Ollie Ollerton: 'I got gangrene in France, and met Brigitte Bardot'
When I was a child, my parents were primed for something to happen to me whenever we were on holiday. I was always pushing the boundaries, and never more so than when we were away.
We used to have one holiday abroad a year, and one staycation, often in Lyme Regis. When I was about four, my parents saw crowds of people gathering on the harbour wall. They ran over to find me throwing myself off it. Another year, I managed to get a hook stuck in my leg while fishing on the same wall. I don’t think my parents can have been surprised when an ambulance turned up while they were on the beach, and I was carted off.
As we got older, holidays got more exotic, and for several years in a row we went to a campsite by the beach in the South of France, close to Toulon and 40 minutes from St Tropez. My dad grew up on Brigitte Bardot movies so, for my parents, the Côte d’Azur was the height of sophistication. They were putting their toes in the water of French life, trying snails and chateaubriand. We stayed in a static caravan and it all seemed very different to Burton upon Trent, where I grew up. I couldn’t believe people ate snails.
Every summer, we’d be there for three weeks. I loved having fun with my older brother and sister, splashing around in turquoise waters and making friends with other British kids.
But summer 1980 turned out to be very different. The circus had come to Burton at the start of the school holidays. As ever, being adventurous, I went to investigate with my brother and a friend. I came across a baby chimp tied up in a tent. I was transfixed, but lurking in the darkness was its mum. She launched a terrifying attack, almost tearing my right arm off. I was rescued by a circus worker and rushed to hospital, where my right arm, the most badly wounded, was cleaned and dressed, in a slightly botched job. But I was lucky to be alive.
The severity of the attack was only beginning to sink in, but more pressing was the fact that we were a fortnight away from the annual French holiday. My wound was wrapped in a plastic bag and my heart sank as it became clear I was going to be denied my usual three weeks of splashing around in the sea.
I was facing the most hellish holiday possible for a 10-year-old boy. On day one, I sat there watching my siblings, wondering how I would survive 21 days of tedium. I had no idea the worst was yet to come. Soon, a funny smell developed in the caravan. My dad was opening all the doors of the cupboards, putting bleach down the sink. After a while he realised the smell was coming from me. I undid the bandage one or two turns and you could see the green underneath. My wound had gangrene.
For the second time in weeks, I was rushed to the doctor. It was a smart clinic in St Tropez, but the treatment was medieval. My wound was scrubbed out with a brush soaked in ethanol, while my dad pinned me down. I screamed the whole place down. The pain was worse than being bitten.
I don’t know if it was guilt on behalf of the doctor, but afterwards they escorted us out via the VIP waiting room. It was full of beautiful people, and in particular this very lovely blonde woman with her hair in a beehive, wearing gorgeous clothes and looking glamorous. The doctor introduced her to my dad; they kissed cheek to cheek.
As we left and reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned and said to me, “Son, I can’t believe it. I’ve just met Brigitte Bardot!” I was like, “Who’s Brigitte Bardot?” He was elated, but I couldn’t care less. All I wanted was a hug from my dad. I’d been through this terrifying experience, and he was made up because he’d met a 1960s actress I’d never heard of. When we got back to the caravan, my whole family were excited too – no one could believe that I’d been bitten by a chimp and ended up meeting Brigitte Bardot. It was a silver lining, apparently, but I felt rejected.
I still have the scar on my arm to remind me. I hated every moment of that holiday, yet it taught me resilience, and how to push through the pain and boredom barrier. I could have said, “I’m going to run in the water and splash around with my sistere and brother Ashley and Justin”, but I resisted. I had to tough it out – and if I hadn’t, I could have lost my arm.
When you’re a child, weeks seem like months if you have nothing to do. In order to get through them, I had to develop coping mechanisms. It’s no exaggeration to say I learnt skills on that holiday that helped me endure interrogations years later. It was my preparation for the Special Forces, without a doubt.
As told to Lebby Eyres
Ollie Ollerton’s debut thriller, Scar Tissue (RRP £14.99) costs £12.99 at books.telegraph.co.uk (0844 871 1514).
