Sometimes I worked until the early hours of the morning to finish a project and this caused my father’s anger to flare up. Whenever he noticed that I was still in bed in the morning he would take the prop – the long wooden pole that was used to hold up the clothes line – and bang it against my window. He could no longer get into my room to tip me out of bed as by then I had fitted a bolt to the door. It seemed that there was to be no respite to his loathing for me.
His dislike reminded me of an ancient folkloric tale that has circulated around the campfires of nomadic tribesmen since before written recorded history began. The story is known throughout Arab lands as the tale of the ‘Star Foundling’, and emerged out of people fearfully observing the nearness of the red planet, Mars, in the heavens. It’s also referred to as the mystery of ‘The Baby from Mars’. As told in its original form it describes how aliens from Mars periodically visit Earth to steal newborn baby boys and replace them with babies of their own. The changelings are unwittingly accepted at first but as they develop they become increasingly estranged from their adopted families and may even be rejected by them because they seem so at odds with the rest of the family.
The first time I came across this myth I clutched at it as an apt analogy for my own position within my family. Surely if there ever was such a case then I fitted the syndrome and could rightly think of myself as ‘a boy from Mars’.
Work studies at school became increasingly intense as the year wore on and I found time for little else. Christmas brought a round of parties held in other people’s homes, but not in our own, where a ragged little pine tree and some Nativity figurines represented Christmas festivity. My sisters did well for presents but, as had become usual, there was nothing for me. However, I would go around to my grandmother’s house where there were always new books and clothes for me, courtesy of Nanna and Uncle John. The Bramers bought me a camera, my first, and I stayed over with them on New Year’s Day. At a New Year’s Party at Nancy’s house I received my first ever kiss and I began to think that life was wonderful. I felt grown up.
I did not apply to either Oxford or Cambridge, which is something I have regretted all my life, but my inferiority complex still had some hold over me. Instead, I applied to Hull University because I had read that a former Oxford don was inaugurating an honours degree course in psychology there, and that was the subject I wanted to study. I was interviewed and accepted on the course, depending on my A-level results. I was advised to gain more experience of life first, so I agreed to do my National Service before taking up my degree studies in October 1955.
As spring approached the Bramers and I were fascinated to watch Millie practising take-offs and landings. Her flight feathers had grown back well and, as we watched her flying around the farmyard, we remarked upon her natural-born resilience and inner sagacity.
Bob said, ‘That bird is getting ready to join the spring exodus. She knows, and God only knows how she knows, that it’s time to fly to Canada. She’s awaiting the call of the wild flocks that will soon be flying overhead and one day she’ll join ’em.’
Now, whenever I spent time with her in the shed where she was kept safe from foxes during the night, she was agitated and seemed as if she couldn’t settle because the ‘call of the wild’ was reminding her that it was time to leave and savour again the sights and scents of home. It was my opportunity to view at first hand the power of instinct.
Soon I was yet again involved in the agony of swotting for exams, which made me miss Millie’s departure. According to the Bramers it was a late afternoon on a Friday in April. It had been fine, warm and sunny all day when Millie, who was resting on the farmhouse roof, heard the sounds of the flocks calling to each other across the clear blue sky. Florence and Bob heard it, too, as they had done many times in the past. But this year was different because Millie was having an ecstasy of cackling and running about, testing her wings and generally acting very excited. Another ‘V’ formation was just beginning to come over when she took flight.
‘She were as graceful as a big goose can be,’ Bob told me. ‘Up and up she flew and then something stopped her and she circled back over us calling and calling and it’s my opinion that she were looking for you because she knew it was final goodbye time. Even a goose has feelings and that bird had strong feelings for you, we know that.’
I felt like cheering but there was a large lump in my throat. ‘Did she make it right up to a flock?’ I asked with a tremor in my voice. It was Florence who answered.
‘Yes, I watched her through binoculars and she managed to tag on to the back of the V and then I couldn’t pick her out any more. You should be proud, you gave her back her life.’
‘Only with your help,’ I said.
‘She were a right good ’un and maybe she’ll come back to pay us a visit next year,’ said Bob, ever the optimist.
Florence looked at me and winked and thus Millie joined the ranks of my absent but dearly remembered animal friends.
The exam results were even better than expected and I wasted no time in informing Hull University. The day I received the letter from Hull confirming the offer of a place I also got my call up papers instructing me to join Six Training Battalion at Blenheim Barracks, Aldershot, on 15 October 1952.
The rest of the summer was spent reading and writing poetry, and walking out with Nancy, who had a place at Leeds University to read English. There was an endless round of parties where my friends all celebrated the end of school and the beginning of a new stage in our lives.
Then the fateful day in October arrived. My mother and my grandmother came to Newcastle station to cheer me on my way. My father, of course, was not there. Nor had he commented upon my acceptance at university. I now knew for certain that we meant nothing to each other and that any effort on my part to gain his approval, never mind love, was fruitless. Both of the women in my life cried and I nearly did as well. I was relieved when the huge train for London King’s Cross finally pulled into the station and I climbed aboard and found a seat. As I watched the faces of my grandmother and my mother recede, I decided that I hated goodbyes.
Crossing hectic London by tube I arrived at Waterloo station and immediately felt like a lost country boy in the melée of the busy station. Unsure where to go I approached two surly-looking West Indian porters and politely asked which platform I should be on for the train to Aldershot. One of them turned away from their conversation and said, ‘Can’t you read, man?’
I was taken aback by his rudeness for a moment, but then something in his words dawned on me. Boyhood was truly behind me. I was eighteen years old. I was a man now and, after what I’d been through, I could cope with anything. I suddenly burst out laughing to the porter’s bemusement. Yes, I was a man and I could read and I could find my own way anywhere. The future loomed ahead of me and I was heading into it with full confidence. I knew that I was already on the right path to an independent manhood. So let the future, whatever it held for me, unroll. I was ready.
Paw Tracks Page 17