(A short autobiographical memoir).
Standing in my stockinged-feet on the deep-pile cream carpet my eyes scanned the room three-sixty like a lighthouse. The pastel coloured walls, complementing soft settees with fluffy cushions, contrasted beautifully with the primary coloured wooden toys scattered around the room. As the warm summer sunshine streamed through the windows, the savoury smell of beef stew wafting through from the kitchen-diner filled the room; love was everywhere. Soaking up the welcoming, nurturing atmosphere of the family centre, it was almost impossible to believe that forty years earlier in this very lounge I’d been held down screaming as they sewed me up with a curved needle and no anaesthetic.
Alice became the manager when it ceased being a children’s home in the 1970s and had overseen the conversion into a family centre. Seeing the wonder on my face at the transformation she smiled broadly,
‘It’s amazing that on a random trip to the seaside with your family you saw a sign for West Boldon and drove straight to our door after so many years’.
‘As kids, the address was drummed into us in case we got lost’, I replied, stifling a laugh at the irony.
‘My wife and I are on a short trip back to the North East to spend time with my niece Mia and were off to the beach. It was she who knocked to ask if I could have a look around. To be honest that wasn’t my intention, it was the last thing I’d have done…but looking around, wow!’.
‘I’d be happy to give you a tour, we aren’t open to families for another half hour’.
‘Thank you Alice, I’d like that’
Leading the way down the corridor to the stairs she paused at a photograph display on the wall,
‘These are images of when it was a children’s home before we repurposed it. I imagine they’ll take you back’.
Looking at the photos they did…just that…into another time…
It was 1959 when I first arrived after already being in care for two years at Crossgate Moor reception centre, one of several homes for pauper children operated by Durham Poor Law Institution. By the age of four I no longer had any memory of previous family life and had become skilled at hiding my feelings while presenting as invisible as possible; the only trust I had left was the inner monologue of my gut,
‘No-one can tell by the look on my face if I’m
happy or if I am racked pain, cos
knowing the way to not show how I feel is the
way I survive though the strain inside is the
cross that I bear for my pride’.
Jimmy o’Brien was the oldest child and had been tasked by ‘Auntie’ to greet me on arrival; at nearly eighteen he didn’t have long before being packed off to life on the outside. Crouching down to line his eyes up with mine I shook, terrified, but as he placed his hand gently on my shoulder I instantly detected he was kind.
‘I was your age when I came here, so I know where you’re at, I know how you feel…’, he smiled.
For the briefest of moments I felt a sense of relief but which quickly dissipated as a crowd of boys of varying ages all older than me gathered round, smiling mischievously. With a knotted stomach, my eyes widened, remaining glued to Jimmy’s.
‘Who’s the new squirt Jimmy?…’ said one, twanging my braces to the delight of the others, ‘…looks like we’ve all moved up the pecking order lads…’.
Gently raising his palm toward the group was enough for Jimmy to pause the banter as he looked at me and continued,
‘…any problems, just come to me’ before turning to the group,
‘Now come on lads, we’ve all been here before, so make him welcome’.
‘Oh we WILL Jimmy, we WILL!’ came the grinning orchestrated reply.
Fifteen miles away, in the pit village of Stanley, Katie Dixon sat on the back steps of her two-up, two-down listening to the delighted squeals of local kids playing on the cobbled backstreet. All her life she had yearned for children but now, on the wrong side of forty, grieved it wasn’t to be. As she waited for her sister Bella calling in on her weekly visit she’d just lit up a woodbine when, almost as though she could smell the cigarette, a familiar voice called from behind,
‘You know they’re not good for you Katie’ said Bella, taking off her hat and coat and throwing the Daily Chronicle into her lap,
‘Anyway, have you seen this, they’re asking for foster parents; too many waifs to look after’.
Quickly stubbing out her cigarette, Katie looked at the paper and then up at Bella open-mouthed,
‘But do you think…. I mean, wor Billie isn’t on a big wage at the pit and… I’m nearly forty-four, and… ’
Seeing her sister’s teary eyes Bella sat down next to her on the steps,
‘Yes I do think Katie; you’d be a lovely mam. We’ll make an appointment and I’ll come with you’.
Upstairs of the family centre was as beautifully decorated as the downstairs with each room adapted to provide a variety of services. Looking through the door of what was once the boys bedroom the fragrant smell of essential oils beckoned us in.
‘This is our relaxation lounge’ said Alice. ‘It’s designed to provide a calming environment for children who have experienced trauma. Many are from broken families or have suffered some form of abuse so they come in here to get away from things for a while’.
I felt calm the minute I walked in. Turning slowly to look around the room, the soft blue tones of the walls, adorned with soothing landscapes, encompassed me like a warm blanket. Several bean bags sat between two hugely inviting dark blue fleece-covered couches which spanned the length of the longest wall; the wall where once two double beds had been bumped together.
‘Have a seat’, she whispered, closing the door and flicking a switch to dim the light.
As I sank down into a couch she placed a weighted blanket over me and as if by magic my eyes closed. Cocooned, as though in another world, it was hard to believe I was in the same room I’d slept in as a child. Gone were the beds I’d shared with three or four others with their sagging mattresses, which at some point in the night became a urine swamp. Gone were the splintered wooden floorboards I’d lay on after being regularly pushed out of the bed for a joke. Gone were the flaking painted walls, the draughty windows and even the pile of cast-offs in the corner which had adorned my skinny body as I traipsed off to school; the off-white Y-fronts, grubby liberty bodice, oversized short pants and hobnail boots. It truly was another world.
After what seemed like an age, though it was only a few minutes, the dim lighting grew gradually lighter to the sound of a gentle gong, and I opened my eyes.
‘I wasn’t sure whether or not to leave you longer, you looked so at home’ beamed Alice.
‘I did feel a bit that way Alice’, I smiled, loving how so many painful memories could be overlain by a single positive experience in the very same room.
Moving on to what was once the girls room Alice continued,
‘In here is our creative room. Lots of children love to draw, write stories and poems or learn instruments; this space gives them opportunities to express themselves. Once a week we have a teacher who comes in to teach music; most of the instruments have been donated’.
Looking around the room was like having walked into Aladdin’s cave. Racks of coloured pencils and drawing books rainbowed one wall while an orchestra of musical instruments wallpapered another. Throughout my adult years all things creative have been important to me and as a child drawing was a lifeline. Often frightened of being among the boys with their constant bullying, I tended to gravitate towards the girls spending hours in this room sitting in the corner with my drawing book; it was very much a refuge and any abuse from them was far less unpleasant. Seeing the room now as a creative hub was something I could not have wished for more; I absolutely loved it. I was thrilled for the kids yet even a little envious at having just been young at the wrong time.
Further down the corridor we passed the bathroom and, just before someone closed the door, a brief glance inside told me the four-legged bathtub with its scummy brown marks was no longer in situ. No bad thing, I thought, remembering coming out of there beetroot red after my weekly scrubbings; at least I no longer smelt of everyone else’s piss. Reaching the end of the corridor Alice opened the fire door to reveal the garden area which was now an amazing playground with trampoline, climbing frame and swings bordered by flowering bushes covered in bumble bees.
‘Wow alice! That is amazing! The only thing there before was a sea of mud where the boys played football in the evenings’, although there was just one occasion I had sat on the periphery watching them. They’d kicked the ball over next door and after being ordered to ‘fetch’ I’d clambered up onto the roof of the outhouse to scale the barbed wire fence. After slipping on the wet surface my leg became impaled on the barbed wire leaving me dangling upside down, bleeding and screaming in pain. It had been Jimmy who got me down and carried me into the lounge to wait for the doctor.
As we came back down the stairs the mouth watering savoury aroma of beef stew guided us through the brightly lit kitchen with gleaming worktops and every conceivable appliance. Gone was the long wooden table I’d sat at, gagging down boiled onions and bowls of semolina after which someone would swap their plate for mine leaving me to gag down theirs. In its place several smaller tables with crisp white cotton tablecloths and shiny cutlery awaited the hungry cherubs, due at any moment. Gone too were the coat and boot racks where, after being suited and booted, we’d join the ‘Camel Train’ to school; eldest at the front, smallest at the back to the delight of ‘outsiders’ chanting their daily refrain,
‘Here come the Clampetts!’.
After passing through the kitchen and back into the lounge we paused on the very spot I had been held down, screaming while the doctor darned my upper inner thigh with thirty six stitches. The only other time I ever recall being in the lounge was on Fridays because that was ‘cattle market day’ when prospective foster parents would come and view us all as we lined up, scrubbed up, with an ingratiating smile, hoping.
‘There’s a place, someplace, away from this place
where people all tarry and care
They love one another like sister and brother and
I pray that one day He’ll take me there
I pray that one day I’ll go there’.
Jimmy was always first to be seen and first to be rejected; he never was chosen and when finally reaching the age of eighteen was ushered out the door; it was as though he had died and a part of me had died with him. I didn’t know what was worse, the unbearable void he left or the terror of sharing his fate and being packed off into the abyss; I prayed it wasn’t that.
One day the missus and
mister will come and they’ll
love me and take me away, to a
house that is home with a
bed of my own where
forever, and always I’ll stay, stay if I may’.
By 1962 I had been in kids home for almost six years and though the incessant bullying was now less frequent, it had taken its toll; untrusting of everyone and dependent on no-one I’d developed a middle finger attitude with a cutting, sarcastic sense of humour as my first line of defence. Any hope of being fostered, after seven failed placements, had long since evaporated leaving me convinced I’d be doing a ‘Jimmy’ at eighteen. Until one day when Auntie came to me and said,
‘You have visitors’.
Bella had been true to her word; she had arranged an appointment for Katie with social services and gone with her to the initial meeting. From that day on, with Katie’s love and devotion, I had the most wonderful, loving childhood any child could ever have wished for.
At the end of the tour I hugged Alice tightly,
‘It’s been so heartwarming, thank you so much’, I said.
As I turned to leave several families were arriving with children, dancing with excitement,
‘I’m going in the music room’ said one boy to another.
‘And I’m going on the trampoline,’ squealed another.
‘And we are going to the beach Mia’ I whispered, smiling to my niece.
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