Joyous and Moonbeam Read Free

eventually, over the river, back towards the industrial estate, around a few corners then went inside this big brick place, old-looking. There was a guy called Santorini, the boss, fat bloke with a really soft voice. I could hardly hear him when he said stuff about
space
and
respect
, which was kinda predictable, then something which wasn’t: We are all disabled. Weird, but I know that’s what he said because he repeated it: We are all disabled. Then he said, Ashleigh, these people are profoundly disabled. But we all carry disabilities of some sort.
    Interesting idea, made me think. Diamond number two.
    Then Bracks weighed in with a story about a writer who saw a beggar and said, There but for the grace ofGod go I. I swear, that woman has a quote for every occasion! Anyway, if they were trying to make me feel guilty, it worked. Because I did, I felt guilty for being – okay. Physically, mentally, whatever.
    But I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that.
    I didn’t mind Santorini. He took me on a tour, with Bracks tagging along. The workshop used to be a factory apparently, a flour mill. So it’s all brick walls on the inside and chipped paint on concrete and really high ceilings, cold, echoey. Some of the rooms are offices and others are spaces for the
clients
(his word, I asked about the
patients
and he said, No, no, we never call them that). There’s one really big workshop on the ground floor with benches and machinery and tools and stuff. Santorini said they only use that one under strict supervision whereas most of the other activities can be done independently, although they do have CCTV in every room. Fair enough, I suppose. Gotta look after the
clients
, keep them safe from mad outsiders. Like me.
    I only saw a few – the
allowable
ones – and they seemed okay. You get these stereotypes in your head that people with mental shit going on will naturally look different, sort of damaged, maybe even a bit lopsided. And it’ll be obvious, like I’m gaga so I dribble and my eyes cross and I smell bad. I met Troy, David, Mark and Jeremy.They were quiet. Polite. Normal-looking. Soft voices, like Santorini. Didn’t really look at me, just kept on doing whatever they were doing. Making stuff. It was like grade three craft afternoon – balls of wool and icy-pole sticks.
    Peaceful, though. Schools are such un-peaceful places, with all the positioning that goes on, people trying to be better than other people, the put-downs and pedestals, pecking-orders. I hate that bullshit but you can’t stop it. It’s genetic – how people are, not just at school, people generally. All of us. Like my parents, particularly Mum. Ever since the Jamie thing emptied her out, her entire life has been about scrambling over anyone who gets in her way.
    After the tour Santorini said that I could start in Room 12 with Mr Bowen. I asked, Is there anything I should know? And he said, No, just remember what I already told you – space and respect. Off you go. So I did, and when I looked back it was weird, I swear Bracks was crying. She was wiping her eyes and Santorini was patting her shoulder and it – it made me feel funny, like I’d looked through a window and seen something I shouldn’t have. Anyway, I found Room 12 and I found Mr Bowen. He was making pin-cushions and I think it’s safe to say, even now, after one day, that he was nothing at all like I expected.

MARGARET KRAY
    Joyous, My Special
    I am writing these letters so that you can understand things. I have to write because it’s too hard to tell you face to face how it is and Mamma would probably cry. Anyway, it’s good to write letters because letters don’t judge or comment. They listen to you, like pets in that respect. And you, Joyous, you don’t judge or comment either and I’ll always be grateful for that.
    Writing about pets reminds me of the farm by the river at