Changing Rooms

We’re delighted to be hosting excerpts from Totnes icon, Graham Walker’s book, The Turbulent Trek of a Tenacious Tramp

With my father and his fists now having left, whilst my mother was no longer subject to the continual beatings, for me, life would remain pretty much the same; still dysfunctional, still living in squalor.

Whilst I knew that this life for us, compared to others on the street, was different. Whilst I felt constant shame over the way we lived and indeed, who I was, I was not yet aware of the psychological damage that each of us were now living with. We were feral, bereft of all social skills, homeless. Yes, irreversible damage I live with till this very day.

There are many memories that indicate how that damage was delivered. None more significant than when my mother went away for a day trip. My sister and I, then aged eight and ten, had a cunning plan; a plan beyond our years. A plan we’d put together over a week earlier when our mum told us of her trip.

As soon as she was out of the door, the plan kicked into life. We were doing ‘changing rooms’.

The front room being the room where we spent most of the time, was consequently the room that was the filthiest. The corners of the room housed mounds of dog crap that were simply covered up with old newspapers. It was cluttered with the debris of how we lived. Half-eaten sandwiches that had now evolved into lumps of furry mould, months of discarded newspapers, cans and bottles. Every shelf, every conceivable space was piled high with dust layered rubbish. The linoleum floor, barely visible through the layer of filth that had built up over the years, now only matched by the curtains that had long ago  surrendered their pattern to the filthy hands that opened and closed them. And all this immersed in the stench that our nostrils were now almost oblivious to.

We set about our task. Well, it was hardly a task. We’d been waiting for this moment for over a week. Now Mum had gone, that moment had arrived. We couldn’t wait to get started. We couldn’t wait to see her face when she returned home.

still dysfunctional, still living in squalor

We had, over the course of the previous week, made certain preparations for the job in hand. One being the lightening of Mum’s purse by the odd coin. This, combined with the few coppers we’d saved from running neighbours’ errands, gave us more than enough for the cleaning materials we needed. We’d also acquired from the church jumble sale two sets of curtains, nets and a large rug that we had stashed in a cupboard. We were ready to go.

Lets do Changing Rooms!

For the next eight hours we had an absolute ball. My sister Jill and I, working in total sync, cleared the room of over twenty bags of rubbish. Exhilarated, we cleared up the dog mess, scrubbed and polished the floor, cleaned and polished the windows. We washed skirting boards, doors. We scraped the mould from plates. We cleaned and polished anything and everything.

With all the mess gone, the heavy sofa and chairs, normally confined to a small space next to the fire grate, were able to be shifted back, allowing us to lay the large rug that we’d bought. We hung the curtains and the nets. We placed ornaments and hung pictures.

The whole process was one of the most wonderful, happy and emotional experiences I’d ever had. An experience, for both of us, that was as  memorable as it was rewarding. An experience that was peppered with many laughs, tears and hugs. Two children with a common goal. Two children, not just thrilled by their own personal experience, but also each other’s.

We stood back against the wall, surveying the panoramic fruits of our labours. Wow. What a transformation. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

I remember watching the sun shining through the snow white net curtains. It felt as though it had come to visit us and our room personally, glazing the whole space with a freshness and a glowing warmth, seemingly pouring praise over what we’d achieved.

There was just one thing left to do. I found a large piece of cardboard and in felt pen wrote on it, in huge green letters, ’OURS IS A NICE HOUSE, OURS IS!’ In almost ceremonial fashion we placed this on the mantelpiece. And then we cried again.

What a transformation

Our enthusiasm was soon replaced with almost uncontrollable excitement and anticipation. Mum was due back in half an hour.

Trevor, our six year old brother, kept watch for Mum at the garden gate whilst we kept ourselves busy. Adjusting curtains, straightening straight pictures, repolishing already repolished surfaces. And then came the call. ‘She’s coming!’

Hardly able to contain ourselves, we sat on the edge of the sofa. As difficult as it was, trying to act as  nonchalant as possible. And then Mum walked in.

She entered the room, walked across the  polished lino, stood on our new rug, threw her bags on the floor and fell back into the chair that was now free from clutter. ‘Oh I’m shattered,’ she said. ‘Put the kettle on Jill. I could murder a cup of tea.’ Jill paused, then in wretched defeat, strode slowly to the kitchen. I could hear her sobs. I ran out of the room, flung open the front door and sped up the street. I was utterly destroyed.

Of course I should have stayed with Jill. If ever there was a time she needed me, that time was now. But it was difficult enough dealing with my own pain. I couldn’t face anyone. Being the older one, I also felt overwhelmingly guilty over what my sister was now going through. What the hell was I thinking? Never once had (or could) our mum show us any affection. No hugs. No kisses. No sleep-inducing stories. No approving nods, advice or encouraging smiles. Never an acknowledgement. Never a thank you. I suppose I felt in some way she would now have no choice in acknowledging what we’d done. No choice in thanking us. I was devastatingly wrong.

My Mum never did mention the front room. And neither did we. Not even between ourselves. Within three months the room had almost returned to its original state.

It was like nothing had happened.  But it had!

You can also buy it online from the Totnes Pulse here.