Margitte Reviews
I enjoyed this book very much. It’s introspective, but far from depressing. All the feelings, thoughts, and facts are put into words skilfully, finding the perfect balance between simple and complex, fiction and reality. I would recommend this book to all, because there's much more to learn from it than from a psychological anthology! - Cristian-Zenoviu Drozd (writer)
This book is amazing; it is honestly different. Tarr’s result is a highly readable description of a slice of life few people were privy to. Interwoven into this historical work (a few actually funny stories, more unbearably sad) is the story of Malcolm. What happens to a child who has had no parenting, who is exposed to institutionalisation and whose stimulation is all wrong? A child who is not allowed to grow up? Read PHENOMENA the Lost and Forgotten Children and many of these questions are answered. - T Laidlaw (psychologist)
I’ve never read anything like it. It’s not an average prototype of fiction. This story has a depth that could only come from life experience, from knowledge of the human psychology and behaviour. The author skilfully manages to sprinkle some humour in the darkest of situations. The ending is unexpected, with a twist that makes the reader want to start reading it all over again. A great book from a great author! - Anca-Melinda Coliolu (author)
Tarr introduces Malcolm to the reader as no one special, but it soon becomes apparent that he has many secrets. They begin to unfold as she hooks you in with imagery of many of the mainstay characters and the psychiatric institution called Seacliff. I loved, loved, loved Malcolm. At times it was very hard to read because of how descriptive Tarr was about his plight, but I just had to know what happened. I would recommend this book in a heartbeat and will definitely read it a third and fourth time. Best read so far this year. - Allie Mataafa
Tarr’s voice is direct and her treatment is sympathetic and thought provoking. Definitely a true story you'll never forget. Seacliff is a part of New Zealand history that unfortunately is universal. - Fancy Nancy Reviews
The story sears the soul, the conscience and the mind, both celebrating humanity and revealing our darknesses. I had no inkling of the sending of “helpless souls” from England. I hadn’t realised the extent of ECT use in NZ. I’m left feeling elated as well as ashamed after reading Malcolm’s story. Thank you for your superhuman perseverance in making sure it was told. - Kay Down (author)
By the same author
MIRANDA BAY
SEACLIFF a Regular Boy Within
PHENOMENA
the Lost and Forgotten Children
by
SUSAN TARR
PHENOMENA
the Lost and Forgotten Children
Copyright ©2014 Susan Tarr
Cover design: Michael Tarr
Photography: Anna Lund
Disclaimer: Susan Tarr asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work under the terms of Section 96 of the Copyright Act of 1994 (New Zealand).
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be produced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PHENOMENA the Lost and Forgotten Children (originally SEACLIFF: A REGULAR BOY WITHIN) was selected by The New Zealand Society of Authors’ Mentoring Programme, funded by Creative New Zealand, and was guided into being by mentor and editor, Lesley Marshall.
Dr Tannis Laidlaw’s incisive critiques helped me navigate the medical aspects of this story.
Inspiration for PHENOMENA the Lost and Forgotten Children comes from a multiple of sources, not the least being Malcolm. But also from a collection of personal diaries and old letters, photographs, personal and shared experiences of family, workmates and friends; from living and working at Seacliff, Cherry Farm and Porirua Psychiatric Hospitals.
Note: Some details have been changed to protect living relatives and descendants, though wherever possible and in most instances the correct dates, names and places have been used.
SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Malcolm, with the greatest respect. To Jack and Nola Green, Campbell and Kathleen Pope, Doug and Marie Forrester, and all the other Seacliff village people I knew, as well as my work colleagues from the day who added to and filled my memories so colourfully.
To those who contributed their stories and wrote me letters once they knew I was doing this work – too many to list – love and thank you to each one of you.
But especially to my sister Kathleen Pope who worked tirelessly to provide me with accurate accounts of the times, along with photographs and video recordings.
Where PHENOMENA the Lost and Forgotten Children differs, is in the humour. Because it is such dark subject matter I felt strongly that there had to be some levity in it. You had to have a lot of stuff to break that up because nobody wants to read something that’s just desperately miserable.
Susan Tarr
New Zealand
2014
To my family
Michael and Anna, for your patience and faith in me and my writing, with love always.
I may not have attempted Malcolm’s story as it is if it weren’t for the friendship my sister Kathleen and I shared. In many ways this story is a melding of both our memories.
In Memory of
my sister Kathleen Pope
Kath McLeod
FOREWORD
I was raised within the community of Seacliff village, in New Zealand, during the 50s, with each of our family members working in the hospital at some time or another. We sometimes shared our primary school with young patients from the hospital. On turning fifteen we often worked up the hill, helping in the canteen, laundry, wards or occupational therapy. From a young age we absorbed the stories, and it was difficult to know where fiction ended and the greater truth took over.
To separate the truth from the almost-truth at this stage would be an impossible task as many of those concerned have died. Therefore I have blended together various stories in this narrative as representative of our family and friends’ combined belief of what most probably did happen during the period covered by this narrative. Wherever possible, I have used correct dates, names and places. When there is a modicum of doubt in my mind I have changed names and details for the protection of those still living.
As a child I knew Malcolm, who was then a young man, since Dad often invited him home for meals. He was one of the lost children, those forgotten or abandoned by their family. We followed Malcolm’s story from childhood to adulthood as best we could. Even after he was eventually discharged back into the community. When considering the tragedy and abuse of Malcolm’s wasted earlier years, it is a story of immeasurable sadness. Yet he ultimately rose above it all, and with admirable strength, courage and innate resilience, was finally able to free ‘the regular boy within’ as he had always wanted.
This is Malcolm’s story as I believe it unfolded.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Special Acknowledgements
Dedication
Foreword
Return to the Beginning – 1954
Maclaggan Street 1947
Contentment at Maclaggan Street
Grey Lizzie
Talking
Going Back
Obliterated
The Green Budgie
The Siren
Mrs. Green
Jack Green’s Yarn
The Gardens
The Fire
Ned’s Secret
Smooth
His Boots
Father Teague
The Lobotomy
More Secrets
Martha and the Whales
Sports Day
The Farm
Cats, Cold and Companions
Slut
Mr Brown the Rawleigh’s Man
Fox Furs
Coal
Regular Brown Shoes
Socialising
Death at The Building
Geoffrey Humphrey Bennett
Women
Catherine’s Story
Visitors
The Real World – 1953
Return to the Beginning – 1954
Afterword
Meet the author
Resources
1
CHAPTER 1
PHENOMENA the Lost and Forgotten Children
Non omnis moriar
I shall not completely die
(Horace)
Return to the Beginning – 1954
On nearing the house up Dunedin’s Maclaggan Street, tucked beneath cherry blossoms, larch and pussy willow, Malcolm’s old panic resurfaced. He’d mostly suppressed it during the journey back but now it threatened to break through his fragile control.
When he walked up the steps to the porch, through the front door with the coloured glass panels, how would that feel? He acknowledged his yearning to be back revolved around his memories of Julie’s company, assured patience and optimism. How would it be without her, with just the other ex-hospital inmates who had also been transferred: Bob, Grey Lizzie, and a few new ones? Would there still be fights over the meals and the milk bottle tops? And what about his old bedroom? Would it be taken over by someone else? And who slept now in Julie’s room?
And…and… Oh, there were too many questions!
Closer now, he could see the donkey-brown windowsills. Nearly home. Yet to be back here and without Julie by his side, guiding him into his future, would he ever be truly free from his old life in the hospital? His insides churned with doubts and fears. He had not expected that. And tears burned his eyes at the distant memory of Julie, the accident, her cold body whisked away beneath a grey blanket. But now he was older. He was an adult and, they told him, he should ‘get out into the real world’ now. So the old question returned: what did the real world hold for him, and what was real anyway?
Immobilised by nerves, he couldn’t even make it out of the hospital van. He peered wide-eyed through the window at them all clustered together on the porch waiting to welcome him home. Grey Lizzie waved as if he were going on a day’s outing, not returning from half a decade back at The Building. (That’s what they all called the hospital.) She looked almost the same. Just more grey. Bob’s ginger hair had faded too. But who were the strangers standing there, and where had the others gone?
After another prompting he clambered awkwardly down from the van. And Nurse West propelled him along when he would have stayed out in the street.
“Let’s go inside and get you unpacked. And don’t tell me you’re shy, mister, a grown man like you?”
Malcolm clutched two brown paper bags: his farewell presents and his clothes. All he possessed.
Grey Lizzie craned her neck to peer over Bob’s shoulder. Bob pushed his way to the front of the close-pressed and silent group to shake Malcolm’s hand vigorously.
“So ya got glasses, huh?” he said gruffly. “Welcome home, then.” And he turned away abruptly, muttering, “My scones are ready.”
Malcolm was aware of the old familiar smells, hot and delicious, wafting along the passage toward him.
“Fresh scones,” announced Grey Lizzie, beaming happily. “Don’t let them burn, Bob, like last time. And make sure you wash your hands.”
She rolled her eyes, but not before Bob had turned back and seen her.
“Mouthy bitch,” he muttered, slowly shaking his head as he again headed toward the kitchen.
Grey Lizzie ignored him, turning sideways and pursing her lips so Malcolm could kiss her.
Nurse West bustled forward. “So which is Malcolm’s room?”
Malcolm hoped she could bring order to this milling, indecisive group she was responsible for. And he’d thought it bad back at The Building.
“Who wants to show Malcolm his room?”
‘Same one, third left,” Grey Lizzie said. “The other chappie moved on last month. Gone home to his kin.”
Malcolm allowed himself a smile – his same old room. Now he began to feel at ease. He’d lie on his same bed and look up through the casement windows to greet the smiling face of his moon. He followed Nurse West down the passage, past Grey Lizzie’s newspaper-jammed room and stood patiently in the doorway while she gave it a quick once-over.
“It seems mighty fine to me, Malcolm,” she said. “You settle in now and I’ll be back in a week to see how you’re going, all right?” Before she turned to leave, she added quietly, “But you’ll be okay. Make conversation. The others will join in. Especially Lizzie and Bob. They’ve really come out of their shells since they’ve been living here.” And she tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger. “I think he’s taken a fancy to her.”
Still he felt a stab of abandonment when Nurse West whisked into the van and off down the street. He would try hard, yet he was doubtful he could do it. Would he end up back at The Building, like before?
“Kettle’s on. Go through to the sitting room. I’ll bring tea.”
That was Bob. He’d come to stand gawking with the others in Malcolm’s bedroom doorway, to watch him unpack his paper bag, or to shyly touch his sleeve.
His return was a novelty because nothing much changed here at this house.
“Don’t forget the meringues with the fresh cream, Bob.”
Grey Lizzie was as bossy as ever though Bob was clearly still in charge of his kitchen, because he barked, “Stop with the bloody orders, woman!”
Even so Malcolm noticed Bob’s voice was not as strident as it used to be when he spoke to her. And Bob nodded almost sheepishly as he followed his bark with a soft look in her direction. As she responded with a coy smile, Malcolm lowered his head to hide his own. Once upon a time he’d found Grey Lizzie aggravating with her constant carping and criticising, her obsession with germs. Now she was just Grey Lizzie who would talk to him.
Surely he could live here without fear. Some of these people, all transferred from The Building to live life on the outside, had been his family. Maybe they could be again.
Mooching closer to Malcolm, Grey Lizzie whispered, “I like your glasses.”
Then he was alone.
He wandered from his bedroom along the passage toward the sitting room, first touching the light switch, and then running his hand over the familiar linen cupboard door. Next to it was the bathroom door. That was one room he never wanted to go into again. The hairs on his arms rose, and he made an effort to stifle the old horror before rejoining the others for tea and scones.
CHAPTER 2
Maclaggan Street 1947
Julie had been blind from childhood. Some traumatic event, was all they’d say, but then they didn’t say much about Julie or to her. She was slight and bird-like in appearance. Someone had once commented, “Not at all pretty, that one.”
Malcolm disagreed. Julie was not plain. Possibly she was beautiful. He couldn’t be sure.
He knew he was not beautiful. He wore a built-up boot and his right hand was weakened. A mild man, with milky blue eyes, coarse sandy hair and a farm labourer’s sturdy build, he was taller than most.
At twenty-six years old his sheer size was often regarded as intimidating, especially since he spoke little. Some knew him as
trusting, gentle and kindly. He wore an old tweed cap that spent as much time fumbled nervously in his big hands as it did atop his craggy head.
Both Malcolm and Julie were different, as different from the rest of the world as they were from each other.
Folk used to call them lunatics, loonies or inmates. Or worse still, idiots. He didn’t mind being called names by the taunting children leaning over the fence at Seacliff Primary School down the hill from the hospital. The girls were clean, their hair braided and tied with floppy ribbons, their cheeks rosy. Brown, black or red shoes highly polished.
“Loony, loony, out of the loony bin,” the children chanted, their voices shrill. Swinging back and forth on the bottom strand of the wire, their hands tightly clasping the top strand, they sang in unison, “Looo-ny, looo-ny, looo-ny.” Then a school monitor would ring the bell and off they’d traipse, giggling, to form a tidy crocodile in the school quadrangle.
Malcolm had long been conscious of himself and of something exceptional in his worldly position. The school children all seemed to belong to somebody; they had a mother and a father. There was for each of them a group of other children, some younger, some older, whom he assumed were brothers and sisters, and who sided with each other in playground scuffles and brawls. They clearly made up part of a unit.
And now, after a long time, he considered how he too made up part of a unit. He lived in a regular white roughcast house with regular people, a supervised home in Dunedin up the top of Maclaggan Street not far from Speight’s Brewery. The house was well organised for responsible adult patients – and he was considered a responsible adult patient – and run according to the scheduled orderliness of the Seacliff Mental Hospital rosters. The hospital kept changing its name: first Seacliff Lunatic Asylum, later Seacliff Asylum, and now Seacliff Mental Hospital. Whatever would they call it next?