Trivial Tales of Everyday Madness: Different Worlds – 5

Robert K Hogg

But at Mitchell Street, my enthusiasms for whatever grabbed my interest, and

there were many, transmogrified into helping myself to them. I must’ve been given
some money, because when I wasn’t blowing it on cards or a comic, I would buy a
couple of fake cream cakes I was very keen on. They were covered in a thin layer of
chocolate and nothing else. I had never liked the marshmallows of the Tunnock’s
variety; the kind my mother would buy – tasting like spearment jelly(fish), along with
Jaffa Cakes and the dreaded 'orangey bit in the middle' the TV adverts were so keen
to point out; the highlight of their campaign. And to me, so much tasteless crap that
only someone who smoked at least a packet of cigarettes a day could appreciate. The
cakes at Joe’s seemed as if they were manufactured especially for me, in the
anticipation of which, any recent unpleasantness could be forgotten if not wholly
forgiven in the space of sinking my teeth into their smooth and creamy
unwholesomeness. I may well have contemplated nicking one of these in all
impracticality if it weren’t for the fact they were placed in a spot where I would have
my back to the main counter; a glass one, showiong off boxes of chocolates and
seperate pastries etc. For the same reason I think, it was difficult to help myself to
packets of cards. That, and it was too close to the school. I wouldn’t be hard to track
down.
Shops and stores even slightly further afield were a different story, or came to
be. But again, it’s worth describing some of the preliminaries, the events, that
contributed as to how or at least when this came about. The question as to what
degree my mother colluded in bringing about the very situations she claimed to have
no input in, and so no understanding of its significance for me; a matter of
interpretation. That there was a clear discrepancy between the extent of my 'typical'
boyish enthusiasms and any means of satisfying that curiosity and urge to plain
acquisitiveness is a given. That she had little appreciation or interest in any of them
or noticed even, was also a given, until it was brought to her attention when she
noticed, inevitably, some change would be missing from her purse. It was odd I took
the risk. Perhaps a reflection of the depths of my greed for the things that excited and
interested me. There was very little that got to her in the way money did, and on
some level I must have known this. And she did too. Neither was she mean as such,
but paranoid and this played into her sense of being persecuted. Where money was
concerned, it seemed to bring out her most pathological attributes.
Once, she had sent to me to the local grocers, and after I had got back, taking the
groceries in to the kitchen and giving her the change, or leaving it on the table as her
friend Marion was there – we called her“aunt,” Marion, she came storming into the
“living” room (as we called it), ranting about change being missing. Now whether
this was before or after I started stealing from her I can’t recall, but if it was after,
then my future was sealed; if before, then she as good as set the situation up herself.
I would retaliate, however indirectly. There was 2d missing from her change, she
screamed, a few inches from my face. I was nine or ten. She was livid, furious. I
could see it in her eyes, and I was at a loss, non-nonplussed. And baffled; it hadn’t
even crossed my mind to me to take anything from her change. She walloped me
across the face, glaring insanely, furiously. That I didn’t react, and no doubt the fear
in my eyes only made it worse; she grabbed me and aggresively shoved me on to the
carpet and stamped on my face with her plastic sandals, the heel hitting my mouth, as
I felt my lip and teeth go numb, Another stamp knocked my head to one side and
facing the lobby, where I saw her buddy Marion watching,looking concerned, but
neither did she say or do anything. Or maybe that was as far as she’d got, and my
mother had noticed my look or hers, as she stopped kicking me. I had felt an
increasing sense of panic and been ready to cry out to her to stop, but it was as much
subdued anger. But what was more upsetting, shocking in its way, was the realisation
that someone could harbour such blatent hatred towards me. And no doubt all the
more alarming and unnerving for it being my mother. As if this wasn’t disorientating
or demoralising in itself - and the only difference was in the intensity of the attack
this time; otherwise it was a common occurrence – I disliked going to the corner
shop. There were two shops; one on each corner, but as often as not she wanted
something only the one I would rather have avoided sold, or some brand she
preferred. As was often the case with certain individuals, the owner, a middle-aged
bloke along with his complacent and nonchalant wife, would laser beam on to any ill
at easiness I showed in any transaction. A particular bugbear for me was when I had
to get something off one of the rows of shelves behind me. I would be overcome by
self-consciousness which seemed to jam my normal thinking process, and become
terribly embarrassed, his amusement – though I could never be quite sure if it were
overt – making it only more excruciating for me, my ineptness seeming to be a
confirmation of my inherent stupidity or at best, lack of “common sense, “ as my
mother would so often drum into me. His apparent recognition of it was further
confirmation of her opinion of me and so, of my worst fear. That if others could also
see it, then her overall assessment, all her negative opinions of me were accurate....
that she had been right all along, and this solidified my deep down suspicion I was as
worthless; as useless as she had always said I was. I had little if any conscious
awareness of this. All I knew was that I felt very uncomfortable in certain situations.
My strategy, such as it was, was to go into denial of any confusion, going through the
motions as if I knew what I was doing in these instances, and wishing the floor might
swallow me up. An avoidance reaction that masked a tremendous anger that my
obvious discomfort aroused such amusement in these people. And as much
suppressed anger at myself for not being able to see what was right in front of me and
perform the apparently simplest tasks. But on the periphery of awareness, the
conviction this was all a confidence trick on some level. The unspoken collusion that
some adults practised. That, after all, they only had to slow down when I got
flustered; clear enough to anyone with eyes in their head, and as transparent now, that
this was the intention. Instead, it exasperated and excited them more. In that they
knew, in some sense, they were tormenting me in the guise of being helpful, and they
knew I knew, but because of that, of how obliquely it was done, there was nothing I
could do about it, even if I had suddenly demonstrated enough character to recognise
it as the daily crock of shit, of masked aggression that it was.
They had, in all likelihood picked up on my mother'sattitude towards me the few
times I was in the shop with her. But as they would keep the pretense up in each
other's company, it gave me a false sense of security, ill at ease as I was in any case,
so it was all the more unexpected to find they weren't who I'd assumed they were.
And it wasn't a level I operated on. There were better things to think about. They
and my psyche were all a part of the daily mystery and madness one had to learn to
accepts and bury as soon as possible if life was to continue, and I had no choice in the
matter. Some kid's might have acted out directly, which, if anything would have at
least had the benefit of not displacing my anger elsewhere. On the other hand, it
would always be a no-win situation. I would always be in the wrong at least where
other adults were concerned. Later, I would have my moments of fighting mad
clarity and temper, if all too intermittently.
She was acting out herself of course, but I had no understanding of that. All I
knew for the most part was that there was someone in charge of me who was more
emotionally volatile and unpredictable than any kid I knew, friendly or hostile, and all
wrapped up in the body of an adult, if a somewhat frail one, but which was
compensated for by an absolute certainty, an unshakable conviction that as well as
my being one of the main sources of her troubles, if not the main cause of her
unhappiness, she was ever alert also, as sharp as a razor, and hypersensitive to any
hint of questioning her judgement, whether real or imagined, as well as conveying an
unyielding, hawklike watchfulness, amounting almost to a sixth sense, utilised for the
most petty and inconsequential infringements to her authority as she saw it.
Ever fault-finding. Alert to any petty grievance, interactions with her could be a
kind of daily hell. At other times, as later, she demonstrated she could accept events
with an unexpected good humour, almost stoically, as when she took us both fruit
picking – raspberries. I enjoyed walking band and forth through the tunnel-like
canopy that shaded the sun. Out in the more open areas there young men stripped to
the waist, flirting with young women picking from waste-high bushes. When we got
back, she counted out what we had made overall, remarking, that what with
sandwiches and drinks, we had made a profit of 20p. She counted it exaclty. Then
she gave my younger bro and me our cut.
But on the whole, any moment of the day could be punctuated by an emotional
outburst of verbal abuse over some perceived slight, some petty grievance; perhaps I
had forgotten to put one of her magazines back under the coffee table neatly enough;
evidence of a congenital or irredeemable selfishness and thoughtlessness on my part,
as she violently pushed open the door of the bedroom where I had piled up my books
on the chest of drawers. I had accumulated twenty-four; a motley collection of
mostly annuals and nature books. She cottoned on immediately to the sense of
comfort I derived from them, and mid-tirade, “How would you like it if I treated your
things like that”?, threatened to sweep them to the floor. It wasn’t a question but a
statement. It required little input input on my part, except to be the recipient of her
self-righteous justifications. And anything could be utilised as a means for those
justifications and self-righteous anger, Comic annuals I had been so delighted with,
given in all apparent generosity over Xmas could now become a means for another
purpose, symbols of guilt as with all my books; a reminder of my terminal self-
centredness. The give-away, lost on me, was contained in her throwaway criticisms;
voiced so often they were a like a mantra for her; “You’re just like your father. He
was always fucking reading, and drawing as well.” Knowing little of of bitterness, of
what it must be like to live in the past; in a world of shadows, the future was an open
book, as, was the present, except in these moments, when she seemed to be
determined to make it as unpleasant as possible. As psychological and emotionally
unmanageable as she experienced her own life to be. By projecting it onto me, it
could give her an illusory sense of control, omnipotence even, along with her
seemingly omniscient presence where little escaped her, or so she would have me
believe, Left alone with her, I could serve the purpose of making up for the anger and
bitterness she felt over my dad, her sense of disappointment and disillusionment with
life, with the world, the fear she felt in the present over being alone and facing an
uncertain, hostile and, very probably, ill fated future. In fear of everything, including
herself, mistrustful of her few friends, who, unlike her, mostly had partners, all this
could be safely and harmlessly displaced onto me, the constant reminder of her
underlying sense of guilt and failure and lack. To take it out on me, in which I
became a symbol of the world and how it had treated her, I could, far from becoming
a reinforcement of that deep subconscious sense of guilt, be its opposite; her means of
taking revenge over a past and a world (and subconsciously, a God) that had so self
evidently shown her so little consideration and was actively hostile, in fact. The next
step was inevitable. Projecting her own subconscious fear, rage and terror onto me,
she could then jump to the conclusion I felt exactly the same towards her. But as
she’d set the situation up so as to see it like this, she had no need to consult me or
anyone else on the subject except insofar as she might find others to agree with her,
and as I was the means to that end, the least person's opinion she was interested in,
was mine, (And after all, if she was in my position, wouldn’t she feel the same,
however much she rationalised that I deserved all I got and more?). But dissociation
would never allow her to bring such thoughts into consciousness, and looking and
finding justification for anger and hatred could feed it and allow it to continue.
Stealing some money out of her purse played right into her hands. I was baffled
when she would inform my granddad that I hated her, playing the semi-distraught
innocent victim, like a petulant child, about the money I’d stolen. I had also helped
myself to some change from granddad's trousers when he and his wife stayed over at
the weekend. Always empathetically inclined, he never confronted me on it, but my
mother had mentioned it in passing in her usual vindictive tone one weekend when
they were around in the flat; I couldn’t imagine him blabbing on me, or perhaps he
underestimated her alertness, her capacity for never forgetting or omitting the least
smattering of guilt on my part, however slight, let alone serious; that internal list she
was accumulating with which to damn me forever beyond all hope. Confirmation of
the bad lot I in all likelihood would turn out to be in comparison to my younger
brother ( as if such an outcome would have no effect on either of them, whatever
effect it might have on others, her secret wish, or part of it). Or ro my 'pal' Billy in
the next close – I never call him 'my pal', friend as he was – who she once remarked
when on seeing him walking at his customary brisk pace on the way back from
school, that “he always looks like he know's where he's going.” That much I could
agree with, but typically it was used as a negative comparison; and she knew I
respected him and that he liked me, so it could be mutual. Just another means of
ammunition, of turning reality on its head.
Years later it occurred to me that perhaps Ina, my granddad’s partner had told
her about me taking some money out of his pockets after he'd told her. She was a
mediocre person, but I didn't see that. When my mum was doing her 'woe is me' act
while simultaneously trying to get him agree to with her rightous indignation on his
behalf, he was dismissing it knowing on some level her attitude was imbalanced – out
of whack. His daughter had a serious distortion probem; he would know. Whatever
the case, this and other myriad sins of mine were all the evidence – and pretext – she
needed to help decide a course of action. Her interpretations of events as always,
seen in wholly personal terms. My boyish enthusiasms were of of no interest to her
except insofar as they kept me out from under her feet and out of sight, and, as far as
she knew, out of trouble. An arrangement that suited both us, as keeping a low
profile by staying in our room – 'the wee room' – and reading was, when I wasn’t out
playing, my way of avoiding it as best I knew how. If it wasn't for enjoying reading
so much I'd rarely have been in. Later I would spend more time in the reading room
section of the local library.