They Stole My Innocence Page 18

  There were only two things about the school that I was not comfortable with. First, I missed my family. The other girls rang home each week but I couldn’t because my mother didn’t have a telephone. She sent me letters, though, and with Sister Carmen’s help, I managed to write back, but it wasn’t the same as hearing her voice. The second was my reaction to some of the other pupils. Some appeared to have a great deal more wrong with them than difficulty with learning. Most of the children looked like any others, but some did not and I found their appearance and behaviour frightening.

  At break time, on my first school day, I noticed a couple of boys. They were so big! Not tall and muscular, but narrow-shouldered and flabby. Their lips were thick, their necks short and their heads very large in proportion to their bodies. They saw me looking at them and, to my surprise, gave me the sweetest smiles. One lumbered over until he stood just in front of me. I flinched. Was he angry that I had been staring? No! He asked my name. His voice was slower than other children’s, almost slurred. When I told him I was called Madeleine, another beautiful smile lit his face.

  ‘That’s pretty,’ he said, and I relaxed. I asked him what he was called and he told me he was David and his friend was Sam. I decided then that, whatever he looked like, he was all right.

  The girl in the wheelchair, who sat staring at nothing, disturbed me more. I wanted to turn my eyes away, but I couldn’t. I was fascinated by her, especially as she kept emitting a cry followed by disjointed mumbling. Then she began to rock backwards and forwards, so violently that I wondered if she might turn the chair over.

  A nun came over and sat nearby but not too close to her. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but I imagined it was something soft and soothing as gradually the rocking ceased.

  There were others, too. One boy made no eye contact with anyone as he silently sorted his food into different colours before he could eat his lunch, and another had to have everything cut into the smallest pieces. The one who disturbed me most was a boy of about my age, who, in the classroom, suddenly threw a tantrum, much like my little brother used to do. The difference was that Alfie had been a toddler when he did it.

  What was the matter with these kids? That question was quickly followed by another. Do they think there’s something wrong with me too? Is that why I’ve been sent here?

  It was Sister Carmen who put my mind at rest. ‘Madeleine,’ she said, when I was sitting in her office one day, ‘was it explained to you what we try to achieve here?’

  I thought carefully before I replied. ‘You help children who find learning difficult.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But we also help some who have other problems.’

  Yes, I thought, like acting really strangely!

  ‘Not everyone is the same,’ said Sister Carmen softly, as though reading my thoughts. ‘This is a special school for special people who need our help and guidance.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with the girl in the wheelchair?’ I asked. ‘Why was she rocking like that?’

  ‘She cannot find words easily, so if she is distressed, she communicates that to us by rocking. Then there are pupils like the boy you were talking to earlier. He and his friend both find lessons very difficult, much more than you do. We teach them what are called social skills, too, as well as how to look after themselves. Our aim is to make sure that when they leave here they can be independent. We also have children who come for a short time so their parents can have a holiday or just get a bit of rest. The girl in the wheelchair is one. Those children need a lot of care.’

  ‘Will she ever get better?’ I asked.

  ‘If you mean, will she ever walk and be able to live alone, then the answer is no. Now I want you to understand that there will be occasions when you will see behaviour that you may find . . . let’s say odd. You don’t have to understand why it is. That is what we are here for. What you mustn’t be is frightened of it or unkind to the person because they are different. Now do you have any questions?’

  ‘Well, Sister Carmen, that boy who lost it in class, what was that all about?’

  ‘Jason, you mean. He’s one of our brightest students. I see you look surprised. Let me try to explain what one of his problems is. You thought he had a tantrum but he didn’t. He doesn’t get really angry, just frustrated. One has to be able to read his mind or his body language to know if he’s about to break. We try as hard as we can not to let it happen. Think about your last school, when you couldn’t do something right, no matter how often you were shown. How did you feel?’

  ‘Cross with myself,’ I answered.

  ‘Well, that’s how he feels sometimes. Not because he can’t read, but because he doesn’t know how to improvise. Now let me ask you a question, if a door was jammed and beside you there was a screwdriver, what would you do?’

  That was easy. I had seen Frank use one when a window had stuck.

  ‘Pick it up and wriggle it around where the catch is,’ I said promptly.

  ‘Good. That is what you would do, but Jason couldn’t. You see, for him a screwdriver is for screws. But a jemmy is used for prising things open. So if he can’t find the right tool for the job, he simply won’t be able to do the task. Then he gets frustrated. Now let me ask you something else, Madeleine. How did you feel when you had to take those tests?’

  ‘Bad,’ I answered.

  ‘Hopeless?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So already you know a little more about how he feels, Madeleine,’ she said, with a smile. ‘During the time you are here I know you will learn not to judge people by how they look or, indeed, how they act. You have to see past that to what is important. Just remember that a kind soul is a beautiful one.

  ‘Now let’s talk about you for a moment. I know you have had problems with reading. That is something we’re working on with you. We’re trying to make it easier for you. Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I mean, I do get upset about not being able to read, and,’ I blurted, ‘they used to laugh at me and I hated it.’ That was the first time I’d been able to admit how I’d felt.

  ‘No one will laugh at you here, I promise you that. Now maybe you can see why you have been sent here. Just as Jason needs a different input from what mainstream or ordinary schools provide, children who find some lessons difficult do as well. Now do you understand what it is we do here?’

  ‘Yes, Sister Carmen, I do.’

  She placed her arms around me and gave me a hug, and for that brief moment, I felt something I hadn’t experienced since I’d left the crèche: safe.

  Sister Carmen was right. My reading improved, my confidence grew, I learnt to see past physical appearances and, for the first time in many years, I trusted those in charge of me.

  Half-term came and went. That holiday, I stayed at the school. Then the next one came, and I returned to Jersey for the Christmas holidays.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  2011

  I was aware of Morag Jordan watching me almost as much as I had studied her during my first few days in prison. Was she puzzled by my calmness? Wondering if I was just biding my time? Did she expect me to approach her and issue threats?

  I doubt she would have understood that she was no longer important to me. I believed, since my son had told me about the coverage of the Jordans’ case on the internet, that her real punishment would come when she was released. No one enjoys being vilified and that was what was happening. Would she be aware when she was handed her possessions as she readied herself to walk free that reporters would be camping out waiting for her to appear? Did she suspect that the moment those heavy prison gates swung open she would be deafened by shouted questions and blinded by the flash of cameras and the penetrating glare of TV lights? And while she stood outside, disoriented by the noise around her, those victims from forty years ago, whom she had abused and humiliated, would be yelling their hatred. I took comfort in imagining the now notorious couple being recognised wherever they went. Fingers would be poi
nted and faces would be hostile. For them there would be no more slipping down to the local pub or shopping where once they had been greeted warmly.

  There was a memory I wanted to push back into the oblivion but it refused to be ignored: my return to Haut de la Garenne after my first term at the special school. Just letting it surface brings back all the misery I felt then.

  On the flight to Jersey I had been so excited. I was going to see my mother after all these weeks and I had so much to tell her. I was impatient to arrive in Jersey. Would she be waiting for me? I was sure she would and, grabbing my case from the baggage carousel, I practically ran through the airport. I looked about expectantly – and saw Michelle.

  ‘Where’s my mother?’ I asked.

  She looked uncomfortable. ‘You’ll see her very soon,’ she said. ‘She’s going to visit you tomorrow.’

  ‘Visit me? Why aren’t I staying with her?’ I didn’t wait for her response because it was my next question that I really wanted the answer to. ‘So where am I going?’ I asked, although I was dreading the answer.

  ‘To Haut de la Garenne, of course.’

  I pleaded with her not to take me there. By the time it took us to reach her car, my face was wet with tears.

  ‘Madeleine, it’s not up to me,’ she said, as soon as I was in the passenger seat. ‘There’s nothing I can do. You were made a ward of court when you were almost killed that time. It was all explained to you. I know you love your mother and she loves you, but she just cannot cope. Haut de la Garenne is considered safer for you. It’s your wellbeing that we’re thinking of, you know that.’

  Why, oh, why did I not say anything then? It was the opportunity to tell her what was happening in that vast grey building, and that the very man trusted to look after me was a monster.

  However difficult it was to find the words, I should have told her about the sexual acts Colin Tilbrook had forced me to perform ever since I was five. Even after he left, when I was eleven, his influence remained in the brutality of the Jordans and the blind eyes turned when staff sexually abused children. If only I had spoken out, imagine the difference it would have made – not just to me but to many others. For Tilbrook continued to work in children’s homes after his departure from Haut de la Garenne.

  After years of guilt, I have finally come to understand why children rarely talk. I, like so many abused children, had been told that if I did tell, very bad things would happen to me. I would not be believed, and even if I was I, too, would be blamed. Colin Tilbrook had manipulated me to such an extent that I had become complicit in hiding the abuse. I had smiled at him in public, said, ‘Yes, sir’, ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, and never showed either my fear or my hatred. By the age of eleven I felt as though I was also guilty. I had kept that secret for almost as long as I could remember. It was shaming and the fear of reprisals stopped the words tumbling out. Instead I tightened my lips, forced the tears to stop and said nothing.

  Thinking that my silence showed I accepted the arrangement, Michelle told me she had some good news. I was going to spend Boxing Day with my family. ‘I did ask Mr Tilbrook if you could spend Christmas with them, too,’ she told me, ‘but, as you know, he’s very strict about that. He wants everyone to stay together. But I managed to persuade him to let you go the next day. So, cheer up, it’s not far off. Now I want to hear all about the new school. I’ve had a letter from Sister Carmen, who speaks very highly of you. She says you’ve settled in very well and are working hard.’

  I managed to tell her how much I liked it there and that I enjoyed the reading lessons.

  ‘That’s good, Madeleine, and after only one term!’

  ‘They make them fun,’ I said.

  I might have been making the right sounds, but my stomach was churning. I knew what was waiting for me. Michelle did not.

  Colin Tilbrook sent a boy to fetch me on the first night.

  With every step I took down the corridor, I pictured what was going to happen once I was in that gloomy office. Reaching it, the boy raised his hand and knocked once. Colin Tilbrook’s voice bade us come in.

  ‘Hello, Madeleine,’ said the man I feared and hated. He dismissed the messenger and I was left standing by his desk.

  He smiled and my knees shook. His expression told me that whatever he had planned was going to be worse than anything he had done before.

  ‘Well, Madeleine, flying to London all by yourself! Quite the little sophisticate, aren’t you? Eleven already, almost a teenager. Now, I suppose you’re well versed in the facts of life. You’ll know about babies and where they come from. The nuns have taught you all that, I expect?’

  ‘Yes,’ I muttered. Although I could have said that I was pretty well versed before I’d gone.

  ‘Have you started your periods yet?’

  My face burnt. I thought he was just trying to embarrass me. It took me a few years to understand the real reason he’d asked.

  Colin Tilbrook did not like the girls in his care becoming pregnant. Too many questions might be asked. When it had happened, as it did occasionally, the girl involved had been quickly sent away. But I was a ward of court and could not be made to disappear. Now I was a little older he had decided that the type of sex a five-year-old was capable of participating in could be made a whole lot more interesting.

  That evening he raped me. I put up a fight, a pitiful one that I had no chance of winning. I knew what he wanted from the moment he drew the curtains, locked the door and told me to undress. I knew he was going to hurt me. Even worse than the pain he would inflict was the thought of that part of his body pushing inside me. There was no cushion or pillow for him to pick up so instead he spread his hand, which stank of stale cigarettes, over my mouth.

  ‘Stop struggling, Madeleine,’ he hissed, and pushed me against the desk until my shoulders were almost touching it. I tried to bite those thick fingers. I wanted to draw blood. He laughed, then lifted my head and banged it down. Not hard enough to render me unconscious, that would have spoilt his fun, but hard enough to bring tears of fear to my eyes.

  My underclothes were swiftly pulled down, my legs spread apart by his knees and he was inside me. With every thrust, he hurt me so much that I felt I was being torn in two. My whimpers of pain only excited him. His breath grew louder, his thrusts harder, his body shook and his weight collapsed against me. For a moment I was pinned there. Then, with a satisfied grunt, he stood up.

  Nausea welled and I swallowed the acrid taste. I didn’t want to throw up in front of him again. I didn’t want to cry either. But I did.

  ‘I’m going to tell, I am,’ I sobbed, after he had turned his back to me.

  He laughed again. ‘Really, Madeleine? You think anyone will believe a little girl like you? You’re so stupid that you can’t even go to a normal school on the island, can you? And who do you mix with in your new school, eh? Retards, that’s who.’

  I wanted to scream that he was lying: my school was for special children. I had made friends there and I was happier than I had ever been, but the tears that streamed from my eyes and ran down my nose blocked my throat.

  Unmoved by a little girl, who was almost incoherent with shock, he continued talking. ‘As for those nuns I hear you’ve grown fond of, do you really think they’d like you if they found out about all the mortal sins you’ve been committing? They wouldn’t even let you stay at the school Madeleine. Not with all your impure thoughts. Then where would you be? Back here, that’s where. Here, where no school wants you either.’

  Through my misery and pain his words sank in. I believed every one of them and he knew it. And, knowing he had won, his voice became friendlier. ‘Come, Madeleine, it’s not too bad. You’ll grow to like it. It always hurts the first time. I’m going to give you something to make you feel better.’ He put a glass of amber liquid into my hand. ‘When you leave here there’ll be plenty of boys after you,’ he told me, as pain shot into my stomach and blood dribbled down my legs. ‘Now drink that up.’

&n
bsp; Shakily, I put the glass to my lips, smelt something strong and hesitated.

  ‘Swallow it,’ he ordered. I took a big gulp and he was right: the warm sensation made me feel calmer, if not better.

  ‘A little brandy and cola does the trick, all right.’ He took the glass and poured more into it.

  The room begun to spin and, as if from far away, I heard him telling me that my mother was coming the next day. ‘You want to see her, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  ‘Well, behave, Madeleine, that’s all I am asking you to do. No more silly-little-girl threats. Understand?’

  I understood. ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes what, Madeleine?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  At night, Colin Tilbrook crawls into my dreams. Lying on my prison cell’s narrow bed, I see the silhouette of his dark, bulky frame, carrying a pillow. A pulse of fear lodges in my throat. He’s in my room, inching closer and closer, until he’s hovering just above me. His breath is on my skin, rank and sour. I try to scream but only a groan escapes me. Then I’m awake, my heart racing, my hair wet with sweat. I’m too frightened to go back to sleep. Is it close proximity to Morag Jordan that causes these nightmares? I don’t want to return to that dream. If I do, I’ll hear his voice, the mocking tones I recall so well, and feel his hands crawling over my body that is suddenly young again. The air in my cell feels thin, my throat tight, as I lie there, fists clenched, waiting for the fear to fade. I welcome the harsh shrill of the bell telling me it’s time to get up. I hear the warden’s footsteps, my door is unlocked and, groggy, I go for breakfast. Tilbrook will return, along with the other ghosts of my childhood, unless I confront my past, look at it one more time and make peace with it, before returning the images to the box labelled ‘dealt with’ where they belong.

  I know I have blocked out some of what happened to me. That, I have been told, is the subconscious mind’s way of protecting me from memories that are too painful to cope with. But if that is the case why can I recall so sharply the years until I was eleven? It is only when I try to travel back to the later years that my recollections become so fuzzy that they seem almost unreal. What happened over the remainder of that Christmas holiday? My head aches with the attempt to remember. There was snow, thick sheets of it, that I had to run through, and a small artificial tree decorated with glittering lights in a corner of my mother’s tiny flat. I was given presents, but I cannot picture what they were. I make myself concentrate until a small segment of that time unfolded.