Jack's Despair and Determination Meanwhile, Jacks life continued somewhat drearily. He was always seeking to occupy his time usefully, and if such occupation should bring him some monetary reward, then all the better! Though to what purpose he should be earning, as yet he knew not. Jack's endeavours stemmed from those early days in hospital when, again through the club, he had obtained a little outwork from a local cracker-making factory. This involved glueing together the various parts of the coloured outer wrapping, and called for a good deal of precision. The work was prepared flat in readiness for feeding into a machine which would roll and fill each cracker to completion. Jack's limited arm movements could produce only five and a half gross in a week, and at 11p a gross it was hard earned money. His first consignment was rejected, but he soon became suitably proficient, and found the work enjoyable. When he was moved to the second hospital, Jack's routine was disrupted and the cracker-making was forgotten. But a visiting Arts and Crafts teacher brought a new impetus to his creative ability, and he began drawing his own Christmas cards and writing the appropriate verses in a neat italic script. So successful were the cards that he could not meet the demand. The teacher also rekindled Jack's interest in music, and taught him to write the notation to short pieces which he was already playing on his harmonica. Daringly, he was soon submitting his own songs to London publishers in beautifully written manuscript, complete with melody line and lyrics. Alas the rejection slips came back with discouraging regularity. But Jack persevered for ten years, before finally giving up hope of succeeding in so competitive a field. After the first year, Jack and I found ourselves writing to each other again, especially when there seemed something important to say, for we were still good friends. One letter from Jack has stuck in my memory. "I feel so low that I just had to write. We've all been moved from the ground floor to an attic room. Without warning, our things were being taken towards the lift. Something was said about the builders coming in to make some alterations… As I read on my heart went out to him. "… The three of us are in this small room – it's about ten feet square, with a slanted ceiling. We have our bed and our lockers, and table around which we all sit in our wheelchairs. There's so little space, that if we're not placed in correct order, we won't all fit in properly. I have to sit with my back to the window, but anyway, we can only see the tree tops. The only change of scenery we have is in the mornings when we're put in the day-room with the old men while our room is cleaned…" Poor Jack was back where he stared: back to the too-familiar smell of stale urine and the weird sounds of senility and wandering minds, which he thought had been left behind. He even admitted to weeping in the depths of despair, and wrote several letters imploring the powers-that-be to improve this demoralising situation. But no one seemed to have the authority to rectify it. I felt desperately sad, and so very helpless. I remembered the spacious accommodation Jack enjoyed when I had spent my two weeks there. I was bitterly angry at such blatant in-consideration. It seemed that Jack and his pals were shut away without a second thought. They were not even allowed downstairs unaccompanied for safety reasons, and I know that Jack, for one, enjoyed the garden so much. Once so appreciative of his improved conditions, Jack was now more bitter than ever about the way he had been treated. I tried to console him in my return letter, but could only admit to sharing his disgust. I failed to understand why I should have the good fortune of a secure family home, while Jack led a prison-like existence. But in spirit, I drew closer to him than ever. A fresh determination then set him on another profitable hobby, making dressing-table mats. The work was self-taught from someone else's original idea, and involved stretching threads across a wooden frame, and knotting at each intersection. Trimmed round the edges, the article was completed by teaseling the frayed ends with a wire brush. The orders came rolling in at 37.5p for a set of three! Producing two sets each week, Jack made a profit of some 45p equal to the weekly pocket money then afforded to the disabled in hospital by the National Assistance Board! Satisfied with his returns, Jack ignored the sore finger which resulted from pulling the thread so tightly. Never too keen to part with his hard-earned cash, he turned to buying Savings Stamps, and was content to feel that one day, something better must materialise. Jack began to strike up a mutual understanding with some of the staff, and two or three would visit the tiny attic room during their lunch break to laugh and joke with him and his fellow patients. Warmer days meant short excursions into the garden. And occasionally Jack managed to persuade one of the girls to take him for a walk outside the hospital grounds, and along the country roads. He relished the change of scenery, as well as the female company. Outings generally were all too infrequent, but faithfully, the weekly club evenings continued. The trips to Norwich City football ground became more regular, as a Scout Master organised his senior scouts to push Jack in his wheelchair for the two miles distance. The Scout Master, Alec, was to become a close friend. He used his work van for taking Jack out and about, and by this convenient means Jack was able to visit his mother for a day, or attend an occasional concert. Jack's optimism was slowly returning. The threads of goodwill were beginning to weave a pattern into the fabric of his life. Indeed, these were some indication of the subsequent wealth of kindness, friendship and support which has accompanied both of us through to the present day. No small part of this was a new member of the hospital staff – a nineteen-years-old male nurse named Trevor. He learned to look after Jack very well, and a lasting friendship began.