Wales 1966 – 1967

Summer 1966, age 14

The world reassembled as my eyes opened. I was looking up at a plain white ceiling, smooth with no cracks. It was not my bedroom ceiling. My gangly 14-year-old body was lying on a bed covered by a sheet and thin blanket, dressed in baggy blue-striped pajamas—definitely not my pajamas. The room had a faint disinfectant smell and it was empty except for the bed and a bedside table. Like the room, my head was empty—blank. [Read more…] about 1: Surface & Depth – An Encounter with Death

Summer 1966, age 14

We sat in the back of the rattling ambulance on our way back to Cardiff from the hospital—a journey of ten miles. The nurse had hustled us off, dressed in borrowed pajamas, dressing gowns and cheap slippers.

Across from me, Toody clung close to Dad, quiet and subdued. He looked smaller than usual in his drooping pajamas as though shrunk in the wash. Not quite 13, he was still a child: round baby face, big sad green eyes and shrill voice. We shared a bedroom but since the move to Cardiff 18 months ago, we’d grown apart—or maybe I’d stopped caring. His chirpy manner got on my nerves, so I tuned him out, like other things that bothered me. A lot of things bothered me. [Read more…] about 2: The Unconscious Family

Late summer, 1966, age 14

I lugged the clothes in two overstuffed duffle bags out of the launderette and up the street. We had no washing machine at home; it was my turn to sit with the rumbling tumble-dryers, nursing my mortification, fearful of being seen. On the walk home I was on edge: What if I meet someone from school? What do I say?

At our front door, I yelled through the letterbox for someone to open up. I had no key and the doorbell was broken. Instead of Dilly muttering irritably, the door jerked open and my brother John stood smiling up at me, a mop of blond hair hanging over one eye, his short compact body radiating impatience. [Read more…] about 3: Dancing with the Shadow

Autumn 1966, age 15

John’s presence reverberated throughout the household, ramping up the tension. I did my best not to notice; there were too many things on my mind. School was starting and I would be in the Fifth Form, the year we had to prepare for the dreaded national ‘O Level’ exams. Worse than that, sometime recently I’d lost my faith: I no longer felt connected to the Catholic Church.

When we lived in Brecon, the years before we moved to Cardiff, life was simple. I went to school, played in the woods and gardens of Ffrwd and attended Mass at St. Michael’s Catholic church. One thing I knew for certain, I was going to become a real Catholic and probably a saint. Of course, I wasn’t a Catholic yet. I’d have to be re-baptized when I was 15—but in the meantime I was working on saintliness. [Read more…] about 4: Mother Church

Winter 1966, age 15

Freed from the shackles of Catholicism, I could do anything I wanted; if only that were true! My inner prison—restrictions and hesitations—was as confining as ever and I was locked in a tiny cell with my omnipresent obsession: sex.

Other than feeling miserably self-conscious, the worse thing about being 15 was sexual urgency. A hormonal switch had flipped and now it was permanently stuck in the on position: a constant prickling in my genitals and a preoccupation with the rounded parts of female anatomy. Sexual fantasies invaded my waking thoughts and nightly dreams. Each morning my erection had to be carefully camouflaged as I hobbled to the bathroom. [Read more…] about 5: Shame about Sex

Winter Early 1967, age 15

The rain lashed down outside as I watched TV alone in the telly room. I heard someone tapping on the window of the front door. Dilly was out and Dad never answered the door. Would John or Toody come downstairs?

More tapping and letterbox rattling. Grumpily, I stepped into the frigid hall and pulled the door open. There stood Jamillah on the doorstep, drenched and miserable, hair dripping with rain, mascara running down her cheeks. We stood there awkwardly. [Read more…] about 6: An Aborted Trial

Spring 1967, Age 15

The bus journey from Cardiff to Brecon lingered slow and dreary. I sat in a back seat gazing out the window, watching the gray towns slide by. The old vehicle, gears grinding, labored up through the Welsh Valleys, deep furrows in the once green hills, now devastated by coal-mining. I was going to spend a week with my grandmother at Ffrwdgrech (frudegrech) to study for the forthcoming O Level exams. [Read more…] about 7: No Place Like Home

Early Summer, 1967, age 15

“C’mon, it’ll be great! Just talk to Dad. I’m sure he’ll be OK. It’ll be a gas!” John was really hyped up.

It was the summer holidays and John had come up with another wild scheme: we should hitchhike to Ireland. Once we got to Dungarvan, we could borrow Mummy’s van and drive around the country—no need for a driver’s license in Ireland. There was only one snag: with no phone, we’d have to persuade Mummy once we got there. [Read more…] about 8: The Hero’s Journey

Summer 1967, Age 15

I woke to sounds of clattering from the tiny kitchen area a few feet from my head. Mother was boiling the kettle for tea and making porridge. In the transition between sleeping and wakefulness, I felt a churning mix of peace and alarm. Half asleep, I imagined I was a child; someone was making my breakfast. As my eyes opened, reality hit: the claustrophobic caravan, the smell of paraffin and Mother’s overpowering presence. Even with her back to me, I sensed her edgy energy; like the porridge, she might over-boil any moment. Be careful! [Read more…] about 9: The Complex Mother

Late Summer 1967, Age 15

“You need a job.” Mother’s announced out of the blue one morning in the middle of August. Dad had sent me my O Level results—I hadn’t done too badly—and had reminded me that school started soon. Now Mother wanted to settle the question whether I was staying or going once and for all.

Work was scarce in Dungarvan. Dejected men in dirty gray coats stood around the Square each morning, smoking and hoping for a day job. As soon as the pubs opened, the Square emptied—but the shabby men were there again the next morning and the next. What chance did I have? But Mother had a plan: we should talk to an old friend of hers. [Read more…] about 10: Learning to Lounge