Times Have Changed by Alex J Anderson
My one fervent thought is, thank GOD there are no more days like this and as I’ve chosen to remember this specific November day back in 1954; here we go.
My mother unlocked the door and freed me from the attic, with the words, ‘Hurry and get dressed because you’re late.’ Not for the first time I wondered, you lock me in here; so how is it me that’s late and needing to hurry?
I hurried to dress and get out of the attic because I liked school and the freedom that came with it. I entered the kitchen to find a bowl of steaming hot porridge was laid out for me. The wall clock said I was going to be late if I even started eating it. The first mouthful burned my mouth so I reached for the milk to cool it and was stopped.
‘Get that porridge eaten, I’m not going to have people say I starved you.’ It was a struggle to eat the bowl of burning hot cereal but I managed and (even now fifty plus years later), I hate porridge vehemently.
As I headed for the door, with a hope of not being too late, she called me back. ‘The forecast is for snow, so you’d better put on a coat and scarf.’ I was surprised. Does this mean, deep down, she cares about me? I mean this was the woman that locks me in an attic; made me eat a burning hot meal just so the neighbours could not say she starved me and tanned my hide at every possible excuse.
I ran all the way, knowing I was going to be late for sure but, as I liked my teacher, I didn’t want to disrupt the class any more than was necessary.
As expected, when I arrived at the school gates, everyone had gone in to class.
Without even thinking I kept walking right on past the gate and straight out of Kirkcaldy. I knew I had the head start of a scholastic day because my teacher would not call my mother to ask why I was absent so I wouldn’t be missed until I was due back home.
I had no conscious desire or plan. I like to think my subconscious was at work and stemmed from my need to get away. At each road end I was faced with the decision left or right while crossroads added the extra direction of continuing forward. It was not a conscious thing but each of my escapes was later to show I always headed north and once I’d seen that fact I saw the reason was, back then my paternal relatives lived in Dundee. Living with my dad and his family were the only good times I ever had as a child.
My parents had separated and my dad was not welcomed at her family home and that unhappy marriage had a bearing on the treatment I received.
I walked for hours. Twice I hid in fields when I saw signs of a police car but always the escapes ended with me in the back of a police car headed back to more of the same.
That escape was the closest I came to dying and I didn’t even notice this was true until as an adult I saw the significance behind my uncontrolled shaking.
I’d walked for most of the day resting in fields and keeping out of sight. I recall the cold was getting harder to bear and, by late afternoon, I was so tired I crept into the back garden of a lone house that seemed to be unoccupied.
Needing to hide I looked for something to cover me and saw a discarded carpet. I opened it, crawled in and pulled it around me and went to sleep. When I woke it was to see it was late evening and the carpet had a covering of hoar frost.
The first point that hit me was I was shaking uncontrollably. I knew it was not from fear of the dark but was from cold so I tried to warm myself. I was jumping about to get some heat into me when a car pulled into the garden.
Stood in the headlights I knew my run for freedom was over but I made the effort. My capture was assured when the driver got out and, despite real attempts to evade him, he captured me.
He took me into his home and called the police. While we waited for them to arrive he saw my shivers and made me a hot drink. I cried real tears at such kindness but had to try so I asked him to let me go before the police arrived.
Of course he didn’t let me go but he pointed out my uncontrolled shaking to the police and they cared enough to offer me another hot drink at the police station because I was still shivering. Eventually, they decided they’d have to deliver me to my mother because where I was wasn’t on a bus route that would let her come for me.
They treated me well but delivered me to her without ever mentioning those shivers or asking why I felt the need to escape from her care. As I said, that was back in 1954 because I was aged 11.
That can’t happen today, can it? I mean don’t we keep hearing how caring neighbours, alert police officers and Social Services look out for children that might be living through the sort of childhood I had?
