warning, some men arrived and took our daddy away, witnessed by Norman. For several days, we were all in a daze and people refused to discuss my
father’s disappearance. I was unable to fathom what on earth he had done now and I was too scared to ask. All I knew was that adults fell silent when I walked into rooms, whether it was at
home, at Granny Katie’s in Ashgrove, or Granny Jenny’s in Bellshill. Voices dropped to a whisper in my presence, children acted oddly towards me at school and neighbours avoided my
mother and huddled in small groups to murmur together. I began to think that whatever had happened must involve me, but I was terrified to know how. Eventually, I could not prevent myself from
asking, ‘What’s happened to my daddy? Where is he gone?’
I confronted my mother and grandmother as they sat sobbing together, and yet apart, in our living room, in which a Christmas tree waited forlornly to be dressed. My mother couldn’t look at
me, and sobbed all the harder. It was one thing to see her cry, but odd to see Granny Jenny, a big strapping woman who had worked all her life gutting fish and butchering meat, crying her heart
out. I was stricken by her face. She blew her nose noisily, then looked at me, her eyes puffed and swollen. She was wearing black from top to toe, and the material reeked of camphor. Had someone
died?
‘Hospital,’ she croaked, ‘Yer daddy’s been taken awa’ tae the hospital, hen. Dinnae ask yer mammy any mair aboot it, she’s far too upset the noo. Ye’ll
be telt all aboot it when ye’re a lot bigger.’
I looked at her solemnly and nodded. There was a long silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, their whimpers and the occasional movement of great glowing cinders
in the fire as logs shifted. My eyes fixed on the firelight, which usually fascinated me with its myriad pictures, and I rolled myself into a little ball, chin perched miserably on my knees.
‘Does it mean Santa won’t be coming to us this year then?’ There were cuddles of reassurance, and I was told that this year would be a bit different, but Santa would not forget
where we stayed. The subject had been changed, but neither woman ever voluntarily told me where my father was.
Reluctantly, I accepted what I was told. One day in the summer of 1957, I asked my grandfather as we picked sweet peas together, confidentially, ‘Why can’t I visit my daddy in
hospital?’
He looked at me quickly, then carried on cutting the twisted tendrils. ‘There are some hospitals children aren’t allowed to visit – d’you mind when Gran and I took ye on
the train to see someone at Hartwood?’
I nodded, all ears. My dad’s father was chief boilerman then at Bellshill Maternity near where they stayed, and I reasoned that he must know about these things.
‘Well, it’s a mental hospital – you and William had to play outside, remember? This is the same. Your dad’s in a mental home. They wouldn’t let you in,
Sandra.’
I absorbed this answer and suppressed more questions. I did remember the visit to some relative. It had stuck in my mind because, as we played in the grounds of the hospital, my cousin and I had
seen some patients shovelling snow. As one bent perspiring over a spade, heaving the glistening heaps into the front of a wheelbarrow, another was busy tipping snow out of the back. This had
greatly appealed to the humour of two five-years-olds, but we were also slightly fearful of these souls who had been labelled ‘daft’, and we ran off as they approached us.
For many years, I accepted that my father’s absence had been due to mental illness – which then carried such a stigma it could not be discussed.
Chapter Eight
In all families there are unspoken agreements about what may and may not be discussed. People live with the worry that in a moment of unguarded confidence, a dreadful secret
might be disclosed that could never be recanted, and that might
father’s disappearance. I was unable to fathom what on earth he had done now and I was too scared to ask. All I knew was that adults fell silent when I walked into rooms, whether it was at
home, at Granny Katie’s in Ashgrove, or Granny Jenny’s in Bellshill. Voices dropped to a whisper in my presence, children acted oddly towards me at school and neighbours avoided my
mother and huddled in small groups to murmur together. I began to think that whatever had happened must involve me, but I was terrified to know how. Eventually, I could not prevent myself from
asking, ‘What’s happened to my daddy? Where is he gone?’
I confronted my mother and grandmother as they sat sobbing together, and yet apart, in our living room, in which a Christmas tree waited forlornly to be dressed. My mother couldn’t look at
me, and sobbed all the harder. It was one thing to see her cry, but odd to see Granny Jenny, a big strapping woman who had worked all her life gutting fish and butchering meat, crying her heart
out. I was stricken by her face. She blew her nose noisily, then looked at me, her eyes puffed and swollen. She was wearing black from top to toe, and the material reeked of camphor. Had someone
died?
‘Hospital,’ she croaked, ‘Yer daddy’s been taken awa’ tae the hospital, hen. Dinnae ask yer mammy any mair aboot it, she’s far too upset the noo. Ye’ll
be telt all aboot it when ye’re a lot bigger.’
I looked at her solemnly and nodded. There was a long silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, their whimpers and the occasional movement of great glowing cinders
in the fire as logs shifted. My eyes fixed on the firelight, which usually fascinated me with its myriad pictures, and I rolled myself into a little ball, chin perched miserably on my knees.
‘Does it mean Santa won’t be coming to us this year then?’ There were cuddles of reassurance, and I was told that this year would be a bit different, but Santa would not forget
where we stayed. The subject had been changed, but neither woman ever voluntarily told me where my father was.
Reluctantly, I accepted what I was told. One day in the summer of 1957, I asked my grandfather as we picked sweet peas together, confidentially, ‘Why can’t I visit my daddy in
hospital?’
He looked at me quickly, then carried on cutting the twisted tendrils. ‘There are some hospitals children aren’t allowed to visit – d’you mind when Gran and I took ye on
the train to see someone at Hartwood?’
I nodded, all ears. My dad’s father was chief boilerman then at Bellshill Maternity near where they stayed, and I reasoned that he must know about these things.
‘Well, it’s a mental hospital – you and William had to play outside, remember? This is the same. Your dad’s in a mental home. They wouldn’t let you in,
Sandra.’
I absorbed this answer and suppressed more questions. I did remember the visit to some relative. It had stuck in my mind because, as we played in the grounds of the hospital, my cousin and I had
seen some patients shovelling snow. As one bent perspiring over a spade, heaving the glistening heaps into the front of a wheelbarrow, another was busy tipping snow out of the back. This had
greatly appealed to the humour of two five-years-olds, but we were also slightly fearful of these souls who had been labelled ‘daft’, and we ran off as they approached us.
For many years, I accepted that my father’s absence had been due to mental illness – which then carried such a stigma it could not be discussed.
Chapter Eight
In all families there are unspoken agreements about what may and may not be discussed. People live with the worry that in a moment of unguarded confidence, a dreadful secret
might be disclosed that could never be recanted, and that might
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