All of Me

by Kim Noble

  ‘I’m back now,’ I said cheerily. ‘I’m not going away again.’

  Mum and Nan looked at each other but said nothing.

  Dad drove me the five or so miles. Yet again I did my time travel thing. Home – then not home. Front room – then a large place with lots of light and the sound of screaming kids.

  Here we go again.

  On the plus side I wasn’t in Warlingham. I knew that immediately. That nasty stench of urine that permeated the very walls and carpets was absent. While my nose may have got a break my ears weren’t so lucky and I was greeted by a noise level on a par with the old Victorian lock-up, if not louder. But this was good noise. This was the sound of kids shouting and laughing and just being kids. Even the ones crying sounded natural, not eerie like the haunting wails of some of the old fogeys I’d been stuck with.

  Instinctively I felt more relaxed here than I’d been anywhere recently. A woman – the only adult I could see – smiled at me when she came over.

  ‘Would you like some lunch, Kim?’

  I nodded. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. She led me to where the noise was coming from, a large room that served as a dining hall. Chaos reigned absolutely. Babies, toddlers and kids of various ages were mucking around at their tables as the odd staff member tried to keep check. It was like being invited to a chimps’ tea party. Food was going everywhere except in mouths. It was disgusting. Twice I nearly caught a face full of purée before I’d even sat down.

  At least no one’s shoving their fat bum in my face.

  Even so, my appetite had disappeared as quickly as it had come. I couldn’t wait to get down and …

  … and do what?

  The cloud descended slowly in my head but there was no shaking it once it had settled.

  I’m stuck again, I realised. Trapped God knows where.

  I remembered my last words to Mum and Nan and the way they’d just looked at each other. They’d known.

  What the hell is going on?

  I discovered later I was at a Croydon Council children’s home just outside Purley called Reedham’s. Once again, my psychiatrist and social worker had been responsible for sending me there. And once again they admitted it wasn’t the ideal destination for me. At my ripe old age the inmates were usually being shipped out, not admitted. But the managers had made an exception for me. As one of the nurses explained, ‘You’re a bit old for us but Dr Picton-Jones said it’s better than where you were. You’ll only be here till she can get you in somewhere else.’

  So, yet again I was being told it was in my best interests. That they were doing me a favour letting me stay there rather than be at home. That I was a lucky girl.

  So why didn’t I feel like it?

  The thing about charity is it only helps if you think you need help. If you think you’re fine, it’s as unwelcome as anyone else interfering. Who cares about your intentions if you’re stopping me doing what I want to do? Or living where I want to live?

  After two nights at Reedham’s I was shipped off again. This time to Crystal Palace in south London, and another institution for ‘young people’. Apparently these young people would be closer to my own age.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, when informed of their plans for me. That’s as much enthusiasm as I could muster. If they’d wanted me to get more excited they were out of luck.

  I don’t care who you stick me with. I just want to go home!

  San Martino’s, according to its brochure, was a big house on nice grounds that had been bequeathed to charity by an old lady when she died. Her stipulation was that it should be used to give better lives to girls with mental health problems.

  That’s nice, I thought. But what have mental health problems got to do with me?

  After the massive scale of Mayday and Warlingham and then the big children’s home, it was refreshing to discover I wasn’t herded around with a pack of hundreds of other kids. In fact, when it was time to be introduced to the others living at San Martino’s I couldn’t believe it when only three girls came in. I continued staring at the door for a few seconds until I realised that was it. I thought, That makes a change. But a prison is still a prison however many inmates it has.

  Whichever way you looked at it, I still hadn’t asked to be there.

  Everything about San Martino’s was more intimate than I’d been used to although it took me a while to realise. I didn’t exactly do cartwheels when I was shown my room. I assumed it was a holding bay where they assessed new arrivals, just as they had at Warlingham and Mayday. I couldn’t even see the point of unpacking.

  ‘Do you want a help with your things?’ a smiley woman called Lillian asked.

  ‘I’ll wait till I get to my dorm.’

  ‘Your dorm? There’s no dorms here, dear. This is the only bed you’ll be sleeping in.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. There are only three of you. We’re not exactly pushed for space.’

  My own room? Even though there were only a handful of us staying there, I still imagined we’d be sharing. I couldn’t believe I was getting my own space. For most of my life I hadn’t even had that privilege at home.

  Lillian, I discovered, was the housemother at San Martino’s. She cooked and cleaned and generally ran the place and looked after us. She lived in the building with her son, Jonathan. She was really lovely although, like everyone else, she assumed she’d told me things when she hadn’t. Some days I didn’t even see her but she’d refer later to something I’d allegedly done the day before. That was annoying. As I say, though, she wasn’t the first to be like that. People normally treated me like I was stupid.

  There were three other rooms near mine – again, one per girl – and then upstairs there was a little self-contained attic flat. The girl who lived up there had a little baby boy. I think she was seventeen or eighteen. I don’t know what was wrong with her – or what they said was wrong with her – but she was lucky to be in an institution where they gave you so much freedom and privacy. I knew that from experience. No one was made to dress in cardboard here. Nobody spied on me when I went to the bathroom. You don’t realise how much you take things for granted until they’re taken away.

  Nice as it was, though, I still didn’t know why I was there. With the others you could see they had problems. They’d be all right most of the time, then something would trigger a rage or an argument or they’d run off or do something weird. One girl, Ailsa, was the worst. She was younger than me and quite bad. You never knew what to expect from her. Lillian had her work cut out with that one.

  Ailsa was in San Martino’s because she struggled to get through daily life on her own. Her caregivers – I think she grew up with foster parents – apparently were at their wits’ end. Even I could see that she needed help. It was great that San Martino’s would take her and sort her out.

  Ailsa’s problems were there for all to see. But what about me? Why was I being cooped up there? It was Mayday and Warlingham all over again.

  My first day at San Martino’s passed in a blur. Before I knew it I was in bed, a table lamp illuminating the room. It felt strange, different. I held my breath. The silence was deafening. Even with a window overlooking the road there was hardly a sound. Such a contrast – and a relief – after the nightmare of Warlingham Park. My door had been locked after me, which I hated, but no one was screaming bloody murder, no one was accusing me of stealing their child and no one was rifling through my personal belongings. I didn’t want to be there, admittedly, but I felt safe. It was an odd feeling. I’d never considered my safety before. No mistaking it now, though. Whatever San Martino’s had to throw at me, I was ready.

  I did some ruminating that night. That was unusual. So unusual, in fact, that I remember it. So many night-times, like the days, seemed to flash by. I could count on one hand the number of times I relaxed in bed with a book or had just a bit of time to gather my thoughts. I always seemed to be responding to something. Had I done this? Why had I done that? Who was d
oing something else to me and why?

  For the first time in a long while, I was actually enjoying having nothing to do and just as much to worry about. Allowing for the fact I was incarcerated in a place I hadn’t asked to visit, I still couldn’t shake that sensation of being protected. Even though I didn’t know Lillian from Adam, just having her downstairs was a source of great comfort.

  I realised as well that one of my biggest memories was of always seeming in a rush. I may have been fourteen now but nothing had changed. So much of my day was spent working out where I was, why I was there and whom I was with. I never seemed to ease into days. So much of my trouble at school usually kicked off like that. More than once I suddenly realised a friend was sitting next to me and that was it.

  Funny, hadn’t noticed she was there.

  So obviously I ask her how her holiday was.

  She answers.

  Then we’re both told off for talking.

  ‘That’s your last chance.’

  We take our punishment but – honestly – how was that my last chance? It was the first thing I’d said to my friend. It was the first thing I’d said to anyone at school all day. It was one rule for me. Another for everyone else.

  I was told off for episodes like that again and again but I couldn’t help it. I lived by that feeling of seeing someone and needing to get my thoughts out there and then. People crept up on me and disappeared so quickly. I had to speak to them when I had the chance. Who would begrudge me that?

  The problem was, not taking into account my surroundings. Rarely did I stop to think, Maureen’s here, so is everyone else -I wonder why. Life would have been much easier had I done so more often. The answer would have been: because it’s a school assembly, or an exam or something similar. All the information I needed to discern whether it was a talking environment or not was in front of me, if I took the time to look. But time was the one thing I felt I never had. I was always in too much of a hurry to worry about paying attention to minutiae like that. Friends vanished as quickly as they materialised. Where and why I didn’t know. I just needed to grab opportunities with both hands whenever they were presented, and damn the consequences.

  That was how it seemed, anyway. Rarely did I think about it, if I’m honest. I went through life like a squash ball, smashed from one wall to another again and again. It didn’t strike me as different or unusual or wrong. All I knew is I didn’t like it. But how many millions of other kids had thought that? All of them, I supposed. I wasn’t special. I was just unlucky.

  The next day – I suppose it was the next day: it was the next thing I remember – Lillian served me breakfast and told me the bus would be along shortly.

  ‘What bus?’

  ‘To take you to school.’

  ‘My school?’

  ‘Yes, dear, your school. Tavistock.’

  Lillian must have had the patience of a saint. At the time I didn’t appreciate that. All I could think was: my school? Why am I going there? I thought I was in this place for some sort of treatment.

  It’s true I didn’t think anything was wrong with me, but I assumed that’s why I was there. The alternative was baffling.

  If they don’t think I need treatment then why do I have to stay here?

  I thought about it for the entire bus journey. The conclusion, when it dawned, was obvious – but disturbing.

  They just don’t want me to go home. Am I so horrible they have to protect everyone from me?

  I didn’t notice arriving at school. Before I knew it I was back at San Martino’s and it was time for dinner. We all ate together with Lillian. It was nice, like a family meal – but without the shouting and arguing. Maybe I can get used to this …

  I thought again about being quarantined from my family. Why would they do that? Why would anyone take that decision?

  They were punishing me and I didn’t know why.

  Punishment takes different forms.

  I wasn’t sure if San Martino’s was a detention centre or a hospital. It turned out to be a bit of both and nothing of either. We had our own rooms but the lounge, kitchen and front door were all locked at night. We were allowed to go to school but not outside the house unaccompanied. There was always someone looking over your shoulder, which I hated. Privacy is important to me.

  Then there were the various organised activities in the evenings, which were supposedly optional but it was made clear we had to attend. On Monday nights it was informal art classes. I really didn’t have any interest in painting or drawing but I was in the minority because the room was always full of adults from the surrounding area who were allowed to come as well. It felt odd being with outsiders who knew we were there against our will. The worst thing, though, was listening to the music. I think the guy who ran the classes, Jeff, only had one tape because the only thing he seemed to play was ‘Consider Yourself’ from Oliver! on repeat. I don’t know if it was that song or the timing but I remember thinking, I never want to see another paintbrush in my life.

  Little did I know …

  After a week one of the other girls asked me if I’d be going home soon.

  ‘No, they want me here for a while.’

  ‘What about visits?’

  ‘My dad’s come to see me.’

  ‘No, what about visits to see your family?’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Easy.’

  It might have been easy for her. Nothing in my life seemed to be that straightforward.

  I broached the subject with Lillian. She showed me the phone and I called home. Mum said Dad would collect me on Friday, after work.

  Great.

  I went off to school with a spring in my step. Something to look forward to …

  Friday morning came and it was school again as usual. Then the bus took me back to Crystal Palace but instead of dinner and bed, I packed my bag. Dad was coming in a couple of hours. I was going home.

  I don’t remember being picked up but I do remember being at home. But only for about ten seconds. The next thing I recall is being back in Dad’s car.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t start,’ he hissed. I realised he was doing his angry driving. All noisy acceleration and late braking. Something had riled him.

  I just thought, At least it’s not me, and settled back to enjoy the journey.

  We drove in silence after that and I relaxed, staring out the window at the familiar Croydon scenery as it whizzed past. I’d find out where we were going soon enough.

  A few minutes later we screeched to a halt.

  ‘Here we are – again!’ Dad said.

  His harsh tone snapped me out of my reverie. Okay, if you won’t tell me I’ll work out where I am for myself. The usual drill: look around for clues, see what I could learn.

  It didn’t take me long. I wish it had. I wish I hadn’t taken one glance out of the front window and immediately recognised the old house in front of us.

  I’m back at San Martino’s.

  I didn’t know what had happened. Dad swore blind I’d kicked off the moment we’d got home. That wasn’t true. I remember talking to Nan. She was in bed. She was recovering from another stroke. She told me off for taking Dad’s tablets and I laughed. I presumed she was joking, especially when she called him names for leaving them out.

  After that, Dad said, I’d changed. I started screaming, demanding to be taken back to Crystal Palace.

  ‘Your father was worried about you,’ Lillian told me after the howl of Dad’s engine tearing away from the place had died down. ‘They all were. You kept saying you didn’t like it there.’

  ‘No, there’s been some mistake,’ I said. ‘You’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘That’s what he told me, dear. He seemed quite upset by it.’

  No, no, no. That didn’t happen!

  ‘Lillian, why wouldn’t I like it there? It’s my home! I need to go back.’

  The housekeeper shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, dear. Not tonig
ht. It’s too late and, in any case, I don’t think your father will fancy coming back again so soon, do you? Not after what was said.’

  ‘Nothing was said. Not by me.’

  ‘Why don’t you sleep on it and we will have a chat tomorrow?’

  That was it. I was back here, just a couple of hours after I’d left. Why, though? I’d been looking forward to my freedom all week. I needed to get back to my family, to see my friends. Why would I insist on turning round again? I wouldn’t. I hadn’t done that, I knew it. What was the point of being in a place you could leave if people kept bringing you back?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  It was a long weekend. Hard as I tried I couldn’t fathom what had happened. What had possessed Dad to bring me back again? And why had he lied to Lillian?

  Before I knew it, Monday was upon us and it was time again for school. I actually welcomed the short mini-bus journey to Tavistock, driven by a woman called Carol. It was good to have some order. Whatever happened during the day would be a welcome distraction. At least I wouldn’t be trapped at San Martino’s.

  If I’d struggled at school when I lived at home, I thought that going somewhere most people knew I was being bussed in from a ‘funny farm’ was going to be a nightmare. There was no chance of keeping it secret. Carol’s daughter was at Tavistock as well, and so was the sister of one of the other girls. They were nice enough but the idea of relying on them to keep their mouths shut was unattractive, to say the least. So I told my friends, who told their friends, who told their friends. I didn’t care. What could anyone say to me that would make me feel worse than I already did?

  In fact, it could have been a lot worse. I got the odd comment from some of the boys and one or two girls but generally people kept quiet about it. There was no doubt they all knew. Gossip passes around a school quicker than the common cold. If anything, I was a bit suspicious about how nice people seemed to be towards me. The majority weren’t exactly supportive but they weren’t mean either. I think a lot of people just wanted a laugh. I heard more ‘fatty’ comments than anything to do with being locked up. God knows why.