All of Me (16 page)

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 tonight. 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.

The majority of people kept themselves to themselves. With the way some of them responded when I walked by, you would have sworn they were scared of me. As if. I wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

And yet, did that girl just flinch when I walked over? Must be my imagination.

I was at San Martino’s for about four months. In that time I arranged to go home on weekend visits three times. Each one ended in exactly the same fashion. I would make the call, Dad would reluctantly agree to pick me up, the last episode all too fresh in his memory, and home I would go.

And then he would drive me back.

Sometimes it was the following morning, sometimes the same night. I can’t explain it. It’s not what I wanted. He hated it, he made that clear. In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t hate me too. Anyone would, if they’d been messed around like that.

Except I hadn’t messed anyone around. Yet everyone said I was changing my mind the minute I stepped into our house. I know that’s impossible. But that’s what they said. Mum, Nan, Lorraine, Dad and Lillian. I wondered what they were getting out of this big joke but nothing came. It was obviously their little game. I had to think that. The alternative was too harsh: if they weren’t messing around for a laugh they were doing it to hurt me. No kid wants to imagine that of their family. I certainly didn’t.

School, for a while, became a haven for me. The one place I could go and be normal. Yes, I still got into trouble, sometimes for unknown reasons as usual, but even that was normal for me. I lost track of the number of times I was put on report. My days spent in the orange room, however, made more of an impression – even if I couldn’t always remember why I was sent there.

One particular visit stays with me. It was actually my last time there – although I didn’t appreciate it then.

How I got into the room remains a blank. I don’t know what I’d been accused of or how vociferously I’d denied it. I just remember being there. Staring at those walls, those hideous satsuma walls, then suddenly noticing a draught. I looked behind me and saw glass sprinkled all over the floor. A quick glance up and I knew the window had been smashed. It was the only explanation. Although it looked as though the pane had mostly come inside I knew realistically there was only a fraction of the detritus on the carpet. That meant the majority of the damage had fallen outside.

Which meant the problem had originated inside the room.

With me.

It couldn’t have been. I would have remembered. I hadn’t moved from the seat.

In which case, who had smashed the window?

My heart raced as I tried to work it out. It wasn’t me, I knew it wasn’t. Yet all the evidence pointed that way. As soon as the teacher came back, that’s the conclusion they’d jump to. But I’d been framed. Again.

I don’t know how long it took but eventually there was the unmistakeable sound of footsteps approaching and the door being swung open. The teacher didn’t enter, just stayed in the doorway and called me out. I leapt out of my chair and ran towards the exit, towards freedom. I honestly thought I was going to make it. But just as I reached the door the teacher noticed my jumper.

‘What on earth have you been doing?’ she said.

I looked down. I was covered in tiny shards of sparkling glass.

It didn’t take her long to glance up at the window, then trace the mess to the floor.

‘Oh, I’ve seen everything now.’ She stared at me, struggling to find the words. ‘Trying to climb out of the window? Did you really think you would get away with it? Tell me you didn’t. What on earth were you thinking?’

‘I didn’t do anything!’ I bleated, but it fell on deaf ears. The teacher looked like she had gone into shock, shaking her head and muttering to herself. Her whole body was quivering, I noticed. She was shaking – with rage.

‘That’s it,’ she snapped coldly. ‘That was your last chance.’

The last chance for what?

I soon found out.

The letter was sent to my parents. I was not welcome at Tavistock School without a reference from a psychiatrist asserting that I was not a physical threat to myself or other pupils.

That’s no problem,
I thought.
Dr Picton-Jones can tell them I’m fine.

I didn’t see what possible purpose my doctor could have in not defending me to the school. But she found one. At least she had the good grace to explain her reasons to me personally. I hated her for it, but at least she wasn’t hiding, like everyone else. She showed me her letter to the Tavistock. It said that, in her opinion, my mental health had improved impressively and that I had experienced no recent episodes of self-harming. However – and this was the crucial part – she could not in all conscience vouch for how I would behave in the future.

That last line was the final nail in my coffin. Tavistock replied to say that until Dr Picton-Jones could make such assurances then I would not be welcome back.

‘Is that it?’ I asked her, stunned. ‘Can’t I go any more?’

‘I’m afraid not. But we’ll keep working on it, I promise.’

Those four familiar words came rushing back.
It doesn’t make sense.
It was so unfair. How can you be excluded from school because of something you might do in the future – but haven’t done yet? It was mind-blowing, staggering – and above all, victimisation of the highest order. Whoever was out to get me at the school had succeeded.

I’d never really got on at Tavistock, I admit that. But at least I’d attended. I always tried my best, whatever the subject. It wasn’t my fault if results – and behaviour – didn’t necessarily go my way. It wasn’t for the want of trying.

So, I thought, I’ve been taken from my own home and now I’ve been kicked out of school. Someone was messing around with my life. That had to be it. What other explanation was there?

I didn’t care about my education but I was surprised no one else did. I asked Lillian what I was meant to do about school from now on.