The Dunce at the back of the class, [William] CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The snow had been falling heavily, and now the drifts had reached the window ledges of the small cottage by the side of the main road to London.  Many feared that it would be a repeat of the terrible weather they had suffered earlier that year when transport links across much of the country had been completely cut, supplies were non-existent in many areas, and power supplies were irregular at best and, at worst, left whole communities without electricity for days.

It was December 1947, and into the fear and concern, William was born unplanned and unwanted in that cottage in the West Midlands.  Kit, his father, had made it clear to his wife Doris that he did not want any more children.  One, Bobby, born fifteen months earlier, was wanted and loved.  A second, William, was a mistake, an irrelevance, as far as his father was concerned.  Given the opportunity, William would have been aborted, but the old wives’ tale of the effects of gin proved to be ineffective, much as Kit took the opportunity to buy as much of it as he could afford on his meagre wages and made sure his wife drank it.

Kit was angry.  He had been particularly angry since Doris’s second month of pregnancy when she had told him after three years of marriage that she was expecting their second child, but his anger went far further than the festering, twisted resentment he felt because she had dared to conceive a child without his permission, although that particular rage would not show for many years.  He was angry at his inconsequential life, angry at his country that had forced him to endure the horrors of military service in the Second World War and, above all, he was angry at the way he had been treated, brought up unloved by a father who seemed unable to give him anything he really needed.

William’s mother named him.  His father took no interest in him at all, and openly disapproved of the love that Doris gave the boy.  He always considered William to be unplanned and unwanted, although he never openly admitted it, not even to his wife.

William’s older brother Bobby would be the one his father would nurture.  He had been planned and wanted; William was neither.

* * * * *

William was born in a small, red brick bungalow.  By today’s standards it was very basic, with three rooms that had one window each, the living room in the centre being the largest.  There was a front door, a very small front porch, and floors made from the cold stone from the Forest of Dean.  There was no electricity or running water.

The living room also doubled as a kitchen.  Opposite the door in an alcove was a large, black fireplace, a grate for the fire in the centre of it with a small oven either side.  There was plenty of room behind and to the side of the fire.  In the middle of the room was a large pine table with four chairs.  All the cooking and preparation of food was done in that room, as was the socialising.  Either side of the living room was a bedroom, but at night these rooms were dark and had no heating at all other than what little warmth might come from the fire in the living room.

There was a small triangle of grass in front of the house that ended at the porch.  A path led from the gate to the porch, made from that unusual pinkish stone from the Forest of Dean.  There were vegetable growing in the garden, planted by William’s father, but they were hidden from view by the border of flowers, and by the front door there was a large rose bush.

* * * * *

By the time William was four, his father seemed to have accepted him in a way.  He said nothing more about William, simply keeping at a distance and when he had to mention William to Doris, Kit always referred to him as “your child” or “your boy.”  William, at that age, noticed nothing unusual.  In his innocence, he simply accepted the way things were.

It was also during those first four years of William’s childhood that his mother gave birth to two girls.  One was planned, but the other, like William, was not, and because of the twisted logic in their father’s mind, William was to take the blame and punishment not only for his own birth but also for that of his unwanted sister.

* * * * *

Just before William’s fourth birthday, dark clouds gathered over their little bungalow.  The storm passed quickly, and as the clouds receded into the distance, the sun shone in a brilliant blue sky above them and William watched from just inside the front door.

Doris saw her son gazing out into the front garden and paused her housework to stand by him for a moment.

“Look William,” she told him.  “There’s a rainbow.  They say that wherever the rainbow ends there will be a pot of gold left by the little people.”  She then went about hanging her washing on the line to dry, and soon returned into the house and left William in the garden to play.

William was still out at midday, as he often was when the weather was fine and not too cold.  He was sitting near the front door with his little spade and saw his father coming down the garden path from the gate towards him.  It was not unusual for his father to return from work at the nearby farm several times every day.  He normally came back for his meals and whenever he had a break.

This time, however, Kit did not walk past William, ignoring him.  He stopped.

“What the hell are you doing, boy?”

“I’m looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Dad,” William answered innocently.

“Doris!” Kit called angrily.  “That boy of yours has dug the roses up looking for a pot of gold.”

William’s mother came out straight away and took William inside to clean him up without a word, and as William waited for his dinner, his father replanted the rose bush.

Kit stood by the side of the table, glaring at William.  “Why the hell did you think you’d find a pot of gold there?”

“Because the rainbow ended on top of the rose”

Truthfully, William believed he would find a pot of gold, although he had no idea what a pot of gold would look like.  From what his mother had said, it sounded as though it was something good, but it had not occurred to him to ask.  Explanations of anything to William were few in that house; he usually had to find out for himself when he wanted to know something.

It was not too much of a surprise when he received neither an explanation about the pot of gold now nor an explanation for his father’s annoyance with him.  “You are a stupid boy.”

* * * * *

William’s mother made the effort to teach William how to count and to write his alphabet by the time he was due to go to primary school at the age of four and a half.  He was proud of his achievement, but when he told his father what he could do, Kit turned away and ignored him completely.  At the same time, William’s brother, now nearly six years old, sneered at him as though this new skill of William’s was unimportant.  Although Bobby probably did not realise it, he had quickly learned to copy his father’s attitude towards William, and frequently adopted that look of contempt for William that only his father could equal.

It was shortly after William started at school that his life turned from bad to worse.  He and his brother slept in the bedroom on the left of the house, sharing a big double bed with William sleeping on the side nearest the door.  They both went to bed at about five in the evening, before their father returned from work at six.  Like all children of that age, they would usually play on the bed or talk and laugh for some time after they went to bed.

He and his brother had returned home from school one day, had something to eat, and were now in bed, talking.

“Be quiet, you boys,” their mother called to them.  “Your father will be home from work soon.”

Although both boys had seen their father’s moods and his frequent derision of William, neither of them had ever seen their father really angry.  They ignored the warning from their mother, and they were still playing, talking and giggling when their father came home from work.

He heard them as soon as he came in, but there was something different in his tone when he shouted at them: “You two boys had better go to sleep and give me rest.”

The boys hid their heads under the thick Eider-duck-down quilt on the bed, still talking and laughing, and thinking they could not be heard.

There was a crash as the door of their room was flung open and slammed against the wall.  Both boys lifted their heads above the quilt and stared towards the doorway in alarm.  The door was wide open, and silhouetted in the lamplight of the living room was the dark figure of their father.  His contorted face was partially hidden by the long shadows of his features.  The white staring eyes could be seen as if they were alight, as he shouted, “I told you boys to be quiet and you didn’t listen to me.  You had to be naughty and disobey me.”

Neither of the boys had seen their father like this before.  They were frightened, not knowing what was about to happen.

Kit walked over to the bed and threw back the covers.  He grabbed William by the wrist pulling him roughly from the bed.  Once William’s feet touched the floor, his father bent him over the side of the bed.  Taking hold of both William’s wrists in one hand he held them together in the small of his back, pulled down William’s pyjama trousers and violently beat William’s buttocks for several minutes.

William was screaming, “Please, Dad,” between the tears and cries of pain.  “Mum, help me.”  “Where are you, mum?”

Doris was in the living room, crying as she listened to her youngest boy being thrashed.  She knew there was nothing she could do to help him.  Perhaps she was also afraid of him, but first and foremost, in Doris’s eyes, Kit was head of the family and the one who put food on the table for all of them.  Her marriage vow taken in church before God was to obey him, and she would not break that vow.

Kit was deaf to William’s cries.  He stopped beating him only when his anger subsided, and then he threw William onto the bed and ordered him to cover himself.  He then took Bobby by the wrist, but instead of thrashing him in the same way, he and gave him a few smacks on his buttocks and then also threw him on the bed.

“Let that be a lesson to both of you,” their father told the two boys, but William had noticed that the few smacks his brother had received were not even enough to bring a tear to his eye.

This was the first of many thrashings William received from his father.  At the slightest excuse, Kit would go into the boys’ room and inflict his brand of cruel, barbaric justice on the mainly blameless boy.  On many nights, William’s cries of pain could be heard after that first beating he received.  Sometimes the beating would be by William’s father’s hands, or sometimes it would be with a leather belt.  Kit’s brutality seemed to be driven by something far deeper than his need to punish the boy for every misdemeanour of which he believed William to be guilty.  Doing it because Kit was head of the family and therefore judge, jury and enforcer of justice was only a pretext, as if that was not bad enough.  Kit’s motives went far deeper than that; it was revenge for what his wife had done in giving birth to this child and, as much as Doris suffered to hear her child being punished, it was also directed at William for being born.

In fact, Kit detested the thought of any woman being beaten by a man, and he would never have considered raising his hand against his wife.  She had given birth to two children he had not asked for or wanted, and now it was up to him to feed and clothe them.  Somehow, in that twisted mind, by punishing William, Kit was punishing his wife for giving birth to William and now, just a few months previously, also for giving birth to William’s younger sister.  The anger at this disobedience of Doris’s was now vented on the helpless boy after fermenting for five years in Kit’s twisted mind.

Bobby was also punished when the boys did wrong or in some way annoyed their father, but the smacks he administered to his eldest child were fewer and lighter.

* * * * *

At the breakfast table on the morning following that first beating, the boys were sitting waiting to eat when Bobby said, “William wet the bed last night.”

Their mother did not say a word.  She watched her husband intently, but although he was listening to the boys, he said nothing either.  The two boys finished their breakfast in silence.

That night, William and Bobby lay awake in bed with thoughts of the previous evening’s punishment in their minds, and both determined not to give their father reason to punish them again.

The door flew open, and they both stared in horror at the silhouette in the doorway.  This time, they could see that their father had his wide leather belt in his hands.  For a moment, William thought that his father had come in to check that they were both asleep, but he was soon disillusioned.

As he had worked alone all that day, Kit had been thinking about everything happening in his life that was beyond his control.  Most of all, he thought about the two unplanned children he was obliged to feed and care for.  His wife had to be punished for her defiance of him, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he became.  Waves of uncontrollable rage coursed through him.  Yes, he had the answer.  The boy must be punished, and it was his right… no, it was his responsibility to discipline his children.

He walked over to the bed and looked down at the two boys, and there was no mistaking the blind anger in his eyes as he stared at William.  William began to tremble, knowing that something much worse than the previous night’s punishment was going to happen to him.

“So, boy, you wet the bed last night like a baby.  Well, I am going to teach you never to wet it again.  I don’t like babies that wet the bed, and tonight I will give you something to think about before you consider doing it again.”

He bent over the two boys to pull back the covers, and he dragged William from the bed.  Again, William was bent over the edge of the bed with his wrists held firmly in the centre of his back.  This time, the trousers were left on William’s lower body while his father’s other hand thrashed him with the belt.  Once again, William was shrieking and crying and calling for his mother to help him.  He heard his mother’s voice over the sound of his own screams: “Kit!” and then after a short pause, “Please?”

The thrashing stopped, although William had no idea whether it was because his father’s twisted anger had subsided or because of his mother’s intervention.  Once again the sobbing William was thrown back onto the bed, where he cried himself to sleep for the second night in a row.  Before his father left the room, he threw the covers over the boys, and the silence in the room was broken only by William’s sobbing.

* * * * *

At the breakfast table, Bobby said, “My pyjamas are wet, mum.  William wet the bed again.”  He smiled at his father as he spoke, and it would have been clear to anyone watching that Bobby was trying to show off to his father and get William into trouble at the same time.  Although it was not apparent at this stage, later in life it would become obvious that Bobby was just as twisted as Kit, and this was only the beginning of the lessons he was to learn from his father.

William had just picked up his spoon to start on his porridge.  He put it down and his hands gripped the edge of the table, and he looked at his father with an expression of fear on his face.  His father stared back, wide-eyed and expressionless.

Finally, Doris broke the silence.  “Pick up your spoon, William, and eat your breakfast.”

William picked up the spoon with shaking hands, still looking at his father’s face.  As his eyes dropped to the spoon in his hand near the dish he tried to stop the uncontrollable shaking.  The spoon touched the side of the dish, tapping in rhythm with the nervous tremble in his hand.  His mother stepped over to the table to place her hand on top of his.  He looked up at her with a tear in the corner of his eye, only to see her smile and say, “Eat your breakfast, William.  Nothing is going to happen.”

William and his brother went off to school.  When they returned, they had their evening meal and were sent to bed as usual.  William could not stop thinking about what his father might do now that he knew William had wet the bed again.  He desperately tried to keep his eyes open, watching the door and expecting that at any minute it would burst open.  Finally, tiredness got the better of him and he fell asleep.

* * * * *

A few days went by, and the two boys were playing after they had gone to bed one night.   Bobby had just tickled William, and William burst out laughing.  He stopped almost as soon as he had started, realising that making a noise would anger their father, but he was not quick enough.  The door burst open and their father was once again silhouetted against the light.  “So, you just had to disturb my rest with your playing.”

“It was William, Dad.  He was laughing.”

Yes, that was true, but what their father did not know, and did not want to know, was that Bobby had made William laugh.

The truth was that Kit really did not care.  In his twisted mind, by punishing William he was punishing Doris for having this unwanted child and his unwanted sister.  Perhaps he actually smiled at that moment, or perhaps there was some other expression on his face, but it was too dark in that room for either of the boys to see it.  He briefly glanced over his shoulder into the living room, and then he stepped over to the bed and pulled William out.

“No, Dad,” William protested.  “Bobby made me laugh, Dad.  No, please no.  Mum, help me.”

“You will get extra for trying to get your brother into trouble,” his father told him with no trace of any emotion in his voice.  “I heard one of you laugh, and it was obviously you.”

William’s cries fell on deaf ears.  Kit was thriving on the power he held over his family.

William’s mother, however, was closing her mind and ears to the pitiful pleading of her youngest son.  She cried quietly.

Once again William’s wrists were held in his father’s grasp, pushing his hands up into the small of his back.  Kit thrashed William’s buttocks with the flat of his father’s hand, but William’s cries of pain fell on deaf ears.  His father had once more turned into the uncontrollable monster oblivious to the pain of others, and his mother refused to accept what was happening.

It was a long time before Kit’s anger was sated sufficiently to cease his beating and to throw William back onto the bed.  He looked at Bobby, cowering under the quilt, but as far as Kit was concerned, his favourite son was not guilty of any crime.

“Go to sleep, Bobby.  You have school in the morning.”

Once his father had left the room, closing the door as he went, in the darkness William pulled the quilt over him and cried himself to sleep again.

The inevitable happened, and the bed was wet in the morning once more.  William’s mother noticed when she was helping him dress for school, but she said nothing.  Bobby, of course, mentioned it at the breakfast table.  He had already worked out that he was safe from his father’s wrath as long as his father had some excuse to abuse William.  Kit looked towards Doris and asked, “Is that right?”  She did not answer, but her expression said it all.

That night, as soon as William was in bed he focused his eyes on the door and strained his ears for the sound of his father coming down the path to the front door.  Bobby was already asleep when William heard the gate slam shut and, a few seconds later, the front door opened.  He then heard his mother talking to his father before it went quiet, and William knew that his father was eating the meal that William’s mother had prepared.

It remained silent for a while, and William fell asleep.  Suddenly, he was awakened as his father burst into the room and he was pulled roughly from the bed.

“I thought I told you I would teach you not to wet the bed again, but it seems as though you want to defy me.  Well, this time you had better learn your lesson, because if I have to come in here tomorrow you will get a harder hiding than you are getting tonight.”

Kit began to thrash his son with the leather belt again.

It had happened so abruptly that William was hardly awake when it started.  Even so, he began pleading for mercy and crying for his mother to come and save him from the hell his father was putting him through.  The thrashing seemed as though it would go on forever, but finally it stopped as suddenly as it had started.

“Get into bed, you bad boy.”

William lay on the bed quivering in pain and fear.  His elder brother pulled up the quilt and William closed his eyes, hearing his father leave the room and close the door, but not daring to look.  The room was in silence and total darkness once more.

William slipped out of the bed and knelt on the floor beside it, resting his arms and his head on the edge of the bed.  Tears ran down his cheeks, and he cried himself to sleep.

Some time later, William felt himself being lifted up and placed on the bed.  He opened his eyes and saw his mother looking down at him.

“Why didn’t you get into bed, William?”

“I don’t want to wet the bed again.”

With a tear in her eye, she replied, “Don’t ever be afraid of getting into bed, William.”  She pulled the quilt over him and left the room.

It was to be many years before William understood properly why his mother had not come to him when his father beat him, but even at this age he felt a deep bond with his mother and knew, somehow, that he could not blame her and she had done nothing wrong.  As for his father, his attitude was only the symptom of something much deeper, but neither he nor William would know about it until years later.

* * * * *

Several days went by before William’s father beat him again, and again it was a punishment for making a noise after the boys had gone to bed.  Afterwards, William wet the bed again, and again Bobby announced it at breakfast.

William knew he would get another thrashing that night, and it was in his mind all day at school.  He could not think of anything else except what was going to happen when he got home.  It was too much for him, and he collapsed in the classroom.  The doctor was called, and he concluded that William had suffered a traumatic experience that had caused him to have a nervous breakdown.

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