Amelia's story

by D. G. Torrens

  We held competitions to see who could skim the furthest. I believe this old ruin has now been made into a luxury hotel. However, back then, this beautiful, old building with large, overgrown gardens was our place—Jake and Amelia’s secret place far away from the clutches of our torturous mother. At the end of the day, we would carry our bulging bags all the way home in the hope of pleasing our mother. On these occasions, even for just a little while, she smiled, accepted the fruit, and baked apple pies, blackberry pies, and plum pies. They were delicious! Our mother was a great cook and produced great, wholesome food, and when she was on form she could be quite pleasant during her more peaceful periods, but it never lasted. Not ever.

  I thanked God for our secret place, our very own secret garden, somewhere we could retreat to when things got really bad. This was the only place where we were truly happy. To us, this place was our “Garden of Eden,” with all the beautiful fruit trees and birds. It almost looked untouched by the modern world. This truly wondrous place was ours, Jake and Amelia’s, and it always would be.

  One day when we were sent home from school, (I was seven and Jake was six), the Headmaster urgently called our mother. There had been complaints by our teachers that we were both drunk and had fallen asleep at our desks during class. One of the teachers raised the concern when they could not rouse us from our sleep and could smell alcohol on our breaths. The school reported our mother to the Social Services to cover their backs, as this was normal protocol.

  Jake and I had gotten hold of our mother’s alcohol earlier that morning, not realizing what it was at all. The bottles had been left in the bottom kitchen cupboard; we came across them while making our breakfast and had drunk some before school, thinking it was pop, but we didn’t drink very much at all as the taste was pungent.

  However, it had not mixed too well with the sleeping pills our mother had slipped into our hot milk the night before. As you can imagine, she never took us to the doctor or rushed us to A&E because she knew she would be in serious trouble if they found sleeping pills in our systems once they had pumped our stomachs. Instead, she managed again to keep the Social Workers at bay with a very convincing story and apologizing for not putting the alcohol out of our reach. She claimed the only reason it was there was due to a party she had been to recently and had forgotten to store the drink in a safe place on her return from the party.

  Jake and I were feeling groggy most mornings now when we woke up. Of course, at that time, we had no idea why we always felt tired in a morning. Our lives had become quite unbearable, and we spent all our time trying to keep out of our mother’s way. In fact, we had turned it into an art form.

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  Colton Hall

  Things were slightly better for a while following the incident with our school.

  Mother was less unpredictable and made a small effort, but this was for her own gain more than Jake and I. She knew she was on thin ice once again and needed to keep the authorities at bay. Our temporary reprieve was not out of guilt for her terrible actions, but purely for selfish reasons of not wanting to be found out again for the un-fit mother she truly was.

  Our mother told us that we would soon be having a new brother or sister, and that she needed all the help we could give her, especially from me. She told me that she would be relying on me heavily in the future to help with more chores around the house and look after the children. Our mother was still smoking and drinking heavily throughout her pregnancy, yet again, the further her pregnancy advanced, the more bad tempered she became. A couple of months before Jenny was born, we were told that we would have to go into care for a while as she needed some space.

  Shortly after this, she voluntarily placed both Jake and I into care. She once again could not cope with the responsibility of Jake and I while she was expecting her third child. We were sent to Colton Hall Children’s Nursery Home in Shropshire. I remember it very well. I cried, believing she was unable to cope because Jake and I were naughty. She drank all throughout her third pregnancy, ate very little, and smoked in a manner that made you wonder if cigarettes were going to become extinct soon. Unfortunately, Jenny was born physically disabled and with cerebral palsy.

  Jake and I spent the Christmas holiday in Colton Hall with no visitors. I remember waking up on Christmas day in strange, somber surroundings. As I looked around, I could see we were in a dormitory with at least ten other children who were already awake and huddled together laughing at us. Then one child pointed our beds, and Jake shouted, “Look, Amelia, your bed.” I looked down at my bed and the bottom half was soiled. Jake’s was just the same too.

  We climbed out of our beds and just sat on the floor close to each other until a member of staff came into the dormitory. We were to discover a little later that all new kids got this treatment on their arrival at Colton Hall. That same morning we noticed there was a plastic see-through bag at the end of our beds this contained fruit and a few little pleasures such as a coloring book and a bar of chocolate. All the other children were hurriedly searching through their bags to see what Father Christmas had brought for them.

  Some of the more fortunate children were blessed with visits from their parents on this special day and some were not so fortunate. I remember that during our time at Colton Hall, I felt lonely and I wanted to go home. I did not understand why we were there, where our mother was, and why had she not stopped by to see us over Christmas. To a seven-year-old child this was a very emotional thing to deal with, and to even try and make sense of it all was a sheer impossibility. I just know that I felt like Jake and I were to blame for everything. We really believed that everything was our fault because we had been naughty. We did not take well to Colton Hall and spent most of our time crying or sitting together and not saying much to anyone from one day to the next.

  Eventually we were allowed home, and we were greeted with smiles and pleasantries. Our mother made an effort for a while with promises that everything was going to be much better from now on and that we all had to stick together. However, this didn’t last very long before Mother fell foul to her usual and cruel ways.

  Soon after our half-sister was born, it became apparent that the rest of the world was to blame for Jenny’s disabilities. Mother was struggling to cope with Jenny, as she was born disabled and one leg was a little shorter than the other, so hospital visits and the frequent journeys were becoming too much for her to bear. Jenny was unable to walk by herself for a very long time. Jenny was beautiful despite her obvious disability. She was always smiling and laughing. In fact, she was so unaware of her surroundings, it’s fair to say she was the happiest of us all and thank God for that small mercy. Jake and I loved her instantly. Jenny had a shock of beautiful, yellow hair and bright, blue eyes, and her smile reached from one end of her face to the other. She was a true blessing for Jake and I. I loved her with all of my being and was amazed with this tiny new addition to our family. Jenny was a good few months old when we arrived home.

  A short while later, and totally out of the blue, Jenny, Jake, and I were urgently whisked away without any warning and with just a few clothes to cover us for the next few days. We were told that our mother and father had been taken ill and needed to recuperate for a while. We were left at a neighbour’s house the day before, but our parents never returned home. Everyone was anxious, but they were trying so hard not to worry us.

  As the events unfolded, I discovered that Mother and Robert had both taken a suicide pact and overdosed together. They were eventually found by concerned neighbours who had slipped over the back gate and let themselves into the house. They immediately called an ambulance, and then they called the Social Services. Jake and I were both devastated; we had very little knowledge of what was going on, only that it was very serious. Of course, we both knew where this was going to lead again. We were sure that we would be placed in yet another children’s home. Once again we were left fearing our immediate future, and the familiar feeling of instability, insecurity,
and fear consumed us at that time.

  We were all sent to Colton Hall again, while our mother and father were being investigated by Social Services and the health services for their stability as parents. We at least were familiar with the surroundings of Colton Hall. We knew one or two of the children who were permanent residents until they reached a certain age and then they would be moved on to another home. So, settling in the second time was far easier on us all than it was the first time. We were spared the usual ritual of our beds being soiled, which was a relief to both Jake and I. The staff did all they could to make us feel welcome, and I remember that our breakfast sitting was the very first time I had tasted honey. I was encouraged to try some with my porridge and it was delicious! I’ve loved it ever since. I will never forget that first taste in my mouth, a beautiful mixture of honey and oats! As the days passed, we were all settling into a routine. We were quite happy and had adapted well to our temporary surroundings. I loved the fact that we had a set breakfast time each day. In the morning when the alarm rang out like a billowing horn, we all jumped out of bed and washed before we were all escorted to the small dining hall where there was a feast fit for a king set out before us. This was something we were definitely not used to at all. The tables were laid with plain plastic cloths and small-sized cutlery. The table was adorned with mini-sized boxes of cereal for us to choose from, there was warm toast delicately cut into triangles in a neat, little toast rack, and the option to have warm porridge was there if we preferred.

  I never wanted to leave the table. I wanted to eat everything set out before me, and most mornings I did! After breakfast we headed into the nursery area, which also doubled into a play area for the five- to- seven-year-olds. Activities would be arranged to keep us amused until lunchtime arrived. Once again we would be greeted with a delicious feast of meat and potatoes and a side dish of peas, simple wholesome food. I loved it and the regular routine was so good for us all.

  We thought about our parents less and less mainly due to the regular stability Colton Hall had given to us. While at Colton Hall, a problem that I developed in the form of bed-wetting had stopped after a while; I no longer woke up in the middle of the night soaking wet and crying out. Jake’s confidence had also increased; normally he was exceptionally shy; however, he had become more outgoing and was joining in with the other children rather than sitting alone in the corner. Jenny was just happy no matter what; thankfully, she was far too young to know what was going on. She was also taken very good care of at Colton.

  Unfortunately, our current welcomed stable lives were about to be disrupted once more. Our mother and stepfather had recovered from their overdose and had been discharged by the psychiatric consultant, who deemed them fit once more to be capable parents. The Social Services department had an urgent meeting following receipt of the health service’s psychiatric reports on them both. They were no longer a danger to themselves or their children. All governing bodies were convinced and in complete agreement that their children could now be returned home once more.

  Sounds surreal, but this was the 1970s and things were dealt with far differently than they are today. We were assigned a Social Worker, who looked in on us from time to time. I recall her visits very clearly. On the morning of her visit, Mother would be up and out of bed, cooking breakfast, and setting the table. We were all dressed in our Sunday best, and because mother was happy we children were happy (and she knew then that all would be well).

  The Social Worker would arrive on time, and Mother would greet her at the door presenting the perfect family image. The house was spotless, as were us children, and we played happily together, the perfect family picture. Mother always prepped us before the Social Worker arrived, warning us that if we were naughty while she was there that we would all be taken away, and we would never be allowed home again. This would put the fear of God into us and was enough to ensure that we were on our best behaviour. Our mother always led us to believe that Social Workers were interfering busybodies who had no business calling on her all the time.

  On the surface we looked like most families, and the Social Worker would be happy. She would be armed with her black clipboard, all the while writing away as she was talking to our mother, ticking her boxes and satisfying herself that all was well. She would finish her tea, then leave until her next visit. As soon as she left, Mother would almost immediately revert to her harshness. We were instantly ordered to change out of our Sunday best and put our old playing clothes back on. The shouting and stressing would start soon after. We were ordered to go outside the front of the house to play so she could have peace and quiet. Translated, this usually meant she needed a drink or three. Eventually when we were allowed back into the house, we could tell our mother was different—she slurred her words and stumbled around the house.

  The arguments had become more frequent, more frightening, and Mother became terribly erratic. She would fly into an uncontrollable rage more often than not, and her target was nearly always me. She lashed out at me with anything she held in her hands at that moment—a rolling pin, a saucepan, even a dog chain. She turned into a madwoman, sometimes calling me all the ugly names she could muster from within herself and with the front door wide open for all to hear. Then she would throw me outside.

  Tears fell down my face in bucket loads, and I would barely be able to breathe through my crying. I felt humiliated and embarrassed and prayed the ground would just open up and swallow me. This would always be justified one way or another, and if she felt a shadow of guilt she punished me for making her feel bad. I was to blame for her miserable life as far as she was concerned, and I was reminded of this on an almost daily basis.

  She would screech at me, “It’s your fault your real father left us. You were too demanding and you were a naughty child.” I was two years old when he left, so how could any of this be my fault? The more she blamed me, the more I believed her. She would shout, “He hated you, Amelia. He tried to drown you in the bath when you were two years old.” I would cry back, “You’re lying, you’re lying, stop it!” Then I would feel the force of her hand clip my cheekbones; the sting would be felt for hours later. I spent the whole of my life believing my father tried to kill me by drowning.

  She drank more and more on days like these. We would be sent to our rooms with a cup of warm milk or chocolate (laced with small amounts of sleeping pills) to ensure we would not wake up during the night. Again our doors would be bolted tight, and each of our bedrooms had a potty in the corner should we wake up and be in need of the toilet. Jake, being a little younger than me, around six at the time, had taken to rocking himself to sleep as he too was frightened of the dark. It was his only way of coping. Then our mother would put on her makeup, get dressed, and leave us home all alone while she went out for the evening.

  I hated it when she came back drunk in the middle of the night. She deliberately started banging on my door, calling me names, and shouting at me that I was nothing and never would be. I was petrified of her when she was like this as she became so unpredictable. I loved her and disliked her. She was my mother, so I knew I had to love her, but I could not make sense of how she made me feel and why. I felt so bad about myself every single day, but I felt it was deserved for some reason because my mother told me it was.

  Jake and I took solace in the fact that we had each other. We were very close and looked out for each other all the time. When things got really crazy, we knew if we tried to treat our mother like a princess—offer to do the housework, played very quietly, or even kept Jenny amused—then we would get a reprieve for a very short while from her temper, which was worth its weight in gold. We learned how to detect one of our mother’s episodes, and sometimes this helped us escape a lashing or two, as we would stay out of her way or practically behave like her slave. It was exhausting most of the time. I could barely concentrate at school, and there was always so much going on at home it was impossible to focus.

  I did enjoy school and discovered very ear
ly on that I had a knack for reading and writing, and soon enough they became passions of mine. They were the two things I loved to do most. The amount of schooling we missed because we would be pulled out for one reason or another and placed into care was colossal. However, the time I was at school I threw myself into my lessons in a way the other kids did not. This was a deliberate act on my part, because I never knew when I would be taken away again, and I wanted to make the most of it as much as I could. Life had been very unkind to Jake and I up until that point, and I did not see it getting any better in the foreseeable future either.

  Each day became more and more of a struggle, so much so that we were too scared to go into the kitchen if our mother was cooking and in a bad mood, as she would slice the carrots like they were being slaughtered. Knowing how unpredictable she was, we were never entirely sure whether or not she would one day use the kitchen knife on us. So this was a cleverly thought-out move on our part, and we always stayed clear of the kitchen when she was cooking.

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  The Arrival of Susie

  Mother announced her fourth pregnancy. I felt fear and dread run cold through my veins; to me this meant more work, more beatings, and more responsibilities. I was only just eight years old and already carrying the burden of an adult. The weight that was put on my young shoulders was far too much to bear at times. I knew once this baby was born that life was going to get a whole lot worse for us all. Money was sparse, and during her fourth pregnancy we were once again placed into care, but this time it was foster care not Colton Hall.