BARBARA ~ A Woman In Charge
‘Affairs of the Heart’, part 2
N.B. Some names of people and places have been changed.
This post directly continues from Low Expectations, Prosaic Ambitions [Affairs of the Heart, part 1]
My friend Shirley had only just left. I had not seen her for about eight years and I had naively hoped we could just resume our friendship and perhaps even form a romantic relationship, but alas it was not to be. Shirley arrived with her boyfriend and was heavily pregnant. The meeting was cordial, but we both felt awkward. I was quite relieved when they left, but I felt morose and foolish in forgetting that people do change and their lives move on.
I was feeling very low but almost immediately there was a knock on my door. “Hello?” I shouted and a familiar cheery voice answered: “It’s only me! Can I come in?”. It was Barbara. She was holding a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
Barbara was the forty-year-old Officer In Charge of ‘Briars Moss Lodge for the Mentally Handicapped’ [it was the early 1980s and that was the appalling official terminology then]; a home run by the Social Services Department for around thirty adult residents with moderate to severe learning difficulties. I was living in the staff quarters — a small annex at the side of the lodge and connected via a short glass corridor. It was two stories high, consisting of a flat on each floor. Both flats were identical - living room, large bedroom, a smaller second bedroom, bathroom with walk-in shower, and a small kitchen.
The reason I was living there was that there was no room in the Leonard Cheshire Home for ‘the physically disabled’. I had no idea at that time about learning disability but at the age of twenty-two, I was determined to leave the clutches of my overprotective mother and overbearing stepfather.
To the residents of the Lodge I was a curiosity and somewhat of a minor celebrity there. Every evening when I came in from work I would hear the excited cries of “here’s Kevin!” and a few of them would greet me at the entrance and shake my hand or some would gently pat me on the shoulder before I went into the annex.
On the day I left the family home, Jim, my stepfather, wheeled me into the larger bedroom where Barbara was sitting on the end of the bed. He gruffly plonked my small suitcase on the bed and muttered something like “you’ll have to unpack for him, he can’t do anything for himself” and then promptly left. Barbara smiled sweetly and just said, “would you like a cup of tea?”
I didn’t really find Barbara attractive, she was far too old for me and I was a little weary of her at first because she reminded me of my teacher at secondary school, who was extremely strict and terrified most of the kids with her liberal application of the cane (I was never caned but she still caused me to fear her). Barbara was also a dark brunette, slim and smartly dressed, and had an air of authority about her, just like that teacher.
[I will write more about the circumstances which led me to leave my family home, in a future Medium post soon].
I had been living at Briars Moss for about four months when on that fateful night Barbara opened the bottle of wine and started filling the glasses. She asked me lots of questions about Shirley and we were chatting only for a few minutes when suddenly, without warning, she burst into tears.
I was totally shocked to see this efficient and professional woman crumble into such a fragile state, I didn’t know what to say or do. I just sat there waiting for her to speak. I wondered if she had already been drinking earlier. “My husband doesn’t love me”, she finally blurted. “We haven’t fucked for months!” she wailed.
“Oh, dear” was all I could manage - I literally didn’t have a clue how to handle this bizarre situation. Barbara said how frustrated she was being in a loveless marriage and couldn’t understand why her husband no longer found her sexually attractive. After rambling for a bit longer she wiped her cheeks and composed herself and apologised for being unprofessional.
Then she asked me “when was the last time you fucked?”. I was gobsmacked that she had twice used the f-word — I still looked upon her as I did my scary school teacher! I replied almost robotically, “October the 15th 1983”. She laughed out loud and my answer seemed to cheer her up a bit. “You’ve only fucked just once then?” she smiled.
I told her briefly about losing my virginity six months earlier to a girl in the office, Ruth, who was proudly gay and lived with her female partner. [I will write about this in another post here.] This information lightened her mood considerably.
I can’t remember how long had elapsed but eventually, we started kissing and things became steadily more and more passionate. The wine flowed and I thought I was literally dreaming and that any moment I would wake up. Barbara suddenly looked at the clock on the wall and said, “Oh, I had better check on the residents and make sure they’re all tucked up in bed.”
In an instant, she had transformed into the efficient office in charge again. She said she would return later and asked if she could assist me into bed. I usually put myself to bed at whatever time I felt like — in those days it was around 2 am. “I’m not treating you like a resident but I want to continue where we left off.” And when she said that I’m sure she winked but I can’t be certain.
Tucked up in the large double bed, she leaned over and kissed me on the lips and said, almost in a whisper, “I’ll be back”. I lay there in a daze reliving over and over in my head what the hell had happened tonight. As time passed I became pessimistic and reasoned that she wasn’t coming back.
I figured that she had probably sobered up and had second thoughts. I imagined that things would be very awkward in the morning, for the both of us, when I would have to pass her office on my way out to work. But then suddenly she entered the room with a breezy “hello” and started undressing.
As Barbara started climbing onto the bed I asked her if we could ‘do it’ on the floor. The bed was far too soft and bouncy and I had fears of falling off it once things got physical. Barbara laughed and obliged.
I’ll leave the next bit to the reader’s imagination. I don’t need to [nor want to] go into the lurid details of it all here, suffice to say that everything functioned perfectly well, as energetically as any full blooded male in their early twenties.
Barbara left me probably about two hours later, around midnight. But before she did, she told me not to tell anyone about our encounter; “and if you do, I’ll just deny it anyway” she smiled mischievously, as she gave me a farewell kiss.
The next morning Felix came into my room at seven-thirty. Felix was the only male care assistant in the whole institution and he was assigned to help me get washed, dressed, and ready for work. He was about ten years older than me and we got on brilliantly. I also knew that he actually fancied Barbara like mad. I was in the living room and grinning like a Cheshire cat when he walked in. “What are you looking so happy about?” he asked quizzically. “I shagged Barbara last night” I blurted out like an excitable child.
He burst out laughing, “did you fuck!” he protested. “Of course, I did” I replied, “I’ve just told you”. He didn’t believe me (I barely believed it myself), but I insisted it was true. He looked at me as if to say you jammy bastard. “Nah, I don’t believe you. I’m going to ask her”. “Go on then, go and ask your boss if we screwed last night”, I jovially retorted. His face reddened and I reckoned that he wouldn’t have the bottle to bring it up with her.
Leaving my flat I drove past her office in my chair and she came out, looking the consummate professional woman, and smiled sweetly saying “Have a good day at work Mr. Donnellon” just like she did every morning. I could feel myself blushing, but she remained perfectly composed. Felix looked at me with a grin as if to say ‘I knew you were lying’.
I was grinning to myself in the taxi all the way to the office and as soon as I got in there I blurted out the whole thing to my friend Andrew and everyone else in the small room who were listening. Surprisingly their response was different to Felix.
They all believed I was telling the truth, but their reaction was mixed. Andrew found it highly amusing and was very pleased for me but Lauren thought Barbara’s behaviour was outrageous and it was totally abusive that a person in charge of my care could take advantage of someone so ‘vulnerable’. But I protested that I wasn’t one of those residents and I had a flat in the staff annex and was free to come and go as I pleased.
“How do you know the dirty cow isn’t trying it on with those poor bastards in that lodge eh?” she shrieked. I replied, confidently, that this wasn’t the case at all and that she shouldn’t be so judgemental.
But half of the team was adamant that I was still technically in her care and that I was even possibly abused by someone in a position of authority and control. But I laughed them off arguing that I couldn’t possibly be a victim of abuse when I had enjoyed myself so much. I told them that I was feeling grateful to her if anything. I forcefully argued that I was a consenting, nay willing, adult without any cognitive impairment.
But even though Andrew firmly believed it was all just good fun between two consenting adults, he said that I still had to be very careful as she worked in a senior position for social services. He advised that I shouldn’t tell anyone else, lest the inevitable gossip led to her losing her job. So Andrew and I thought up a euphemism for Barbara and we decided to call her Doris whenever we spoke about her in the office.
Doris/Barbara worked a rota of 24-hour shifts which meant she slept in the lodge every other night. The deputy officer in charge would be in the other nights. This was a blonde woman in her late 50s. I would describe her as a ‘homely grandmother’. Some of the residents would be seen hugging her affectionately. Barbara was never noticeably tactile with her charges and they never wanted to be so demonstrative with her.
Two nights later Barbara was on duty again. Around half past ten she called to my flat. Again she was carrying a bottle of wine. Her face held a beaming smile. She kissed me on the lips and said “so you told Felix then?”. I felt the blood draining from my cheeks. Oh shit! “S-sorry Barbara” I spluttered.
But Barabara just giggled and kissed me again. “I told you I would deny it” she whispered in my ear. “He fancies you, you know?” I declared, feeling braver and also I thought this was a good distraction from my indiscretion. “Of course I know, he has always fancied me. But he’s not my type” she laughed. What the hell IS your type? I wondered. Within minutes we were copulating on the living room floor.
In truth, Barbara wasn’t my ‘type’ either. She was nearer to my mother’s age than mine. Even though she had only just turned 40 [she was 39 when I entered Briars Moss Lodge] I considered her middle-aged and therefore far too old to have any kind of relationship with. I wasn’t ‘in love’ with her, which is why I use every euphemism here for ‘making love’. It was really just physical sex and nothing more. Don’t get me wrong, I was thoroughly enjoying the experience and she was a great instructor to a total novice with the maturity of age 14 compared to the average 22-year-old [again, I blame my overprotective Mother].
Of course, there are obvious comparisons to be drawn here to the brilliant 1967 film ‘The Graduate’. Barbara was my Mrs. Robinson. And I was just as pathetic and inexperienced as Benjamin.
The third nightly visit from Barbara was in some ways the most memorable — even though coitus never happened.
It was around 8 pm and I was only half watching whatever was on TV, Barbara was sitting on the sofa next to me. She was in a much quieter mood and my stomach was in knots as I anxiously waited for something to happen. Moments later she totally flipped and in an angry voice said “You’ve been wanting to fuck me since I got here! You are a typical bloody man! Why is it always the woman who has to make the first move?” But before I could answer her quite reasonable question, she got up and stormed out of the flat.
I was totally shocked, but at the same time rather perversely flattered that she had called me a ‘typical man’. I reflected on her words all night and eventually reasoned that she had a valid point and was therefore entirely justified in being angry.
I discussed the events with Felix the next morning. “Well you’d better make the first move the next time she visits” he counselled. In the office Andrew was more critical of me — “Serves you right for being so sexist and presumptuous. You might have blown it now with Doris”.
On her next night shift her mood was much more buoyant. She sat next to me again on the sofa. My TV was switched off. Without saying a word I just leant over and kissed her on the cheek. That was all it took. We were soon rocking and rolling about on the bedroom floor. That strange night was never discussed again.
My boss at work got a call from the Leonard Cheshire home to say that a vacancy had come up and I was invited to look around the place. Of course, I now had no desire to leave Briars Moss Lodge, and going around that institution just reinforced my feelings.
[in my forthcoming autobiography I will describe my visit in greater detail. But here I should point out that the charity had a different outlook in the 1980s and the emphasis then was not on independent living. I know their philosophy has changed quite a bit and greater inclusion in society is very much the focus now].
When I arrived back from Leonard Cheshire House I met Barbara at the entrance of the lodge. I told her I didn’t want to go to that awful institution and she smiled, bent down, and kissed me on the lips — in front of Felix and a few of the residents. She said, “You don’t have to, you can stay here with us”. At which point the residents gave out a big cheer and Felix looked on astonished.
I never really mixed with the residents of Briars Moss Lodge. They were not allowed to go into the annex without permission and I didn’t eat my meals in their communal dining room. Instead, the staff would bring my meals into the flat. I remember Barbara herself bringing in my dinner one evening. I glanced up at the clock and declared “It isn’t six o’clock yet”. She gave a look of feigned surprise and replied “Good grief, you’re becoming fucking institutionalised!”
Mary was the only permanent night warden. She was probably in her late 60s and she was from the Republic of Ireland and strictly Catholic. Barbara told me that when she got all the residents in bed in their respective dormitories [there were two of them, segregating the sexes] she would forcefully encourage them to say their prayers to the Lord, whether they were Catholic or not before the lights were turned off at 10 pm.
Barbara found this quite amusing, but I wasn’t so sure it was very ethical. Mary would stroll around the dark empty building throughout the night. Occasionally she would let me in at 2 am if I had been out partying. After leaving home I decided to make up for lost time with wild abandon. I could come and go whenever I pleased — a privilege that was strictly denied to the residents of the lodge.
On the nights I didn’t go out Mary would gently tap on my door at around midnight and whisper (loudly) “are yer there Kevin?” in her lovely Gaelic accent. Sometimes if I wasn’t in the mood or absorbed by something on the telly I wouldn’t answer and I’d hear her shuffle away, but often I would let her in and we’d have long interesting chats about all kinds of things. Mary was a sweet old thing.
Six months had elapsed when the senior management of the social services department found out I was still living in their Lodge, rent-free. They apparently went ballistic and were determined to get me out at the earliest opportunity. Two male social work students were seconded there and on their shifts, they slept in the double bedroom. I was moved into the small single bedroom, closer to the front door.
But I didn’t mind at all as they were both great company and the three of us would drink the night away and it was a great craic. Barbara, being the boss, wrote up all the staff shift times — and purely coincidentally, of course, the students were never working at the same time as Barbara’s shifts.
One night Barbara decided we should go up to her bedroom, as my single bed was a bit cramped for the two of us. In those days I was much lighter than I am now and Barbara had no trouble carrying me up the stairs. We were both stark naked. Barbara had reached the first landing when we heard the door to the Lodge creak open. Mary shuffled to my flat door, tapped on it gently, and whispered loudly “Are yer there Kevin?”. Barbara froze.
I was resting on her left hip. My head leant against her breast, my right hand gripping her left arm. I could literally hear her heart racing. It felt like time had stopped still. Luckily the stairwell was in darkness — the only light was outside the flat in the tiny corridor. Mary only had to look up to her left for her to see us. And then what? I still imagine to this day the different scenarios that might have transpired — none of them would have had a pleasant outcome for any of the 3 of us, especially Barbara I suspected.
But miraculously Mary didn’t look up, she turned around [to her right] and wandered back into the lodge. We laughed with sheer relief when we finally got into the sanctuary of Barbara’s bedroom. At 5.30 am Barbara hurriedly carried me back down to my room before she got ready for her day shift.
But all good things must come to an end, and my time at Briars Moss Lodge was finally up. I’m not a superstitious or religious man. I don’t believe in ‘fate’ — however, quite a few things have happened to me at critical times throughout my life that has been extremely propitious. Social Services received a telephone call from Hornby Housing Association saying that a flat had become vacant.
It had been adapted for a wheelchair user and the unfortunate tenant who had recently passed away was a double amputee after his legs were removed. They asked the department if they knew of anyone who might need their flat. Naturally, they immediately put my name forward.
On my last night at the Lodge, Barbara and I cuddled up snugly in the single bed in my flat. I was excited about moving into a place I could truly call my own home. But I felt guilty ~ guilty because Barbara had given me so much and yet I had no real emotional feelings for her. I wanted to thank her. So I lied and simply said, “I love you”. Barbara didn’t say a word, but tears rolled down her cheeks and she squeezed me tightly. We just lay there and I eventually fell asleep.
This isn’t the end of the story of Barbara in my life and there is a very long and dramatic epilogue. However there is more than enough to digest here, and besides, I have to leave something to put in my autobiography.
Do you think I was taken advantage of by someone, whom I was technically in their care? Was it an abuse of power? Or was I just a very fortuitous young man? Feel free to add your view in the comments section. Thank you for reading this.
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