Surviving the Battleground of Childhood

Surviving the Battleground of Childhood

Construction of a Personality the Early years

By T.D.McKinnon

Copyright T.D.McKinnon 2011

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Editing and cover design by Zoë Lake

Other books by T.D.McKinnon:

*I Was a Teenage Devil - But I’m Alright Now!

*John Farrell Is Utrinque Paratus

*Heather Skye Wilson Is the Psychic Warrior

*Terra Nullius

*

Table of Contents

Prologue

Introduction

Chapter 1: My Earliest Memories

Chapter 2: Convalescing in Scotland

Chapter 3: Gods and Heroes Always Let You Down

Chapter 4: Food, Literature, Love and Pain

Chapter 5: Rebel Without a Cause

Chapter 6: Escape! Escape! Escape!

Chapter 7: New Friends

Chapter 8: Kiss and Tell

Interlude: I took the Scenic Route

Chapter 9: Camp Hill - Safe Haven

Chapter 10: High School, An Entirely Different World!

Chapter 11: The Big Brother Experience

Chapter 12: Should I Go Or Should I Stay

Chapter 13: For Love or Money

Chapter 14: Fight! Fight! Fight!

Chapter 15: The Final Countdown

Epilogue

*

Prologue

This is the story of the construction of a personality: the true story, from one person’s point of view of course. The names of some characters and some places are changed to prevent any unwanted involvement with this book.

I attempt through this book to paint a picture of myself, taking you, the reader, through with every stroke of the brush, and in effect share with you as I examine the construction of my own personality. I believe that the construction did not start with my birth, in physical terms, nor will it end with my death: for the construction is a continual thing. But what we are dealing with in this book is the physical foundations in this particular lifetime: my apprenticeship. At no point do I consider the construction complete: for even as I write this book my understanding of my own personal reality deepens, enriching the painting. Indeed now – as always – the construction goes on.

The way in which I wrote this book was to piece together fragments of my memories, much like a jigsaw puzzle. Some pieces were easy to find; sometimes I collated what appeared to be an entire section only to find that I had the pieces out of context, so I had to start again.

The jigsaw begins with a particular incident, a clear picture in my mind: I have called these clear snapshots in time and space ‘memory points’. To accurately recover a complete memory I would hold a ‘memory point’, and follow the time before and after it until I had the entire story, the complete memory. One ‘memory point’ revealed another: as I traced each one to provide a clear account.

Of course all memories are distorted to some degree: depending on any beliefs held concerning ‘reality’, at that particular time.

*

Introduction

I was born Thomas Dobbie McKinnon junior on the 11th of July 1950 at Lennox Castle, Lennoxtown, Stirlingshire, Scotland. The castle, once the stately home of the Laird of Lennox, was now a public hospital. I was the third-born of four children, but my older brother and sister had died due to chronic pneumonia before my birth. A baby sister, Jane, arrived some two and a half years after me.

Thomas Dobbie McKinnon senior hadn’t had an easy life, being one of thirteen children. He (and his identical twin brother, Peter) was born in 1923 and raised during the depression years between the First and Second World Wars.

Mary McKinnon, formerly McTaggart, hadn’t had things easy either. As a child she had broken her left arm on several occasions. A tomboy, she had been injured falling out of trees, crashing bicycles and other such activities. After contracting poliomyelitis and meningitis, which nearly killed her, she defied doctors’ predictions that she would never walk again. She was nursed back to health by daily massaging from a loving grandfather. She did pay a price however. Weakened by so many previous injuries, her left arm was totally paralysed.

*

Chapter 1: My Earliest Memories (back to ToC)

My Best Friend Georgie

Hey… Georgie, that’s not fair! I said apprehensively, edging my way nervously towards the gate.

Although only a little taller than me, Georgie was probably about half as heavy again. A rather skinny child for my age, I must have struck a pathetic figure: after an earlier fall I’d been crying and rubbing my eyes with my dirty hands, and my elbows, badly grazed and sore from the fall, were still sticky with half congealed blood.

I would have been barely four years old, living in Kirkintilloch with my family. Georgie had befriended me some three weeks previously, and starving for companionship I’d attached myself to him. Today, however, when I’d called at his house he told me to go away, and when I didn’t immediately do so he and Hamish, his new friend, decided to have some fun with me. The transfer of Georgie’s friendship from me to Hamish was something to do with the shiny, new thrupenny piece in Hamish’s pocket, stolen from his mother’s purse.

Georgie was smiling that cruel sort of smile that bullies get; even those as young as five years old. Lock the gate, Hamish, he ordered.

At the shout from Georgie I panicked, scrambling like a scalded cat I ran, and hitting the partially open gate on my way out I ripped my shirt half-off. They were on my heels in an instant, and I desperately sprinted for home with their blood curdling yells ringing in my ears. Adrenaline aided my flight, but unfortunately caused me to run straight into my father, who’d just opened the front door, almost taking the legs from under him. He quickly slapped me a couple of times around the ears for not watching where I was going.

I tried to blurt out my story of woe, but winded and sobbing hard I couldn’t complete one word. Then noticing my ripped shirt and bloody arms he became more enraged slapping me with increasing venom, this time around the legs until I collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Eventually he did hear the story I was so desperately trying to tell. The hitting stopped, but to my dismay my father was not sorry and understanding. Still angry, he told me that unless I went out and stuck up for myself I would receive even more punishment.

Memory Point: I’m standing in a quandary, in the middle of the front yard, with my father looking out of the window behind me, and the two jeering bullies out on the footpath. Well, there isn’t really any big choice to make; I’m frightened of the bullies, but at least I stand a chance against them, even if it is a slim one.

{This was my earliest memory point; and where I began my particular method of recovering a complete memory from a memory snapshot. In so doing, I gleaned the first part of chapter one of this book.}

I stood in the front yard for what seemed to be an eternity, hoping the ground would open up and swallow me. Suddenly my eyes were drawn to a piece of broken fence paling at my feet; I had been using it as a sword that very morning. Running towards the gate I swooped up my trusty sword, and the bullies out on the footpath lost valuable seconds standing open mouthed as I, their tormented victim, attacked with a sudden, vicious vengeance. Chasing them down the street I smashed my sword over Georgie’s head, the rough broken wood gashing quite deeply, and he squealed like a stuck pig. Then swinging my sword across the back of Hamish’s legs he immediately plummeted face first into the concrete path, loosing his front teeth.

Surprised at my ability to turn the tide of events, feeling both elated and scared, I made my way quickly home.

You bloody wee lunatic! yelled my father furiously, meeting me at the door. Instinctively, I put my hands up in a vain attempt to fend off the blows that always followed the verbal assault. Grabbing both arms he hauled me into the house, and in one swift movement he stripped my pants off and proceeded to whack, endlessly, into my bare bottom.

Please…Daddy! Please!…Don’t…I promise I’ll be good… P-l-e-a-s-e!!… I vainly attempted to twist and squirm out of the path of that hard, callused hand as it tore into the soft skin of my buttocks and legs, and wherever else he happened to connect with in his rage.

I’ll knock the devil out of you… you wee lunatic… picking up a stick… I’ll teach you! and ignoring my pleas he continued to lay into me.

At some point I could no longer breathe, and only then did the beating stop. Stop that! he yelled, and I tried to inhale, but couldn’t. I was becoming light-headed and there were black spots in front of my eyes: I was passing out. Come on Thomas!… Breathe, I could barely hear him now. He slapped my back and suddenly my lungs opened and I could breathe again.

*

I opened my eyes; as usual I was the first person in the house to awaken, even my baby sister slept right through the night, not so I. I dreaded sleep: the ghosts, ghoulies and boogymen always lay in wait. So, I eluded the inevitable nightmares for as long as possible, and awoke after having the minimal amount of sleep necessary to survive.

It was December, well into winter, and there were still a couple of hours before dawn as I slipped quietly out of bed and made my way to the window. Since my father’s recent return I had to be very careful indeed.

Memory Point: Standing now behind the curtain at the window I feel a wee bit safer. It’s as if I’m no longer in the room, almost as if I’m out there in the dark streets among the people I’m watching. At our old house, I knew all the characters that came and went in the wee hours of the morning; since we moved in with Nanna I’ve had fun giving the new shadows and silhouettes names and personalities.

My father had been away for what seemed like a blessed eternity, but was in fact only a few months. Working at a coalmine in England, he had now returned to take the whole family to live there. Prior to my father’s return, my sister, mother and I had gone to live in Queenzieburn with my Nanna in readiness for departure to England. I was somewhat ambivalent about the move. Maybe things would be better in England; maybe my Daddy wouldn’t hit me so much; maybe everybody would be happier. Given the choice I would have rather stayed in Scotland with my Nanna; she never hit me, and I was thoroughly Scottish after all, even if the cold, wet weather was often almost unbearable… I was happy here.

Oh no it’s today! I almost shouted. My hand shot to my mouth in a futile attempt to halt the words that were already out as I remembered the slumbering household.

My vocal outburst had been prompted by the sudden memory that today was the day we were to leave for England.

It seemed to my panic stricken mind that I had been holding my breath for ten long minutes; afraid that even the sound of my beating heart would give me away, bringing the shouts and slaps that terrified me so. But of course only a few seconds had passed since my traitorous vocal chords had broken the morning silence. On this occasion my fears proved groundless; however, the effect of the fright proved too much for my bladder, providing me with yet another problem. The communal toilet was out there in the night; it was one thing to be standing safe behind the glass, observing. It was an entirely different thing to actually venture out there where the minus four degree wind cuts right through to the bone, and the memory of that night's nightmares are still fresh in a four-year-old's mind.

I made my way nervously, braving the cold and the dark scary shadows to the outhouse, the fear acting like a double edged sword: increasing my need to pee, and making me too nervous to relax enough to let it go.

*

The day we moved in with Nanna all of our furniture and household goods were sent on to England. We travelled to Coventry by train and now finally, with growing trepidation on my part, we travelled the last five miles of our journey by taxi.

Memory Point: This is it!… We’re here! says my father excitedly!

I’ve already guessed as much, and with mixed feelings about the move from the start, looking out of the window of the taxi now I see nothing to get excited about: the rain is pouring down on un-surfaced roads and half-built houses, splashing everything with mud.

In fact, at that moment I wished I’d been left with Nanna. Nanna was so nice to me; there was always a kiss, a cuddle, and a chocolate biscuit for me. For some reason Nanna’s kindness always made Daddy angry: he said Nanna spoilt me. I wasn’t sure what spoilt meant but I wished I could get a whole lot more of it.

*

I don’t recall many good memories from my early childhood but Christmas day 1954, a month or so after arriving in England, was one of the nicest memories in my young life to date.

I had tried to stay awake on Christmas Eve to catch a glimpse of Santa, eventually however I fell asleep. When I awoke there it was… My beautiful new bike! It had trainer wheels, but of course I wouldn’t be needing those. I was sure I could ride that bike on just two wheels. I cycled around inside the house getting in everyone’s way until at last, after much prompting from me, my father took the trainer wheels off my bike and then took me out onto the road.

Memory Point: My heart is beating fast as I peddle harder; I can feel the support of my father’s hand on the saddle but I know I can do without it.

"Are you ready?" he says, as he runs alongside laughing. It’s quite a mild day compared to winter in Scotland, and the sun is shining. ‘This is the nicest day I have ever had.’

"Yes, Daddy… Yes! Let me go… please!" and I speed off down the road with the wind blowing fresh in my face, and the sound of my father’s laughter echoing after me.

‘Yes… It is a beautiful day… Just beautiful! Maybe life will be different now?

*

We were barely settled in England when my father injured his back in a mining accident that laid him off work for a year; the injury was to affect him for the rest of his life. It was around this time that I had a five-year-old's version of a nervous breakdown. My memory of that time is pretty hazy, so the following paragraph is partly a rendition of events told to me many years later.

Within months of arriving in England, and as a result of the accumulated stresses of my life, my relationship with my father, and interaction with my family, I became an emotional wreck: crying for most of the time. Losing every hair on my body, I scratched and tore at my skin, which was constantly irritated and itchy. They tried everything to stop me scratching, even tying boxing gloves on my hands. As a result of me ripping my own skin off, I became covered in scabs. The scraping off of those scabs and the application of ointment became a daily ritual. My mother wasn’t emotionally or physically capable, and so of course this job fell to my father. Furthermore, over the course of a year, I had to be taken to hospital three or four times a week to have injections.

Memory Point: Come on, Thomas, don’t be a baby… you should be used to this by now, says the doctor, holding on to my bottom, while I squirm, fighting and screaming. My father holds my upper body, while the nurse holds my legs to stop me kicking, as the doctor administers the injection,

"Please, Daddy? I don’t want it!… It hurts!! Nooo… aaahhh!!"

I do remember those injections, very clearly. I never did get used to them, and no matter how much my father coaxed, coerced or threatened, I fought tooth and nail to the very last one.

*

When I started school I was totally bald, not even an eyelash. Consequently, I wore a leather helmet that buckled under my chin.

Quick grab him! and three boys took hold of me as I walked through the school gate: Raymond Goodly and his cronies. It wasn’t the first time, I should have been more alert. They wanted to take my helmet off; my helmet never came off. It was a daily occurrence for some group of kids to deem it their mission, for the day, to unmask the freaky kid they called ‘Baldy’.

Get off me!! I screamed, but they just laughed as Raymond struggled to push my chin up so that he could unbuckle the helmet.

As I screamed and struggled Raymond ordered, Just rip it off him! and I gagged and choked as they tried to do just that, but it would not budge: every morning I made sure that it was fastened as tightly as I could bear it. Get your chin up! Raymond ordered through gritted teeth, as he stuck his thumbs in my ears.

A-a-a-h-h-! I screamed, and then kicking out as hard as I could, and squirming and thrashing around I managed to get loose; I ran around the building into the schoolyard proper, straight into Mrs Mills.

Thomas!… What on earth is the matter with you? she demanded.

Th-th-them, M-miss! I stuttered, pointing at Raymond Goodly and his mob as they came tearing around the corner. Th-th-they’re t-trying to t-take my helmet off, Miss!

We were only kidding, Miss, said Raymond, putting on an innocent, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, look.

No you weren’t! I yelled.

Thomas!… Stop that shouting this instant! Mrs Mills demanded.

But, Miss, he’s telling lies… he tried to choke me… and he stuck his fingers in my ears while they held me! I shouted incensed by the injustice.

I told you to stop shouting, Thomas. And I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Just calm down, now. Her back was now to Goodly, his gang were sticking their tongues out at me and Raymond was shaking his fist, then dragging an imaginary knife across his throat and pointing at me.

Look at them, Miss! I yelled, but by the time she turned around, of course, they were putting on innocent faces. Crying in frustration, I ran off to hide.

At that time it seemed to me that I was always fighting: fighting off bullies who were trying to remove my helmet; fighting off groups of screaming kids who were shouting ‘Baldy’; fighting nurses, doctors and my father when they held me down to stick those bloody needles into me. In fact, I felt that I was fighting the whole world, all by myself.

During that early time at school, I made very few friends and no one called me by my given name: my taunting, jeering antagonists called me Baldy. One or two original little sods called me Scotty because of my persistent Scottish accent. I should have said no one called me by my name, except Ena. Ena was a popular little girl in my class, and for some strange reason she took a liking to me. She didn’t care about the ribbing she got for befriending me; in fact, she even declared that she was my girlfriend and that one day we would marry. I of course was totally rapt in this cherub who always had time for me and seemed to genuinely care.

The first time she stepped forward I know that she did so out of pity, I had never really spoken to her before that.

Baldy!… Baldy!… Baldy!… Baldy!… Baldy!… the chant went on and on, as I stood with my back against the toilet block wall, fists clenched, tears rolling down my face. There were about ten boys around me jeering, and threatening to rush me at any moment to rip my helmet off. To make things worse, there were about thirty children crowding in behind them just to gawk; making it impossible for me to dash through and escape.

I had been alert as I came through the school gate that morning, and Raymond Goodly and his cronies, lying in wait, hadn’t surprised me. But with Raymond shouting, Stop him!… Stop him! as they pursued me around the school buildings more boys joined in the chase, until they cornered me against the toilet block wall.

Memory Point: Stop that right now! I can hear a voice screaming from somewhere on the outer edge of the crowd.

The antagonists, and in fact the whole crowd turn to watch a little girl with pigtails push her way through the outer crowd. Marching, red faced and angry past my antagonists, as they stand open mouthed, she walks up to me, giving me the smallest of smiles, before turning on the ringleader.

"Raymond Goodly!… she states, as though the mention of his name is an accusation, …You stop this at once!"

"Or what?" says Raymond defiantly.

"Or my mum will be over to talk to your Dad tonight!" she tells him, pointing a finger at his chest, and his whole demeanour changes: the defiance melting away.

"So what? he says finally, See if I care…" and he turns and swaggers away, pretending that that is what he had intended from the start. The situation defused, the rest of the crowd disperses just as the school bell rings.

Ena had a big heart for such a little girl, and from that moment I knew that I had at least one friend at school.

*

We were one of the first houses in Keresley to acquire a television; I remember that standing on its own it was taller than I was: this huge box that probably weighed half a ton, and had a screen like a bubble which measured about ten-by-ten inches. It was a black and white picture of course, and most of the time looked like there was a snowstorm going on inside it, but it was a genuine television and I looked forward to watching, each week, the programmes I was allowed to.

I remember my father telling me that watching too much of this strange one-eyed creature would damage my eyes; he was probably right. I suppose that there really weren’t too many programmes that I would have chosen to watch had I the choice. The early days of the BBC were pretty boring, and the children of today would probably find it inconceivable that we could bear to watch anything that was so hard to look at. But I remember fondly its blissful escapism and how painful it would be if, for any reason, my privileges were taken away