by Patsy Whyte
I don't know what time it was but it was still dark when I was suddenly awakened by the sound of children laughing and giggling and running all around my bed. As I struggled to focus through half opened sleepy eyes, I saw a young boy and girl, both about six or seven, the same age as me, dressed in long white gowns.
The young girl, who had long black hair with a straight fringe, carried a small teddy and stood at one corner of the bottom of my bed. The young boy, who had short ginger hair, stood at the other corner. They both stared at me, silently, as if suddenly realising I was awake and looking at them. I was not afraid. It all felt quite natural.
I don't know if the words were actually spoken, or if they were somehow transplanted into my mind, but I knew the little girl was asking me if I wanted to play with them. I said, Yes. Then they both walked up either side of the bed and the little girl touched my head, telling me to take in a deep breath.
The next thing I knew they were supporting me on either arm and I felt I was soaring through the night sky. It was a wonderful feeling. They told me they were taking me to see the Milky Way. I remember flying about and having fun until it was time for me to go back. A moment later I was lying in my bed once more with the boy and girl standing silently as before. The young girl said it was time for them to go, but they would be back.
I was left with a strong sense of cosiness and peace and simply accepted what happened to me without question. The boy and girl came back on quite a number of occasions afterwards, always playing with me in my bedroom and even tucking me in before they left. Then one day they stopped coming.
Were they real or was it all just my imagination working overtime? They looked and felt as solid as any of the children in the home. I never asked them their names. It simply never occurred to me to do so or seemed of any great importance. I called them my little angel friends. All I knew was they brought great happiness and joy into my life.
* * *
I always seemed to be ill as a child, missing out on lots of picnics and parties and other events. It was frustrating lying in bed recovering while all the rest of the children at the home were having a good time. My sister Lottie always tried her best to make up for me missing out, by bringing something back, such as a little piece of cake or sweeties, knowing this would cheer me up.
The annual Sunday school picnics were held during Easter in the grounds of Fyvie Castle, about an hour's journey by bus from Aberdeen. They were always full of fun with all kinds of activities and races. I was useless at the three-legged race, tripping up more often than I ran and rolling about with my partner on the ground in fits of laughter. I wasn't much good at the egg and spoon race either. The egg fell off the spoon dozens of times before I eventually crossed the finishing line. Needless to say, I never won any races.
Although I looked forward to the picnic, I didn't enjoy the bus journey. I was a very bad traveller. The bus was always full to the brim, both with children from the church as well as the home, all eagerly anticipating the day to come.
We set off from the church and headed north through the streets of Aberdeen and then out into the countryside. But as soon as the city was behind us, I felt my stomach beginning to turn. I knew I was going to be sick. So I put my hand over my mouth. The kids sitting nearest to me noticed the colour draining away from my face.
"Stop the bus, driver. She's going to be sick!"
Other children took up the cry leaving the bus driver little option but to pull over onto the side of the road. I only made it in time as I jumped out and threw up in the grass verge. A few minutes later, we were back on the road once more heading towards our destination and all the kids were happy and excited again.
But a few miles further on, I felt queasy and the same cry went up and the bus came to a halt. Out I dashed to be sick a second time, much to the disgust of everyone aboard. My discomfort only grew as the outing progressed at a snail's pace, turning the hour-long journey into a marathon. By the time we arrived at Fyvie Castle, after I threw up at least another four or five times, most of the kids had lost their appetite for the picnic.
In the following years, whenever I boarded the bus, there were low murmurings of discontent and fed up looks as I took my seat. By now, all the children knew what they were in for. One year, it was even decided I should travel up separately in a car. But even this master stroke failed miserably. I was still sick many times. Not surprisingly, the man who volunteered to take me never made the offer again.
I think everyone was mightily relieved the year I was too ill to go. But I experienced the strangest thing while lying in my bed recovering. I can't explain how exactly, but I found myself floating below the ceiling of a classroom looking down on many different tables with Easter cakes neatly laid out. Each of the cakes had a number placed at its side.
I felt as light as a feather and the view from above was exceptionally detailed and clear. I recognised Jean, who was brought up in the home for many years. She was at catering college now, studying to be a cook. Next to her was the house mother. They were both standing in the large room among a whole lot of people I didn't know. Although I heard the sound of many voices chattering away, I was only able to make out the words prize and cake, nothing more.
Somehow, I knew I was watching some competition taking place. Then I saw Jean go to a table, pick up a cake and take it to the top of the classroom and hold it up in front of everybody. There was a beaming smile on her face. The cake below me was covered in thick yellow icing and I noticed three little Easter chicks sitting on top surrounded by little green decorations of some kind. It looked so beautiful.
A few days later, when I was up and about and feeling much better, but not well enough to go to school, I overheard the house mother in the kitchen telling a member of staff about visiting the catering college and seeing Jean's cake. She described it as yellow with little chicks
on top. Jean won the best cake prize.
But I already knew that, so I didn't give the conversation much thought. I never wondered how I could have been there when I was in my bed at the time. As an 8-year-old, I simply accepted the whole experience for what it was. However, I allowed myself a little smile, because I was there without the house mother knowing. And that gave me a real thrill.
Chapter Seven
The harsh sound of the playtime bell ringing disturbed the morning air. It was time to have some fun. Classrooms emptied within a minute and pupils jostled and pushed their way through bursting corridors before spilling out into the playground. The boys enjoyed the rough and tumble of football or played games of marbles by the school wall. The girls were altogether quieter. They played hopscotch or skipping or just hung about together in small groups of two or three. Frantic screams and squeals of delight filled the air, bringing the normally sedate city suburb to life.
The playground was cut off from the main road by a low wall. On the other side of the road, two or three small shops were plainly visible. There was not much in the way of cars passing or people walking by. About 500 yards down the road was the sprawling run down housing estate where most of the school kids lived. My mother and most of my relatives also lived there. The contrast between the two areas was striking, the people living close to the school enjoying a far higher standard of living.
I was wandering around the playground by myself when I heard a lady's voice call out my name from across the street. Surprised, I looked over and saw two ladies standing on the pavement not far from the shops. They were both wearing light coloured head squares and long dark coats down to their calves. One of the ladies beckoned me across the road. As I drew nearer, I recognised my mother.
The strong smell of alcohol made me feel sick. It came from her breath every time she opened her mouth to talk to me. Her words were slurred and I could barely understand her. I didn't know the lady who was with her. She was as drunk as my mother and wanted to buy me a box of chocolates.
"Oh aye, I'll awa' an' get them oot o' the wee shopie", she insisted, over an
d over.
But she never went in to buy any. Instead, her mind seemed to drift and then focus on an entirely different topic.
"When you were a bairn, yer ma use tae hand you tae me", she said. "I used tae breast feed you."
I didn't want to hear any more.
"Oh aye, yer ma would say, 'You tak' her'", she mumbled on.
Her words rose and fell and then became barely audible as she tried hard to make herself understood. I felt disgusted by what this stranger was saying. But it was probably all true. Mother longed for the old ways. Whenever she felt the walls of Castlehill Barracks closing in on her, she took off on a bender and headed for Lightening Hill, one of the old traveller camping grounds. She disappeared for days at a time, leaving my sister Gina, who was only 15, to look after my four brothers and sisters. My father was at sea at the time, working on the trawlers. All of this happened long before I was born.
By now I was feeling rather uncomfortable. All I wanted to do was to get as far away from my mother and her friend as I could. The school bell rang and gave me the excuse to leave. I blurted out a quick goodbye and ran smartly across the road without even a backward glance. It was a huge relief to leave these two drunks behind. I felt so happy to be back in school.
The unexpected meeting with my mother left a dark and dismal impression on me. It made me more determined to have nothing to do with her. She was not a mother to be proud of or someone to look up to. I felt hugely embarrassed and hated the thought of being related to her. It was the first and the last time my mother turned up at my school.
* * *
Despite growing up with my brother Billy for many years, we never really knew each other. Little effort was made to build up any meaningful brother and sister relationship. It was the same with my sisters Mary Anne and Lottie. Yet, when it came to it, Billy was always protective towards me. He also enjoyed a fearsome reputation at school. Nobody messed with him.
Often I was asked, "Is Billy Whyte your brother?"
"Yes", I said, and that was enough to stop kids picking a fight with me.
But Billy didn't like having a sister. Girls skipped and played with dollies and didn't know anything about boys' games. So we never played much together. He showed no interest in me whatsoever and never let me join in anything he was doing. But I still needed him and wanted to share in the things he did. Begging and pleading just didn't work. He loved the pushing and shoving and the carrying on you only got playing with boys. Cry baby girls were boring and much too soft.
He paid the price for he was never out of plaster throughout our years together. There was hardly a bone in his body he didn't fracture or break. Sometimes, he was also a bit on the cruel side and delighted in calling me Tubby or Rolly Polly Dumpling at every opportunity. One afternoon, he was playing darts in the playroom with two of the other boys. I asked him if I could join in.
"No", he said. "No girls allowed."
"Why can't I have a game?", I asked.
"Because darts is a boys' game."
He wouldn't relent and I took the huff. I wanted to get my own back because he was so horrible. So I stood right in front of the dartboard to interrupt his aim.
"Move away from the dartboard!", he ordered.
But I wasn't budging and stood my ground.
"If you don't move away I'm going to throw this dart at you", replied Billy, in a deliberate tone of voice.
"I'm still not moving until you let me join in", I said, defiantly.
Billy ignored me and threw the dart towards the board. Suddenly, I felt a sharp stinging pain which which made me howl and jump all over the place. The dart was sticking in my nose with blood pouring from my face. Billy looked at me unconcerned and continued throwing darts at the board. I ran out the playroom and around the back into the cloakroom screaming in agony.
Luckily, a member of staff was already there, alerted by my screams and horrified to see the dart embedded in my nose. She quickly took charge of the situation and calmed me down. After gently pulling the dart out and cleaning the blood from my face, she covered the small wound left on my nose with some sticky plaster.
But my brother was as stubborn as I was. He refused to say sorry when I returned to the playroom a short while later. I stuck my plastered nose up in the air and didn't talk to him for the rest of the day. He wasn't even punished for what he did to me. This made me very angry.
I started feeling resentful towards him. Every time he did something wrong, like smoking behind the garages, I got my own back by getting him sent to bed early as a punishment. Billy's lack of interest and attention towards me hurt me. The only time he seemed to notice me was when he was angry.
Around about this time, Billy started running away from the home. I never knew anything about the strange man hanging outside the playground as he made his way to school in the morning. This went on for several days. Then one morning, the man shouted out his name and called him over and told him he was his father.
Billy kept the meeting secret. No one knew about the plan they hatched so the authorities would send Billy back home to stay with my father and mother for good. The plan involved Billy running away from the home. The first time that happened, Billy disappeared for three days before being caught.
When I woke up one morning, there was no Billy to be seen anywhere. The house mother and staff were in a blind panic. I was worried, too. It was winter and freezing outside. I had visions of my brother wandering lost and alone, cold and hungry and surviving on raw turnips from the farmers' fields.
It was early evening and I was lying in my bed. Suddenly, I heard a commotion coming from downstairs. A man was bellowing out at the top of his voice. Curious, I crept out of bed to have a look and stood listening at the top of the stairs. Nobody noticed me. Peering over the highly polished bannister, I saw Billy with a man dressed in a white raincoat. Billy looked terrified.
I was shocked to see the man screaming furiously at Billy and slapping him around. No one was doing anything about it either. The house mother was inside her sitting room and her door, only a few feet away, remained firmly shut the whole time. There was no way she could not have heard what was going on.
Billy was backed into a corner from which there was no escape and bravely took his punishment. I couldn't bare to watch. So I ran back into my room and jumped into bed, pulling the covers over my ears to drown out the man's shouting and Billy's screams.
Thankfully, the whole incident didn't last very long. But for days afterwards, I felt very disturbed by what I witnessed. I never knew the name of the man although I found out later he was a children's officer from the local authority.
Despite all he suffered, Billy was determined to live with my mother and father. So he ran away again a few weeks later. Once more, I awoke to find my brother gone. This time, when he was caught and returned to the home, he was punched so hard he tumbled down a flight of stairs. Somehow, my sister Lottie found out, even although she no longer lived at the home. She was furious and confronted the person responsible. But, of course, everything was denied.
And as for me worrying over Billy being lost and alone and living on raw turnips from the fields, all along he was sitting warm and comfortable in my mother and father's house, smoking and drinking endless cups of tea. He was as safe as could be.
The plan must have worked for when he was 13, Billy and me were offered the chance to live with my mother and father at home. I was taken with Billy into the committee room and the house mother asked us what we wanted to do. Billy jumped at the chance. But I refused. I felt life would be much worse if I did. The feeling was overwhelming.
As it turned out, my instinct, even at the age of 10, proved to be correct. My father and mother couldn't give up drinking. Often there was no money for food or anything else. Billy and my brother John, who was brought up in a different children's home, started breaking into bakery shops because they were starving. They were caught by the police and landed up in borstal. But they escaped their miserabl
e home life by joining the army as boy soldiers.