They Stole My Innocence Page 16

  What did we do, my mother wanted to know. What sort of presents had we been given? She had heard that carloads of gifts were brought to the home. She wondered why I had never talked about it, or told her what I’d received.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ I told her. ‘Christmas is horrible there. I hate it. I want to be here with you, Frank and Alfie.’ Anger rose in me as I said my younger brother’s name. ‘I suppose he wakes up to a stocking full of toys,’ I said, becoming tearful.

  She had the grace to look embarrassed before she tried to make amends. ‘But, Madeleine, you get presents from us.’

  ‘Yes, but not on Christmas Day. I’m not with you, am I?’ I screamed. Tears of rage and hurt ran down my face.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she said, giving me a quick hug. ‘Don’t cry now. There must have been some good bits.’ Her need to hear them was greater than my need for sympathy so I told her about helping to decorate the Christmas tree. A group of us smaller children were given the task of hanging glittering decorations on the lower branches, while the wardens and older boys climbed ladders to drape gold and silver tinsel, then pin an angel on the top. Of course we little ones wanted to go up the ladder as well. That, we were told firmly, was not allowed. They didn’t want any casualties over Christmas.

  The cynical side of me thinks that, as it was the one time of the year when we were under scrutiny from outside visitors, it wouldn’t have looked good if children had broken bones and bruises. At any time of the day carloads of benevolent locals drew up bearing gifts for those ‘in need’. Genial smiles were bestowed on us and our decorating skills were admired and praised as brightly coloured parcels were added to the growing pile under the tree.

  It was not only presents for the children that were sent to Haut de la Garenne. Jersey’s businessmen delivered turkeys, hams, Christmas puddings, mince pies, fruit, dates, and even boxes of crackers. Last, a huge Christmas cake decorated with imitation holly, silver balls and a tiny Santa, was carried in. In fact, they brought everything they could think of to ensure that we were all going to sit down to a feast as good as anyone else would have. They, if not the staff, were determined we would have a special day.

  I’m sure for many years, when those who lived in the huge farmsteads, with high gates cut into thick walls, sat down for their Christmas dinner it warmed them to think that, thanks to them, a group of impoverished children were pulling crackers and tucking into a similar feast. They believed that the wardens had our welfare at heart and that the volunteer Santa was a kindly man who only gave out presents. When they saw us in church on Christmas morning, they no doubt imagined the delight on our faces when we returned to the home and opened our presents.

  Certainly, when we marched in pairs into Gouray church for the Christmas morning service, we received kindly smiles from the congregation, especially from those who knew they had helped to improve our Christmas. Even there, though, there were certain rules, one being that the boys and girls from Haut de la Garenne had to sit on opposite sides of the church. When the collection box was passed through the congregation, we all had to put a penny into it. The coins had been given to us when, dressed in our best clothes, we had left the home for the mile-long walk.

  You might be poor, but you have to learn to give as well as receive, was the message we were supposed to absorb. It certainly gained the head of the home looks of approval when we were observed doing just that.

  After the service, it was back to Haut de la Garenne. Once we had changed out of our Sunday best, we made our way to the hall where the presents were shared out. There was something so impersonal about being given a parcel with ‘girl 10’ or ‘girl 11’, instead of a name on it.

  When I first went to the home, Uncle Ted had handed out the gifts.

  As I told my mother about those Christmases, and remembered being five and having to sit on Santa’s lap, I shivered. I could still hear him asking if I had been a good girl and feel his hand stroking my knee. That was a picture I decided not to share with her. In fact, I was careful not to mention his name again. Now I knew what sort of creature he was, I wanted to block out any thoughts of him.

  ‘What did you do with all the presents? I mean, what was it you were given? Clothes, books, toys?’ my mother had asked me.

  Knowing that the truth would only upset her, I toyed with the thought of telling her a few little white lies.

  ‘Madeleine?’

  The lies deserted me and the truth came out. ‘We opened them. I mean, we had to because there were thank-you letters to write the next day. So we had to know what was in them.’

  She looked confused. ‘Well, of course you wanted to know what was in them. They were yours, weren’t they?’

  ‘I only thought that on the first Christmas,’ I told her miserably remembering some of the things in the parcels I had wanted to keep. ‘They went missing after that.’

  ‘What do you mean, missing?’

  ‘Just disappeared.’

  ‘What – other children took them?’

  ‘No, the wardens. You know when you came to the home and they wouldn’t let you see me? You left sweets for me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I always had some with me. Just in case.’

  ‘Well, they took them. Told me you’d left them for me. And then they just laughed when I asked for them.’

  My mother was upset when she heard that. ‘What reason did they give?’

  ‘The same one they gave us when our Christmas presents disappeared.

  We were naughty children and naughty children didn’t deserve gifts and pretty things,’ I told her.

  ‘I used to wonder,’ she said, several years later, ‘why it was that when I gave you something, you always wanted to leave it at home. It wasn’t because you didn’t like it but because you wanted to keep it, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  There are times that stand out in our minds, not because they’re bad but because they’re almost perfect. Such a one was a weekend, near the end of the summer holidays, when I was eleven years old.

  I was going to be allowed home, not just for one day but for three. The social worker who came to tell me the good news was younger than the ones I had met before. She dressed differently, too. Instead of a navy or grey skirt and a neat white blouse, which seemed to be the favoured outfit for those in her profession, she wore a denim skirt and a pale blue T-shirt.

  Unlike the others, who, I felt, meant well but had no real idea of what it was like to be me, her face was free of makeup and her glossy dark brown hair wasn’t stiff with lacquer but tied back loosely in a ponytail. ‘Hello, Madeleine,’ she had said, the moment I walked into the visitors’ room, where she was waiting. ‘I’m Michelle, a social worker.’ Her dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled.

  I liked her straight away.

  ‘Now, Madeleine,’ she had said, once she had told me about my impending visit, ‘I know that with your mother’s asthma, walking up that hill is a bit tiring for her, so I’ve told her I’m going to come and collect you to save her the walk. You just be ready for ten o’clock. Make sure you pack a swimsuit. No doubt you’ll be going on the beach.’

  Excited, I gabbled my thanks.

  She laughed. ‘Oh, Madeleine, it’s a pleasure. You don’t need to thank me – and your mother’s so looking forward to having you at home for this weekend.’

  I could have hugged her just for that.

  It was a Wednesday when I was given the news. ‘Only two days,’ I told myself, practically skipping along the corridors. And for those forty-eight hours I wore a permanent smile. I was so happy at the thought of being with my family. It was the first time I had been permitted to stay overnight since I had been returned to Haut de la Garenne.

  Deep down I harboured the hope that I would be allowed to return to them. For, as children often do, I remembered only the good times – Frank humming as he cooked breakfast, my mother giving me a hug, sitting between the
m on the settee watching television and being allowed to stay up late at the weekend. I had pushed aside the memories of the drinking, the rows, the piles of unwashed dishes, the lack of food, and going to bed with an empty stomach. Even if I had let in the thoughts of those times when voices rose in anger, empty beer bottles littered the floor and cigarette smoke filled the air, I would still have chosen to be with them.

  The excitement swelled as I allowed the seed of optimism to take root. After all, I was to spend more time than usual with them. Was that some sort of trial?

  Michelle seemed so nice. She had treated me as though I was just like any other girl of my age. She acted as though it was perfectly normal for her to be arranging a visit to my mother. Surely she was the sort of person who believed that children belonged with their families.

  That Friday morning I was awake before the bell announced that it was time to get up.

  ‘Madeleine,’ the warden said, when she came in to make sure we were awake, ‘I hear you’re going visiting this weekend.’ She sounded almost friendly. My heart skipped a beat. My first thought was that she was thinking of a way to stop me. But, no: she just told me to have a bath and wash my hair. ‘We want you to look your best when your taxi arrives,’ she said, joking. ‘Wear your Sunday outfit and, here, take these.’ She handed me a pair of clean socks. ‘Oh, and before you do all that, make sure your shoes are polished. Once you’re ready, go and have your breakfast, then come and see me, all right?’

  ‘What about helping clear the tables?’ I asked.

  ‘You can leave that for today. Can’t having you getting your good clothes messy, can we?’

  Puzzled by her attitude, but taking full advantage of it, I had my bath, dressed, put a change of clothes and a toothbrush into a bag, and I was ready.

  I was late for breakfast and half expected to be told that there was none left for me but, instead, quite a generous portion was placed on my plate.

  When I had finished I made my way to the warden’s office. This is where there’ll be a catch, I thought. They’ll tell me they’ve changed their minds. As I knocked on the door I imagined them doubling up with laughter at my expense.

  Again I was mistaken.

  The warden greeted me with a smile. ‘Don’t you look nice?’ she said, before giving me a cursory examination to make sure I had cleaned the back of my neck and that there was no dirt lurking under my nails. ‘Yep, you’ll do,’ were her final words and I was free to go.

  Clearly they wanted me neat and tidy so that I presented an image of a happy child, living in a well-run place. She had no cause for concern: my excitement at spending time with my family would have made me look as though I hadn’t a care in the world.

  Several minutes before ten I was hanging around in the entrance hall waiting for Michelle. As soon as I heard her Hillman Imp arrive, I rushed outside impatiently to greet her. With a grin she stepped out of the small maroon car, this time dressed in a lilac midi skirt and a lacy white blouse. That was even more different from the social-worker attire I was used to.

  ‘Well, you look very pretty, Madeleine,’ she said, placing her hand on my shoulder.

  Morag Jordan had suddenly appeared and handed my bag to her. Fear gripped my tummy at the sight of her. Was she going to stop me? No, my visit must have been out of her hands. A few words were exchanged but only to discuss what time I would be returned, and then we were ready to leave.

  ‘Have a nice time, dear,’ Morag said. I looked at her in amazement, then dug my fingernails into my palms to stop myself laughing. Two-faced bitch, I thought, but, fortunately, didn’t say.

  No doubt Michelle believed that the smile and good wishes were genuine.

  ‘After I deliver you, Madeleine,’ she told me, ‘I’m free for the rest of the day. I’m going to have a nice long walk by the beach. What about you? Any plans? Or are going to wait and see what your mother has arranged?’

  ‘I love the beach,’ I answered, ‘so I hope she takes us. Then, after tea, I expect I’ll be allowed to watch television.’

  Seeing that I was relaxed, Michelle asked me several questions about my school, whether I’d liked it there, and was I looking forward to starting at the senior one?

  I told her I didn’t like lessons. ‘Well, PE’s all right,’ I added. ‘And I like drawing, but I find reading hard. The teacher gets cross and I get laughed at by the rest of the class.’

  ‘And how do you feel about the senior school?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m scared,’ I blurted out, an admission I had kept to myself until then. ‘The lessons are going to be even harder, aren’t they?’

  Michelle didn’t answer, which I took to mean yes. She gave me a brief sideways glance. ‘Madeleine, if it were possible for you to go to a different school, where the lessons were not so hard, would you miss your friends?’

  ‘What friends?’ I asked. ‘They all think I’m stupid because I still can’t read.’

  ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ Michelle told me. ‘I can’t tell you anything now, except that things are going to improve.’

  I pestered her with questions, but she just repeated that I had nothing to worry about. ‘For now, you just enjoy yourself with your family,’ she told me, as we pulled up in front of the flat.

  My mother must have been looking out of the window for as soon as Michelle had turned off the engine she came rushing down to greet us.

  ‘I’ve just been telling Madeleine that she’s not to worry about senior school,’ Michelle said, and I noticed a conspiratorial look pass between them. I forgot about it the moment Michelle drove away. I had no idea then that the exchange of glances was an acknowledgement of an agreement between the two women. It would significantly change the next few years of my life.

  When I went inside, every inch of the flat was gleaming. Freshly washed curtains hung at open windows, the sink sparkled, not one dirty dish or empty beer bottle was to be seen, and the floor was still damp from being mopped.

  When my mother hugged me, she smelt of soap and shampoo, with only a whiff of tobacco in the mix, none of the usual alcohol fumes. ‘This is going to be a proper family weekend,’ she told me. ‘We have some lovely things planned. Now, I know you’ve had breakfast, but it’s never too early for cake, is it?’

  Without waiting for an answer she placed a glass of orange squash and a fairy cake with pink icing in front of me. As soon as that was gone she told me to change into the pair of shorts that was on my bed. I was getting my wish: we were going to spend the day on Havre des Pas beach.

  Back in the seventies, before the lido was built, that beach was a sunny south-facing strip of golden sand that was ideal for children to play on. It was also the nearest to where we lived. The blue of the sky was reflected in the sea, the smell of salt was carried on a light breeze and waves lapped gently on the shore, all conspiring to make it an idyllic summer’s day. A perfect one for paddling, I thought, as we walked to our destination.

  Once there, my mother, her skirt tucked up above her knees, sat with her back against a rock, a magazine in her hands and a relaxed, drowsy expression on her face. My little brother and I splashed in the shallows, then used our scooped hands as spades to make a sandcastle.

  Later my mother produced sandwiches, more cake and squash, which we consumed before asking, in voices tinged with hope, if we could also have ice cream. That, we both considered, was a prerequisite for a day on the beach.

  ‘Mustn’t eat too much,’ my mother told us. ‘Frank’s bringing fish and chips home for tea. Bless him, he knows how much you like them.’ But she bought us a small cone each.

  ‘There’s another surprise for you, Madeleine,’ she added, when she told us it was time to go.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not until we’re back home, so hurry up, miss!’

  That made me fasten my shoes quickly.

  It was not until after tea, when my brother was on the floor playing with some Lego, that I found out what the surprise was.
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  ‘Now,’ Frank said, with a mischievous grin, ‘what do you think we’re going to do this evening?’

  ‘Watch television?’

  ‘No, even better! We’re going to the cinema to see the latest James Bond film, Diamonds Are Forever. What do you think of that?’

  I jumped up and down with excitement. I’d only been to the cinema on a Saturday morning, when special films were put on for children. This, I knew, was a grown-up film, one I had heard talked about at school.

  ‘But first it’s time to open your presents,’ Frank said.

  ‘Call them late birthday ones,’ my mother added, going into the bedroom and coming out with two parcels.

  My fingers were shaking as I untied the string and eagerly pulled off the brightly coloured paper. Inside the first was a blue cardigan and a grey pleated skirt, and in the second, a pair of soft, slip-on shoes, the ones all the girls at school wanted.

  ‘Better try them on.’ Needing no encouragement, I shot into the bedroom to change.

  ‘You look like a proper little lady,’ they said, as I preened and twirled in my new outfit.

  ‘I think you’d better keep them on,’ my mother said, before she, too, left the room to get ready.

  My little brother was taken to a neighbour’s house and then the three of us set off for the cinema.

  I didn’t know then that my visits during those summer holidays would be the last I would make to them for what was, to a child, a very long time. Neither was I aware as, munching Maltesers, I watched James Bond ousting villains and saving a beautiful girl, that certain plans had already been made for me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Michelle had thought it better if it was my mother who broke the news that I was to leave the island. I had recently taken the 11-plus exam, as all children did in those days: it would determine what sort of secondary school we attended. That weekend I learnt that I was not grammar-school material and that the local senior school would not provide a suitable education for me. My inability to read was put down to a low level of intelligence. Because of my lack of concentration and what they viewed as occasional bouts of violence, which I saw as self-defence, I was also diagnosed with behavioural problems. No one, it seemed, had thought that depression and tiredness might have caused the first, and being bullied at school the second. I would, it was decided, benefit from being enrolled in a school that catered for children with ‘special needs’.