The Day I was Taken Away

It was Friday, a few days into the new year. I was sixteen-years-old, and it was a momentous day for me. At 2.00 pm, a social worker, Mr. Harvey, was going to take me away from my parents to a children’s home some eight miles away. My persistent truancy had become an issue that exceeded the length of my school’s tether.

One factor I had in my favour was that I was going into the home, called Hartstone Dene, voluntarily, which meant that if things didn’t work out my parents would have been able to withdraw me. Had I kept up my truancy, I could have been sent away by the courts, which is a whole different ball game.

After heaping totally unreasonable amounts of stress and worry on my parents for months, I agreed that a solution of sorts was needed. Although I would be giving up my liberty, I was able to leave school at Easter, so my incarceration would be for only three months. That said, the streets of my housing estate were a much loved playground, so giving them up was a considerable forfeit.

My First Visit

I was legitimately excused school for the two weeks it took to process my admission to Hartstone, but I didn’t spend that time loafing. I had sessions with two child psychologists, the first to try to get to the root of my truancy (the only answer I could offer was impulse), and the second to test my intelligence and cognitive skills. In the latter, I used a child’s shape sorter to push pegs through their correct holes against a stopwatch. I found that demeaning.

I also visited Hartstone for the first time, when Mr. Harvey took me along one afternoon. I was introduced to the staff, and shown around the building, which was a huge two-storey house with four spacious bedrooms that served as dormitories. After that I went to the school, which was in a prefabricated structure that stood a short distance from the house.

Lessons were in full flow when I walked in. There were about a dozen pupils of differing ages, and an ageing teacher, Mr Jennings. I recognised two pupils as being from my home town, and it was with those I struck up a conversation. Everyone seemed friendly enough, and I had no qualms about joining them in the new year.

I’m Whisked Away

Two o’clock came, and Mr. Harvey pulled up in his car. He was quite an unorthodox social worker, having long hair, John Lennon spectacles and patches on his jeans. But he was very laid back, and always willing to help. I don’t recall the goodbye, but no doubt my mother had a quiet sob.

On arrival, I had to sign some forms in the reception area, and then a staff member, Miss K, showed me to my dormitory, in which there were six beds. I put my clothes into drawers in a bedside cabinet, and Miss K advised me not to leave any valuables there. The only other items I’d brought from home were two David Bowie LPs, and a can of Brut deodorant.

A Pleasant Surprise

My fellow pupils were still on their Christmas break, and they wouldn’t be back until Sunday evening. I went into a lounge area to watch TV, and was surprised to see a girl reading a magazine. I introduced myself, and we chatted. She said her name was Lynne, and she was fifteen, and she explained that she couldn’t go home like the others, as she was an orphan with no family. I felt heartily sorry for her.

As we chatted, she told me that she loved Bowie, and that Cracked Actor, a documentary about that very personage was to be screened on BBC2 at nine o’clock. Lynne told me that residents were allowed to stay up later on Friday nights, so we could watch our hero. I had immediately taken quite a shine to this girl, who was a couple of inches shorter than me, with short blonde hair and a pleasant smile.

My First Meal

As darkness fell, we were called to the dining room for tea. We sat at one of three large hexagonal tables, where we took our meal. It was cheesy mashed potato with onion, served with peas. I followed Lynne’s lead in squirting tomato ketchup onto the mash, and then mixing the peas in to stop them rolling off the plate. It wasn’t the most exciting fare, but the portions were generous and it was tasty enough.

In the evening, Lynne and I separated as we went for our baths. Everyone at the home took a nightly bath, and we had to use a strong-scented medicated shampoo lest someone smuggled in head lice. There were two baths in the boys’ bathroom, with two wash basins and a toilet. The bathroom was comfortably warm on that cold January night, and I sprayed myself with Brut before slipping into my pyjamas.

Supper was never a big affair at Hartstone, as the cook finished working at 5.00 pm. It usually comprised no more than a mug of cocoa and a bag of potato crisps. But I partook of this snack gladly, sitting in an armchair in front of the TV. I was delighted when Lynne pulled up a chair, which she positioned right next to mine.

I Couldn’t Be Happier

At nine o’clock, we watched the great artist at work, writing lyrics and then cutting these up into individual words and phrases. Lynne leaned over and rested her head on my upper arm, and she gripped my forearm. I released her grip and held her hand, and I was delighted when she didn’t pull away. I couldn’t have been happier, watching my favourite artist with a pretty girl by my side, who was showing me affection.

Of course, I had considered that the affection was probably due to Lynne having someone of a similar age for company, after spending the Christmas period alone. All the same, I didn’t want the show to end. I didn’t want the night to end. And I certainly didn’t want my fellow pupils to return. I would have happily stayed there forever, whispering and stroking Lynne’s fingers.

I hated the idea of others flirting with Lynne and, even worse, seeing her enjoying the attention. Sure enough, when they came back they were, pardon the cliché, all over her like a rash. It was painful to see my own Lynne time diluted, and this girl I had become smitten with laughing and joking with other boys.

But I got over it soon enough. My ardour waned, and Lynne became just a friend like the others. I had many things to occupy my mind, as I settled into my new surroundings with my new compatriots.

But I’ll never forget my first night at Hartstone, with the cheesy mashed potato, the medicated shampoo, and a lovely young girl stroking my hand as we watched David Bowie cut his lyrics up into individual words and phrases.

Originally published in Medium.