Nobody Came (11 page)

‘No, Sister, please don’t leave us here. I need to go and help Davie.’

Nicolas’s voice echoed my pleas. ‘No, don’t, please, Sister. I’m sorry; we won’t do it again.’

In answer she let a harsh, mocking laugh escape her lips.

‘Think about your sins now,’ I heard Sister Freda’s malevolent voice saying behind her before Sister Bernadette swung the barn doors shut, leaving two terrified boys in the dark.

Over the stench of the chickens I could smell the sharp ammonia smell of my own urine; the smell of fear.

The light faded and the shadows lengthened then deepened until we were engulfed in darkness. We heard the rattle and scraping of the old metal bolt as it slid firmly into place and knew that our pleas had been in vain; she had locked us in.

A
ll around us we could sense the undulating movements of the mass of chickens, hear their clucking and feel the whispery strokes of their feathers brushing against our bare legs. My teeth began to chatter with fear. My eyes smarted and ran as the stench of the chicken shit mixed with the smell of damp seeped into my nostrils. I closed my eyes as if to try and shut down all my senses, only to have a terrifying word enter my mind – rats.

No sooner did the thought enter my head than pictures of large rodents with yellow teeth, eyes that saw in the dark, and fat scaly tails followed. Those loathsome creatures sometimes dug their way into the barn and lurked in corners, hoping for a feast of eggs. Traps were set for them, feral cats were brought in to catch them, but I knew that was not always enough. My whole body trembled, waves of sickness rose and any thought I had had of being brave deserted me. I put my arms out and clung to Nicolas for support. I was just so frightened and utterly helpless.

I tried in vain to push aside the question that was repeating itself over and over in my head: ‘What has happened to my little brother?’ The memory of that soft thump as his body hit the floor echoed in my ears. I felt a sharp pain in my diaphragm as though giant fingers were pinching me there. My breath started to come in short, shallow bursts. Stars floated in front of my eyes, making me squeeze them shut even tighter. I wanted to block out the reality of our situation, the terrifying darkness and the image of Davie’s helpless little form being pushed and kicked towards the boot cupboard.

Perhaps sensing my rising hysteria, it was Nicolas who pulled himself together first.

‘Come on, Robbie. We have to find somewhere to sit. Open your eyes. We’ll just stand here till our eyes get used to the dark and we can see more.’

I clung to his arm even tighter. I was too petrified to do as he asked.

‘The chickens are just as scared of us, you know. But they haven’t pecked you, have they?’

True enough, although the birds were bumping into me they seemed indifferent to us and, realising that, I gradually stopped trembling. I decided not to mention rats and let go of Nicolas’s arm. I strained to see in the dim light that leaked in under the door and between the slats of the boarded-up windows. First I focused on Nicolas, and could just see that his usually confident and smiling face was pale, tear-streaked and very miserable. I tried to smile at him and received a watery smile in return and a light punch on my arm.

I looked down at the mass of chickens that swirled around us and was greatly relieved to see that their heads were bent as they searched for food in the straw and dirt.

Suddenly I thought of something that would help. ‘Hey, Nicolas,’ I whispered; I was worried that the chickens might attack me if I spoke out loud. ‘Where are the light switches? They’re always switched on when we collect the eggs.’

‘It’s no good,’ he answered. ‘The switch is on the outside. It’s in a little box to keep it dry. I used to wonder why. Now I know.’

I felt a wave of despondency as that fragile hope was dashed. My thoughts returned to poor Davie lying so still on the floor. He was dead and it was all my fault because I’d encouraged him to fool around. My heart ached and fresh tears welled up in my eyes.

‘Come on, Robbie, we have to find somewhere to sit down,’ Nicolas repeated. ‘We need to be against a wall. We don’t want to meet up with the cockerels, do we?’

A vivid picture of those brightly plumed, strutting birds came into my head. I gave a little shudder when I remembered how, when I was collecting eggs, they had raised their wings and beat them in an angry warning because I had inadvertently stepped too close to them.

Crab-like, I inched sideways, my eyes darting everywhere, searching for signs of danger. I hit the wall and leant against it thankfully.

‘How long will they leave us here?’ I asked.

‘Until they think we’ve learnt our lesson,’ Nicolas replied. ‘I know one boy before your time they kept in here for two days.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He got transferred to the mental hospital.’

I went quiet then. If children outside Sacre Coeur’s walls were frightened of the bogeyman coming to take them away, we were scared of the men in white coats who might take us in the middle of the night, put needles in our arms and shoot electricity into our brains. Some older boys had told us these stories, enjoying watching our eyes widen with fear.

‘If the nuns say that you have been really bad because you are sick in the head, that’s what happens to you,’ a boy told me. I hoped that wasn’t what had happened to Stanley.

I closed my eyes again; the morning’s events had completely tired me out. A mixture of fear and hunger – we had not had breakfast – made my stomach churn. My throat was dry and scratchy, my nose was running, my head buzzed with images of Davie’s still body and I wanted to go to the lavatory. I didn’t want to pee my pants again. I could still smell my last pee over the stench of the chickens and the tops of my legs felt cold and itchy.

I wriggled, trying to get more comfortable. I needed to stay awake because I was scared of what the chickens might do if they saw I was asleep. But the effort of keeping my eyes open was too much; my head grew heavy, my eyelids drooped and I fell into an uneasy doze.

I was wakened by the sound of a bolt being drawn back. The doors opened and light flooded in. I could see the silhouette of a nun and a smaller figure and as they came closer I saw it was Sister Claire, the young French nun, accompanied by Marc, my friend from the laundry.

Nicolas jumped to his feet and I followed suit. We hoped that she was going to let us out, but she explained that she wasn’t allowed to do that. ‘I have brought you some breakfast and a jug of water,’ she said. ‘There’s a pail here for you to use as a toilet.’

‘When will they let us out?’ I asked, with fresh tears sliding down my cheeks.

‘Soon’ she said softly. ‘Listen, Robbie, Davie is in the sick bay. He’s sleeping now, but he’s going to be all right. So dry your eyes and stop worrying.’ I was so relieved, I sobbed even harder.

She smiled kindly. ‘Marc’s going to collect some eggs so the lights will be on for a bit. There’s nothing to be scared of in here. It’s just horrid for you both, that’s all.’

She turned and left. Somehow I sensed she didn’t approve of us being locked in there and that thought gave me some comfort. Nicolas and I ripped open the bag she had put our breakfast in and gasped with pleasure. Everything in there must have come off the nuns’ table. There were hard-boiled eggs, thick slices of fresh bread spread with real butter, chunks of yellow cheese and three apples: food we seldom saw or got to eat. She had also left a bottle of creamy milk.

We gave the third apple to Marc and, in between hungry bites, bombarded him with questions.

He told us as much as he knew about what had happened after we’d been thrown in with the chickens. ‘I think Sister Bernadette was frightened at first – you know, frightened that Davie was dead. That man in charge of the gardens came in and got Davie out. He’s a centenaire.’ This was the Jersey equivalent of a community policeman. ‘Told them to open the cupboard and he took him out. It was him had a good look at him and said he had just been knocked out, with the fall and all. Mind you, if Davie had been dead, I don’t think he would have told anyone. They all stick together, that lot. Anyhow, he was still breathing so the man carried him up to the sick bay. And Sister Claire, who is really nice, is the one looking after him. He’s going to be all right, Robbie.’ He gasped for breath, his face red with the effort of providing so much information, and took a big bite out of his apple.

All I could take in was that he was alive and the relief I felt was so intense that I forgot for a few moments where we were and was almost happy.

Sister Claire came back all too soon to take Marc away and lock us in again but this time we weren’t so scared. Our stomachs were full, my panic about Davie was over and we also felt that we had an ally; that not all of the adult world was against us.

We munched the rest of our food, washed it down with some of the milk and fell into another light doze. Later on some more food was brought by one of the senior boys. This time it was our usual fare: jam sandwiches made from the hard brown bread that we were told was good for us.

Once the daylight faded and we were left completely in the dark our courage started to drain away. Every creak and rustle scared us, thoughts of the rats returned and we clutched each other in terror.

‘Those nuns will have to calm down before they let us out,’ Nicolas said miserably. ‘They must be really angry.’

I wondered if what we had done really deserved a punishment as severe as this.

We huddled together with our backs against the wall and, despite our fear, exhaustion finally made us sleep.

It wasn’t until the following morning that we were finally released. We heard the door being opened and hoped that it was Sister Claire, but it was Sister Freda who had come for us.

‘Well, boys, have you had time to repent your sins and ask the good Lord for His forgiveness?’ she asked. We noticed her smug satisfaction at seeing our tear-stained faces.

We swallowed any remaining pride, for we knew she was not someone we could fight against and win.

‘Yes, Sister,’ we said in unison. By that time we would have admitted to being guilty of any sin, as long it got us out of the barn.

She escorted us back to the main building, where she told us to go to the washrooms for a strip wash and get ready for mass. The task of cleaning the hall had been handed over to another group of boys. We were to be separated. In future Nicolas would work in the kitchen and I would have more work to do in the laundry.

‘How is Davie? Is he all right, Sister?’ I asked.

‘He’s in bed. He has a slight temperature. Apart from that he’s fine,’ she said, and I gave a huge sigh of relief. She told me that as soon as I had washed, put on clean clothes, been to mass and eaten breakfast, I could visit him for a few minutes before starting my new chores in the laundry.

He was fast asleep when I went into the sick room. I sat beside him, not certain what I should do. I thought of gently shaking him awake but was scared that I might hurt him.

As though sensing my presence, he stirred. His eyes opened and met mine. I smiled a huge smile for I was just so pleased to see him.

‘Hi, Davie, are you all right?’

A faintly puzzled look crossed his face, his eyes shut and I knew he had fallen back to sleep again.

He stayed in the sick bay for a week. I went to see him every free moment. I sat at his bedside, talked to him and drew him pictures, but all I got in return was a vague, disinterested stare. He didn’t laugh, he didn’t cry, he just looked at me in the same slightly puzzled way before turning and falling back to sleep.

After a week he was sent back to the dormitory to be with us. I was still only six years old and too young to understand what had happened to him. All I knew about illness was what a pain in the stomach and a cold were. I’d certainly never heard of brain damage. It wasn’t until I was an adult and the years of being in care were behind me that I was able to grasp what was wrong with Davie. His punishment for those few moments of fun in the hall was greater than any of us could comprehend back then.

That night I tossed and turned in my sleep gripped by a nightmare. I was in a huge room, devoid of furniture but full of dark shadows. Leaning against my legs was the warm body of my little brother. His fingers were tucked into my hand, his face turned up trustingly towards me.

The shadows shifted and from a dark corner a nun appeared. Her feet made no noise as she moved swiftly across the room. She came so close that I had to lean my head back to look up at her for she towered over us. My little brother’s grip on my hand tightened, his eyes widened and I felt him tremble. I wanted to move, wanted us to get away from her, but as much as I tried, my feet refused to obey my silent command – run!

Her gaze held mine, compelling me to stay. As I stood there her eyes grew smaller and brighter. Her nose lengthened, grew sharper until it turned into a beak. She lifted up what I had thought were her arms but instead I saw to my horror they were huge wings; wings that spread out, wrapped themselves around Davie and started drawing him away from me.

I felt his fingers begin to slide out of my hand; he screamed; I tried vainly to hold onto him, and then he was gone from my grasp. More black human-sized crows appeared, their eyes glittering with a brilliant cruelty. The beat of their wings grew louder and louder and mixed with the muffled cries of my brother.

I tried to push through them but those wings formed an impenetrable barrier, then the crows lowered their heads and started pecking at my hands and arms, pecking and pecking. Davie’s cries faded away until the pecking was the only sound left vibrating in my head. I opened my mouth to call out.

I woke.

R
ain-filled dark clouds were replaced by flocks of small birds returning from faraway countries and the sun rose earlier, throwing golden rays through our dormitory windows. In the grounds the yellow heads of daffodils nodded gently, stirred by light, warm breezes. The boys working in the garden picked huge armfuls of them, divided these into smaller bunches and wrapped them in pretty paper. Groups of boys were given the job of piling them into a wheelbarrow and taking them into town to sell. The proceeds were for the orphanage. We all wanted this job because we were often given extra coins for ourselves by members of the public.

Easter weekend came and we had two weeks off school, but it also meant back-breaking work in the orphanage, hours of solemn Easter masses where we struggled to stay awake, and vigorous baths administered by the nuns. On the plus side there was a freshly boiled egg on Easter Sunday morning and, if we were lucky, a small piece of chocolate from the Easter eggs donated by kind people who thought the orphans deserved a treat.

The nuns had failed to indoctrinate me with their ardent religious beliefs. We were told repeatedly that the Sisters did God’s work and obeyed his commands: commands that as far as I could see gave them the excuse to torment us and make our already miserable lives sheer hell. I asked myself why their God instructed them to be so cruel to us. That leather strap they all carried was used repeatedly on us. It caught me on the legs when they didn’t think I had done my work well enough; on the back when my eyes had drooped during mass; or, as once happened, when I couldn’t stop myself laughing out loud during the service. What had we done to make Him so angry?

If the nuns wanted us to know more about the religion that they told us was now ours, why were most of the sermons and all the masses in a language we could not understand?

The crucifixes and holy pictures that were liberally displayed in the orphanage showed such colossal anguish that they gave me gruesome nightmares. Behind my closed lids I saw that man coming down from the wooden cross, his damaged hands spattering blood and his mouth opened as he cried out in agony. I whimpered in sympathy, moisture leaked from my eyes and I awoke to find my pillow damp with tears.

After Davie’s accident the nuns wouldn’t let me work with Nicolas any more and they also decided I should be separated from Marc, because they knew he was a friend of mine. Marc and Nicolas were sent to work in the kitchen together and a new boy, Brian, was put in the laundry with me. Davie and Jimmy were given lighter tasks to do, usually under the concerned eyes of Sister Claire.

I liked having Brian working with me. He was a stocky, fair-haired boy with a round face and guileless blue eyes. When I asked why he was in there he told me that his mother was very ill and could no longer look after him. His father had left when Brian was still just a toddler. He couldn’t remember him. There were no other relatives that his mother could have sent him to as she was an only child and both sets of grandparents had perished during the Blitz in London. He had to fend for himself and help with some household tasks such as shopping and carrying in the coal when she first became ill, but he could not stay on his own once she was hospitalised. The nuns had taken him to visit her at first, and prayers were said for her at mass, but one day she no longer recognised him when he sat at her bedside. He had cried all the way home from the hospital, and the nuns never took him again.

His lips quivered when he said that he hoped she would get better quickly so that he could go home again. The doctor had told him that she might not and that he must be brave. Somehow Brian didn’t seem to understand what that could mean.

‘She told me she loved me and that I must be good,’ he said. ‘And she gave me this.’ From under his shirt he drew out a small gold locket. He flicked it open to reveal a tiny picture of a pretty blonde woman. The nuns had said he could wear the locket until he went to big school.

‘She said I must keep it with me always till I get married. Then I can give it to my wife,’ he said with an infectious giggle. I chortled back; at that age being a grown-up, let alone married, seemed a lifetime away.

Brian and I had quickly established a routine to make our work easier. We agreed to share the chores instead of each doing our own, and with the two of us scrubbing, rinsing and wringing together, the day seemed if not exactly to flash by, to pass more pleasantly. Between us we sorted the clothes into their various piles. We took turns doing the heavy, back-breaking job of rubbing the stained washing that the boiling had failed to clean. Up and down we scrubbed on those ridged boards until our hands were red and sore, but it was all made bearable by the odd moments when our eyes met and we burst into peals of chuckling. He became a good friend that summer when we were both trapped indoors doing one of the most unpopular jobs in the orphanage.

Working in the laundry, especially during the summer heat, was one of the most unpopular tasks and selling flowers was the most popular. But the only work that all of us were involved in was preparing for the summer fête. Every August, Sacre Coeur opened its gates to the public and held a fête that the nuns called ‘Summerland’. It was the orphanage’s biggest fund-raiser of the year and we children were its biggest asset. Preparations started in May but for the final two weeks it was all hands on deck to help with the final stages.

Groups of us, depending on our ages, were given different objects to make for the popular children’s handicraft stall. Some of the older boys had learnt to stitch a variety of patterns over lines drawn on pieces of woollen material that were then turned into cushion covers. Others had been taught to knit squares of different colours that stitched together became colourful blankets, and the youngest – Brian, Davie, Jimmy, a couple of other little boys and I – were shown how to do French knitting.

We were given wooden cotton reels with four small gold-headed nails fixed to the top. Wool was then wound round them and, with a darning needle, we would pull it repeatedly over the nails making stitches as we went. Eventually a long knitted rope appeared at the bottom of the reel. As we became more agile with the needle it didn’t take long before we were making yards of ‘knitting’.

These ropes were then sent through to the girls’ section where some were sewn into tablemats and others into slippers. We soon had a competition going amongst us to see who could make the longest rope in the shortest time. Davie was the slowest, his bottom lip protruding as he concentrated, while Jimmy surprised us by being the fastest.

There was an atmosphere of excitement throughout those weeks when we were preparing for the fête. Every child was in some way contributing towards its success and even the nuns seemed to be caught up with it and were less strict. They didn’t try to stop us chattering quietly while we were making our various crafts.

The one job that every boy wanted was selling tickets to the public during the couple of weeks before the fête. Even though the nuns supervised the boys when they took them into town, they couldn’t see everything that they did, especially when they were knocking on doors in residential streets and selling tickets door to door.

Because he was older, Nicolas was allowed to take a small group of boys to sell tickets in St Helier, under Sister Freda’s supervision. The rest of us spent the day wondering how he had got on, envious of his freedom. When he came back his pockets were bulging with sweets that he shared with Marc, Davie, Brian and me.

‘Where did you get them?’ I asked.

‘People give them to us. They gave me extra money as well. I’m going to see if you can come with me the next time I go,’ he said. ‘It’s great. I’ll tell the nice French Sister that people like to buy their tickets from the littlest ones.’

Whatever he said to convince them I don’t know, but I was allowed out with Nicolas and Marc the next time they went.

‘The secret,’ Nicolas told me, ‘is to look for holiday-makers, especially those who look near the end of it. You’ll know who they are because they have a suntan! Otherwise, try and spot the day-trippers; they’re even better. Most times they won’t want a ticket ’cos they won’t still be here for the fête. But they give you money for the orphanage – maybe as much as a shilling! The trick is that you have to look as though you’ve put it in the collection box.’ He showed me how to tuck a coin in the palm of my hand, hold it in place with my thumb and jerk the box so that the coins gave a satisfactory little clink.

‘That’s our money for sweets and stuff,’ he said.

‘Now here’s our patter: the tickets are a florin each, the money goes to help run the orphanage, there’s handicrafts that all of the children have made, there’s a choir, and there’s loads of stalls where you can win things or buy things and of course we’ve all helped, because it’s our home.’

He laughed at the disbelieving look on my face. ‘It works! Those day-trippers and holidaymakers almost feel guilty that they won’t be here to see the poor little orphans sing and dance for them. They nearly always give us something. If you get good at it we can buy ice-cream and take sweets back for Davie too.’

‘How do we get away from the nuns?’ Marc asked.

‘We walk beside a tourist for a bit until we can get round a corner. They talk to us and the nun thinks that’s because they are buying lots of tickets,’ laughed Nicolas.

It was Marc who pushed me in the direction of the first middle-aged couple, and shyly I went up to them. I clutched the tickets in my outstretched hand. I had forgotten my sales pitch and all I managed to say that anyone could have understood was ‘fête’ and ‘orphan’. I knew my face was bright red and even my ears felt fiery with embarrassment.

The woman bent down to my height and gave me a warm smile. She looked up at her smiling husband, whose nose was pink and peeling from the warm Jersey sun, with a questioning look. ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘we will have two tickets.’ He gave me four shillings that I dropped through the slot in my collecting tin and I tore off two tickets for them. ‘And here’s one and sixpence for you and your friends,’ he added, pressing the coins into the palm of my outstretched hand.

Marc and Nicolas beamed at me when, still flushed, I ran up to them clutching my booty.

‘Blimey, didn’t take you long to get the hang of it. Go and sell some more, got to keep those nuns happy, then we’ll go and have ice-cream,’ said Nicolas. I puffed up with pride.

Bold with my initial success, I went up to every couple I could find. My blushes stopped and I managed to get all the words out and smile back at them confidently. Every person I approached bought tickets. Another two people gave me sixpence for ice-cream. Several patted me on top of my head. I felt good.

St Helier’s streets and lanes were familiar territory: the colourful hanging baskets outside the shops, the cobbles underfoot, the warm sunshine and the shops selling all the things tourists loved to buy. For a day it was as if we were not part of Sacre Coeur, but just boys out in the town, laughing and ragging each other. I felt some of the same exhilarating sense of freedom that I had known the previous summer. But then I felt an almost physical pain because as those memories flooded back I suddenly realised just how much I still missed John. I knew Stanley was in hospital but I wondered if I might see Gloria anywhere. Why hadn’t she come back for us all? But I never saw so much as a glimpse of her.

The day of the fête arrived and the gates were opened to the public. All of us were going to help with the stalls, mostly behind the scenes replenishing stock and carrying trays of food out.

‘Robbie,’ said Sister Bernadette to me at breakfast, ‘I’ve heard you’re quite the salesman.’ My mouth hung open at something that sounded like praise coming from her. ‘You can work on the handicraft stall.’ My face must have lit up for that was one of the better jobs.

‘And Robbie?’ she paused.

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘Take Brian with you. His mother died this morning.’

I sold a lot of handicrafts that day and Brian helped me. Sister Bernadette had told him that his mother was now in heaven. I don’t think he knew where heaven was.