Painful Memories

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

As You Like It, William Shakespeare, playwright and poet (1564-1616)


Elaine over at Liebraumilch and Lipstick has asked for contributions towards a book which was prompted by the recent Baby P tragedy. The book will be available online and all proceeds are going towards the NSPCC. More info nearer the time.

This is, obviously, a very painful post to write. Not because – thank goodness – I have ever suffered any abuse, but it brings back to mind a time when I worked with young offenders in Devon.

I went there on a temporary contract, and ended up staying for three years. I'd never worked for Social Services before and doing so made me realise how underfunded and understaffed they are. Social workers have an appalling reputation but if you see what they have to deal with, you'd be a little more sympathetic.

Anyway, my office dealt with juveniles going through the courts. Some had been convicted and were sent to a YOI – Young Offenders Institution, the nearest being in Portland in Dorset. Others were given supervision orders which meant they had to attend the office regularly to report what they'd been up to.

The success rate of keeping these youngsters out of trouble was, I would say, about 2%. It wasn't exactly the most cheerful of jobs. But – rather like social workers – once you understood these kids' histories, it wasn't difficult to see why they were so mixed up, defensive – and most of all, unloved.

One 13 year old, who was a serial shoplifter, had been started off in the trade by his mother, who took him shoplifting from the age of 6.

Another had been to 15 foster homes before the age of 12.

A 12 year old had been found on the doorstep of his latest foster home, crying through the letterbox, begging to be taken back. He wasn't. He became a very aggressive teenager.

I could go on but I won't. The mind can only take so much, I find, and I'm not an advocate of 'misery lit'. Working with it, being surrounded by so unhappiness, ensured that I don't want to read about it.

These kids lied, cheated, stole, and sometimes, frankly, terrified me. They all came from broken homes, and most of them had no home to go back to. Once I was outside having a cigarette when four teenagers approached, carrying a knife. The worst thing you can do is show fear, so I fixed a smile to my face, tried to control my shaking, greeted them and carried on smoking. Waited for them to start hitting me, or worse. That knife to enter my ribs.

To my amazement they all greeted me cheerfully, asked for a fag (no way, buy your own) and shuffled inside the waiting room waiting for their appointments. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and scuttled back inside, sending up silent prayers for my deliverance.

Most of our clients gained worse habits in a YOI and, on one occasion, committed suicide. Others did anything to get back inside. As one particularly angry lad told me, “It's bloody cold out there (in January). I've got nowhere to live, no money and nothing to eat. At least inside I'm warm and get fed.”

Phil became memorable for being our One Success Story – in my time there, I hasten to add. He wrote poetry (smuggled out to show to his social worker – he never would have dared show it to anyone else) which really made me gulp.

Out of YOI, he managed to keep out of trouble but one day came in pushing a pram. We thought, 'oh no. He's fathered a baby and he's only 14.' (Our youngest father was 12.)

But it was his niece. He'd been asked to babysit for the day and was so chuffed with the idea that he brought her round to show us.

That still brings tears to my eyes; it goes to show that however small our successes may be, or insignificant to others, they matter more than we can ever know.

I will never forget the look on that lad's face as he looked down on his niece, then up at me.

'Isn't she great?' he said, in wonder.

'Yes, Phil,' I said. 'And so are you.'

Open Marriages Part 2

Following on from yesterday’s comments about Open Marriage, this got me thinking about someone we’ve met who builds catamarans and has become well known for having ‘adopted the Polynesian way of life’.

To me this seems to mean that he has a wife ( a lovely, very intelligent woman) but he became famous for his Other Women, who he took sailing and obviously had sex with. (He has a son by one of them. Oh yes, and his wife stayed at home and brought up the son while the mother went off sailing. Why, I wonder?)

Apparently the Polynesians have lots of wives. The women appear to pander to the men, bring up their children and have a good time. Oh yeah? The children, in turn, are ‘instigated into sex’ by uncles or fathers or whoever from a very young age. Don’t get me started on this topic - but evidently child abuse is unknown, or unacknowledged, in Polynesia.

When this character’s way of life was first mentioned, sitting round over a meal one evening, I was horrified. Unsurprisingly, the men around the table were very envious of this man. Talk about having your cake…

‘Don’t be silly, Pop,’ said my husband with a lustful glow in his eyes. ‘Of course the women enjoy it. That’s what they’ve been brought up to expect.’

I don’t think one qualifies the other, and I shot down his argument pretty smartly, but it got me thinking.

Now I don’t know nearly enough about this way of life, but I know enough to realise that there’s no way I could ever live like that. Perhaps I’m too needy, too selfish. But I need to be able to trust my partner. If he’s off screwing other women, all of whom are people I know, if not my best friends, I won’t respect him let alone trust him. And for me a relationship has to be based on trust and respect. Believe me, I’ve had enough disasters in the past to have learnt the hard way.

So I have no desire to go to Polynesia, or to entertain Himself’s wild fantasies about this way of life. (When he’s sober he would admit to finding one wife hard work, let alone more than one.)

I’m staying firmly in Cornwall. With my husband. In shackles. (Him of course, not me.)