by Patsy Whyte
Anne was persistent if nothing else. She was determined to have my swimsuit, no matter what my objections were. So I gave in, reluctantly. I felt sorry for her. Anne loved swimming and would be unable to do so without my swimsuit. At least that's what I told myself.
Within half-an-hour, we were at the beach, running in and out of the sand dunes until we found the perfect spot. The children quickly tore off their clothes, eager to get to the water's edge. But I held back, undressing slowly and folding my clothes carefully before placing them on the sand.
I was playing for time, building up the courage to face a beach packed with holidaymakers dressed in a bikini. This was madness. I was going to be stared at, or laughed at. But all the time, I was heading inch by embarrassing inch towards the safety and privacy of the gently lapping waves.
The water was freezing but no one seemed to notice but me. All around, children young and old were laughing and kicking up the water with their feet, splashing each other and having great fun. Further up the beach, tiny tots with buckets and spades were building sandcastles or burying themselves in sand with mums and dads watching approvingly.
As I walked further out, I started to get used to the cold water now lapping my thighs. I immersed myself fully and began to swim away from the shoreline, pushing the calm water with my hands, watching the ripples moving gently outwards with every stroke. Except for the company of the odd gull hovering on the breeze, I was alone in the stillness and tranquillity which was taking me far from the sounds of children screaming on the beach.
But I was heading towards danger without realising it. My senses hardly registered the growing strength of the current which was now pulling me towards the distant line of wooden barriers. The barriers were built to protect swimmers from strong tides and currents.
All of a sudden, my mind was filled with blind panic when I realised I was caught in the grip of an unseen undercurrent. I was heading towards the centre of a swirling vortex which was trying to suck me under. Time stood still. I fought and struggled and kicked out. But I couldn't break the power holding me, sapping my strength, dragging me deeper into the watery grave now drawing closer with every precious breath and mouthful of salt water. The situation was hopeless. I was resigned to my fate. I was going to die.
Barely aware of the strong arms now grasping my waist, all I could see through the watery film covering my eyes was the circular swirl of sand at the bottom of the murky depths. Suddenly, I gasped in lungfuls of pure sweet air and daylight replaced the blackness of a moment before.
Somehow, I was at the water's edge but had no idea how I got there. I was alone. There was nobody beside me. My thighs and legs were covered in blood from dozens of scratches. I was crying from shock. One or two holidaymakers came over and asked me if I was OK. They wanted to know what happened but I felt too dazed to talk to them.
Slowly, I walked up the beach to the promenade where the first aid hut was situated. The blood and sand was washed off and revealed only superficial injuries. A short while later, I felt calm enough to join Anne and the rest of the children playing on the beach. No one mentioned my cuts and grazes so I never told them anything. There was no point because I might have got into trouble.
I never found out who saved me. It was a real mystery. Although the events played over in my mind for days on end, I still couldn't figure it out. Even if I had cried out for help, I was too far out for anyone to hear me. One moment I was fighting to stay alive and the next, walking alone at the water's edge. It was a puzzle I've not been able to explain, even to this day.
* * *
If summer meant long days spent playing on the beach, winter was all about freezing winds and ice and snow and rain chilling us to the bone. Wellington boots and shoes, which had long seen better days, barely kept out the cold or the slush and rain. Feet were left soaking wet. The half darkness of early morning only added to the misery as we trudged the mile or so to school.
The route took us through the long narrow streets of Old Aberdeen, past Aberdeen University's King's College and the church with its old high stone wall where William Wallace's hand was supposed to be buried.
During my first year at high school, I always dreaded passing the wall. I really believed the stories that Wallace's hand sometimes appeared and grabbed people passing by. So I held my breath and ran past the spot, fully expecting the hand to emerge and stop me dead in my tracks.
Without warning, our routine was changed. Instead of hanging about the school playground after lunch, we were ordered to walk back to the home. We stayed in the playroom for about 20 minutes and then walked all the way back to school again for afternoon lessons. It just added to the misery.
We were not allowed to leave the freezing playroom to warm ourselves inside the home. Only the house mother's favourites were allowed to. We stamped up and down to feel our feet or blew air into our hands to generate some heat. It was the only way to coax life into wet and frozen limbs. Answering the call of nature meant walking outside, past the side of the home to an old outside toilet block. From there, you sometimes caught sight of the house mother or one of her favourites through the kitchen window, standing at the stone sink washing up the dinner dishes.
So many times I longed to be invited inside, just to stand for a few minutes in front of the roaring fire which I knew was in the kitchen. If the house mother caught you looking in, she chased you away with an angry dismissive wave of her arm.
Even when some of the children developed painful chilblains on their feet and hands, which happened regularly in winter, she showed little or no sympathy. They were left to get on with it. Sometimes the tears rolled down their faces as they walked to school.
Some decent waterproof footwear and heating in the playroom was all it would have taken to make life a little better for us all. But that never happened. So we suffered, in silence, winter after winter.
Chapter Eleven
Green shoots were springing up rapidly everywhere, marking the end of a very long winter. We were longing for better weather after being stuck in for months on end with only school and church on a Sunday morning to break the dreary monotony of life in the home. I was 14 and craving excitement, something different in my life, anything to save me from the boredom which was slowly driving me mad. So it was a huge surprise when the house mother made a sudden announcement at teatime. Children who had no family to take them out at weekends were to go on a day trip.
One by one, the house mother called out the names of the children who were going. I felt a sudden rush of excitement at the prospect of escaping the drudgery, if only for a few hours. This was what I was waiting for, praying for, and now my prayers were answered. It seemed like an age until the moment the house mother called out my name. My heart leapt. Now it was official. Thank you God!
The trip was the one and only topic of conversation over the coming weeks. The house mother cranked up the anticipation with cryptic hints and clues, but never actually told us where we were going. As a result, all sorts of exotic destinations were suggested and then discarded as imaginations ran riot and rumours abounded. We were just going to have to wait patiently for the big day, whenever that might be.
At last, the announcement finally came one Saturday evening, when we were sitting down for tea at the dining room table. The younger children squealed out in delight as the house mother once more called out their names. But she forgot to call out mine. It was a temporary mistake, nothing more.
"The van will be coming tomorrow morning", the house mother continued. We'll be leaving at 10."
A cheer went up. Some children clapped their hands. They were so happy. Then the house mother suddenly pointed a finger at me.
"You will not be going!"
Her words didn't quite register for a moment, even although I heard every syllable clearly. I was not going on the trip? Was that what she said? A black cloud of disappointment descended over me, swirling like a vortex, blocking everything out and sucking me in. Why not? What
have I done? Am I being punished? The house mother turned away from the devastation written all over my face.
The events of the day flashed through my mind. I searched hard for something, anything I may have done wrong but maybe wasn't aware of. But there was nothing. Perhaps it was yesterday, or the day before, a wrong word somewhere, a remark which caused some offence? Maybe my shoes were dirty? What did I do that was so wrong? There was no answer.
Everywhere I looked there were smiling faces and the buzz of anticipation was almost electric. In contrast, I felt rejected, deflated, alone in the middle of an ocean of excitement. I turned my back on it all and went to bed.
The big day arrived and breakfast disappeared in record time. A flurry of activity followed upstairs with everyone rushing about to get ready for the arrival of the van. I was banished to the playground, which was declared out of bounds to the rest of the children now dressed in their Sunday best.
As the van appeared in the driveway and made its way to the front door, I still harboured the faintest of hope the house mother might take pity on me and change her mind, even at this late stage. So I stood in the playground in full view as everyone jumped into the van under her watchful gaze.
The house mother was in her element, supervising where everybody sat in the van, barking out orders like some trumped up army general. But never once did she turn and look towards me, even although she couldn't help but see me standing alone, looking to the world like the original Orphan Annie.
But I failed to move her. She slammed the sliding doors shut and a few seconds later, the van sailed past me down the driveway and out of sight. As the silence descended, I realised I was on my own, the only one left in the home.
It was a long and a sad day for me. I tried to amuse myself in the large empty playground. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of a member of staff through the kitchen window. But no one checked on me to see if I was all right. The hours dragged by. I wandered up and down aimlessly, still trying to work out what it was I did wrong. The house mother never told me and I still wondered, years later.
I was sitting eating my tea when the van returned and everyone piled into the dining room, happy and still excited by their day out in the country. Some of the younger children were hot and sweaty and completely worn out from all the running about. Everyone enjoyed the day but I didn't want to know anything about it. I didn't want to be reminded of all the fun I missed. The anger was still inside me and so was the disappointment and hurt.
The house mother ignored me completely and walked by me through to the kitchen to have tea. As I watched her back disappear through the kitchen door, my resentment of her grew only deeper. Someday, I swore to myself, there would be a day of reckoning, not too far distant, when I would have the power over my life and not this cruel and calculating excuse for a woman. That day was surely coming, very soon, and I couldn't wait.
* * *
I never really minded going to the beach, even during the Easter break when it was still quite chilly. But sometimes the day felt really long when the weather was dull and rainy. I was feeling particularly bored at the end of one such day and decided to go alone up Broad Hill instead of passing it by as we usually did on the way back to the home.
The steep hill was always a favourite haunt of local children who made improvised sledges from large pieces of discarded cardboard which they usually found lying outside the shops in the area. They spent all day having great fun racing up the 100-foot-high hill and then sliding down its steep slopes.
Broad Hill was really a long low ridge running parallel with the Kings Links golf course and the shore line beyond. After climbing to the top, I picked up the path which runs its whole length and was soon lost in deep thoughts, enjoying the solitude and the spectacular view of the sea stretching to the distant horizon.
I don't quite know when I first noticed the three teenage lads sitting a few feet from the edge of the path, some way up ahead of me. But, as I drew closer, there was something about them which made me feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was the way they were talking to each other in whispers. I knew I just wanted to get past them as quickly as possible. They looked red in the face and sweaty and cardboard sledges lay on the ground beside them. I assumed they'd been sliding down the hill and were now resting.
The oldest of the group, who was aged about 17, suddenly shouted out to his mates, "I fancy a good ride."
Instantly I knew I was in deep trouble, vulnerable, alone. Fear gripped my whole body. My legs turned to lead weights.
"Let's pull her knickers down."
I looked straight ahead, into the distance, trying hard to control the rising panic. My heart thumped in my head. I was scared. My pace quickened. But, before I knew what was happening, the three of them formed a circle around me, barring my way, fingers touching and tugging at my cardigan as they tried to pull it off. I begged them to stop, but they ignored me. Tears filled my eyes. Time stood still. No one would hear my screams, and they knew it.
They all laughed aloud as one of them triumphantly swung my cardigan in the air, like it was some sporting trophy or prize. As he did so, he egged on the others who were now pawing and tearing at my tea shirt. I gripped it tightly, fighting back with every bit of strength I could muster. But I felt defenceless. This was a one sided contest I knew I would to lose.
"Stop!", a voice boomed out from nowhere.
It stopped them dead in their tracks. As they stood motionless, not knowing what to do next, their grip on me loosened.
"Let her go, now!"
The young lads instantly obeyed the smartly dressed man standing just a few feet away from us. He was tall and broad and dressed in a grey pin-striped suit.
"Clear off!", he shouted in an angry threatening voice.
The boys knew there was no messing with him and high-tailed it over the other side of the hill, disappearing out of sight.
"Are you OK lass?", said the stranger in a kind and caring voice.
"Yes", I sobbed quietly.
My voice sounded shaky and my legs felt wobbly. He picked up my cardigan which was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground.
"I'll walk you down the hill", he said.
When we reached the end of the path, the stranger patted me gently on the back, reassuring me I was safe and that it was best I got myself straight home. I walked a few yards on. When I turned to wave goodbye, there was no one there. I looked all around me but the stranger was gone, vanished, as if he had never been. I couldn't believe it.
Walking the long road home, I tried to make sense of it all. I knew I would never feel safe going up the Broad Hill again. It was a valuable lesson. I was 14 and had just experienced an uglier side of life outside the protective bubble of the home. It frightened me. While I never spoke about the incident to anyone, I was thankful someone appeared at the right time and at the right place, saving me from being seriously assaulted or even worse.
I never found out who the stranger was. But I still think of him, even after so many years have passed. Where did he come from? Where did he go? The area was very open. There was nowhere to hide. Anyone walking on the hill was easily seen for miles. Yet, I never saw anyone. Neither did the young lads. It was yet another mystery.
* * *
Louise was small and slim with fair shoulder length wavy hair, who spoke little and never drew much attention to herself. She was a classmate, but not a friend, for I never made any at high school. I tried my best to make friends. I really wanted to make friends, to be just like the rest of my classmates, but it was hopeless. My existence was so strictly controlled by rules which governed every tiny aspect of daily life, from the moment I got up each day to when I went to bed at night. This made it too difficult to develop any personal friendships.
Early one evening, while watching television in the television room with the rest of the children in the home, a member of staff came through and told me to go to the house mother's sitting room. I was surprised, and a little apprehensive, immediately
thinking I must have done something wrong. Unless you were one of the house mother's favourites, the sitting room was out of bounds.
I was 10 years of age when I was last invited in there. That was four years ago. It was the time I switched on the Christmas lights. I remembered squatting on my knees on a thick deep piled Axminster carpet and being told to wave like The Queen, over and over again, until my arms ached and the movement was perfect. The house mother was determined I was not going to show her up.