by Caryn Walker
Sometimes I would cry and then get on with things – sometimes I still do that – but mostly I assumed that anything that went wrong was my fault. I felt there was a blackness inside me that other people could see; I could be chatty and friendly, but I felt that once people got to know me, they’d see it. At school, I was quiet, I always sat at the back and I was no trouble; I never acted out. But, the truth was, I had no chance to ever be what I could have been. There was no one to do homework with me, no one to check it, no one to encourage me. I never had anyone say, ‘Well done’ as I learned my ABC, or take my hand as I went down steps, counting as we went. No one sang songs that taught me the colours of the rainbow, no one made animal noises as they pretended we were in a farmyard. There was no colour, no joy in my childhood.
From as far back as I can remember, we all had chores. We cleaned for Mum – she would never lift a finger to do that – and it always took priority over schoolwork. From the records, I can see that the social workers did sometimes come out of the blue rather than making an appointment, so they must have suspected more than they let on in the reports. I assume that they were trying to see our family as it really was, but on those occasions Mum just wouldn’t let them in.
Even when my sister was removed from the situation, Mum’s power was still strong. ‘It is interesting to note – and I told Mrs Yeo – whenever she tells Jennifer she can come home if she stops wetting the bed, this in fact increases Jennifer’s enuresis. (20 October 1976)’
She was getting better at school by this point, and upset when she didn’t do well in tests, which was progress as, previously, she hadn’t cared. She was even Mary in the nativity play – although no one was there to see her. She was benefitting from the stability of residential care, but, from the records, everything seems very fragile.
Jenny’s case was reviewed in the middle of February 1977, and five months later a letter was sent to a Mr Carpenter at the National Children’s Home in Frodsham, from a Mr H.J. Surridge, who was the Area Social Services Officer. They noted that during the February review it had been decided that efforts would be made to ‘find suitable contacts for Jennifer with a view to fostering in the long term.’ A young couple in Wallasey were then contacted – Mr and Mrs Bill and Linda Jones – who were approved foster-parents. Linda is described in the letter as ‘a very calm, sensible girl … an ex-nursery nurse’, and the note coolly states that the couple ‘are willing to participate in the experiment’. My sister – the experiment. Jenny was taken to meet them and they were ‘anxious to commence the experiment’ with a view to a week’s trial during the summer holidays. Next step would be to get our mother to agree, which they expected would be difficult. Actually, she did agree.
By September 1977, Dad was making his dislike of the suggestions clear – records say that the social workers ‘sense obstruction’ and ‘instances of non-cooperation’. The record then goes on to say that ‘Mr Yeo eventually suggested we should not proceed with the foster-parent arrangement – although this had been their suggestion – and that we should arrange for Jennifer to have weekend visits home. The situation will be carefully monitored.’
Except it wasn’t, was it? Jenny was staying at Newton Hall by this time, and there was some stability, but the fact that there were still attempts at restoration and she was still going back home, I feel, made things harder. It was one step forward, two steps back – any progress that was made, whether on bed-wetting or behaviour, was always negated once the horror of home was inflicted on her once again. Naturally, Mum managed to swing between one thing and another, acting happy and then changing her mind, saying getting Jenny back was all she wanted, only to then, when she needed attention, claim she couldn’t deal with it. ‘I later called to tell Mrs Yeo of the arrangement – she appeared delighted. Mrs Yeo stated to me that should she feel at any time that she cannot cope with Jennifer, she will tell me and we will revert to day visits.’ (25 September 1977)
At the start of October 1977 Jenny was picked up by her social worker, a Miss Williams, and brought to see us all in Abbotsford Street – Mum was warned not to say anything ‘derisory’ about Jenny’s bed-wetting, as she was very sensitive about it. After the weekend at home, Williams noted that the bed-wetting ‘wasn’t too bad and Mrs Yeo had coped nobly!!’ She did seem to realise that this was unlikely to be the way things would be if Jenny stayed more often – ‘I know this is a “honeymoon” and no way reflects the future, but it is a start. The children get on very well together and there were protestations all round when we left. Her first comment to the nun in charge was, “My mummy wants me to go home for Christmas.”’
This was downright manipulation in my eyes – how could a little girl fail to want to be home for Christmas? I know that, by this stage, I was being told that Jenny didn’t want to stay with us, that she hated us and thought she was better than us. Mum tried to create barriers and to set us against each other, and, to a large extent, she succeeded. Jenny, as I later found out, was being told that we didn’t want her, that we had a lovely time without her, and that we all would be happier if we never saw her again. Such cruelty. Such lies.
In the middle of this are two tiny little girls, Jenny. I read that you were ‘3ft 8 inches and 3st 4 and a half pounds’ at this stage, and it breaks me. I have no idea what size I was, but there is a photo from then – one of the very few I have – and we are both just scraps. I just can’t comprehend how anyone can inflict cruelty on children so small, on any child at all.
The thing is, I know what is coming, I know it’s going to get even worse. My own memories are starting to come through, not just what I remember Mum saying about you, but the way everything was coming together – mental, emotional, physical cruelty. And both of us, kept apart and set against each other, when we could have been battling it together. I wonder what would have happened if we had been kept in the same house, all the time? Would we have been a little team, would we have given each other comfort? I know that’s a pipedream, that I am inventing things, but I wish we had been given the chance, Jenny, I wish we could have fought it together. Maybe that would have changed the next chapters in our lives, who knows?
Jenny stayed at Frodsham for some time, and all I remember was that she continued to be in and out of our lives. I don’t really have memories of what she liked or disliked, and when I read of these things in the files, they open up to me as a surprise – the elements of a sister I wasn’t really allowed to know.
Her main interests are dolls, books, and attending Brownies. Rehabilitation is a possibility in the long-term future and we must now work towards this, forgetting about the idea of fostering. There have been no letters from parents. Jennifer moved to Junior 1 in September 1977, and has settled into the class reasonably well. She is very full of her own importance and takes a poor view of having to wait her turn for attention. Orally, she appears to be quite good and is very ready to answer questions. Of course, she is an extrovert and loves to show off in front of the rest of the class. (December 1977)
The need for attention and the extroverted behaviour must all have come from the battles she had with Mum over the years, and the way in which attention was never given to her unless it was negative or attached to conditions; I can’t help but cheer little Jenny on when I read of anything in those files that shows a spark.
My own spark was something rarely ignited. As well as the cruelty over bringing animals in and out of our lives, food was another way in which power was exercised. I was always told, when we were fed, that we were very lucky and that the things we were given for dinner were absolute luxury. This would mean tinned spaghetti, but, as part of the mind games Mum revelled in, black was white, cheap was luxury and our broken little lives were charmed beyond belief when she said so. They both gave us horrible food, it was always the cheapest of the cheap, but they ate well.
As we got older, I became aware that Jenny was often sent to her room while the rest of the family ate. My brothers and I would have junk, Mu
m and Dad would have a different meal, but Jenny would get nothing. She was starved, literally starved. Sometimes I would sneak food to her, but I knew there would be hell to pay when I was caught. I wish I had done it more; I wish I had stood up to them and taken the repercussions. Living with it day to day was hard though. I was only a little girl and my world was toxic. Mum still barely spoke without swearing, and when Jenny was there she bore the brunt of it. ‘If that bitch thinks she’s getting fed tonight, she’ll have a long wait,’ she’d say. ‘She’s getting fuck all. She can lie in her own piss for all I care.’
This was a seven-year-old, a child. When Jenny lived with us, she was treated worse than an animal (although there was no kindness for any of those brought into our lives either). Mum never said a kind word to me or my big sister; I genuinely have no recollection of her ever being gentle or even neutral. It was all nasty. There were no hugs in my childhood. I have never sat in anyone’s lap while they read me a story, I have never had my hair stroked as I fell asleep, I was never told I was loved or that I was special – I was just another part of their broken, twisted world. There was no softness to Mum at all; she was always barking out insults and cursing, while Dad… well, Dad was just ‘there’. He had very little personality and there was no drive to him. At this point he was just a lazy, forgettable sort of man.
At the most, he would only spring into action when Mum told him to. When he came back from fishing trips, she would tell him how awful we’d been and that he would need to discipline us for our terrible behaviour. We’d be threatened all day with his return, but being alone with Mum was a whole lot worse than Dad coming back and hitting us. ‘If you cry, I’ll give you something to really cry about,’ she’d warn us.
She had quite a few favourite ways to make us feel terrified, but her preferred one was when she made us choose.
‘Stand there,’ she’d snap. ‘In a line. Against the wall. Don’t make a fucking sound.’ We knew better than to make any noise, but we also knew what was coming. ‘Right – who’s getting it tonight? Which one of you little bastards is going to be first when your dad gets through the door?’ It wasn’t a rhetorical question; she was actually asking us, asking us to choose which one of us should be battered. Sometimes she would decide that I or one of my brothers or Jenny should get to make the choice alone – they could pick which one of the others would be hit; at other times she would let us all argue about it, until the weakest, or the one who had no one on their side that day, was left isolated. All the time, she would sit or stand watching us, smirking, creating her own little Lord of the Flies scenario where she turned child against child, waiting for us to work out who was strong, who was vulnerable, who would turn against the rest to protect themselves.
Often, when Dad got back, she’d change her mind anyway. After the horror of making us choose, she’d select another child for him to focus his violence on, or tell him that we’d all been little shits so we all deserved a good hiding. It was completely warped that we actually thought this part was unfair – after all the decision-making, after all the pitting of one sibling against the others, it just seemed so wrong that we all got beaten anyway. It was just a power trip for her. Four or five children, all so little, all fighting for their survival.
I would tend to sit in the corner of the living room, quietly hoping no one would notice me. It rarely made a difference. Dad hated noise, and it affected a lot of things – not only did we have to shut up, or be threatened by Mum that she would tell him if we’d been noisy, but other parts of family life that could have brought some normality were twisted by what he wanted, or she wanted, which always took priority over us. My mind seems to keep going back to the dogs that came and went. They would be there one day, then the next, they were gone. Dad threw a puppy into the road one day to punish us and we watched as it was run over, a gorgeous Labrador. It seemed that as soon as we fell in love with a puppy or dog – especially me or Ian – they would get rid of it. You learn not to love; you learn to close yourself off when you’re brought up that way.
It was clear that Dad, generally, thought we were in the way, as he was permanently annoyed by us. He’d fish and come home, and we’d be in line, waiting for the violence. You could see in his face that he saw it as an imposition on his time; it was just bloody annoying to have to batter these kids after a nice, peaceful day of fishing. But Mum would be waiting: ‘She’s fucking done this, she’s fucking done that,’ would be rattled off and, if we hadn’t been forced to choose who was to be hit, she’d do the choosing, taking her time, making us sweat.
We sometimes had to choose who wouldn’t face the hands or the bat. Ian would protect me when he could. In Jenny’s absence he was the eldest, and on the rare occasions when he could wield any power he would try to look out for me, save me from it. If I was allowed to step out of line while the boys were beaten, I had to watch. I wasn’t allowed to avert my eyes, and I wasn’t allowed to say anything. It was a particularly effective form of torment. Those who were hit naturally felt awful, but the one who wasn’t felt guilty that they were escaping it on that occasion, and there was also an odd sense of not being part of the gang. All of this meant that we were constantly trying to please; but the truth was, we couldn’t – we didn’t clean properly, or we made too much noise, or she’d make up something else.
The setting us against each other was relentless. When Jenny came home, she would be told what a lovely time we all had when she wasn’t there – it was all lies of course, but it must have had an impact on her. To us, when Jenny was away, Mum would say that our big sister was living the high life, delighted to be away from us and pampered beyond belief where she was staying. More lies. I didn’t really have any concept of where she was at any particular time, whether it was in foster care or in other accommodation, partly because I was too young to comprehend the differences, partly because of Mum painting this picture of a fabulous mansion where Jenny was treated like a princess, only deigning to come back when she felt like it. Then, on her return, she would weave a web of lies about the wonderful life the four of us had with her and Dad, and I would see such a sad look in Jenny’s eyes.
I remember one time when Jenny was home from wherever she was staying, and Mum was furious for the entire visit. She had been shouting and swearing constantly, threatening Jenny the whole time, slapping her, telling her that she was nothing and that we all hated it when she was back. One day I was in the living room, trying to avoid it all, trying to make myself as invisible as possible, when I heard a commotion from the hallway. Peeking round the door so I could see what was happening on the stairs, but terrified to get involved, I saw Jenny at the top with Mum a few steps below. She was pulling one of Jenny’s arms, trying to drag her down, trying to unbalance her so that she would fall down the stairs, but Dad was holding Jenny’s other arm, trying to pull her back.
‘I’m going to kill that little fucking bitch!’ Mum was screaming. Dad, as usual, wasn’t really saying much, just a vague, ‘Now, now’, but at least he was trying to stop her from dragging my sister down to injury, possibly even broken bones. ‘Get your fucking hands off her!’ Mum ranted. She was always saying Jenny was ‘dirty’ or ‘smelly’ and I know that there were constant issues with bed-wetting. The social work reports do say it was a problem, but those who cared for her when she wasn’t at home did make progress. It all just regressed when she was back with us. Living in terror, constantly belittled, battered every day: is it any wonder she couldn’t control the bed-wetting? I get snatches of memories flooding through from those years when I was too young to make sense of it, but already knew it wasn’t right. Flashes, images that jump into my mind when I try to make sense of what Jenny’s life must have been like: a snapshot of Jenny in a kitchen chair with Mum’s hands round her throat, trying to choke her. Sometimes, the memories are more detailed and I recall the words as if there is a taped conversation in my head, imprinted from those awful days.
One day I heard a commotion coming from
the bathroom and Dad shouting something about not going ‘too far’.
‘She put that radio in the fucking bath to break it on purpose,’ Mum yelled back.
‘But don’t go too far, Lesley,’ Dad repeated.
‘Too fucking far? I’ll drown the little bitch!’ she shrieked.
And that was Jenny’s life when she was with us. In later years, she told me her first memory was Mum forcing her to eat her own poo. Who knows what those three years were like before a neighbour reported Mum for beating her? Who knows what that tiny little girl suffered, what hell she went through? There are pictures of her around that age, standing on a chair, and her body is black and blue; but she’s still smiling. I guess that was all she knew, just as it became all I knew.
I struggle to find anything good to say about those days, Jenny. It all seems so bleak – all I can think is that the bad things don’t fully make you the person you become. They don’t define you – they just make the path a little trickier, the thorns a bit more prickly. But, oh, how I wish we could have had some easier times, some happy memories. Those of us who survive should be proud of what we have been through but there is always a part that thinks, what if? What if we’d had good parents, a nice life, a chance? What if, Jenny, what if?
CHAPTER 4
WHERE THE MEMORIES BEGIN
1977–1979
We didn’t have much in the way of family life – well, not in a positive sense. Ian was quite isolated, a loner who spent most of his time in his bedroom, reading a lot. I had a doll that was almost as big as me, which I loved so much, but that was about it apart from a few bits of toys. I didn’t get to keep my doll for long as Mum gave it away to a friend of hers for her little girl, right in front of me. I begged her not to, but she just told me to ‘shut the fuck up’.
