The Forgotten Child: A little boy abandoned at birth. His fight for survival. A powerful true story.
R. Gallear
Based on a true story, The Forgotten Child is a heart-breaking memoir of an abandoned newborn baby left to die, his tempestuous upbringing, and how he came through the other side.It’s a freezing winter’s night in 1954. A baby boy, a few hours old, is left by his mother, wrapped in nothing but two sheets of newspaper and hidden amongst the undergrowth by a canal bank. An hour later, a late-shift postman is walking wearily home when he hears a faint cry. He finds the newspaper parcel and discovers the newborn, white-cold and whimpering, inside.After being rushed to hospital and against all odds, the baby survives. He’s baptised by the hospital chaplain as Richard.Everything feels as though it’s looking up; Richard is put into local authority care and regains his health. However, after nearly five blissful years in a rural care home filled with loving friends, it soon unfolds that his turbulent start in life is only the beginning…Based on a devastating true story, this inspirational memoir follows Richard’s traumatic birth, abusive childhood, and search for the truth.
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Copyright (#u6d78da45-8c1a-56a3-a001-6e26920e5bda)
HarperElement
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First published by HarperElement 2019
FIRST EDITION
Text © Richard Gallear 2019
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Cover photograph © Bert Hardy/Picture Post/Getty Images (front cover archive image is not of author)
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Richard Gallear asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008320768
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008320775
Version: 2019-01-31
Dedication (#u6d78da45-8c1a-56a3-a001-6e26920e5bda)
In memory of Joseph Lester, who saved my life
Contents
Cover (#u2f004d0e-e4a7-5994-a65e-1278638d7ae1)
Title Page (#u9166b0dc-002c-5eda-9e9b-51781a7f7fac)
Copyright (#ua9895e8b-45f8-539d-ad5c-f2edc41b5cfa)
Dedication (#u4f627f29-0895-531f-ac43-5242811e5870)
1954: ABANDONED (#u83fc52ac-6fb9-56eb-bf1a-7457aecb87fe)
Chapter 1 – Left to Die (#u14930874-ee4a-50b6-9df1-9e5be90f3f25)
1954–59: THE EARLY YEARS (#u0e1c2990-c163-5645-bab7-9f038f48b62f)
Chapter 2 – Field House (#u77ade59c-f027-55ea-bbd4-f809051dc532)
Chapter 3 – The Monkey Man (#ub5114902-f61f-5e1f-9486-c5b9e0047683)
Chapter 4 – Chosen (#u20e78f37-1a12-5e11-8ab0-c802607023de)
1959–71: THE CRUEL YEARS (#u65c64bea-a8b8-5d74-a2e6-e9b023bc3429)
Chapter 5 – Goodbye to Happiness (#ubc8a2669-1896-5072-ad4d-f8e2a09202a4)
Chapter 6 – The House of Dangers (#ua305e120-89d5-53be-ac9f-ece9bf5c9210)
Chapter 7 – One Day at a Time (#u04265c09-b920-5c24-8b64-a864b9d09aab)
Chapter 8 – Poor Joey (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 – Christmas Capers (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 – The Tricycle (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 – Jekyll and Hyde (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 – Another Nail in the Coffin (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 – Adoption – Hope or Despair? (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 – Finny (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 – Schooldays and Holidays (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 – Leaving School (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 – The Next Step (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 – The Motorbike (#litres_trial_promo)
1971–85: THE ESCAPE (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 – A Room with a View (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 – Crash! (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 – A Second Escape (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 – Crossroads … and a New Life (#litres_trial_promo)
1986–2019: THE TRUTH (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 – Opening Pandora’s Box (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 – Closing the Circle (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1954: ABANDONED (#u6d78da45-8c1a-56a3-a001-6e26920e5bda)
© Ray Bryant
CHAPTER 1
Left to Die (#u6d78da45-8c1a-56a3-a001-6e26920e5bda)
‘What was that?’ The whispered words faded to echoes in the dark mists of that frozen night, 17 November 1954.
Postman Joseph Lester had just finished his shift at Birmingham’s sorting office and started out on his walk home along Gas Street, through the gap in the wall and down to the canal towpath at Gas Street Basin. It was nine o’clock; the temperature was two degrees below zero. Tired and shivering cold, he was keen to get back to his family in Ledsham Street and relax in front of a roaring fire. This was his usual shortcut home, so he knew his way through the fog that thickened the darkness and stayed well clear of the water’s edge. There was nobody about – just the unseen lapping of water and the muffled, almost inaudible sounds of the city all around … until that faint something, a sort of whimper.
Joseph pointed his torch where he thought it came from, but he found it almost impossible to see anything. He retraced his steps and tried again, shining the beam to and fro over the water and straining his eyes to pick any form out of the darkness. As he moved his torch for one last sweep over the canal, the beam caught something pale. Was it his imagination? Had it moved?
There it was again. An eerie sound, was it a wounded animal? Surely even a rat wouldn’t venture out on this wintry night. But rats aren’t usually pale coloured. Could it be a kitten, or maybe the shape was just a piece of paper?
Joseph hesitated. It was probably nothing worth stopping for, but something niggled at him, making him turn back from his homeward path. He picked his way over the main bridge and round the basin to the other side, where he knew there was another low bridge, which was about where he thought the pale object must be. Sure enough, as he approached it from the back, he heard that sound again, fainter still. Whatever it was, he needed to find it soon. He clambered down and under the bridge, ducking to shine his torch through the profuse undergrowth.
‘There it is!’ he said out loud to himself, reaching what looked like a parcel wrapped in newspaper, only two or three inches from the water’s edge. But this was no normal parcel. As he peeled back the paper, he found inside a scrawny newborn baby, white, cold and whimpering. Joseph was shocked beyond belief: he’d seen rats as big as cats down there, capable of attacking this baby or pushing him into the canal.
He wrapped him up again and placed him inside his coat, holding him close to try to warm him, and turned to go back up to the street, where he knew there was a phone box to dial 999. Police Constable Watson came to meet Joseph and took his name, then noted down his brief account of finding the baby.
‘Well done, mate,’ he told him. ‘You might have saved a life tonight.’
Joseph smiled and went on his way, back to his wife and children. Meanwhile, the policeman hailed a squad car and took the baby straight to the Accident Hospital, where he was rushed through and seen straight away. A nurse gently opened up the two layers of newspaper and removed the thin, stained blanket beneath. She gasped when she saw the baby’s roughly cut umbilical cord.
‘Do you think the mother gave birth alone?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it looks like it,’ said the doctor. ‘And he looks underweight, probably premature.’ Clearly shocked, he examined the boy. ‘He’s only about two hours old, and his temperature is very low,’ he said as he gently rubbed the baby’s fragile skin in an attempt to warm him up. ‘He’s suffering from exposure. It’s touch and go, I’m afraid.’
Another nurse arrived and weighed him before swaddling him in a soft, warm blanket.
‘Call the night sister,’ ordered the doctor. ‘And see if you can find the Chaplain. This baby needs to be baptised, he may not survive the night.’
The night sister came and the Chaplain too.
‘What name shall I give him?’ he asked.
‘Any ideas?’ the night sister asked the nurses.
‘He looks like a Richard,’ suggested one of them, so that was the name he was given.
‘We must transfer him to Dudley Road Maternity Hospital,’ said the doctor. ‘They can put him in an incubator to give him the best chance. Can you arrange that please, Sister?’
As they waited for the paperwork to be completed, the nurses gathered round baby Richard, who had by now regained a little colour and started to cry and kick his legs up. Everyone smiled to see him protesting.
‘He’s a determined little mite,’ said the doctor. ‘He might just make it.’
One of the nurses accompanied the baby in an ambulance to the Dudley Road Maternity Hospital, where they were better equipped to look after him.
On admission to Ward D6 and placed in an incubator, Richard rallied and his temperature normalised. Not only did he survive the night, he became the nurses’ favourite.
Meanwhile, the next day’s newspapers were full of articles about the abandoned ‘canal-side baby’. The headlines read: ‘BABY LEFT ON CANAL BANK’, ‘NEW-BORN BABY FOUND WRAPPED IN NEWSPAPER’, ‘CHILD FOUND UNDER BRIDGE’, ‘POLICE SEARCH FOR MOTHER’. In fact, the police used the newspapers to put out pleas for the mother to come forward, or for any information, but there was no response. It seemed the baby would have no parents named on his birth certificate.
Almost hour by hour, Richard’s condition improved and he began to flourish. ‘DAY-OLD BABY IMPROVING’ was one of the second day’s headlines.
Later that day, a woman was brought into Dudley Road Maternity Hospital and admitted for treatment, suffering complications after giving birth. She gave her name and address, but would say no more. However, with the press still badgering the hospital for news of the abandoned baby’s progress, an astute nurse suspected a link. The police were alerted and sent round a constable to question the woman in her hospital bed. At first silent, her weakened state left her vulnerable. Within minutes, she broke down and admitted she was the woman they were looking for. However, she didn’t give much away at that stage – just that she had given birth that evening at her lodgings (a story that would later prove to be untrue) and wandered round with the baby, tired and confused, before laying him down under the canal bridge.
While in hospital, it seems, she did not request to see the baby. However, had she asked, she would not have been permitted to visit him while the police were investigating the case.
The next morning’s newspapers triumphantly carried the story on their front pages: ‘CANAL-SIDE BABY: MOTHER TRACED’ and other similar headlines.
Now the police charged her with abandonment and started to gather evidence from postman Joseph Lester, PC Watson, the first policeman on the scene, the doctor at the hospital where the baby was first admitted, and anyone else they could find.
On 22 December, Richard’s birth mother was in the dock at Birmingham Magistrates’ Court, where she had no alternative but to plead guilty to ‘abandoning the child in a manner likely to cause it unnecessary suffering or injury’. The press reported the case in considerable detail.
The prosecution set out the evidence, explaining how the baby was found by the canal, very close to the water’s edge, and the state he was in: ‘The weather was bad. Exposure had endangered the baby’s life and it was not likely the child would have lived, but for the keen observation of Mr Lester.’
The mother’s counsel told the court that she was afraid of losing her lodgings and possibly her job too. ‘And the fact that the baby was born prematurely, when she got home from work,’ he explained, ‘caused her to act in an unnatural manner.’
‘I hope you realise the gravity of your offence,’ the magistrate scolded her. All the available evidence, which was not very much, was heard. Finally, the magistrate looked straight at the mother and said: ‘You might have faced a charge of infanticide, for what you did could have resulted in the child’s death.’
Oblivious to all this, baby Richard was basking in the affection showered on him by the nurses in Ward D6 and only a day or two after his arrival was well enough to thrive outside the incubator. He fed hungrily and was soon ready to be discharged from hospital. On 28 November, just 11 days after his birth, the duty doctor wrote a letter to Birmingham Children’s Officer:
The following day, a form was filled in at Birmingham Children’s Department to take over responsibility for him.
That afternoon, the nurses gathered to wave off baby Richard as he was handed over to a woman from the Children’s Department, who took him to Field House Nursery – the place that would become his first real home.
1954–59:THE EARLY YEARS (#u6d78da45-8c1a-56a3-a001-6e26920e5bda)
Field House © Annette Randle
CHAPTER 2
Field House (#ulink_2f5d0244-cba2-5bce-a872-dc9fc001cd25)
December 1954 (1 month old) – Appears a normal child for age. Plump and round.
September 1955 (10 months old) – A happy, fair child. Can sit and crawl. Goes after toys and is responsive and friendly.
August 1956 (nearly 2) – Growing taller. Jealous of baby in his ‘family’. Happy and jolly in between times.
Field House progress report
Friends are often amazed at how vivid my early childhood memories are. My earliest recollection is from the age of about two and a half to three. I was running around the huge lawn in front of Field House, enjoying the freedom of space in the sunshine, when I was excited to find a metal watering can lying on the grass. I must have seen the gardener watering plants, because I knew what to do with it. With some difficulty, because it was quite big and heavy for me, even though it was nearly empty, I picked it up. Inside, I saw a little water at the bottom, so I half-carried, half-dragged it across the grass to a flower bed – I suppose I thought the flowers needed watering and I remember trying to lift the spout to pour water over them. I was thrilled when a trickle came out and wetted the earth around one of the plants. That memory has always stayed with me and I’ve loved gardens and gardening ever since.
I know it’s a cliché, but the sun always seemed to shine at Field House and I was a happy child. That’s what I remember most – being happy, whether playing with the other children or exploring on my own. Those memories have comforted me ever since.
As a child, I was always hungry. I don’t know why because at mealtimes we had a lot of food and the staff encouraged us to eat as much as we wanted. Every now and then I would run through the grand front door (which was always open) and across the hall to the kitchen to see what I could find.
As I approached the kitchen one day I could smell the steak pie they were cooking for our lunch – my favourite. When I peeked in, round the kitchen door, I saw a trolley with several loaves of sliced bread, all wrapped in waxed paper. One was already open, with half taken out. I reached for it and looked inside to see if it had any burnt crusts – I always loved the burnt loaves best. This one looked just right, so I turned around with it, and as I carried it out, I saw one of the cooks smiling and winking at me. They were all so kind – I think I amused them with my cheeky ways. I ran outside again, across the lawn and found my favourite tree, whose branches swept the ground. After clambering up on one of those branches, I ate the crusts from each piece of bread. I was in Heaven! It seems strange now, but nobody ever told me off for taking the bread – or for climbing the tree for that matter.
I often sat in that tree and gazed at the beautiful house, with its tall windows arranged in a pattern on each grand facade. At that stage, as far as I knew, I hadn’t seen any other buildings at all, so I didn’t realise how lucky we were to live in such an elegant mansion, with its mown lawns, ancient cedar trees and wonderful views of the Clent Hills. Every day, I watched Matron drive in or out in her little car, a pale green Austin A30, which she parked on the gravel to one side of the house.
When I wasn’t running around or climbing trees, I used to take myself off for a walk around the outside of the building. We were all friends at Field House, but from a very early age, I enjoyed being on my own as well. I loved to see what was happening in the large, walled vegetable garden behind the house. All our vegetables were grown there and I enjoyed watching them day by day as they came up out of the ground and revealed their produce. To me, the whole process seemed like magic! We grew our own fruits too. Often in the summer we’d have raspberries and strawberries and in the autumn the cooks made us delicious apple crumbles. Blackberries grew abundantly in the hedgerows lining our drive, so we would each be given a little basket to pick some – under supervision, of course. I remember eating most of mine, but some must have been taken back to the kitchen because they were often added to the crumbles.
All the year round, the kitchen’s delicious smells lured me in, again and again. Often the best times were when the cooks were baking cakes. I have to admit that every now and then, when I thought they weren’t looking, I would pop in and pinch an iced bun or a slice of Victoria sandwich from a plate – I loved that. The cooks never seemed to mind. The head cook was a large and jolly woman. In fact, all the staff seemed jolly to me. Whoever appointed the people to work at Field House, with children from all different backgrounds and circumstances, they chose very well. If any of us had a problem, from a scraped knee to a crisis of confidence or a terrifying nightmare, there was always somebody on hand to comfort us.
There were several housemothers and I think we each had one special one who would take particular care of us and encourage us to do the right things and to play well with each other. I can remember my housemother as if I saw her yesterday – very slim, with straight dark hair and a kind, smiley face. She was very bubbly and I loved her for that. I only wish I could remember her name. I suppose each housemother must have had responsibility for two or three children at a time and sometimes, especially when the new babies came in, I think I may have been a little jealous of the attention she paid them. However, as far as I can remember, I was quite an easy-going child and always happy to make my own amusements.
Sometimes, at night, I remember waking up to find I had wet the bed. This wasn’t unusual at Field House, but it did upset me and I couldn’t help crying. I don’t know how they knew, but my housemother, or one of the others, would always come and change the sheets and calm me down with soothing whispers and a cuddle until I fell asleep again.
The matron was different. We all had to call her ‘Matron’ and so did all the staff – it wasn’t Joan, or Mrs Smith, or anything like that, it always had to be ‘Matron’. A tall woman, she was quite thin and stern. I remember she did sometimes have a kindly face, but most of the time she was strict and everyone was a little afraid of her. She was that old-fashioned sort of matron they used to have on hospital wards to make sure that everything was clean and tidy. Nothing got past our matron! We were all wary of her – nobody ever said ‘boo’ to Matron. I think the staff were all wary of her too – they were constantly cleaning. As soon as that little green car came up the drive, crunching the gravel, and drew up outside, I noticed the great flurry as everybody started doing things!
While all the housemothers were kind to us, they sometimes had to be quite strict as well, to make sure we did the right things and followed the routines as much as possible. If we were asked to line up on the front lawn, that’s what we did. And if it was time for lunch or an afternoon lemonade, we had to stop what we were doing and come straight away. I don’t remember a bell – the staff just came out and found us around the grounds and gathered us in.
Although the house was big, we only really used the ground floor. In all, there were about 20 to 25 children, plus the babies, who were in a separate part of the house. There were at least as many staff as there were children. I can still remember the uniforms the housemothers wore: striped dresses with belts round their waists and pure white tabards slipped over the top.
Although the doctor usually came to do vaccinations and check-ups on our progress, writing down his findings on special forms, there were other times when he was called out to someone who was ill. We all had the usual illnesses, being together so much and passing them on to each other. I know from my medical records that I had whooping cough when I was two and I remember the doctor coming to see me when I had measles, aged three and a half. But the worst thing I ever had was salmonella food poisoning when I was about three, because I had to be taken to Hagley Green Hospital in the doctor’s car. I must have been very ill with it as I was kept in for about five weeks.
Throughout the summer, the staff would sometimes organise games for us, like taking turns hitting the ball. But I never joined in those games for very long as I lost interest in balls and bats. Instead, I would go off to a little den I’d made and study the insects that hid under the logs.
I wasn’t really interested in group games. For me the biggest entertainment was the gardens, the beautiful place we lived and the countryside around it – I just loved playing there. I looked at the buttercups and how they were made; I watched the butterflies flitting about and settling, so that I could study the patterns on their wings.
One day, my housemother came over and sat on the grass with me, watching the bees buzzing over a clump of lavender. ‘I like bees,’ she said. ‘They are good for the flowers, taking pollen from one to another and back to their hives, where they make honey.’
‘Really?’ I asked in wonder. ‘Do the bees make our honey that we sometimes have at teatime?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she nodded with a smile.
‘But they sting, don’t they?’ I continued. ‘David had a bee sting.’
‘Not usually, only if they feel threatened. David was trying to hit them with his bat. Bees only sting if they think we are trying to hurt them, but wasps are the ones you want to look out for. They can give you a nasty sting, so best to stay clear of them.’
‘How do I know if it’s a wasp?’
As my housemother explained the differences, I took it all in and never forgot it. From an early age I was fascinated by nature and loved to learn about it.
As well as organised games and a large amount of space to build dens and trees to climb, we had swings and small climbing frames, which we took turns on.
I don’t remember having any best friends at Field House because we were all friends together – I liked everybody and none of them were horrible or selfish, so we just got on. We missed the older ones when they had to leave, but new children came in to replace them and it was all part of the pattern of our lives. We were all different ages under five, so it was like a big family. Yes, that’s exactly the right word: it was the ethos of the place, we all felt loved and looked after. We took it for granted, cocooned as we were from the outside world, not knowing that children’s homes could be any different.
Of course, children were occasionally naughty and they would have their legs slapped. If they were very naughty, they would have to go and see Matron. That induced the fear, oh yes! Just the thought of it put them off doing anything naughty again.
I wasn’t immune. Sometimes I did get into minor trouble, possibly for over-eating – I did a lot of that! Or maybe I didn’t come when I was called. I have to admit that there were occasions when I ignored the call because I wanted a bit of extra time – I suppose all children do that. It was usually when I was in the garden. I used to love it so much that I was often in a dream, but when they called us, we had to toe the line, we had to go in. If they wanted to wash me down, there was no messing about: it was soap and water time and that was that.
As I approached four, I became more aware of the beauty of Field House, both inside and out. It was a classical design – Georgian, I think. Through the elegant porch and the huge front door was a beautiful hallway that stretched so far ahead, it seemed to me to go on for ever. There was oak panelling along the left-hand side and an old oak sideboard. A huge chandelier reflected the light in the centre of the hall and to the right was a grand oak staircase with beautiful carved banisters and turned finials, polished to a high sheen. In fact, it was the sweet smell of beeswax polish that pervaded the whole house. When I stood at the bottom of the stairs and craned my neck, I could see all the way up the staircase as it curved round and round the squares of space, through each floor, creating a pyramid effect, at the top of which was a beautiful painted ceiling. Every landing was surrounded by huge oak doors and the only light flooded down from skylights at the very top.
‘You must never go up those stairs,’ I remember Matron telling us one day. It was an order. But, on one occasion, looking upwards, I began to wonder what was on the upper floors. It was just curiosity, but almost involuntarily, I found myself climbing up the first flight of stairs. Halfway up, I realised what I had done and looked over the banisters, but there was nobody in sight, just distant sounds from the kitchens. Everybody else seemed to be outside, so I tiptoed on up the polished treads to the first landing. There were doors everywhere, all of them closed. I was desperate to go and see what was inside one of the rooms, but I didn’t dare – somebody might be lurking behind, ready to pounce on me. I dreaded to think what my punishment would be. I turned to go back down, but it was too late.
One of the doors opened and Matron herself came out.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in her sternest voice as she towered over me.
I could barely get the words out. ‘S-s-sorry Matron …’
‘You know you’re not supposed to be up here?’
‘Yes, Matron.’ I hung my head, expecting the worst.
‘Well, go straight back down those stairs and never come up here again. Do you understand?’
‘Y-y-yes Matron. I’m sorry.’
She was pointing at the stairs, so I began to clamber down them as quickly as I dared, until my housemother arrived and took my hand to help me down the rest and sent me out to play with the others on the grass.
Later, at bedtime, she kindly reinforced the message, as Matron had probably asked her to do. But she said it with a tolerant smile.
‘I’m sure you were just curious,’ she said.
‘Yes, I only wanted to see …’
‘There’s nothing much up there,’ she explained. ‘Just offices, staff bedrooms and lots of cupboards, where we keep the clothes and sheets and things.’
I nodded. I couldn’t help being inquisitive and adventurous, which did lead me into other tricky situations from time to time, but I never ventured up the stairs again.
The sleeping arrangements at Field House were very straightforward. Being such a grand house, all the downstairs rooms were very large, with high ceilings and long sash windows, letting in generous beams of light. The babies were all in a room beyond the staircase, in their cots.
The first door to the left of the front door led into the girls’ dormitory, which I never saw inside. The boys’ dormitory was the same but opposite, to the right of the front door and looking out over the front lawns. There were usually about 10 to 12 of us in there, our little metal-framed beds placed at intervals around the walls of the room, with tables and chairs in the centre for us to play at if the weather was bad, though in my memories it hardly ever was. The room itself had been stripped bare of its grandeur and painted white, but it still had its wooden floors and the ceiling’s decorative cornices. There were full-length curtains at every window.
My bed was by the window at the far side of the room, so I had a remarkable view in the daylight, but there were no lights outside, which made it so dark at night that it seemed almost haunted. I was glad then that I wasn’t alone.
Although most of the staff slept on the upper floors, they were always alert for any problems with the children – I suppose some of them might have been on night duty. I know they were there for us because one night the rain was pouring down in torrents, beating against the windows so hard that it kept us all awake for a while. Finally, I must have dozed off, perhaps for an hour or two. Suddenly I awoke to a great flash of lightning, followed immediately by loud thunder cracks that must have struck very close by. At first, I feared it had broken our windows, but they were still intact. I grabbed hold of my scruffy old second-hand teddy bear, Jeffrey, and hugged him tight. The lightning lit up the room again and again with crashing roars, which terrified us all. I hid myself and Jeffrey under the covers. Only moments after this crescendo, my housemother and two of the others rushed into our room and straight away, comforted us all, gathering us together in little groups and calming us down.
Sometimes, on more peaceful nights, I would hear the sounds of animals outside, such as badgers or foxes making their way round to the back of the building, where the hens were kept, but I don’t remember them ever catching any, though the staff probably wouldn’t have told us if they had. Often, I used to wake early and peep out to watch the stately deer or the rabbits and hares scampering across the lawns.
Any toys or games we had were donated by well-wishers, so they had often been well used. As well as Jeffrey, I also had two toy cars. I used to play with them a lot, pushing and spinning them round while making the noise of a car, and I would park them under my bed every night.
When the weather was bad, we played in our dormitories, the girls in theirs and we boys in ours. We had a big bag of little blocks of wood and I used to piece them together to make shapes and patterns. Sometimes we built towers. I remember going upwards as far as I could before they all crashed to the floor.
We also had colouring books and crayons, which we enjoyed. On Sundays we set out all the little Formica-topped tables and chairs in the middle of the room and were given watercolour paints in little tins, one each. We had to get the water to wet the paints with our brushes to colour in the pictures or make our own. I loved that. The staff would come round and say things like: ‘Oh, that’s very good’, or ‘What colour are you going to paint this?’
I used to love our painting on Sundays – I’m sure that’s what started my love of art growing up.
As you have probably guessed by now, mealtimes were always my favourite time of the day. We sometimes ate breakfasts and teas in our dormitories, but we always had our lunch in the big dining room at the back of the house, all seated at long refectory tables – the boys at one and the girls at the other, with a housemother at each end. We had to say Grace at the beginning of every meal:
‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’
We were encouraged to eat everything on our plates, but I didn’t need much encouragement – the food was so good, I don’t think I ever left anything! We were allowed second helpings if there were any and I always had them.
Next to our dormitory there was a bathroom, with a black and white tiled floor. I remember there was one bath in it – a big white iron affair. That was on one side and along the opposite wall was a row of wash basins. We would line up and wash our hands before every meal, then at bedtime we would brush our teeth, wash our faces and hands. The housemothers watched us to make sure we did this thoroughly before we got into bed. As there was only the one bath, we had to take turns every two or three days.
We each had a small cupboard next to our bed for our clothes – it was a tiny cupboard with a drawer above it, where I kept my treasures. We didn’t have many clothes but if we needed something else, there was a store of second- or third-hand clothes upstairs, so one of the housemothers would go and get it for us. In fact, none of them were our own clothes. One of the other boys might wear a pair of shorts one day and I would be wearing them the next, but none of us minded.
In the winters, although the building was so large, it was hardly ever cold as we had huge iron radiators, probably Victorian, and they kept us snug. At night, we all had hot water bottles, just to make sure. If ever we still felt cold at night, we only had to say and someone would bring us an extra blanket.
Field House was good in so many ways. One of these was the way we were taught to mix and play with any disabled children we had with us. Whatever their disability, we always included them in our games and talked with them. Nobody ever made fun of them or left them out. Sometimes, their disability might have been the reason why they were put in care, but we all played together. There was one boy who couldn’t eat properly or use his hands and he used to dribble, but nobody said anything, he was just part of the group. If he couldn’t join in a game, one of us would always sit out with him to keep him company – it was the normal thing to do.
Every night, one of the housemothers would sit on my bed and read me a short story. It was a lovely part of bedtime. Some of them were very short stories, like Jack and the Beanstalk or Rumpelstiltskin, but often I wouldn’t hear the end of it because I had already fallen asleep. I suppose that was the idea! It certainly worked.
CHAPTER 3
The Monkey Man (#ulink_b884abfc-cbc0-50fe-b64e-7d00b02b6380)
September 1958 (nearly 4) – Grown into a fine boy – sturdy, adventurous and agile. There has been a very marked improvement in this child. Much happier. Laughs and plays and sings. Speech quite fluent. Has a lot of imagination. Co-operative and gets on well with other children. Plays very well by himself.
Field House progress report
There was always so much to do in the gardens of Field House that often we didn’t have any extra entertainments organised, though I do remember one occasion when a big van arrived and out jumped a man in multicolour clothes. He built a sort of booth out of wood and striped fabric on the lawn. We all gathered round and the housemothers organised us into rows on the grass.
‘We’re going to see a puppet show,’ one of them announced. ‘It’s called Punch and Judy.’
None of us knew what a puppet show was, but as soon as it got under way we were all laughing and shouting out at the puppets’ antics. We had a wonderful time and talked about it for days afterwards.
‘I liked the policeman best,’ said the boy next to me in my dormitory as we were getting ready for bed that evening.
‘I liked it when they threw the string of sausages,’ I replied.
I often took myself for walks around the gardens or to the vegetable gardens at the back of the house. One very still day, sitting in the cedar tree to the left of the house, I could hear the sound of trickling water. When I craned my head in that direction, I couldn’t see much, except for an ornamental gate in a wall, which hid what lay beyond. I had never been down that side of the house, so I clambered down and set off to find out what it was. A few days earlier, my housemother had read me a story about an explorer. I had asked her what an explorer was and she explained, ‘An explorer is someone who goes to new places and finds out what animals live there and what flowers grow there.’
‘Could I do that?’ I asked.
‘You could, if you want to, when you grow up.’
Well, I knew I wasn’t grown up yet, but now I felt just like an explorer, walking alone into an unknown place to see what might be there. I was so excited at the thought that I didn’t even consider whether I was allowed to go there.
When I reached the gate, it was closed, but I gave it a little push and, much to my surprise, it swung open, revealing a magical place, a beautiful garden so different from everywhere else. I walked in and looked around. It was a fascinating place. Everywhere I looked there was something new and different – things I’d never seen before. I could hardly believe it.
‘I went to a beautiful garden today,’ I told my housemother at bedtime that evening.
‘Did you really?’ she said with a smile, as if she wasn’t sure whether I was just imagining it.
‘Yes, I went through the gate in the wall and saw such beautiful things.’
She put her head on one side. ‘Tell me what you saw.’
‘I saw red trees and places where water was running and jumping up in the air. I saw strange flowers and lots of butterflies.’
‘Ah, that must have been the Japanese garden,’ she explained. ‘The red trees are called acers and the jumping water was a fountain. I think there are quite a few pools and small fountains in the Japanese garden.’
‘What does Japanese mean?’ I asked her.
‘It means from Japan. We live in a country called England, but right the way across the other side of the world there is a country called Japan.’
I don’t suppose I really understood what the world was, let alone places so far away, but the next day she brought me a round thing she called a globe to look at and she showed me where England was on the globe, and then she turned it and pointed at Japan.
‘You are allowed to go in the Japanese garden as long as you’re careful,’ she told me.
In the days and weeks that followed, I returned to the garden repeatedly. I walked around its carefully raked paths, between the ornamental cherry blossom trees, and watched the little waterfalls and fountains. I noticed different butterflies and caterpillars and several types of insects there too.
Against the background of trickling water, I heard the familiar buzzing of bees and a strange new sound. I followed where it came from and found a very peculiar-looking creature. I had never seen frogs before, let alone a toad, so I watched it closely, as it sat and watched me, like a staring match. This now became my favourite place. I suppose I could have brought some of the other children to see it, but I liked having it to myself for a little while.
Many years later, I found out that this was a very special Japanese water garden, designed by a famous woman called Gertrude Jekyll, so I suppose we were very honoured as small children to have that as part of our playground.
In the autumn at Field House there was a special treat – conker trees, as we called them. I loved running out in the mornings to inspect the newly fallen conkers from the chestnut trees. I would pick up the most beautiful ones I could find and polish them with my shirt or my woolly jumper, before putting them into my pocket. The housemothers made holes in some of the chestnuts for us and threaded lengths of string through them, so that we could play conkers.
‘Be careful,’ one of them warned. ‘Don’t swing them around or you might hurt each other.’ The housemothers showed us how to use them: ‘Take turns to try to hit the other person’s conker, like this.’ They stayed out with us to make sure we did it the right way.
I liked playing conkers with all the others, but what I liked best of all was polishing the ones in my pocket and taking them out at night to put in the little drawer in my bedside cupboard as additions to my collection. I was just learning to count, so the conkers were ideal and I counted them every night before I got into bed, like a miser counting his gold sovereigns.
From my earliest memories, I loved looking from the lawn, across the fields and up to the Clent Hills, so it was a great excitement every summer, for those of us who could walk far enough – a four-mile round trip – to have regular outings to those very hills. Sadly, my friend with the callipers couldn’t come on those days, but I know he had special treats at Field House while we were out and he was always as excited to tell us about his day as we were to tell him about ours.
On sunny days, almost every week, the kitchen staff would pack up sandwiches and drinks for us and put them in bags, which the housemothers carried. Straight after breakfast, we were lined up and counted, before setting off in a line down the long drive, past the lodge at the bottom, through the gate and out onto the country lane.
We must have looked a strange sight, a long crocodile of small children, walking two by two, dressed in a motley collection of hand-me-downs. Years later, when I saw The Sound of Music, with Maria making curtains into clothes for the children, it reminded me of our ‘make-do-and-mend’ outfits. But we were young and we knew no different, so it didn’t matter.
As we walked, the housemothers started us off singing jolly songs, like ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’, ‘The Grand Old Duke of York’ and Ten Green Bottles’. We learnt a lot of songs on those walks. Sometimes we crossed fields and the grown-ups told us what crops the farmer was growing and how to look after the countryside, by walking round the edges and making sure we shut the gates behind us. In some of the fields the crops were taller than we were! As we walked along the lanes, they told us about the hedgerows, the wild flowers and the birds.
Every time we approached Clent village, the excitement rose and, sure enough, there leaning on his gate was an old gentleman with long grey hair and a weathered look, smoking a wonderful, ivory-coloured pipe carved into a man’s face. I now know that it must have been a Meerschaum pipe. There was something about the smell of that pipe – even out in the fresh air, it had an alluring, aromatic scent. But it wasn’t just the man that fascinated me, it was the monkey sitting on his shoulder. I think this gentleman must have lived on his own in his little old cottage with just the monkey for company. He always seemed to wear the same scruffy clothes, with holes in his shirt – he even made us look smart!
Small and brown with darting eyes, the monkey sat on the man’s shoulder, its arms round his neck, its eyes following us as we passed by. We weren’t allowed to touch the monkey, but we could stop and watch it if it was moving about, which it often did, coming alive and showing off when it saw us approaching. It would twitch its fingers as if playing an instrument, then clamber around, doing somersaults. Sometimes it made a chattering sound, as if saying hello to us. This monkey was one of the highlights of our outings. Perhaps we were also a highlight of the monkey’s day, watching this straggly troupe of small children walk past, waving and calling out jolly greetings as we went by.
Finally, we climbed the lane to the top of the hills and there we could run free and play for hours, punctuated by sandwich breaks. The adults organised ball games for us to join in, but we didn’t have to, so I used to wander round looking for insects and rabbit holes.
At the end of the day, we packed everything up and set off on the long walk back to Field House, where we could look forward to a hot meal on our return, before a quick wash-down. We were so tired those evenings that we’d go straight to bed and lights out, then followed the deep sleep of exhaustion after a long, happy day.
The only other trip we ever went on while I was at Field House was quite a surprise. I must have been about four and a half when my housemother told me one morning to dress quickly because we were going on a special outing.
‘It’s just for the older ones,’ she explained. ‘We’re taking you to Hagley railway station to see a steam train coming through.’
‘What’s a steam train?’ I asked. I had heard of trains, but didn’t know what steam had to do with it and I was quite excited to find out.
There were just a few of us on this trip and we set off straight after breakfast, walking along the lanes to the station. As we approached, the road widened and we saw cars and other vehicles passing by. I had always loved playing with my little toy cars, so this was a fascination for me. Soon I started to recognise some of them from the models I and my friends played with. We saw a bus too – it was bigger than I expected and had a lovely chugging sort of sound.
Looking back, I suppose that was the purpose of the day for us, to experience noisier, busier surroundings, as the staff knew that one day soon, most of us would live in more urban surroundings and we would almost certainly need to take buses and trains and learn how to cross roads. Indeed, we were all lined up along the edge of the pavement and told to look right, left, right. Most of us had problems with that, so the staff came along and patted us all on our right shoulders. Then we had to practise crossing the road.
We walked through the station building and were introduced to the station master, who took us all out onto the platform.
‘Stand back,’ he said. ‘It’s very important, don’t go any nearer than this.’
So, we spread out in a line along the back of the platform and waited. I don’t think any of us children knew what was going to happen, so there was a lot of nervous anticipation. We listened to the announcement the station master made with his megaphone. That fascinated me in itself – the way it made his voice louder.
‘Look,’ said my housemother, pointing along the track into the distance. ‘Can you see the steam?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, peering in that direction and seeing the white and grey cloud that seemed to be moving towards us. I was mystified that I couldn’t see the train itself, but that soon changed as it drew closer. Small at first, it grew bigger and bigger, turning into a roaring, snorting monster. The giant engine emerged from its steamy shroud as it pulled into the station with a squeal of brakes. I stood back with a gaping mouth, in awe of the noise, the steam and the pungent smell of burning coal in its fiery furnace. I remember being frightened of it – fascinated, but fearful. The whole station seemed to shake.
Once the train had stopped and people started to get out, I was able to see that it was painted in a dark green colour, very shiny with gold writing on it. From where I was standing, I was lucky enough to be able to see into the driver’s cab, where the train driver operated some shiny brass knobs and levers, while another man shovelled coal into the hungry furnace. I must have taken a step forward to get a better look, but my housemother immediately yet gently pulled me back.
New passengers boarded the train and settled into their carriages while the guard walked up and down, closing doors. Then he waved his flag, the engine fired up and the train began to move away, creeping slowly along the track, snorting bursts of steam as it went. The driver and his assistant leaned out of their cab and waved cheerily at us, followed by some of the passengers as their carriages moved past us. Of course, we all waved back like mad, which was great fun, waving and waving until the train had disappeared round a bend up the track.
That was an incredible day and I can still almost taste the coal dust, but I was glad at last to get back to the peace and quiet of Field House.
A day or two later, one of the housemothers brought in some second-hand model trains for us to play with and a book about steam trains that we gathered round to look at. Now we had not just the humming of car engines to make, but also the steam and roar, the squealing brakes and clanking noises of that amazing train as we shunted our new toy steam engines across the floor of our dormitory. It didn’t stop there either: for days afterwards, the lawn became our station and we became the trains.
Christmas was always a special occasion to brighten the winter months at Field House. None of us had families to spend Christmas with, so the housemothers did all they could to make it special for us, although they must have had their own families too.
There was no build-up like there is today. The first we knew of it being anything different was on Christmas Eve, when fir trees were brought in from somewhere in the grounds. One was placed in the girls’ dormitory, another in the boys’ and one in the dining room too. The tree in our room was almost up to the high ceiling and wide all around. I remember the lovely scent of the fir needles that pervaded the dormitory. The staff came in and decorated it for us while we watched them, our excitement mounting as they adorned the branches with glittery silver and red tinsel, gold-foil wrapped chocolate coins and, right at the top, a large silver star.
‘Tomorrow is Christmas Day,’ explained my housemother as she put me to bed that evening. ‘If you are all good boys, there will be some presents under the tree when you wake up in the morning and a chocolate coin for each of you. We will come in and give them out.’
This was such an exciting prospect that it was hard to get to sleep that evening, but finally, we all did, and sure enough, when we awoke it was Christmas Day and there were presents all around the bottom of the tree. We leapt out of our beds with squeals of delight, but three of the housemothers were already there too, so nobody had the chance to touch the presents until it was time.
‘You can all sit on the ends of your beds and look at the presents. There are enough for everybody and you can all choose one each, but no squabbling. I am sure you will share them with each other,’ said one of the housemothers.
I could hardly contain my excitement. The presents were all sorts of toys and games and cuddly things – none of them wrapped – so I remember casting my eyes across all this bounty to see if anything particularly appealed. We had been so well brought up to share and take turns that none of us were selfish enough to grab something that someone else wanted. If I chose something that another boy had his eyes on, he might say, ‘I would like that’, and I would give it to him.
‘Here you are,’ I would say. ‘I’ll choose something else.’ And the housemothers would smile at me and make sure I kept my next choice.
I remember the Christmas after my fourth birthday, how excited I was when I spotted something straight away that I would ask for as my choice. It was a round metal thing with coloured circles painted round it, a push-down button at the top and a sort of spike underneath. Having never seen one before, I wanted to know how it worked and what it did. I waited as patiently as I could until it was my turn, hoping desperately that nobody else would choose it first. Fortunately, it was still there, so I went and pointed at it.
‘That’s a spinning top,’ said one of the staff. ‘I’ll show you how it works, if you like.’
‘Yes, please!’ I exclaimed.
She came over and pressed down the button on the top, which sent the top spinning on its spike, so that the coloured circles made patterns. When it went fast they seemed to disappear, but when it slowed down it was wobbling about all over the place, which made me laugh. I loved that spinning top. It was the best toy ever and I played with it a lot, but I let the others have goes with it, too, just as I did with my two toy cars.
One of the other boys would say: ‘Please can I play with your red car?’
‘Yes, you can,’ I would reply.
He would play with it for a while, then he would bring it back and park it under my bed alongside my other car. It was the same if I asked to borrow anyone else’s toy. We were all very good at that, we all shared everything.
What I remember best about our wonderful Christmases at Field House was the food. To start with, the smell of roasting turkey wafted through the house. It was so enticing that I found it very hard to have to wait until lunchtime.
Finally, it was time to go into the dining room, where there was another tall Christmas tree, with tinsel and various other decorations hanging on it, including crackers. We jumped up and down to see the tables specially decorated with red tablecloths and strewn down the middle with more crackers. We were so excited to pull those, but we had to wait till after we’d finished eating. It was a lovely, heart-warming occasion and we had a delicious meal, piled up high. Even I felt full after just one plateful!
Later that afternoon, we all stood together and sang carols round the dining-room Christmas tree, with its lights twinkling. It was a magical time. Most of the housemothers were there, including mine, joining in with us as we sang ‘Away in a Manger’, ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, ‘Jingle Bells’and other well-known festive songs.
We all loved the whole, very special Christmas experience, but it didn’t last long. On Boxing Day the trees came down and everything went back to normal again, except we still had our presents to play with. And I loved my top – I enjoyed setting it off and watching it spin, round and round. I soon discovered that I could make it spin faster and longer if I wanted and after that I spent hours with it, perfecting the way I spun it.
Birthdays were celebrated in a low-key way. The staff would tell us ‘This is Richard’s birthday’ or ‘This is David’s birthday’ and at teatime there would be a cake with a single candle in it, whatever the age. The birthday child would blow out the candle and then we all sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and that was all – no presents. What I hadn’t yet grasped was that with every birthday, the time when I would have to leave drew nearer. None of the children could stay at Field House beyond their fifth birthdays, so I was now perilously close to that time.
CHAPTER 4
Chosen (#ulink_a01d2101-c8b5-5a7e-8849-2f4f14c79c39)
November 1958 (aged 4) – Physically very fit. Sturdy. Speech fluent. Making much better progress. Is imaginative in play. Likes to play alone. Still has an occasional temper tantrum.
Field House progress report
Every now and then, we older children had to line up along the lawn. Now four and a half years old, I was aware that, after these line-ups, children sometimes left Field House, so I didn’t want to be in the line, but if I tried to hide, one of the staff would be sure to come and find me.
‘Come along, Richard. There are people coming to see you today,’ explained the housemother. ‘And they could become your mother and father. If they decide they would like you to be part of their family, they’ll be able to take you to live with them in their home. Wouldn’t that be lovely?’
I must have shrugged or shown my indifference in some way. I know she wanted me to be excited, and I should have been, shouldn’t I? Some children were, but not me. I didn’t want anything to change, I wanted to stay at Field House for ever.
But the housemother had to get me into the line, so she took a different approach.
‘It won’t take long, then you can go and play again.’
‘Oh, all right,’ I reluctantly agreed.
So, she encouraged me to change, and dressed in my ‘Sunday best’, mainly charity clothes, I joined the line-up on the lawn outside Field House, my eyes staring at the ground and my insides trembling lest someone should pick me.
Couples arrived and joined one of the housemothers to walk along the line, looking at each of us and whispering to each other as they went by. Occasionally, they would stop and talk to a child, then they might ask to take that child for a walk around the grounds. It was all rather unnerving and I was always highly relieved when nobody picked me and I could indeed run off and play.
On one of these line-up days, a couple did stop and talk to me. I think they just asked me my name, how old I was and what I liked doing best. They seemed happy with my answers and turned to the housemother.
‘Can we take him for a walk and get to know him better?’ asked the woman.
So off we went. I told them I liked cars, so they took me to see their big green car, parked in the drive. It looked a funny shape, like a shiny green bell. The man opened the bonnet and showed me the engine, which was quite exciting.
‘Where else shall we go?’ asked the woman. ‘Is there anything you would like to show us?’
My first idea was the Japanese garden, but I thought they might like that too much and take me away.
‘We could go round the lawn,’ I suggested.
The woman took my hand and I led them to my favourite parts of the garden.
‘This is my tree,’ I explained when we reached the tall cedar tree with its low branches. ‘I like to sit in this tree and eat burnt crusts.’
They exchanged glances.
‘Then I took them down the drive.
‘Sometimes we go for walks down to the lane,’ I said. ‘And up to the hills.’
‘That must be fun,’ said the woman.
‘Yes, we sing songs and eat sandwiches and see a man with a monkey.’
‘A monkey?’ asked the man. ‘A real monkey?’
‘Yes, he sits on the man’s shoulder when we walk past.’
There was a pause as we came to the bramble hedge.
‘This is where we pick blackberries,’ I told them. ‘We have little baskets and pick the fruit to put in a crumble.’
‘That sounds nice,’ the woman said. ‘What’s your favourite food?’
‘Steak pie and gravy,’ I said, licking my lips.
They kept on asking me questions, and I tried to be polite, but I wished they would go away and I could get back to playing. Finally, I think they gave up on me.
I was so happy that I ran three times round the lawn before going in for tea.
Although I didn’t want to be picked in these regular line-ups, sometimes, if they didn’t pick me, I would wonder, Why haven’t they chosen me? What’s wrong with me?
I knew that I was getting older and would soon be too old to stay at Field House, but I didn’t want to think about that – I couldn’t quite believe it.
My lovely, kind housemother sat me down one day.
‘Let’s have a talk,’ she said.
‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘No, not at all,’ she reassured me with a smile. ‘But you will soon be five, so it’s nearly time for you to leave Field House and move on,’ she explained. ‘If you don’t have a new mummy and daddy to take you out of the line next week, you will have to move to another house, maybe a house with lots of children, all much bigger and older than you.’
I didn’t like the sound of that.
‘Will you come with me?’ I asked.
‘No, I’m afraid that wouldn’t be allowed,’ she said in her gentle voice.
I thought about that a lot over the coming days and nights, but I couldn’t quite accept it. This was my home, the only home I had ever known. Why couldn’t I stay here? Finally, on the next line-up day, my housemother gave me some nearly-new clothes to put on.
‘Try and keep clean and tidy,’ she said, grinning. ‘No climbing trees today!’
The Matron herself spoke to me after breakfast: ‘Hello, Richard. I’m glad you are looking so smart today. I’m sure you will be glad to know that we have a couple coming to see you this afternoon, so we won’t have to put you in the line for long. They will come and choose you and then I want you to be a good boy and be polite to them and get to know them while you show them round the gardens. Will you be able to do that?’ She waited expectantly with a half-smile. I’d never seen her smiling even the smallest bit before, so I tried to be brave and smile back.
‘Yes, all right,’ I agreed.
So, we all lined up as usual and I was placed near the beginning this time. My housemother came out of the front door with a couple and they walked straight in my direction. This seemed very strange. They ignored all the other children and homed in on me. I suppose it must have been to do with my age and the fact that the staff wanted me to go to a family home, rather than a larger children’s home, so they thought they were doing this for the right reasons. I thought so too, as I was frightened of the idea of all the big boys there might be at the children’s home.
The couple walked over and stopped in front of me, just as Matron had said.
‘This is Richard,’ said the housemother. ‘He’s a happy boy and likes playing in the garden.’ She turned to me and introduced them. ‘This is Mr and Mrs Gallear,’ she told me. ‘Will you take them for a walk and show them round our gardens? They want to know all about you and the things you like.’
‘All right,’ I nodded uncertainly.
The woman was very short and she had a big smile. She seemed really pleased to be there and to see me. But the man wasn’t smiling. He stood back, towering over her.
‘Come on,’ she said in a friendly voice, taking my hand in hers. ‘My name is Pearl and Mr Gallear is called Arnold. Now, where will you take us first?’
As I walked out of the line, I looked back over my shoulder at all my friends, who watched me go away from them, across the lawn with these visitors – still strangers to me.
‘Would you like to see the vegetable garden?’ I asked them. ‘I love watching things grow in the garden.’
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ Mrs Gallear said in a bright voice. ‘Wouldn’t it, Arnold?’
He grunted, with a slight nod and followed as I led his wife to the path.
‘That’s the boys’ dormitory.’ I pointed through the long window as we passed by. ‘I sleep next to this window.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Mrs Gallear. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Ten of us,’ I replied. ‘All boys.’
When we reached the vegetable garden, I picked up a small can and watered a row of newly planted seeds. ‘These will be lettuces,’ I said proudly. ‘I helped the gardener sow the seeds.’
‘Well done,’ said Mrs Gallear with a beaming smile. ‘We have a garden at home. Maybe you could come and grow some lettuces in our garden too?’
‘Maybe,’ I agreed, looking sideways at Mr Gallear, unsure whether he wanted me doing anything in his garden.
As we wandered among the rows of vegetables, I looked at each of the visitors in turn. Pearl Gallear was small and slight, with short, dark grey, curly hair, though I don’t think she was very old. She wore glasses, a flowery dress and a long coat over the top. The thing I liked best about her was her smile. Thinking back now, it was a warm, genuine smile – I felt she really liked me.
Arnold Gallear had a serious face. He wore black-framed glasses and looked awfully tall to me, well-built but not much hair. It was only later, when he bent over to pick up a coin and put it in his pocket, that I saw the funny thing he’d done with his hair: he had a big bald spot and he’d combed thin strands of his light brown hair over the bald part. I longed for it to be windy and blow it all away.
‘Do you like vegetables?’ asked Pearl.
‘Yes, we have lovely vegetables every day with our lunch.’
‘Lucky you!’ she said with a tinkling laugh. ‘What other foods do you like?’
‘Steak pie,’ I said. ‘And puddings and gravy … and cakes and burnt bread crusts …’
‘Well,’ she laughed again, ‘I’m glad you enjoy your food!’
Pearl chatted to me all the time and made a very good impression on me. She was quiet, gentle and very kind – I really liked her.
I saw Arnold taking a sideways look at me. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown either. I felt unsure of him, because he wasn’t friendly and warm like Pearl. But I was pleased somebody was taking an interest in me – and Pearl certainly was.
‘Where else shall we go?’ she asked.
‘Come and see the Japanese garden,’ I suggested, leading them round to the side of the house and through the gate in the wall.
‘Ooh! Isn’t this beautiful?’ She seemed quite excited.
I took them round to look at the little waterfalls and showed them where the toad sometimes sat, but he wasn’t there that day. I told her what I had learnt about the plants and the animals that lived there.
‘Oh, you are a clever boy!’ said Pearl with an admiring look. ‘Isn’t he, Arnold?’
But Arnold grunted and turned his head away without saying anything. It might have been a ‘yes’ sort of grunt, but maybe not.
Finally, we went a little way down the drive and I told them about our summer outings to the Clent Hills.
‘This seems like a lovely place,’ said Pearl as we walked back towards the house.
‘Yes, I love it here,’ I grinned.
‘We’ve enjoyed talking to you,’ she said, which I thought was rather odd as Arnold hadn’t said a word. ‘But I’m afraid it’s time for us to go now. Perhaps we might be able to come and see you again. Would that be all right?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed readily. Pearl seemed to be a lovely woman – I thought I’d definitely prefer to be with her than with a lot of big boys in a home full of strangers. So, off they went and I ran in, just in time to wash my hands and join my friends for tea.
That night in the dormitory, getting into bed and falling asleep to another bedtime story that I didn’t hear the end of, I didn’t give the visitors another thought. The next day, I remembered they’d been and I wondered whether I would ever see them again. I would have liked to see Pearl, but wasn’t so sure about Arnold. And I didn’t want to hasten leaving my idyllic life with my friends and all the kind staff, so when nobody told me anything, I didn’t ask.
It must have been a few days later, maybe a week, when my housemother sat me down and told me: ‘Tomorrow, your new mother and father are going to come and collect you.’
I was shocked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you remember Mr and Mrs Gallear, the nice couple who came to see you last week?’
‘Yes, but nobody said anything, so I thought they didn’t like me.’
‘Well, they did like you and they want to take you home.’
‘Are they my real mother and father?’ I asked. Children in books always seemed to have mothers and fathers, so I assumed I must have too.
‘Not your birth mother and father, no, but they want to be your foster parents.’
‘I liked her, she was nice.’
‘Good. Well, they will be your foster parents – your foster mother and foster father. You will call them Mummy and Daddy.’
‘Oh.’
‘Won’t that be nice?’
‘Tomorrow?’ I asked, suddenly welling up with tears. ‘Does it have to be tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ she said gently, giving me a cuddle when she saw how upset I was. ‘Don’t worry, they are looking forward to taking you back with them to their house, which will become your new home. They will look after you. You’re going to have your own bedroom and you will have a lovely time making lots of new friends where they live.’
I couldn’t speak for crying. My stomach went all wobbly and I just couldn’t take all this in. I suppose I didn’t want to and it all seemed so sudden – I had no time at all.
‘Can I take my cars and my spinning top?’
‘Yes, of course you can. We’ll put them in your case to take with you. I expect you will have some more toys to play with at their house, and maybe some new clothes of your own too.’ She gave me another hug.
‘Can’t I stay here a bit longer?’
‘No, little soldier, I’m afraid you can’t, but they’re not coming till after lunch tomorrow, so you can enjoy all this afternoon and tomorrow morning in the garden. Have a good run round, play with your friends and sit in your favourite tree, whatever you like. I’ll come and find you out there when I’ve gathered all your things to pack, then we can talk some more. Would you like that?’
I nodded, as more tears trickled down my cheeks.
‘Here, take my hankie.’
It was a fine summer’s day and I walked around all my favourite places, ending up on a branch of the cedar tree. How could this happen to me? I knew others had gone to foster homes before me, but I couldn’t talk to any of them to find out if they were happy there.
At bedtime I was tearful and my housemother soothed my fears as best she could.
‘What if I don’t like it there?’ I asked her.
‘You will like it,’ she reassured me. ‘It may take you a little time to settle and get used to belonging to a proper family, getting to know them better, and all their routines. You’ll soon forget all about us. You will make new friends and I expect you’ll be starting school soon. You’ll love school, you can learn all sorts of new things at school.’
She did her best to inspire me with confidence, but it didn’t really work. For once, I didn’t fall asleep before the bedtime story finished – I don’t think I was even listening. As I lay in my bed with the lights out, a shaft of waning daylight shining across my bed from a crack in the curtains, I hoped against hope that when I woke up in the morning it would all be a dream and I wouldn’t have to leave after all.
1959–71: THE CRUEL YEARS (#ulink_776472e1-0404-5195-b31e-88a589bd2437)
Richard at school, aged 8
CHAPTER 5
Goodbye to Happiness (#ulink_2c8b9be3-a929-577a-9590-cdbc57291454)
July 1959 (4 years, 8 months) – Fine healthy boy. Much more stable and happier. Full of imagination, conversation, knowledge of everyday things.
Richard’s last progress report before leaving Field House
30 August 1959 was a beautiful sunny day, but it didn’t feel sunny to me. It was the day my cosy world fell apart. That afternoon I would have to leave the only home I’d ever known – a happy home of fun and laughter with my friends, a secure place where every adult loved us and cared for us. I knew nothing of my beginnings, but I did know I didn’t want to leave Field House. I didn’t want to go and live anywhere else, I wanted to stay there for ever.
It was my last morning so I went to all my favourite places. First, to the vegetable garden, where I had ‘helped’ so often. Everything was growing well, including ‘my’ lettuces, poking up through the soil, and the runner beans I’d planted and watched growing up their canes.
‘I’m leaving today,’ I told the kindly gardener, trying to put on a brave face.
‘Are you now?’ he said. ‘We’ll miss you.’ He paused. ‘Have you got time to pick a few of these beans for the kitchen before you go? Then you can eat them for lunch.’
‘Yes, please,’ I said, perking up at the thought.
Next, I visited the Japanese garden and said goodbye to my friend the toad, who sat and croaked as if he understood.
The rest of the morning went far too quickly and when I went in for lunch, I was overjoyed that it was steak pie, mash and gravy with ‘my’ beans. It was all delicious, so I had another helping.
The housemother at our table told the other boys that I was leaving and they all came up to say goodbye to me as we left the dining room. I didn’t like them saying goodbye – I didn’t want to say goodbye, I didn’t want to go.
Finally, I went to my dormitory, where my housemother was packing my few belongings into a little, scuffed leather suitcase and ticking them off on a list.
‘I’ve packed some spare clothes for you,’ she explained in her kindest voice. I didn’t realise it at the time, but perhaps she didn’t want me to go either. ‘I’ve put in your favourite toys too.’
‘My cars?’ I asked.
‘Yes, both your cars and your spinning top.’
I pulled open the drawer by my bed: it was empty.
‘Where are my conkers?’ I asked, my anxiety rising.
‘In your case.’
I tried desperately to think what else I might need. Then I realised …
‘Where’s Jeffrey?’ I wailed. ‘My teddy!’ I felt under my bedcovers for him. ‘He’s not in my bed, I can’t go without him.’ I was panicking now.
‘It’s all right,’ she tried to soothe me. ‘Jeffrey is in the case too – I knew you wouldn’t want to go without him. I had to squash him in, but I think he’ll recover all right. I expect he’s a bit worried about going to a new home too.’
‘Oh, really?’ I hadn’t thought of that.
‘I’m sure we have packed everything now,’ she reassured me. ‘Let me give you a big hug.’ She put her arms round me and for those last few moments I felt secure. Would I feel like this with my new foster mother, in my new home? I had to hope so. I held on for as long as I could, then she gently pulled away.
‘Come on, it’s time to go.’
At two o’clock that afternoon, we stood on the drive, my housemother holding my hand and carrying my case in her other hand. This was a terrible moment – the phrase ‘gut-wrenching’ comes to mind when I think back to the forlorn little boy I was, standing, waiting.
‘They’ll be here in a minute or two,’ she said. ‘Now, I want you to be a good boy and be happy in your new home.’
I couldn’t say anything, so I just nodded.
‘You will have a good life and a good future with your foster parents.’
But I hardly knew them. I screwed up my eyes and hoped to vanish, but when I opened them again, I was still there.
The crunch of the gravel heralded the approach of a vehicle, which suddenly came into view and parked beside the house. I recognised it because one of the other boys had a toy version that looked the same. A small Ford van, it was hand-painted in two shades of blue. My housemother squeezed my hand and we walked across together. It wasn’t far and yet it seemed like a huge gulf of despair to me. I knew I had to try and be very brave.
Mr and Mrs Gallear both got out of the van and Pearl gave me a lovely smile and a wave. I immediately felt all right with her. If only Arnold looked happier to see me, I might have felt a bit better, but he wore the same stern, distant expression that he’d had the first time they came. I felt instinctively that he didn’t like me, which made me feel very uncomfortable. At that moment, young as I was, I knew it was Pearl who wanted me, not her husband.
‘Wave back to your foster mother,’ coaxed my housemother.
I did a little wave to her, but I felt too sad to smile.
As we walked towards them, Pearl came to meet us, wearing another flowery summer dress. She looked lovely, walking with footsteps as dainty as a dancer and beaming her happy smile at me. But standing by the van, like a dark shadow in the background, was Arnold, who was not even looking at me. Though I tried my best not to cry, I was sobbing inside. I clung to my housemother, but she gently released my grip and knelt down, with Pearl standing next to her, looking anxious.
‘Be a brave boy,’ said my housemother. ‘I won’t forget you and we will all be thinking of you, but these are your new parents and this is your new life.’ She stood again and passed my hand over to Pearl, who grasped it warmly, along with my little case.
‘There’s a list of Richard’s things in the top of the case, together with his medical notes for you to give to his new doctor.’
‘Thank you,’ said Pearl.
‘Off you go now,’ said my housemother. ‘You will be fine.’
I gave her a little wave and walked with Pearl to their van. In fact, I was focusing on it. From the little toy van one of my friends had, I knew there were only two front seats. Where would I sit? For a moment I hoped they would not have room for me and would leave me behind, but not so. Did Arnold know what I was thinking? As he walked round to the back and opened out the two rear doors my heart sank.
‘We’ve been looking forward to taking you home with us today,’ Pearl said with a smile and a squeeze of my hand. ‘We’ve put some carpet in the back of the van for you and a cushion to sit on,’ she explained. ‘To make you more comfortable.’
She gave him my case and he tossed it in the back. Now that my things were in there, I had to resign myself to going. I trusted Pearl, but I was wary of Arnold. At the time I didn’t know the word ‘vulnerable’, but that’s how I felt. I was reticent to clamber in, so Arnold lifted me up roughly and into the van, closing the doors behind me. Inside, I sat on the cushion with my legs stuck out in front. The only windows were at the front and little squares of glass in the rear doors, so I couldn’t see much either way.
Although I was fascinated by vehicles and knew that this was a Ford Thames van, I had never actually been inside any vehicle so this was all a new experience for me. Normally, I would have been excited, but not today. Arnold and Pearl got in and closed their doors. He started the engine and we were off. I had to put my hands out behind me so as not to fall off my cushion, going over the bumps.
As we went down the drive, I turned around to look through the back windows and saw Field House for the last time, receding and getting smaller as we went. Desperate to keep it in view, the tears running down my face, I craned my neck to see the building, my dormitory, the lawn, my friends and everyone I loved all disappearing for ever. Through the gates we went, round the bend and off down the drive towards the lane that led to the outside world. I was miserable – I had left behind everything I knew and loved and had no idea where they were taking me.
It was a very warm day and soon it became uncomfortably hot and airless in the back of the van. I struggled to keep my balance as we moved along the twisting country lanes. Before we had even reached the main road, my tummy started to feel like collywobbles inside and I began to feel ill – I think it must have been the upset and uncertainty.
Suddenly I was sick. I vomited all down the front of my clothes and my legs, onto the cushion, the carpet – everywhere. I started to cry in earnest now, as Arnold rammed on the brakes and Pearl turned around with a sympathetic glance.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said as Arnold pulled into the side of the road, muttering loudly. ‘Sorry,’ I repeated, ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’
But that was only the start of my troubles. As Pearl whispered soothing words, Arnold yelled, ‘You stupid child!’
He flung his door open and stomped round to the back of the van. As bad-tempered as he might be, I still thought he was going to clean me up and sort things out.
But I was wrong.
He yanked the doors open and with an angry face and staring eyes, dragged me out, down onto the ground. Then, right there on the gravel at the side of the road, he laid into me, fists flailing, blow after blow, shouting at me all the while.
‘How dare you make a mess like that, pouring out your filthy insides all over my van! You little brat!’ he shouted. ‘Haven’t they taught you how to behave?’
‘I didn’t m-m-mean it,’ I stammered. But he hit me all the harder.
I could understand why he was cross. I knew I shouldn’t have done that, but I couldn’t stop myself. Again and again he hit me, as I instinctively curled myself into a ball.
‘Sorry,’ I whimpered, again and again. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it.’
There I was, a little boy, not yet five, and he was a big strong man, raining punches on me. He was out of control. I didn’t understand most of the words he said, but I heard Pearl’s protests. The tears were pouring down my face and I could tell from her voice that she was crying too.
‘Stop it, Arnold! Stop hitting him!’ she pleaded. ‘That’s enough. Please stop, you’re hurting the poor child. He’s only little, and he couldn’t help it – he was car sick.’
I was crying, she was crying, and still he hit me a few more times until he’d finally sated his rage. He stood back and Pearl leant down and gently helped me up, dabbing at my tears and washing the worst of the sick off me with some water and a hankie.
‘There, there,’ she tried to soothe me. ‘You must be hurting. We’ll sort you out properly and put some cream on your bruises when we get home.’
‘Stop feeding the brat that drivel,’ ordered Arnold, ‘we’ve got a long journey to do!’ He tore me away from her, frog-marched me round to the back of the van and this time he more or less threw me in and slammed the doors shut.
I was in shock, whimpering as quietly as I could, unable to believe or understand what had happened to me. No adult had ever hurt me in any way before, let alone hit me. I had never known fear of anyone. At Field House, I had always been treated with love and care by the wonderful staff, even when I was naughty. Already I missed them so much – I wanted to ask Pearl and Arnold to take me back there, but I didn’t dare.
Was this how my life would be from now on? Were all mums and dads like this? As we set off again, I nursed my bruised and battered body, but I couldn’t stop crying, even when he shouted at me to shut up. He clearly didn’t want me, yet they had chosen me.
The journey from Field House to the Gallears’ home in Birmingham was probably only about an hour and a half, but it seemed like for ever to me, in my misery and sickness, which didn’t stop. I was very nearly sick again, but somehow managed to prevent it, fearful of another beating. Worse still, I was trembling with the shock, the pain and humiliation. I did not understand: how could the lovely matron and housemothers let me go away with this evil man? Why did nobody protect me? I was sure they would have stopped him if they’d realised what he was like. If only I could tell them, I knew they would come and rescue me – but how could I let them know?
From the back of the van, I couldn’t see much of the changing landscape, from rural to urban as we went through the city, though I glimpsed enough to know this was like nothing I’d ever seen before – an alien landscape. The one thing I did notice, as we drove along, towering over everything else, were the huge black windowless buildings in the mid-distance, which I later found out were gas tanks. Finally, we seemed to leave the city behind and travelled down side roads lined with little brick boxes with windows, some of them joined together in rows.
‘Here we are,’ announced Pearl as the van slowed down, turned and came to a halt in what seemed to be a dead end (in fact, it was a driveway). ‘Welcome to your new home.’
From the back of the van, all I could see was a brick wall, so I didn’t reply. But I was highly relieved that the van had stopped and I hoped I wouldn’t feel sick any more. Arnold came round and threw open the back doors. Fresh air at last! But he stood there with a threatening scowl. Highly aware of the awful stench of vomit that covered me and the floor of the van, I desperately wanted to get away from it, to be outside, but I was reluctant to get out with that man standing by the open doors like a predator waiting to clutch his prey.
‘Hurry up and get out,’ he barked, ‘and bring your stinking things!’
I had no choice, so I jumped down in front of him into the afternoon sunshine. It felt as if my stomach leapt after me – I was so afraid. I remember that once I had steadied myself, I was glad of the breeze to waft away some of the smell. Arnold towered over me in a menacing way, the sun glinting sharp rays off his glasses. Pearl was unlocking the front door of a tiny house – well, it seemed tiny to me, attached to another house just the same.
Having spent all my life so far in Field House, with its huge rooms and wide windows, surrounded by acres of its own land, this was a strange sight.
‘Get inside!’ ordered Arnold. ‘You smell disgusting, get those stinking clothes off!’ he sneered.
I was surprised to see that Pearl looked almost as frightened of him as I was.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ll take him in and sort him out.’
Arnold went off and she came to help me out.
‘You poor boy,’ she said in her soothing voice. ‘You must feel awful in those smelly clothes, we’ll soon clean you up and sort you out.’ She picked up my case and took me by the hand. ‘This is our house,’ she added. ‘It’s your house too now.’
I suppose I should have said something nice, instead I looked down at the ground and all I could see was concrete. I didn’t know that word, but it seemed to me that this hard stuff was everywhere – the driveway, the road surface, even on some of the houses. I had never seen anything like it. And the houses themselves were like toy houses.
I would soon come to realise this was a normal suburban road – a cul-de-sac – but I couldn’t see any wide green spaces or trees or distant hills, only a few small flowers in gardens down the road. Worse still, I could hear a continuous rumbling sound in the background, which I later found out was traffic. At Field House there had always been peace and quiet, except for the birdsong in the trees, so this was all a huge shock to me.
‘Let’s go inside,’ suggested Pearl, leading me in through the front door.
CHAPTER 6
The House of Dangers (#ulink_c5a6d866-3dbb-54e2-865f-da97c561d8d4)
Stepping into a small gloomy hallway, the first thing I noticed was the strong smell. I recognised it as a clean smell, similar to our bathroom at Field House. It was the smell of bleach. How strange that it should be in the hall of this house instead of beeswax polish. I suppose I thought everybody lived as we did, so now I would have to learn different ways.
Standing in the hallway with Pearl, I was wary of Arnold, standing behind us. She must have known.
‘Let’s go up to the bathroom first and clean you up properly,’ she said. She led the way up the stairs and straight into a clean white bathroom. ‘Take off all your clothes,’ she said, opening my case and getting out my change of summer clothes. She ran warm water into the basin and used soap and a flannel to wash me down, then dried me with a fluffy towel – much nicer than the scratchy old ones I’d been used to.
‘Can I go to the toilet?’ I asked, desperate by now.
‘Yes, of course, it’s just next door to the bathroom.’ She opened the door for me.
Meanwhile, she must have put my case in one of the bedrooms.
‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’re all clean and smell nice again. Let’s go downstairs and I’ll show you round the house.’
We walked down the thin, red cord carpet running down the middle of the stairs. At the bottom the hall floor was covered in lino, with a flowery pattern. There were three doors from the hall, one of which was closed.
‘That’s the front room,’ explained Pearl, opening the door just wide enough for me to see a dark, formal room with old-fashioned furniture and quite a musty smell. ‘You’re not allowed to go in there on your own, only when one of us is with you.’ She quickly closed the door again.
‘This is the kitchen,’ she said, taking me through an open doorway to the back of the house. It seemed very clean and sparse. Again, there was a lino floor, with a different flowery pattern and a flowery mat in front of the sink. Almost everything in this house seemed to be floral!
‘This leads to the garage,’ she said, opening a door at the side of the kitchen. ‘You can play in there if you want to, when the weather is bad.’ She opened another, narrower door at the back. ‘And this is the pantry. We keep all of our food nice and cool in here.’ She opened that door to show me the shelves, stacked high with tins and packets of all shapes and sizes.
Being a boy who loved his food, I was relieved to see that they had so much of it stored away, but I was puzzled there were no cooking or baking smells in here. I was quite hungry by now, having not eaten since lunch, but I knew I would probably have to wait until it was a meal time.
‘We bought this house when it was newly built,’ said Pearl, ‘so we could choose to have a nice modern kitchen.’
I suppose it was very modern for its time, with a stainless-steel sink, cupboards and a small work surface, plus a Formica and tubular steel table and four matching chairs – all very neat and tidy.
‘This is our sitting room,’ she said, taking me back through the hall and opening the third door, which led into a lighter, airier room. ‘Arnold and I come and sit in here in the evenings.’ She indicated the sofa and two armchairs. Then I noticed the strange wooden cupboard thing in the corner, with a small piece of glass in the front.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing at it.
‘That’s our television.’
‘What’s a television?’
‘You switch it on and it shows moving pictures of things, like in the cinema.’
‘What’s a cinema?’ This was all new to me and my curious mind.
Pearl explained in more detail about films and television programmes, which intrigued me.
‘Does it have programmes for children?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied, lowering her voice. ‘But Arnold might not let you watch those.’ She didn’t explain why. ‘We don’t watch it much,’ she continued in a whisper. ‘Arnold doesn’t like most of the programmes they show.’
‘What do you like?’ I asked Pearl, innocently, too young to interpret her reticence.
She looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know,’ she eventually answered. ‘Arnold doesn’t like me watching it when he isn’t here – he likes to decide what we watch.’ She paused. ‘He likes Dixon of Dock Green, so we watch that.’
Just then there was a metallic noise. ‘What’s that?’ I asked, turning towards the corner of the room where it came from. That’s when I saw the cage and its yellow and green occupant. ‘You’ve got a budgie!’ I exclaimed. It was the first time I had smiled since I came into this house.
‘Yes, that’s Joey,’ she said.
‘We had a budgie at Field House,’ I told her. Then I turned to the bird and said, ‘Hello, Joey.’ He didn’t reply, but he cocked his head to one side as if interested in what I was saying. ‘Hello,’ I repeated.
‘He doesn’t talk,’ explained Pearl, ‘but I think he likes you.’
I was pleased because I could look forward to getting to know Joey and maybe teach him to say ‘hello’ – I would enjoy that.
Also at that end of the room was an oak gate-leg table and four chairs.
‘This is where we eat our Sunday lunch,’ explained Pearl. ‘The rest of the time we eat in the kitchen.’
There were two windows and a French door to the back garden. I looked outside to see if there was a lovely big lawn to run around and trees to climb, but I was disappointed. There was a concrete raised area and some steps down to a patch of grass, but it was very small and being a new house, there was nothing much growing there yet.
‘Now, let’s go back upstairs and I’ll show you where your bedroom is,’ suggested Pearl. ‘We can unpack your case.’
At the top of the stairs was a landing, a bathroom and three bedrooms. I’d already seen the bathroom, which was very small, but it had everything it needed. Pearl showed me where my toothbrush and face flannel could go and she’d bought a new pale blue towel.
‘It will be your towel,’ said Pearl. ‘Just for you.’
I was rather pleased with that as I’d never had a fluffy new towel of my own before.
‘This is our bedroom, Arnold’s and mine,’ she said, pointing to a closed door. ‘It’s at the front of the house. And there is the spare room.’ She pointed to another door.
‘Now, this is your bedroom,’ said Pearl, pushing the door open and ushering me in to a tiny room – everything seemed so small here.
While Pearl busied herself opening my case and checking all the things on the list were there, I looked round the room. The first thing I noticed was the lino on the floor – a plain, light grey colour, with a dark brown coconut mat next to the bed – not soft like a furry rug, this mat looked hard and scratchy. There were thin brown and white, flowery nylon curtains at the front window. They were see-through – the sort that stick to you every time you brush past them.
The furniture, a dark wooden bed, matching chest of drawers and wardrobe, took up most of the room.
‘Would you like to see what’s in your case now?’ asked Pearl. ‘You can unpack it, if you like, while I go downstairs and put the kettle on and we can have a nice cup of tea. Come down and join me in the kitchen when you’re ready.’
After she left the room, I lifted the lid of my little case and took everything out.
First, the few clothes, all of them washed and ironed, but, as usual, none of them new. I put them away in my drawers, along with a dressing gown, coat and shoes. My housemother had thought of everything. When I opened the bottom drawer, I saw several brand-new items of clothing, which Pearl must have bought specially for me. They were really smart and I looked forward to wearing those.
Finally, I went back to look in the bottom of my case, where I found Jeffrey and tucked him into my bed. There were my two little cars with their opening doors and metal wheels that used to send sparks flying when I raced them on the flagstones in Field House. I parked those under my bed, just as I’d always done. Then I got out my precious spinning top, which I put on the floor of my wardrobe. Right at the bottom of my case, some kind soul, probably my housemother, had put in a colouring book and some crayons. I was so pleased about that because it showed kindness and I would enjoy colouring in the pages every now and then.
Down the stairs I went, as quietly as I could, so as not to disturb Arnold, wherever he was. I went into the kitchen and Pearl pulled out a chair for me to sit on. She poured out two cups of tea and we sat there companionably, sipping and chatting. I liked that: I liked the tea – I’ve loved tea ever since – and I liked Pearl’s almost musical voice and her warm smile.
‘Did you finish unpacking?’ she asked. ‘And did you find the nice new clothes I bought you?’
‘Yes, thank you. Can I wear them tomorrow?’
‘Of course you can,’ she replied. ‘Would you like a biscuit?’
‘Ooh, yes please!’ It was a long time since I had eaten and now that my tummy had calmed down, I felt quite hungry.
‘Do you think you will like having your own bedroom?’ she asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said, nodding, though I really didn’t think I would like that, but I couldn’t say so. Ever since I was a baby, I had slept in a dormitory with my friends at Field House – I was a little afraid of how I would feel, being on my own so much here.
Suddenly I heard heavy footsteps. In an instant the cosy atmosphere changed as Arnold strode into the kitchen.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked, but didn’t wait for the answer. ‘Take him up to bed!’
‘Yes, Arnold.’ Pearl nodded nervously and turned to me. ‘Come along, I’ll take your cup of tea up for you.’
So off we went, up the stairs and into my room, where she put the cup down.
‘I must go and get Arnold’s tea ready,’ she explained. ‘I’ll come back up and put you to bed as soon as I can.’
I sat on the edge of my bed and watched her leave, closing the door behind her. Perhaps she would bring me something to eat too when she came back. Though I couldn’t tell the time yet, I knew from my tummy that it must be time for a good meal. After I had finished sipping what was left in my cup, I went over to the window. I gazed out at the view and discovered that my room was at the front of the house, though I could see nothing but brick and concrete houses along concrete streets, with rows of red rooftops, all looking the same. There was not a tree or hedge and hardly a blade of grass in sight. I’d never seen a view like this before: where could I run and play?
I went back to sit on my bed. The room was bare, with nothing to look at – no pictures on the walls, no picture-books anywhere either. I closed my eyes, wishing with all my heart that I was having a nightmare and I could wake up and be back where I belonged, in our big, light, cheerful bedroom in Field House with all my friends. I hardly dared open my eyes again, but when I did, I was still a stranger in a cold little space.
After that cup of tea I wanted to go to the toilet again, but I was apprehensive to go out of my room. What if Arnold saw me? So I sat and waited until I could wait no longer. I opened my door a crack. Downstairs I could hear them both talking – Arnold’s voice curt and loud against Pearl’s softer tones. I tiptoed out onto the landing. But where was the toilet? I’d forgotten already. All the doors were closed and I didn’t know what to do.
Just then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs and dashed back into my room, fearing the worse. But it was all right: it was Pearl who came in. I was so relieved that I blurted out: ‘Can I go to the toilet?’
‘Yes, of course you can,’ she smiled. ‘Go whenever you need to.’
‘I can’t remember which door!’ I explained, in an anguished state.
She showed me and I came back to find her getting out the hand-me-down pyjamas from a drawer
‘Time for a bath and bed,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a long day. I thought you might feel more comfortable in your familiar things the first night.’
I was grateful for her thoughtfulness. It had indeed been a long and difficult day.
Pearl took me through to the bathroom and turned on the bath taps, then helped me to undress. As she tested the water, I noticed the red patches with bluish tinges beginning to show on my arms and legs. I’m sure there must have been some on my back too, because that was sore all over, but there was no mirror to check. I climbed into the lovely warm bath that immediately started to soothe my tired, battered body. Pearl passed me a large sponge and some soap. At Field House I had been used to splashing about and having fun in the bath, with the other boys coming in and out to wash and clean their teeth, chatting and laughing in the background, while one of the housemothers washed me all over. But now, here, it was dead quiet and I had a sudden urge to make some noise, so I slapped my hand down into the water and made a big splash.
Immediately, Pearl flinched. ‘We have to be quiet,’ she explained. ‘Arnold doesn’t like noise.’
So, no more splashing. I sat still while she soaped the sponge and washed my face first, then my body.
‘Poor boy,’ she said in her soft voice as she lightly washed over my tender skin. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t think those bruises will show when you have your clothes on tomorrow. You’ll be able to go out and meet the other children, make friends and play with them if you want. That will be nice, won’t it? But first, a good night’s sleep will do you a lot of good.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered as she helped me out of the bath and wrapped me up in my big bath towel, then gently rubbed me dry.
I put on the Field House pyjamas and we went back to my bedroom, where she tucked me into bed and put out the light. No story to lull me to sleep, no other children to keep me company …
‘Sleep well,’ she said and left me alone in the dark – hungry, hurting and in a state of high anxiety. It was only now that I realised I had never been in a room on my own before and I didn’t like it. At not yet five years old, I remember feeling overwhelmed. I was still shocked and confused by Arnold’s cruel beating when I was sick that afternoon – I didn’t understand. Worst still, after my bath I could feel more strongly the tender bruises all over my body, especially my back. Arnold’s attack and the long, car-sick journey had made me very tired. My tummy still cried out for food, but it didn’t look as if I would have any tonight. I tossed and turned on the lumpy mattress to try and find a comfortable position. I was miserable but, despite it all, I soon fell into a fitful sleep, full of nightmares. It must have been one of those that woke me.
Immediately, I was upset still to be here, alone and bereft. I must have been disoriented in a strange room, the pale glow of the street lamp through my flimsy curtains casting eerie shadows, distorting everything around me. Though scared of the shadows, I was even more afraid of Arnold. He had become the ogre of my nightmares, but now that I was awake, I realised afresh that he was real, terribly real.
At that moment, I wet the bed. I couldn’t stop myself.
Oh no!
At Field House, one of our lovely housemothers would have come in and comforted me with loving care, but not here. I cried in panic, trying desperately not to make any noise, but I couldn’t stop myself sobbing.
I heard a creak on the landing. The door burst open and Arnold stormed in, towering over me, shouting and swearing. I can’t remember most of what he said that night, especially the swear words, which I’d never heard before, but one or two things stood out, though I didn’t understand them.
‘You little bastard!’ he shouted at me as he pulled all my covers off. ‘Look what you’ve done! You don’t deserve our kindness in taking you in. Your parents didn’t want you, nobody wants you. You’re a bastard child, even God doesn’t want you!’
I cowered and sobbed more loudly.
Taking hold of my pyjamas in one hand and my ear in the other, he pulled me right out of bed and threw me onto the floor. As he yelled all the insults he could think of, I curled myself up in a ball on the coconut mat, while he rained slaps and punches on me and kicked me again and again, as hard as he could with his bare feet.
He was in a frenzy. Instinctively, I put my hands round my head to protect myself, but my body hurt with every blow. At one point I think I soiled myself too, but I couldn’t help it – if only he would stop. I heard myself scream out for help, but that angered the monster even more. However, my scream must have woken Pearl as the door opened and in she came, with an anguished expression and tears streaming down her face.
‘Stop! Please stop!’ she wailed at Arnold. ‘You’ve done enough,’ she pleaded. ‘If you go back to bed, I’ll sort Richard out and clean everything up.’
Arnold still had hold of me in one hand, his other fist ready to punch me again, but suddenly he dropped me, stormed out and slammed the door behind him.
‘There, there,’ soothed Pearl. ‘He’s gone now, so let’s clean you up and make you comfortable again.’
She led me into the bathroom, carefully took off my wet, soiled pyjamas, gave me a good wash down and put the big towel round me to go back in the bedroom and keep warm while she got out the new pyjamas she had bought me. After unfolding them, she passed them to me to put on, while she stripped the bed and turned the mattress: new sheets and pillowcases made it all smell nice and fresh again.
She tucked me in and said goodnight with a sorrowful smile. I gave her a weak smile back, but I was still sobbing inside. My whole body ached and throbbed from the tyrant’s attack. She turned off the light and closed the door, leaving me crying quietly to myself, under the covers. I was so tired, but was it safe to sleep? Would he come back for another attack? It was only my first night here – would every night be the same? Sore all over, I curled up in my bed and cried myself silently to sleep.
CHAPTER 7
One Day at a Time (#ulink_527c8249-11e7-567e-b294-400457094f3b)
When I woke up the next morning – my first morning away from Field House – everything seemed calm, but I was wary. Stiff and aching, I sat up in bed and listened. All I could hear was the distant clinking of cups or plates, which seemed to come from downstairs in the kitchen, but no voices. Should I get up? No, I decided it might be safer to wait and see, but I didn’t have to wait long.
‘Richard?’ called Pearl’s voice up the stairs. ‘Arnold has gone to work. Are you awake?’
‘Yes. Shall I get dressed?’
‘I’ll come up.’
I heard her running lightly up the stairs and my door opened.
‘You can wear some of the new clothes I bought you, if you like,’ she said with a warm smile, getting them out for me to look at. ‘You choose.’
This was a first for me. I picked a pale blue short-sleeved shirt and some red shorts and she helped me put them on.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied, politely. In fact, I was more than hungry – I hadn’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime, except for the one biscuit Pearl had given me. I imagined a big breakfast all laid out for me to choose from, with porridge or cereals, toast and fruit, so I gladly followed her downstairs. But the kitchen table was bare.
‘I’ll just put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll butter you a slice of toast.’
So that was it – one slice of toast for my breakfast that first morning.
It was a great relief to me that Arnold had gone to work. Pearl seemed more relaxed too, as she chatted away to me at the kitchen table.
‘We have some nice neighbours,’ she told me. ‘And there are quite a few children living in our road, some of them are about your age. They often play together outside, so you must try and make friends with them if you can.’
‘Are there some boys?’ I asked.
‘Yes, and they play together very well. I’m sure you will enjoy that.’ Pearl poured us both a second cup of tea. ‘You’ll soon be ready to start school,’ she added. ‘The infants’ school is only just round the corner, behind our garden, so we’ll be able to walk there. The teachers are very nice. They’ll teach you to read and write and you’ll be able to learn all sorts of things.’ She paused to sip her tea. ‘What would you like to learn about?’
‘Cars,’ I said straight away. ‘And I love animals, so I’d like to learn more about them – especially insects. We had a lot of insects in the Japanese garden at Field House.’
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