The Pottie and the Boogeyman

 All the family were gathered one winter evening in the small Dining Room, warmed by a red coal fire.

 "Quick," said mother, "Someone get Mary's pottie."

"Not me," said Roger, "It must be Francie's turn."

"Not me," said Jerry; "It IS Francie's turn. It is well past Francie's turn. He never takes a turn."

I was outraged. Of course it was not my turn. They were ganging up on me.

"It is not my turn," I cried. "I did it last time."

There was an outburst of denial from the others.

"Well, whatever, just go and get the pottie, Francie," said mother.

"I can't get it," I said, "It's too dark outside."

"For God's sake," said mother, "You can switch on the hall light or the stair light if you need to."

"What?" I retorted, "You know I can't reach up to the light."

"Well try!" said mother. "If necessary, stand up on your tippy toes."

"I'm afraid," I said.

"Well now! What are you afraid of?" asked mother.

"The boogeyman," I answered.

My father used to frighten the life out of us with stories of the Boogeyman.

Mary's situation was frantic. 

"Just go and get the pottie, immediately," said mother.

"Why can't she get her own pottie?" I asked. "I used to get my own pottie."

Sarcastic laughter from the other two.

"O no!" said Roger, "We were always running for your pottie, us two, weren't we, Jerh?"

Father put his bit in. It was clear to him that the pottie was urgently required and that there was almost total consensus that it was my turn.

"Francie," he said, "Go and get the pottie now!"

The real threat of my father outdid the terror of the Boogeyman.

In a sulk, I left the room. Standing on my tippy-toes, I reached up to the light switch.

There was a panel of four switches on the wall between the Dining Room door and the Sitting Room door. The bottom two switches were for the hall and stairs and the top two for the Dining Room and Sitting Room. The Dining Room switch was directly above the hall switch. They were not push switches like we have nowadays, but lever switches, each switch like a little stick that you clicked up or down.

You know that I am too small to reach the switches. It remains to be seen if I could reach the hall switch by standing on my tippy-toes. I stand on my tippy-toes and reach as high as I can. Click! I slap the little lever down. 

"FRANCIEEE!" There comes a concerted cry from the room as the light goes out and the house is in total darkness.

"He did that on purpose!" Roger cries out.

"O no I did not," I shout back.

Mother comes out and the lights are switched on. 

"Show me," says mother, "Where is this Boogeyman?"

Well, he hides, of course; ready to jump out and  get you when you are not looking.

"Where could he be hiding?"

Behind the closed kitchen door. Mother opens it. He is not there. Under the stairs. Mother opens that door and he is not there. Behind the hallstand! He is not there. At the turn on the stairs. He is not there. Behind the closed bedroom doors. 

"For goodness sake, you know he is not in the bedrooms."

"There is no Boogeyman, nothing to be afraid of."

The pottie is retrieved (though now it may be too late: I don't remember) and we all return to the cosy Dining Room.

Strangely enough, at bedtime, when the three boys head upstairs to bed, I have no fear of the Boogeyman.

It is only years later, when I dipped into Penguin popular psychology books that I came to realise the explanation for my behaviour.

Behind the closed Dining Room door, in the cosy room with the curtains closed and all the family collected, I was emotionally back in the womb. I wanted to stay there and was terrified of venturing out into the outside  world that I had never seen, but knew existed. The Boogeyman was the incorporation of the unknown terrors of the outside world. My rationality was overpowered by my unconscious fear and I could not believe that it was my turn to fetch the pottie or accomplish that goal.


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