A Survivor’s Story
The community centre is a large hall on the edge of a council estate where I grew up. The estate is made up of working-class, poor, and uneducated people. This was my home! A large community that knew each other and, in some ways, looked out for one another. They also took and stole from each other. Nobody seemed to like anyone else having more. There was plenty of fighting, drunken behaviour, crime and drug taking, it was the norm! I became involved in this later.
I lived among a row of four-bedroom concrete houses, faced by bungalows and surrounded by row after row of council dwellings. Beyond the back row stood an historic site, and the location of tall, sky-reaching masts that transmitted the BBC World Service. This was our playground.
The community centre was the hub of the community. It was where weddings, shows, Boys’ Brigade, Brownies, Scouts and the Summer Scene took place. We rarely went in, as my parents were poor and overly religious. They were part of the disbanded cult, The Jesus Army. I can remember my dad stating more than once that these things were “unchristian” or “the devil’s work.” In reality, they couldn’t afford it but hid behind their crazy ideas!
The community hall was long, with a stage at one end for various shows that would periodically entertain the locals. One such show was the Black & White Minstrel Show, a performance where actors would black up to play the parts; a sign of the times, the 1980s. There was much racism on the estate; it was predominantly white, with a few Black families, Asian families running the local corner shop, and a Chinese takeaway.
I can remember my dad stating more than once that these things were “unchristian” or “the devil’s work.”
It was around this time that I became aware of other adults outside my family. My older brother would go over to the community centre to help set up for plays and clean up after events. As a young kid, I looked up to my brother and would often stretch up to look in and knock on the windows, trying to get his attention. Unwittingly, it was at this point that I attracted the attention of the caretaker. His job was to keep everything secure, clean, and tidy; he also ran the bar.
The bar was a small varnished, wooden, shuttered construction in the bottom right-hand side of the hall. It was the size of a medium-sized shed, probably 16 by 8 feet. Inside, the taps served up Charlie Wells beer, with optics on the back wall. A third of the bar was sectioned off for washing pots. On the opposite side, the till sat next to the door leading out. A dusty, greenish-grey, worn section of rug or carpet lay in the main bar area. When last orders were called, the bar’s aperture was plugged with wooden panels, closing it off from revellers and any roving eyes. After the shutters were put in place and the door locked from the inside, the cashing up and glass washing took place. The main cleaning would be done the following day.
I remember one of the first times I went over to the community centre to help; I was given the job of blowing up balloons, which was such fun for me. My age at that time was between 10 and 12. I remember the red balloons, and there were so many of them. We were filling a net that would be suspended from the ceiling and released during a party.
To the side of the community centre were two sets of double doors. To the left of one set was a small room, no bigger than a single bedroom. This was the caretaker’s storeroom, where he would make tea. Running down the right-hand side were kitchen cupboards and a sink. The cupboards held supplies such as toilet rolls, mop heads, and cleaning fluid. One of the cupboards held sweets like Mars bars, Twix, and Pick & Mix. The carpet was rough and the same type as in the bar.
the caretaker took his pleasure in a different way.
Throughout the whole building, there was a pervasive odour of cigarette smoke. The caretaker constantly had a Superkings cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The ash would sometimes hang on the end, limp and ready to drop at any time. There was also a carbuncle right next to his mouth. He was an ugly man. When the sun shone through the windows, it would highlight a blanket of smoke lazily drifting around the hall, swirling when disturbed. It permeated everything—nothing escaped. This was back when there was no smoking ban, and all smokers lit up indoors. It absolutely stank! Not even the wrapped chocolate escaped. I still ate it, though. It became part of the experience, part of the ritual or perceived reward after “helping out”. Of course, the caretaker took his pleasure in a different way.
The sweet cupboard was in the far-right hand side of the small room. To get there I had to enter the room proper and the caretaker followed in behind. “Help yourself” he said. I chose a mars bar unwrapped it and greedily consumed it. We came from a poor and strict family, there was no budget for sweets, toys or anything else for that matter. My parents didn’t believe in Christmas, Easter or even Halloween. It was all labelled as the, “Devils Work”. To be offered free chocolate, even if it did taste of cigarette smoke was a treat and one, I was not going to let get away. Little did I realise; I would be paying for that for the rest of my life.
Artwork & Text by The Unnamed Survivor
