I was still attending adult literacy classes when something marvellous happened. I always took the bus to the class, which was held in a college in Oxford. Various other courses were also held there, and I got to know by sight people who were using the bus to attend one course or another. One day, I saw a familiar face at the bus stop and started to chat to the young woman, who introduced herself as Alison. We hit it off, and from then on, every time I saw her on the bus on a Wednesday afternoon, I sat down beside her and we had a chat.
She was gorgeous, and although we just talked on the bus, I felt that I was getting to know her, and that this was a woman with whom I could actually be friends. I decided that I wanted to ask her out, but I was afraid of what she would say when she realised what sort of person I was. One day, I plucked up my courage enough to say, “Would you like to go out for a meal with me?” To my delight, she said “Yes”.
Because I was still at the Ley, I had to go through formal channels and ask the people in charge if it was OK to take someone out for a meal. I got the thumbs-up and we went out, but I couldn’t drink any alcohol.
“I’m curious,” Alison said. “Why don’t you drink?”
I took a deep breath and decided to tell her the truth. “Well,” I said, “the reason I don’t have a drink is because I’m not allowed to drink at the moment. I’m actually in rehab, because I was a drug addict. So I’m not allowed to use anything like that.”
Alison just looked at me and smiled.
When I had asked Alison out, all I’d had in mind was making a friend, someone with whom I could maybe go out for a meal once or twice a week. She had always been so friendly on the bus that I had felt that I would like to get to know her. But as time passed, our relationship began to grow into something deeper. Visitors were welcome at the community, so she came to visit me, and found out what it was all about. When I realised that I had told Alison the truth about myself, all the dirty secrets, and that she still liked me, I knew that I would have to do all I could to keep her.
Before I knew it, the time had come for me to move from the Ley into a place of my own. I decided that I would live in nearby Cowley, but I didn’t have enough money for the deposit on the flat.
“How much money do you want, Steve?” Alan asked. I was £180 short. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll ring my wife up and she’ll bring it over for you.”
“But I don’t have it to give it back to you, Alan,” I protested. “I don’t want to see you out of pocket.”
“Give it back to me when you can,” he said. “I’ll stop it out of your wages.”
Maybe for Alan lending me the money was no big deal, but for me it was tremendous, and I knew that his faith in me to repay it was all because of the changes that I had managed to make in my life. Perhaps, I realised, I wasn’t the person that I felt I was. Perhaps I could actually be someone else. Someone better.
When I moved out of the Ley and into my own place, Alison decided that she would come to live with me. At first, I had my reservations about this, considering how poorly my previous relationships had all worked out, but we decided to give it a go and moved in together. We stayed in Cowley for about nine months, before moving to a small cottage, just across the road from the Ley, in Yarnton. I continued working with Alan until he sold up and moved on, and then found work at another business in the village, Charlett’s Tyres, as a tyre-fitter. I fitted into village life quickly, having got to know a lot of the locals through my work at the youth club.
It was around this time that I got involved in motocross – all-terrain motorbike riding. This hobby turned out to be a life-saver, and it helped keep me on the straight and narrow. Through motocross, I got to know lots of people and travelled all over the country.
It started when Alison’s boss, John, brought me to some race meetings and got me involved as a spectator and a marshal. I had loved bikes since childhood and I knew I would really take to racing. I saved up for my first bike, a 440 Maico. This particular bike was one of my biggest mistakes. I spent most of my time on my arse! I knew nothing about these machines and, obviously, I learned the hard way. Although I had many tumbles, I loved the sport and continued working hard to learn how to get good at it.
The first meeting I ever went to as a rider was in Garsington, a small village on the outskirts of Oxford. It was in a ploughed potato field, and taking off from the gate with another thirty riders was quite frightening, especially as I didn’t have a clue how to corner on the bike or take the bumps that presented themselves to me. It all looks very easy from the sidelines, but when you are actually on the bike, it’s a different story. I would continue to persevere in the sport for the next thirty years. Motocross was also an adrenaline-fuelled way of ridding myself of the aggression that I carried with me most of my life, and the rush I got from competing was better than any hit I had ever experienced from taking drugs.
I travelled all over the country and even as far as Holland, Belgium and France. Once, when I was racing in Locken in Holland, I had a horrendous experience when my handlebars snapped in half going round a corner at speed. I lost control and came off the bike. I didn’t realise that I had broken my hand until I got back to England. What was really annoying was that I had been about to have my road motorcycle test in England. I decided to strap up my broken hand and take the test anyway. I took it in Aylesbury and passed. Only afterwards did I find out that, although I had no recollection of it, I had already passed my test years before. I had sat it when I was using, and all memory of it had vanished in a haze of drugs.
After I had spent a few years in the outside world and had remained on the straight and narrow, a member of staff, Paul, let me know that there was a vacancy for a group worker coming up at the Ley Community and that he wanted me to apply for it. I had been working as a tyre fitter for three years and quite liked the work, but I was very excited to think of the possibility of being able to give something back to the community that had literally given me everything. I had some assistance in completing the application form and handed it in at the Ley.
I was shortlisted and attended a formal interview. I was interviewed by Brian, Paul and Peter, who were all people whom I had known since my time at the Ley as a resident. I found this experience extremely daunting. It is much harder to be interviewed by people who know you, and these three knew me very well, having seen me during some of my deepest, darkest moments. I answered their questions as best I could. One of the people that I was up against was an ex-resident called Louise. Louise got the job. I was terribly disappointed to have to continue tyre-fitting, although I didn’t mind the work. Despite the setback, I kept up my relationship with the community and continued popping in and out, doing odd jobs and working at the local youth club.
About a year later, I was told that there was another group worker position going at the Ley. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to go for it, because I didn’t want to be disappointed again. I was OK where I was and I didn’t want to rock the boat. However, a number of people close to the Ley kept advising me to go for the job and reassured me that I would be good at it. I decided to submit my application again. The interview went well and, after a short wait, Brian rang to tell me that the job was mine. I was very excited but wondered whether I had taken on something that was completely out of my depth. Only time would tell.
Being a group worker was very unlike being a resident or being someone who just popped in and out giving advice on occasions. I was now in a position to make life or death decisions about people. In those days, the regime for staff at the Ley was less rigid than it is today. There were hardly any rules and regulations, so I fitted in quite well. But there was still a lot for me to learn. It was very different, being on the other side of the treatment package. My position made me feel very responsible, and I had to think carefully about any decisions I made and get used to working closely with the team around me.
One birthday, two of the former residents, Brian and Pat, decided that they were going to go out and buy me a present. I knew that something was up when I found them peering at the Yellow Pages. I took a look at the page in question and decided that they must be shopping for parts for a car. I was very excited. Instead, Brian and Pat had been shopping for poultry. Later that day, they drove up the long Ley driveway, parked their car and came into my office with a big sealed sack and a big grin on each of their faces.
“There’s your present. Happy birthday,” they said. I opened the sack and an enormous big black turkey jumped out of it, frightening the life out of me. Brian and Pat burst into a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday to You”.
“What the heck am I going to do with a turkey?” I wondered. Fortunately, we have a really large aviary at the Ley, and Steve the turkey moved in with the peacocks and the rest of the birds. I was delighted. My close friends often refer to me by my nickname, “Turkey”, to this day.
Bonfire night was always a highlight of the calendar at the Ley Community. The staff played games with the residents, pretending to set fire to the bonfire ahead of time and raising their territorial hackles. A huge bonfire was erected a couple of weeks before bonfire night and was added to by the residents to make it even larger. We told the residents stories, encouraging them to think that there was someone out there who was going to come in the middle of the night and set fire to their bonfire.
On one occasion, a wardrobe was taken off the bonfire and laid down in the middle of the lawn with a staff member inside. A trickle of petrol was dribbled from some bushes to about five feet before the wardrobe. The petrol trail was set alight, while activities were going on in the lounge. When this happened, there was an immediate reaction – all of the current residents rushed out of the main house to see what was going on. One of them noted that the wardrobe was not on the fire and decided, along with a couple of his peers, to move it. All of a sudden the wardrobe door flew open and out popped Barry. As you can imagine, this caused quite a stir!
* * *
Nan died in her mid-eighties after a long life filled with hard work. I had seen her a couple of times since sorting myself out, and she knew that I had finally managed to turn my life around, but we had not been in contact much. After graduating from the Ley, I had decided to wait for a while before renewing contact with my family in London. We had all been through false hopes before, when I had said that I was going to sort myself out, only for me to disappoint everyone again. I didn’t want to let them down.
Somebody rang me to let me know that Nan had died and that the funeral was over. My aunts and uncles had had a family meeting, and it had been decided that it was better that I didn’t go. Too much water had passed under the bridge, and there were too many difficult memories. I think that, in some ways, they were trying to protect me from emotions that would have been difficult for me to deal with.
After three years of being involved with the Ley in a professional capacity, I applied for a senior group worker position. I must have been doing something right, because I got the job. I felt ecstatic. It seemed that the boy from Lambeth had come a long way. What I actually sang in my head when I was offered the job was, “The working class can kiss my arse, I’ve got the foreman’s job at last!”
At around the same time, although I had never thought that I would settle down and buy a house, Alison and I did exactly that. We’d been together ten years when she proposed to me on 29th February, a leap year. I said that I did not want to get married.
“Why fix it if it isn’t broken?” I asked. “We’re perfectly happy as we are.”
“Will we ever get married?” Alison wanted to know. “I’d like to get married.”
“Sure,” I said. “The next leap year.” I put my promise out of my mind and forgot all about it.
The December before the next leap year, Alison reminded me of my pledge. Although I had been married three times before, my relationship with Alison was the longest I had ever had – longer, in fact, than all my previous relationships put together.
We went ahead and organised the wedding which took place at Bicester Methodist Church. The week before, about twenty-five friends and I descended on the Centurion pub for my stag night. It was quite low key; I was drinking again, so we just had a few beers and a great laugh. I had renewed more regular contact with my family in London. Now that I had something to be proud of – a good job, a partner and my own house – I felt more confident that I wouldn’t let them down again. Uncle Albie had already come to visit us a few times with his wife Janet. They’d had a family, and the children were getting big. It was great that, after all these years, we still shared a passion for motorbikes. He admired my bikes and was very interested in my stories about motocross. Auntie Pat and Uncle Pip came, too. I had told everyone that I had finally sorted things out in my life. But I think that I needed for them to actually come and see me in my new home so that they could be reassured that this time I was telling the truth and not just spinning them a pack of lies as I had done so many times before. I felt that they needed to see the physical evidence that I wasn’t bullshitting them any more. I really had grown up and changed.
On the day of the wedding, I went in the pub before the ceremony and had a few large brandies to settle my nerves. I hoped this would be the last time I would walk down the aisle. I had asked a mate, Ian, to be my best man and I had invited my family from London to join us for the special day. We held our reception at the Centurion. A marquee had been erected in the garden, and the wedding dinner was curry, baked potatoes and a vegetarian option.
Lots of my family attended, and all of Alison’s family were there; we had about a hundred and twenty guests, and a fabulous time. During my using days, when I thought that I had so many friends and knew so many people, I would have considered myself very lucky to be able to organise a gathering with twenty.
As senior group worker, one of my responsibilities was to teach group workers. I gave presentations on residents and talked about difficulties that particular staff might have with specific residents. We would go through these issues as a team, and between us we came up with ideas and different opinions as to how the goals could be achieved with the particular person. I was also very involved in parenting groups. From having been the man who abandoned his own children, I had learned a great deal about parenting. The addicts who come to the Ley typically have huge problems being good parents and equally huge difficulties accepting this fact. I often hear addicts telling me about what great parents they are. That was just what I always used to say, too.
Before long, I was promoted to assistant programme director. I was given a lot more autonomy to make decisions about running the community. I had just been introduced to Chris Lambrianou, who was a former member of the Kray gang and had recently been released from prison. I was asked to have some input into helping Chris re-establish himself. Chris was on licence at the time and was being supported by Mike Howard, the Ley’s liaison probation officer. As you can imagine, providing support was no easy task, because Chris had just spent fifteen years in prison and clearly had a lot of issues that needed to be worked through. He wasn’t a resident of the Ley, but came here to get support and did voluntary work for us, which eventually led to him working at the Ley full-time.
On one occasion, I asked Chris to go into Bullingdon Prison to talk to the “lifers”. Chris was very reluctant to do this and we ended up having a face-to-face argument about what my expectations were. Eventually, Chris gave in, after considering my request carefully. This was a very big move for him as he was not the sort of character to give in easily. When Chris returned from the speaking engagement, he told me that he had realised how important it was for him to go and share his experiences with these people. He shared some hope with them for the future. Chris actually felt very good about what he had done and recognised where I was coming from.
This was not the only time Chris and I came head to head. But one thing is for sure: we have always been there for each other. Chris no longer works for us, but occasionally pops in to see me to catch up on old times. He often reminds me of the strokes that he used to pull and didn’t get away with! Once, he had gone to London to pick someone up from court. On his return to the Ley, he handed me a parking ticket, with the expectation that the Ley was going to pay it. I asked him a couple of questions. One was, “Did the Ley park the car there?” When Chris responded that no, it hadn’t, I asked him whose responsibility it was. Chris laughed and said, “Mine”. The Ley did not reimburse him for his parking ticket. He was a trier, but very loyal, and to this day remains one of the few friends I completely trust.
I was facilitating the admissions meeting one day when a case presented itself to me. A man called Steve, who was in his late forties, was living under the stairwell in a multi-storey car park. He was an alcoholic and in very poor health. I was advised by the Ley’s local GP that taking Steve into the programme would be a huge risk, because he doubted that he was healthy enough to complete it successfully.
Steve came to visit the Ley on a day placement for assessment. He looked much older than his years and was very empty, with little hope for the future. Following the assessment, and against advice, I made the decision to offer him a bed there and then. It was obvious to me that Steve would not last very long left to his own devices, and I felt that I could not stand by and allow this to happen. You would think that Steve would have been really grateful to the Ley for this intervention, but that wasn’t the case. As he had made life difficult for himself on the outside, he made it difficult for himself and those around him while at the Ley. He was one of the most argumentative residents I have ever worked with.
But there is a happy ending to this story: Steve successfully completed the programme and, although ill health prevents him from working full-time, he engages with the Ley doing voluntary work and is a real asset to the community. I’m very proud of him.
My job as assistant programme director was not all about success. There were many disappointments along the way, too. Some residents left prematurely with the intention of going back to their old ways and some of them died as a result. When this happened, it was a stark reminder of what could have happened to me had I not had the opportunity to do the Ley programme and see it through to the end.
Although the Ley has always had more male than female residents, there are plenty of success stories among our women, too. I clearly remember Rachel when she first arrived at the Ley. She was highly strung and very wary of what was going to happen to her. We had our yearly sports day about a week after she arrived. It was a beautiful, hot summer day. Residents were preparing the field so that we could have sack races, egg-and-spoon races and all the other fun games that go on during sports day.
Rachel insisted on wearing her huge, furry winter coat throughout the day. I think she enjoyed the attention that she received because of it. Little did she know that she would soon have the attention of the whole community. She was on the veranda with her peers, when all of a sudden she collapsed. All the residents started shouting for attention. An ambulance was called and Rachel was taken to hospital. We were later notified that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her, apart from attention-seeking. Had she taken her coat off when requested, we need not have called on the good nature of our emergency services. Rachel, who successfully completed the programme, is now a trained teacher, and we both laugh about her histrionics to this day!
I had been assistant programme director for about seven years when the position of programme director became available. I applied for the post and was interviewed once again by Dr Mandelbrote, who was the chair of the Board of Trustees. I was successful and became programme director of the Ley Community. The boy from Lambeth really had done good! Thinking about it now, I feel that this was genuinely an amazing achievement. Having gone from where I started to being the programme director makes me feel really proud. I know that everyone really does deserve a second chance, because I am proof of this.
Alison and I had been together for a long time when she accidentally fell pregnant. This was not something I was prepared for. I had told Alison right from the beginning that I did not want children; I had been a useless father and didn’t want to mess anyone else’s life up. I did not want to abandon any more children. At the time, Alison had told me that she understood this and that she would not try to force the issue.
When Alison told me about the pregnancy, I’m afraid that she did not get the reaction she wanted. I was very scared of what the future might hold and how my life would be affected. I still doubted my abilities as a parent. However, I gradually came to terms with it as the pregnancy progressed and now I can see that it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Daniel was born and he has given me the opportunity to finally be the good parent I wanted to be. He has really been a wonderful gift.