When I was a small boy (I was petrified)

When I was a small boy l feared books and their snaking impenetrable code. Unless there were pictures offering an oasis in the desert, they had no meaning or use to me. It seemed my dad was right; here was evidence that I was indeed a useless little boy. Sometimes I would pile up my books and toys to fashion a stove and play cook with mum’s pots and pans. Dad would view the game with clear disdain; his temples a volcanic peak shrouded in the smoke of his Woodbine. Despite his best efforts to cajole me into playing soldier, for the most part I preferred to stir rather than slaughter.

At school, my friends seemed to enjoy books, but perhaps they were pretending too. After all, the oxygen of the classroom was fear of exposure and the slipper’s sting. I managed to get along by simply ignoring the issue, oblivious perhaps, and hopeful that it would somehow disappear. I have no recollection as to the reasons why I struggled so, but I suspect poor schooling was the main cause. My mum did her very best in the circumstances but she was burdened with her own problems, not least my father. I did feel her love and support strongly, but home life was a bubbling cauldron; a yin and yang battle between a mountain lioness and the black bear in the woods. The battles were evenly matched but bloody with a ringside seat.

One day I woke wracked with anxiety and nerves, because today there was to be a reading test. The last one had been a tearful humiliation thanks to my teacher announcing my lack of ability to the class and their ensuing jibes. I was the dunce corralled to the corner of the room. This time though, I had prepared well and memorised the test word for word. The story described a woman making jam in the kitchen, a lovely snapshot into a cuddly domesticity alien to me. I sat at my desk fidgeting with my eyes lowered, transfixed by the scrawling trails spiralling from the inkwell. My name was eventually called and I strode confidently to my teachers desk. She looked up with cold eyes, gesturing to a chair with a curt ‘sit’ as I approached. The book was passed across the desk and she asked me to read aloud as before, but this was not the page I had rehearsed. ‘Read please’ she barked. My mouth opened but just a wounded squeal emerged as I burst into tears. I was sent back to my desk once again in shame.

Although I can’t remember the details, I’m very thankful that my family moved as my next school was a good one. Here I felt encouraged and responded by learning quickly, gaining confidence and blooming brightly like a summer flower. Books became fun; a trusted friend and window to escape, knowledge, excitement and opportunity. Henceforth I would never be without one by my side.

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