First day at school

As usual I was trailing behind - I was short even when I was only nine and my little legs could never seem to keep up with other peoples – a few paces ahead of me I could see my mother and even from behind I could tell she was frowning at my brother, who was much further ahead and proclaiming in as loud a voice as possible that he didn’t see why he had to go to a fucking French school when he couldn’t speak fucking French. His rude language wasn’t really a problem, he was fourteen, angry and where we were not many people could speak any English, so it was unlikely to offend. Admittedly I was inclined to agree (although I would never have said so out loud for fear of encouraging his outlandish behaviour, which was annoying my mother more and more).The whole situation was alien to us; we were used to gray uniforms, white shirts with starched collars, ties that felt like they would choke us if they were pulled even slightly tighter, shinny black shoes, modern schools with colourful welcoming classrooms and desks where all books were kept and pencils provided when necessary; and yet here we were, wearing jeans and trainers, carrying school bags heavy enough to make you feel like you could topple over, walking along hot cobbled streets towards a building which could have been easily mistaken for a church. I discovered that this was to be my new school; my brother was off to a more modern secondary school, where at least there would be an English teacher who taught French children English lessons. I discovered that every week my brother would get a few hours reprieve from being surrounded by people who could and would only speak French, I however would not be so fortunate.

The stone structure loomed towards me in a menacing manner and as we approached the entrance to my school I discovered that I had to walk through what appeared to be an empty building to get to the playground and eventually my classroom. This building appeared to rely solely on natural light, but as it lacked many windows, it remained gloomy. On the sunniest of days this was made worse for as you stepped out of the sun into the building, you were soaked in darkness until your eyes adjusted. For me it was the gateway to a different world, one of solitude and isolation. It felt like when I walked through that building that I stepped back in time, where the toilets were all outside and the children entertained themselves by playing hopscotch and sat on the concrete steps of the classrooms. The school I had left in England had just had a new wooden climbing frame installed, with rope bridges and bark chippings, and an open field we were encouraged to use. Here, the only playground they had was concrete and I distinctly remember staring at the gray floor and feeling like I was peering into my soul.

My first day wasn’t without its surprises. As I was lead into the classroom by my new teacher, a man who smelled strongly of aftershave and wine, I was plopped behind a desk in the middle of the class and nothing more was said. I sat patiently and tried to guess at what was going on around me. Some things were easier to figure out than others; the teacher standing at the front of the class shouting out and each child individually answering “oui” implied the morning registry, the scribble on the board with the numbers in the middle must have been the date and so on it went until something strange happened.

All appeared to be going fine until my new teacher started to raise his voice, then from behind me a little boy responded with what was unmistakably a quiver to his voice, the teacher responded with more venom this time and the little voice behind me grew strangely squeaky when suddenly the teacher charged down between the desks and as he charged back a bundle bumped against the desks all the way to the front, this happened so fast that I didn’t realise at first that the bundle was in fact the little boy from the desk behind me. There he stood, well dangled, more or less by his ear which was firmly clasped between the teacher’s index finger and thumb! He wriggled and squealed and the teacher with his face only inches away from the boy’s, bellowed at him with all his might. Even from my desk I could see bits of spittle fly from the teacher’s lips and land on the boy’s cheeks, which had become increasingly inflamed. Then as quickly as it had started the moment passed, the boy was returned to his feet and the teacher walked back behind his desk. As the boy walked back down the aisle I was amazed to see him discreetly grin and wink at his friend at the back of the room, implying that this was a regular occurrence.

Having come from an environment where teachers were kept at arms length this was a terrifying insight in the difference between our two cultures.

Needless to say that when I returned home that evening the first thing I said to my mother was “if you think I’m going back to a Fucking French school again, you’ve got another thing coming!” I wasn’t surprised that my mother smacked my behind for swearing but it was worth it if only for the look on my brother’s face.

Somewhere to start

Every good story should have a hero (if not many) but this one doesn't. There are some losers, some survivors and then there's me. But then this isn't a story. These are mixed recollections of very real events. Mixed because I couldn't put these events in sequence even if I tried, my brain left confused and dazed by the quantity of emotions experienced, unable to organise itself.

I suppose I should try and start from the beginning but I can't quite bring myself to. So instead let me take you back to a memory I have. I don't know why I have chosen this one just that it's prominent in my mind. I'm often haunted for days at a time by vague memories of things I would rather stay buried, maybe writing about them will help me put them to rest once and for all.

It's the smell that wakes me. The sweet smell of brioche being warmed in the oven. My eyes adjust to the darkened room and register the few sharp strands of light which penetrate through the gaps in the wooden shutters. Its the middle of August in the south of France and yet the room is cool. That's just the way old French houses were designed, incredibly efficient at remaining cool in the face of the summer heat. I slip out from under the covers of the huge old double bed, menacing with it's dark wooden surrounds, and head towards the window, desperate to cast light over the various pieces of furniture, all made of dark varnished wood, all foreboding in their own way. Admittedly, to an antiques dealer, or someone with more mature taste, the furniture which is heavy and ornate would be enchanting but to a twelve year old like me, they are gloomy and ominous and reflect my feelings beautifully.

I wait to be sure that the sunlight has chased away the gloom before I turn around. As I stand there waiting in the face of the open window, I can feel the breeze which is warm almost muggy, even early in the morning. It gently runs through my hair which tickles the small of my back. My long chestnut locks, my crowning glory as my mother used to say, damp with sweat from the heat of the night. From my window I can see green fields and blue sky as far as the horizon, the quiet only disturbed by the occasional car which whizzes past on the only nearby road or by the bleating of the many goats. Some dream of this. Of sweet smelling pastries, of sunlight, heat, fields of gold and only animals to break the peace. Not me. I am in an idyllic setting and yet inside I am numb.

I slip on some clothes and go and sit on the bed, my feet dangle, swinging backwards and forwards wondering whether it is me who is short or the bed which is high, trying not to think of anything else. Trying not to think of the car, crushed, bent like an accordion, battered and broken. The hospital, the paper shoes we had to wear, the scowling nurses, the machines. The wine bottles, the old men, their cheeks stained with red blotches and broken blood vessels...then the noise of tyres on the gravel interrupts my wondering mind. Someone is here.

I listen intently as the car stops, I hear the car door open and close, footsteps, voices, broken French and fluent.

“I want to see her, please”... “I think she is still sleeping”... “please check. I just need to speak to her”...

I hear footsteps coming down the corridor and the kind lady who is fostering me gently taps at my door. She speaks in French slowly to me, knowing mine is far from perfect. “Your mother is here, she wishes to speak with you.” … “Please tell her I am not ready”... “are you sure...it's been weeks”

… “I just can't yet”. I don't know why I do that. I want her more than anything. More than anything I want to hold her and not let go. But then I suppose that's the problem. I would have to let go, would have to stay here and I'm just not strong enough. And I can still feel the anger, the complete uncontrollable anger. I'm know I'm not angry at her. I'm angry because my father is dead, because I don't know where my brother is, because I'm in a foreign country away from friends and family, because we had everything and now we have nothing not even each other. Because I'm scared. And it's true, when we are at our lowest we hurt the ones we love because we know it's safe to do so. I love her so much and I'll hurt her so much.

“I'm afraid she's still sleeping”... “wake her please, I need to see her”... “I'm sorry, the child needs her rest” I know she has reluctantly accepted the poorly concealed lie, probably because it hurts less than hearing the truth. And as the tears slowly pool onto the floor I wish for one thing only. Strength.