by Martina Cole
‘Nearly there.’ Mrs Barton’s voice was clipped.
As they approached a pair of huge wrought-iron gates she stopped the car. Getting out, she pulled on a long old-fashioned bell rope. The cold had made its way into the car and Cathy shivered. It was a damp cold, which chilled her to the bone. Unlike the other houses they had passed, this one looked far from jolly and inviting. It had a cold and hostile air. There were no snow-white nets at the windows, only ornamental metalwork. No decorative brick walls, only a heavy chain-link fence and barbed wire. It looked more like a fortress.
An elderly man opened the gates. As they drove past him, he peered into the car with rheumy eyes. Standing still, he watched until they had rounded a bend in the drive.
Seeing the full extent of the house, Cathy was shocked. It was huge. An old Victorian building, built for prestige not comfort. As they got out of the car, a biting wind swirled around her and permeated her thin borrowed clothes.
The impressive front door opened and they were ushered inside. The entrance hall was high-ceilinged and incredibly cold. The woman who came to greet them had a heavy bosom and a hawklike face. Her nose was like a beak and she wiped a dewdrop from it with a dirty handkerchief.
‘Who’s this then?’
Mrs Barton gave a contemptuous gesture for reply, pushing the woman from her forcibly. ‘Where’s Miss Henley? Tell her I’m here. Then take the girl and give her something to eat, and bring me a scalding hot cup of tea. Do you think you can remember all that, Deirdre?’
‘Yes, Mrs Barton, ma’am.’ The woman nodded, her hawk nose quivering with suppressed indignation.
Grabbing Cathy by the arm, she pulled her across the hallway and into a small office. As she opened the door, warmth seeped out and engulfed them.
‘Mrs Barton’s here to see you, brought this little madam with her.’ Deirdre’s voice was all affronted dignity and the small plump woman behind the desk looked at Cathy in amazement.
‘She wants tea and she wants you,’ Deirdre continued.
‘Take the girl to the kitchens and bring the tea through. I’ll see Mrs Barton.’
Cathy heard the steely tone in her voice and smiled to herself. Here was one person with no fear of the social worker.
‘What are you looking at, girl?’ The voice was hard, brooking no argument.
Cathy shook her head in distress.
‘In this establishment, you speak when you’re spoken to. Answer me, girl.’
She shook her head and tried to explain herself, but no words would come out.
‘Take her away, Deirdre. She’s obviously retarded or something.’ The contemptuous tone was too much for Cathy and she felt her eyes filling with tears.
‘I’m not a bloody retard!’ The words were out before she knew what she’d done. They were loud and shrill in the overheated room, and the plump woman’s face was a picture of shock and disbelief.
‘Take her away, Deirdre. Take her to the quiet room. No food, no nothing, until I say otherwise.’
Deirdre took Cathy roughly by the arm and dragged her down a long flight of stairs. She tried to struggle and was given a sharp pinch for her trouble.
‘You’re for it, madam. Miss Henley won’t have misbehaviour here. She’ll slap your face till your earholes rattle. And it’s no good crying and carrying on, that don’t cut no ice with her.’ She dragged Cathy bodily through the kitchen and, opening a heavy metal door, pushed her into darkness.
Cold darkness.
Realising what had happened, Cathy tried to get out by the closing door. A hefty shove sent her sprawling across the damp floor. The door banged to with terrifying finality and Cathy lay there, her heart beating a tattoo in her chest and her brain working overtime.
Her sobs of fear and rage were hysterical but nothing could be heard through the thick metal door, and no one would have been interested if they had heard her.
It was that kind of place.
Leona Henley listened avidly to Mrs Barton’s tale of woe, refilling her cup and offering her biscuits, small dainty sandwiches and slices of rich moist fruit cake.
‘I knew the girl was trouble from the moment I set eyes on her. Now you understand why I brought her here,’ the social worker finished.
Miss Henley listened with interest and then said, ‘I really shouldn’t take her. This is, after all, a criminal establishment. The girls here are too young for prison and so I get them. Thieves and bullies mainly, as you well know. I’d need a court order to take her.’
She was interrupted by Mrs Barton.
‘I can get the necessary documents. The girl practically attacked me. I’ll lodge a complaint, and you must too. I really can’t be expected to inflict her on foster parents, can I? She witnessed her whore of a mother murdering a man, and between me and you, Miss Henley, I think she was of the same occupation as the mother. On the doctor’s report it said sexual relations had recently taken place.’
Miss Henley, suitably scandalised, raised her eyebrows.
‘It’s my guess the mother caught her at it so to speak and that’s how the tragedy happened. She’s a little tart, I tell you. Needs a firm hand. And that was why I thought of you. If I can’t place her legitimately then you’re the last resort anyway, and I always speak so highly of you to everyone.’
Miss Henley knew she was caught between a rock and a very hard place. The hatchet-faced bitch in front of her wanted the girl away, and so away she would go. It was inevitable. She had seen this woman beat a recalcitrant child unconscious before now, with a ferocity that had astonished even her who had herself been guilty of the same thing, God knows. Mrs Barton was a doubly dangerous woman because she had an in with everyone. Everyone important that was. She could close a place down overnight if she wanted to; her power was great and she wielded it shamelessly.
Her husband was Mr Justice Barton and her brother the regional head of Social Services for London and the Home Counties.
‘I’m sure we can fit her in here. And you’ll provide the necessary paperwork?’ Miss Henley asked.
Mrs Barton smiled happily. ‘Of course, dear. Now how about another slice of that delicious cake? Who made it - one of the gels?’
Contented now she had achieved her aim, she relaxed and began actually to enjoy herself. It was so nice when one managed to deal with a difficult problem, as she was to remark to her husband later on.
‘A job well done, dear. I mean, how could you inflict a child like that on a nice family like the Hendersons?’
Cathy woke up on the freezing cold floor. It was pitch dark, and a musty smell of dampness hung in the air. Remembering where she was, she opened her eyes wide, hoping she would see something, anything, to dispel the total blackness. It was deathly quiet, only a faint scuffling noise, which Cathy knew instinctively was mice, breaking the silence. The mice didn’t frighten her; she had lived with worse all her life.
The floor was damp under her hands and Cathy pulled herself into a sitting position, dragging herself across the floor to sit against the wall, knees tucked up before her, arms wrapped around herself to try and keep warm.
In her mind she saw Ron’s body once more, and Eamonn’s face as he stole her virginity. Both events were mixed together in her mind and she tried desperately to try and fix on something else. Her heart was beating too fast and she fought down the hysteria welling inside her. Crying was pointless, she knew. She had to try and focus on something else, and so she thought of her mother, pleased inside that Madge had finally done something for her after all these years.
Silently Cathy thanked her. In that dark void she believed that maybe Madge would hear her and know how grateful she really was.
It was the only thing that kept her sane.
Miss Henley finally remembered to let Cathy out fifteen hours later. After Mrs Barton had left, they had gone to bed, thinking the girl would be more malleable after a night in the quiet room. But in the morning two of the inmates had had a fight, and it was early-afternoon before th
ey remembered Cathy.
Opening the heavy door, Miss Henley was surprised to find the girl sitting against the wall quite calmly. Her huge blue eyes were vacant, but as Miss Henley remarked to herself, that wasn’t anything unusual after a first taste of the quiet room.
‘Up you get.’
Cathy pulled herself to her feet and awaited further instructions. The girl’s thin coat was covered in a layer of green mould from the damp walls and her legs were blue with the cold. Still she did not say one word. Just followed her jailer from the store room, clumsy from the cold and her own lack of movement. The kitchen was warm, and Cathy noticed twin girls watching her warily.
‘Give her some tea, bread and jam. Then bring her to see me in my office.’
The girls nodded in sequence and watched the woman’s retreating back.
The twins had thick black hair and big brown eyes; each had a small blue spot on their face above the right cheekbone. They were borstal spots, Cathy recognised that much straight off and knew immediately what kind of place she was in.
‘I’m Maureen and this is Doreen. We’re in for arson. Burned our mum’s house down.’ They smiled at one another as if they had told a great joke. ‘What you here for?’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
The two girls stared at each other and shrugged. ‘Keep your own counsel if you like, but we’ll find out.’
They busied themselves getting bread and margarine from the store and pouring out a mug of thick black tea from a boiling urn.
‘Get that down you, and tell us your name.’
Cathy ate the food ravenously, and sipped at the scalding black tea as she felt her arms and legs begin to defrost.
‘I’m Cathy Connor. I’m from the East End.’
‘What you doing here? ’Tis for young offenders. You must have did something.’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I ain’t. I ain’t done nothing.’ She remembered what the nice man and the WPC had told her.
Maureen looked into her face and smiled. ‘All right then, keep your trap shut. But I warn you now, girl. Denise will want to know and she’ll find out.’
Just then Deirdre came back into the kitchen, and Cathy and the twins had to stop their discussion.
Cathy wasn’t to find out any more about Denise until much later.
Miss Henley looked at the girl before her and felt an unaccustomed twinge of guilt. The thick blonde hair was knotted, her eyes had dark circles beneath them and her legs were mottled blue from the freezing floor. This in itself didn’t bother her so much as the fact that, technically, the girl should not be here. She hadn’t actually done anything wrong.
‘Well, girl? What have you to say for yourself?’
Cathy shook her head slightly. ‘Nothing, miss. I have nothing to say.’
Miss Henley could see the confusion on her face.
‘While you’re in my establishment, I will have no back-chat, no fighting and no bad language. Do you understand what I’m telling you? If you do not, I will repeat myself. If you do understand me and you break my rules, I will hang you out to dry.’ Miss Henley smiled as she said this and Cathy felt her heart sink inside her.
‘Now I will hand you over to Deirdre who will provide you with your uniform and sleeping quarters. One word of advice: be careful of the girls here. They do not suffer fools gladly. They are, for the most part, vicious young women with a tendency towards violent behaviour. I do not tolerate it but I know that it can be, shall we say, difficult for some of the girls to control themselves. This is not a warning, it’s a statement of fact. Be careful, and abide by my rules, and you will survive here. Now, is there anything you want to ask me?’
‘Why am I here? I understand this place is for offenders.’ Cathy’s voice was carefully polite. She watched the woman’s eyes cloud over, and held her breath.
‘That will all be explained to you in due course. Deirdre, take her to her sleeping quarters.’
Cathy knew she had just made an enemy, but didn’t see any way she could have avoided the situation. If what the twins said was true, she shouldn’t even be here in the first place.
Deirdre furnished her with a blue pinafore dress, which was miles too long, and three pairs of thick black stockings. Also three hankies and two pairs of knickers. (One on, one washed, as Deirdre explained.) They were large navy blue ones with grey piping. Lastly there were two vests. Her house slippers and outside shoes would be given to her in the evening when Miss Henley opened the shoe stores.
Cathy was then led through a warren of green-painted hallways until they reached the top of the house and what were once the maids’ quarters. Deirdre pushed her gently into a small room with a high dormer window and two beds.
‘You’re in with a girl called Sally Wilden. She’s a little mare too. I reckon you’ll get on like a house on fire. Sally’s trouble, and I have a feeling on me you’ll be trouble as well. I’ve looked after girls all me life. Been here ten years and know a bad ’un when I see her. A word in your shell-like: don’t push Miss Henley. She can be a bastard and you’ve already made an enemy of Barton. Watch your step, girl. Just watch your step. Take good care of yourself here because I can tell you now, no one else will.’
Cathy looked straight into the hawklike face. ‘I shouldn’t be here, this place is for offenders. I’m not an offender.’
Deirdre smiled. ‘If Barton wants you here, here is where you’ll stay. Keep your head down and your trap shut and you’ll be all right. Once you’re here, no one from outside will get near you. Believe me, I know.’
Troubled now, Cathy left her things in the room and followed Deirdre downstairs. The smell of carbolic was overpowering, underlaid with the taint of overcooked cabbage. It was a nauseating combination.
All Cathy wanted was a bath and something proper to eat. She held on to these thoughts as they walked into the classroom. About thirty pairs of eyes turned to stare at her in open curiosity and Cathy felt herself reddening with embarrassment. Deirdre left her there without a word and Cathy stood before the class and waited to be introduced.
It was a long wait. The teacher, a tall heavy-set woman, ignored her and carried on teaching the class about personal hygiene. Cathy stood watching, taking everything in, but her face betrayed nothing.
Staring around her, she studied the girls and the teacher and decided that she’d be out of this place at the first opportunity.
Cathy Connor knew she must concentrate her mind on escape, and escape alone.
At least one of these people seemed friendly and that was something to be going on with.
Keeping her face carefully impassive, she listened and watched for the next hour and a half.
Chapter Nine
No one spoke to Cathy after the lesson ended, not even the teacher, Mrs Daggers - a name that had brought a smile to all the girls’ faces when they had first heard it. Those smiles didn’t last long, however. Mrs Daggers was known as the hardest teacher there and could give as good as she got; even the legendary Denise didn’t give Mrs Daggers any trouble.
Following the girls from the room, Cathy walked slowly towards the dining room. One girl dropped behind and whispered, ‘It’s teatime. Eat as much as you can get hold of. We get a cup of cocoa after this and that’s it till the morning.’
Cathy smiled her thanks, and they entered the dining room, where she stood behind the girl in the long crocodile waiting to be served. It was then that she met Denise.
The girl was fat, unusually so, with a pretty Oriental face. Her hands and feet seemed too small for her swollen body and her eyes were a greeny-blue instead of the brown that might have been expected. She had an air of joviality about her and Cathy smiled as the other girl spoke to her for the first time.
‘Who are you then?’ The voice was pure South London and Cathy answered confidently.
‘Cathy Connor. I’m from Bethnal Green.’
Denise smiled. ‘You’re not a Northerner then?’
Cathy said i
n a hard voice: ‘I hope not. Ain’t I got enough troubles?’
The Southern girls laughed and Denise grinned. ‘You’ll do, I suppose. What you in for?’
Cathy was shrewd. She’d had to be to live with Madge all these years, so she dropped her voice and said, ‘I’ll tell you later, when we ain’t got an audience.’
Denise stared her down for a moment. She was in a quandary now. The girl was here for a good one or she wouldn’t be so cocky. That meant Denise would want her on her team. Most girls shouted their case from the second they got through the door. This one was asking for privacy, something the others had surrendered years ago. Against her better judgement, Denise decided to be lenient this once.
‘Fair enough. Come and sit with me and we’ll discuss it.’ This way she would find out and not lose any face. The new girl intrigued her and she wanted to know what was what before she made up her mind about her.
Cathy nodded, and as they served themselves with Spam, bread and mustard pickle, all the girls watched.
Sitting opposite Denise at a long table, Cathy waited patiently for the other girl to talk.
‘I’m Denise Wong,’ she said finally. ‘You probably guessed I’m a half chat by me face. I run this place in me own way. Miss Henley relies on me, see. Without me there would be anarchy. She accepts this and we have a good working relationship. She’s a stupid old bitch and I know that. I do a lot of her dirty work for her, so she treats me with respect. Everyone does. I’m in for demanding money with menaces and prostitution. Now you know my life story, tell me yours.’
Cathy took a bite of her food and pondered how much to tell Denise. She decided on the truth.
‘I murdered a bloke, me mum’s pimp. I stabbed him. Me mum’s put her hand up for me like, to save my arse. Some old bitch called Barton took me out of nick and here I am. But I ain’t been charged with nothing.’
Denise grinned. ‘You will be. Barton’s a slag. Same story with Sally. Barton had her here and all she did was mouth off a bit. Barton’s usual is to say you attacked someone and that you can’t appear in court because you’re off your trolley. They deal with it in your absence and you get sentenced. We have a joke here, that this school is so good you have to be sent here by a judge. The thing is, you’ll need to find out what your sentence is and when you’re liable for a release date. I can do that for you. For a price, of course.’