Feeling different, self aware, defiant.
I was born in England at the 5 Crossways hospital Yeovil, Somerset at 5:05 PM on December 15th 1956. My parents, Alan and Kathleen Goodland then took me home to a pre fab, a pre fabricated dwelling at No 1, Abbey Rd. Larkhill, Yeovil, Somerset.
My father was in the Air Force, having met my mother at a local dance. At the time, he was unaware that she had abandoned two children from a previous marriage. She had left John (7) and Cathy (10) in a home back in Scotland, 700 miles away.
Brother John and sister Cathy, two bewildered children who watched each afternoon as other parents arrived to pick up their loved ones from the convent style school – but no one ever arrived for them.
On eventually learning that fact, my father’s mother, Daisy Goodland, forbid my father from marrying Kathleen McCartney unless the children were reunited with their mother.
In 195X, my father rescued the children and he formally adopted them as his own.
By the time I was a toddler, along with my mother, father and stepfamily, I was living at 61 Freedom Avenue. Yeovil, Somerset.
My first conscious memory was of being wheeled in my pushchair …at breakneck speed along the road of the kerb-lined grass “circle” in front of our house. Terrified and screaming, my brother would holler for me to stop crying before even considering slowing down.
“Stop crying and I’ll stop pushing”, he would shout.
On eventually stopping, I would sob pitifully again but then be threatened with the “rings”. John would pretend to lift up the rings of my pushchair, an act that would cause the pushchair to fold up on itself, gobbling me in the process.
With my toddler reigns clipped to the pushchair, I was a trapped victim. A victim with only the threat of one terrifying event to save me from the terror of the other.
This torture went on repeatedly till my brother tired of “the game”.
My earliest family memories were of “hidings” dished out by my father at my mother’s commands. This punishment was usually reserved for John and Cathy but I would get mine occasionally too. I recalled conflict, constant rowing and unhappiness and by the age of four, I felt genuinely isolated and unloved.
Nevertheless, I recall I developed a level of empathy for the plight of others. At an early age, I was always able to look at life through the eyes of those around me.
This aspect was probably attributed to the helplessness of the traumatic surroundings I grew up in. It led to me feeling a need to radiate my own character out to those I recognised as needing some form of comfort or help too. Of course, in return, I often earned similar feelings from those I supported.
My bedroom was a refuse tip, never tidied unless done so by my Nan whom I idolised. My underclothes filthy, rarely changed by my mother, my clothes too large, second hand or dirty. I used to take off my own underwear and throw them into bushes rather than continue wearing them. I can still pull a mental memory recall the ammonia type smell.
My professional father, my immaculately dressed mother – why did they not notice, care or take care of their little boy?
The day I was expected to start junior school, my mother slept in her bed. She did not participate in my “big day”. Brother John walked me the mile across town to Nan’s and Nan took me in to Westfield Junior School.
Minutes after she left me safely with the teachers, I absconded, following Nan’s trail back to her house at 45 Westfield Crescent. I was gently encouraged to return.
On that first day, walking up to a teacher, I said, “If you want anything Miss, my name is Christopher Alan Goodland”. The teacher smiled and tied my loose shoelaces. Her name was Mrs Sandy and I know she fell for me there and then.
Born out of pity, concern, a maternal instinct? I don’t know but I appreciated her care. Occasionally, I saw Mrs Sandy at the same caravan site that Nan’s caravan was parked on.
Like my Nan, Mrs Sandy always made me feel so special.
Nevertheless, at school, I certainly recalled being a happy and intelligent little boy. Average in most subjects, I was described in my reports as having a great imagination, an active mind and a friendly and helpful disposition.
But nearly 40 years later, in writing this, I realise that one particular early memory shines a light on an aspect of me that raises all sorts of questions about my early mental makeup and approach to life.
I had joined in a schoolroom task to design and paint a poster. We were invited to design adverts of the kind we might see on billboards or on TV.
All of the other children designed posters broadcasting the benefits of a particular brand of washing up liquid or soap powder. I did not pursue such a theme. Instead, my posters proclaimed “Eat Food!”, “Sit on Chairs”, “Breath Air!” and were accompanied by suitable pictures.
But why was a little 5-year-old boy producing such messages? What was going through his mind? What caused him to advertise what could easily be described as “the obvious”?
I do not recall the answer I gave then – but I do understand now.
I was somehow aware of the deceit and insincerity of advertising and marketing. Yes, I was stating the obvious but I must have been making the point that adverts were “lies” designed to sway and entice us into buying particular brands.
My advertising campaign was not so shallow. I was saying, “Well, we do need to eat, we do need to rest and we do need to survive”.
I was 5 – at infant’s school! Where did my “view” develop?
Another memory. Same school. 40 of us standing on stage at school during assembly. Teachers throw handfuls of sweets onto wooden floor of school hall. Teacher claps and 39 children jump from stage and scramble to fight, compete and argue over handfuls of sweets. One child stands firm, not willing to run like a dog chasing a stick. Felt a sense of character. Nor willing to demean self.
Another memory. Maybe 6 or 7 years old. I am in an amusement arcade at West bay coastal resort. And have been adopted by two new friends. (Policeman’s children).
A fruit machine has inadvertently spewed out whole handfuls of pennies – a lot of money to children in the early 60’s. I watch my two friends scooping up the pennies, filling their pockets. I stand motionless, unable and unwilling to join in the “crime” despite the arcade being empty – with no sign of the owners. I couldn’t steal the coins.
In the family itself, I hold a memory of growing up neglected and unloved – Overlooked. A lonely little boy. Consequently, I felt different and comparing my life and surroundings with others, I could confirm that fact.
Young friends were NEVER allowed into my home, toys were limited or second hand and money was short.
Nan and Nan`s house always felt a sanctuary, a place to soak up love, affection and life. Nan would make it right. Nan was the font of love with which I, as a little boy I quenched my starved thirst.
Nan was Co Op lemon cordial, home baked fruit and rock cakes, brittle, oven tanned crunchy bread, strawberries and cream, meals at ornately decorated tables, tick tocking cookoo clocks, Bakelite radios and The World At One.
Pop, a tall silver haired man with the most smiling eyes imaginable, was Nan’s loyal husband, a reliable and entirely timeless figure. Pop was a seamless extension of Nan and of course, as a little boy, he would have appeared nothing less.
Nan said I was exactly like Pop. I had the same build, the same features, the same look. I was just smaller!
Nan and Pop. …My Nan and Pop.
(Even now, the energy of their love remains with me and I with it).
The bedrock of my compassion, my comprehension of love and one of the several essential pillars of my character are based on the mere presence of those two special, precious people. …And Nan, as the hub of the Goodland family was the star we all orbited around.
By the time I started at junior school, I was already wriggling from any close contact with my mother. It was far too late. If my mother put her arms around me, I would tense up, freeze, as if embraced by some cold, scaly lizard
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