They Stole My Innocence Read online

  I wish they had made up their minds about that before I’d had to sit in a room with a teacher who spoke only when the exam papers were handed out and collected. For an hour at a time I had tried to make sense of questions I could hardly read, far less answer. I had understood that everyone had to sit the 11-plus, which parents believed was important: passing or failing it would affect the rest of their children’s lives. Our teachers all told us that a good education created better career opportunities. As the day of the exam approached I heard the other children telling each other the rewards they would be given if they passed: a new bike, a record player, a transistor radio were just a few. No one mentioned what would happen if they failed.

  I had no such expectations. Even if my mother could have afforded such luxuries, they would not have been coming in my direction. I knew I wouldn’t pass, a conviction that I’m sure my teachers shared. I wonder now why I was even made to take it. Although I’m glad I did: failing it so completely resulted in my salvation.

  Frank and my mother waited until the Sunday before breaking the news that I was not to be enrolled in the local school. A new one had been found for me where, they assured me, I would be much happier. ‘A school where no one will make you feel bad because you can’t read,’ my mother told me. ‘It’s a really nice place, run by nuns. Michelle showed us pictures of it and it looks perfect for you.’

  She faltered then, as she tried to think of something else positive to say and Frank took over the task of explaining more about it. ‘It’s a special school that helps children who find learning difficult,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Everyone in your class has found ordinary school’s lessons hard. So you’ll all be in the same boat. And you won’t get picked on any more. Means I won’t have to show you how to fight any longer!’ he added, laughing.

  ‘No, you won’t, Frank. Don’t want her to get kicked out in her first week. Fighting is forbidden,’ my mother said, giving him a reproving look. ‘So don’t you be putting ideas like that in her wee head!’

  ‘You mean I won’t be made to look stupid?’ I asked, feeling a little glow of hope.

  ‘No, love, you won’t. And it’s not true anyhow. No one’s going to call you names there because you’re a bit slow at some lessons,’ my mother replied kindly. ‘Children can be cruel, so it’s a load off our minds to think you’re going somewhere where bullying isn’t allowed.’

  This new school sounded good to me.

  ‘Where is it?’ I asked, wondering how I was going to get there each day. If I hadn’t heard of it, it couldn’t be near to Haut de la Garenne.

  ‘It’s in a lovely part of England,’ Frank answered.

  My mouth opened and formed an ‘O’ of shock. England was so far away: how could I go to school there? I must have looked confused because, as though reading my thoughts, Frank patted my knee reassuringly. ‘It’s a boarding school, which means you’ll be sleeping there.’

  ‘But when will I see you and Mum?’ I asked, suddenly apprehensive.

  ‘During the holidays, of course,’ my mother answered. ‘You’ll only be away for the term. And from what Michelle has told us you’ll be enjoying yourself so much, with all the things they do there, that time will fly by.’

  ‘It’s not all sums and reading,’ said Frank, naming the two lessons I hated the most. ‘They have lots of PE and dance classes – you’ll love all that, right up your street.’

  ‘And you’ll be taught to cook and sew,’ added my mother. ‘I know you’ll make plenty of new friends there. I doubt you’ll miss us one little bit.’

  Two different emotions were at war inside me: relief that I would be leaving Haut de la Garenne and apprehension at going into an unknown situation. Not only would I be sleeping in a strange place but I wouldn’t see my family for weeks on end.

  ‘Will you come and visit me there?’

  Even though it was a question they must have been expecting, it still fell into a deep pool of silence.

  ‘Well, love, it’s very expensive for us to travel to England and we have nowhere to stay if we do. Our budget doesn’t run to bed-and-breakfast places,’ Frank answered eventually, flushing.

  Seeing my face drop, my mother quickly enthused about the school’s facilities. Not only were there no wardens, but no dormitories either. Instead there were several cottages where the children lived. ‘And,’ she said, ‘they even have a big colour television in the lounge, which you’ll be allowed to watch. Now what do you think of that?’

  It sounded even better, but I understood that whatever I thought wouldn’t make any difference to what happened. The decision had already been made for me by the faceless people in authority.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  2011

  The worst part of being in prison was the boredom. I did not make friends with the other inmates because I knew they would want to talk about what had gone on in Haut de la Garenne, which I had no wish to share with them. Every day I walked in the exercise yard, had a cigarette there and thought about what I was going to do with my life once I got out. First, though, before I could make any changes, those demons released by the police interviews had to be exorcised.

  For many reasons my chronological memory is jumbled, and I wanted my son to help me get all of my past written down in the right order: Then maybe I would find some kind of closure.

  I decided I needed to see a copy of the 11-plus exam I had taken all those years ago. Failing it had changed part of my life. When my son came to visit me in the prison I asked him if he knew how I could find a copy of it.

  ‘Sure, Mum, no problem,’ he had said. ‘I’ll look it up on the Internet and get it printed out for you.’ I doubted it would be that easy – computers were a mystery to me – but the next time he came he’d brought my exam papers with him. ‘Got them,’ he said, before I’d even had a chance to give him the permitted hug. ‘The warden had fun looking through it all before she let you have them.’ He handed me a small package of printed paper. ‘I’ll tell you what, though. The questions certainly aren’t easy. Don’t know how any kid passed that exam. Not surprised it was done away with. I mean, look at that last one, the intelligence test. Just the thing for a person who’s dyslexic!’

  After he had gone, I spread them out on my bed. As I looked at the maths paper, the years slipped away and I was transported back to when I’d sat in a classroom trying to decipher the questions. My hands had been so sweaty with nerves I had hardly been able to hold my pen when I wrote my name at the top of the paper. Nor did I feel any better when I saw the first question: ‘3755 is multiplied by 25 and the result is divided by 125. Write down the answer.’ The trouble was I couldn’t read it, or make sense of most of the other questions.

  Panic made my stomach cramp. All I could see was a blur of jumbled squiggles. I heard the examiner telling us to put our pens down, followed by the sighs of relief from those sitting near me. When he walked down the classroom collecting our papers I waited to see what he would say when he saw that mine was not even half completed. Whatever thoughts he had he kept to himself.

  We had a short break where milk was handed out. All around me comments were being made about the maths questions. Some said they were hard, others the opposite, but no one said they couldn’t understand them.

  The English paper was just as bad and after it came the worst: the intelligence test. ‘The letters ERBDA are the letters of the word BREAD mixed up,’ it told me. To a dyslexic that was what it looked like to begin with. ‘Now, straighten up the following,’ it commanded:

  (a)AAANNB is a fruit which comes from abroad.

  (b)ROHES is a large animal.

  (c)GRATEAMR is a girl’s name.

  (d)DWEBORRA is an article of furniture.

  (e)SAIRINS are used in Christmas puddings.

  Every single question had been impossible for me. That day I felt such shame, such despair that, no longer caring what anyone thought, I put my head in my hands and waited for it to be over.

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bsp; Michelle had fought for me to be sent to a different school from the one I had been put down for. She understood that my inability to read had not just isolated me but also made me a target for other children’s mockery.

  When she arrived to collect me on the Monday morning, she came into the flat and sat down at the table, accepting my mother’s offer of tea. ‘Madeleine,’ she said, once she had been told that I knew about the school, ‘I understand that it might be a bit frightening going away from Jersey for the first time – it would be strange if it wasn’t. But I want you to think about it as an adventure, which going on a plane for the first time will be. More importantly, it’s a new start. Nobody at your new school is going to judge you by your lack of reading skills. You’ve got to believe that I wouldn’t have recommended you go there if I thought they would.’

  I nodded. Words were stuck behind the lump in my throat. It was the kindness more than what she was saying that had caused it.

  Seeing my eyes well up, she laid her hand on mine. ‘Madeleine, nobody should be made to feel ashamed if they do their best. Neither should they be told that their best is not good enough. That’s why I wanted you sent to a school where the people running it will never do such a thing. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Good. Now, tell me what you do better than most of your classmates. I’ve been told by one of your teachers that there’s something you’re really good at.’

  ‘PE,’ I said, and grinned. ‘I’m pretty good on the bars.’

  ‘Now is there anything you would like to learn more of?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Cooking,’ I said. ‘I’d like to learn to cook.’

  ‘Then I’ll let the head of your new school know that.’ She chatted to my mother for a little longer, then drove me back to the home.

  Just before I got out of the car, she said once more that she knew I was going to be happy at Pield Heath, which was what my new school was called.

  The next few weeks passed quickly. The wardens left me alone and I was allowed to visit my family again. The day before I was due to leave, my mother arrived with an almost new suitcase. ‘You’ll only have to wear your school uniform on Sundays,’ she said, when she handed it to me. Inside I found an assortment of clothes that Father Paul had given her the money to buy. When it came to the time for her to walk back to the bus, there were hugs, tears and more reassurances of how I was going to be happy where I was going; and then she was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The following morning Michelle drove me to the airport. There, I was handed over to an official who took me to the plane where a stewardess was waiting for me. I was shown how to fasten my seatbelt and asked if I was excited to be travelling to London, where we would arrive in less than an hour. The doors closed, and the captain informed us that the weather in London was warm and sunny. I felt us gathering speed and saw, through the tiny window, the aircraft’s nose lifting and then we were in the air. As I watched Jersey disappear from view, I wondered if my mother could see the plane high in the sky above her. And if she could, would she know it was the one I was on? I had been disappointed that she wasn’t at the airport to see me off. Right up to the moment when I walked on to the plane I’d hoped she would appear. Before I could become too despondent, though, the stewardess was by my side, offering me orange juice and a bag of nuts. Feeling very grown-up, I took them, leant back and let myself begin to enjoy my first ever flight.

  I had hardly finished my snack when the captain was saying we were about to begin our descent. I craned my neck, trying to see what London looked like from the air. First there was a multi-coloured patchwork of fields, criss-crossed by long, winding roads, where cars, resembling Dinky or Corgi toys, drove sedately along. As we flew lower I could see rows of red-brick houses with small oblong gardens, a river and finally the airport. We’re here, I thought, feeling a twinge of excitement as, with a slight bump, we landed.

  The same stewardess took me to Baggage Reclaim and, once I had collected my suitcase, escorted me into the airport and handed me over to the waiting nuns. As the only other airport I had been in was the small Jersey one, the noise of Heathrow was deafening. Loudspeakers blaring, aeroplanes soaring overhead, and the babble of hundreds of people speaking different languages all combined to make me think I had landed on another planet.

  The nuns must have felt the same: they led me quickly to where their car was parked. They asked, with friendly smiles, how my journey had been, and told me it would not take long to drive to the school – I would be in time for tea, they added. Then they concentrated on getting out of the airport, which left me alone to peer out of the window. Occasionally they pointed out a few features but I was too filled with excitement and nerves to take much notice.

  My mind was fixed on the place where I would be spending the rest of my schooldays. What would the other children be like? Would I make friends? And how would those in charge treat me? The two who had met me from the flight seemed nice, but what if there were nuns who were no better than the wardens? Would they walk around at night shining lights into sleeping faces? My childhood experiences had taught me never to trust those who were in charge. All these doubts and questions kept surfacing, and suddenly there we were, driving into the school grounds. Stepping out of the car I was greeted by another nun, whose smile was so warm that I found my apprehension subsiding.

  ‘Hello, Madeleine,’ she said, ‘welcome to Pield Heath. I’m sure you’re going to be very happy here.’ She drew forward a girl of about my age, with red hair and a chubby freckled face. ‘Madeleine, this is Lucy,’ she said, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘It’s her first day too. And you’re both going to be staying in the same cottage.’ She led us along a path to a small house. She explained that sixteen students and a nun, who in our case would be herself, lived there during term time. ‘And,’ she told us, with a warm smile, ‘I’m a doctor, so if you’re ill, you’ll be in good hands.’

  When we stepped inside my mouth fell open. I had never imagined it would be so warm and comfortable. There was a group of armchairs arranged in a semi-circle, a coffee-table placed on a huge rug, and the television I had been told about, which, Sister Carmen assured us, was a colour one. There were shelves against one of the light walls, which I saw were full of jigsaw puzzles and games as well as books, and on the others hung an assortment of pictures. There was also a dining room, with several round tables, pretty bedrooms and a large shower area.

  She took us outside to show us the garden, which had enough benches and seats for all sixteen girls.

  Lucy and I were then shown our beds and where we could hang our clothes. As soon as we had unpacked we heard voices, which told us our housemates had arrived. ‘Teatime,’ said Sister Carmen, and introduced Lucy and me to the other girls. They were all friendly and curious about us, asking where we were from and what we thought of Pield Heath. A couple of them offered to take us round the grounds as soon as tea was finished and we accepted. There was a playground for when we had our school breaks, a large sports field, a vegetable garden and an orchard full of apple and pear trees. After the tour it was back to the cottage where the television was turned on for us to watch Blue Peter.

  At dinner time, after prayers had been said, I felt as though we were a big family sitting down for a meal. Conversation was not silenced and punished but encouraged. Sister Carmen joined in and steered it so that even the shyest girl was not ignored. And the food was lovely.

  Later, when I lay in my comfy bed, I knew that Michelle had been right. My life had just taken a huge turn for the better.

  * * *

  It wasn’t difficult to settle into Pield Heath’s routine, and within a short time it seemed like home. Every morning we assembled to say prayers followed by lessons, which were very basic. They had to be, since many of the children struggled with learning. A lot of our education was practical and hands-on, such as sewing classes with Sister Xavier. The nun in charg
e of helping me read used a method that no one had tried before. Instead of black print on white she said that brightly coloured letters were easier. And, amazed, I found they were. ‘Don’t try cursive writing,’ she told me. ‘It’s far more difficult for you than printing.’ She also used pictures with the words printed underneath so I could learn from the shapes. She made learning to read seem like a game. Under her tuition I stopped being afraid of print and gradually my reading improved.

  On Saturdays there were no lessons and we were allowed to sleep in. Once we’d had breakfast we were free to explore the grounds or simply play.

  ‘Don’t we have any chores to do?’ I asked Sister Carmen, the first week I was there.

  ‘Only making your beds and tidying your rooms,’ were the words that fell into my disbelieving ears.

  On Sundays there were prayers and we wore our maroon uniforms to attend Mass.

  My fears that the nuns might be like Haut de la Garenne’s wardens were, I soon discovered, entirely groundless. They might have been strict, but they were kind. They read us books, told us stories and encouraged us to burn up our energy outside. If being allowed to sleep in at the weekend was surprising, receiving praise and hugs was even more so. Strangely, although I had craved affection, I found it hard to handle and had to stop myself cringing when an arm went around me. If they noticed, and I’m sure they did, they never commented.