Roskill

If I could answer the above question succinctly and without the passion and possibly ‘loaded’ manner in which most of us would, then I could be living at an address far more salubrious than the one I live at now! Not that I have any complaints or desire to change that. BUT---are not you all sick of hearing about how the ‘kids of today are so badly behaved,’ as evidenced in the rates of youth crime or just through our coming into contact with our young people? Ask any teacher and you will hear the whole range of answers depending on the experiences they have had. A short answer to the question could be: ‘they do so because they can.’ That is usually followed up with the adage that—‘there are no real consequences for their behaviours.’ I have been hearing that since I began teaching four decades ago. What was said then about abhorrent behaviours, is said now. What the ‘kids’ did then,’ is happening now. Those very same ‘kids’ on thinking of their behaviours and comparing them to their observances now, say that ‘they had respect for their elders and teachers,’ and ‘that they would never have spoken to their elders in the way that they hear happening now.’ Mmm—my memory is that---well they did! Is this looking at their pasts with rose tinted glasses or is it a fact? Is the possibility that many teachers are afraid to confront the negative behaviours of their students a fact or something that does not exist? From what I am hearing from colleagues in a range of schools’ it is a fact f and a terrible reality for a few. The answers as always lay somewhere ion the middle. It is so easy to get carried away, when we hear anecdotal evidence about the more extreme behaviours of our young people. Without a doubt, the vast majority of our ‘kids’ respond to good teaching and classroom management. A small minority of students are the group that drives’ the energy of teachers down. That has always been so, but what has changed is the nature and extremes that this group now exhibits. A huge amount of ‘specialist ‘time goes into working with this group, some would say at the expense of that cohort that would benefit more, just above the extreme group. I am not going to put figures on that group, because there is not enough credible evidence to do so. That this latter group exists is a fact, that they take away from the chances of other students is undeniable. That schools are introducing programmes and work alongside other agencies to change behaviours and outcomes is also true. The bottom-line is that schools do not exists as a vacuum. They are part of society and they receive their ‘young people,’ from families that also have ‘difficulties. When a family is well housed; warm and safe, with the necessities of life as a taken, then there are less issues feeding into problems at school. Yes, there are always young people from the latter familiars who are problematic, but the resources and energy to handle these issues are more apparent and the school is better abode to engage with the families when ‘things go wrong. That is called ‘cultural capital, and it is not about ethnicity! If the means, examples and ‘stories’ exists within a family whereby a young person has a ‘mirror’ to look into that shows that he or she ‘can do it,’ because the pathway is accessible and believable, then many of the issues that arise for all young people have a way of working out. When these ‘assess’ are not present then the possibilities for success are dented. No amount of pontificating from politicians on the ‘right’ of the political spectrum about ‘if I can make it, through shear hard work, then anyone can,’ will explain away lost chances. Oh, if this was only true. It is too simplistic and shows a complete misunderstanding of how it is ‘out there.’ So, why are our kids so badly behaved? Well they are, for some, but they may not be that different to the ‘kids’ of years gone by. The issues that we faced are still there; the task of being a teenager, the same forces that face us---but at another level, we have changes as a society. It seems that schools are expected to take on the role that parents would have considered theirs in the past. Unless there is an effective partnership between schools and families, with other agencies linking when needed, then yes, behaviours will appear to be far worse. Where there is real energy and the basic needs of families are being met, the problems are able to be addressed, with energy, zeal, passion and effective outcomes. For those who cannot access help or ‘feel alone,’ then the problems are vastly magnified. It all goes back to the—‘it takes a village to nurture and care for our children.’ We need to expand that concept in this entirely new and faster moving society. www.authorneilcoleman.com

The River Always Flows.

BY NEIL COLEMAN

When I think about how it could have been, I often cringe. It was so easy way back when there were endless holidays, long weekends and the odd day off school. The sun always seemed to be shining as I sat by the river, watching it flowing past the tree where I sat on an old chair that Mum had thrown out years ago. God forbid that I sit in it now; I doubt that it would hold me, even if it was still there, holding sway over the river bend.

I used to imagine what lay just around the corner; pretending that a whole new world would open up to me, if only I could muster the courage to venture that far. It was forbidden territory; one that taunted me in my childhood. It was after all the river that had taken my dad away. No, he didn’t drown; although at times I wouldn’t have cared if he had. He simply packed his old suitcase with a few clothes and rowed away in the tiny rowing boat. My brothers and I were never allowed to use it. Dad always said that we were too young and that the river was treacherous. He used it to row across the river to visit our uncle on the farm opposite us.

I was confused that he didn’t go in the other direction. That was where the nearest town lay; about two miles upriver, past the derelict factory that once served the district. There was a pathway along the river that meandered as far as the factory and we often played ‘war games’ there, shooting one another with arrows either shot from home-made bows or blown through pipes which we fashioned into crude blow-pipes. Neither weapon was particularly effective which was just well, because Mum’s wrath when we injured one another was not worth the fun of the game.

When Dad left, my older brother tried to fill his place. He changed, from a fun guy, to a mean, foul-mouthed bully. He started to hit us, while Mum stood by, powerless to stop him. It wasn’t as if we had done anything to deserve the beatings. I will never forget the strange look in his eyes, as he raised a stick that he had cut from the bamboo grove near the river, before it came swishing down on whatever part of us he could hit. We tried yelling, crying, but he didn’t stop until it suited him. Mum’s only action was to keep us home from school for a few days.

The beatings came to an end when one day, he too left us after he and Mum had a disagreement about money. She claimed that he had taken the ‘food money’ she kept in a tin above the fire place. We all knew it was there and even counted it for Mum from time to time. We also knew that our brother had changed in other ways.

He had left the high school in the town when he was fifteen, a few months before Dad rowed away. Our neighbour took him on to help milk the cows for the ‘town supply,’ telling him that if he ‘did good,’ then a more substantial job was on offer. It was a sort of trial. It didn’t work out. The farmer came over one night, angry that my brother had ruined a whole day’s milk production by contaminating it with cow crap. He had been using the high pressure hose to clean up, without covering the holding tanks and the obvious happened; the shit hit the can as it were.

A shouting match ensued, involving my mum, dad, brother and the farmer. The end result? ----my brother grabbed his worn-out old bag, filled it with his clothes and headed out the back door. The last I saw of him was his back, striding down the path towards town. It was soon after that Dad left too, leaving Mum, my little sister and me. What the hell were we going to do? Mum wasn’t a saver. We had always lived very much from payment to payment--- the ones that came every month from the milk company. I remember Mum saying that we could never save for a rainy day.

With Dad and my brother gone, everything went pear-shaped. Dad had never managed to hold down a job in town for more than a few months. It would start off fine, then within weeks; he would start going in late or not at all. He and Mum used to argue, with their words getting harsher as they insulted one another. She would call him ‘a useless sack of shit,’ something that always made me wonder when I tried to visualize the possibility. Sometimes he hit her.

That made me mad. Even as a twelve year old kid, I would fly at him; beating my little boy hands against his back. He would throw me off, like a piece of flotsam that had attached itself to his legs--- I couldn’t reach much higher.

‘I hate you, I hate you--- leave Mum alone!’ I screamed. It didn’t make any difference. He just ignored me and smacked Mum again, this time across the head. She fell, sobbing and curled up on the floor. Then he strode out the door, looking back at his handiwork and on to the pub. Just as well we couldn’t afford a car----he would have driven into the river. Mind you, that could have saved us from more of his nasty moods. I knew then, that I hated my Dad.

After he left, Mum found a job at the supermarket in town. Her hours were strange; one day she would start at five in the morning, restocking the shelves, then the next, not until the afternoon and then she was on checkout duty. She liked that. My job was to make sure that my little sister was fed and didn’t stay up too long.

For a few short weeks, we began to believe that our lives were going to change; that we could ‘make plans’ as Mum like to say. Fat chance--- she blew it! After all of her bad words about Dad, she went and stuffed up. Mum had never been a ‘drinking person.’ I don’t remember ever seeing her drunk; not like Dad. Sure she had a few Shandys at Christmas and maybe on her birthday, but that was it. Now, she had some money and no Dad around to scrounge it from her, she had some sort of independence for the first time in years.

She met this bloke. He was a customer and he must have taken a shine to Mum. When Dad was in a good mood, sober and not pissing us off, I often heard him say that Mum was ‘a damned good looker.’ Well this bloke finally talked Mum into going to the pub with her for ’a’ drink. For someone like Mum, who had had a rotten time overall form Dad, this was new territory. She gave in and two hours later she was a pissed as a fart. She didn’t come home at all that night and even worse for her, she didn’t turn up for work the next day.

If she had been at the job longer, maybe they would have been more understanding, but unfortunately Mum didn’t take into account that small towns have eyes and ears. What you do is soon known by everyone. She was heard slagging off the boss in her pissed state--- you can guess the outcome. Mum was out on her arse; the trial over and done with. She applied for the dole, but that didn’t go far. At the same time, the rent went up and we were soon on the bones of our arses again. Mum got depressed and we came home from school one day and an ambulance was in the driveway.

The guy she had been shagging had come around for a freebie, but with Mum in her ‘state,’ she started to talk crazy and before long had a kitchen knife in her hand. The guy was useless. He stood by and watched as Mum slashed her wrists. At least he had the balls to call the ambulance, but he didn’t intend hanging around for the aftermath. CYFS (Children Young Persons and Family Service) were called and we were bundled into a car and taken to this ‘nice’ family for a few days. We hardly had time to gather a few bits and pieces. Mum killed herself a few days later.

‘Jesus, Tania--- you know that get them going. Shit--- we don’t wanna be here long but if you keep doing that, we ‘l never get out of here.’ I looked at my little sister. I don’t think it had quite hit her yet. I think she believed that Mum was coming back through the front door of the house where we were staying. Sure the couple who were looking after us did their best to make us feel at home, but it just wasn’t home. Tania may have only been eight, but she knew how to get me going.

‘I didn’t ask to come here! I want Mum.’ Her little face seemed to crumple up like a piece of old paper. For a while I thought she looked a lot older. I tried to calm her down.

‘Tania----- I reckon you know what’s happened. We’re gonna have to get on with it eh? We have to get ready for the funeral. Come on. Let’s give her a good send off.’ My words didn’t hit the spot, not in the way I had hoped anyway.

‘But what’s gonna happen to us then? Won’t Dad come back and get us or Grandma?’ Her voice had a pleading quality, one that I had no hope of answering without making matters worse. I could hear the couple getting ready to take us in their bedroom down the hall.

‘The social worker said that they are trying to find Granma in Aussie, but the last address wasn’t right. You know that Mum and Dad weren’t talking to them.’ Tania’s eyes were glistening with tears. I think she was just about all cried out. I had to be strong for her.

‘But can’t we go there and look for her Tom?’

‘I wish we could Tania, but I’m not old enough to get passports and get the money too. We gotta stay here for a while. I promise that one day we will find grandma.’ I crossed my fingers like Mum had taught me when I was younger, when I knew I was telling a porky. We were interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door. The couple had let us share the room--- just as well because I don’t think that Tania would have slept if she was away from me.

‘Tania--- Tom--- are you ready yet?’ Mrs Carver said as she entered the room. She cast her glance over us, satisfied that we were almost ready. ‘That’s a nice dress dear. Did you get it for birthday?’

Tania stopped her fussing around and looked at me, as if I was going to answer for her. ‘It’s okay Tania--- just answer,’ I said.

‘Mum gave it to me last Christmas,’ she said in a tiny voice and then burst into tears. Mrs Carver came right into the room and put her arms around my sobbing sister. After a few seconds, Tania’s sobs diminished, apart from the occasional hiccup sound.

‘Let it out honey. I know it’s not fare when you lose your mum, especially at your age.’ I know the lady meant it, because she and her husband had been really kind to both of us.

‘But I want to go home--- to our house,’ Tania said. I thought she was going to start her wailing again so I told her what I thought would settle her down.

‘Tania, you know what I told you last night. We were only renting the house and the landlord wants it back. We couldn’t live there alone anyway.’

‘You are very mature for your age Tom,’ Mrs Carver said as she let Tania out of her arms. Tania didn’t attempt to move away. She looked washed out and there was a look of hopelessness in her eyes. ‘How about we go to the funeral and we talk about what happens later eh?’

Tania sneaked a look at me to see if I was going along with Mrs Carvers’ suggestion. I knew the lady was right so I nodded.

‘Okay, but I mean it---- I want us to go home. Dad will come back I’m sure.’ I didn’t have the heart to break the news that things were never going to be the same for us, so I just kept quiet and pretended to tie my laces again.

‘Right ----- that’s settled then,’ Mrs Carver said, relief showing on her face. ‘How about you come out to the car when you are ready and we can head off to the church. It was a command rather than a question, so I stood up and checked that Tania was following as I left the bedroom. A few minutes later we drove out onto the main road towards town. The traffic was light and five minutes later Mr Carver parked the car outside the church. There were only about six cars there, and I suspected that most of those were to do with the running of the funeral, an ugly black Hurst amongst them.

Tania had been unusually quiet during the short drive to the church. As we pulled up a few meters away from the Hurst he said, ‘Is Mummy in there---- in that box?’ Mrs Carver hesitated before answering.

‘Yes she is dear. We’ll just go into the church shall we and then they can start.’

‘Oh--- okay then. Can we sit at the front so we can say goodbye to her properly?’ ’ I was surprised at the change in her mood, but knowing her from past ‘difficulties’, I knew that things could swing around like a puppy mid-flight in a game.

I helped Tania out of the car. Before I could stop her she rushed into eh church. We followed her and even I was shocked at the emptiness of the place. Mr and Mrs Carver approached me from behind and I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘How about we sit in the front row? I know you’re sad about there being no friends here to send your mum off.’

I must admit that I hadn’t thought about it before then, but now as I surveyed the empty church I felt tears welling up, threatening to overflow onto the floor. I knew that we hadn’t really made friends in the district. Mum and Dad had always kept to themselves. Uncles, aunts and cousins, all lived in other towns and cities or in Aussie, like my grandmother, so we were quite alone. Now, when we faced Mum’s funeral, it really hit me that Tania and I were the only family members. Tania must have had a similar realization, because once again she set up a wailing that bounced off the hard surfaces of the little church walls. I attempted to calm her.

‘Come and sit down Tania and Tom,’ a man dressed in a Minister’s garb said quietly. His voice had an immediate effect on Tania. Once again she flipped her mood. She slowly moved towards the front pews and sat, quickly followed by the Carvers and me.

The sound of the Hurst being opened and the coffin being placed on a trolley could be clearly heard from the front where we were sitting. I turned around and was surprised to that only two men pushed the ungainly trolley down the aisle. I had always imagined about six people bringing the coffin in for a funeral. I turned to Mrs Carver but she must have anticipated my question.

‘They carry the casket out later dear ,but today we don’t have enough people to help, so we’ll mange won’t we?’

‘I am sure I can help with that,’ a voice said from behind us. We all turned. A middle-aged man with long scruffy hair had just sat in the pew behind us... ‘I’m your mum; s cousin from down the line---- Mick’s the name.

His eyes were steely blue, reminding me of a guy in a horror movie I had seen a few weeks ago on Television. A shiver snaked down my spine. I didn’t remember Mum ever talking about a cousin called Mick. But there was something else about him. Those eyes twinkled and made me want to know more about him. Now was not the time.

After the coffin was suitable placed the minister addressed us. My mind retreated to somewhere else. I’m buggered if I remember what he said but all of a sudden the three men, including Mick were taking the coffin back to the Hurst. Mrs Carver told us that we were going straight back to their house where she had a nice meal in the crockpot. She whispered something into Micks ear as he slowly accompanied Mum’s coffin back to the Hurst. He nodded and they disappeared out the front of the church.

‘Aren’t we gonna burry Mum?’ Tania asked. She didn’t seem too upset----yet.

‘No dear---- it’s all been arranged. They are taking your Mum to the crematorium and then she can go to heaven.’ My sister wasn’t stupid. Maybe it would have been better to have told her something more like the truth.

Tania stomped her feet, so hard that I thought she might injure herself. ‘I want to see where they put her!’ She ran out through the door, just as the Hurst started to pull out of the car park. Tania didn’t stop. She tore out through the entrance and we could hear her screaming, ‘Mummy---Mummy!’

A shadowy figure whisked past me and followed, narrowing the gap between my fleeing sister, finally catching up with her. He swept her off her feet, just in time, as a car veered away from them, nearly colliding. The driver shouted abuse and carried on down the road, passing the Hurst and accelerating away. Mick brought Tania back to us, set her down and winked at me.

‘Thanks----Uncl----Mick,’ I said.

‘Just call me Mick--- that’s fine. Now young lady, you don’t want to be running on that busy road---what with all those crazy drivers around, you could have been bowled over.’

Tania actually looked a little guilty. She looked up at Mick, unsure how to respond. Finally she said, ‘Where’s Mummy going?’

Mick didn’t beat about the bush like the rest of us had. ‘Look princess---you know that when people die that they have to be buried or cremated--- you know what cremated is?’

Tania shook her head, looking up at Mick towering above her. ‘No---do they put cream on her?’

Mick kept a straight face while looked away, just about busting. I think it was the first time I had smiled all day. Mrs Carver took the opportunity to bring a bit of order to the proceedings. ‘No dear--- some people like to be burnt when they die and then they have a little headstone or plaque in a place they loved. Perhaps that’s what we will do in a few months when you are feeling better.’

‘But I’m not sick----does it hurt--? I suppose it doesn’t eh, cause you don’t feel anything when you’re dead---right?’

‘That’s right little one,’ Mick said. You’re a big girl; now so you understand.

‘My names Tania --- not little one or princess,’ Tania replied. ‘What are we gonna do now?’

‘We’re all going back home now--- you too mick. I think you may want to get to know your young relatives.’

‘I was hoping you’d say that. I’ll bring my missus too, if that’s okay.

Roskill

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Why do some of our 'kids' behave so badly?

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

This book is for you---if you care about your kids!

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Roskill has been through MILL!- -I am happy to say that it is ready for you to order via Amazon.

Roskill is alive and well on Amazon, in hard-copy form and eBook

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Roskill has been relaunched

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Roskill: 'The River Always Flows' -- Chapter by chapter rel...

'The River Always Flows' -- Chapter by chapter release