by Gitta Sereny
To repeat then: Mary’s crime was rare—her condition is not. And it was her condition which required specific treatment.
The final decision the Home Office made about Mary was a compromise.
On 2 February 1969, Mary was sent to the “Special Unit” of Red Bank Approved School in Newton-le-Willows, Lancashire. Until then operated exclusively for boys, it was to be transformed for her benefit into a coeducational establishment.
There are four of these experimental units in Britain, all for boys, all operated loosely on Aichhorn’s “milieu therapy.” They are designed to provide for persistently “asocial” children primarily between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, a secure environment with the constant supervision of an exceptionally numerous and sympathetic staff. Under these controlled but benign conditions, it is hoped that the children, encouraged by a graduated reward system, may learn that it is possible to live peacefully with other people. The aim of the establishment is to return them as rapidly as possible into normal society, albeit on probation or under supervision. Few of these children are diagnosed psychopaths (also described as “dissocial children without neurosis”). Most of them would come into the category of “asocial children with neurosis.”
Red Bank Approved School is a big, purpose-built, modern complex containing a classifying center which can take two hundred and fifty boys and a Vocational School (teaching farming, carpentry, and other skills) catering for the same numbers. They live in groups in separate houses which, colorful, spacious, and comfortable, are influenced by Scandinavian design and bear no resemblance to the traditional Dickensian English “institution.”
The “Special Unit,” although specifically for children requiring high-degree security provisions and therefore locked at all times, looks if anything even less forbidding. Much thought has gone into the interior design, which abounds with light, the warmth of natural wood, the color of vivid wall panels, and good, modern furniture. Although it stands right in the middle of “Red Bank” (thereby wisely reducing the feeling of isolation or segregation from which children under such restraint often suffer) it exists as a separate entity from the rest of the school. The Unit can take twenty-six children and has its own headmaster, staff, teaching and recreational facilities, and garden. Four of the senior boys sleep in a dormitory, the others in individual bedrooms along a corridor on the second floor. Each bedroom door, locked at night and during after-lunch rest periods, has an observation window, and staff are on duty day and night. While the children are given as much freedom as possible within this enclosed life, they are theoretically under constant supervision and not even allowed to go to a bathroom on their own, measures which are taken both for their own protection and as part of the Unit’s concentrated process of social re-education. Sitting rooms are furnished with comfortable armchairs (and TV), the dining room where children and staff eat together in small groups is light and airy, the classrooms where they are taught in groups of three to six are warm and relaxed. An exceptionally well-equipped art room (including a pottery kiln) allows wide scope for any artistic bent—or release for pent-up frustration. Everything is provided that might enlarge their horizon and add to their emotional balance: books, music, exercise, good food, gardening, a shed for pets, and, above all, a large number of adults who are there for the sole purpose of helping them. The eighteen teachers and supervisors are supplemented by a domestic staff of twelve, all of whom form an important part of the children’s lives.
It is in many ways a sophisticated and beneficial set-up for a large number of disturbed children. Physically and materially it offered a child like Mary, too, everything one could wish for. But medically it did not.
This is not a reflection on the dedicated people who work there, who were—as some of them put it—“landed with the job.” It is a reflection on our system. It seems that we refuse to admit the inadequacy of the available provisions (by no means only for Mary Bell but many other children too) and content ourselves with half-way measures which jeopardize not only this one unhappy girl, and others similarly affected, but all of their surroundings.
A sentence from the aims set out in the Description of the Special Units says, “Our aim is the social re-education of each boy through the development of affectionate and understanding attachments between boys and staff and between the boys themselves.”
This—put very simply—is the basic tenet of Dr. Aichhorn’s theory. But like many basically simple ideas, which can affect the emotional safety of individuals, its application is very complex and needs to be approached with restraint and care. Every one of the establishments in the United States, Sweden, and Canada which have so far done serious work in milieu therapy provided a superbly staffed part Children’s Home, part medical environment, and combined all available means to inquire into and to treat the often sharply differing needs of, on the one hand, severely disturbed, on the other, psychopathic children. While in these places “relationships” between children and staff are also considered of primary importance, more seriously afflicted children are also treated by psychiatrists, educational psychologists, psychotherapists, and, if necessary, drugs. Even so, few of these schools have claimed any great success with psychopathic children—all they are willing to say is that milieu therapy combined with all these other disciplines offers reason for hope.
Among the eighteen members of staff at the Special Unit at Red Bank there were, at the time of writing, five people trained in child care, some with prison experience, some with teaching certificates, some with infant training. Several of the staff had attended the excellent special courses on disturbed children run by the Home Office. But none of the resident staff had any other formal medical or academic qualifications. None of them were university graduates.
This does not mean that as far as natural gifts are concerned the staff at this and similar institutions in Britain is not of a high caliber. Generally speaking, if they were not of more than average intelligence and moral character, it is unlikely that they would either choose or be accepted for this work. Equally, some of them, whether specifically trained or not, have a special gift and the emotional strength to work with such children—which is a difficult task at best, and it is certainly essential to use these rare gifts. It is fair to say that even without formal qualifications such people can work effectively with quite a number of the children the units now deal with and their willingness to involve themselves emotionally with these children—most of whom have been emotionally deprived in one or another way—is of inestimable value. It is very much the same type of teachers or counselors who—trained on and by the job—work in places like Wiltwyck in America. The significant difference being, however, that there the counseling staff is trained and supervised by doctors, and therapists with formal degrees, who are in permanent attendance.
It is in my view insufficiently recognized here that, for children as deeply disturbed as Mary, those who supply this emotional involvement the children so desperately need must above all exercise considerable detachment and a sense of perspective. Detachment of this sort, essential not only for the children but for the therapist’s own sake, is however infinitely difficult to achieve, and can only be found through a most careful, deliberate process of emotional and intellectual discipline. Any student in this field will confirm that this is the most difficult quality to acquire.
“In all relations with adults,” said one of the most perceptive people at Red Bank, “it is Mary who decides events. She even persuades them into believing that they feel no differently about her than about the other children.” Another said (mid-1970), “She has so far had four ‘counselors’ since she has been here. The children have the right to choose their own counselors amongst the staff—they don’t have to answer to anyone about their choice. In the case of most boys—if one of them requests a change of counselor, the staff just shrug it off—it doesn’t matter. But every time Mary has asked to change, people become worried about it, introspective. They feel it is a ref
lection on themselves, they feel guilty. Two members of the staff have left, solely because they felt themselves becoming too involved with Mary. The third still sometimes broods on why Mary didn’t stay with him. And the fourth—who has also now left the school—became convinced that Mary is innocent of killing those little boys.”
These problems, indicative as they are of lack of detachment in some of the staff, are of course important. But they are not the only, or even the main, reasons why I think the Special Unit at Red Bank in its present form was the wrong choice for Mary. There are three others:
First, when she came to Red Bank in February 1969 she was the only girl among twenty-three boys and this situation was to continue for about three months. Since June 1969 a few girls, all at least three years older than Mary, have come and gone, but up to the time of writing never more than three at a time, and none for more than a few months. Children’s authorities around the country (who are autonomous in their areas) have been understandably reluctant to send their girls into this ill-balanced group and during the last two years6 Mary—now fourteen—has again repeatedly been the only girl with over twenty-two boys for many weeks at a time. Although she is now coming nearer in age to the others, for probably the three most important years of her “treatment” she has almost entirely lacked a true peer group.
Second, the aims of the Unit state: “. . . The need for psychiatric help and guidance is essential. The psychiatrist is integrated as a member of the team and he sees all [boys] soon after their admission. He assesses the boy’s symptoms and the emotional disturbances he displays. Our psychologist, who is also a member of the team, assesses the level of a boy’s intelligence, personality traits, special aptitudes and school progress. The training staff provide a full picture of the boy’s background and family. Having made their enquiries, the team hold a ‘case conference’ from which we derive the following benefits:
“An early diagnosis of the basic factors contributing to a boy’s difficulties.
“Individual treatment for each boy.
“Treatment by all staff on an agreed policy.
“Guidance and the development of staff confidence in dealing with difficult boys . . .”
When Mary arrived, the staff knew little about her background. But then, at that point, neither did anyone else outside her immediate family. The original research for a series of articles which appeared in the Daily Telegraph Magazine in December 1969, and for this book, was done in the spring of 1969. In June of that year, the Home Office was informed of everything this initial inquiry had revealed. This was done in agreement with Mary’s legal advisers, who were preparing an Appeal, the Newcastle Children’s Department, and the psychiatrists interested in her, who all thought that this information was essential to the further disposition of her case. In spite of this, neither the principal of Red Bank School, the headmaster of the Special Unit, the consultant doctors, or of course any members of the staff who were working with Mary were given any of this information until months after the articles—with parts of this material in them—had appeared. “They told us in the very beginning,” said a member of staff, “it’s in writing: that her background was unimportant for the staff to know about.”
And yet: “When you open Mary’s file,” said another, “on the first page, encircled in red, is a copy of a letter from Mr. Justice Cusack to the Home Office, saying she must have psychiatric treatment.”
Third, a psychiatrist and a psychologist, both highly qualified, are, it is true, “members of the team.” Their main function, however, is to consult once a week with the staff. They can give no direct treatment. Psychiatric treatment of any kind is not within the concept of the Unit, nor is the Unit equipped to function for this purpose.
The consulting psychiatrist, desperately concerned about Mary and no less about the effect she has on the other children, has several times in the past two years7 recommended various methods of psychiatric treatment which would have to be carried out in a medical environment. He also recommended stringent control on which members of her family should be allowed to visit her, and, finally, has repeatedly urged that she be transferred to a more suitable—and medically oriented—environment.
On 21 July 1969, a hearing for leave to appeal was held before the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Parker.
Mr. Harvey Robson, Mary’s defending counsel, in explaining the intended action, said that the application for leave to appeal against Mary’s sentence was entered on the assumption that by the time it was heard arrangements would have been made (by the Home Office) enabling the Court to make the (hospital) order (it had intended) but things had not turned out that way. Unfortunately there was still no hospital suitable to receive the child.
Mr. Robson then said that, as far as could be ascertained, the Home Office had (in fact) decided that, at any rate for a considerable time to come, “the child was not in need of treatment of the kind that would be given in a special hospital. . . .” He said that Mary’s legal and medical advisers were not (altogether) satisfied as to the degree of psychiatric treatment she was receiving and was likely to receive but, no hospital being available, it had been decided that the correct course was to withdraw the application for leave to apeal.
Now it was no longer just that appropriate facilities did not exist: despite emphatic professional opinion to the contrary, the authorities had apparently managed to convince themselves that Mary needed no other treatment.
Legally, this was the end of her case. No further steps could be taken. The only person who possibly welcomed this development was Betty Bell, who, on repeated occasions during the two months preceding that day, had telephoned Mary’s solicitor, David Bryson, from wherever she was and said, “I don’t want her to go to a mental hospital” and then rung off. Betty Bell has of course been in psychiatric wards herself and knows well that psychiatric treatment consists of questions and—however long delayed—eventual replies.
I visited the school at the invitation of the principal and headmaster in March 1970. Mary’s room—as all the bedrooms—was pleasantly light and cheerful. But I was struck that—unlike the other rooms which, aside from the odd photograph or toilet article, were comparatively bare of possession—it was -chock-ful of things. “She is still so showered with presents from her relatives,” said the headmaster, “we can’t give her all of them.” The presents—dolls; soap in all colors, shapes, and forms; bath powder and salts, bottles of toilet water and scents; diaries and greeting cards—filled every inch of every surface in the room and were even stacked up in the corners and against the walls. Strangest of all, perhaps three-quarters of these gifts, carefully set up as for a window display, were still in their original cellophane or plastic covers. “It’s like an exhibition,” said one of the consultants who walked around with me. “She doesn’t use any of them,” said a member of staff, “she just looks at them.”
Was that it? Was Mary looking at them, or did she set them up for others to look at? Can it have been right for her to receive so many presents when other children there had so few? What must this have meant to the other children? And can it really have been good for Mary herself? Was it not a continuation of the material “spoiling”—the hapless compensation for rejection—she got at home, particularly from her mother?
For the first ten months of Mary’s stay at Red Bank, Billy Bell was her most regular visitor. (Both the Home Office and the Newcastle Children’s Department are exceptionally generous about paying trips and per diems for Mary’s relatives to enable them to visit her.) Billy Bell said that Mary liked the school. “She has a nice room,” he said.
But, as of 10 December 1969, Billy could no longer go to see her. For on that day, just about one year after Mary’s trial, he stood in the Newcastle Court—where Mary had been tried—accused of robbery with force, was found guilty and jailed for fifteen months.
Mr. Rudolph Lyons, Q.C., who had prosecuted in the case against Mary, sat as Commissioner of the Court and gave Billy Bell a compa
ratively light sentence. “I am reducing the sentence I would normally have passed,” he said “because of the tragedy surrounding this man’s family life.”
“I’ll take the kids if he’s sent down,” said Billy’s ever-loyal sister Audrey, once more waiting in Court.
Billy Bell’s defending counsel, Mr. James Chadwin, had made an eloquent—and as it turned out successful—plea for him. He had also told the Court that, while Billy visited his daughter regularly in the place where she is in custody, “his wife, I am instructed, takes no interest in the child.”
However, Billy no sooner out of the way (her sources of information obviously intact) Betty presented herself at the Newcastle Children’s Department and said that she would now be visiting Mary. Her first visit took place on 20 December 1969.
“Mary was told to await her mother in her room but got impatient and came downstairs,” the staff say. “When her mother came, she ran towards her, and embraced and kissed her. Later they sat in the library, with Mary on Betty’s lap, and both cried.”
Betty now went to visit Mary regularly—by the end of January 1970 she had been to see her three times. (Between the summer of 1971 and Christmas 1972 she went at least once a month.) Mary seemed to look forward to these visits, though she was always unsettled afterwards.