INTRODUCTION
This chapter in my life begins when we moved from our home called Meadway in Heswall to a much grander house known as ‘Heathcot’ in Willaston; and continues until I was sent away to a boarding school called Heronwater Preparatory School in North Wales at the age of eleven.
In many ways, Heathcot was the perfect home for a young curious boy like me. I will describe our big new house and its surrounding property below. Even outside Dad’s magical estate, there were expansive fields and woodlands to explore with our black poodle Benny and German pointer Gretel.
Before I was sent away to boarding school, I went to a local preparatory school called Moorland House in Neston. I studied hard for my exams and I was proud to be top of my class. At school, we wore navy blue shorts and blue blazers with a special badge on its pocket. Next to the school were the moors where we could play in the nature amid red sandstone rocks and prickly gorse bushes.
One of the saddest days of my life was when our poodle Benny was run over by a car. I feel sure that Benny was more intelligent than many human beings and he also had a unique character. I didn’t witness the tragedy but Mum said it happened on Heath Lane during a walk. I was in denial of Benny’s death for a couple of days; I even asked my sister Victoria why she was crying while I tried to pretend that nothing had happened.
During this stage in my life, I divided my time between studying, playing and exploring, while trying to make sense of this bizarre world. Our massive house and surrounding property offered limitless opportunities for adventure. I was lucky to have so much freedom to explore and experiment with things as long as I performed well in my school exams and kept quiet because Dad likes ‘peace and quiet’.
I asked many logical questions because I wanted to understand how everything works and why people behave as they do. Paradoxically, the more my dad pushed me to excel academically, the more questions I asked because I was determined to remain top of the class. Unfortunately, my questions annoyed Dad but I asked them with pure innocence.
I was confused about several things, especially about God and the British class system. I could not understand why people with white skin are supposed to be more important than people with black or yellow skin (like our neighbours), and why I was not allowed to talk to ordinary people, known as ‘proles’ (or working class people). Sometimes when we took our dogs for walks I would spot some proles and I liked to listen to their strange way of talking.
At Heathcot, Victoria and I both had our own toy boxes in the ‘playroom’, each packed with games, puzzles, and my stamp and toy collections. I was always collecting things such as toy figures from cereal packets and medals from petrol stations. My mum and dad even gave me circular tops, which I would spin on horizontal surfaces.
One of the scariest moments of my life happened when we went on holiday to Cardigan in Wales. The four of us went on a trip in a small rowing boat that we hired. I noticed a rusty old tin can under the wooden seat and, without thinking, I picked it up and tossed it into the seawater. I enjoyed watching the rusty brown vessel gradually submerge while Dad was rowing. An hour later, I noticed that the boat was filling up with seawater due to a leak. Dad asked me where the can was, so I told him that it was sitting at the bottom of the sea.
Dad frightened me when he told me that we would probably all drown due to my stupidity. He recited part of the Lord’s prayer, as if he was begging God to save our souls. I wondered whether we would survive; meanwhile more and more water was seeping into our boat. Anyway, we managed to return to the shore without drowning, and I cannot underestimate how relieved I was that we survived.
So, the saddest time in this chapter of my life was when our poodle Benny died, and the scariest time was when I thought we would all drown. The rest of the time I was lost in wonder and curiosity. I discovered that if I studied hard and performed well in my school exams, I would be treated well and enjoy more freedom. I could play with my chemistry set in the bungalow at the bottom of the garden and even make fireworks. I was taken care of well and I loved Mum’s fruitcakes and apple or rhubarb crumble.
DAD’S NEW HOUSE
Dad’s new house called Heathcot was massive. The house was pebble-dashed and painted brilliant white and it contained three bedrooms, four bathrooms, a kitchen and dining room, drawing room, playroom, hallway, ‘precious room’ and a sun lounge. Heathcot also had a double garage and an impressive driveway with two entrances. My parents always kept the driveway neat and tidy, so my mum was continuously raking pine needles off the driveway.
The property was sub-divided into two plots of land with a privet hedge in between. On one side was dad’s mansion, front lawn, and two rear gardens separated by a row of conifers. Sometimes we played croquet on the rear lawn behind the conifers.
On the other side of the privet hedge was a paddock where we would host ‘Guy Fawkes’ parties on November 5th. I loved bonfires, firework displays and roasting chestnuts amid the burning embers. Behind the paddock was our tennis court and at the bottom of the garden was our small bungalow where we were free to play.
I built a tree house behind the bungalow. The base of the tree house was an old black wooden door. I also constructed a pulley system enabling me to lift items up to my secret abode. I would spend many hours inside my tree house, lost in wonder and fantasy.
During the Summer, we played tennis. Mum and Dad were good tennis players, but Dad didn’t play often, preferring to tend to his garden. Dad mowed his lawn neatly and made the garden look beautiful. My favourite plants were the magnolias and the weeping willow in the front garden. In summertime, the roses and rhododendrons bloomed, then, in springtime, Dad’s garden displayed daffodils, snowdrops, and crocuses. The garden also contained many dahlias, and pink and white heathers.
Our family spent most of the time in just one room, the playroom. We played, watched television and relaxed in this room. Dad entertained his less important friends in the playing room but he would always invite medical doctors into his ‘precious room’. Victoria and I were allowed into the precious room on Christmas Day and Boxing Day.
Dad would always sit in his big green armchair in the playroom diligently studying the Sunday Telegraph magazine’s listing the top 100 richest people in the world. Meanwhile, I would be playing with my games or doing my homework.
Dad liked to collect antiques so he kept his most valuable items in the precious room. Of course, there were many old black and white photographs of our ancestors adorning the walls of this room. The Wylie coat of arms was displayed prominently above the fireplace.
On many occasions, I watched Tom Baker acting Doctor Who with the cybermen on television. Sometimes I was so scared of the robots that I hid behind the sofa and I would steal peeks of the program whenever I dared!
On the right-hand side of our property, next to our paddock where we kept a very naughty pony called Freddy, we had neighbours who had coloured skin. The women would wear colourful silk saris. The man who owned the property managed a MacDonalds franchise in Ellesmere Port. Dad got very annoyed when our neighbours’ dog barked loudly. Dad says he needs ‘peace and quiet’.
EXAM PERFORMANCE IS EVERYTHING!
I was always under intense pressure to excel in my school examinations. Mum and Dad didn’t seem to care about anything apart from my exam performance, as long as I kept quiet. They were not concerned about sports, music or hobbies … just exam results. They made it clear that if I excelled academically I would be successful and happy. On the other hand, if I performed poorly at school I would end up like my Great Grandfather Robert Wylie choking on cigarettes in dire poverty albeit surrounded by lots of books.
On several occasions, my father and Grandfather Norman told me about the old Scottish system of humiliating poor-performing pupils by forcing them to wear a conical Dunce’s cap (displaying the letter ‘D’) and making them stand in the corner facing the wall. The word ‘Dunce’ originates from the Scottish Franciscan scholar John Duns Scotus (1266–1308), who was one of the leading Scholastic theologians of the Middle Ages. Duns Scotus wrote treatises on theology, grammar, logic, and metaphysics, which were widely influential throughout Western Europe, earning Duns the papal accolade Doctor Subtilis (Subtle Teacher). My grandpa Norman was Scottish, so perhaps John Duns Scotus influenced him.
At school, with the help of my grandfather Norman, I established a system that enabled me to excel in my exams. I will share this system with you in the next chapter.
I enjoyed the benefits of academic success. My father and Norman would give me some attention, some extra pocket money or treats, and tell me what a ‘clever fellow’ I am. Therefore, I learned at an early age that my life would be secure if I was successful in my school exams. Moreover, I would live a happy life without being branded with the big letter ‘D’, which stands for ‘Dunce’.
THE BESPECTACLED PROFESSOR
While I was at Moorland House School, I became aware that I was shortsighted. I was unable to read the blackboard in my class so I told my mum and dad that I needed to wear glasses.
My grandpa Norman, who always wore glasses, tried to dissuade my parents from giving me glasses. He told us that opticians are rogues, unscrupulously ‘pushing’ optical products onto people who didn’t really need them, and turning us into bespectacled addicts.
Norman obviously influenced my parents with his negative view of opticians because they made special arrangements with my teachers that I would be allowed to have my desk at the front of the class, just two or three metres from the blackboard. The teachers agreed to their request, so I was separated from the rest of the class, right next to the teacher’s lectern.
Naturally, being separated from the rest of the class in this way drew attention to the young professor who was head of the class. However, even sitting so close to the blackboard, I needed to squint to make sense of the chalk hieroglyphics etched onto the blackboard.
After a year or two of squinting at the blackboard – with my desk almost touching the blackboard – the situation became ridiculous and we agreed that it was time for me to succumb to the opticians (or optical ‘pushers’). I was relieved that I could again sit with the rest of the class, but now they called me ‘Spectrum’, I assume because of my specs.
DINNER TIMES
At Heathcot we would usually have dinner together as a family around 6.30pm after Dad returned from his Liverpool dental practice. Mum would have prepared the meal for us, so she just needed to warm it up in the microwave oven.
There were two extremely different types of dinnertime at Heathcot and the determining factor was the mail that Dad received that day. If Dad received dividends (divi’s) from his investments, he would be animated and relaxed. The conversation would be lighter and perhaps he would tell us a joke.
On the other hand … if my dad received ‘more bloody bills,’ the mood would be sombre and we would eat our dinner mainly in silence. Be aware that Heathcot was a large property requiring lots of maintenance, so there would have been many bills to pay, no doubt.
During the ‘uncomfortable’ dinners my father would typically target Victoria or I with rather tough questions. One of the most common questions aimed at me was ‘What are you going to do with your life?’ Once I answered, ‘I want to travel around the world’ but this response made Dad very angry … so afterwards I said that I just wanted to focus on my education before making big decisions.
Another evening, after my dad received three ‘bloody bills’ and not a single dividend, he had me in his gun sights again. This time around, he asked me whether I had a girlfriend yet. Maybe he was concerned that I was gay because homosexuality was categorized as a psychiatric disorder until after I was sent away to boarding school.
Perhaps these interrogations were similar to the witch trials during medieval times. During one such trial, Dad told me that if I don’t get my act together quickly, ‘I fear for you deeply.’ I shall never forget those chilling words.
On a lighter note, though, Dad visited a local public house called The Wheatsheaf on Friday evenings. He would meet his public school buddies and enjoy drinking beer with them. Afterwards, he would arrive home in a jovial mood and sometimes he would act ‘Mister Fusspot’ by wearing goofy dentures that made him look like Austin Powers. Dad was extremely animated and funny after he drank beer.
One Friday evening at Heathcot, after Dad had returned from the Wheatsheaf public house, we shared several real moments of what felt like real intimacy together. We both needed to have a pee before dinner so we both went to the downstairs toilet together. Dad urinated first and we both counted each second of ‘slashing’. Obviously, Dad had a full bladder of beer, so while he urinated we counted up until 30. Then I took my turn to pee into the toilet and we both counted. I managed to pee for nine seconds.
Interestingly, alcohol has always been prevalent in our family; Mum’s parents drank a lot of alcohol and Grandpa Norman brewed his own beer. When I was just ten years old Dad introduced me to beer from an eggcup but I thought it tasted horrible. However, I began to like the taste of beer when I was thirteen years old.
THE SUNDAY RITUAL
On God’s day of rest, Dad would spend the morning and early afternoon tending to his garden. Later in the afternoon, we would dress smartly before driving to Chedworth for a tea party with Nana and Grandpa.
Nana and Grandpa always greeted us enthusiastically. I would shake hands with Grandpa like a business man and I would kiss Nana’s rosy right cheek. Victoria and I would play while the ladies prepared the Sunday tea party. Eventually, we would be invited into the dining room for the special feast.
We would sit around my Grandparent’s dining room table with Grandpa at one end and Nana at the other end. Victoria would sit next to me and Mum and Dad would be opposite me.
There would be a massive sponge cake teaming with whipped cream and tinned peaches in the middle of the table. On another plate was a collection of chocolate biscuits of varying shapes and sizes, and, of course, the meringues and brandy snaps. On the embroidered white cotton tablecloth there was a butter dish, a receptacle containing Robinsons strawberry jam and a plate of traditional English scones. We used serviettes, side plates and silver cutlery to enjoy the spoils of this typically English Sunday afternoon ritual.
On these Sunday outings, my sister and I were expected to be quiet and listen to the grownups talk. My dad would place two sixpenny coins in the middle of the table, next to the cake, and we would each claim a coin at the end of the meal for not uttering a single syllable.
While my grandfather and father were discussing their hero Winston Churchill, the stock exchange, and how the virus of socialism was destroying the fabric of British society, my attention was focused on the cakes and chocolate biscuits. Because I was not allowed to talk, all I had to do was point to my favourite cakes and my mum would serve me.
I enjoyed these tea parties, stuffing myself with chocolate and cream cakes. I also enjoyed the challenge of not saying anything for up to an hour, receiving the prize of sixpence, and later being congratulated by both my father and grandfather for being ‘such a clever young man’. All I had to do was remain quiet!
During these outings, my Grandpa would give my father gold coins, usually Winston Churchill coins or Krugerands because he said he didn’t want him to pay any inheritance taxes. I guess that Dad had to earn his coins somehow by obediently following his father’s expectations.
Of course, Norman and Dad’s rightwing rants raised many questions inside my mind. I could not understand why black people should be treated differently from whites. I also could not reason why we were superior to the ‘proles’ just because of mum’s family wealth. And I had many questions about religion; our friend Doctor James Graham told me that I was too young to be asking such grownup questions.
GOD’S RULES, DAD’S COMMANDMENTS
We had to learn all about the Christian religion at school but we didn’t learn about any of the other religions, like Hinduism, Islam or Buddhism. We had to learn God’s Ten Commandments, which I distilled down to God’s Top 6 Rules because four of his or her commandments appeared to be duplicates:
1. Worship the real God, not any idols, at least every Sunday, and never swear
2. Honour your mother and father
3. Do not murder (unless you eat meat or work in the army)
4. Do not steal
5. Do not tell lies
6. Be monogamous (and don’t have sex with your neighbour’s wife, nor his male servant, nor his female servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbour’s)
I think God’s rules are easy to obey except that I kill wasps because they sting, so I may be breaking God’s third rule. Also, occasionally I tell white lies to keep me out of trouble. For example, when Dad asked me whether I had a girlfriend at the age of nine, I answered ‘Yes’; but really I just play with male friends or with my sister Victoria. Actually, it was a white lie because Victoria is my friend (who is a girl) as well as being my sister!
I agree with God that we should not kill people. However, people fight wars in the name of God, so politicians do not obey the third rule.
I like God’s idea of having at least one day off each week. On these days, we need to relax and see the ‘big picture’ of our life. I call these days, ‘Big Picture Days’ because on these days we can take a bird’s eye view of our life, enabling us to see our direction forwards clearly.
Like my dad, God seems a bit controlling because he or she has four commandments dictating that we should worship him or her, rather than his or her competitors. Also, there are probably thousands of different gods and religions, so how am I meant to know which one is the true one? Is the Christian god correct? Or is Islam’s god correct? This is an important question for anyone who wants to avoid burning in hell after they die.
Dad’s Ten Commandments, which follow, are not so easy to follow:
1. Work and study hard to deserve the family name
2. Do not ask for what you want because, “He who asks, never gets!”
3. Be obedient and never question grownups, especially doctors and other authorities
4. Do not talk to strangers, especially proles and coloured people
5. Never complain, cry or burden us with your problems
6. Everything in life must be earned, both inside and outside the family
7. Always pretend to be perfect, successful, strong and confident
8. Keep quiet and listen to grownups because older people are wiser
9. The man is the decision-maker and his wife must agree with him always
10. Honour your mother and father
I don’t understand some of Dad’s commandments but if I ask him about them he gets angry. He wants me to remain at the top of my class at school while following rules blindly, without understanding them. This doesn’t make sense to me and it makes me feel annoyed.
I am a curious fellow so I ask lots of questions because I want to understand how and why things work the way they do. Unfortunately, Dad doesn’t like me asking questions. He replies, ‘Just do as you are told!’ So, he wants me to do things without understanding why I do them. I really don’t mean to be a menace or disobedient, I just need to understand things.
Sometimes when I asked Dad questions, he would reply, ‘That’s the way it is and the way it will always be. You will understand when you are older and wiser.’
Dad insists that we are always polite, so we were often reminded to ‘Remember our P’s and Q’s’, which means that we should use the word, ‘Please’ when asking for something, and say ‘Thank you’ after we have been given what we want. I agree with this rule because if people are kind to us we should be polite. However, surely this guideline is redundant if, according to Dad’s Second Commandment, we are not allowed to ask for what we want?
Dad and grandpa believe that superior people are deserving and entitled to a high quality of life. On the other hand, they believe that feeble-minded, homosexuals, socialists, poor, weak or disabled, ‘proles’ and coloured people should not be supported by society. This seems very tough on the people who they classify as inferior.
If I say that something is not fair, Dad smiles and says, ‘life is not fair!’ Also, I am not allowed to cry because ‘only girls and sissies cry’. Anyway, I don’t cry, even when I hurt myself.
Our Victorian-style family has different rules for boys and girls. Girls should not pursue their own interests or have strong opinions; instead, they should devote their lives to their husbands. For example, Mum is very modest about her art even though she is a talented artist.
I am not allowed to talk to working class people (or proles) but I don’t understand the underlying reason. I notice that working class people have fewer rules than us and sometimes I cannot understand what they say because of their accents.
British working class people wear blue shirts at work so they are called ‘blue-collar workers’, but professional middle class people wear white shirts in offices, so they are called ‘white-collar workers’. My favorite colour is blue but I am not a prole. The colour white represents purity and perfection, but the colour blue depicts freedom and relaxation. The upper classes do not wear collars because they don’t have to work.
I asked Dad why I can’t talk to the proles but he ignored me, so I asked again. Dad said, ‘It’s about breeding. Look at the dogs in the street – many of them are dirty mongrels. Now take a look at our pedigree German Shorthaired Pointer. That’s the difference between the proles and us!’
I asked, ‘What is a mongrel?’
‘It’s an animal that has been cross-bred using two different breeds, at least one of which is inferior, resulting in an inferior beast. It’s all in the genes, son,’ replied Dad.
I stopped for a while and thought. ‘So, if a middle-class person marries a prole, will their babies be like mongrels?’ I asked.
Dad muttered quietly, ‘The bastards perish and go to hell.’ I think he thought I couldn’t hear him. Then he finished our conversation more loudly with, ‘That’s enough for now!’ and abruptly walked out of the room.
I was very confused, as if I had a billion questions exploding inside my brain simultaneously. I still think that proles are normal people who are allowed to grow their hair long and some of them become rock stars on telly. I don’t like short hair, white shirts and black ties because gangsters and bank managers wear this type of uniform.
My favourite colour is blue because it makes me feel relaxed and free (like the proles who wear blue shirts). The two most important things for life are blue: the sky and the sea before they got polluted.
ENGLAND’S RULES
England is a very organized and competitive country to live in. Organised countries have many rules and England has many of them. Here are England’s rules:
1. Know your place in England’s organised class system
2. Pay your taxes (unless you are very rich)
3. Begin every conversation with a discussion about the weather or the sports results
4. Do not kill unless you work in the military or the police force
5. Work hard because “hard work never killed anyone”
6. Always appear strong, perfect and confident, and maintain a ‘stiff upper lip’
7. The winner is the person with the best presentation or biggest inheritance
8. Do not steal unless you are a banker
9. Honour the Queen of England
10. Blend into society by copying others because individuality is the biggest crime
Of course, England’s rules serve those who have money and adept social skills. England’s societal rules encourage its citizens to contribute to the economy by working hard, generating business and spending lots of money. The rules are strictly enforced and people who disobey the rules are teased or bullied, causing everyone to think and behave the same way.
PERSONAL GUIDELINES
Of course, I want to be successful like everyone else, but I need to do so in my own unique way without being controlled by others. Here are my personal guidelines, which I try to follow. Notice that I use the term ‘Guidelines’ rather than rules … I really don’t really like the word, ‘rules’.
1. Study hard to excel in school exams
2. Try to find out how things work (use your intelligence)
3. Keep busy exploring and experimenting
4. Try to keep out of trouble
5. Do not kill (except for wasps and mosquitos)
6. I also agree with God that we should not have sex with, steal from, or lie to our neighbours, regardless of their skin colour, social class or economic worth.
I don’t have many rules but I think that everyone should do their best to use their talents and take care of each other without any conditions.
SOMETHING HAPPENED
My life would be easy if my guidelines were the same as God’s, Dad’s and England’s, but they are not.
God’s rules are quite easy to follow, so I get on well with God for now. However, my values differ from British society and Dad’s values, so inevitably there is conflict in my life. If my values and beliefs were the same as Dad’s there would be no arguments in the family.
Each authority has different demands, which leads to confusion. Here are some examples:
There are three different answers to the question, ‘Who should I honour?’
A1 (God’s rules): Honour God
A2 (England’s rules): Honour the Queen
A3 (Dad’s rules): Honour Mum and Dad
Next, let’s consider the question, ‘Is stealing allowed?’
A1 (God’s rules): Definitely not
A2 (England’s rules): Not unless you are a banker
A3 (Dad’s rules): Only if you can get away with it
Similarly there are different answers to the question, ‘Who is the winner in life?’
A1 (God’s rules): The person who worships God the most
A2 (England’s rules): The richest person
A3 (Dad’s rules): The richest person who has a title
Despite all of my questions, something happened in my family before I was ten years old but I am not sure exactly what. One ‘black Monday’ my mum stopped supporting me at dinner times. From this day onwards, I would always wrong and my mum would never help me again. I didn’t know why my parents behaviour towards me changed … until many years later.
Soon afterwards, I was told that I would be sent away to a boarding school. Of course, I was petrified and I asked if I could go to a local school, but Dad said that if I didn’t go, I would ‘be on my own,’ whatever that means. So, my belongings were packed into a trunk which accompanied me to my new home at Heronwater Preparatory School in North Wales.