Not all symphonies are happy. Some are sad, some are terrifying, some leave you in bits...
And so to St Johns Wood. I don't think I've ever got the tube to St Johns Wood before. I've been on the 113 bus a few times, but by far the quickest way from Mill Hill is a Thameslink train to West Hampstead, then a hop down the Jubilee line. Citymapper said 37 minutes, I clocked it at around 30.
The station has the most appealing art deco feel and a shop selling Beatles memorabilia at the top. If you could re-invent the London Underground so the little suburban stations such as Burnt Oak were perfect, I think you'd use St Johns Wood as the model.
It is a pleasant walk. I am so early and in such a good mood, that I sit the wall opposite, in the sunshine, composing a new song for The False Dots for ten minutes. Things could not be better. I am seeing a consultant about a minor issue that may or may not need correcting following my prostate surgery two years ago. It is not cancer related, so there is nothing to worry about. It just needs checking.
I am so early that I have time for a mooch around the hospitalI entered the hospital and went to reception. My plan was to find out where I was going, then look around the grounds for five minutes. Reception directed me to the second floor, via a long corridor, past the pharmacy. As I walked down, I saw that the chapel was open. I had time, I thought I'd nip in and have a mosey. I think you'll agree, it is truly magnificent. As I went in, I thought it would be nice to say a little prayer for the repose of the soul of my Mum. It seemed apt, in the hospital where her life was saved in 1970. I've not been to the hospital since then. The last time I came was after mum had just had surgery for cancer. I had a vague recollection of Mum lying in a bed, white as a sheet, unable to speak, drips in her arm.
My memory of the day was more coloured by the drive with my Dad from Mill Hill to the hospital. As he hurtled up the A41, I asked him whether it was true what someone told me at school. He asked "What was that son?". I replied "That mum is going to die and you are going to put me in the orphanage?". My question did not get the answer I expected. Dad nearly crashed, pulled into a side street, burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably for five minutes. I'd never seen my Dad cry before. When he got himself together, he said "Sorry son, you caught me there. Mum is very ill, but if God wants her to live, she'll live. I have faith, do you". I said "Yes Dad, I have faith". He then said "Who told you that I'd put you in the orphanage?". I replied "Just someone at school". Dad replied "You are my son, I'll never put you in orphanage, whoever told you that is not your friend". It really shook me up at the time, those were my memories of that day.
Here I was 55 years later, I didn't really give that a second thought as I entered the chapel. I just thought it would be nice to pay my respects. I knelt down at a pew, made a sign of the cross, as us good Catholics do, looked up at the alter and ceiling and just stared. My plan to say a quick "Our father" disappeared from my mind. I started to feel a tad detatched from reality.
I realised I was no longer in the pew, I was looking down at a man and boy inthe pews, both with palms together, deep in prayer, both looking terrified. I felt completely displaced in time and space. The experience only lasted a second or two. As soon as I realised that I was looking at myself and my father, I returned to the 16th June 2025. I was shell shocked. Every detail of the day came flooding back. Dad parked his car up and suggested we go to the chapel before we see Mum. He suggested we say a prayer for her together, then light a candle. We went in and knelt down. I expected Dad to say something, but nothing came out. I looked at him and realised he was terrified, he genuinely didn't know what to say or do. Although Dad was deeply religious, making up reverent prayers on the spur of the moment was simply something he didn't do. He said the rosary most days, but the need to actually converse with God had stumped him. After what seemed like a million years, he simply said "Dear God, I know you're listening, make her better". He then turned to me and said "Come on Son, lets say a decade of the Rosary". We did that. As we left the chapel, I asked him if he thought God would listen. Dad said, in his thick Aussie accent "Yeah, course he will, don't worry". From there, we went up to the ward. The last time I'd seen mum was before she had her stomach removed, probably three or four weeks earlier. She'd looked fit, well and healthy when she went in. She now looked like a ghost. She was covered in tubes. She couldn't really speak. Dad hadn't really said anything about how she might look. I was shocked to my core. I wasn't even sure it was my mum. She looked like something out of Dr Who. After five minutes, we left. Dad turned to me and said "I told you God was listening, she looks so much better".
I'd taken that memory and locked it away in a box at the back of my mind and thrown the key away. But it was there before me. I was frozen in panic. My first thought was that "Hey, we didn't even light a candle for her". I was totally disorientated, I looked at my watch. I'd been in there for nearly ten minutes. I had to get myself up for my appointment. My head was spinning. I'd just opened the gates of hell and stared in. Something within me changed that day in 1970 and yesterday, 55 years later, I had been dragged back in. Did mum really live? Did she really survive that. Did she really pass away in 2008 of a stroke, unrelated to her cancer. More shocking for me though was seeing myself and my Dad, kneeling, praying. I have an image in my mind of my Dad, who passed away in 1987, as a strong man, who could face anything. In those two seconds, he was the opposite of everything I recall about him. Whatever hell I may have been going through, his was a million times worse. His world was collapsing and he had no clue what to do. The truly frightening thing was that I realised he'd actually taken me along to make sure he held it all together for my Mum. Unfortunately, my question to him in the car had made him lose it. I could see and feel his despair.
They say buildings hold memories and that ghosts are those memories manifesting themselves. If that is true, surely the chapels of hospitals hold the worst nightmares? After my consultation, which was positive, I went back and took some pictures, as I'd originally planned. The wave of panic had subsided. What was even stranger to me than the experience when I first entered the chapel, was that when I went back in, I had no emotional reaction at all. I knelt and said the prayer for Mum and Dad that I'd intended to say before. It was like my first visit had been to a completely different, parallel place. Whereas the chapel is bright, clean and beautifully decorated, in my mind it was dark and threatening on my first visit. Our minds are strange things indeed.
For the rest of yesterday, I felt completely emotionally drained. I had planned to write this when I got home, but simply had no energy at all. Although I was only in the hospital for around forty five minutes, I genuinely felt I'd walked to the gates of hell and back. Putting my rational head on, I realise that entering the chapel triggered a massive panic attack that manifested itself in a very strange manner. I went to a place that I really don't want to visit. Ever. To the best of my knowledge, I am not prone to hallucinations or psychotic episodes, but whatever was going on in my mind was more disturbing than anything I can think of in my adult life. My original plan for the trip had been to take some pictures around the general St Johns Wood area and write a nice piece for he London Symphonies series on London's swankiest district. But they say the Devil has all the best tunes and he certainly did yesterday.
After the appointment and taking the pictures, I went to work, then did an hour in the gym. I got home at 9pm and the house was empty, apart from the dogs. I made a cup of tea and reflected on the day. What else is locked in a box at the back of my mind, waiting to be triggered? I am really not sure I want to know.
Here is the full album of pictures. It really is rather nice around St Johns Wood, if you are not haunted by the demons of your childhood.
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