Amelia's story Read online

  2.) You must keep your room tidy and make your bed each morning.

  3.) Each child must take their turn to serve dinner once it has been prepared by the cook.

  4.) Each child must take their turn to wash up/put away.

  5.) You are not allowed outside of the grounds without the supervision of a valid member of staff.

  6.) You can make one phone call per week.

  7.) You will attend school outside of the premises.

  8.) Breakfast at 7:30 a.m., lunch at 12:30 p.m., dinner at 5:00 p.m., and finally supper at 8:00 p.m. followed by bed at 8.30 p.m.

  9.) If you run away, you will be brought back straight away and all privileges such as pocket money will be suspended; you will have your shoes and socks taken away only to be returned when you attend school.

  All things considered this sounded just fine to me. All I kept thinking about was the £1.10 pence pocket money that I would receive each Saturday morning. This was an immense amount of money to me, not to mention I had never received pocket money before. In fact, I had never had my own money at all. I was asked if I had any questions, but I shook my head to indicating I did not. Gary then took me into the main area to meet the other children.

  Unfortunately, there was one girl I immediately disliked. Her name was Glenda. She was huge, the size of a bear. She looked at me with evil eyes and made faces at me. She was much older, about thirteen years old at least, and to nine-year-old me, Glenda was a towering figure. I knew from that day forward she was not going to make my life an easy one at all. The days that followed proved that my original feelings regards Glenda were correct: she was, in simple terms, a bully, and I was her new target much to the delight of the other children as they were given a reprieve.

  I spent most of my time dodging her fist. I was always running to one member of staff or another, but they did not do anything. In fact, I think one or two of them were frightened of her. It was Glenda who had made life difficult in this home, and I was pushed to the point that it was time to run away. I waited until all the staff were asleep and sat patiently for the night watchmen to do their rounds. Then I just got dressed and sneaked out of the downstairs toilet window. I ran until I could run no more, having no idea what time it was, just that it was very late. I chose my direction and followed the lights toward the town.

  It wasn’t long before a police car pulled up alongside me and told me to get in. Boy was I in trouble. They returned me to Breeton House and I was berated on my arrival, with the staff taking a new attitude toward me. They decided to teach me a lesson and put me in a room with the very girl who was bullying me. I tried to explain why I had run away, but it was to no avail. They were not interested, and I was told to conform or I would make life very difficult for myself.

  All my privileges were revoked: no pocket money, no day trips on Saturdays, and no shoes or socks. No one ever listened; they asked why I ran away, and I tried to explain my reasons to them, and then I was punished for telling tales. This did not make sense to me at all. I was to learn very quickly that it was best to keep things to yourself; a child in care was not easily believed. It was very hard to prove your case when you were met with so much resistance from the very people who were there to protect you.

  For the next few days I just kept my head down in the grave hope I went unnoticed by everyone. I guess this was my reality. I had to get used to a whole new set of rules known nowhere other than the care system. I was now just a number to be counted every morning and counted in every evening. This was to ensure all children were present and correct and no one was missing.

  Breeton House was not so bad as far as children’s homes were concerned. This place could have been a lot worse; it was just one or two of its occupants that made life for me quite difficult at times. But the longer I was there, the more confident I became, and the more friends and allies I made. I started to learn how to stand up for myself. Glenda got bored of me and soon moved on to her next poor victim. I was to find out later that most of the other younger girls had been through the same ordeal with her and the staff just turned a blind eye.

  I was now sharing a dormitory with four other girls with whom I had become friends. We were always running around Breeton House playing hide and seek. Then, one day I passed Glenda on the stairs, and she started calling me horrible names, so I shouted back, “Fatty!” then ran for my life. She chased me all around the house until she caught up with me on the winding stone staircase. She wasted no time in grabbing me by the hair and smashing my head down into the corner of the step, which had metal clips on each corner. I passed out immediately, and Glenda ran off scared at what she had done.

  The next thing I remember was being lifted into an ambulance. I was in hospital for two days, with five stitches to the top of my right eye in my brow line. My face was swollen and turning black and blue from the severe bruising, and I was unable to open my eye for a week. The doctors said if the cut was just a little deeper I would have been blinded in that eye. My mother was informed, and she came to visit me while I was in hospital. Social Services had agreed to let me go on a home visit for a couple of days to see my siblings as I had missed them so much.

  I thought to myself that it was almost worth having lost an eye just to see them again. During my home visit, my mother was quite pleasant. She was sympathetic and said that I would be allowed home soon, all being well. When Jake and I were alone he started crying, holding on to me as if his life depended on it. “Amelia, it’s been so hard while you have been away. She takes her bad moods out on me all the time, even Jenny and Susie are getting it now.”

  I tried to reassure Jake that I would take care of him once I was back home. I could not bear to see him like this; at least if I was home Mother was not so hard on him. I hated the thought of going back to Breeton House and leaving him. I hugged him tightly and told him to keep out of her way as much as possible, and do whatever she asked of him. I promised Jake that on my return we would go to the old ruin again for the whole day.

  I told my mother how much I missed being at home and how much I missed her too, which was a lie. I just wanted to be close to Jake so I could take care of him. On my return to Breeton House, I was determined more than ever to have my case reviewed in regards to going home. I needed to be there for my siblings; they needed me more than ever now. I went to see the head of the house, Gary. He was more than happy to give me some private time to hear me out. I asked him when I could go home, as my mother wanted me back. “She’s changed, she’s happier now,” I told him. Gary advised me that sending me home was something they were considering and they would come back to me once they have spoken to my Social Worker.

  Gary also advised me that the police and my Social Worker wanted to talk to me about my accident, that this was normal practice for their records. I was interrogated by the staff and police as to whom had done this to me. I just said I had fallen down the stairs, as the thought of more problems at my door frightened me after Glenda’s attack. The police had to be called in, as any injury to a child had to be reported and investigated. On my return to Breeton House, the staff made a point of telling me how worried Glenda was about me and that she had been asking after me almost by the hour. Of course I knew why, and a short while later when I was alone in my room Glenda came in to see me. She asked if I had told anyone. I said no, and she said she was really sorry and had never meant to hurt me like that; she just lost control. She begged me never to tell, and I promised to abide by her wish as long as she left us all alone going forward. We had had enough of her.

  Glenda changed after that, and the bullying stopped, she knew full well she would have been removed from Breeton House if I had told the Social Worker and the Police what had really happened. She could not do enough for me and she actually became quite pleasant to be around. All the other kids were a lot happier too, so it seemed my beating was not in vain!

  I spent twelve months in Breeton House, during which time I was attending a local all girl's school ca
lled Mount Pleasant School for Girls. I was the only girl from Breeton House attending this school. This was a great school, and I was doing well, above what was considered average for my age in English and Math. The teachers went on to say I could excel in these areas and do well in future exams. However, regular visits to Breeton House from my mother had started to disrupt my behaviour again. She would arrive stinking of alcohol, swearing, and screaming at me in front of everyone. This was just too much for me to bear and was not helping my case for going home at all.

  I felt as if she was doing it on purpose so I would not be allowed home. It was always like this when I was doing well at something too. It was like she could not bear for me to be doing well at anything. She was the only person on this planet capable of stealing my confidence with a few lashings of her tongue. Her life’s mission seemed to be directed at making mine as miserable as possible. Why couldn’t she just be proud of me, put her arms around me, and say I love you? Why did everything have to be about her? It was so little to ask and so easy to give.

  The decision was made to reduce her weekly visits to twice monthly and this suited me fine. I missed my siblings so much it hurt beyond belief, and I still needed to get home no matter how much I did not want to live with her. All I wanted was for her to love me and be proud of me. It was very little to ask, I thought. I started truanting from school shortly after, and my subjects were noticeably suffering. I could not bear to be the only child in the school who did not go home to a family at the end of each school day. All the parents would be gathered outside the school gates, arms wide open to greet their angels, and I was greeted by a member of staff checking their watch as they were coming to the end of their shift.

  Despite having friends at the home, something was always missing, and I still felt like my life was a lonely and futile existence. I loved my school, but hated the fact that it was a constant reminder of what I did not have and made me long for it even more. I felt so different from all the other girls at my school, and all the other girls treated me like I was different, not in a bad way, just different. My life had been steeped in drama ever since I could remember—a normal, quiet life was all I wanted.

  One particular day on my arrival from school I saw an ambulance outside the main entrance of Breeton House. I watched as the medics hurriedly lifted a stretcher into the back, quickly closing the doors, but not before a female member of staff climbed in the back. All the other kids were talking about Cindy; she was probably the most mixed up child in the whole place (and there were many). She had taken a razor blade to her wrists and had obviously been very serious about killing herself.

  The staff found her in the bathroom on the floor with blood everywhere. Cindy was only thirteen years old. I felt a chill run through me after hearing the sad details of Cindy’s past. She was unhappy and hated being alive, and she spoke often of death. Her history involved sexual abuse by her stepfather, and beatings by her mother. To her, at thirteen years of age, life was not worth living. We heard later that evening that Cindy was stable and on suicide watch for the next forty-eight hours. Following that incident, Cindy never returned to Breeton House. Instead, she was sent to a psychiatric hospital for evaluation.

  The following day there was a new female arrival at Breeton House. Angela was eleven years old. She was very pretty with beautiful, raven hair and deep, blues eyes. She would not look directly at anyone or barely lift her head up to speak. I discovered several days later she was pregnant.

  “Pregnant,” I said. “How can this be possible?” I asked.

  The member of staff watching over Angela advised the rest of the children to give her lots of space as she was in a delicate way. This in itself was enough to raise the curiosity of all thirty children residing at Breeton House. Her father had systematically abused her for years, and I remember the chilling shock I felt about her pregnancy. I did not think children could get pregnant.

  Almost as soon as Angela arrived, she was gone again, just like that. This sort of thing happened a lot, but I just could not stop thinking about Angela for a long time. The haunted look in her eyes; she was like a frightened child, too scared to move. All I kept thinking about was how could that happen. It horrified me and scared me. Sadly, stories like this were all too commonplace in children’s homes.

  There was soon to be a case review, which was held every six months for each child in care. My case review was next on the list, and I prayed so hard most nights for approval to be sent home. I could not bear to think what Jake was going through. These meetings were held to determine your future going forward. They never asked me how I was doing and how I was getting on, or if I was being treated well at Breeton House. They just weren’t interested in what I had to say.

  At the case review meeting, there would be my headmaster from Mount Pleasant Girl’s School, my 2N form teacher, my Social Worker, Gary the head of Breeton House, and a member of staff. I dreaded these case reviews, as this was where everybody got to talk about you and your life, except you. Did it not occur to these people that having a little input from the child they were discussing would make life so much easier for all concerned, as everyone would understand the child so much more, then maybe, just maybe, the child would be better placed going forward. This would have been far too logical for them and don’t forget that I was living in times where the child should be seen and not heard.

  After my case review, I was called to the office. Gary asked me to take a seat and he proceeded to tell me that it had been decided that I was to return home for a trial period only. This was a huge shock, and despite praying for this decision, I was not sure how I felt. I felt excited at the prospect of being with my brother, Jake, and my sisters, Jenny and Susie, but a part of me felt dread. Yes, I longed to be with my family more than anything in the world. However, I had not missed the complexity of daily life with my mother.

  All those emotions must have poured out through my face as Gary looked at me very confused and said, “I thought you would be happy, Amelia.”

  “I am,” was my response, not quite telling the truth. I then asked myself, “Why did I say that? Why didn’t I just share my fears with him?” More importantly, why didn’t I ask him whether Mother wanted me home? Was this at her request, or was it the sole decision of the case review panel? This was very important as this would determine how life would be for me once I had been released into my mother’s care for the umpteenth time. I wanted to share with him the real reason for my wanting to go home so desperately, but I just couldn’t in fear that I would scupper this opportunity put before me.

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  Broughton Estate (back home)

  I was back at home once again. My Social Worker walked me up the path to the front door, my heart skipping a beat when the doorbell rang. As the door opened, Jake ran up to me with arms open wide and with a big smile on his face. He was delighted at seeing me, and Mother seemed quite pleased too, but I sensed an atmosphere between us and I was sure my pleasant greeting from her was for the benefit of my Social Worker. Mother asked the Social Worker to come in and made her a cup of tea. They chatted for a little while, then my Social Worker left.

  The days that followed included the occasional visit from our stepfather, Robert. I even remember he and his boyfriend taking us all on a week’s holiday to Rhyl in North Wales, a good holiday too, the only one I ever remember going on while in my mother’s care. Mother did not come with us; she enjoyed a week off, but little did we know she was lining up hubby number three already. I already knew she had a boyfriend. Jake had told me previously, “Mother’s got a new boyfriend. I don’t like him very much because he’s a bit moody!” I told him not to worry, because it probably would not last as mother had lots of boyfriends who came and went.

  Kieran was a violent alcoholic. He was unemployed, doing the odd bit of labouring on the side when he was sober. My mother was very smitten with him and hung on his every word. We children always took a back seat when she had a man in h
er life. Kieran and Mother were a bad combination as they were both alcoholics and they both encouraged each other to drink. They would get so drunk that some days our mother would forget to unlock our bedroom doors in the morning; I would be banging on the wall to get her attention and rouse her from a deep sleep. She would then stagger to my bedroom door, unlock it, and tell me to let the others out and go downstairs. “Do not make a sound,” she would say.

  All four of us would sit in the front room watching the “Saturday Morning Picture Show,” followed by, “Champion the Wonder horse,” and then there would be a Saturday morning movie, usually a Norman Wisdom one set in black and white. Everyone only had three channels back then, BBC1, BBC2, and ATV; not very many people had colour TVs on the estate, as this was reserved for the better off. Jake and I would make breakfast for us all and we would all sit together with our bowls of Ready Brek or cornflakes, still in our nightclothes watching TV. We were very careful not to make a sound, and kept the TV on very low, so as not to disturb our mother and her new boyfriend.

  They would surface around lunchtime, with bad headaches and bad moods. Mother would start her day shouting at Jake and me for making a mess in the kitchen and not putting the cereal boxes away, and then we would be told to get dressed and go outside to play and leave them in peace. Jake and I would take our younger sisters out for a walk. We would take a pushchair each and take them to the big dip; this was a great place that all the kids used to go to play at weekends, and we loved it. The big dip was a large green with a great big hole in the middle. Steps had been made down the side of the dip by the council and at the bottom there were slides and swings, lots of trees and bushes, and this was a huge playing area for the local children. However, when we had Jenny and Susie with us, it proved a challenge to get them down to the bottom with the pushchairs, especially with Jenny, as we had to be so careful and mindful of her disability; her capabilities were not as ours were. Jenny loved being taken out for walks by us, and there were nearly always tears when we had to return home.