The blog post that won’t go away is still
bouncing around in my head; the Sunday newspapers today have further infuriated
me – and after long talks with Mr G, I have made the decision to publish. It is
going to be a painful experience for me, one that will take several days to
complete, so be patient with me. You’ll get an installment each day –
the ‘Perils of Pauline’ Mark II. It may be that the reason
for publishing won’t be clear until I have finished the tale. That
could be Friday! Who knows?
Pour yourself a double on
the house, and sit quietly.
I did once write
on this site of how I attempted suicide when I was 13, a few months
before the Suicide Act made that desperate act ‘legal’. Until that change in the
law, you were either ‘mad or bad’. I ended the story with me being incarcerated
in a fearful Victorian asylum in Epsom on the grounds that no one
wanted to believe that I was ‘bad’. It was horrific, and I have thought many
times over the years of writing of what happened to me as a child, but I truly
loathe the ‘victim culture’ and could never bring myself to do it. I will,
today, try to fill in a few pertinent details.
There was no ‘children’s ward’. Such a
thing didn’t exist in those days. So I found myself in the company of
some very strange individuals indeed; many, many, years older than I. The only
concession to my age was that I was given a single ‘room’, not allocated to the
women’s dormitory. ‘Room’ is in parenthesis, for it bore more resemblance to a
police cell – a heavy metal door, with an inspection hatch, which in fairness,
was never locked, but foreboding all the same. Although that door was
never locked, the door to the corridor that it was on was locked at night.
Someone, somewhere, was presumably aware that it wasn’t a brilliant idea to
leave a 13 year old girl sleeping and accessible to several dozen
adult males – even if it was only done in the interests of getting a
good nights kip on night duty.
It was about the only concession to the idea that
having some 50 men and women with varying mental states sharing one
ward was potentially problematic.
Once a week was bath-night. There were four
huge baths, deep cast iron affairs, with the controls for the hot
water firmly on the outside. The routine was that two baths were
allocated to the women, and two to the men, and periodically the water would be
changed – not between every patient though! There
were procedures to go through before you reached the head of the
queue. As the queue snaked the length of the ward, nurses
would first collect – or more generally ‘help out of’ – all clothing; further up
the queue, new clothing would be allocated, so that by the time you reached the
head of the queue, you were stark naked, clutching a pile of clean clothing. All
very efficient for the nursing staff.
It also meant that by the time
I neared the head of the queue, I was starkers, and pressed in on all
sides by some deeply confused equally naked men and women. The staff took no
notice of the general ‘jostling’ that would go on around me – but one of the
other patients did. His name was Joss and at 28, he was the nearest to my age.
He took to standing next to me in the queue, and snarling at anyone who
attempted to touch me.
Joss was 15 years older than me, and a
schizophrenic. I didn’t have a clue what that meant, he just seemed to
be the only person in that place capable of holding
a conversation. He said it was all a misunderstanding that he was there –
he should have been in prison for a ‘major bank robbery’, but had ‘pretended to
be mad’ to escape prison. That sounded reasonable enough to me – I hadn’t done
anything, that I could see, that warranted being locked up in this
way, so could sympathise with someone else in the same position. We took to
sitting next to each other in the dinning room and the ‘craft room’ that we were
led off to each day.
Joss was kind and gentle, and looked after me. If
you were waiting for the classic ‘I was an abused child’ tale, you will
be disappointed. He never abused me in any way whatsoever. I should also
make clear that never received any form of ‘treatment’ at Long Grove. With
hindsight, I was undoubtedly deeply depressed, but I wasn’t diagnosed with any
dreadful mental illness, I was just ’there’. The only place the
general hospital where I had originally been taken
to unconscious could think of discharging me to.
One day Joss disappeared under one of the tables
in the craft room and beckoned to me. I crouched down under the table to hear
what he had to say. Everybody else was milling around the door,
waiting to go back to the ward for tea – it was the end of the day.
‘Get under here, and keep your head down, I’ve unlocked a window’. So
I did! In time, the building was empty and we
duly climbed through the window and ran like the wind across the
extensive grounds, eventually making our way to Epsom railway station.
Still waiting for something terrible
to happen? Sorry to disappoint again. He took me home to his sister in
Brixton who gave me a job working on one of her market stalls. I lived with two
female friends of his in a flat in Battersea. Joss went home to his Mother,
and appeared occasionally, but not much. I was still very much a
virgin – if you need to know – just working hard, paying my way and keeping my
One day, two policemen came to the door. It was
me they were looking for, having followed Joss to the address several times.
They marched me off down Battersea Bridge Road towards the police station. As we
were halfway there, we neared the post office. Three men came running out of the
post office pursued by the post master…’you stay right where you are Susanne’
said my policemen and took off in hot pursuit. Needless to say, I was off round
the corner like a bloody greyhound. Technically I had just made my position ten
times worse, I had now absconded from police custody.
I hitch hiked for three weeks, up and down the
country, day and night. I literally had nowhere to aim for, nowhere to go. Lorry
drivers bought me bacon sandwiches, leered at me, but decided I was too young to
chance their arm. Eventually I hitchhiked the length of Scotland, ending up
three miles from John O’Groats late at night. The car driver was worried about
putting me down on a lonely road (this was 1962!) late at night. ‘Come home with
me’ he said. I declined. ‘You’ll be quite safe, my sister lives there too’. He
made her come to the gate to reassure me, she did.
Her name was Jean and she ran the local store and
post office. She too gave me a job, helping out in the shop. I lived in her
croft with her. They were very poor – it was very primitive, two inch thick
glass set straight into the cob walls, no frames! That lasted for about a month
until once again a policeman came knocking. He took me into custody – a
hilarious affair, since even then they had rules about young children and women,
and there was no female police officer, just him and his wife and a cell door
which had to remain open and he had to push my food over the threshold….
Two policewomen came up from London to accompany
me on the long journey back to London by train. It took about 24 hours from
memory. Eventually we ended up at I think it was Waterloo Station, no matter, we
had a long wait for the next connection and quite improbably, they decided to
take me to the old cartoon cinema that used to be on the platform. Half way
through yet another Mickey Mouse effort, sitting between these two uniformed
policewomen, one of them went to get some sweets. No sooner had she gone than
the other one decided to go to the ladies. I watched her disappear down the
dimly lit aisle, and with no sign of the other one hoving into view – need you
I was off again like greased lightening. My 2nd
escape from police custody. I made it to Joss’s house – the only place I knew,
just as the police arrived there. I was taken to a place called Cumberlow Lodge
in South Norwood, a now notorious detention centre. I was there for months, five
at least. Every three weeks I would appear in court, and the magistrates would
ask whether my parents were present. They never were, they refused to
communicate whatsoever. Every three weeks the magistrates would make a new order
‘to give time to trace my parents’.
I had broken the law, both in my suicide attempt
and twice escaping from police custody, but I was not the usual run of
‘runaways’. I was still steadfastly a virgin, as the indignity of gynaecological
examinations proved, had never stolen anything, nor got involved in drugs or
anything like that. I was extremely well spoken and well educated – several
public boarding schools had seen to that.
But I was just 14 years old and nobody
knew what to do with me.