They Stole My Innocence Page 20

  ‘What about?’ I asked suspiciously. Wardens did not as a rule have conversations with us. They shouted instructions and meted out punishments.

  ‘One of the children’s officers is coming to see you later today. Before she does, we want to see if we can come up with some sort of plan to stop you being so unhappy here. Mrs Henry evidently reported that it was only when you heard you were coming here that you became hysterical. She said you seemed so excited to be back until that point.’

  I looked at her incredulously. Did she not know what went on at Haut de la Garenne? Or why no child in their right mind would want to be returned there?

  ‘Do you think she might have me moved?’ I asked hopefully, ignoring what she had said about a plan to make me happier. Not being there would certainly see to that.

  ‘No, Madeleine. But she might write in her file that your behaviour is that of a delinquent. I assure you that is definitely something you don’t want on your record. You’ve been here off and on for a long time. And there is nothing in any of the social worker’s notes saying that you have complained of being treated badly. I doubt you can shift the blame for what you did on to the home. I know there have been problems here. But I’m not the only member of staff who is new. Colin Tilbrook has been replaced as well.’

  A huge wave of relief swept over me. But he was not the only one who had abused me. As I thought this through, I eyed her with suspicion and wondered if she was just warning me that whatever I told the children’s officer would not be believed. Should I tell them what had happened, not just to me but to other children as well? Maybe I’d be accused of making up disgusting stories. I shivered. Perhaps Anne had no idea of the cruelty and abuse that had driven at least two desperate children to kill themselves.

  ‘Anyhow,’ she continued, ‘first, go to the dining hall and get something to eat. We’ll have a chat afterwards.’ She gave me a light push in the direction of the doors, then walked away.

  Anne made sure that she and I had our talk. When I finished my breakfast I found her waiting for me. We went to one of the staffrooms where, instead of being made to stand while I was told how bad my behaviour was, she motioned for me to sit opposite her. Instead of the expected lecture she asked a question, which as far as I could see, had little bearing on the reason I was there.

  ‘Do you know the story of Geoffrey’s Leap?’

  I shook my head, confused.

  ‘Long ago,’ she told me, ‘a man known only as Geoffrey committed a heinous crime. One that was punishable by death. Not by hanging – that was for lesser sins. Geoffrey’s crime was so bad that it was decided he would be thrown from the highest point on the island into the sea.

  ‘Now,’ Anne continued when she saw she had gained my attention, ‘he could have run away, as other men might have done. There is a narrow strip leading from behind the church to the beach named the Sanctuary Path and that was considered sacred land. Once he stepped on to it he would be safe, for no one would have dared arrest him there. His friends, or so the story goes, urged him to take it. They would have a boat waiting to sail across the sixteen miles to France. But Geoffrey was a rather cocky young man. Instead of fleeing, he decided to challenge the executioner. He would survive, he said.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Wait, Madeleine,’ she said firmly. ‘Just pay attention to the story. The crowds gathered. Watching the throwing of a man to his death was considered good entertainment then. Two burly guards escorted Geoffrey up to the top of the peak, where he was handed over to the executioner, a mountain of a man, who hid his identity behind a leather mask.

  ‘The crowd roared their approval when the masked man picked up Geoffrey, as easily as though he weighed no more than a child, lifted him high into the air and hurled him headlong over the edge towards the rocks and the sea so far below. Much to the crowd’s amazement, and I’m sure the executioner’s too, Geoffrey did what no man before him had done. He stretched his arms out, made a perfect dive into the sea, then swam triumphantly ashore. The crowd went berserk. The executioner had not done his job properly, they shouted. Geoffrey must be thrown in again.

  ‘Although many called for the punishment to be repeated others, mainly women, for he was a very good-looking man, shouted that he deserved to live. He had been given the punishment the law decreed, and if Death had not wished to take him he should go free.

  ‘Now, as I said, Geoffrey was a cocky young man. He strutted and preened in front of the crowd, relishing the women’s admiration and being the centre of attention. Turning to his audience he said he would settle the argument. The executioner could throw him into the sea again.’

  ‘And?’ I asked impatient to hear the ending.

  ‘He drowned. There was no reprieve the second time.’

  Later, when I learnt that the heinous crime was the raping of a young maiden I thought he had deserved his fate, but the first time I heard the tale I felt a bit sorry for him.

  ‘Just goes to show that pride comes before a fall, Madeleine,’ said Anne, to which I made no reply. I knew there had to be a reason for her telling me the story and I waited to hear what it was.

  ‘Now,’ she said cheerfully, ‘the good thing to come out of that incident is that three hundred years later the rock, which is named after Geoffrey, has become a major tourist attraction. There is nothing our summer visitors like more than hearing the story of how he drowned the second time. Now, what do tourists want after they have listened to a bit of ghoulish Jersey folklore, climbed up the rocks and sunbathed for a bit?’

  Before I could say I didn’t know, she answered for me. ‘Tea, of course! Especially our English visitors. I’m not sure about the French.’

  I still couldn’t see what this had to do with me, but as anything was better than being scolded for impertinence, I didn’t interrupt her.

  ‘Now, Madeleine,’ she said, with an impish grin, ‘don’t look so puzzled. I’m getting to the bit I think you’re going to like. So be patient for just a little while longer, all right?’

  I nodded and she continued: ‘There’s a couple I know who own a tea shop near those famous rocks. I’ve spoken to them about you and they’ve agreed to give you a part-time job over the holidays. It means you’ll be earning your own money. That will be a good thing, won’t it? You need some new clothes and wouldn’t it be nice to be able to choose them and pay for them yourself?’

  I could hardly believe my ears. Would I like to earn money of my own? Oh, yes, I certainly would. It seemed too good to be true.

  ‘And,’ Anne continued, ‘it means you won’t be in here all the time. Of course you’ll still be able to visit your mother, as long as you give me your word that there will be no more running away. Shall I tell the tea shop you’d like to work there?’

  ‘Yes, oh, yes, please, miss,’ I gasped.

  ‘And will you promise that if I do this for you there’ll be no more running away?’

  ‘I won’t run away again, I swear,’ I said.

  ‘Good. I trust you not to let me down. And tomorrow when the social worker comes, you’ll just say you wanted to see your mother so much that you just took off. I think that’s the best explanation, don’t you?’

  I recognised, when it was spelt out like that, exactly what the deal was. If I didn’t complain about the staff in the home, they would make my life easier, for the moment anyway.

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The next day I started work in the tea shop. Just two hours over lunchtime and more on a Saturday, I was told. The place was packed with good-natured tourists.

  ‘A bit young, aren’t you?’ one or two said.

  ‘I’m working for the school holidays to buy new clothes,’ I told them. Magic words when it came to the size of my tips. Coins and even the odd ten-shilling note were dropped into the tip jar. At the end of the week my share was handed to me. It was more money than I had ever held in my hands before.

  I asked Anne to come wi
th me to help me choose a new dress. I tried on one after another and finally settled on a pretty blue full-skirted one with a square neckline trimmed with white. I felt so proud when I took my own money out to pay for it. Afterwards we went and had tea in one of the many cafés that had opened in the centre of town.

  Once we were there I stopped seeing her as a warden but more as someone who had gone out of her way to help me. Why? I wondered again. When I asked her, she looked at me knowingly. ‘There have been a few changes in the home,’ she said. ‘I think things are better now. Not quite so strict. So I thought it better if you told the social workers you wouldn’t run away again and that you were sorry. And you are happier there now, aren’t you?

  If I didn’t fully understand then, I do now. Perhaps when she had spelt out the deal she had engineered for me, Anne knew if I talked I would not be believed. She might not have known the extent of the abuse that had taken place in the home, but she certainly knew some had. She could have learnt that from talking to the children and observing them. But without proof she would have been a lone voice if she had reported any suspicions to the authorities. She was only at the home for a year and during that time the physical abuse lessened to some extent. Like Michelle’s, her departure left a gap in my life.

  The rest of that summer holiday passed uneventfully. Not that I ever grew to trust the wardens. And although I still hated being at Haut de la Garenne, I was allowed to visit my mother, save some money, and the couple who owned the tea shop were kind.

  I was aware that those weeks of calm were largely down to Anne’s presence. She might have been younger than most of the wardens, but she had principles. If she had witnessed extreme cruelty she would have spoken out.

  It was on my next holiday from school that she told me she was leaving Jersey. She was emigrating to Australia. ‘I’ll write to you, Madeleine,’ she told me. Michelle had used the same words.

  I tried not to show just how much her news upset me, but it was devastating to learn that the second person I had grown to trust was leaving. Tears threatened to spill over and, seeing them, she leant over and took my hand. ‘Madeleine, you’re doing so well. They love you at the café and say they’ll keep your job open for the next summer holiday. And there are not many summers left before you can finish school and start being completely independent. That’s what I want for you. I’m going to keep in touch and you’ll keep me up to date with your progress. Have we got a bargain?’

  I managed a weak smile before assuring her I would. But nothing could console me for her loss. Out of all the social workers and wardens I had met, there had been only two I had trusted. One was already gone and the other was on her way.

  When I left to go back to school, Morag Jordan came to the door, a complacent smirk on her face. ‘I expect you’ll miss Anne when you come back next time,’ she said, and I read the hidden message behind her words. If I crossed her, there would be no one to rescue me from the detention cells.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  2011

  I seem to be reliving so many events of my early life as memories suppressed for so long resurface.

  When Colin Tilbrook was still at the home I was puzzled for a long time as to why so many rich, powerful men came to Haut de la Garenne. Now I believe there was a club, with its own secret codes. A club in which the unthinkable was acceptable and the members all helped each other find whatever they most desired. They were predators whose fertile hunting grounds were the institutions where society’s cast-off children lived. They visited the homes under many guises, hid who they were under masks of geniality and lapped up praise for giving their time to those unfortunates.

  Was Morag Jordan there when Jimmy Savile visited? I’m not sure. Not that it really matters. Colin Tilbrook almost certainly was.

  I remember all of us being excited when we were told he was to visit Haut de la Garenne. We had seen him on television and could hardly believe that such a big celebrity was coming all the way to Jersey just to see us. How can I describe my first impression of him? I thought his long blond hair, big grin and oversized sunglasses made him look creepy. Sensibly I kept that to myself. It didn’t take me long to recognise what he was.

  I watched him chat to groups of children, chuck some under the chin, stroke a few arms as he sucked on his enormous cigar and cracked jokes. I chose not to be part of that group. Instead I stayed on the sidelines observing him.

  He told the ones hanging on his every word that he wanted photographs of them all. He would sit in the middle, he added, as he expansively waved his cigar in the air.

  ‘Wow,’ was the response of all the star-struck teenagers.

  They all wanted to sit next to the man who loved children, supported good causes and had politicians and royalty as his friends. The closer they were to him, the better the picture they could show around school.

  ‘Great, sit really close,’ said the reporter who, as though by magic, had turned up. ‘Smile, everyone.’

  The picture went into the local paper.

  It made a liar of Jimmy Savile when, many years later, details of the abuse at the home surfaced and he denied making that visit.

  I had mentioned his presence to the police, much to their amusement. He was still alive then, with an untarnished reputation, an OBE and a knighthood. Had he touched me, they had asked, with mocking grins and sideways glances.

  ‘Oh, not really,’ I had said. ‘He just tried to grab my behind when he thought no one was looking.’

  ‘Don’t think a pat on the behind is that serious a crime, do you?’ was their reply.

  ‘I think it is,’ I said indignantly, a belief they clearly did not share.

  It isn’t hindsight talking when I say I recognised what he was that day. There is a leer in the smile, complacency in the expression, assurance in the touching, and arrogance in the walk of the child molester: I had learnt to recognise those characteristics long before I was eleven. From when I was very young, I could tell the difference between an affectionate hug and something more sinister. I knew what old fingers groping a child’s bottom meant.

  ‘Did you tell anyone?’ asked the policeman, still trying not to laugh.

  ‘No,’ was all I said then.

  I wasn’t going to cause them any more amusement at my expense by telling them how I had called Jimmy Savile a dirty old man and told him to get his hands off me. His smile had slipped and, just for a second, I saw the nastiness behind the mask.

  It was a year after I left the prison that the scandal of who Savile had really been shocked the world. Then the unthinkable was believed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  My hope that, with the departure of Colin Tilbrook, our lives in the home would be easier lasted only a short time. When I returned after another school term, it was to find that, instead of having their brutality monitored, Morag Jordan and her husband had gained even more power.

  Anthony Jordan seemed to enjoy punching and kicking children less than half his size. I can picture him now, swaggering around the corridors, his eyes glinting when he saw fear on small faces. Like him, Morag looked for the slightest reason to pick up whatever object was the nearest – a shoe, a hairbrush, a belt or even a coat-hanger – to hit us around the head and shoulders. But what she really took pleasure in was dragging a screaming child by their hair and locking them in a detention cell where she could reduce him or her to a cringing, terrified creature. It was she who had dreamt up stripping those she detained. Another ploy she thought of was leaving the light on in the cell so her victim couldn’t even find comfort in the night’s darkness. My hands would involuntarily curl into tight fists when I saw children, younger than me, being battered and terrorised. After all these years, there are still nights when the sounds of whimpering and anguished crying penetrate my sleep. With Anne gone, it appeared to me that all the remaining wardens were no better than the Jordans. There was just no concern or compassion shown to the children. If they were ill, unless it was something that requ
ired emergency hospital attention, nothing was done for them and accidental cuts and sprains were barely treated.

  One incident that comes to mind still makes me cringe. He was such a little boy. Only five, he’d been transferred from the crèche and already had the haunted look of a child scared of his own shadow. Some bigger boys had taken him outside to let him play on the climbing frame. He fell. I heard his piercing scream when he landed on the lower bar. It was only when a few of us rushed out that we saw what had happened. He had landed hard on his testicles and his shrieks told us he was in terrible pain. His little face was bright red, fat tears ran down his cheeks and I realised he was stuck there.

  It was one of the boys, not a warden, who lifted him off. Gently he put him on the ground and pulled down the little boy’s shorts so we could see the damage. The swelling and bruising were already forming and we didn’t know how to help him.

  ‘Just leave his shorts off – the air will cool him down soon enough,’ said a warden, then walked away, leaving him crying with pain.

  Unable to close his legs for days, that little boy could only hobble about. Instead of the sympathy the crèche would have given him, he was mocked. ‘Blue Balls’, the wardens called him. ‘Here comes Blue Balls.’ They would collapse into laughter. I can still see his small bewildered face looking up at his tormentors.

  There was no happy ending to his story, as there was not for so many of the children who were there. When he reached puberty I was no longer at the home but I heard that he was constantly bullied. The frightened child I had known became a frightened man. He had a complete breakdown when he left. Or, rather, he was diagnosed as mentally ill, once he was out of that dreadful place. The doctors were never able to rid him of his fear of the world. Now, nearly forty years later, he is still in the psychiatric hospital he was placed in as a teenager.