In place of a more traditional book review, we are delighted to include in Volume 4 (2) of the IJDSJ this “collective reflections” piece about the play Laughing Boy. This play explores the life and death of Connor Sparrowhawk, a young man with autism, epilepsy, and learning disabilities, who passed away whilst under the care of Southern Health NHS Foundation Trust (UK). His death, which occurred due to drowning following an epileptic seizure whilst having a bath, was found to be preventable and was attributed to neglect by an inquest jury. Writer-director Stephen Unwin adapted the play from a memoir written by Connor’s mother, Sara Ryan, entitled Justice for Laughing Boy. The play was performed at the Jermyn Street Theatre from 25 April to 31 May 2024 and at the Bath Theatre Royal from 4–8 June 2024.
We welcomed people to share their reflections on the play in their own way. People wrote mini-blogs, sent emails, made artwork, wrote a poem, and more. This piece includes reflections by one of the cast – Forbes Masson – who played the role of Connor’s stepdad Richard Huggins, and audience members. The final reflection is by Connor’s Mum, Sara Ryan. We thank them all for sharing their thoughts and feelings.
Many readers in the UK will be familiar with Connor’s story, but for readers outside of the UK or who would appreciate additional context, we provide a short prelude.
Prelude
Laughing Boy: Connor Sparrowhawk’s Story
Connor Sparrowhawk, affectionately known as “Laughing Boy” by his family, was a young man with autism, epilepsy, and learning disabilities, whose untimely death has shone a light on systemic failure within the UK’s health and social care system. Born in 1994, Connor had a keen interest in buses, especially London buses, and loved music, showing a particular fondness for bands like the Beatles, David Bowie and Queen. He was also an avid recycler and had a passion for environmental causes.
Connor’s life was cut short on 4 July 2013, when he drowned in a bath at Slade House, an assessment and treatment unit run by Southern Health NHS Foundation Trust.
Connor Sparrowhawk had been placed in Slade House in March 2013 by his family. This had been a difficult decision to make, and his family were conflicted about the move. The prompt had been changes in Connor’s behaviour. He had become increasingly agitated and unpredictable, and this was causing significant distress for his family. His mother, Sara Ryan, and stepfather, Richard Huggins, had hoped that Slade House would provide the necessary assessment and treatment to manage his needs effectively. They were led to believe that Connor would receive close observation and excellent care.
During his time at Slade House, Connor experienced multiple suspected epileptic fits, including an episode in the bath just weeks before his death. Despite these incidents, the staff reduced their observations, a decision that ultimately contributed to his preventable death by drowning, following an epileptic seizure whilst having a bath. This tragic incident, found by an inquest jury to be entirely preventable, has sparked anger amongst a wider public, and calls for reform in the provision of care for individuals with learning disabilities and autism.
Part of a Broader Crisis: Avoidable Deaths in Institutional Care
Connor’s death is part of a horrifying pattern of avoidable fatalities among people with autism and learning disabilities in the UK. Investigations and reports have highlighted neglect, lack of proper care, and insufficient staff training, as recurring problems (see reports from the LeDeR Review at: https://www.england.nhs.uk/learning-disabilities/improving-health/learning-from-lives-and-deaths/). The 2015 Mazars report, commissioned in the wake of Connor’s death, reviewed patient deaths within Southern Health NHS Foundation Trust. It uncovered that many deaths were not investigated properly, particularly those of individuals with learning disabilities. This report echoed findings from other inquiries, highlighting a persistent disregard for the lives and well-being of this patient group (Mazars, 2015).
Laughing Boy: The Play That Touched Many Hearts
Laughing Boy, the play, sought to explore and convey the personal and emotional dimensions of Connor’s death. Connor is portrayed with sensitivity, capturing the infectious laugh and joyful spirit that earned him his nickname. The play explores the events leading up to his death, the immediate aftermath, and the lasting impact on his family and friends, including his mother, Sara Ryan, who became a high-profile campaigner following his death. The play also touches on the lives of Connor’s siblings and his stepfather. The family is depicted as close-knit and unflinchingly honest, often using humour and, yes, some swearing “now and again”, to cope with their grief and frustration. It is clear from the many comments on social media, from individuals who have seen the play, that the candid portrayal has resonated with many.
A Call for Change
Every life lost matters immensely, and Connor’s story is a powerful call to action. The play serves as a stark reminder of the human cost of systemic failures within institutional care. Whilst the play honours Connor’s memory and celebrates his unique personality, it also calls attention to the broader issue of avoidable deaths among individuals with autism and learning disabilities. This is a call that will resonate far beyond the UK.
Forbes Masson: “Bringing Connor’s Story to Life”
I was working on another Stephen Unwin production – Farm Hall – when he sent me the script for Laughing Boy, his stage adaptation of Sara Ryan’s Justice for Laughing Boy. I had remembered reading about Connor Sparrowhawk in the past, but I wasn’t prepared for how I would feel reading Stephen’s script. It completely tore me apart. A truly modern tragedy. I was in awe of Sara’s strength in dealing with the grief of losing her son in such a hideous and blatant example of institutional neglect, but also her tenacity in the fight to try to hold the people responsible to account. I was a complete mess after reading the script and immediately agreed to the offer of taking part. As a father myself, I just couldn’t begin to imagine being in that situation. But as an actor that is exactly what I had to do, having been cast in the role of Sara’s partner, Rich.
Stephen’s theatrical idea was that it should be the family that tells the story. Dramatically (as well as economically – Jermyn Street Theatre is very small, with limited resources) we couldn’t have a cast of thousands, so the children would play all the other characters as well. Really talented and beautifully warm and open-hearted young actors Molly Osborne, Lee Braithwaite, Charlie Ives, and Daniel Rainford were cast in those roles. The phenomenal Janie Dee was playing Sara. I have always been a big fan so was looking forward to working with her. And the brilliant Alfie Friedman was cast as Connor, and tenderly and skilfully brought him to life. I found it easy to bond with all the cast and indeed we were all soon behaving like a real family onstage and off!
Stephen brought a lot of his own personal story to the production, his son Joey has learning disabilities, is non-verbal and lives in a care setting, and he related to us difficulties he faces with the bureaucracy and emotional strain of dealing with this.
In Sara’s book she continually has conversations with her son. Stephen had Alfie onstage as Connor all the time, as a constant presence, until the last scene where he left the stage in a beautiful moment – making the loss of him all too real. Stephen wanted to show Connor as “not just a name” and the life of the family before and after the tragedy.
In rehearsals it was important to dig deep – we had an associate director Ash Gupta, and they gave us lots of factual info from the book and elsewhere and choreographed movements between the scenes. The great thing about being an actor is that you learn so much about the subject matter around the play that you are performing, and it was true about this play too. I had some personal experience already, as one of my friends has a disabled daughter, who is in her 30s and who lives in a care home.
Sara and her sons Owen and Tom came to rehearsals one day to hear the script being read and to answer our many questions. They were so warm, lovely, strong, and open and it was clear they loved Stephen’s script. We found out from them details about the real people we were playing, and we tried to give them flesh. After some deliberation, I decided, as the play was a sort of dramatised documentary in some sections, with us just speaking directly to the audience, that I would put on as little artifice as possible and so rather than try to do an impersonation of Rich by mimicking his real accent, I would instead just be myself, but try my best to emulate his spirit. Indeed on the opening night when lots of Sara’s family and friends were in the audience – one of the most nerve-wracking nights, not for any self-serving egotistical reason, but just because we cared so much and wanted to serve the story in the best way possible – during the preshow preamble, where we would talk to the audience, I introduced myself to Rich and said “Hello Rich, just to warn you, you are now Scottish!” After the performance he said, jokingly, he had always wanted to be Scottish!
Because the narrative was so heavy in places it was important to find space for some lightness and humour, so I tried to find moments for Rich to give the audience a laugh and make him playful with his children and caring with Connor. His role in the play is as strong support for Sara, he doesn’t have huge monologues, but I didn’t want to be continually going to Janie (as Sara) and hugging her or holding her hand because I felt that would have weakened her and the play. So I told Janie “Look I am here for you, when you need me as a shoulder just come to me”. It worked out really well. There were a few key moments when the play shows how Rich was the rock that Sara needed. I also felt it was important that Rich (in the play) should be open emotionally, that he should not be ashamed or inhibited to cry, to show his emotions, as that too is a strength – not that he is a quivering wreck but that the grief would be clear to see and also help Sara (in the play) release that too.
The production was so well received both in Jermyn Street and when we transferred it to Theatre Royal Bath the cast and audience were always engulfed with real tears at the end. I must say that the run of the play was immensely draining, putting ourselves through real grief every night, but it was all so worth it for that extraordinary boy Connor, and we always felt his magic with us. It also felt important to be in a play that could help promote the cause and the fight for better care for people with learning disabilities.
The moment which never failed to floor me was when we said that the story “was about more than just Connor” and a projection appeared on the back wall of other children lost through institutional neglect (a mere fraction of the actual numbers). Many parents of these children came to witness the production and I hope they were in some way given comfort as their children’s lives were memorialised in this way.
What is truly appalling though is that some months after the last performance I read that a key antagonist in Connor’s Story with Southern Health, continues to be lauded in the NHS.
Justice for Laughing boy? The fight goes on.
It was truly one of the most extraordinary productions and roles of my career. It meant so much to bring Connor’s story to life. I just hope it makes a difference. I hope that the production returns so it can reach a wider audience.
Ali Mercer: “A Close to Home Experience”
I have a teenage son with learning disabilities, so I knew the play was going to feel very close to home. And it did – but it did for everyone else too. I didn’t realise how affected everyone else was ‘til it finished, and we all filed out, stunned, teary-eyed, and speechless. I’ve never seen a theatre audience in bits the way we were then. And that’s what I’ll remember most about the play. The overwhelming sadness of what happened to Connor and the understanding that it was part of a hugely important and ongoing story about how people with learning disabilities are treated. But also, at the same time, the equally powerful sense of love, support, and community that came from watching Connor’s story told with so much care among friends and as part of an audience that was transported by it.
Outside on Piccadilly afterwards, I saw a red double-decker bus and instantly thought of Connor. So many images from the play will stay with me: the poster picture of Connor smiling; the vivid patchwork of the Justice Quilt; Connor and his mother embracing; Connor’s final exit; the footage of his funeral; the gallery of the faces of other people with learning disabilities who died preventable deaths; Connor as a little boy laughing. I’m crying all over again just thinking about it. None of us will forget it.
Lorian Mead: “I Will Remember”
The experience for me was visceral and therefore the words don’t come close to capturing the power of the performance and the love that wove through every element.
For all the dudes. A poem.
I watched a play one day
With me it will stay
I will remember
Feelings of sorrow and rage
Performed on a stage
Felt by audience and cast
Feelings that will last
I will remember
An endless pit of wrongs
Dragging on for too long
Trauma, injustice, and tears
Lasting too many years
I will remember
But also
I will remember Laughing Boy
What brought him joy
Family, buses, and songs
And love that goes on
I will remember
I watched a play one day
With me it will stay
I will remember
David Abbott: “So Many Things Are Not as They Should Be”
When the phone rang to tell me to drive to the hospital a few hundred miles away ‘cos my mum might be dead or dying, I had to get fuel. When I went to pay, the guy behind the till grinned and showed me his phone. He was watching monkeys wanking and thought it was hilarious.
I think I might have smiled. I’m not sure.
When we got ushered into a room with my dad so he could be given the news that he only had a little while left to live, I found myself wondering why such news would ever be delivered in a windowless room, with not enough comfortable chairs, with peeling paint on the walls.
So many things are not as they should be.
Sara Ryan remembers that when she got “that call” it was hot. Just really, really hot. And that she had brought food into work. And that there was a smear on the window. These details somehow frame and contain and sharpen events.
The staff were doing an online Tesco’s shop.
Connor was in an assessment and treatment unit but got neither assessment nor care.
The Doctor went away on holiday.
Someone else had died in the same bath.
Is it too much to ask?
A comfortable chair.
Some treatment.
Some care.
Sharon Louise Smith: “I Had No Words”
As I left the play, I had no words. I walked out in silence, unable to articulate the multiplicity of feelings in any coherent way. They were felt but not easy to put into words. Any attempt to reduce the impact this play had on me into words would feel inadequate. Having utilised collage within my PhD thesis, this seemed an appropriate method to utilise to respond, to embrace that which is “resonating in the body as well as the brain” to provide space for the “not-yet-articulated” (MacLure, 2013, 660–661).
As Hogarth et al. (2022, 6) explain, collaging “comes from the French term ‘papiers colles’ or ‘decoupage’ and involves cutting and then pasting together/layering”. It utilises a range of materials which might have previously been disregarded as waste or scrap materials that are cut, torn, shredded, or drawn on and stuck onto the page in layers.
Although the horrific events could not help but be at the centre of the story being told, as this collage explores, the real story being told was one of family, of love, of resistance, of community, collaboration, and activism, and importantly, one of hope that things can change through this story being told.
Victoria Hart: “I Saw My Own Complicity in a System That Can Stink”
I knew Connor’s story before I went to the play. I had followed remotely via Twitter, in real time. I knew about the campaign, the inquest, the response from Southern Health. Saying that there were pieces I didn’t know too. I am a social worker. I have been for over 20 years. I saw my own complicity in a system that can stink. I am a part of the culture that creates the circumstances that led to Connor’s death and the others – some named, others who will always remain nameless in the fight for justice in a system that creaks around the edges at times. As long as I think I am “one of the good guys” and the professionals who are represented do not reflect me or my work, I am part of the problem rather than any kind of solution. When I first knew Connor’s story, I was a fighter against a system and the hypocrisy within the system I am part of – it was easier to detach myself. I was the “frontline practitioner” raging against management structures that didn’t listen. I was fighting the “good fight”.
Now, I am a manager within a service that people rely on, and that families have few choices about. The play led me to reflect on how much I needed to see this play. The story needed to be told to me even though I thought I knew it – because I am now one of those “insiders” who can change the experiences of NHS services. I have the capacity to be the “defensive obstruction” or to listen and learn.
The play taught me about Connor and his family – the love that existed around him and the networks of support. It told me we must never fall into the trap of believing, because we like the NHS model, that we can never criticise the practitioners – a feeling that grew during Covid. As a current NHS employee and manager within the NHS, I need to listen and learn – not just from Connor’s story but from the stories that will never be told, the stories of people who don’t have family advocates, who might not have grown up in love. How many of those stories are we missing?
I am grateful I had a glimpse into the life of Connor, his family, and the love around him. I can and must always commit to listening better and harder – listening with a scope to change the ways that we work with people and families. The way we value and understand every life we hold responsibility for. And commit to continuous learning.
Claire Welch: “We Were Absolutely Blown Away”
On 10 May, 14 of us, including student learning disability nurses from the University of South Wales and Registered Nurses (Learning Disabilities), travelled to London to see the play “Laughing Boy”. We were all absolutely blown away by the performance at Jermyn Street Theatre. Studying and working in the field of learning disabilities, we’re all too aware of preventable deaths and inequity and inequality in healthcare. We are so pleased that this harrowing tragedy is raising awareness of the issues and look forward to a screen adaptation of the unforgivable treatment Connor received so that even more people are educated on the issues.
Sara Ryan: “Thinking About Laughing Boy”
It’s been over six weeks since the final performance of Laughing Boy, and I remain unsure how to articulate how I feel about the production. It was a smash hit. From early pleas to take the production on tour, people bought tickets and travelled to London and Bath from Yorkshire, Cumbria, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and further. It was breathtaking to follow on social media.
Hang on a minute. This doesn’t happen. As I write this, people like Connor continue to be vilified, locked away, ignored, warehoused in substandard spaces with bored, underpaid staff, abused, and worse. Denied the joys of life and the mundane everyday stuff of relationships, work, banter, pets, a home of their own, too often tossed on the discounted scrapheap in life and death.
Laughing Boy, under the meticulous direction of Steve Unwin, put Connor, part of an unruly, loving, and sweary family, on stage for 90 minutes with no interval. He made the audience see how much Connor mattered. There was no looking away. People were gripped, audibly reacting at the brutality of how he was treated and the post-death processes, laughing out loud at his reflections, actions, and jokes, humming along to All the Young Dudes. Daily show reports documented the engagement, laughter, and tearfulness of the audience. Theatre-going rules were explicitly loosened; a support dog joined the cast at one point, and people floundering for words shared photos of buses on Twitter on their way home.
I’m currently puzzling over the consistent and unwaveringly poor treatment of people with learning disabilities in the UK and wider. Trying to find some theoretical hook to make sense of it. Bill Hughes (2019, 830) talks about the abject and monstrous in relation to disability more widely. He describes disabled people as “good to mistreat” or from a perspective of vulnerability “good to be good to”. These perspectives were apparent in the production, as the woeful treatment that led to Connor’s death and the deaths of so many others were laid out in the script and in a hauntingly beautiful photo montage, while the cast piercingly quoted projected and often used inane statements like “She’s so special!” and “Special families get special children”.
What the play did, however, which is all too absent in existing academic research, policy, practice, politics, and wider life, was to present Connor as a young man, son, brother, nephew, cousin, friend, and human. Home movie footage added depth and colour to this portrayal, and the closeness captured with such poignancy in dialogue between Connor (played by the actor Alfie Friedman) and me (played by the actor Janie Dee) (so odd to write this [. . .]) mirrored numerous conversations and banter we had over the years, as well as imagined ones. Plain old stripped-back family love, interaction, and mattering.