He was always talking of the future and making elaborate promises. I was promised a flat when I reached eighteen years old, and Jake was promised a top of the range motorbike! These were dreams beyond our wildest imagination; we had never in our life been this happy. But it was not to last. Uncle Steven left us all on that visit full of hope and promise for the future, but it soon transpired that we were never to see him again.
A week later, we enrolled in our new school, Broughton Middle School. We settled in well and took an immediate liking to this new school. Most of the children who attended were from poor families, who also lived on our new estate, so we did not stand out at all. In fact, we blended in very well and made lots of friends. I loved school and it was my favourite place to be; sometimes it felt like a sanctuary from our home life.
I was in the year above Jake, but we always met up at break times, and after school I waited for Jake outside the school gates so we could walk home together. We had a dog called Sooty. I cannot remember how or when we took her into our home, but I always remember how she met us at the school gates every day. Sooty loved us and was so loyal; we took her everywhere with us. As we went through the gates, Sooty jumped all over us, wagging her tail. Jake and I would smother her with kisses as we were just as pleased to see her.
On our arrival home from school one day, we walked into the house and were greeted by our mother who stood in the hallway, crying. There was a neighbour consoling her. When she saw me, she came at me like a crazed woman, giving me the biggest almighty slap on the face. She started using her fists and was punching me hard in the face, holding a letter in her hand, waving it at me, screaming, “This is all your fault, you stupid bitch!”
I had no idea what she was talking about and no idea what I had done, but apparently I had done something. No matter what went wrong in Mother’s life, she always blamed me. There were times when she would scream at me, “I wish you were never born, I never really wanted you at all, and you’re just like your father.” I started to realize that I was a permanent reminder of Christopher, my father, and she was taking her hate for him out on me.
Mother had something new to blame me for with Uncle Steven’s departure; she laid into me with both fists as I curled up into a ball. The neighbour, along with Jake, used all their strength to pull her off me. I ran upstairs and hid in my room with my head buried in my pillow, sobbing my heart out. She never apologized for that or explained how in the world it was my fault. What we did discover was that the letter from Uncle Steven revealed he was to break off the engagement, as his son had passed away and he just could not go through with the wedding, for reasons I do not know to this day. As the days passed by, our mother became more and more volatile and more dependent on the drink. She never picked us up from school, she never walked us to school, and she was never up before midday unless there was a visit from the Social Worker. Then she would make the usual effort to hide the truth about how we were really living. She had reverted back to her old awful self.
At almost nine years old, I felt totally responsible for Jake, Jenny, and Susie. I did as much as someone my age could do to amuse them and keep them out of our mother’s way, but there was always a reason for her to slap me or strike me with the dog chain if it was at hand; the dog chain was my least favourite as this hurt the most.
School was a safe place, a friendly place, the only place where we could be our true selves. I never walked home from school without Jake, not ever. We used to tease each other on the walk home and prolonged it as much as possible because there was nothing to hurry home for. Sometimes we would play Knock and Run all the way home, sometimes being chased by the annoyed occupants! We loved that game; all the kids on the estate played Knock and Run. One day when we arrived home there was no answer, so we walked around to the back gate and climbed over, letting ourselves in through the unlocked back door and walked into the house. We found our mother passed out on the sofa surrounded by empty bottles. My immediate thought was that Mother was dead. Both Jake and I filled with fear, not knowing what to do at first. I gently touched her face, hoping this would rouse her, and after a few attempts she opened her eyes.
“Amelia, what time is it?” she asked.
“Four o’clock, Mom,” I replied nervously.
“Don’t lie to me, you bitch. Why are you not at school?” Then she reached up and grabbed my hair, pulling me close to her face. “Don’t lie to me I said.” Then she slapped me hard across the face.
“Mom, we have been to school. I promise it’s nearly tea time. Jenny is due to be dropped off anytime soon.”
Mother sat up from the sofa, her hair stuck to the side of her face, yelling at me to get out and to take Jake with me.
Jake and I ran upstairs to change out of our school uniforms, and then went outside to wait for Jenny’s special school van to drop her off. The side of my face was bright red and stinging. I wiped the tears from my face and looked at Jake. He just smiled at me and said, “Don’t let her get to you, Amelia, she’s not worth it.”
In front of our house was a fantastic steep hill, and houses dotted each side of the hill. We took our old handmade skateboards to the top and lay down flat with our arms stretched out like a bird, and then we would race down to the bottom. All the kids used to line up and take turns flying down this hill on their skateboards; it was great fun and kept us busy for hours upon hours. But this day we had to keep a watchful eye out for Jenny to return home. She was almost three years old and attended a special nursery school for the physically disabled. As the van approached, I ran toward it to collect Jenny. The driver asked where my mother was. I told him she was unwell and lying down. I said goodbye and carried Jenny into the house.
Mother was in the kitchen cursing to herself. She told us all to go and watch television quietly while she was preparing dinner; there was no sign of the bottles on the floor or the overflowing ashtray that greeted us when we came home from school earlier. We all sat down for our dinner in relative silence. The table, which was simply laid out with knives and forks, looked sparse and uninviting. There was a large plate in the middle of the table full of buttered bread and salt and pepper pots on either side.
We ate in silence and were then ordered to bed soon after. Mother had made it abundantly clear that if she heard one sound from any of us she would not be held responsible for her actions.
This was how life continued for a while. When weekends arrived, Jake and I spent all our time outside. We would take our battered second hand bikes on adventures for miles armed with a puncture kit and jam sandwiches, which we had made for ourselves that morning. We would cycle to our favourite place—the old ruin with the sumptuous orchard! Oh how I loved this place; it was so magical and full of life. One day we walked around the old ruin looking for a way in. The windows were all boarded up with corrugated iron, but we were so curious to see inside because we had dreamt up all kinds of theories as to who once lived there, what had happened to them, and why it was left to ruin. As we came to the large window at the bottom right of the building, we saw a way in; it looked like someone had tried before us. How dare they, I thought, this was our place, Jake and Amelia’s.
We pulled back the bent iron sheet just enough so we could squeeze through. I climbed in first, and then Jake followed. It was very dark and dank inside. We stuck close by one another as we set about on our adventure inside the old ruin. We were awestruck at the sheer enormity of the place. As we made our way toward the stairs, I turned around to look at Jake.
“I’m okay, carry on,” he said confidently.
The stairs were very unsafe, parts of which were missing. There was no banister and lots of missing steps, so we very carefully climbed the stairs mindful not to fall into the empty holes that were once steps. As we reached the top there was a rustling sound coming from a room on the far left. Our hearts stopped for just a second. We were frozen to the spot, and then all of a sudden and without warning, a very scruffy, dirty man with scraggly hair appeared in
front of us. We jumped out of our skins screaming and ran all the way downstairs and back outside into the orchard.
From that day forth, we never attempted to go inside the ruin; however, we did make many more visits to the orchard. The old man who was living in the ruin was homeless, nameless, and he never bothered us and we never bothered him again.
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Highfield House Children’s Home
Things became so bad at home following my mother’s drunken spree. It was as if she had forgotten that she had any children at all. Scenes like this became the norm with the days that followed. One Sunday we were all sitting down to dinner and Mother was in a very bad mood. We all sat there very quietly not daring to speak. Mother came into the room and sat down. I was sitting opposite her, not feeling very hungry and so not wanting my dinner. Mother went ballistic and called me an ungrateful bitch, then without warning she stood up, reached across the table, and gave me the most almighty slap around the face, knocking my dinner all over me in the process. It was so unexpected it took me by complete surprise and almost knocked me off my chair.
I then shouted, “I hate you!” and she hit me again. So I ran out the back door through the garden and leaped over the fence.
I ran down the hill toward the main road and sat on the grass bank crying. Before I knew what was happening, my mother came running around the corner toward me, calling me all the names under the sun. She grabbed me by my hair and dragged me all the way up the hill back home, all the while shouting and screaming. Everyone was looking out of their windows, children stopped playing and pointed at us; it was humiliating to say the least.
As soon as we were back inside the house, she threw me in my bedroom and bolted the door screaming, “You will stay in there until tomorrow, you defiant bitch!” I was so upset I started banging on the door, begging her to let me out, but I was met with her sharp, nasty tongue. I was not allowed out of my room until the following day. The shouting, screaming, and arguments became all too frequent event in our lives once more.
Unsurprisingly, this started to raise the neighbour’s suspicions, and after I received yet another beating and was thrown out of the house again, the neighbours made an anonymous phone call to the Social Services. I was subsequently removed from my mother’s care and I was taken very swiftly to Highfield House Children’s Home for my own safety. Mother had started taking all her troubles out on me—being the oldest, I was the one who faced her wrath more and more. However, she was very clever at convincing the powers that be that I was the one at fault. Back then, there was a motto I often heard, Children should be seen and not heard. Unlike today, there was nowhere a child could turn to in situations like this, no help lines or charities that we were aware of to help children in distressed situations.
I arrived during the middle of the night, tired and upset. From the moment I entered the old, dark building situated at the top of the hill I despised it. There was a cold feeling to the place. I did not receive a very warm welcome, not from the staff, not from the children, not from anyone. I was shown to my bedroom and left to go to bed, but before the staff member left, she said, “One step out of line, young lady, and you will know about it.”
I did not belong there. I will never forget that night as long as I live. I felt like I was being punished for my mother’s failings; it seemed no matter what I did, life was getting worse by the day. I cried like a baby all night, my pillow was sodden with my tears. Right there, right then, I would have given anything to be at the old ruin with Jake, climbing trees and picking fruit.
I was awakened to a loud shrill-like noise at 7:30 a.m. and jumped with fright as a lady walked into the room. She greeted me with a nonchalant hello and told me to get washed and down to breakfast by 8:00 a.m. sharp, no later. She pointed in the direction of the washrooms and left me to it. I was petrified and felt like the staff had taken an immediate dislike to me, and I just knew I was in for a hard time.
I hated it there; I started crying for my mother, but my cries went unheard. It does not matter how a child is treated by their parents; they will still love them even when they fear them. I needed her to come and get me and was scared and alone. Jake was not with me. I had been placed into care by myself, alone, without my brother and sisters. Confusion and fear was setting in fast, feelings I was all too familiar with. At that moment, I would rather have faced my mother’s wrath than remain there. At least I knew what to expect and could be with my siblings, watching out for them.
I did not go down to breakfast; I didn’t know where the dining hall was or which way to go as the building was huge. I had also wet the bed and was afraid to leave the sheets where they were in fear of being punished. Eventually, a female staff member came to collect me. She was harsh and to the point. I was escorted to a communal area and advised, “You have missed breakfast now; lunch will be at 1:00 p.m.” I was also advised to stay within the confines of the communal area until lunchtime.
I was not allowed to go outside, and I was not allowed to leave the communal area as the door was locked and you could only leave the room with a member of staff by your side. It felt like I was in prison. There were only a few children residing at Highfield House during my time there. It was lonely, and the staff made no effort to make you feel at home or even at ease. I was just another passing statistic to deal with. There was very little to do on a daily basis; the communal room had a few chairs and sofas scattered about, a television in the corner, which displayed a very poor snowy picture, and a very old pool table that had been donated to the home, but that was it. They just did not have the resources; this was a temporary place for children to stay while decisions regarding their future were being made by the powers that be. A child in this place could not possibly feel more alone in the world; it was cold and unfeeling.
After about a month into my stay at Highfield House I had a visit from my Social Worker and was advised that I was going to be transferred to Breeton House Children’s Home the following day. A rush of relief swept through me. I was told it was a pleasant place and it was run like a large family home. My Social Worker convinced me this was the best decision for me. The Social Worker informed me that Mother had made it quite clear she no longer wanted me home. This obviously bought tears to my eyes and pain in my heart. I cried, asking, “Why? What about my brother and sisters?” I had never felt so rejected in my life. The feeling of despair that was deep within me was taking root.
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Breeton House (1st visit)
The following day, my Social Worker arrived and signed the relevant release papers, urging me to collect my belongings as we had quite a journey in front of us.
The long journey to Breeton House was a very quiet one; I was deep in thought, staring out the window at the passing farms and fields laid out on the countryside, like blankets of gold, a truly beautiful sight. These fields glowed like a bulb, so yellow and so bright. I wondered what was waiting for me at the end of my journey. Would I like it? Would the other children be nice to me? Would the staff talk to me? I would soon find out.
My young head was abuzz with questions and full with anxiety. Yet another move to somewhere unknown; you never got used to it no matter how many times you were shuffled around from one place to the next. I never felt settled or secure in my life. There was no routine, but this was how it would be and I had to accept it. My schooling was greatly affected by all the moves in my life. I was never in one place long enough for school to make a real difference, and with all the troubles in my home life I was constantly distracted or too worn out emotionally to take to my studies, although I tried with all my being.
After a long and thoughtful journey we arrived at Breeton House. The first thing I noticed was the enormous solid, old oak door with a large, round iron knocker that stood before us at the entrance. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before; I had no idea doors could be so huge. It was rather intimidating to say the least. The large Victorian building w
as impressive and extremely old. We were greeted by a very friendly man who turned out to be the head of the house. His name was Gary Cotterage and he had a face full of hair in the form of a very large beard. I liked him immediately; he seemed kind and gentle, and he made me feel less nervous. Gary made it his job to put me at ease straight away. I was asked if I needed a drink before I was escorted to his office to receive the rules of Breeton House.
I jumped at the chance of a glass of warm milk accompanied with two malt biscuits. There was an old woman with a white overcoat standing over a large old cream stove situated in the center of the kitchen. She had a cigarette hanging from her mouth with a long stem of ash that, looked like it was about to fall into the pot! Gary informed me that she was Dotty the cook. I liked her immediately too and she gave me a wink and smile before continuing to cook. I was taken to the office and asked to sit down while he read out the rules of the house to me.
The rules were as follows:
1.) You will receive £1.10 pence pocket money each week to spend on whatever you like at the local shop accompanied by a member of staff.
Amelia's story Page 5
