Tommyknocker

Trauma can take a mind to the strangest places – real and imaginary

Tommyknocker

I was eight years old when I last saw Tommy. At first, I never knew what he was looking for other than trying to be some place far away; far away from here. He would be standing there in his bare feet on the lino staring out of the bedroom window, me watching him from the bottom bunk. He thought I was sleeping but I rarely was. Mum and dad would row most nights. The pattern was always the same; she would get drunk, become grouchy then wind him up. Invariably nonsensical. Often father would lose control.

My brother was two years older than I. He stuck up for me at school. On one occasion, Stephen Millman turned up in new shoes. Platforms. He tramped around the playground at break time like a giant clown wearing oversized footwear; the ones that lean backwards before taking a giant step. He looked so funny I had to laugh. So he came over and started kicking out, his face contorted in rage. Tommy ran to the scene and pushed him in the chest; pushed him hard. Before we knew it, a circle had formed around us with a chant of SCRAP SCRAP SCRAP. At first I thought Millman was going to fight back but he didn’t. He just looked away, broke the human ring and carried on walking. Tommy didn’t take any prisoners.

It was on a freezing December night that I saw Tommy peering out of the window as usual. It had white net curtains attached to wire along the top of the frame. The drapes themselves were dark blue and had to be open and closed by hand. We joked that pulling them shut was like the end of a “Punch and Judy Show” we had seen on the beach at Clacton once. Mr Punch hitting out with his big stick was our dad losing his shit. The only other item (other than the bunkbed) was a big wooden wardrobe that was already there when we moved in. We had no central heating. I remember seeing the back of his head flick upwards. His hair was curly, a mop of sorts. We were alike visually, same long nose, similar facial freckles.

Tommy always had a sharp, darting look in his eyes; as though he was always looking out for danger. He stood back for a second before putting a flat hand to his eyes. For a few minutes he appeared to track the path of something moving across the night sky. He hardly seemed to breathe. From where I was, I could see stars like tiny pin pricks on a blue-black canvass. In the background we could hear raised voices coming from downstairs. He told me in the morning that he had seen a bright object in the sky moving quickly on the horizon. Tommy said it was a UFO. It was a welcome distraction from the arguments of our parents. We would listen to them for ages from our bedroom feeling powerless.

It got cold in winter. Getting into bed was like slipping onto a block of ice; the mattress would be freezing. You would huddle into a foetus position until your temperature stabilised but not until any warmth was drained away. I was peering at Tommy with my eyes looking over the edge of the blanket. There he was again, dressed in white vest and underpants gawking out of the window. The garden was long and narrow, backing onto another one at the bottom. Running down both sides were fences of wooden palings. Next door had a lawn in the top half then vegetables and plants in the bottom. Some were growing on runners; broad beans and stuff. We were always jumping over the fence to retrieve a football. My brother used to say that it would be tight if a saucer needed to land in our garden and might flatten everyone’s fencing.

I would fall asleep with him wandering about the bedroom. Tommy could just never settle whilst I would have weird dreams.  It was our way of dealing with things, I suppose. One particular nightmare kept cropping up, time after time. It would be pitch black and it would feel like I was trapped. Underneath me was hard earth with loose clumps on the top. A feeling of terror would rise as I crawled along, trying to find any kind of light or exit. After scurrying a few feet, there would be a scratching noise. It was always difficult to tell where it was coming from. After moving further, a sound would come from behind. Turning, I would just make out a blurred shape coming towards me. Before I could get away, the mass would be upon me and, in the gloom, I would strain my eyes to see a face with a large, bulbous head, huge round eyes and a leering grin full of teeth staring back. It was at this point I would wake up bathed in sweat. Years later, I realised it was something called a Tommyknocker that inhabits mines. Quite how it had found its way into a young boy’s dreams was a mystery. Perhaps the whole thing was of Freudian design; the creature symbolic. Was it a coincidence that it shared the same name as my brother? I thought it might be our father in some way; maybe it represented Tommy instead.

A few days after the lights in the sky, once again Tommy got animated over aliens. He called me over, excitement in his voice as red and blue lights swirled in the night air. It was a strobing effect that lit up the ground. The light show fell onto our other next door neighbour, old man Loat’s garden, as well. We were transfixed by the colours for what felt like an eternity. In reality, it was merely seconds. Whilst we stood watching, shoulder to shoulder, a rapping was heard on the front door. It sounded urgent. Quietly shuffling over to the bedroom door, we crept to the bannister at the top of the stairs and listened. A man’s voice asked if everything was alright. It came across as official. Our dad was mumbling something about there not being a problem. The visitor insisting on seeing mum. Then it went quiet. Me and Tommy looked at each other worried about what was happening. After a few minutes of muffled conversation, the men left.

I suppose when I think about it, Tommy was a bit obsessed with the whole flying saucer thing. Whenever there was anything sci-fi related, he would be there. Monday night was Star Trek night at 7pm. He loved that. Captain Kirk, Mr Spock and the USS Enterprise zipping about the universe. Dad would come home from his job as a sales collector and watch it with us. Mum was never that interested and would use it being on as excuse to pop down the off-license. She liked her sherry.

It was a few days before Christmas when Tommy was in the kitchen. He was reading a comic, leaning back on his chair. I was sat opposite at a small, wooden table with a plastic covering. Our parents were arguing again so we were avoiding the living room. As I was playing, pushing Dinky Diecast cars along on the floor, the room started to shake. The entire house was trembling. A cup juddered along a kitchen counter-top and fell to the floor, smashing into ceramic pieces. My brother had recognition in his eyes as he rushed to the back door and turned the handle. There it was, a huge, dome-shaped metallic spaceship landing in our garden. I stood and joined him as we both stared at green smoke billowing out from underneath the ship on both sides. It didn’t seem real. Wind was blowing everywhere, swirling eddies that scooped up detritus and dust. It was so loud; thunderous. With the whirring sound subsiding, the craft settled in an area half way down the garden. I turned to look at Tommy’s face. His eyes were wide, his mouth open. I peered back at the bizarre scene and then everything went black.

The next thing I recall is mum and dad standing over me. I was on the bottom bunk sleeping. My face was being gently tapped by the ends of someone’s fingers to wake me. The room swam into focus and their words started to make sense. Initially, it was like I was at the bottom of a swimming pool. I could hear muffled sounds. As I came around, they were demanding to know where Tommy was. They had found the back door in the kitchen, wide open. My brother was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t remember anything; my mind was blank. I just kept thinking of Stephen Millman’s platform shoes and Tommy wittering on about lights in the sky. The truth was, he had wanted to run for a while; run away from the domestic purgatory of listening to endless parental arguments. We both knew about the hitting without actually seeing it other than mum’s black eyes after the event. The difference was that Tommy had now escaped and I hadn’t.

I never saw him again; none of us did. My memory returned of the details of that night but I could never be sure if they were real or not. Dad slipped below a metaphorical plumb-line into enduring grief, searching ad infinitum for his missing son. I imagine he felt guilty about the circumstances surrounding the disappearance. He should have been there for his family. Mum went into herself, lost in an inner-prison of introversion. She kept on drinking but the meanness ebbed away to be replaced by a resigned silence. The arguing and fights stopped in time. Tommy’s disappearance had changed everything. My dreams about the Tommyknocker reoccurred even as an adult. Instead of the hideous creature, my brother would be the one facing me in the shaft. So maybe it wasn’t my father after all. I know I always want to take his hand and bring him home. I think about him every day and wonder where he is. I guess you don’t realise what you have……until you no longer have it.

Image free to use at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Supposed_UFO,_Passaic,_New_Jersey.jpg