Marjorie Her War Years

by Patricia Skidmore

  Some of the bigger girls in Marjorie’s cottage were bossy, especially those assigned to be head cottage girls. They weren’t cruel to each other, at least not physically, although their words could cut through your skin no matter how tough you tried to be. The prettier girls were treated better than the plain ones, and they thought they were better than the rest because of this. Funny that they were all in this together, but the meanness around them worked to keep some of them apart. Any girl who had a chance to be in a cottage mother’s favour used it to her advantage, and with the support of the cottage mother, the girl could get away with most anything. No one thought twice about pushing aside the weaker ones to get what they wanted.

  The best that a girl not in anyone’s favour could hope for was to be ignored. Remaining silent was a survival method many used. It was best to look away when things weren’t fair, look after yourself, and avoid getting into others’ business. It rarely worked out that way for Marjorie, though, as she wasn’t quiet when she came to Bunny’s rescue and couldn’t avoid getting punished if it meant fighting with some of the cottage mother’s pets to keep her sister safe.

  She couldn’t help Kenny, though, even if he needed it, but she kept an eye on him whenever possible. Watching him, remembering his stories, and making a promise to herself not to forget the things he told her were her ways of helping her brother. It was the only power she had. One day she would let the world know what had happened to them at this farm school.

  Seeing the boys reminded Marjorie of one of the rare chances she had to speak to Kenny last week. He had talked about the bullies again. Marjorie suspected he was holding something back and not telling her the whole story. Why were the bullies so mean to the younger ones? You would think that the big kids at this farm, many of whom had arrived when they were just little, at five or eight or ten, would know what it was like to be bullied and have some pity on the young ones, especially the newcomers, but instead the bullying just seemed to get worse. Maybe bullying the younger ones was the only way of getting even for the bullying the older ones had endured. There was a lot of anger everywhere. Guarded eyes showed fear and a lot of sadness.

  Later that day Marjorie caught a glimpse of Kenny running on the boys’ path. She darted out on the girls’ path on the opposite side of her cottage and caught up with him where the two pathways joined by the chapel. The two of them sat on the steps. She could see her cottage, which meant her cottage mother could see her if she looked her way. The cottage mum would find some chore for her to do if she saw Marjorie sitting around. Plus, the girls were not supposed to hang out and talk to the boys, but Kenny was her brother so surely this was different. They could go around the back of the chapel where they might not be noticed, but if they were caught “hiding” there, they would be punished. She kept a wary eye on her cottage door and listened while her brother talked about things. He told her that now that he was getting bigger they didn’t pick on him nearly as much. His reputation as a fast runner, and the points that winning races brought to his cottage, had gained him the respect of some of the older boys, who were willing to protect him from the bullies in the other cottages when it suited their needs. Kenny punched the air and told her that learning to box helped him, too.

  “I’m getting good at it, Marjorie.” Kenny punched at the air again to show her. “I’m going to be thirteen soon!” He beamed.

  She had almost forgotten. It would be Kenny’s birthday on Saturday. He would be a teenager! Now that she was fifteen, she received twenty-five cents a week, and she had been saving her pennies for ages so she could give him something special from the Koksilah Store. She wasn’t sure what it would be yet. Maybe she could find a little jackknife. She hoped she could get permission to go, but she would have to find one of the cottage mothers to walk the two miles each way with her; otherwise she would have nothing to give to Kenny. She rarely saw Kenny, though they grabbed a few words together maybe once every two or three weeks. She started to worry about how she could give him his present before she had even picked one out for him. Sometimes she was able to stop him at the chapel, and she did see him in the dining hall, but they weren’t allowed to mix. She could try to run his present over to his table before they stopped her, but what if they took it away from him?

  “You’re going to be a teenager, Kenny!” Marjorie stood up. “Stand up. Hey, you are almost as tall as me now. You’ll probably be taller pretty soon.”

  “I think I will be taller soon.” Kenny sat down and sang quietly:

  There’s a plymmy running back

  Down the old Koksilah track

  On the way to Fairbridge Farm

  There’s water in the petrol

  The trees are made of wood

  The spark plugs are a-missing

  And the whole darn thing’s no good.[5]

  “I think this whole place is no darn good. I can’t wait to be old enough to get out of here. Can you? Do you like it here?”

  “I hate it here, Kenny, and I dream of getting away every day. Do you want to try to go home? We would have to wait for Bunny. She will be twelve in January, so we would have to wait another four years. Or maybe we can go and send for her once we find our mum.”

  “Maybe. But I still have a long time before I can get away. It all seems so impossible at times. Sometimes I can see us looking for our family, but now I mostly think, what is the use? How can we? Where do we start? How do we even get back to England? Where would we find the money? What if they didn’t want to see us?”

  They sat quietly for a bit, and then Kenny whispered about one of the boys in his cottage.

  “Marjorie, it’s awful. I don’t know what to do. He is really little, and he has no one to protect him. He cries himself to sleep every night. And it’s not only the bullies; the cottage mother doesn’t like him, either. I don’t know why; he’s just a little guy.”

  “Why do they have to do that? Why do they have to be so mean?” Marjorie’s frustration grew, and with no way to get rid of it, it was overwhelming at times. She could just imagine what it must be like for that little boy all alone at night. She knew first-hand, as she’d felt it herself when she’d risked a thrashing many times after leaving her bed to comfort Bunny. If she didn’t quiet Bunny, the cottage mother would be in, flashing her belt. But if she got caught out of her bed, she would be the one to get a thrashing. They couldn’t win.

  How could anyone think this was a good place? But how could she let the outside people know? No one would listen to her. The trouble was, every time visitors came to the farm, they never left the kids alone with them. And when the visitors asked questions, the mums and the principal listened carefully to the children’s answers, so they all had to say that they loved it here, even though they certainly did not. They lined the children up beforehand and warned them what would happen if they were not on their very best behaviour and reinforced the way any questions must be answered.

  “I don’t want to hear that any of you have been whining and snivelling to our guests. Have I made myself clear?”

  It would have been too difficult for the children to tell total strangers anything. Most had their feelings stomped on so effectively that they had buried them deep inside long ago and now they were impossible to find. Over the years their mistrust for adults grew, especially where their emotions were concerned.

  Marjorie sighed as she looked at Kenny. She tried to piece together what he told her about the goings-on in his cottage. She thought it must be harder for the boys than for the girls. Kenny admitted that he once prayed to God for help, but it didn’t work. She wondered if there really was a God, and if there was, then it was obvious to her that he certainly did not care for all the little children.

  When Marjorie told Kenny that one of the girls in her cottage wet her bed again the other night and the cottage mother went mental, Kenny wasn’t surprised — not even when she told him that the cottage mother ha
d strapped the mattress to the girl’s back and made her carry it around for ages. He told her that his cottage mother went mental also and boxed kids’ ears if they wet the bed and that sometimes the little kids just cried all night and the cottage mother didn’t seem to care.

  “She just ignores them, Marjorie, and all they probably need is a hug. We get smacked if we help the little ones, and the bullies tease us. It’s not right, is it?” Kenny looked to his sister for confirmation. “What did we do to deserve this? And another thing.” Kenny lowered his voice and looked around. “I’m not sure what it is, but this big boy in our cottage, when the lights are out and he thinks everyone is sleeping, he creeps across the dorm and climbs into this other kid’s bed. At first I thought they were brothers and he was helping him, but then I could hear the little kid crying, and … and I hear odd noises and the crying getting worse. I think he makes him do things.”

  “Like sex things?” Marjorie, horrified by this, looked at her brother. “He doesn’t do it to you, does he?

  “No! No way! But that’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  Marjorie didn’t have time to answer before she heard her cottage mother yell, “Marjorie, get over here! You have chores to do. Stop wasting time. And, Kenny, get going or I’ll report you.” Miss Bishop was surprised how close those two were, even though the staff did their best to keep them apart.

  “Who can we tell? Bye, Kenny,” Marjorie said quickly and scampered off.

  No one here, not even his big sister, could help him or anyone else.

  In a lonely cot in a lonely cottage, Kenny closed his eyes and prayed to find himself back in Whitley Bay with his family. He wiped the tears from his eyes. He knew that he must not let anyone hear him crying. If the bigger boys heard, he would be in trouble. He shoved the coarse grey wool blanket into his mouth to muffle his sobs. He hated this place. He didn’t feel safe anywhere. His cottage mother was cruel to him, and the bigger boys bullied him. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. He tried to make friends with the bigger boys, and he tried and tried to get his cottage mother to like him, but it seemed that the harder he tried, the worse it got. He would be thirteen soon. He was growing up. He needed to survive. He wouldn’t let them break him. He would run away from this place as soon as he could.

  He shuddered at how the day had begun. Right after breakfast, his mum shouted for all the boys to line up.

  “Okay, boys!” Miss Brown had a peculiar look on her face as she looked them up and down. “One of you has taken a tin of milk from my pantry. Who took it?” She lunged out with her strap, threatening the line of boys. The big boys didn’t flinch, but the little ones nearly peed their pants. Kenny felt safe this time because he had been nowhere near the cottage all morning. “No one will move until the culprit confesses. You can stand there all day.” Her voice was getting higher and higher. She pointed to one of the older boys. “Was it you?”

  Kenny was surprised because he thought that this boy was one of her favourites.

  “No, ma’am. I saw Kenny in the pantry.” The boy grinned as he watched Kenny react with terror.

  Miss Brown turned to Kenny.

  “I knew it! You stay put. The rest of you can go. Get off with you and start your chores.” The group ran off; the older boys snickered at Kenny and poked at him as they hurried past.

  Kenny knew which boy had taken the tin of milk from the cottage mum’s pantry because he had overheard him bragging about it. It wasn’t just any tin, it was the special tin of milk that the mum ordered in for her tea, and she had warned the boys never to touch it. Kenny had tasted the open tin once when she left it on the table. It was thick and sweet. But he would never take a whole tin. At first he had smiled to himself, wanting to see this big bully finally get it. Now, looking back, it only reinforced in his young mind that it was dangerous to have a sense of security at any time. It put you off your guard.

  “It, it …” Kenny’s mind was screaming, It wasn’t me! I didn’t steal that tin of milk from the pantry. I don’t even know how to get the door unlocked.

  Miss Brown turned to him and shrieked, “Well, out with it!”

  “It wasn’t me, mum.” He finally choked the words out.

  “You little liar!” she snarled at him. “I can spot a thief a mile away! The first time I laid eyes on you I knew you were no good, you little guttersnipe. Get over here.”

  Kenny knew the drill. His eyes were huge. Fat tears wormed their way out. He took off his shirt.

  “Bend over.” Miss Brown took her strap and laid three good whacks across his back: whack! whack! whack! “Maybe that will teach you not to steal.” She gave him one more whack across his legs as he stood up.

  “Why do you hate me?” he sobbed. “Why do you hate me?” he yelled this time.

  “Because you are no good.” She slapped his back and boxed his ears. “Don’t you ever yell at me, do you hear me?” She laid the strap across the back of his legs again. “You little slum child, you waif, you street urchin, get out of my sight.”

  Kenny grabbed his shirt and ran. He felt like he was going to fall over — but not here; he had to get away.

  Miss Brown clung to her strap. She hated it when the boys yelled at her. How dare that little street rat! She hung the strap up in her favourite place: on the kitchen wall where they could all see it. She always felt better after she used it. These little ragamuffins didn’t deserve to live in this decent cottage. They should be back on the street where they belonged. She hated this job. She especially hated boys who yelled at her. Well, she hated them all, but she was secretly afraid of the older boys; that was why she let them get away with everything. She was afraid that they would gang up on her, and then what would she be able to do? She was alone every night with these little hooligans. Who knew what these boys were capable of doing, with the lack of breeding and horrible backgrounds they had? They were probably all from the criminal class. She had to take her frustrations out on the younger ones. They deserved it, too, looking up at her with those innocent little eyes. Innocent, ha! These slum children were born with bad tendencies, and it was her job to beat the bad out of them. She was doing them a favour. But this one needed a lesson. She tracked him to his hiding place and sent him to the principal’s office.

  Later Kenny whispered to the others, “I had to go to the office, and when I walked in I could see the slipper, the strap, and the willow stick hanging on the wall. I didn’t know which one I would get. I closed my eyes as I bent over.”[6] Kenny tried to stifle a sob.

  “Well, out with it. What did you get?”

  “The willow stick. I wouldn’t cry, though. I ran off afterward. I hate our horrible cottage mother. I got blamed and it wasn’t even me, but she never listens. I was nowhere near the cottage mum’s stuff!”

  “You know how it is; she always blames us for everything. She hates us. And so do the big boys. They always get us.”

  “It was awful,” piped up Kenny’s pal. “After you ran off, I tried to tell her that it was one of the big boys, and then she really got mad.” He shuddered and went on, “She said she was going to teach me for lying, and she thrashed me across the legs and called me a liar and a thief just like you.”

  If any of the boys had had anywhere to run, they would have gone. But there was nowhere to go, no one to turn to for help.

  It just didn’t seem fair, but then nothing had seemed fair to Kenny since he’d arrived. He had only one person he could talk to: his sister Marjorie.[7]

  Kenny never stopped trying to gain the affection of his cottage mother. It was survival. The boys worked hard to do their chores right, hoping to break down the wall that stood between them and a peaceful day.

  Now that the winter weather had settled in, bringing in and stacking firewood was a relentless chore for the young ones. Kenny and his cottage mates had painstakingly carried in what they hoped was a full week’s supply of wood into the base
ment for their furnace, the cookstove, and for their cottage mother’s sitting room fireplace. Their cottage mother wanted nothing less than perfection. They tried hard to avoid her anger. They stood back and admired how high their woodpile was. As they stacked, they sang a song that they heard the older boys singing. They made sure their mum didn’t hear them. It might make her mad.

  There is a mouldy home,

  Far far away,

  Where I get bread and jam

  Three times a day

  Eggs and bacon

  We don’t see

  Moth balls we get in our tea

  “Is that right? How does it go again? I can never remember it.”

  “I think it goes ‘There is a mouldy old home, far away — we never see eggs and bacon.’ No. I can’t remember.”

  “How come we never get bacon and eggs, just the cottage mum?”

  “That’s just the way it is.”

  “It’s not fair. We do all the work. Slop out the pigpen and feed and care for the pigs. Feed the chickens, clean out their cage, and collect the eggs, too.”

  The boys continued to work hard on the woodpile, always with the hope that this would get their cottage mum’s approval. As they worked, the boys sang another song. They had to be careful not to sing this one too loud when the adults were around.

  Down on Misery Farm School

  Where you work all day

  And get no pay

  I slave and slave and slave away

  And there is no tea

  For you and me

  I must be a fool

  To be at this wretched old school.

  “Look at our woodpile. It’s huge. It should last all week. Should we show the mum?” The boys stood back and surveyed their work. They were feeling pleased. “Okay, let’s call her.”