Remembering Phoebe M. Rees

The name Gertrude Phoebe Meirion Rees OBE may not be immediately familiar to many people.  Neither would the name Phoebe M. Rees, as she was more commonly known.  But if I were to mention that for more than 60 years there has been a full-length play competition known as ‘The Phoebe Rees’ you might reasonably assume that she is a noteworthy figure in the world of drama and writing.  And you would be correct. 

When recalling eventful or interesting things that have happened in my life, I often wish I had had the foresight to make some notes at the time the experiences were taking place.  The memory is often a very fragile and capricious thing.  Some elements can be recalled with great clarity (though accuracy may sometimes be a little less certain), while others may be completely forgotten.  Regrettably, I made no notes whatsoever on the day when I met Phoebe Rees at her home in (or near) Williton, Somerset (actually in Five Bells, Watchet).

I am certain that the year was 1975.  I was eleven.  I sat with my father at a plain and somehow under-burdened table in a shadowy room.  My attention was taken by what appeared to be a commonplace transistor radio sitting upon the table.  But this was not an ordinary radio.  It was designed to receive the sound from television channels; indeed, it was a television, but without a screen.  We were in the home of a blind lady.

How my father had come to know of this lady, or what circumstances had led to us being welcomed into her home, I cannot recall.  But here we were. 

Across the width of the room was a window through which only the most subdued of light was able to enter.  The area outside the window was overgrown with burgeoning foliage, but its greenery somehow softened the gloom.  Adjacent to the window was a work surface upon which rested an ageing manual typewriter. 

Somewhere between the dim window and the table at which my father and I were perched was the seated figure of an elderly woman.  This was Phoebe Rees.  It was difficult to make out any details of her appearance in the gloom, and her face was further obscured by a pair of large dark glasses.  Some lost rays from the window alighted upon her full and silvery hair, and as she turned her head it was possible to make out a slightly weeping closed eye.

As an immature eleven-year-old I found Phoebe’s image a little unsettling, but not frightening.  She certainly gave an impression of being rather ethereal, of being not quite of this world – qualities no doubt exaggerated by the unlit uncertainty of the room.  But she was, nonetheless, friendly and very open to answering any questions that I might have for her, however indelicate or outlandish.

So, what was it about Phoebe Rees that might have invited such intoxicated questions from a young boy?  Well, prior to meeting her I was aware that she was a playwright, and I had had the opportunity to read one of her plays.  Until recently I had been unable recall the title, but I now know that it was The White Dove of Bardon.  It was an historical supernatural tale which made reference to a local house on Tower Hill – and I lived at an address in Tower Hill!  (But the memory cheats; White Dove actually makes no reference to a house on Tower Hill at all, but to Tower Hill, London!) 

I had been told that Phoebe had a certain supernatural or spiritual sensitivity, that when her writing made mention of ghosts or spirits she was sometimes writing with the benefit of personal experience.  White Dove was certainly a ghostly tale, though it is hard to see how this particular play could have been inspired by her own experience; the clear inspiration is a fascination with history, both local and national.

So out poured my questions about ghosts, about how she was able to continue writing if she was blind, and so on.  The question about writing was easily answered.  She had learnt to touch-type when much younger and sighted, and with the skill being so well developed, typing with accuracy was no challenge to her as long as her fingers started on the ‘home keys’.  But when it came to ghosts or spirits, it was as if the transparency of her words became mislaid in the intangible character of her presence and the darker niches of an overcast room.

I was under the impression that her ‘spiritual sensitivity’ was something that had developed following the onset of blindness, but it is clear from the corpus of Phoebe’s work that supernatural themes were present in some of her plays while she was still sighted.  Perhaps she had became more ‘spiritually sensitive’ after she had lost her sight, or maybe an existing interest had guided interpretation of her experiences unseeing.  Both my memory and speculation fail to produce any answer.

Undeterred by Phoebe’s opacity, I began to offer my own ideas, some of them drawn from the language of science – or rather the pseudo-science of popular science fiction – rather than from the language of the paranormal or spiritual.  She listened patiently, but in the end what seemed to matter to Phoebe was experience rather than explanation.  To quote the character of William Leigh in The White Dove of Bardon,

I can offer you no scientific proof […].  Such things are matters of a deep, inner, spiritual experience which can be described but which cannot be shared.  

Did it matter whether the phenomena she experienced were the ghosts of the deceased? Some other kind of ‘spiritual beings’? Or something else entirely?  What was important was that these experiences were meaningful to her and that they informed some of her writing. 

So were Phoebe’s spectral experiences real?  Yes!  At the very least they were real because they had a real effect on the world through her writing.  Beyond that, who can judge the privileged experiences of another person? 

And so, in due course, my meeting with Phoebe Rees came to an end.  She gave me a slim volume in a plain pale blue cover.  It was a copy of her play Tell Mother – The Butterflies, one of her more recent plays with some supernatural content.  I took it home and enjoyed it, just as I had enjoyed White Dove.  But what endures most is the knowledge that I had the good fortune to meet such a unique, talented and affecting person.

Some of Phoebe M. Rees’ Works

in alphabetical order

The Answer. (1956). London: J Garnet Miller.

Blinds Up. (1939). London: T Nelson.
Note: A ‘modern drama’.

Breaking The Barrier. (1983). London: Steele's Play Bureau (J Garnet Miller).

The Dream. (1963). London: Steele's Play Bureau (J Garnet Miller).

Hide And Seek. (1937). London: H F W Deane & Sons.

Idols. (1937). London: J B Pinker & Son.

Incorruptible, or the First Dictator. (1935). London: J Garnet Miller.
Note: An historical comedy drama with chorus!

The Last Straw. (1947). London: H F W Deane & Sons.
Note: A ‘farcical comedy’. About country life.

Marriages Are Made In Heaven. (1946). London: Steele's Play Bureau (J Garnet Miller).
Note: Television version produced by Westward TV (ITV), circa 1968-69.

The May Tree. (1939).
Notes: A supernatural radio play based on A College Mystery by A P Baker.   
Radio play broadcast on the BBC Regional Programme (Western), 11 April 1939.

The Miraculous Year, or Dorothy Wordsworth In Somerset. (1971). London: Steele's Play Bureau (J Garnet Miller).

Mix-Up-Atosis. (1955). London: H F W Deane & Sons.
Note: Comedy.

The New Jerusalem. (1966). London: J Garnet Miller.
Note: About Glastonbury legends.

Pushion and Pests (Rats). (1938).  London: H F W Deane & Sons.
Note: Comedy.

Rats. (1936).  London: H F W Deane & Sons.
Notes: Comedy. About country life.

Sanctuary. (1934). London: H F W Deane & Sons.
Notes: Historical. About a plot to assassinate Napoleon.

Second Wedding. (1940). London: T Nelson.

The Summons. (n.d.). London: Steele's Play Bureau (J Garnet Miller).

TV Thriller. (1959). London: H F W Deane & Sons.
Note: A ‘burlesque comedy’.

Tell Mother - The Butterflies. (1969). Watchet: Rees.
Notes: Supernatural. Story suggested by some events recounted in the book Things I Cannot Explain by Margaret Gordon Moore.

That Freedom. (1962). London: Steele's Play Bureau (J Garnet Miller).

That There Dog. (1931).  London: H F W Deane & Sons.
Notes: Comedy. Was given radio broadcast under title Thic Thare Dawg, BBC 5WA Cardiff, 18 June 1931.

Time Is Money. (1958).
Notes: Prose. Broadcast as a Morning Story on the BBC Light Programme, 9 January 1958.

The Trumpet Shall Sound. (1947). London: Steele's Play Bureau (J Garnet Miller).
Note: About Saul of Tarsus.

White Dove Of Bardon. (1951). London: Steele's Play Bureau (J Garnet Miller).
Notes: Historical, supernatural.  An earlier version (shorter than the published stage version) was produced by Owen Reed and broadcast on the BBC Home Service, 12 July 1948. A second radio production by Brandon Action-Bond was broadcast on the BBC Home Service, 17 October 1956.

Further Reading/Reference Materials

Allen, S. (2013, September). The Phoebe Rees life story. Spotlight: The magazine of the Somerset Fellowship of Drama, p. 6. Retrieved from
http://www.somersetdrama.org.uk/images/spotlights/60.pdf

Chidgey, M. & J. (2003). The book of Stogumber, Monksilver, Nettlecombe & Elworthy. Wellington, Som.: Halsgrove.

Pardoe, R. (2005, September). A P Baker and A College Mystery. The ghosts & scholars M R James newsletter, 8. Retrieved from
http://www.users.globalnet.co.uk/~pardos/GSNews8.html

Phoebe plays in Minehead... fifty years ago.  (2013, December). Spotlight: The magazine of the Somerset Fellowship of Drama, p. 12. Retrieved from
http://www.somersetdrama.org.uk/images/spotlights/63.pdf

Phoebe Rees listings on BBC Genome. (n.d.). Retrieved from
http://genome.ch.bbc.co.uk/search/0/20?order=asc&q=phoebe+rees#search


____________

Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press
ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

Aspiring to Freedom: 
The Promise of a Sweet Word

Sometimes there are words that reach across the years which still have the power to move. Often, if those words are accompanied by a melody, they can more easily embed themselves in the unconscious, but when prompted by an external event or an inner emotion they can rise up to the surface again.

An ‘earworm’ is a catchy musical phrase which continuously repeats in the mind long after it has stopped playing. But ‘earworm’ does not adequately describe what I’m writing about now. This is something more than that. This is a musical and lyrical phrase that bubbles up from deep in the past to come alive again in the present. What is more, that phrase prompts recall of the whole message.

Around 20 to 25 years ago, when I was still a relatively young man, I was a keen follower of the band Fat and Frantic. You may not have heard of them, but they had a large and very loyal cult following in the UK; large enough to ensure that many of their concerts sold out, large enough to propel them onto radio and TV – but not quite large enough to break their music into the mainstream charts.

Among the band’s eclectic mix of novelty, jazz-flavoured pop, gospel and ‘piffle’ (punk-skiffle) were a number of songs on the theme of social justice. You could call them protest songs. One of these was ‘Freedom is a Sweet Word’ (written by Fat and Frantic vocalist and trumpet-player Jim Harris). It is this particular song that winds its way through the years (it was first released in 1987) to circulate around my consciousness today.

Anyone who has followed my intermittent blog will know that I am particularly concerned with gaining recognition for past injustices in children’s and adolescents’ mental healthcare settings. But I also have a wider concern for justice in general. I can’t help but find myself angry on behalf of those belittled and dis-empowered within our society on whatever grounds. People can – in effect – be disabled by our society and its institutions for a whole swathe of reasons. These reasons can, of course, include mental health problems – but they also include class, ethnicity, sexuality, physical health problems, religious affiliation, and so on. 

‘Freedom is a Sweet Word’ reflects back to me, and puts into clear and concise words. some of my own thoughts and feelings on this broad subject. The song has nothing to do with mental health as such, but it resonates with what I have witnessed and experienced in a mental healthcare setting. It speaks of those who limit the freedom of others because they are fortunate enough to be ‘Barclaycard carrying members of the free’, because they have the power to exercise ‘freedom without justice’. These are the people with the means (symbolised by the Barclaycard) who can dominate and control those who are denied – or who have lost – the means. These ‘members of the free’ can absolve themselves of any responsibility towards the less free; in fact, they gain their freedom from the less free. This is because those without means are labelled as failing to use their freedom as ‘constructively’ as those with the Barclaycards.

It is certainly the case that if you were ever a child in a psychiatric institution you will know what it was like to have your freedom limited by those ‘Barclaycard carrying members of the free’. These ‘members of the free’ were the adults who made the decisions, the people with the means – doctors, nurses, social workers, etc. Some of them may have exercised their means properly and responsibly, while others may have abused their means. Together, however, they gave the institution they served power: the institution had all the power; you had none.

The difficulty with not having means and power – not having that Barclaycard, so to speak – is that it’s very difficult to claw your way up from whatever belittled or dis-empowered state you are in. But as the song says, that freedom ‘shines and glistens like a star’, and so it is still something to aspire to. Furthermore, not everyone exercises ‘freedom without justice’; there are some who know both freedom and justice, and that is why I can hear that song playing in my head and find hope in it.

____________

‘Freedom is a Sweet Word’ by Fat and Frantic is released by Classic Fox Records / I'll Call You Records

Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

Some Words in Praise of the NHS

 – and the Gift of Choice

At time of writing there has been widely reported ‘bad news’ in the British press and broadcast media concerning the NHS (National Health Service). A government adviser has pointed out that there have been 20,000 avoidable deaths in certain poorly performing hospitals over the last decade. Needless to say, this is scandalous. But my intention here is not to condemn the NHS, despite some very serious failings in some areas of the country.

Those who have read some of my previous blog entries will know that I have often touched upon a particular issue that, by implication, incorporates criticism of the NHS. That issue is the historic abuse or inappropriate treatment of people – especially children and young people – within mental healthcare settings (and one setting in particular).

Indeed, as a result of my book Delivered Unto Lions I occasionally hear from people with their own horror stories related to past mental health treatment within the NHS. And I am also aware of one or two horror stories relating to recent or current treatment. It should be emphasised, however, that such things are not confined to the NHS. Bad things happen in the private healthcare sector too. And in any case, I’ve also heard of examples of excellent mental health treatment within the NHS.

Negative attitudes and maltreatment in mental health settings were, of course, deeply entrenched long before the creation of the NHS – if anything, such things have improved (though not nearly enough) since the 1940s when British government minister Aneurin Bevan set in motion the events that led to the creation of this system of healthcare.

One of Bevan’s assumptions was that free healthcare available to all (funded through taxation) would lead to (a) an improvement in the health of the nation, which would in turn lead to (b) the NHS being able to ‘pay for itself’ as better health led to a more efficient economy (healthy workers better contributing to a healthy economy). Needless to say, this didn’t quite happen. The health of the nation certainly improved, but the NHS did not ‘pay for itself’ – as Geoffrey Wheatcroft, a columnist for The Guardian, recently pointed out.

But whatever deficiencies may exist within the NHS, I want to say something positive about my own recent experience of treatment. This experience has included the very welcome opportunity making my own choice with regard to treatment. This isn’t a completely positive story, but it is a substantially positive story.

One of the reasons why I’ve been silent on my blog during the early part of this year is because I was given some unexpected news on the final day of last year.

On 31 December 2012 I had an appointment with a urology consultant at Worthing Hospital in West Sussex. I was expecting some ‘inconvenient’ news, but not anything especially bad. However, the consultant told me that I had cancer. It was prostate cancer. At the time I was surprised rather than shocked – not having yet hit 50 I thought I was a bit too youthful for that sort of thing! The fact that I didn’t react with panic on that occasion may have something to do with the consultant’s rather quaint and reassuring turn of phrase. That’s a good thing!

Over the following weeks I had various scans and tests before learning that my best option was surgery, which in this case meant radical prostatectomy (surgical removal of the prostate).

Less than a month after I was given my cancer diagnosis I met my prospective surgeon. He carefully described the procedure and what I should expect in terms of recovery, and then he patiently answered all my questions.

Since the beginning of this year, every one of the staff members I’ve encountered at Worthing Hospital – consultants, registrar, surgeon, specialist urology nurse, other nurses, counsellor, etc. – has treated me with professionalism and courtesy. I have experienced care of the highest standard.

Unfortunately, the surgery I need is not undertaken at Worthing. I was told I would have to go to another hospital, some 50 miles away, for the actual procedure. I won’t name the hospital where the surgery was to take place because it does not come up to the same high standard I’ve witnessed at Worthing (I’ve already said that this is a substantially positive story, not a completely positive one).

I attended a preoperative assessment at the hospital in question. I won’t go into too many of the unpleasant or off-putting details, but I will just say that I never expected to be sent home with a blank consent form to sign! (That’s the yellow CON 1 form for anyone who’s interested.) Needless to say, I came away determined that I would not sign away my consent on a form which had not been filled in. In fact, I was determined not to be operated on at that particular hospital.

The following day I did a bit of hasty research (clearly this is something that I should have done earlier!) and identified another hospital and surgeon, both with excellent reputations (not that I had any objection to my original surgeon). I then tried to see if my own GP (General Practitioner) would be willing to refer me to the hospital and surgeon of my choice. That referral has now been made with no difficulty whatsoever.

At present this story doesn’t have an end. But it does have a message. The NHS provides free treatment to UK citizens at the point of delivery. In many countries a cancer patient would be reliant on private insurance to pay for a radical prostatectomy. With the best surgeons at the best hospitals charging thousands more than their less experienced and less well-regarded counterparts, it’s easy to see where many insurance providers would steer their policy holders.

Like any very large institution, the NHS it has its dark corners. But there is also light. This will be no comfort for those who have not received the best treatment, those who have lost loved ones to poor treatment, and especially to those who have done so without realising there was a possibility of choice (at least in some cases). But for those yet to need treatment, this could well be an encouragement.

While my operation will now be delayed a little – due to my ‘eleventh hour’ exercise of choice – I now know that I will undergo the procedure at a centre of excellence performed by one of the best surgeons. This is a true privilege for which I am very grateful.

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Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

Stepping into Rivers

To say that everything changes would hardly be an original comment. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus (circa 535-475 BC) supposedly said, ‘No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.’ He also said much the same thing in another way: ‘Everything flows, nothing stands still.’

One of the biggest concerns and controversies of our time is the issue of climate change. As I understand it, there is an almost universal concensus among scientists (in the relevant fields) that climate change is happening and that it is caused by human activity – the burning of fossel fuels to bring much needed energy to our modern human societies is leading to massive environmental destruction brought about by ‘global warming’.

There are, of course, those who deny this, those who simply do not believe what the majority of climate change scientists tell us. Many of these people are willing to accept that climate change is indeed taking place, but they deny that it has a human cause. After all, some of them say, our planet has a history of climate change dating back long before human beings walked the earth.

I started this piece by quoting a philosopher, and I’m very tempted to carry on in a philosophical vein by talking about a branch of philosophy called ‘epistemology’ (that’s a good word to slip into any conversation!). Epistemology is to do with the theory of knowledge. It asks, How do we know what we know? For those of us who are convinced that climate change is indeed caused by human beings, the obvious question is, How do we know? The same question applies to those of us who are just as convinced that climate change does not have a human cause. How do we know?

If you are a scientist who specialises in climage change, you can make careful observations, compare them, and then try to develop a theory. You can then test that theory by making further observations to see if there’s anything happening that might prove it wrong. But if you continue to observe the same patterns repeatedly with no exceptions (if you establish an ‘empirical regularity’), then you can be pretty sure that your theory is right.

But, there is a problem. Did you do all this work on your own? Did you conduct all the observations yourself? Did you do all the analysis of these observations yourself? Or did you have to rely to some extent on work undertaken by other scientists or technicians, work that you weren’t in a position to supervise personally? If it’s the latter, then you only know what you know because you are convinced by the work of other people. And that is the same for all of us. In most cases, we only know what we know because we are convinced by what other people have told us. We are not always (or even usually) able to test things out for ourselves.

For what it’s worth, I am convinced that the changes currently taking place in the world’s climate are indeed a reality and that human behaviour is responsible. But how do I know? That fact is, I don’t know, I’m just sufficiently persuaded to accept what a particular kind of authoritative figure tells me. (I also think it’s not worth taking a chance over something so potentially catastrophic.) For someone who denies climate change, the situation is pretty much the same. The denier doesn’t actually know that climate change is false, he or she just happens to be persuaded by the arguments of a different kind of authoritative figure.

But, as Hereclitus said, ‘No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.’ Hereclitus knew this (I assume) because he had experienced or observed it (or something similar) for himself. ‘And this I knew experimentally,’ said the seventeenth century figure George Fox. He was speaking of personal religious ‘revelation’ (not the sort of thing you can prove to anyone else), and he knew what he knew ‘experimentally’. Like Hereclitus (so I assume), Fox was convinced by something because he had experienced or observed it for himself; he was not convinced because someone else had told him what to believe.

In fact, we all know about change ‘experimentally’ (or so I’m told!). We may not know very much about climate change – apart from seasonal variations – but we do know about change in general. Change happens. It’s reliable. We know this experimentally.

Given the often difficult subject matter I try to address in my writing, I find it very encouraging that the one thing that we can all rely on is change: some things may deteriorate and get worse, but there are many things that can develop and improve.

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Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

Asylums, Antiquarians and Anecdotes - and Arthur C Clarke

It’s no secret that my book Delivered Unto Lions, though presented in the form of a novel, is closely based on events that took place at a former mental institution in Somerset called Merrifield. Merrifield Children’s Unit was, if you like, the partially detached young patients’ arm of Tone Vale Hospital, an old asylum-style institution. Both Merrifield and Tone Vale were closed in the mid-1990s following the rise of ‘Care in the Community’.

Within two years of the closure of Tone Vale, editors David Hinton and Fred Clarke compiled a slim volume chronicling some of the hospital’s history. The Tone Vale Story: A Century Of Care is the kind of publication you might expect from a local history society, i.e. competently-researched, slightly antiquarian in flavour, and presented with the keen initiative of local history enthusiasts.

Some readers will be familiar, by association, with co-editor Fred Clarke. His brother was the science fiction author Arthur C Clarke. Indeed, The Tone Vale Story is published by the Clarke family’s own organisation, the Rocket Publishing Company. 

The Tone Vale Story covers the opening of the asylum in 1887, various key figures associated with the development and running of the place, and architectural and topographic observations, many of these being illustrated by vintage photographs.

Of particular interest from my point of view are a few paragraphs dedicated to Merrifield:

Tone Vale and the Somerset Educational Authority combined to provide a children’s unit for autistic and other emotionally disturbed children in the grounds of Tone Vale: the Unit served the whole of the South West of England …

Some of the children, although highly disturbed, were extremely well read and educated. A local author, when invited to lecture to them, found that one or two knew nearly as much about his subject, science fiction, as he did!

(Hinton & Clarke, 1997, p. 43)

It is, perhaps, too easy to take issue with parts of this. Firstly, the phrase ‘autistic and other emotionally disturbed children’ is misleading, as autism is a neurological condition, so it gives entirely the wrong impression to then add ‘and other emotionally disturbed children’. Secondly, labelling all Merrifield patients as ‘highly disturbed’ seems to unjustly brand young people who, in reality, were suffering problems of varying severity covering a broad range of emotional, psychological and neurological conditions.

The local author who made these observations, I happen to know, was actually Fred Clarke himself. I know this because I was there! In the Spring of 1979, when I was 15, he came to address a group of patients and staff about the work of his more famous brother.

Putting my criticisms to one side, I remember Fred Clarke’s visit with fondness – he was a genuinely pleasant man. I particularly remember him showing us the handwritten manuscript for Arthur C Clarke’s first novel, The Sands of Mars. My girlfriend of the time (don’t tell anyone I had a girlfriend – it wasn’t allowed at Merrifield!) commented on the neatness of the handwriting. Fred, however, in an entertaining brotherly way, dismissed Arthur’s handwriting as an untidy scrawl!

As a result of that occasion, I was invited by Fred to meet his highly-renowned brother in the August of ’79. It was a slightly bizarre occasion which took place at the Clarke family house (which was very close to Tone Vale and Merrifield).

The well-known author was in the UK (he was based in Sri Lanka) to promote his new television series Arthur C Clarke’s Mysterious World, and a Dutch film crew had been at the house to interview him – and I got to enjoy some of the catering! After the film crew had left, I found myself in the peculiar position of sitting with Arthur C Clarke as he watched an edition of the children’s TV programme Blue Peter (he particularly wanted to see a feature on the Egyptian pyramids). I also took the opportunity to take a photograph of Arthur, and he helpfully pointed out that you should always take more than one shot when photographing something important!

It is, however, the less well-known of the two brothers who made the biggest impact on me. I remember Fred Clarke as a gentle, courteous man who shared his brother’s enthusiasm for both science and science fiction. And when I met Fred again, twenty-two years later, at the 2001 Nexus Convention in Bristol, I was surprised to discover that he remembered me.

Against this background I find myself surveying The Tone Vale Story, which Fred co-edited, from a very particular perspective. I knew Fred Clarke to some extent; I knew Tone Vale to some extent; and I knew Merrifield intimately. So what does The Tone Vale Story mean in relation to unpleasant portrayals of Tone Vale and Merrifield (or their novelised counterparts) in books like Joyce Passmore’s mémoire The Light in My Mind and my own novel Delivered Unto Lions?

The Tone Vale Story is very matter-of-fact in its historical/antiquarian tone. The only controversies it comes close to acknowledging are those associated with past attitudes to mental health, such as those encapsulated in the 1890 Lunacy Act. It tells the story of the institution in terms of developments and innovations, coupled with a few folksy recollections, but it does not tell the story of the institution in terms of patients’ experience.

No doubt there are many former patients, both adult and child, who passed through Tone Vale or Merrifield helped rather than harmed by the experience. But there is enough personal testimony around to know that many individuals – who were already experiencing problematic conditions to one extent or another – were damaged further by their unsavoury experiences of these closely linked institutions.

But this reality is not acknowledged in The Tone Vale Story. No doubt this is because the source materials used by the book’s compilers make no reference to such matters. Instead we find in the book an almost celebratory appreciation of achievements and milestones:

• Dr Henry Aveline, the first Medical Superintendent of the asylum, is revered for his multi-lingual ability
• Dr Kenneth Bailey, a later Medical Superintendent, is almost canonised for developing more humane approaches to mental illness
• Ernest George Stephens, Head Gardener, is highly commended for his ‘adventurous’ development of the hospital grounds

This is all well and good; achievements should be celebrated. But what of the darker side? Were editors David Hinton and Fred Clarke even aware that there was a darker side?

Fred Clarke certainly had some interaction with the on-site authorities at Merrifield and with some of the patients (including myself), but it seems to me to be entirely likely that, despite his close proximity to disturbing events, he knew nothing of these things. I wonder how many other visitors to Merrifield – NHS and local government officials, chaplains and other supportive individuals, etc. – remained unaware of some of the damaging things that happened from time-to-time in an institution they knew relatively well.

I’ve always maintained that the phenomenon of Merrifield was one kept hidden from public knowledge. Tone Vale Hospital was less well concealed, but still there was much that was kept hidden. Even for those who might have thought they knew these places – because at some point they had stepped foot inside – the full truth still remained hidden.

This leads me to wonder how many other local histories and modern antiquarian writings unwittingly keep their readers out of the hidden recesses. Perhaps the unpleasant anecdote (as well as the pleasant one) deserves some space alongside the historical or antiquarian record.

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The Tone Vale Story: A Century Of Care, edited by David Hinton & Fred Clarke, is published by the Rocket Publishing Co.

ISBN 978-1-899995-05-9

Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

When Childhood Ends

The rain on the pavements

From a crack in the sky

The watery remnants

Of how you once cried

It drains through your being

Like the death of a friend

And I think you’ll find your childhood must end

I wrote those words more than twenty-five years ago. I was a young man then, still in my early twenties. To be honest, I’ve slightly changed one line as I decided my original attempt wasn’t good enough. I’m not sure that any of it’s particularly good anyway – including the melody I wrote for it (it’s a song) – but this is it, for what it’s worth.

There was a particular incident that prompted me to write those words. A work colleague of mine (a little older than me, but still a young man) had recently left our employer and taken up another position – his dream job! – elsewhere in the country. A few weeks after he left, the message came back that he had suffered a severe head injury in a road accident. I can’t remember for certain, but I think he may have been a pedestrian rather than a car-driver or passenger.

Over the coming days and weeks reports continued to filter back about his condition. Eventually the news came that he had died.

I’m sorry to say I can’t remember his name – this wasn’t quite the ‘death of a friend’ that I wrote about in my song. The truth is, this man hadn’t been an especially close friend of mine, but he had been a friendly, likeable colleague. Other colleagues of mine who had known him better and for longer were, of course, devastated.

This left me with the luxury – if you can call it a luxury – of being able to step back and reflect on what had happened in a way that the more deeply bereaved couldn’t. And so I thought about how a man of a similar age to myself had moved away to follow the career he wanted. This was a very positive thing, something to be celebrated. But in what seemed like no time at all, it was all over. He only got to experience his dream for a short time before his life came to a tragic end, his last few weeks lived in unconsciousness.

While pondering all this, I also thought of another young man I knew who had died a few years earlier (he had been slightly younger than me). His name was Chris. He was still in his teens when he lost his life to meningitis. Again, he wasn’t an especially close friend of mine, but he was a friend nonetheless (we went to the same youth club). Chris had been on my mind when I wrote some earlier verses –

Frozen water

Iced out, glassed out

Has melted, washed away

– but he was still on my mind when I wrote the words about ‘rain on the pavements’ and ‘a crack in the sky’.

Is there a point to all this gloomy recollection? Well, yes. I think the point is that, one way or another, childhood and youth come to an end.  Innocence of endings comes to an end.  Such things can come to an end in sudden tragedy or they can just slip away gradually, almost unnoticed. Adulthood, if it is achieved, also comes to an end.

But a legacy remains from anything that comes to an end. For those of us who still live, legacies remain a part of our personal existence; for those of us who no longer live, legacies remain for others.

Given that endings cannot be avoided, maybe we should work harder to make those legacies good ones – challenging though that may be. Perhaps we can work towards discovering the childhood happiness that wasn’t known in life, while also celebrating and maintaining something of the childhood happiness that was.

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Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

Telling Stories, Singing Songs, and Ways to Live Forever

In October 2012 (just a few weeks ago, at time of writing), my wife, two daughters and I attended a weekend course on Storytelling for 8-12 Year Olds at the Woodbrooke Quaker Study Centre in Birmingham. It was a packed programme involving story creation, storytelling, dramatic improvisation and much more.

One of the events we enjoyed took place in the grounds of Woodbrooke. We all gathered round a camp fire after dark and sang songs. One song I’d never come across before involved the popular character of Harry Potter. It went to the tune of Frère Jacques:

Harry Potter, Harry Potter

Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone?

Run of with Hermione, run of with Hermione

Poor old Ron! Poor old Ron!

With all due apologies to J K Rowling, it was great to come away from a Quaker establishment with that particular gem!

One of the leaders of this weekend storytelling course was the children’s author Sally Nicholls. After we returned home we bought a copy of her book Ways To Live Forever for our eldest daughter. A few days ago, I picked it up and read it myself.

Although Ways To Live Forever is primarily intended for children and teenagers, its direct and unashamedly open language make it a very worthwhile read for adults too.

Sally Nicholls addresses a very difficult subject in this book – a child’s terminal illness – but she overcomes adult fears and reticence by using the frank, matter-of-fact voice of the afflicted child.  The main character of the book is Sam, an 11-year-old with leukaemia, and the story is told entirely from his perspective.  Through an engaging first person narrative this book explores important questions: What are the priorities for a child who knows he doesn’t have long to live? How does he perceive the actions and conversations of the adults around him? In exploring questions like these the book draws the reader into that child’s world.

Obviously, this is not a happy, feel-good book, but that’s not to say that it’s entirely bleak and grim. There is gentle humour scattered throughout the story, and this helps lead the reader towards the (inevitable) conclusion. Essentially, in my view, this book conveys the message that tragedy of this kind cannot be swept away and ignored, but by ‘normalising’ it through the eyes of a child, it is shown as something that can be faced (just about). Nothing here is trivialised, it is simply expressed as normal for those experiencing it.

Ways To Live Forever is a fantastic book, and one whose honesty will be especially appreciated by young readers.

So, the learning experience of the storytelling course and an entertaining song about Harry Potter weren’t the only things I took away from our family weekend at Woodbrooke!

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Ways To Live Forever by Sally Nichols is published by Scholastic

ISBN 978-1-407130-50-7

Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

A Spiritual Dimension?

In thinking about mental health – or, indeed, health in general – is there a spiritual dimension that needs to be considered?

Talk of ‘spirit’ or ‘spirituality’ is a big turn-off for many thinking people these days.  Here in the UK where secular and atheist attitudes seem to be on the rise (not that secular and atheist are necessarily the same thing), matters of spirit get cast aside as vague, unverifiable, or even non-existent.

I make no secret of the fact that I was brought up in a Christian tradition, and I remain a person of faith (though no longer affiliated to exactly the same tradition in which I was raised).  But I am also the kind of person who asks questions.  Just because someone in a position of authority (religious of otherwise) says something, doesn’t necessarily mean I will accept it.

The point is, however, that I draw on my particular background in trying to understand and make a case for the spiritual.  In doing this, what strikes me is how ordinary and natural the spiritual is.  The Hebrew word ruha and the Greek word pneuma – used in the Old and New Testaments of the Bible respectively – are both translated into English as ‘spirit’.  The words ruha and pneuma are both about ‘breath’ or ‘wind’, they are about ‘motivating force’, about the ‘engine’ that ‘drives’ us – or ‘drives’ any living thing.  You don’t have to be religious to recognise that life has – and is – a kind of energy.

So, spirituality is about the ‘stuff’ that drives us, that motives us, that keeps us moving.  But where there are problems with mental health, we can see that something about the spirit of a person is inhibited or threatened (in a less enlightened age we might have said that such a person was 'possessed' by an bad spirit!).  Indeed, in any area of human life where we see things going wrong – relationships falling apart, violent competition taking over, etc. – we can see that something about the spiritual has become disordered, that it isn’t working properly.  A person's spiritual motivation becomes diseased – i.e. dis-eased, not at ease.

In thinking about a spiritual dimension to health, we are thinking about finding ways to make the human spirit more ‘at ease’ in order to bring about helpful improvements.   This could mean different things for different people, but I would suggest that everyone might well benefit from taking the spiritual more seriously – the spirit (that ‘engine of life’) needs to be nurtured rather than ignored.

We live in a world that likes to find mechanistic solutions to mechanistic problems.  If someone has a mental health problem, very often we look for a fault in the ‘mechanism’ of the mind or brain and then try to fix it, either with drugs or with other therapies (sometimes we don't even look for the fault, we just assume it's there).  I’m generalising, of course – mental health workers would quite rightly be annoyed at my simple stereotype of their work!  But the spirit is about more than than that – it's about the whole self, the whole human race, and the whole of life all together: the spirit is life.

I would suggest, therefore – and you are free to dismiss this if you think I’m talking nonsense! – that we should all work on developing the spiritual for the sake of ourselves and for the sake of one another.  We may each do this in different ways using different forms of private meditation and/or collective sharing (or whatever you may call particular activities that have the same basic qualities).

For the sceptics – and I could so easily be one of them – I must add that I’m not trying to sell anyone a miracle.  I am merely suggesting that there is indeed a spiritual dimension and that acknowledging it (working with it, not against it) might be helpful.

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Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press (Paperback and eBook)

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

A Beneficial 'Prescription' For Improving Emotional Well-Being

Mattheiu Ricard's book The Art Of Happiness (published by Atlantic) is a volume I would recommend very highly. It needs a bit of self-discipline to work through it — it isn’t a casual read — but it is well worth making the effort. 

The author is a Buddhist monk with an academic background in genetics. More recently, he has conducted research into the neurological effects of meditation. Meditation is, indeed, very much commended in this book, and the author draws on both the natural sciences and Buddhist tradition to present an approach for increasing your 'happiness skills'. It’s probably worth mentioning that the British quality press has described Mattheiw Ricard as 'the happiest man in the world' (a claim prompted by results of an MRI scan of his left pre-frontal cortex).

Some readers of a resolutely secular persuasion may find the idea of some Buddhist content off-putting, as may those of other religious traditions. In fact, the Buddhist content, though definitely present (and, in my view, of interest in itself), isn’t overly emphasised. The author does not attempt to indoctrinate the reader; essentially, he is offering a methodology — and a frequently effective one at that.

This book is not a miracle cure for unhappiness, but it is a beneficial “prescription” for improving emotional well-being.
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The Art Of Happiness: A Guide To Developing Life's Most Important Skill by Matthieu Ricard is published by Atlantic (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-59285-099-0

Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press (Paperback and eBook)
ISBN 978-0-85789-273-7
For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

Psychological Disturbance - Part of Our Shared Human Condition

Broadcast journalist and weather presenter Reham Khan (well-known to BBC viewers and listeners in the south of England) occasionally likes to present her friends, acquaintances and aficionados with interesting intellectual challenges. She recently posed the question, ‘Using drugs for entertainment or relaxation is a sign of a psychologically disturbed individual. Do you agree?’ She did, of course, receive a number of responses of various flavours.  Though I am not professionally or personally qualified to answer her question, I made an attempt anyway!

What interests me, though, is that Reham’s question taps into a whole range of assumptions. Her question has certainly made me aware of some of mine. Without thinking about it, I interpreted the term ‘psychologically disturbed’ in a negative light. I saw it as pejorative. To me, then, the question appeared to be asking whether recreational drug use was equated with some sort of personal moral shortcoming. Needless to say, Reham was not suggesting any such thing.

It was only after I pondered the question again later that I realised my mistake. I had interpreted the expression ‘psychologically disturbed’ in a judgemental way. In my defence, however, I would like to say that I don’t think I’m alone in making this error. There is a very long social history of seeing psychological disturbance (however it is defined) in negative terms. Sufferers of its more problematic manifestations have often been placed in institutions as ‘punishment’ for their conditions, or they have received other forms of apparently punitive attention.

What is especially disturbing today (psychologically or otherwise) is the quality of public discourse on the subject of these conditions. This has been prompted by current economic considerations. In the UK, where governmental agencies are seeking ways to reduce the cost of welfare, people with psychological disorders (and physical disorders) are finding that their claims for financial support are now being rejected. Where medical professionals used to assess the validity (or otherwise) of such claims, lower-paid administrative staff are now making the required judgements. If a claimant doesn’t use the exact words or phrases on the administrator’s check-list, his or her claim is rejected.

Rejection is a consequence of judgement. For some people who have to live with very challenging conditions, the rejection of a claim for benefits can read like moral disapproval. In such cases, not only is psychological disturbance equated with failure, it isn’t even seen as a worthy failure. And this feeds into the perception given by the popular press, and adopted by some members of the public, that the psychologically disturbed are shirkers who want to get something for nothing (even where they happen to be economically active, but need their incomes supplemented due to special needs).

I am not suggesting that this is actually happening, but given the current public discourse surrounding psychological and mental health problems, it wouldn’t be at all surprising if some people did indeed turn to recreational drugs for entertainment or relaxation – after all, it’s not as though they would be judged any more harshly.

Words are weapons, and I would suggest we need to change the words we use and the way we use them. The bigger challenge, though, is to change our attitudes. Psychological disturbance is not immoral, but it is very common. Let’s start treating it as part of our shared human condition, rather than as something to be condemned.

* * *

On another note, it is now one year since my book Delivered Unto Lions was published in paperback. In celebration of this one-year anniversary, a new eBook edition is about to be published. More details on that to come. In the meantime, if you are a new visitor to my blog, Delivered Unto Lions can be summarised as a factually-based novel inspired by my own experience as a child psychiatric in-patient in the 1970s. It is not just (a version of) my story, however, as it represents the terrible traumatic experiences of many children and teenagers caught up in the mental healthcare system as it was at that time.

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Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published in paperback by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

eBook edition coming soon

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

Book Review - Get Me Out Of Here

It has taken me an incredibly long time to get round to reviewing this particular book.  Rachel Reiland’s Get Me Out Of Here (published by Hazelden) is a very challenging read. And, at 447 pages, it is a lengthy challenge.  Rachel seemingly leads us through every minute and nuanced detail of her arduous recovery from (what is still commonly referred to as) borderline personality disorder (BPD).  It appears that she spares the reader very little, hence a page-count which invites especially committed participation in a very unsettling story.

By way of a brief introduction I will attempt to sketch out the basics of borderline personality disorder.  Among the many symptoms associated with BDP are: fear of being abandoned, unstable and intense personal relationships, impulsive and sometimes reckless behaviour, suicidal behaviour, kneejerk changes in mood, and problems in controlling anger. 

There has been a definite stigma associated with BDP within health care services (with sufferers seen as ‘difficult’ or ‘attention seeking’, etc., due to their ‘faulty’ personalities).  This is one of the reasons why there are currently moves to rename the condition; suggested alternative descriptions include ‘emotional dysregulation disorder’ and ‘post traumatic personality disorganisation’ (derived from the assumption that past trauma, especially in childhood, has caused the condition).  Reiland’s book, however, does not deal with the controversies associated with the BDP diagnosis.

A particular aspect of this book that does not sit comfortably with me is the way Rachel Reiland (not actually her real name) is so gushing in her praise of the health care services which assist in her recovery. She particularly singles out her therapist, Dr Padgett (presumably not his real name either), for almost unconditional acclaim. It would certainly appear that the services and practitioners are indeed deserving of credit – they have, after all, helped Rachel to overcome a seriously limiting condition and enabled her to live a much fuller life (in terms of both family and professional career).  But it also seems to me that there are ways in which the care provided is less than helpful.

Rachel’s periods as an in-patient in a psychiatric unit are especially unsettling.  It is, in fact, a relatively common-place situation that leads to her initial admission: she succumbs to the stress of keeping house and caring for her demanding young children – essentially, she ‘loses it’.  But the unit is hardly an understanding and compassionate environment.  At one point, to relieve the boredom, Rachel ‘power walks’ around the unit while listening to her Walkman. A charge nurse, however, puts a stop to this, confiscating the Walkman and telling Rachel that she obviously can’t control herself.  A second ‘power walking’ incident leads to Rachel being held in isolation in the ‘lockup’.

The bulk of the book, however, focuses on the out-patient therapeutic relationship between Rachel and Dr Padgett.  Padgett (the Medical Director of Psychiatry at the unit) offers Rachel very frequent psychoanalytic therapy sessions over a considerable period.  Rachel exhibits alternating attitudes to Padgett; one minute she idolises him, and the next she loathes him (this is portrayed as classic BDP behaviour).  But from the very start she appears to be unhealthily dependent on him, and he almost seems to encourage this dependence – not that she ever criticises him for that.

As a reader involved in the unfolding story, I found myself increasingly ambivalent about Padgett.  On the one hand, he is the key figure in Rachel’s recovery, the one who makes it all possible.  But on the other, he comes over as the one calling the shots in an extremely unequal relationship.  And, as this is in the context of American private health care, Rachel is paying to be the lesser participant in this situation.  It seems to me that Padgett enables Rachel’s recovery, not by working in partnership with her, but by demanding that she yield to his will and superior status.  On the occasions when Rachel becomes angry and unco-operative with Padgett, she appears to be quite right to react this way (though the scale of her reaction is usually excessive).

Get Me Out Of Here is, of course, a positive book.  The fact is, Rachel recovers, and in doing so she offers hope to other sufferers of the same condition.  I can’t help wondering, however, if she would have recovered just as well – if not better – if she’d had a therapist using a different and more collaborative approach.  Rachel, however, is perfectly satisfied with the approach taken by Dr Padgett, and she, after all, is the one best placed to judge.

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Get Me Out Of Here: My Recovery From Borderline Personality Disorder by Rachel Reiland is published by Hazelden

ISBN 978-1-59285-099-0

Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu

Do Actions Speak Louder?

Actions speak louder than words, or so the saying goes.  As someone who often spends far too much time thinking about such things, I sometimes find myself wondering if actions and words are really very different.  Both are forms of communication which actually do things in the real world.  If I pick up a hammer and drop it on your toe, that does something. If I then turn to you and say that you are a waste of space, and it’s your own fault that the hammer landed on your toe (because you were in the way), then that also does something.

We have intentions when we say things.  We expect our words to achieve something. Indeed, there are many philosophers, sociolinguists, and other academics, who have put a good deal of effort into determining what words do, and how they do it.  John L Austin, for example, is a name especially associated with speech-act theory.  This theory emphasises various aspects of speech, and one of them is the actual effect that words have, whether it is the effect of persuading, inspiring, frightening, or making something else happen.

These observations are particularly relevant to me as the author of a book related to mental health care.  In my writing (rather than speaking, in this case), there are (at least) three things that were going on.  Firstly, there was the actual act of sitting down and writing, i.e. turning my memories and reflections into a novel.  Secondly, there was the issue of what I intended my words to do, i.e. my aim of drawing attention (in an entertaining way, hopefully) to past institutional practices that I understood as unjust.  And thirdly, there was the actual effect that my words had on the people who read them.

But what is probably far more interesting than any of that, is the use of words in mental health care itself.  If we say that actions speak louder than words, we are in danger of ignoring just how powerful words are.  One of the things I included in my book, Delivered Unto Lions, is a form of words I remember very well from my time as a teenage mental patient in the ’70s.  That form of words went something like this: ‘You are not being punished; this is just a consequence of your actions.’ 

Naming a disciplinary act as a ‘consequence’ rather than a ‘punishment’ was, no doubt, intended to do something.  My guess is that it was an attempted form of behaviouralist conditioning – i.e. you already know the consequence of putting your hand in the fire is a painful burn, so therefore you don’t do it because of the inevitable result; in the same way, the consequence of (for instance) running away is confinement with all your clothing removed, so therefore you learn not to defy institutional authority, because that too has an inevitable result (or so you are conditioned to believe).  Consequences, after all, are things that happen naturally, whereas punishments are deliberately imposed.

It is also very interesting how people with mental health conditions get labelled, because, of course, labels are also words which do things.  I’m currently reading a book which tells the story of someone’s experience of borderline personality disorder (which I will review here in due course). But the expression ‘borderline personality disorder’ itself represents a form of words with an effect.  Some people see these words as having a judgemental effect, as they paint a picture of someone who’s very self (personality) is faulty, existing on a ‘borderline’ between ‘normal’ and ‘psychotic’ functioning.  For this reason (among others), there are alternative words that have been suggested to describe this condition, such as ‘emotional instability disorder’ or ‘post traumatic personality disorganization’.  As such, these alternative names do alternative things, whether good or bad.

Stigma continues to be a major issue for current and recovered sufferers of mental health problems.  The words we use can speak just as loudly as any actions.  By their strength, words can feed the power of stigma, reinforce prejudice, and prolong suffering; or by their strength, words can reduce the power of stigma, challenge prejudice, and help alleviate suffering.  Words, as well as actions, do things in the real world.  Perhaps we should be more careful in the words we use so that we make sure they do the right things.

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Delivered Unto Lions by David Austin is published by CheckPoint Press

ISBN 978-1-906628-21-5

For more information visit www.davidaustin.eu