Nobody Came (15 page)

O
ur knees and knuckles scraped against the wall but we felt only relief at getting away from the dead body that moved and made noises.

On the far side of the girls’ area was a path that led to the gates. At that time of night they would be locked so we knew that the only way out was over the wall. We couldn’t get to the section of wall that was lowest without going through the building and, apart from the fact that the outer doors were most probably locked, entering the building was not a risk we wanted to take.

‘How are we going to get over that wall? It’s sharp on the top, you know,’ I asked despairingly.

‘Sacks from the greenhouses,’ said Marc with a grin. ‘There’s loads of them in there. We’ll throw them up, then climb over.’

We ran across the garden and picked up an armful of the coarse sacking.

Never once did we ask each other if we really wanted to climb out; we both accepted that we did. Marc was older and taller than me so he climbed on my back first. He threw up the sacks and used holes in the wall to clamber up to the top. Once he sat astride the wall, with the sacking protecting his bottom, he leant right over, gave me his hand and hauled me up. We looked at the road below and, without another word, dropped down to it.

I don’t think at that stage we realised what we had done or gave any real thought to the repercussions of our actions. After the build-up of fear, we were hyped up with excitement.

‘Let’s get away from here,’ Marc said, and I needed no encouragement to take to my heels and run down the road after him as though the devil himself was after us. We didn’t stop until we reached Lower Park, over a mile away, where we bent double, rested our hands on our knees and gasped for breath. The wind brought the smell of the sea to our noses and the sound of waves crashing on the nearby beach filled our ears.

‘Now what?’ I asked, licking my salty lips. A feeling of uneasiness started to fill my adrenalin-fuelled mind. We were so used to being told what to do nearly every minute of the day that some of the elation of being outside those walls was already beginning to wear off.

‘Let’s get onto the beach,’ said Marc and, pushing those feelings aside, I nodded enthusiastically and we set off at a brisk trot. It only took two more minutes to reach the West Park slip, where I breathed in the full force of the salt-tinged air I loved so much. The sea crashing onto the sand had a different sound by night; once the sunlight faded it ceased to be a playground for holidaymakers and turned into a mysterious, watery continent.

We flopped down on the sand, grateful of the rest. I gazed out at the ocean; my memories of an earlier summer on that beach were swirling around in my head. The wind suddenly died down and without its force the dark grey sea, tinged here and there with black and deep-navy shadows, swirled more sluggishly. The white caps of the waves were reflected in the silver light of the moon that had now appeared from behind the clouds. This gave the vast expanse of water an unearthly beauty that the sun’s rays seldom gave it in daylight. I decided then that if I ever got away from Jersey I wanted to travel to other continents and explore different oceans and lands.

We had only been there a short time when we became aware of another smell that wafted out from behind a small sand dune: a smoky, spicy aroma that made us feel hungry. We followed our noses until we came to a group of teenagers gathered around a fire where sausages were being grilled.

The beach party, in their shorts and jumpers, stared at us as though we had come from another planet and it was only then we remembered how we were dressed. I suppose two boys wearing black cassocks and white surplices suddenly appearing on the beach at night must have seemed very strange to them.

Marc explained to them what had happened. A combination of looks of amusement at what they thought was our daring escape and expressions of sympathy at our orphaned state appeared on the faces before us.

‘Join us,’ they said. They were on holiday from England, they told us. A bottle of fizzy drink was put into my hand.

‘Fancy a hot dog?’ one of the boys asked.

I nodded, not actually knowing what a hot dog was.

Soft white bread rolls filled with hot sausages were passed to us and we shoved them into our mouths with enthusiasm. Pop music, the likes of which we had never heard, played on a small radio that one of the group had brought to the beach. Cigarettes were offered and smoked, more sausages were eaten, and more fizzy drinks were gulped down. The beach was searched for driftwood and the fire was built up again. Around us there were chattering, happy youths, and hearing their laughter we felt warm inside and out. Tiredness overcame us and our eyes shut. Later, we were dimly aware of the group leaving.

‘Will you be all right?’ they asked us.

‘Yeah, we’ll have to go back to the orphanage, I suppose,’ Marc said, as though it didn’t matter.

They looked relieved; after all, what could they have done to help us?

As I heard those words, fear gnawed at my stomach. Although the nuns didn’t scare me nearly as much as they had when I was younger, I felt apprehensive as I tried to picture what punishment they would choose to mete out to us for this gross misdeed. We both knew it was too late to try and return before they missed us; anyhow, climbing back in wouldn’t be easy. Huddled by the dying embers of the fire, we fell into an uneasy doze. When I awoke the sun had streaked the sky with pink, and Marc was nowhere to be seen.

I pulled my surplice up over my knees, hugged them and gazed out to sea. With the sun’s rays already warming the air, it had changed from being a dark mass to a lighter, friendly shade of blue.

‘Hey, Robbie, look what I’ve got!’ Marc was back, carrying a greasy paper bag in one hand and a bottle of orange juice in the other.

‘Where did you get that?’ I asked, when he showed me the hot, crisp bacon rolls in the bag.

‘From the Grand Hotel, of course.’ Seeing my look of disbelief, he explained that one of the boys he had known in Sacre Coeur now worked there.

‘He’s given me food before when I’ve been out selling flowers,’ Marc told me.

We tucked into the breakfast and tried not to think of what was going to happen next. Then we brushed ourselves down and decided to head for the town.

That’s when we were found.

N
o sooner had our feet touched the path than we heard the sound of a car engine slowing down.

I felt a trickle of fear slide round my ribs.

‘In you get, lads! Fun time’s over,’ said a gruff voice and, without even looking, we knew it was the police and that it was no good arguing.

Our adventure had ended.

We were placed in the back and two policemen sat in the front. Neither of them spoke to us on that short journey back. They just drove the car through the gates to where Mr Letourneau, the head gardener, was waiting and he took us to Sister Bernadette’s office.

As well as being in charge of all the boys given gardening duties, Mr Letourneau was a centenaire, a community policeman. He was the one who had rescued Davie from the broom cupboard the day of his accident and made the nuns take him up to the sick bay. He was a stocky man with lank hair and a weather-beaten face that habitually wore a dour expression and a voice that boomed out orders but seldom made small talk.

That day he drew himself up to his full height, fixed us with a glare and proceeded to lecture us on our misdeeds. He told us that the nuns despaired of us and asked why we didn’t appreciate how lucky we were to have had a home with them. Didn’t we know that we had let them down and disgraced them and ourselves by this act of defiance? He explained that they were considering what must be done with us.

At that I felt a mounting fear. Was he talking about the mental hospital? I closed my mouth firmly lest I voiced that fear, for if they hadn’t thought of it I didn’t want to be the one to put the idea in their heads. I saw Marc’s face go pale. He had also picked up the barely disguised threat.

Mr Letourneau asked us if we had anything to say in our defence but by that time we were too scared to speak in case we made things worse so we just stared at him, pale-faced and mute.

Sister Bernadette and another nun arrived then. I saw Mr Letourneau shrug his shoulders and heard him tell them that we had not spoken or expressed any shame for what we had done, and then he left, shaking his head in disgust.

The moment the door closed Sister Bernadette’s hand swung up then down across my face. Dazed, I fell to the floor. The other nun carried a cane instead of a leather belt. She raised it high in the air and repeatedly brought it down on Marc’s shoulders, his back and his bottom. The force of the blows spun him forward, then I heard him scream as he fell to the floor. Blood spurted from a gash on his leg and he curled into a ball trying to protect himself with his hands from the force of the blows. In her fury, she started to beat his arms.

I felt strong fingers in my hair pulling me off the floor until I stood shakily upright. Sister Bernadette’s hand crashed down across my face again and I felt blood run from my nose. I knew my lip was cut and I could taste the metallic taste of blood in my mouth and could feel it streaming from my lip and nose. Again I fell. I tried to crawl away. Each blow brought a searing pain far worse than the sting of the leather straps.

The nuns were panting with exertion but they had not finished. They hauled us to our feet and between them pushed and shoved us along the hall towards the boot cupboard. I tried to break away but the other nun holding the cane continued to lash out at both of us with it. Up and down it swished across our exposed legs, arms and shoulders. I saw the muscles in her face contort with such fury that I knew it wasn’t just anger she felt but something deeper, a kind of religious fanaticism.

Marc tried not to cry out, tried not to give them that satisfaction, but even he wasn’t that brave. And then he started screaming as the attack became more frenzied.

Down and down the cane came, raining indiscriminately on both of us. Like Marc I tried to hold my cries in for as long as possible, but they were not going to stop beating me until I gave in, and through a mist of pain I heard my voice begging them to stop.

They dragged us across the floor to the boot cupboard. We heard the door being opened, felt their feet pushing us, and heard the venom in Sister Bernadette’s voice as she hissed, ‘You can stay in there without food and think about your sins, you little heathens.’

She left us there for the rest of that day and all of the night. The door was opened briefly for a bucket, a plate of dry bread and a jug of water to be pushed in to us, then it was quickly relocked.

We hurt everywhere. My cut and bruised face throbbed and I knew that the cane had broken the skin elsewhere on my body. My shoulders hurt whenever I leant against the wall, both from the beating and from being roughly dragged and kicked across the floor. It was damp and dark in there and we were cold from shock and hunger. We huddled up to each other for warmth and silently wondered what was going to happen next.

The next day, when we were let out, we met a man called Mr Smith from the welfare department. It was he who told us that the nuns wanted us both transferred to Haut de la Garenne.

To begin with, I was excited. John was there, wasn’t he?

On the other hand, the orphanage had become my home, the only one I really knew. It was where my friends and my damaged little brother were.

At the age of twelve, I had spent more time there than I had at Devonshire Place. My memories of that other life before Sacre Coeur were gradually fading, as I’d only been five when I arrived there. At night I tried to picture my family as we had once been, but the tantalising glimpses of my early years had now become insubstantial and vague.

Mr Smith told me I would soon make new friends. I had thought that when I went into the Junior school, but it hadn’t happened. I told him about my worries and he pointed out that everyone at the home was in a similar position to me. That reassured me a little.

Mr Smith also told me that life at Haut de la Garenne was much nicer than at the orphanage. ‘You’ll like it there. I’ll tell you something for certain – the food is much better. You don’t have to do all of the church stuff or those chores either. After all you’ll have more homework, and that’s important. Boys like you need to work hard at school and make something of yourselves.’

He then told me that John had left just a short time before, on his fifteenth birthday. He also told me that it was felt at this stage in our lives that it was better that he didn’t visit me. The nuns, who seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, had reported his visits to the staff at Haut de la Garenne. He’d been told that I would be punished if he tried to visit me again.

So that’s why he had stopped coming. I felt relieved at the explanation but sad that he wouldn’t be at Haut de la Garenne when I got there.

‘What about Davie?’ I asked Mr Smith. ‘Why can’t he come as well? He needs me.’

Mr Smith tried to convince me it was best for my younger brother to stay at Sacre Coeur. ‘He’s better off with the nuns for the moment. He’s never going to do well at school, you know.’

I didn’t ask him why that was. I suppose I knew, but I didn’t want to have it put into words that something had been damaged inside his head, and that he would never recover. At any rate, I failed to understand how staying with the nuns and being separated from me was going to benefit him.

I kept asking every adult I spoke to if Davie could come with me, but they all said ‘Not now, Robbie,’ and none of them would listen. Their minds were made up.

On the Saturday I was due to leave, Davie was getting ready to work in the gardens. I’d been told that I was to be picked up before lunch and I suddenly realised that this was goodbye. I wanted to delay the moment as long as possible and I kept thinking of excuses to keep him there.

‘Robbie, I have to go now,’ he said eventually and I heard a faint tremor in his voice.

I looked at the skinny form of my little brother standing in front of me and wanted to hug him, to tell him that everything was going to be all right, that we would meet again. Instead I put my hands in my pockets and swallowed the lump in my throat.

‘Davie …’ was all I managed to say before my voice dried up completely.

His large blue eyes looked trustingly into mine. He laid a hand on my arm. ‘I’ll be OK, Robbie,’ he said softly. ‘It’s not for ever, is it?’

‘No, Davie, I replied, ‘it’s not for ever.’

Then he turned and walked out of the dormitory.