Memoir Draft: Chapter 1. Going into Care

Flashing with each rotation of the door, was a logo, famous for striking fear into the heart of every working-class family: Social Services.

Tromode House

Every child in the care system has one thing in common. A reason for being there. Some are horrific, others are tragic, mine was self-inflicted, although Social Services disagreed. By the age of thirteen, I had become a burden to my mother. She didn’t do unconditional love. Love from her has always been transactional; she loved me most when I didn’t interfere with her life. When I did, I would be cut with her trademark Tony Montana scowl. For most of that year, I practically lived at friends’ houses, as staying with my older sisters was like staying at a borstal. I was in awe of how my friends’ mothers would be loyal and dependable servants. Allegedly, this is how normal mothers behaved. I would eat regularly, sleep in warm beds, have my clothes cleaned. Staying with them became a drug, and I needed more.

This is how it was with my mother. Though happily, she passed the baton on to someone else and wiped her hands off it. Or as she would say, ‘more fool them, if they want to’. By August, my friends had anointed me with the nickname ‘Harvey Wall-banger, as my clothes had become too small. One of the other mothers must have given me some magic beans, as I had suddenly shot up. I needed new clothes, new shoes, new everything. I couldn’t live on the hand-me-downs from friends much longer. I was thirteen, and it embarrassed me. On a rare occasion with my mother, I managed to spy on her PIN code for her debit card. She always kept tabs on the cash in her purse, where my fingers often went fishing, but I was sure she didn’t do the same with her bank account.

I was right. On my first attempt, I snuck out in the middle of the night and withdrew some cash from the cash machine: £250. This was more than enough to get what I needed, but the ease of this was compelling. It was addictive. Over the summer, I found my circle of friends grew. Of course, it did. I had money, and everyone wants to be your friend when you have money. For a few weeks, this was the perfect crime. Whenever the money ran out, I’d stay at home and steal some more. The notes streamed out like a fountain until the August bank holiday, when I stuck the card in on a restock mission, and the machine read insufficient funds. I had emptied her bank account. All my blood plummeted like someone had burst an inflatable hot tub. I returned and placed the card back in the purse and waited. Needless to say, my mother discovered it pretty quickly. She was strangely calm; I’d never seen her like this before. No shouting. No battering. It was like she’d been waiting for this moment.  The procedure had been rehearsed, and she just needed to follow the steps.

The next day, my brother and I marched behind my mother down Prospect Hill, the main artery of the Isle of Man’s capital, Douglas. Struggling to keep up, we loyally trailed behind her. The wild and reckless breeze kept slapping me around the face. Trooping nearer the enemy trench was an ugly, fortified building soared above us. Flashing with each rotation of the door, was a logo, famous for striking fear into the heart of every working-class family: Social Services. But today was different. Today, my mother had the single-minded focus of an Amour tiger, crossing this enemy line without a single flinch. I gulped; I was next. Quickly glancing over my shoulder, my brother was behind me. I gripped the icy bar in the middle of the door with both hands. Let's see how he likes this, I smirked. My younger brother, eleven years old, still naive, such a goon, lined up after me. In one long gasp, every muscle in my body tensed. I heaved, pushing the door with all my might, thrusting the floppy runt into its orbit.

"Will you pair pack it in?" she roared, while my brother squirted out the other side. We scurried to the empty seats nervously.

Silence filled the dull, worn windowless, dimly lit waiting room. A great big sliding window was used to separate the absent receptionist from the feeble families, shielding themselves away. My mother sat with a look on her face that maybe we didn’t belong to her. The way she and the pair of us had spread out across the seats, anyone walking in would probably believe it was true. My mother usually ignored us, and this time she made a special effort. All of the walls sprouted leaflets – each competing for my attention. All offering help to dysfunctional families. I could be in no doubt we were in the correct place. These leaflets knew it. Peeking over to my brother, we both gave each other the 'can you smell that' eye, as our nose hairs singed with the stench of bleach. It must have been used to conceal the smell of fear and despair of the other families who had come before us.

My brother and I complemented each other, like loose pieces of Lego and bare feet. About the only thing we had in common was winding each other up. Naturally, I was better at it, and I knew this annoyed him. Still, he decided to live up to his name Simple Sam. Boredom soon infected us both. Should anything other than breath leave our mouths, she'd flip, and we knew it. Instead, we spoke through squints and squashes of our faces, like war-time signals.

"What are you looking at?" I gestured with my face screwed up

"Meh,"  Sam shook his head with his tongue stuck beneath his bottom lip.

"Come on then," my head jerked violently. The signals weren't hard to break, as her head trembled like a teapot ready to whistle.

"Right, you pair, that’s it", she snapped, towering over us. In a fit of rage, she must've forgotten where she was. Bellows of stale cigarette smoke with hints of sherbet lemons sprayed upon us. I hoped she wouldn’t smack us, not here at least. Her whole body catapulted backwards as if she was going for the swing. My neck tensed up, contorting my face into a raisin. Her head snapped from left to right. Something startled her, and her anger frittered away. The noise came from a faint knocking from the great window. I hoped the receptionist had come to save the day. However, he was not interested in us. Instead, he started waving his Twiglet arms towards the door, unaware he was impersonating the little sign language guy from late-night TV. There’s no way he’s opening the window. Like the freaks from the circus, his brittle little fingers somehow managed to shuffle this great window along, allowing us to hear what he was saying:

“The duty social worker is ready for you”. And with that, my mother stood tall, her chin high, ruffling her faded denim jacket, and left.

She had finally gone in to ask if they could clean up the crushed indicator lights from our car crash of a family. We knew she might not return the same. No longer our primary care-giver, a title she only held for the financial benefits. Time fell still as I daydreamed of having my own servant mother. No longer would I have to steal money to buy new clothes. No longer would I have to wonder if I would be eating that night. No longer would I have to share a room with my brother.  I’d eat decent food. I’d get regular pocket money. I looked over at Sam and said:

“We might not be going home tonight.” A sudden camaraderie came over us both. We were now in this together.

My mother returned as if she’d opened a variety pack of Walkers crisps and found them empty. Her face was long, and her shoulders drooped down to her knees, it was the same kind of posture I’d have after one of her rollickings. The duty social worker shadowed behind her, keenly analysing the situation. A small smile held back my mother’s intolerable anguish. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see she had failed, and we’d go home with her. The entire room reverberated with her choking sensation, as she spat out the words ‘Come on, boys, time to go home’. Only a lit fag left her lips as we hiked back up the hill. Sam and I knew going home meant, we would be stationed in our cramped bedroom; going to bed meant no food. Disappointment always stole her appetite, but it also made her thirsty. These were the worst nights, no one since Albert Einstein had done more than her to make time stand still.

Morning rose, and my mother was more ferocious than ever. The reality of how much I had stolen from her, must’ve really smacked her in the face. The smell of stale fags and booze from the night before bled through her missing teeth, as she told us:

"Don't even think about stepping foot outside that door today." I didn't mind this, as the autumn weather was growing into its stormy self.

"Sandra next door will be checking every couple of hours. You won't know when, and if she finds you gone, I swear you won't be coming back”, she snarled. The house shook and she was gone.

Our new-found solidarity made the day pass unusually peacefully. The usual arguing over the TV ceased. Setting up camp in the living room, the golden flames of the coal fire roasted us while we desperately ate some food. Sam and I had the same level of synchronicity as Morecambe and Wise making breakfast. The phone rang. I answered it. After all, I’m the oldest.

"Hi, is it possible to speak to your mum?" A female voice spoke down the line.

"No, she's at work," I replied naively, tilting my head towards the gold anniversary carriage clock, which had stopped spinning years ago. The clock sat on the mantlepiece above my beautiful fire.

"Do you know when she's back?" The voice inquired, with a slightly worrying disposition. My defences shot up. The clock read ten-past-two, and I wanted to tell her the truth.

"Four, I think". I knew it would be more like eight, but I’m not a grass. "Who is this anyway, I'll get her to phone you back if ya like?" I asked.

"It's Terri Wildman from Social Services. Thanks for talking to me. Goodbye," she said before hanging up the phone. Sam could see confusion was written on my face with a giant marker pen.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Social services. I think this is it," I replied, kind of excitedly.

Four p.m. had passed, and Terri had not phoned back. We forgot about it. Throughout the summer holiday, I was obsessed with how clean I was. I showered three times a day and brushed my teeth four times, anxious to show my friends I wasn’t a tramp. We reconvened back at camp, with towels as if the front room had transformed into a sauna. Sam offered to make dinner. Only eleven years old, I supervised him cooking something simple like sausage and chips in the deep-fat fryer.

A thump sounded against the door.

"That sounds like Sandra. Do you want to get it?" Sam leapt up, firmly gripping his towel, and ran to the door.

The rays of heat beat against my bare chest while I dried from my shower. I'd always remove the fireguard, stopping the theft of some of the cleansing warmth away from me.  I wondered why Sam hadn't come back in yet. Maybe Sandra wouldn’t come in this time, as she could see we were clearly capable of looking after ourselves. As I began to scoff my tea, Sam strolled in with the broadest grin upon his face. Two women enthusiastically followed behind him. I shot up, gripping my towel in teenage embarrassment. My voice became a foreign object in my mouth.

"Hi…" I said timidly. The first woman was a tallish woman with straight blond hair and looked like she'd just shot out of one of the cringy detective programs my mother liked to watch. The other wore a funny cream puff hat, which gave away she was a police officer. Still, I asked anyway, “Who are you?”

"I'm Terri" she replied in a patronising tone. "You're Matthew, I take it? We spoke on the phone earlier.  Do you remember?"

"Yeah…" I replied, still shocked with awkwardness. "Do you mind if I get dressed first?” I asked eagerly as the fold in my towel unravelled. Terri nodded, trying not to laugh. We both bolted up the stairs to our room, throwing on some trackies. We looked at each other for confirmation, this may be it. We might not see each other again. They stood waiting to interrogate us, while we trundled back down the stairs.

“So, do you know when your mum will be back?” Terri asked.

“I’m not sure” I replied. I did know it would be at least another four hours.

“I’m pretty sure you said four o’clock on the phone?” she replied. Terri was a lot smarter than I gave her credit for.

The cream puff lady strolled out to the porch, attempting to call my mother to tell her to get home quickly. The police are obviously stupid, as well as silly. There’s no way she’s gonna leave work early for us. Even if there was a woman waiting, dressed in a funny hat.

“If you don’t come home now, I’ll have to accommodate the boys tonight,” I faintly heard through the wafer walls. I assumed my mother’s answer must have been something like, ‘I don’t care; I asked for this yesterday, so crack on.’

The cream puff lady responded:  

“You know this is serious? There will be a police investigation into your neglect of the boys?” Terri could see I was listening and tried to make conversation with my brother to drown out the noise. I didn’t play ball.

It became apparent the cream puff lady had failed in her mission to make my mother return. This had set Terri off on a game of hokey-cokey between the front room and the porch. Entering each time with a new face. Was she trying to auction us off?

“When are we going?” I asked one of them, as Terri was still yo-yoing.

“What do you mean?” The cream puff lady replied.

“We’re going into care, aren’t we? When are we going?” I said rather brashly. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” It was the first time I had ever asked a question that had made an adult stop in silence. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

Terri shook her head in confirmation. We went back upstairs to pack for a few days, although I hoped we wouldn’t return.

We pootled along in the backseat of a little silver Ford Fiesta, trying to find some room for our knees. We eventually ended up in the village of Tromode, driving past endless lines of bungalows. Sam and I grew excited, as we had never lived in a house with a garden. Finally, we reached a driveway, and the branches of the trees on either side were linked, creating a dark tunnel. Thick bushes were meshed between the trunks, creating a tremendous green barrier scaling high above the streetlights.

“Do they keep the bushes like that on purpose?” I asked. Small grins creased both of their faces. Why is this so hidden away, I wondered? The tyres slowly scrunched over the loose stones, as the cream puff lady struggled to avoid the potholes. Anticipation sprinted around my veins as we turned past the edge of the barrier, and this green sign read: ‘Tromode House’. This must be our new home, I nudged to Sam. Entering the car park, a colossal building, with more front than Douglas Promenade during TT Week displayed itself in glory. Someone was clearly proud of their floodlight arrangement. It was a vast white quadrangle with pyramid-shaped corners, each with enormous clear church-like windows imprinted into each face. Along the triangled roof, were a series of twinkling rectangles, reflecting the darkening sky. As we got closer, I could see each one had grown a beard of green moss and wore a steel bar above it.

“They must be the rooms,” I said to Sam.

We stepped out of the car, and the vastness of the place loomed. This is…what I wanted, I gulped. I assumed we would be shipped off to a foster carer, not a full-on children’s home. Terri led the way through one of the triangle faces, bulldozing her way through the heavy fire doors as if we were walking on the back of her hand. The constant clacking, creaking, and chattering of plates and pans and cutlery ricocheted off the walls, turning my excitement into unease.

“We’ve missed tea then” Sam joked, enjoying himself. We eventually stopped at an empty foyer.

“Do you mind sitting there, boys?” Terri asked. “Won’t be long,”

She and the cream puff lady disappeared into the office, leaving us in the wilderness. Every noise perked my spine up like a meerkat scouting for danger. The room was bright, blindingly bright. The fluorescent lights and white walls scorched my eyes. But at least it was warm, and not damp. I couldn’t help but notice all the doors had a metal strip across the bottom.

“Look, all the doors close by themselves,” Sam said in amazement. The other kids to drip-fed past, firmly sizing us up. This was what it must feel like to enter prison.

“Look”, I nudged Sam. The constant walking through, appearing at a random door each time, looked like a Scooby-Doo chase scene. Nonetheless, they circled us like curious sharks ready to eat their prey. They pretty quickly scattered as Terri ripped open the office door, saying:

“Right, Boys. This is your new home,”

“New home? It feels more like a detention centre,” I snapped back.

Later, in the solace of my new room, my own room, I lay snuggled into my new bed. It felt good. I hadn’t smelt sheets this clean in… ever! It felt great, actually. My legs stretched as far as they could. The freshness and smoothness and softness had a seductive charm about them. A double knock hit the door, followed by a mountain of keys rustling.

“It’s Babs, I’m the night staff. Just here to take your phone off you,” she asked politely. She was a small chubby stump, with grey hair down to her shoulders. I’m sure I recognised her from a shop but was too in shock to ask. They never told me about this rule. What else are they not telling me? I had wanted to lick the lollipop but perhaps had swallowed the stick.

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