They Stole My Innocence Page 6

  He was crying, the boy. His face was red and he was rubbing it with the back of his sleeve when he ran from the room.

  The policeman looked up as I finished describing what I had seen. ‘Who was the man, Madeleine?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  That is what I told those police and, for a few seconds, there was silence in the room.

  ‘How did you know that, Madeleine?’ the policeman asked, and from the gentleness that had, for the first time, crept into his voice, I knew the answer was already in his head and he had no wish to hear it. ‘How can you remember such detail?’

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘that was what Colin Tilbrook made me do every week when he sent for me.’

  And I heard my son’s sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Were you not frightened, Madeleine? Did you not run out of the room? And which room was it? I mean, he must not have thought he would be seen.’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ I answered. For, with the telling, the picture slipped away. I could conjure up nothing else.

  The policeman made movements to show that the interview was over. As he half rose from his chair he said, but not unkindly, ‘Did you ever tell your mother, Madeleine?’ ‘No,’ I said, but I lied.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I had told her, not when I left but on one of those days when I had been allowed to visit.

  Through the distance of years I saw my six-year-old self, wearing hand-me-down clothes, too large for her small frame, standing in a room where a woman whose eyes were ringed with tiredness was looking at her in shock. All my mother had wanted that day was to make my visit as special as possible.

  That morning she had come to fetch me from Haut de la Garenne. One of the wardens had told me that I was to spend the day with her and I was already hovering in the hall when she arrived. For several weeks she had been living with a man she told me was my new stepfather, Frank, a short, stocky Irishman, with a workman’s hands and a generous smile.

  On my visits he had tried his best to get to know me, but each time I had been struck with a mixture of fear and shyness. He tried to reassure me that the dismal bedsitter would not remain their home for long. ‘Your mother and I want to find something nicer,’ he had said, the first time I met him. ‘One with enough rooms so you can come and live with us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Madeleine?’

  Of course I would. Even sleeping on the floor of the bedsitter would have been preferable to where I was.

  But I had heard those wistful promises too often to believe them any longer. Underneath my mother’s bright smiles and his bravado I sensed defeat. Words were easy, and I didn’t think they believed that was going to happen, any more than I did.

  I just wondered why my mother even bothered moving, when each place she called home was nearly indistinguishable from all the others. Just another dreary room with the cloying smell of boiled vegetables, cheap meat, dust and despair clinging to the walls. Oh, there were attempts to make each place cosy, a bright cushion, a vase filled with wild flowers, a print framed in white, but nothing hid how dismal they were.

  The one where I told them what happened to me in Haut de la Garenne was the same as all the others except that it was on the ground floor. They shared the kitchen with the neighbours on the opposite side of the hall, and the bathroom, with its gurgling boiler and shilling slot meter, served the whole household.

  I was unaware then of just how difficult it was to rent suitable property. Frank’s wages were too low for them to move into anywhere decent. But knowing nothing of their struggle, and being too young to understand it anyway, I was impatient with and disillusioned by their endless empty promises.

  That visit, the day I told them what Mr Tilbrook wanted, what he made me do in his office, had started off like all the others, with bright smiles and promises of a lovely day. The bus ride passed the beach l longed to walk on – oh, how I wished it would stop, that my mother and I would alight and spend the day there. I wanted to paddle in the sea, run on the sand, let loose a kite and trail it behind me. I knew that instead I would be sent to play on hard, dusty pavements, while my mother prepared what she called our ‘special dinner’.

  It would be the same one she cooked every time. Roast chicken, which was carefully divided so that there was enough for Frank and her to eat the following day, potatoes baked in their skins, overcooked vegetables, all generously coated with thick dark gravy. Then, after paying her compliments on how delicious her cooking was, Frank would help clear away, while my mother served custard and tinned peaches. There might not have been much variety, and maybe I did get tired of chicken, but when I compared it to the food at Haut de la Garenne, Frank was right in what he said.

  It was after the meal was finished and I was hoping the television would be turned on, that I told my mother and Frank. The telling started not with words but my actions. After refusing Frank’s offer of help, my mother had gone to the kitchen, saying, ‘No, you stay and talk to Madeleine, see if there’s anything on television she might want to watch.’

  If only he had done just that – I loved watching anything on the screen.

  Then what happened would never have happened.

  But it did.

  Left alone, he fumbled for something to say while I listened to the domestic sounds of plates being scraped, water being run and my mother humming a tune I didn’t recognise. In the clumsy way that men often talk to little girls not their own, he tried to engage me in conversation. To questions such as what I liked at school and what were my favourite programmes on television, he received a blank stare. He resorted to telling me I was a good little girl and would soon be back living with them. ‘Madeleine, I want you to think of me as a father,’ he said, brushing the top of my head with his thick calloused fingers. ‘Now what do you say to that?’

  Now I understood what he wanted. I knew what ‘good little girl’ meant. Just for a moment I went numb, but then fear – fear of seeing his wrath – told me to do what he wanted.

  As I had been trained to do, I smiled up at him. Convinced he wanted the same as Mr Tilbrook, I leant against him, then slid my small hand across his stomach until I felt his belt buckle beneath my fingers. It was stiffer than the one Colin Tilbrook wore and my fingers were busy fumbling with it when Frank shouted: ‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’ He grabbed my hands and held them by my sides. As I looked up, startled and mystified, I saw that his face had turned a bright red. His expression was a combination of anger and something that looked very much like fear.

  ‘I’m – I’m undoing your belt,’ I stuttered.

  He pushed me roughly aside. The repugnance on his face made me cringe. I felt heat scorching my face as I wondered what I had done wrong.

  ‘Maureen! Maureen, get in here now!’ he shouted to my mum.

  And my mother, anxious, rushed in. ‘Whatever is the matter, Frank?’

  ‘Your daughter, that’s what the matter. Now, Madeleine, tell your mother what it was you just did.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Well, she can’t have done much, Frank,’ my mother started. Then, seeing that my eyes were welling with tears, she said gently, ‘What is it, Madeleine?’

  I turned my head away, as I didn’t want to see his flushed, shocked face or my mother’s worried one. I couldn’t find the words to explain what I had done and, knowing they were waiting for me to speak, I was frightened and confused. More than anything I wanted to be held, to be told that everything was going to be all right, that they were not angry with me.

  But I was six and unable to put those needs into words. Instead I stared out of the window, as though the view through the panes was the most fascinating I had ever seen. Behind me I could hear their voices, but I stayed still, gazing at lines of washing, a patch of blue sky and next door’s orange cat sunning himself. I remembered he was called Marmaduke and that my mother had said it was a silly name.

  Outside nothing had changed, but I felt the air behind me growing oppressiv
e as my mother asked Frank again what the matter was.

  Then, to my shame, I heard him, his voice tinged with disgust, telling my mother how I had tried to undo his belt and her shocked ‘No, surely you must be mistaken, Frank. For God’s sake, she’s only six.’

  ‘No mistake, Maureen. I know what she did. And, look at her, she does as well. So, I have a question now. Has she learnt that from you, then? Watched you with men? Is that the reason you can’t have her living with you?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be stupid. But maybe she’s seen something at the home. There are older children there, you know. And some of them have been put in there because they get into trouble.’

  ‘Is that what happened, Madeleine? Have you seen someone do that? Or did some older girls tell you to do it?’

  ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘It’s what Mr Tilbrook tells me to do when he sends for me.’

  My mother’s face went blank with what I think was grief. Grief that she had failed her child and this was the outcome. Her arm went round me. ‘Oh, Madeleine! Is it really true what you’re saying? It’s not just a story you’ve heard from the other girls?’

  My reply was to burst into tears. My shoulders heaved, my nose ran and racking sobs shook my body. ‘Oh, Madeleine!’ I heard her say and, at last, she did what I wanted. Making soothing noises, my mother pulled me onto her knee, wrapped her arms round me and rocked me. Gradually my tears were replaced by hiccups, my face was wiped and, not wanting to move, I leant against her shoulder.

  Frank, seeing my distress, became almost incoherent with rage. My mother tried to tell him to wait, that I was still upset but, with his jaw set firm and hard, his eyes like flint, he railed against Colin Tilbrook.

  ‘I’ll sort that dirty fucking bastard out, Maureen, see if I don’t,’ he said, fists clenched. ‘He won’t be so brave when he faces a man, will he? I’ll beat the bloody truth out of him, all right.’

  ‘No, Frank,’ my mother yelled. ‘Don’t be stupid! They won’t believe us. They’ll take her away from me for good. Accuse us of making up lies and putting evil thoughts in her head. I know those people and you don’t.’

  ‘Not when you tell them what’s happening up there.’

  ‘You don’t know what they’re like, Frank. They think of us as dirty scum. Anyhow, you think a little girl would be believed? They’ll just say it’s our fault, that we made her say it. Then they won’t even let me visit, let alone have her back. I’ve lost my sons, Frank, because I couldn’t earn enough to put a decent roof over their heads. I can’t lose my daughter as well. They can make sure I never see her again.’

  There was such a look of defeat about her as those words tumbled out that Frank quietened. He lit a cigarette, puffed angry bursts of smoke out of his mouth, then turned towards us. ‘We’ll make a plan. Got to get somewhere where she’ll be allowed to live.

  ‘Now, Madeleine,’ he said, snapping his fingers just in front of my face. ‘I mean it, we’ll soon have somewhere. I want you to believe that. And if that dirty pervert comes near you again you just say to him that you’re going to tell. Will you do that, Madeleine?’

  I nodded, although I knew I would never say anything to Colin Tilbrook. He had ways of punishing little girls. But, sitting on the couch huddled up to my mother, I told them what they wanted to hear.

  They promised, again, that they would find somewhere to live that would be approved by the authorities.

  ‘I’ll find work again,’ my mother said, ‘even if it means going back to the farms.’ This time her words seemed sincere and, for those brief moments, I felt she was focused on the future, our future. That she was determined we would be a family.

  ‘I’ll have you home soon,’ she said.

  Then it was time for me to leave.

  My mother took me, and handed me over to the thin man who called himself Mr Tilbrook’s deputy. I watched her walking away, shoulders back, her posture erect. Something about the stiffness of her shoulders, the way she did not look back, told me she was crying.

  That evening, Colin Tilbrook sent for me.

  Now the policeman’s voice cut into my thoughts. ‘But you did go home?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But not for long.’

  ‘And that wasn’t the state’s fault, was it?’

  I had no reply to that.

  He gathered up his notebook and switched off the recorder.

  It was interview over.

  I walked, straight-backed, out of the office, my face expressionless, my stomach a hard ball, my pulse sky-rocketing. Were they even going to strip me of my good memories?

  ‘I need a drink,’ I said to my son.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I was somewhere between six and seven when my mother and Frank told me they had found somewhere to live that was big enough for all of us and that the authorities had agreed I could live with them. They were moving there in just a week’s time, my mother had added, with one of her bright smiles. Wasn’t that wonderful? It was, I agreed. It had to be the best present I’d ever been given.

  All that week thoughts of my new life rattled around my brain. Each night, when the lights were dimmed, instead of fear there was a tingle of excitement in my stomach. It was as if the knowledge that I was leaving had cast a safety blanket around me. Colin Tilbrook didn’t send for me and the wardens left me alone. Now I think they didn’t want my memories to be too clear, or my bruises too fresh.

  I dreamt of what it would be like to live in a house – to be part of a family. I remembered hearing children at the crèche being told what to expect when a mummy and daddy had been found for them. Little faces lost their anxious expressions as their new life was described. They were, Mrs Peacock would tell them, going to a proper home where they would have their own bedroom, and the toy box would be theirs alone.

  All those things filled my mind plus one other: I would be safe. Never again would I be taken to Colin Tilbrook’s office. Nor, when I went to bed, would I lie there quaking with fear, lest I had a nightmare and my feet were hurt again. No more being dragged out of bed and made to stand shivering in the corridor where shadows frightened me.

  Remembering that one child had told me her new mummy was giving her a puppy, I asked if I could have one too. A Labrador like Mrs Peacock’s. I would look after it, I said, as I pleaded my case. I’d take it for walks, brush it, and not let it get in the way.

  ‘Not just yet, love,’ was my mother’s response. But she had not said no so, even though I was disappointed, I clung to that hope. The next thing she told me lifted my spirits. ‘Oh, Madeleine,’ she said, her forehead creased, ‘I nearly forgot to tell you that you’ll have to go to a different school.’

  No doubt she was expecting protests at my having to leave my friends. She didn’t know that since Mandy and Ann had left I’d had none. And I, blaming myself for my classmates’ aversion, had never confided in her.

  Seeing I wasn’t upset, she went on: instead of a thirty-minute walk each way, my new school was just down the road from where I would be living. I felt so happy. There, I would no longer be seen as someone bad enough to have been placed in Haut de la Garenne. I would be just like the rest of the children: a girl living with her mum and dad, for Frank had told me he looked on me as a daughter.

  Frances brushed my hair that last day. There was, I thought even then, something sad about her. Over my last few weeks she had changed. Gone was her sparkle and that mischievous grin.

  ‘Does Mr Tilbrook send for you too?’ I asked her once.

  ‘No,’ she had replied, ‘he comes to me.’

  I wished she could leave, too, I told her.

  ‘Oh, I will, Madeleine. The moment I’m sixteen I’ll be free.’ She pulled me close then and I felt her breath against my cheek. ‘You’re going to be happy in your new life,’ she said. ‘Put everything that’s happened here behind you, Madeleine. Promise me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And then she was gone and I was in the lounge waiting for m
y mother.

  Miraculously, my suitcase with everything I had brought with me had appeared that morning. My pretty dress was now too small but it was my doll I wanted and, picking her up, I was relieved to find her unblemished.

  ‘I thought you told me they’d taken everything,’ my mother said.

  ‘They had,’ I answered, and saw a flash of something like doubt in her eyes.

  ‘Well, you know how I feel about lies,’ she said, ‘but we’ll not talk about it any more. You have it now.’

  I knew then she was wondering if everything I had told her was untrue. Or, at least, that she hoped it was.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I had thought no further than that I was going to a proper home so I had asked no questions as to how many rooms there were and what it was like. My imagination had painted a picture of places I had seen in storybooks. A house, standing in a large green garden, a smiling mother at the gate and happy children running towards her.

  The reality was very different. The morning my mother came for me we caught a bus to Val Plaisant, and, after a short walk, I saw where I was going to live. It was a small building with an iron roof, standing in the middle of an overgrown garden. A few feet away from the back door there was an outhouse with a dark, chipped door. ‘The lavatory,’ my mother told me, with a small grimace.

  She, too, I realised much later, had dreamt of a pretty brick house with a tiled roof and an inside bathroom.

  ‘It needs painting,’ she told me, speaking fast, ‘but your dad is going to see to that. He’s going to make it look like a proper home. You won’t recognise it in a few weeks. You’ll see. He’s already started on the garden. It was just a mass of weeds a week ago. He’s cut back overgrown bushes, trimmed the hedge and started planting vegetables. Potatoes, well, we’d know how to make them grow, wouldn’t we?’ she said, laughing. ‘Carrots and cabbages as well. So we’ll have plenty of good tasty stews. Now let’s get you inside.’ She opened the door and we stepped straight into the sitting room. It was not the lack of freshly painted walls or the smallness of the place – just two rooms and a tiny kitchen – that made me recoil. It was the smell of ingrained dirt, dust and mildew that clung to the walls. As I would come to know in later years, that was the stink of poverty.