Denis O’Connor trained as a psychologist and teacher. Throughout his career he taught in schools and lectured in colleges and universities. He holds a doctorate in education and psychology and has contributed widely to academic books and journals. He is retired and lives with his wife, Catherine, and two male Maine Coon cats, Luis and Max, in a remote country cottage in Northumberland.
Also by Denis O’Connor
Paw Tracks in the Moonlight
Paw Tracks at Owl Cottage
Paw Tracks
A Childhood Memoir
Denis O’Connor
Constable • London
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © Denis O’Connor, 2012
The right of Denis O’Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-84901-997-2 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-78033-016-7 (ebook)
Printed and bound in the UK
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This book is for my grandchildren.
I gratefully acknowledge the tremendous support and love from my wife Catherine, which has sustained and nurtured me throughout the writing of this book.
I will a round unvarnished tale deliver.
William Shakespeare, Othello
CONTENTS
Awakening
A Glimpse Through the Trees
Back to the Beginning
Sojourn from Trouble
A Wildcat in Scotland
A Family Affair
Friends in the Park
The White Cat
A Terrifying Dog Called Bruno
A Bicycle at Last
The Final Beating
Attack at the Stables
Wildfire
Taking Flight
AWAKENING
One morning I saw the most beautiful rainbow I had ever seen and that day became even more unusual when I was visited by a colourful and charming little bird. I had climbed the backyard wall in the terraced street of houses where we then lived. It was raining but despite that I wanted a better view of the rainbow whose vibrant colours lit up the sky and filled me with such joy that I hoped it would stay there forever. I was eight years old. My mother came out into the yard and called for me to come down before I caught cold. Just then, seemingly out of nowhere, a blue tit, a bird which I had only seen on a chart in school, landed on my sleeve and stayed there. For a long moment we looked at each other, this tiny, exquisitely coloured bird and I, and then, to my disappointment, it flew away. It had been only a few passing seconds but somehow it seemed that the bird and the rainbow were related in their significance. It was as if they had appeared for me alone on what was an otherwise gloomy, rain-filled day. I kept the memory of those moments alive in my mind.
That night, whilst I lay sleepless in bed, the images of the rainbow and the bird came back and they now assumed the aura of messengers. It would take me a long time to unravel the message they had been sent to give me but, in the darkness of my bedroom that night, I already felt that those images held an exciting promise, a tale of contact with natural-born creatures which would become part of my destiny. I knew that the only thing that I could do was to follow that blue tit, the harbinger of the way to follow, through the woods to where wildlife flourished, where I would learn from the birds and other wild creatures who dwelled free within the bounties that nature provided. It was as if the core of me was waking up: I knew I would have to strive hard to nurture this part of me that hadn’t yet matured, but it would lead me to the place I really belonged, possibly somewhere beautiful. But for now it was all simply the hint of a dream as yet undefined. I guessed that the bird was not likely to frequent our backyard ever again, and I never did see another brilliant rainbow over the wall. But nature had already delivered its message, which would lead me, over many years of questing, finally to Owl Cottage.
A GLIMPSE THROUGH THE TREES
I had found a place in the woods. It was a secret place. It was my place. It was a place where I could be me, with neither constraints nor controls except the laws of nature. Here I was truly in my element and no one could find me. I could sit on a log stump for hours with only the company of the wild things around me. For an eight-year-old going on nine this place had all the possibilities of exciting adventures as well as offering a safe refuge from my world of fear and repression.
The place I had found was enveloped in greenery with only needlepoints of sunlight glinting through the tree foliage overhead as it swayed gently in tune with a soft summer breeze. The stray sunbeams warmed me, as if they were stroking and comforting me. Here, alone and quiet, deep in the woods with my senses finely tuned to the natural surroundings, I soon became aware of a throbbing and humming that was the life force of nature itself, a sound that can be heard only if you listen very carefully and perhaps only if you are young and sensitive enough. As I became aware of the deep rhythms of nature, I could feel the ground breathe beneath my feet as if its heart was beating in harmony with the turning of the earth. It was truly magical and I was thrilled to be the silent witness of this inspiring moment and I marvelled at its wonder. As I was taking it all in, I too became the subject of scrutiny as the denizens of the wild wood inspected my presence, simply out of their curiosity and need for survival. Here and there, from within the shadowy shade of the bushes and tall stem grasses, a disparate company of small creatures watched me. They saw me but I only caught sight of what might have been an eye, brown and luminous, possibly a rabbit or a hare, peeping from within the thick cover of undergrowth. Birds began to appear and viewed me with quick darting inquisitive glances as they flitted from one slim perch to another. They were nervous in their proximity to me, but were still confident that at the least hint of threat they could vanish into thin air. A robin, bolder than the rest of the feathered colony, settled close by and, cocking his head from side to side, gave me a probing stare. In a tall beech tree high above me but out of my sight I could hear the raucous calls of the rooks who knew where I was and were puzzled as to what I was doing there. Little happens in the wild wood without their knowledge and they are ever vigilant against the menace posed by outsiders.
Now and then something moved in the undergrowth and I barely glimpsed dark silhouettes moving around the periphery of my location. An especially large shape emerged to reveal a mature roe deer, a doe who quite possibly had a fawn hidden nearby. She stared directly at me and I could sense the primeval fear that held her rigid and ready to bolt. She beheld me, despite my youth, as the enemy, Man, whose kind regularly hunted her breed to death. I was an intruder, not welcome here in this place that belonged to the wild ones that lived free among the trees and by the streams that fed the lake. The doe’s wide-eyed stare and stance broadcast this message clearly to me. But I wanted – I yearned and desired with all my young heart – to be accepted as part of what was there. I felt that I, too, belonged in this place. I devoutly wished to become a member of my adopted wildlife family.
I had nowhere else to go where I could feel safe and secure. To be here gav
e me a feeling of contentment that I could not find anywhere else. In this private space, time seemed suspended: I didn’t have to worry about what had just happened at home or school, or get anxious about what would happen tomorrow. Only here could I defer thinking about commonplace things and open my mind to what I thought were universal truths. I could feel these thoughts, so much bigger than me, slyly slipping into my awareness like a balm to soothe as well as excite my intellect. I began to realize that something was happening to me: my burgeoning devotion to nature was in some way being reciprocated. In return for my wholehearted attachment, nature was giving me gifts of insight and wisdom. The bringers of those gifts were the living things surrounding me. The trees, the flowers, the birds and the animals, even the butterflies – every living thing that nature had endowed with sentient knowledge – were teaching me. They were the agents of my intuition and I was being educated discreetly through my senses. Here as I was, sitting deep in meditation beneath the shelter of a tree, a little boy emulating Buddha and starting to absorb knowledge as life intended.
As I heeded the thoughts invading my mind I was inspired with the knowledge that nature was a force for change but that it was more subtle than destructive: it could help us improve ourselves. It helps to marshal all the resources afforded to every creature to strive to be something better – to adapt and improve, adjust to what is possible and make the most of not only what you are but what you can become. Improve and change was nature’s clarion call and I was learning this, not in school, but here in the sanctuary of the wild wood. In my hiding place my fears were calmed, the confusion of my young life was quietened down. This state of repose allowed me to think about who I was and about my place in the world for the first time.
One thing that first occurred to me there amongst the quiet hubbub of nature was a realization that, as a human, I wasn’t superior to all the animals around me. The life of even the humblest little animal was just as important to itself as my life was to me. I realized that this is nature’s essential law, and later in my life learned about the Gaia hypothesis in which the earth is seen as a single living organism, so we should treat all aspects of the planet with the love and respect we give to ourselves. If we hurt and damage the earth, then we hurt and damage ourselves.
Soon, too soon, it would be time for me to leave and return to my life at home and with that realization I felt the onset of dread at what awaited me there.
When I was at home I felt like I was a prisoner subject to inflexible rules and obliged to accept a dogma which was anathema to me. My family lived in a strange atmosphere of oppression. My father, Bernard O’Connor, was the son of a large Irish immigrant family of eight brothers and four daughters. He was the second youngest child of the family; his brother Dan was the youngest. He was an ardent Roman Catholic in keeping with the fervent Irish Catholicism of his family. My mother, Isabelle née Watson, became a Catholic as a condition of her marriage to my father. I had two younger sisters, Brenda and Gloria, and we all lived in a small terraced house with only two bedrooms at No. 30, Mary Street, in Blaydon-upon-Tyne, County Durham. This oppression took the form of an emotional straitjacket that restricted what would have been considered just ordinary behaviour in almost any other household. The overbearing presence hanging over all of us was an angry and judgemental God. Almost all inclinations, desires and even thoughts were deemed sinful. And because this view was perpetually impressed upon us by our parents, especially by my father, we children lived in a constant state of self-condemnation. I struggled against this and was regularly punished physically for allegedly offending God.
In the small, cramped house where we all lived, personal privacy was limited but if you saw something you shouldn’t have it was better to look away and pretend you hadn’t seen it. Modesty was carried to extremes to the extent that to take a peek at one’s own body was frowned upon. Inhibitions were the order of the day and freedom of expression in any form was forbidden. There were no books allowed except the Bible and prayer books, which we were often given as presents. Children’s comics were allowed, as well as a few hardbound comic annuals but classical literature was banned just to be on the safe side of extreme Christian morality. Junior school professed a broadly similar outlook and the teachers, especially the men, wielded the rod with gusto so that no child would be ‘spoiled’.
I struggled against the harshness of this way of life both at home and at school and was regularly beaten for my disobedience. At home, if I made a noise playing, sang a song out loud or grumbled at having to join in family prayer sessions, my father would hit me across the head and face – boxing my ears, he called it. At school, if I was unable to answer correctly a question from the catechism, a small book of Catholic dogma, or if I laughed or made a mistake in my maths book, I was caned on the hand by a teacher. I grew to hate my life and hate is a rabid soul-destroyer when it is unspoken and kept tight inside.
By the time I was eight and found my hiding place in the woods, this hatred had already persisted for a long time. It had even affected my general well-being to the extent that I began to look sickly and withdrawn. I was unhappy and afraid, and sometimes these feelings caused me to vomit my food back up and often induced bouts of breathlessness. In my weakened state, I was also prone to infections and confined to bed with diseases such as measles and chicken pox. Adults would often accuse me of looking pale and miserable, but nobody knew if there was something seriously wrong with me.
I was taken to see the doctor, who suspected that the root of my problems were not really physical and referred me to the city hospital for the attention of a psychologist. I remember talking to a lady in a white coat who asked me a lot of questions, most of which I felt unable to answer. I was terrified in case the doctors would lock me up in hospital if I did not improve, which is what my father threatened would happen.
My father muttered that it was all a waste of time and we took the bus home. In the evening, whilst we were alone at home, he berated me for causing the family trouble and shame. I did not dare answer him back as I knew full well that if I did he would hit me. I remember thinking about running away. After poking the fire he laid the hot poker against my leg and snarled, ‘There’s something for you to really sniffle about.’
I was shocked and started to cry but my tears were ignored.
When my mother returned from a night out visiting friends he explained there had been an accident. He glared at me and I didn’t dare tell my mother the truth. For such an avid religious man he often proved to be a clever liar. I thought that if I did not keep quiet he would take me back to the hospital to have me locked up or would even kill me. I did not want to leave my mother so I held my tongue.
The pain in my leg that night in bed was so severe that I wept and could not sleep. The following morning my mother summoned the doctor who sprinkled some kind of powder on the burn and fastened a thick bandage around it. It took a month before it healed over with a lumpy, angry-looking red scar. While it was healing, the pain made me limp, which made some of the school kids scoff and laugh at me, calling me a cripple. From that point onwards, I started truanting from school to hide in the woods and my mother, grandmother and other caring relatives became even more concerned about my lack of well-being and the nervous state I was in.
Acting on an instinctive, caring impulse, my Aunt Kathleen presented me with a surprise gift, a puppy dog. This act of kindness changed my life for the better and, as it transpired, forever. The puppy was a crossbred little mongrel with some black and white sheepdog in him and he was the first real friend I ever had. It was 1942 and the Second World War was still raging so I called him Monty after General Bernard Montgomery, the war hero. True to his canine species, Monty showered me with love and devotion from the onset of our relationship and in return I worshipped him. We became instantly inseparable. It is not surprising that dogs have been called man’s best friend, as I found out with Monty. He made it plain that I belonged to him and that he belonged to me – he seem
ed to think it was his good fortune to be my dog. We played together all day long when I was not in school and I laughed and laughed at his puppy antics. He made me feel happy and excited about life and I smothered him with cuddles to show how much I loved him.
I suddenly realized what I had been missing was something to love and to be loved by in return. This dog had brought me release from all the twisted hurt – all that emotional baggage – that I was carrying around from such an early age. It seemed to me that his entry into my life was a kind of salvation. His evident love for me made me start to change. I began to like myself. I begged my mother to allow me to let him sleep on my bed. But guess what? He did a pee on the counterpane and all hell broke loose. My father, who was not well disposed towards me at any time, blamed me and ordered the puppy to be confined to the backyard for the rest of the freezing-cold night. And then, knotting a towel several times, he beat me with it, while calling me stupid and useless. I bore the beating without crying because I had found previously that bawling and blubbering only made him more violent towards me. I could hear my mother weeping in the next door room. Rather than worrying about myself, I was more concerned about what was happening to Monty who I could hear whining in the yard below.
After the beating, I lay awake listening until the house had fallen silent. I didn’t dare switch on the bedside lamp that my grandmother had bought for me in case it alerted my father but I lit a stump of candle I kept on the mantelpiece. Then I sneaked barefoot downstairs and let my puppy back in. Shushing him to be silent, I took him with me up to my bedroom. He seemed to understand only too well the need to be quiet and snuggled into me for warmth and comfort. He only gave an occasional whimper of self pity as he started to warm up after his ordeal in the cold backyard. I blew out the candle. The darkness of the night in my bedroom was all enveloping and it shrouded us in safety as long as we were still and mute. It was my fervent hope that we would escape detection until my father, a joiner working for the Co-operative stores, left for work early next morning. In truth, I didn’t care if I was punished again because in my mind I had done the right thing and my puppy was safe beside me. Our bodies warmed each other as we cuddled up and we soon fell fast asleep.
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