Open Writing

My Uncle Harry and Aunty Hilda did their best to
make me feel at ease but had to phone the police.
They kept asking where my dad was as they
thought I had been sent as an excuse for him to
come to the shop and rob them. When the police
came they took me to the police station the Old
Guild Hall where I was put in a detention cell, but
with the door open and an officer standing by the
door.

There was person after person coming to see
me because of the state I was in - cold, hungry,
battered and scared for my life, as I was always
taught not to trust the police because they
always lock you up for a long time. And I didn't know
what was happening.

The police eventually
put me in a police car and tried to find my
grandma in the Winning Post Pub, as I told them
that was where she drank - except all I knew it was
a pub in Balby to do with horses. They told me that
was where she was, but when we got there she
was gone, more than likely ran off because of my
dad. I suppose the police had never heard of the
electoral role, as they would have been on it because my
granddad was keen on honesty and politics.

I ended up staying the night at the police station
whilst they made inquiries. The next morning the
social worker that came to see me the night before,
Mr J. A. Robinson, came back, and told me they
couldn’t find any of my family and that I would
have to spend a week in Stanley House, a children’s
home until they sorted something out for me.
They sorted something out for me alright; it turned out
to be the longest week of my life.

When I arrived at Stanley House I was absolutely
petrified. It was a massive house, like something
you see in books about kings and princes, with
steps leading to the front door. The complete
opposite to what I was used to, after living in the
squalid conditions of caravans, backs of vans,
Gypsy sites and back lanes to a completely new
way of life.

Once I had been documented and
introduced to the staff, who seemed to care, I was
taken upstairs to the first landing to the boy’s
bathroom where I was scrubbed - literally! - before
the doctor arrived to give me a medical. I was
found to have scabies and lice. I was also on the verge
of malnutrition, covered in bruises and cuts. I also
had fits due to the beatings and a definite paranoia
of people, which were caused from my constant
beatings from my dad. What a pathetic sight I must
have looked, rather like the waif that was taken
from the streets and put into a workhouse in
Victorian times.

As far as I can tell from reading
and films there wasn’t much difference. The place
itself was spotless on the surface and stunk of the
old antiseptic disinfectant. After all the formalities
and the doctor and social worker had gone, the reality
kicked in. I was given a sandwich and a drink, then
taken to a first floor bedroom, the second room on
the left, facing the road.

It had bars on the window. I was told I had to stay in this room
as I was in isolation as they didn’t want me to pass my dirty
Gypsy germs on to other people, and if I left the
room I would be in trouble. I was frightened so I
stayed in the room, not knowing if I could get into
the nice clean bed or what I should do about food.
Some of the other children came in from play. As
they came upstairs they took turns at peaking into
the room giggling at me as if I was some sort of
fairground attraction. Some of them in their
ignorance let it be known that us Gypsies stole
children or maybe I had been stolen myself.

After they had got changed they said they were going
down for tea, so, I followed, as I had still had
nothing to eat with the exception of a sandwich.
What a mistake. I was shouted at slapped, grabbed
hold of by my hair and dragged down to the cellar
with the words, “You filthy piece of ignorant muck.
I’ll show you what happens when you don’t do as
you are told."

I was taken to a dark dingy room,
where the freezer was. It was a big one, the kind you
walk into, but with a big lock on the door, again
first room on the left, and locked in until it was
night time.

I was then taken back to isolation, where it was
pointed out that they, Mr and Mrs McCabe, slept in the
room next to me and told, “Don’t you dare get out
of that bed.” Needless to say, that night and many
nights afterwards I wet the bed, one reason was I
dare not leave the room and another was I was
petrified. The first time I did this, Mrs McCabe went
absolutely barmy and hit me with a belt, which turned
out to be normal practice. But nothing they could
do to me was anything by comparison to what had
happened to me in the past, and I refused to cry
which made her even worse, along with the
punishment, such as being locked in the freezer
room or put in a laundry basket for long periods of
time without food.

After a couple of weeks they
started to be what I thought was being nice to me.
I was given a bed space in one of the dormitories,
which was an unforgettable experience, as during
the day we all conformed to the rigid regime
imposed by Mrs McCabe. But at night, in the
dormitories the children used to sit in bed rocking
and humming or cuddling up to each other for
comfort, or crying all night, even pacing up and
down the room. It was like being in an asylum.

We were allowed to go to the toilet when they came
and let us. Not one would dare to speak or make a
noise too loud, as we would be put in the cellar as
punishment. And that is what they called being in
care. What a complete load of tosh! They had
even painted the bedroom doors on the landing
midnight blue, and as they had those springs on
them they always shut. So if you were out of your
room at night, if you ran back into the dorm, nine
times out of ten you would bump your head. So
they knew who had been out of bed anyway.

One day Mr Robinson came to see me to tell me
he thought he may have found my brothers and I
would have to go and point them out to him on one
of the Gypsy sites on the back lanes near Thorne. I
remember he had a blue Woolsey Hornet. When we
arrived we met up with the police and went to the
lane. I identified my brothers, they were put in the
police car whilst I stayed with Mr Robinson and we
all went to Castle Grim (Stanley house).

On the way back I told Mr Robinson what had happened to
me whilst I had been there, as he told me to tell
him if anything bothered me. I even told him that
when the bakery deliverymen, came they would eat
some of the bread and buns with Mrs McCabe. As it
turned out she had a deal going with her son who
would bring confectionary from where he worked,
usually stale, and she would pocket the money for
them.

When we arrived at Stanley House
everything was all pleasant and what I assume to
be normal whilst the police and social worker were
there. Frank, as usual the most selfish,
manipulating animal (more like Dad than Dad)
wasn’t there for long, as he went to live with
Grandma. But she couldn’t handle him, so he came
back. He was then adopted, leaving myself and
Vincent by ourselves - no letters or visits, which is
nothing unusual for him as he never cared for
anyone but himself.