They Stole My Innocence Read online

  My mother flung open the windows. ‘Need some fresh air in here,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s my bedroom?’ I asked, only to receive a wan smile.

  ‘Afraid you’ll have to share with us,’ she told me, as she led me into a room where a double bed was pressed against one wall, a single one against the other. There was no wardrobe and no space for one. Instead there were some hooks on the back of the door, which, judging by the clothes hanging on them, were already proving inadequate.

  I swallowed the little lump of disappointment that had risen in my throat. After all, I was free of Haut de la Garenne, free of Colin Tilbrook, and with two people who wanted me. What did it matter if my new home was different from what I had been expecting?

  Seeing the almost apologetic expression on my mother’s face, I gave her the biggest smile I could and followed her back into the sitting room.

  ‘I think we both deserve a piece of cake, don’t you?’ she said. I agreed.

  As she bustled around the room, I slid my eyes over it. In the corner there was a squat black stove with a pile of firewood next to it. The furniture consisted of a two-seater settee covered with a floral fabric, a small square table, two upright chairs and, standing on a wooden box, a television.

  ‘The church gave us that,’ my mother said. ‘It was a sort of “welcome to your new home” present,’ she added proudly. ‘Now, I know it doesn’t seem like much at the moment . . .’ Again the promises of how it would change came tumbling out. Not just that it would be painted but that the cracked lino would be replaced with nice carpeting, pretty curtains would hang at the windows and everything would be fresh and clean.

  ‘We wanted to get it all done before we came to get you but . . .’ She smiled at me then with such warmth, such joy on her face. ‘Oh, Madeleine! I just couldn’t bear to be without you for one more minute.’

  Her arms went round me and drew me close, as I inhaled her scent, the mixture of cigarettes and face powder. All that mattered was the warm, fuzzy feeling of being loved.

  ‘Now, for a special treat, after we’ve eaten our supper, you can stay up and watch television with Frank and me. Do you know what’s on tonight?’

  I shook my head. Watching television was only rarely allowed at Haut de la Garenne. ‘The Avengers,’ she said, ‘with that lovely Diana Rigg. It’s one of my favourite programmes. You’ll love it. Oh, Madeleine! It’s going to be so much fun, you living here. We’ll be a proper family and you’ll never be taken from me again.’

  That day I believed her.

  I believed that this was the beginning of a new life.

  And, of course, she did, too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I woke to the sound of bellowing, loud and full of fear, like animals in distress – animals whose instincts were shrieking of danger. But where were they?

  Deep breathing and light snores told me my parents were still asleep, so I pulled myself out of bed and tiptoed into the sitting room. I’d been used to the smell of disinfectant and my nose wrinkled at the sour stench of stale beer and cigarettes.

  Living with my mother was not quite as I’d expected. There had been no bedtime story from her before I went to sleep. The crèche had made me think mothers did that. Instead, we had watched television, I had sucked sweets that Frank had brought home, and he had opened countless bottles of beer.

  By the time my eyes were closing with tiredness, my mother’s voice had been slurred, her laugh shrill and her cheeks stained with two bright circles of red. I had wished they would stop drinking. The change in them made me feel uncomfortable. That stuff was making them different. But, still, I had enjoyed sitting, squeezed between them, on the settee, watching the leather-clad heroine overpower evil men twice her size.

  Now as I fantasised about being able to do the same things as Emma Peel when I was bigger – kick and overpower men like Colin Tilbrook – I realised I needed a wee. I slid the bolt on the back door and went outside, where the bellowing was louder.

  The lavatory, with its black-stained toilet that no amount of bleach could improve, was not somewhere I wanted to stay one second longer than necessary. Holding my breath, I sat on the wooden seat. The moment I’d finished, I opened the door and scurried to the back of the garden.

  I was not tall enough to see over the hedge where the sounds were coming from. A rusty metal bucket, which Frank used when he was gardening, was the answer to that problem, I decided. Picking it up, I placed it by the hedge. Standing on tiptoe I peered over and saw a lorry full of cows parked in the yard on the other side. A small ramp had been lowered and they were being herded down it, bellowing.

  I heard footsteps, looked round and saw Frank approaching. ‘You up already?’ he asked, making no move to come closer.

  Since the day when I had told him and my mother what had been expected of me at the home, he had kept his distance from me when my mother was not present. I think now it was because he didn’t wish to scare me or, worse, make me think he wanted the same thing as Colin Tilbrook.

  ‘Why are they being brought there?’ I asked because, as far as I knew, cows belonged in fields, not in that long, low building with its outside metal pens.

  Frank paused for a moment, cupped his hands around his lighter, and lit his first fag, as he called it, of the day. He dragged deeply on the cigarette, then said, ‘Well, it’s a bit of a secret, Madeleine. You see, this is where they are brought to be milked. Not many people know that, which is all to our good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll find out a little later,’ he replied, tapping his nose and giving me a wink. ‘Now, come on in and I’ll make us some breakfast.’

  It was my mother who explained about the milk and how, if we asked nicely, the farmers were generous in giving us some. What she did not tell me was that the building was the final stop for the cows before they were delivered to the abattoir. That a short time after the last drops of milk had been squeezed out a bolt would be shot into their heads. A fact my mother wisely kept to herself.

  Instead, after breakfast, she told me I could make myself useful and go and get some. The window in the bedroom led straight onto the wall that separated us from the yard. All I had to do was stand on a chair with my pail, wriggle out and climb down. I don’t know why she suggested that when I could have walked round, but she did. To me, it was more of an adventure to approach the farmers that way.

  The first time I came face-to-face with one of them, a weather-beaten man, whose old clothes and cap belied the value of his land, I broke out in giggles. The shock of suddenly having a small child land at his feet had nearly made him drop his pipe.

  ‘Well, what do we have here?’ he asked, smiling. ‘I do believe she’s a pretty little milkmaid. Now, where have you come from?’

  I pointed at our house.

  When he glanced at our dilapidated single-storey building he didn’t need to be told that we were poor. ‘Your mother sent you, did she?’ he asked, with a grin that showed a gap where several teeth were missing.

  He called out to someone in a language I didn’t understand, which I came to know as ‘Jèrriais’, or Jersey French, and a boy came running over. ‘I think this little milkmaid wants her bucket filled,’ he said. ‘Take her over. Oh, and if there’s a spare bottle or two, fill them as well, then show her how to get back. Can’t climb the wall with your hands full, now, can you?’ Chuckling to himself, he walked away.

  I was led to where a placid-looking cow was being milked and my pail was taken from me. Creamy liquid, still steaming, was ladled in from the bucket under the cow’s teats. Once mine was full to the brim, and an extra bottle had been tucked under my arm, I walked, carefully so not to spill a drop, to the front of the house.

  Just before I got there, the temptation to drink some became just too strong to resist. One sip led to another until a third of the bottle was gone.

  ‘Have you been helping yourself, Madeleine?’ my mother asked. Looking her straight in the eye, I denie
d it. ‘I think you’d better wash the moustache you seem to have grown on your lips if you want me to believe you,’ she said, laughing, as she took the pail from me. ‘And in future, Madeleine, don’t you be lying to me. “Tell the truth and shame the devil,” as my mother always told me,’ she added, in a voice that still held echoes of laughter.

  Those early days I was with my mother and Frank are full of good memories, which still clutch at my heart. I remember those evenings, the three of us sitting on the settee watching television. The fun of going over the wall to meet the farmers and being praised when I returned home with the brimming pail. Helping Frank in the garden and pulling fat potatoes out of the ground for our supper. Those are the good ones.

  Then there are the others.

  My mother took me to my new school on my first day. It felt so good that this time she was at my side, not a warden. The week before we had visited charity shops, where she had found me a skirt and blazer, and I felt I looked smart. The tiny, community-centred primary school was next to the huge French Gothic cathedral-like church, with its amazing gargoyles. When my mother had shown me where the school was I had stared at those magnificent stone creatures, pretending they were going to come alive and climb off the wall.

  From the gate I could see a small playground and, as I walked in, I felt a rush of elation. This, I told myself, would be different. Nobody knew about Haut de la Garenne, and I was the same as all the other children.

  I was wrong. The pupils might not have known that I had been in care, but they sensed something different about me, which turned them into a pack determined to make my life difficult.

  Their leader was a skinny little blonde girl, a couple of years older than me. Paula, her name was, and the first time we met in the playground I knew she was trouble. Eyes as hard as boiled sweets raked my clothes and a snigger came out of her mouth.

  ‘Nice blazer,’ she said, and I felt that she knew it had come from a charity shop. ‘So what’s your name, then?’

  ‘Madeleine,’ I answered, hoping I was mistaken and that she was trying to be friendly.

  ‘What sort of name is that, then?’

  ‘It’s Irish,’ I answered.

  ‘My mum says they’re a dirty lot, so don’t come near me.’ She walked off, followed by her gang of giggling sycophants.

  Every day she had thought of new taunts. I tried to block out the sound of them and not show that they hurt. ‘Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me,’ I repeated to myself.

  But of course they did.

  She saw her inability to reduce me to a quivering mess as a challenge and, after a week, she changed tactics. I noticed her looking in my direction, then muttering to her followers, saw them nodding and giggling and wondered what new insults she had thought of. Then, with her head swivelling from side to side, no doubt keeping watch for teachers, she sprinted towards me. Not to knock me down, as I’d thought, but to pinch me so hard that tears filled my eyes, momentarily blinding me, then splashing onto my cheeks.

  ‘Cry baby, cry baby,’ she jibed, practically dancing with joy, as she pointed her finger at me.

  After that I tried to avoid her, but she always knew where in the playground I was. Once she was sure the teachers were not looking at her she would run at me, pinch and twist my flesh until I cried. Then the finger would point and the jibes begin.

  Each time I saw her coming my mind blurred with fear. And when she mocked me for my weakness, I heard, ‘Naughty girl, naughty girl,’ in my head, rather than ‘Cry baby, cry baby,’ and the fear was replaced by anger, which intensified each day.

  Revenge was what I wanted. I lay in bed and dreamt of turning the tables. Somehow it would be me making her cry. Me pointing a finger and she feeling afraid. A plan took root, which I decided to put into action.

  One morning I hung around near the school gates. I wanted to get her before she met up with her group.

  She smirked when she saw me. ‘Hiding, are you, little scaredy-cat?’ She hissed, with a sneer.

  I waited for her to make the first move. I knew that, even without an audience, she wouldn’t be able to resist hurting me. I forced myself to look scared and she grinned. Her arm snaked out and her fingers pinched my side. Pain shot through me, but this time I didn’t cry. Instead I grasped her arm and sank my teeth into it. She screamed and tried to hit me but, laughing at my success, I ran off.

  My elation did not last long. Her shrieks brought a teacher running. Her arm was examined, the tooth marks exclaimed at, and a finger pointed to where I was. The teacher glared at me as she led away my sobbing tormentor.

  I was taken to the headmaster’s office. I was not asked to explain why I had done such a thing. I could have pulled my jumper up and shown him my bruises. Maybe if he had been a woman I would have done but, faced with the anger that came to me from the opposite side of the desk, I sat mutely. I tried to read the expression on his face but, because his back was in front of the window, I couldn’t see it.

  My mother was sent for. Words such as ‘unacceptable’ and ‘cannot tolerate such a display of anger’ spun round the room, while she, in crumpled clothes, sat apologetically in front of the grey-haired headmaster.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she kept repeating, as my sins were listed, ‘so sorry,’ and I saw a flash of fear in her eyes. ‘You’re not going to expel her, are you?’ she asked, her voice almost cracking with worry.

  The headmaster’s severe expression was replaced with one of sympathy. ‘No, not this time,’ he said, less sternly than he had spoken before. ‘I know some of the problems she’s had . . . well, that you’ve all had. Perhaps her behaviour stems from being in that home. I know there are a lot of problem children there. And she’s still very young. I believe that the best place for a child is with her family. You and I know what could happen if I expelled her, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Your job, Mrs Ferguson, is to make sure that she understands the consequences if she ever does something like that again.’

  My mother thanked him profusely for giving me another chance. He told her that as I was being suspended for a week she would have plenty of time to make sure I understood. ‘And there’ll be time for things to calm down here,’ he said. My mother held my hand tightly as she walked briskly and silently along the corridor and through the doors. It was not until we were outside the gates that she stopped. ‘Madeleine, whatever made you do such a thing?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you know how wrong that was?’

  ‘She started it,’ I protested. ‘She kept pinching me.’

  ‘But she didn’t bite you. That’s very bad, Madeleine. You must promise me that you’ll never do something like that again.’

  Of course I did, several times.

  But I couldn’t understand why Paula’s pinching had not caused nearly as much trouble as my biting had. ‘It was unfair,’ I said to myself mutinously, as tears of frustration stung my eyes, tears that, for once, my mother ignored.

  ‘That, Madeleine,’ said Frank, later that evening, ‘is not how you deal with bullies. Stand up to them, yes, hit back, but never leave those sort of marks. Promise me that you’ll never do it again?’

  And I promised again.

  I returned to school after my week of being with my mother. She had told me what would happen if I was expelled. ‘You’ll be taken away again.’

  ‘You will, love,’ Frank had confirmed.

  How, then, can I stop her if she starts again? was all I thought, feeling miserable at the prospect of returning to school.

  I needn’t have worried. When I went back, Paula and her friends gave me a wide berth. I think she had been questioned by the headmaster. After all, why would I have attacked a bigger child if not provoked?

  My relief was short-lived.

  She was replaced by someone worse. Much worse.

  This time it was a sullen, dark-haired boy who was both taller and wider than me. The first time I saw him I wanted to walk away from hi
m as fast as I could. I had a feeling that danger was near. When his eyes met mine, they were dark and expressionless.

  The same eyes I had seen in Haut de la Garenne.

  His name was George and his bullying didn’t stop at the playground. Since I wasn’t part of a group, I was vulnerable to him. And he had noticed that Frank gave me money when he took me to school. ‘Just enough to buy a treat on your way home,’ he said, every time he pressed a few coins in my hand.

  George followed me when I went to the shops for my parents and hung around near where we lived. The money that was mine he wanted for himself. ‘Hello, Madeleine, I’m watching you, girl,’ was all he said the first time he spoke, but it was enough to make me afraid.

  The next day he followed me from the school until we were out of sight of either teachers or pupils. ‘Give it to me,’ he said, in flat tones. ‘I know you got some money. I saw your dad give it to you.’

  ‘No! It’s mine! Leave me alone!’ I screamed at him.

  Before I could make my legs run as fast as they could, a powerful punch landed in my stomach. I doubled up, gasping for air. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘hand over that money.’ I did.

  The next day, and the one after, George was outside the school watching me, and when Frank strode off after pressing a few coins into my palm, he was there with his hand out. By the third day I had worked out that he liked hitting me. I had seen too many people, adults and children, in Haut de la Garenne, who took pleasure in inflicting pain on those weaker than themselves, not to recognise the tell-tale gleam in his angry, protruding eyes. Eyes that glittered with suppressed laughter when I handed over the money.

  He was aware, after the first day, that I was afraid of him and, having felt the pain of his fist sinking into me, I would have handed over the money if he had just threatened me. But that would have spoilt the fun of watching my face blanch and then, a few seconds later, my gasp for air after the punch.