In Loco Parentis

“In loco parentis.”

I heard that the other day on the telly, Some geezer said it in an old episode of Doc Martin (Don’t judge me, I just like it)

“In the place of a parent,” it means.

Nice, neat little phrase. Latin. Sounds official. Like it’s got rules and forms and people in charge making sure kids are looked after properly.

Where I grew up, it didn’t come with a Latin name.

It came with whoever happened to give a shit.

I remember 1977.

 It was the Queen’s Jubilee.

You couldn’t miss it even if you tried. Bunting everywhere. Red, white and blue draped across streets that normally only saw kids play out and the odd pile of white dog shit. Long trestle tables dragged out into the road like we were all suddenly posh for the day.

Everyone was getting involved. Or at least, that’s how it looked.

There was a Cub Scout parade as part of it. Proper little march, uniforms, scarves, the lot. I wanted to be in it. Course I did. Every kid did.

Only problem was, I wasn’t a Cub Scout.

Not because I didn’t want to be. I just didn’t have the sort of parents that would take me along or pay me subs. Also if you were going to join the march , you had to have the uniform . And that was that. No uniform, no Cub Scouts. Simple as that.

That’s how things worked then. Probably still do.

Anyway, one of my mates, Gary, his mum called round to see my mum I can’t even remember her name now, which feels a bit wrong ,she lent me one.

Gary's old one , I think. Shirt, scarf, the lot. Slightly too big, slightly not quite right, but close enough.

She didn’t have to do that.

No big speech. No fuss. Just, “Here, you can borrow this.”

That was it.

That was more “in loco parentis” than any Latin phrase I’ve heard since.

So for a couple of weeks, I went along. Stood there with the others, trying not to look like I didn’t quite belong. Hoping no one would clock the scarf wasn’t tied properly, or that I didn’t know half the stuff they did.

But I was in.

That’s all that mattered.

It wasn’t the first time I’d stood somewhere I wasn’t allowed to be, tho.

My uncle Mick took me along on a day trip to Clacton on the train , we had a nice little time on the beach then headed to the pier.

Only you had to pay to get on.

I didn’t have any money.

Mum hadn’t sent me with any. Why would she? I was eight, maybe nine. Money wasn’t something I carried about. It just wasn’t how it worked.

But there I was, standing at the entrance while everyone else walked straight through.

Well of corse I couldn’t jump the turnstiles could I? There was a bloke minding em for a start.

Well I felt like a proper twat , I had to call after him .

And Uncle Mick instead of just sorting it, or waving me through with him ,had a go at me.

“Why ain’t you got no money on you?”

Like I’d forgotten it. Like I’d left it on the side next to me watch and car keys.

I just stood there.

Didn’t say nothing. What was there to say?

Just that feeling. Standing there like a spare.

That’s the polite version.

Watching everyone else go in while you stay exactly where you are. Not because you’ve done anything wrong. Just because you ain’t got what you’re supposed to have.

Money. The right thing. The right anything.

That feeling sticks. Anyway

Back to the Jubilee.

The day of the parade, I put that uniform on like it mattered. Like it made me something different. Shirt tucked in, scarf probably still wrong but I did my best.

And for a bit, it worked.

I was in the parade. Walking along with the others. People watching, clapping, smiling. For that little stretch of time, I was part of it.

Not outside looking in.

Part of it.

And then came the party.

  It was in some sort of church, the other side of Clissold Park.

All the tables were laid out. Kids running about, adults pretending they all liked each other for the afternoon.

You had to go through a little entrance bit to get in. Someone stood there, acting like it was the Savoy.

And that’s where it all went pear shaped

He clocked me straight away and starting moaning, started banging on about how all uniforms were supposed to be freshly ironed that morning.

My scarf weren’t the same as the other kids and he didn’t recognise me

“Where’s your woggle?”

I sort of fiddled with me scarf, tried to show him.

Not good enough.

“And your 50p?”

I didn’t have 50p.

Didn’t even know you needed 50p.

No one had told me that bit.

So I just stood there again.

Same as Clacton.

Same feeling.

Everyone else going in. Me stuck at the edge of it.

And this cunt, because that’s what he was just shook his head and sent me away.

No discussion. No “go on then, it’s only a kid.” No “someone’ll sort it.”

Just no.

Uniform didn’t matter.

Borrowed kindness didn’t matter.

Effort didn’t matter.

  I didn’t have the right thing. Didn’t have the money.

So off you go.

Fucking monster.

I walked home.

Still in the uniform.

That’s the bit that gets me now, when I think about it. Still wearing the thing that was supposed to get me in.

Didn’t take it off. Didn’t storm about. Didn’t cry, as far as I remember.

I just went home

What else was I going to do?

And out of all the adults there, not one said a thing.

Funny thing is, I can’t remember what was on those tables.

Don’t remember the food. Don’t remember the music. Don’t remember any of the “celebration” I was apparently missing.

But I remember that feeling.

Clear as anything.

Standing on the outside.

Again.

“In loco parentis.”

In the place of a parent.

They like to think it’s systems, don’t they. Schools, clubs, committees, blokes on doors with rules.

But it never was.

Not where I grew up.

It was the mum of the kid down the road handing over a uniform without making a thing of it.

It was the people who saw you stood there and thought, “That ain’t right,” even if, sometimes, it still didn’t change the outcome.

And it was the others.

The ones who followed the rules so closely they couldn’t see the kid in front of them.

The ones who’d send an eight-year-old home over 50p and a bit of cloth tied wrong without the stupid plastic thing.

I didn’t get into that party.

Didn’t get on the pier.

Didn’t suddenly become one of the ones who belonged.

That wasn’t my story.

But I learned something, even if I didn’t have the words for it then.

You notice who steps in.

And you notice who doesn’t.

That sticks longer than any party ever could.

They can keep their Latin.

I knew what it looked like.

And I knew what it didn’t.