Chapter Eight So Much for Normality

Chapter Eight

‘So Much for Normality’

 

In the absence of any formal birth certification, Jack’s precise age was initially uncertain. He may for instance have been a small five or six year old, or even a more physically well developed younger child. The true facts only came to light following the inevitable forensic sweep of Black Lodge and Matron Weaver’s worldly possessions therein. This seems to have occurred more by luck than design when an overly enthusiastic and curious investigator whose job was to bag up any dubious or potentially incriminating evidence caught sight of a dated entry in Matron Weaver’s five year diary which simply read, ‘Its male, God help me’. The singular word me, appearing to have been sometime later, lined through in a darker ink and replaced with the words, us both. 

 

When this particular discovery was eventually made, the then, still disinfectant tainted pages of Matron Weaver’s diary revealed more about her than anyone might possibly have imagined. The fact each entry was signed and dated in the same meticulous hand was amazing, but colder and more typical of a stock inventory or ward report than any personal and private memoir or recollection of thoughts, feelings and experiences.  

 

Of particular significance and later raised in court, there appears to have been very little warmth ever shown to Jack and none of love whatsoever. Nevertheless, there was sufficient venom in print to suggest deep resentment, feelings of contempt and an overwhelming sense of shame having been harboured by Elizabeth Weaver. Indeed, each page conveyed the true depth of her negative emotions which seem to have commenced just prior to the moment of her son Jack’s conception and escalated thereafter, only to manifest later in the form of severe and sustained emotional neglect.  

 

The resultant psychological abuse and total denial that seemed to have been maintained in the name of perfection, cleanliness and above all Godliness, in simple terms, ‘Elizabeth’s trilogy’ was later to become Jack’s personal and lifelong nemesis and must have surely yelled its head off within the confines of Black Lodge. Yet, it almost certainly went unheard amongst the assorted frenzy of day to day psychiatric institutional routines. How else could such a miserable existence have been maintained?

 

In Jacks head, despite the fact logic suggested otherwise, beauty was no different from perfection and when he closed his eyes, regardless of what he might have been doing moments before, or for that matter, how tired he was. The most lingering image burnt into the retina of his minds eye before it eventually dissolved into white light, would be the anguish stretched across the taught and objectively flawless face of Elizabeth, his mother. It was there, in his head that she would always seem to be forever examining herself for any small mark or blemish in the region of her groin, her breasts, the corners of her mouth, or eyes and elsewhere.

 

Not surprisingly, every single detail, including those of uncertain origin pertaining to that fateful morning in Black Lodge was clearly documented by a succession of so called experts over a period of time, now approaching almost three decades and without any doubt, much had happened within that same frame.

 

Certainly some of the most diverse and often starkly opposing opinions would be proposed, buried and resurrected time and time again by the blood hungry media, who remained very much aware that someone else’s tragedy, a pool of blood or a body on a slab for example, sold newspapers. Lorry loads, by all accounts and which might ultimately line their pockets with silver and with gold. 

 

It was no great secret many notable academics of the time held conflicting theories as to why Jack’s name had somehow become synonymous with all things evil. According to a poll undertaken during the long hot summer of 1976, his name had become superbly juxtaposed against some of the most notorious and feared killers of all time. Indeed in living memory, only the ‘Yorkshire Ripper’s’ nocturnal activities came close to instilling as much a frenzy across the nation as did Jack’s little escapades.

 

Not surprisingly, there were those who felt had there ever been any genuine warmth or love shown to him, then Jack might have perceived of his world differently. He might even have responded more adaptively and been even better equipped to deal with some of the unquestionable trauma and significant losses he is thought to have endured during his formative years. Yes indeed, that peculiar bell shaped curve psychologists were always banging on about had an awful lot to answer for.

 

Others believed that whilst the 10^th December 1956 had begun much the same as any other for Jack, it was arguably the later events of that same day and his final encounter with Dell Morgan that might more fittingly be blamed for the creation of a monster. In spite of this increasingly popular opinion however, there were certainly no ‘Elizabeth Weaver is Innocent’ campaigners burning their bras in front of ‘All Saints Church’ or lobbying their local MP’s for her acquittal and not a single vexed humanist seemed prepared to rant outside HMP Wormwood Scrubs demanding Elizabeth’s immediate release.

 

In essence, having been deemed unfit to raise a child and sentenced to a period not exceeding seven years for gross neglect and parental incompetency, Judge Flood recommended Elizabeth use any available free time to wrestle with her conscience and contemplate the child’s eventual forgiveness.

 

As soon as the judge finished his summing up and she had been led away, the now ex-matron Weaver immediately fixed herself an additional penalty, that of self rebuke and constant personal humiliation. Indeed, as far as it can now be established, she never once asked for sympathy, nor understanding or any other kind of reprieve. On the contrary, all she ever asked was for the daily soap residue of sanitary ablutions that would have otherwise been consigned to the lavatories and sinks of HMP Wormwood. Consequently, whenever such material was made available to her, the disgraced Elizabeth Weaver would diligently re-shape the mush into more solid bars and set about prolonging her own personal hygiene regime, with no less vigour than she ever did before her enforced incarceration.    

Throughout his own so called rehabilitation, Jack was occasionally informed of his mother’s progress and despite the odd favourable report he remained silent and outwardly unforgiving. He never did take up the offer of conveying his best wishes. In his own mind, Elizabeth had deserted him long ago and had seemingly forgotten his very existence. Such overt ambivalence, like every other nuance, characteristic or trait he had ever exhibited in custody was noted and would no doubt eventually form the basis for some wannabe psychologists post graduate thesis. 

 

Right from the off, Bank’s-Barking anticipated considerable interest would be shown in respect of his recently acquired protégé and had already submitted several papers in which Jack variously featured. Not only that, he was forced to acknowledge that at six or maybe seven years of age and having been raised in little more than a box for most of that time. It should come as no great surprise he was inadequately equipped to grasp the meaning or the implications behind someone else’s compulsory imprisonment and since such an existence had always been the norm, consent would probably be an alien concept. Now that particular notion, if one considers what happened to his mother could have the makings of a best seller, he thought.    

 

Nevertheless, when news eventually arrived that his mother, Elizabeth Weaver was dead, having effectively burnt out her insides with some corrosive bleach of one sort or another and scrubbing her body almost to the bone, Jack wept briefly into his pillow. Some experts believe that particular moment might have been the window of opportunity they were all looking for. Jack on the other hand, knew otherwise and the shutters were forcibly closed from somewhere deep and dark within. Elizabeth Weaver was after all his mother, and despite having formally criticised and resented his every breath it seemed, she had now been irrevocably taken from him. Was that really such a bad thing though in the end, he reasoned?

 

At least she had been taken at ‘that certain point of beauty’ when there was no overt signs of corruption or decay to taint his memory of her. When in his mind at least she was beautiful and quite perfect.  

Orchid

Like an orchid in a storm

   You are bruised and you are torn.

You are no longer beautiful.

 

Having no family whatsoever to rely upon or call meant that in the early days at least, he was farmed out to numerous childless couples who were invariably eager to ply all those things he had for so long been deprived. Jack though was far from stupid, gullible or easy to please. He was however quite used to feeling cold, of being ignored, scolded or even worse and found it difficult to let go of the rituals he had inherited from Elizabeth which shocked or frequently irritated those who initially vowed to unconditionally proffer upon him acceptance, warmth, stability and love.  

 

Young Jack quickly earned the reputation of being difficult, awkward and unfulfilling. On more than one occasion, he was returned to one of several Local Authority Social Care and Welfare Departments at some God-forsaken hour without any explanation whatsoever. Furthermore, according to the scant surviving records, several former host families had moved without leaving any forwarding address and were therefore untraceable.   

It was several weeks later and whilst being paraded before a middle aged couple and their young daughter Brenda that a newspaper on the Warden’s desk caught Jack’s eye. Bodies found on heath in ….

 

The natural fold in the tabloid denied him the thrill of taking in the full headline there and then, but in spite of that inconvenience, he knew it continued along the lines of, in an act of unprecedented indecency. Jack looked up and smiled at the young blond haired Brenda, possibly not more than two or three years his senior. His mouth filled with the familiar metallic taste of rust as he caught the first faint hint of disinfectant about her.

 

Oh well, one man’s act of intimacy is another man’s indecency he mused. Let that be a lesson to them all for now, he concluded.

 

  “He’s adorable, can we keep him father, oh please, please, please”. Brenda lisped. Jack was subsequently asked whether he would like to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Turner for a while. At that precise moment, he was unsure whether he had been asked a question that warranted an opinion or conversely given a command that denied him any choice in the matter. On several previous occasions his view had not been sought and so he did not immediately respond. 

 

The Warden was eventually obliged to produce a forced cough which prompted Jack to nod his head, more by reflex than any conscious intent or desire. However, no sooner were all the formalities out of the way, than he found himself squeezed up against the young Brenda in the back seat of a 1953 Hillman minx. He remained firmly wedged between her, an old suitcase and Brenda’s younger brother Trevor for the duration of the ride. At some point, Jack began to wonder whether Trevor who was additionally strapped into some peculiar contraption designed to stop him jumping out when the car was moving, was any more uncomfortable than he was himself.   

 

The front, rear and side windows had a habit of steaming up within minutes of setting off when the car was full, and the wiper blade kept sticking mid screen, much to the annoyance of both Mr. Turner and his wife Maude. He, because he wanted nothing more than to get home, get changed and spend the rest of the evening with a few lads down at the local, and she, because of the perceived dangerousness of the whole situation.  

 

Jack had never travelled in a family saloon before and was beginning to feel nauseous. He had not anticipated the undulating twists, the frequent bumps and the relentless jarring of the spine that suburban road surfaces insisted on affording the inexperienced traveller. Brenda though was obviously very happy, she laughed aloud and began to swing her legs to and fro, in time with the 1952 oldie ‘Going Home’ by Fats Domino and urged jack to join in. Trevor was already asleep, thumb wedged in the corner of his mouth and best off out of it. 

 

They eventually arrived outside the semi and parked up a few yards in front of one of the new street lights which bathed the road, the pavement and the old privet hedge in pale, insipid light. There was a slight but not that unpleasant scuffing sensation and an accompanying smell of burning of rubber as they drew up. Nothing too disconcerting, the front nearside tyre having kissed the kerb more forcibly than Mr. Turner had intended, that’s all. Inside quickly all of you, Maude instructed, last one in’s a sissy and don’t forget to put the kettle on, she called.

 

The opening few bars of ‘Let’s go, Let’s go, Let’s go’ by ‘Hank Ballard and the Midnighter’s’ although incredibly apt fell on deaf ears in the mad rush to get out of the rain and into the sanctuary of what was essentially now meant to be their collective home and official place of residence. Top coats, caps and scarves were all swiftly removed and slung over the banister and anywhere else available in the hall to dry and air. Most eventually ended up in a damp steaming mess surrounded by a puddle on the floor for Maude to tidy away later. Jack himself was just as swiftly dispatched having been given the briefest of one stop tours by Brenda who took great delight leading him by the hand from one room to another and back again until he felt dizzy.

 

Eventually, she introduced him to what was going to be the sleeping arrangement, at least for the next few nights or so. They would have a jolly good shift around and a sort out sooner or later to make sure everyone was comfortable, Maude explained.

  “You wont mind sharing with Trevor until then will you Jack?” Jack was not in the least bit bothered one way or the other. By the time he had emptied the old suitcase of its few contents and placed them where he felt they most appropriately belonged and having double, double checked for symmetry and alignment, he was beginning to feel tired.

 

Within forty-five minutes or so, he had completed all of his pre retirement routines without any interruptions, and which he had to admit came close to a personal best. He smiled to himself and pulled the rough blanket up over his chest drifting off to the sounds of a more than reasonably contented household, already fast asleep.  

 

The Turner’s or at least most of them desperately wanted to make Jack’s stay with them a success and were variously determined to pull out all the stops in order to achieve this aim. Of course, each member of the family had his or her own motivation and agenda as far as young Jack was concerned. Maude for one had been advised not to try for any more children and Brenda was desperate for a brother nearer her own age.

 

Adoption therefore seemed to provide a good all round solution, at least as far as the girls were concerned. Young Trevor was almost certainly too young to form an opinion, but Jack Turner on the other hand, already a father of two, a reasonably successful businessman and captain of the ‘Squirrels’ public house darts team, really wanted nothing more than a quiet life and for his young mistress Pam Pritchard to keep her pretty mouth shut. If the truth were known, which he hoped it never would be, he seriously wished that Pam would reconsider the long term implications of having his child, and which as far as he was concerned was nothing more than a big mistake.  

 

Reviews

[barleygirl]

This is some great storytelling. In many of your poems, your expression of things feels unduly brief, but here in a longer story, I love how you elaborate on details to the point of amazement. I'm amazed at how many sparkling details you add along the storyline, keeping things fresh & unexpected. Also, about the idea that one's deviance can be explained away according to parenting or environment . . . I'm of the mind that there are some evil people who are simply evil & will do evil things regardless of having had the best advantages (current USA prez, for example). There are too many similar discussions that can be provoked by many aspects of this story! (((NUBS))) Fondly, Margie

[Neville]

I would certainly agree with the view that there are some folk who for whatever reason are intrinsically evil... regardless of both genetics and nurture....... I am as McDonald's say's luvin it ... your visits that is............. Neville x