Forget You Had a Daughter - Doing Time in the Bangkok Hilton (4 page)

When I was aged about eight or nine my childhood existed as a kind of hazy dream where I found normal things difficult to comprehend. Television bored and baffled me. While my friends all raved about
Dr Who
,
Star Trek
and, later,
Happy Days
, I just couldn’t see the point and I became mischievous and introverted.

I suspect I was also demanding, clingy and rather obnoxious.

By contrast, with enormous vitality and enthusiasm my mum would make most of my clothes, carefully choosing patterns and materials. She would also bake and make wonderful sweets. One Saturday I arrived home from the shops, with a small bag of sweets

that had cost all my pocket money, and Doreen, her eyes grey and neutral, was horrified. The following week she made treacle toffee, peppermint creams, tablet and toffee; it was a feast and all the children in the area came along to buy them.

It was wonderful and quickly I learned her famous recipes and was making them myself. I can see her now: her fiery hair, the grey in her eyes and the sweetness of her sugary delights.

There are many photographs of my dad, scattered between my mum, my brother and myself. In all of them he is elegant, but always slightly out of reach, as if he did not want to be captured by the pokey nose of the camera lens. As if being caught would somehow render some part of him redundant, or at least make him belong to someone else. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He belonged – he
belongs
– to my mum.

My dad is aware of the camera, as much as he is aware of himself. He is self-contained, suspicious and, in photographs, espe- cially family ones, his posture rarely gives any clue as to his relationship to those with whom he shares the lens.

Stan Gregory is a wonderful man, with kind eyes, but he rarely enjoys being the centre of attention, to the point that it is almost disfiguring. He fears, as I do, examination and this was true of our relationship most of my early life. He was never much of a talker, rarely speaking to me about much, if anything, until I was an unruly teenager, intolerant or unable to listen. I’m not sure what other adults made of him because he was, and is still, a very serious, strong and remote figure, rarely provoked to smile. Every morning, wearing a fresh suit, he would leave for work after kissing us all goodbye, before returning late in the evening. He worked as an engineer and, perhaps, the ingenuity and secretive- ness that went into his planning at least partly explains his nature.

It is strange writing about him, even slightly improbable, because my mum is constantly reminding me how much alike we are and only now, when the events of the last few years have finally

put their stamp on my personality, can I see how right she is. He will probably smile at this, he may even agree, but no doubt with a kind of sadness. I’d like to think that in all our little fall-outs throughout my troublesome teenage years he was preparing me for something beyond childhood, building up a bank of resilience that could be debited whenever a desperate situation required it.

I suppose I had always imagined myself as the second-class child. It was always Sandra who was never quite good enough. My brother was the academic achiever, the pride and joy of his teach- ers; he was creative and clever, and only ever politely and discreetly rebellious. He was practical, sensible and, of course, he is a boy. And yet he was always my hero, whom I looked up to for almost everything.

Like my dad, he turned out to be an engineer; I suppose it was inevitable given that they were always together in the garage making and fixing things. I was never invited to join in. Every weekend the two of them would go sailing together, competing at Sheerness and often returning home with trophies, plaques and silver-plated cups.

One Sunday, when I was about
11
, I discovered what it meant to

be scared. My brother was unable to go sailing and my dad asked if I’d like to accompany him in his small yacht,
Chaos
. I was almost levitating with excitement as we set off on that gorgeous morning in Kent. He had never asked before.

The sea was calm and, after getting the hang of water, boat and sails, I loved being there with him. He showed me how to strap on the harness and stand on the side of the boat to stop it capsizing. I trembled and learned.

Towards the end of the afternoon, after stopping at another bay, we suddenly headed back to the initial beach after the weather had changed and the sea became choppy. My face, by now, was the colour of grey meat.The storm started to build and my dad’s eyes filled with apprehension and his voice changed its pitch; I quickly suspected that he regretted bringing me on that trip.

‘Sandra,’ he said, his voice rising,‘we’re going to have to move a bit quick to get the boat back to the clubhouse.’

We were no longer practising as the sea rolled and the boat jogged into the wind while the rain lashed against us. I was fright- ened. I strapped on the harness and stood on the side of the boat again, but the harness snapped and I was thrown over the side into the water. It’s impossible to simply stop and turn a boat round, like a driver would a car, so I watched my dad sailing way off into the distance, believing he was leaving me for good. He was, of course, doing no such thing, but floating there felt like I was watching myself dying.

Eventually, he turned the boat around and came back for me. Cold and exhausted, I scrambled into the boat. We said little to each other. Despite my terror and humiliation, I did not want to let him see how I was feeling, so I stayed outwardly calm, while he concentrated on other things. Returning to the clubhouse I showered and changed then found him amongst his sailing friends. They were all in fine spirits. They were laughing and he was laughing.And I thought they were laughing at me.They were actually laughing with me rather than at me but it was the first time I remember not getting sympathy, because my mum wasn’t there. I couldn’t wait to get home, away from all those men. I was never taken sailing again.

I had almost everything as a child: gymnastic classes, followed by swimming and, later, private French lessons. But what I loved most of all was animals.

‘Sandra,’ said my mum,‘would you like riding lessons?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ I shrieked,‘yes, I would.’

Unable to believe my luck, I spent all my spare time down at the riding stables, regularly coming home covered in mud and hair from the horses.

My mum would take me along to the stables half an hour early so that I could groom and saddle up the pony I would be riding

that day. On most days she would have to pull the car over before we arrived at the stables, so that I could dash for a wee in the bushes because I couldn’t wait to get there.After learning to ride I would go on hacks with other young riders.

As the months went by I became the sort of unofficial stable manager for the woman who had started up a riding school, getting other girls to organise and help. One day a new, feisty little pony, which had just been shod, was probably feeling a little tender when I decided to show off to one of the girls, while most of the others were out on a hack. I decided to try lungeing him on the end of a four-foot rope in an open area.

Lungeing is supposed to be done with a familiar horse, on a long rope and always in an enclosed arena. Showing off my lack of skills, the pony decided he would go and explore the new field and, as I stood right behind him, tugging on the rope, he lashed out at me. His left hoof caught me straight in the face. The girl came running towards me looking shocked; as I took my hand away from my face a spurt of blood shot out, covering us both in bright red.

It took
17
stitches to fix the cuts around my right eye and the

scar, which is still very visible, runs from my eye to the curve of my cheekbone. After that I grew depressed. I didn’t go out and for weeks I was not allowed to look in a mirror; at school I was nick- named Scarface. I looked and felt like a monster. My love affair with horses ended and, after the age of
13
, my selfish little world became less than perfect.

Who gives parents the right to move home when their children are settled? When I was
14
we moved to King Alfred’s ancient capital of Winchester and I was devastated. After living in a place where everyone knew me I found the upheaval of moving to a new place difficult to cope with – like most teenagers do. Occasionally, I attended Westgate High School.

Gradually the communication between my dad and I deterio-

rated; he understood me no better than I understood him. Meanwhile my mum tried to understand us both. Not entirely unexpectedly my academic reports fell below par, and they became the subject of his increasing annoyance. In keeping with the liberal times, I suppose, my parents granted me control of the family allowance money and I was told that I now had to buy any- thing I required for myself – except school books and uniform. In this way I would be taught the difference between what I wanted and what I needed.

The jeans were on sale, at half their normal price. My dad lis- tened intently as I explained about how, if he lent me £
10
to buy the jeans, I would pay him back over the coming weeks from my allowance.

‘I’ll give you the money,’ he agreed,‘on the condition that you give me
50
per cent of the overall saving on top of the return.’

‘That’s not worth it.’

‘Exactly. If you want a pair of jeans you should save your money to buy a pair.’

It was a moot point, but I didn’t particularly care for moot points. From his point of view, teaching me to be a little more careful with money wasn’t a bad idea. I certainly never went without, but was brought up to respect money, almost fear it. When it was there you certainly shouldn’t waste it on frivolous things.

I don’t blame my parents for being the way they were with me, but I resented their lessons, and rebelled in any way I could.

School was a waste of time and I grew accomplished at bunking off. I began to hate everything conventional. Although I was always impatient for learning, I never had the patience to sit and to be told. My preference was to learn by living, not studying in claustrophobic classrooms with teachers who, I imagined, had no idea of real life. I wanted to know, but I wanted to know now. I wanted to experience. Now.

Claudio was
18
and I was
14
. Desperate to fulfil the cliché of our teenage infatuation we decided we were head over heels in love. My parents hated him. Claudio spoke little English and he worked in an Italian restaurant. And he had a motorbike and he smoked and he was different.

Claudio finished work around midnight. I was supposed to be sleeping. My hormones had kicked in. I felt like an adult in a kid’s body.

After a bath and my mum had plaited my hair into pigtails, I would pretend to go to sleep but once my parents had gone to bed I’d climb out the window and be gone until four or five in the morning. This went on for ages and I loved the excitement and freedom.

Oh my God, I was petrified. I had arrived home one morning, to find the kitchen door locked and the front door bolted. My parents had done this on purpose. I rang the bell. I prayed it would be my mum.

Please, please let it be Mum.

A figure in a black dressing gown walked casually across the hall landing, and slowly down the stairs. I stood outside the door, shaking.The door opened.

‘You’ve always got to have the last laugh, Sandra,’ he said, with all the wrath of a biblical patriarch,‘haven’t you?’

What happened next, I think, was done more in sadness than anger. He grabbed hold of me and punched me straight in the face. I’d never been hit before and the strength of the punch together with the shock of being hit sent me crashing back, and I sunk down the wall, collapsing in a heap. It was a strange moment. I was hurt, shocked, embarrassed and humiliated. Although I thought him the most stubborn person I had ever known – even his pauses could last an hour – he was right; I always did have to have the last laugh. Not surprisingly, our falling-out period continued.

*

‘How would you feel about living in America?’ my mum asked me one day, after my dad had been offered a transfer.

‘America?Yeah!’ I was
15
years old. It sounded great. I’d love to

live there.

A short time later we were living in a wholesome little place called Sewickley Heights, just outside Pittsburgh, in Pennsylvania.
How wonderful
, I thought,
this is where Dracula lived
.

Sewickley smelled like giant hot-dogs and ketchup. For my parents it was a breath of apple-pie family values and we stayed here for two years. I loved it as well, though for entirely different reasons. There was beer, boyfriends, a strange school and those new things that my mum had always warned me about: drugs.All of these provided distractions that fitted perfectly with the way this wayward teenager felt; I wreaked havoc at QuakerValley High School. Before long I was as familiar with the American detention system as anyone else on campus.

QuakerValley was my first real introduction to drugs, although I managed to resist initially. It was seen as kind of quaint that the little English girl refused them. I wanted to fit in. Physically it was impossible because all these amazing looking Americans, with their tanned skin and luminous hair, surrounded me. Slowly, I came round. I wanted to try the new things that others were

doing.When I was
16
, I smoked a marijuana joint with a girl from

school.

I knew my parents wouldn’t approve but what did they know? How could they understand any of this? From smoking a joint I graduated to a little speed and later to acid. Everybody around me was doing it and, to be honest, I didn’t dislike what I was doing. I was amazed at the reaction these drugs produced; I loved the novelty and loved the fact that I knew it was unconventional. It was my secret.

Despite my promising Sewickley debut, two years after we moved to America we returned to the UK and to the same house we had lived in before. Again, my fragile, teenage world took a