They Stole My Innocence Read online

  Anywhere else the police would have been called, but the people in the alcoholics’ flats had their own issues with them.

  He only stayed once more. That ‘once more’ brought my nightmares back.

  As I woke, I smelt his breath, felt his hand on my shoulder and heard him start to unbuckle his belt. Opening my eyes, I saw, against my wall, a huge black shadow leaning over me. My mouth opened and I screamed. Frank came running. He was holding something – a large piece of wood.

  ‘Out!’ he yelled. ‘Get out now! Or I swear you won’t be able to walk out.’ The wood was raised above his head.

  Eugene blustered, said he’d stumbled into my room by mistake, thought it was the bathroom.

  Frank’s face darkened. ‘Out of my house, you filthy bit of scum.’

  ‘Don’t think you want the police coming round here,’ Eugene said. ‘I shouldn’t think you want to end up in prison. She’d be back in that home so fast her feet wouldn’t touch the ground. And we all know what goes on in that place, don’t we?’ he added, with a sneer. ‘Oh, don’t you fuss yourself. I’m leaving.’ He stumbled to the door and, as he opened it, issued his parting shot: ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of firm flesh, Frank. S’pect you’ve been fiddling her yourself.’ With that, he was gone.

  And now the outside world no longer felt safe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It didn’t take my mother long to start drinking again. Frank tried to curtail the amount, but he was at a loss as to what to do. Food became scarce again. It seemed that what Frank earned wasn’t enough to feed us and pay for the bottles of gin my mother now craved. At school, as I qualified for free lunches, I was able to stave off hunger by asking for seconds. And when the bottles of milk were handed out, I tried to smuggle mine back to the flat.

  At weekends the golden sands of West Park beach provided me with a means of making some money. Careless holiday-makers left behind their empty lemonade bottles. I would stuff as many as I could carry into a bag and take them to the nearest café for the refunds. With the money I made, I would treat myself to a portion of newspaper-wrapped chips. There were even times when I found enough to go to Funland with my friends and play on the slot machines. At home, questions were seldom asked as to where I had been, as both my mother and Frank had their own problems.

  My mother had sunk back into a depression that only gin relieved and then just for a short time. I would help as much as I could, by washing my baby brother’s nappies and hanging them out, cleaning and washing-up. But it was never enough.

  Weekends were the worst: without school dinners and milk, my stomach rumbled with hunger. As summer faded and winter drew in, there were no more empty lemonade bottles littering the beach, which meant no more hot chips. Of course, there were days when my mother pulled herself together and a thick Irish stew, with more potatoes than meat, was placed on the table. On some Sundays a roast chicken would appear. And on Fridays, if there was extra money in his pay packet from overtime, Frank would come home with bags of vinegar-smelling fish and chips. But there were other days when there was little except stale bread and tinned baby food. It was on one of those days when, feeling hollow with hunger, I went into the church.

  I don’t know what made me do it, but it was fortunate that I did. I was nibbling one of the small candles in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary when a priest appeared. A grey-haired man with thick, dark-framed glasses, he introduced himself as Father Paul and asked me what I was doing. To which, with the heat rising in my face, I gave him the blankest look I could. I was only too aware that he had caught me stealing.

  ‘Are you so hungry?’ he asked gently.

  I whispered, ‘Yes.’ Though all I was thinking then was that I had committed a mortal sin, not just in taking what was not mine but in stealing from the church.

  ‘Come with me,’ was all he said. Placing his hand on my shoulder, he led me to the presbytery. He showed me into a book-lined room where winter sunlight gleamed on polished wood. ‘Wait here. I just have to go through to the kitchen to see if I can find you something a bit tastier than those candles.’ A mischievous smile lit his face, making it almost boyish.

  I gazed round nervously and wondered what was going to happen. I didn’t have long to wait. ‘Sorry it’s all cold,’ he said, placing a plate of French bread, cheese and pickles in front of me. ‘Tuck into that and then we can talk. You can tell me why you are so hungry, and then I’ll take you home.’

  I told him, between mouthfuls, of how my mother was struggling. That there was never enough food in the house and, sometimes, no heating. And, yes, I also admitted that she drank. I knew it was disloyal but the words just slid out.

  ‘People find solace in different ways,’ he said kindly, ‘and it’s not my place to pass judgement.’

  Once I had finished talking and eating my eyelids began to droop with tiredness. ‘I think I’d better drive you back,’ he said. Drowsily I followed him outside to where a sparkling clean cream Morris Minor was parked. ‘In you get,’ he said, opening the door. One of those new seatbelts was strapped round me. ‘Keeps you safe,’ he told me, with a smile, when I asked what it was for. Once he had climbed into the driver’s seat he asked me to repeat my address, then drove sedately to our flat.

  Once my mother had recovered from the shock of seeing me return with a priest in tow, tea was offered. He accepted, seated himself and waved aside her flurry of apologies at the house being untidy and the absence of biscuits. He told her he knew it was hard for some families, especially the Irish ones. That one income was never enough, and was there anything he could do? ‘You have only to ask. That is what the Church is here for,’ he told her, when tears flooded her eyes. Before he left he assured her that he would arrange for extra blankets to be delivered, as well as a box of groceries and two sacks of coal. A few weeks later he brought round a huge hamper. ‘For Christmas,’ he told us, then invited me to the children’s party.

  As well as that party, with its huge tree, a present for every child, there are other good memories. There were times when I was nothing other than a carefree child. Playing on the beach with my friends, sneaking into the Hôtel Le Coin, where we pretended we belonged to holiday-makers’ families. Making friends with their children and, when I said my mother was resting with a headache, being given ice-cream by someone’s mother.

  The day of the accident I came out giggling from the hotel that, once again, I had got away with whatever I’d been doing. I was so pleased with myself that I paid no attention as to where I was walking. I heard my friend scream out my name and looked up to see a coach full of tourists bearing down in my direction. Then the world went black.

  I woke up in Intensive Care with my mum staring at me. I learnt later that I had a broken collarbone, a very bruised body and concussion. On seeing my eyes flicker open, my mother stretched out her hand and took mine. Her mouth quivered as she tried to smile. ‘Oh, thank God you’re all right, Madeleine,’ she said, and squeezed my fingers. My eyes closed again. Trying to stay awake was just too much of an effort. I heard her voice as though from far away: ‘What were you doing? You could have been killed!’ she was saying. ‘I’ve been worried out of my mind. You’re never to go back to that hotel again, do you hear? Never again!’

  Then, mercifully, I slipped back into sleep.

  The coach driver came to visit, bringing chocolates and flowers. He was so sorry, he kept repeating. I had just stepped out in front of him.

  Then another visitor came.

  She was from the authorities. ‘It’s not working, you being at home,’ she said. ‘Your mother cannot control you.’

  I was allowed home for the remainder of the holidays.

  When they ended I went back to Haut de la Garenne. The social worker took me there.

  I had already said goodbye to my mother.

  ‘I’ll visit,’ she said, avoiding my eyes.

  I noticed that this time she made no promise that I would be there for just a short time. We
both knew I would not.

  I was older now, more able to fight back, I thought, all the time feeling sick with dread. Nothing could be worse than being returned to Haut de la Garenne, which I’d thought I had left behind – which I had survived, my inner voice added. Ever since I had been told of my fate I had tried to convince myself that I would be all right.

  I didn’t manage to.

  And I was right. It was going to get worse.

  The Jordans were due to arrive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  2008

  Another phone call, another interview. This time I wasn’t worried for I was sure it was Graham Power I was going to meet.

  It was not.

  The first policeman was there, in his dark suit and crisp white shirt, with the obligatory policewoman seated next to him. There were few preliminary questions. Instead he picked up a file, opened it and looked intently at me. ‘Madeleine, in the statement you gave Graham Power you said there was a swimming-pool. That it was in the basement.’

  ‘There was one in the basement.’

  ‘The basement, you say? Your statement makes it sound as though there was a maze of secret rooms under the floors. But really, Madeleine, the space down there is just that, a void. It’s only four foot high. There are no signs of a pool. No evidence that it was ever there.’

  He paused, glanced down at his notes, while I remained silent.

  ‘However, there is one that, no doubt, you swam in. One that was donated to the home by a kind benefactor. It’s outside, not hidden away. But there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to indicate that there was ever a pool somewhere beneath the ground. There isn’t the space for it in those voids you refer to as cellar rooms. Is it possible that your memories are a little confused?’

  Now, I know that my memory can be a little fuzzy. And it was the experience of a very young child that I was trying to recall. I accept that sometimes I’m not sure if it’s a nightmare I remember or a fact. I wonder, though, if some of the things I have put down to bad dreams are really memories that visit my subconscious when I’m in the half-waking state that daybreak brings. But some are just too clear, too sharply etched into my brain, to be anything but the truth.

  Traumas, I have been told, are often wiped out of our conscious memory. Maybe that is why some of the interviewees found giving evidence so difficult. If so, I wondered, why had that not happened to my recollections of childhood? I can recall words, although the faces of those speaking and their voices are less clear.

  ‘It was there then,’ I said. ‘I’m not saying it was as large as the one outside. Of course it wasn’t. It was more the size of what we would now call a plunge pool. But then, to a child, it seemed big – big and frightening.’

  ‘So tell us, Madeleine,’ the policewoman said, ‘what use was made of a pool we have no record of ever being there?’

  ‘It was where the men had parties.’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Sometimes as many as ten. They would be there when we arrived.’

  And through those dusty corridors leading to my childhood, a clear image emerged: a group of us being led into that room, where in the pool, ruddy-cheeked men, white hair on flabby chests, gold glinting on plump, manicured hands, leant against the tiled sides. Behind them, on the stone ledge, were bottles of wine and spirits. Smoke from fat cigars swirled above balding heads, and complacent laughter filled my ears.

  Through the water I saw that the men were naked and those things that disgusted me so, those red things that could swell into something angry and hot, were bobbing between their legs.

  ‘Well, well, some new little twinkles,’ said one.

  ‘Very nice, too,’ said another, and more laughter broke out.

  Just looking at them, with their flushed faces, their hands wrapped round cigars and glasses, nearly brought bile racing up to my throat. Even then I knew what they wanted, why we had been brought there. ‘Nice men going to give you all some presents,’ we had been told. But I knew what presents they were going to give us. They wanted the same as Colin Tilbrook.

  ‘Let’s get your clothes off now. Then you can get in the pool,’ said one of the female wardens.

  And children, too frightened to protest, obediently raised their arms for shirts and skirts to be pulled off, knelt down and untied shoes, peeled off socks until they stood, trembling with fear, clad only in their knickers.

  ‘In you get,’ the warden said. ‘It’s playtime.’

  I wanted to scream out that I wouldn’t get into that water. I wanted to run back the way we had come, but the warden’s cold stare pinned me to the spot.

  The eyes of one of the men raked my body and, through his sneering gaze, I saw myself: small, inconsequential, just a toy. His hand raised and his finger pointed at me. ‘That one first,’ he said. ‘That little blue-eyed twinkle can come in my direction.’

  ‘You first then, Madeleine,’ said the warden, as she lifted me in.

  Hands grabbed my shoulders, and gold from a wedding ring glinted up at me. ‘Pretty little thing, aren’t you?’ He turned me round, held my body against his chest and bounced me up and down. I could feel that thing underneath my body, pressing against me, and just hoped he wouldn’t ask me to touch it.

  The warden picked up another small girl, ‘Who wants this little naked twinkle, then?’ And, laughing, another grey-haired man shot his hand up. Other men called out and received a sobbing child. The water churned as small bodies were pressed, stroked and pulled. Heads were held, tiny mouths protested, while men with grandchildren of our ages laughed, shouted and bucked.

  Now I brushed a tear away; that image had been too real, too clear.

  The voice of the policeman broke into my thoughts: ‘So, you think you should retract that statement?’

  I considered his question as a red blotch of anger stained my cheeks. ‘You came to me. You wanted information.’ As I uttered those words, thoughts of the harm those visits had done flashed through my mind. The questions of the police had opened a door to my past that was now impossible to slam shut.

  A rift had been torn through my marriage. In bed, where once there had been closeness, there was now a space between us, filled with the secrets that I had never told. My family’s confusion, about what they had learnt and their hurt that I had not been able to confide in them, showed in their eyes. And the childhood memories that had now escaped had metamorphosed, it seemed, into demons that swooped down nightly to torment me.

  ‘Now,’ I said, trying to control my anger, ‘you’re not happy with what I’ve told you.’

  ‘Madeleine, have you heard of acquired memories?’ asked the policewoman, not unkindly.

  I remained silent, which she took to be a ‘no’.

  ‘Well, often, when an adult has therapy, part of their treatment is to recall childhood memories. Often, when those memories have been suppressed, hypnotic therapy is used. And we know you have had therapy.’

  If that’s what you want to call it, I thought angrily.

  She took no notice of my discomfort, just continued with her textbook opinions. ‘Events that have caused distress in earlier years can then be dealt with. And during those sessions, sometimes memories are accidentally imparted. The recipient believes them, so they are not lying when they repeat them. Do you think that could have happened to you?’

  ‘No, it bloody couldn’t have,’ sprang to my lips, but before the words left my mouth, the policeman interrupted: ‘I mean,’ he said, ignoring her theory, ‘I’ve been down there myself. Had to bend. No room for a grown man down there, far less ten of them. No room for a pool either. Now, let me just ask you something. You said it was businessmen down there, right? Businessmen, sitting in a pool. Now, you’ve told us you were placed in there. Was the water hot or cold? There’s no sunlight down there, so without heating, the water would have been freezing.’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ I answered.

  ‘Well, then, here’s a thought for you to dwell on. Would
men of the type you’ve described sit in a shallow bath full of cold water? And, let’s face it, if they had, I don’t think they would have been able to get too excited, if you get my drift.

  So I’m asking you again, Madeleine, do you think you should retract that statement?’

  And, with visceral understanding, I knew what had happened.

  I wanted to throw something at the police, rant and rave, yell accusations, ask them who had taken the bath out. For I knew, by looking at their implacable faces, that it was no longer there. ‘But Graham Power believed it was there. He believed us. And I know there’ve been thirty victims of the home stating the same as I have.’

  ‘Thirty “alleged” victims, Madeleine. There has not been any proof that those crimes were committed.’ He paused. ‘Anyhow, what Graham Power believes is no longer relevant. Seems he was a bit gullible where you lot were concerned. Swallowed everything you all told him. So he’s been given a bit of a holiday. Stress got him imagining things.’

  ‘When will he be back?’ I asked desperately, but I already knew the answer.

  ‘No date fixed for that,’ was the answer.

  This time, before I could ask any more, the woman said, ‘Madeleine, do you think that the story was told by one of you and you all started to believe it? Could that be what happened?’ she asked, playing good cop to his disbelieving one.

  ‘You mean like group hysteria? No! Let me explain something,’ I said, finding it difficult to keep my anger and my dismay at Graham Power’s suspension hidden from them. ‘The ones still in Jersey who were in that home rarely mix. And if we do meet, we don’t talk about it. What do you think happens? That we have coffee mornings and see who can top the most terrible childhood story? We don’t. We don’t even want to think about our time there. Now I might get the size of a room or the height of a ceiling wrong and not be able to remember if the water was hot or cold. I was only five when I was sent there, and most of the time I was terrified. But I remember those men. I remember them all. And I am not going to give up. Someone will be made to listen to us,’ I said, feeling my face redden at the fervour in my voice.