Nobody Came (21 page)

I
can’t remember if the sun was high in the sky or if grey clouds threatened rain the Sunday morning when I heard about Parker. I do remember exactly where I was, but not what I was doing.

I’d finished breakfast, gone outside and wandered to a corner of the grounds where Marc and I used to sit talking. Since Marc’s death, I’d started avoiding the company of other boys, feeling the need to be alone more and more often. I wanted my old friend back. It wasn’t something as simple as loneliness that I felt but an emptiness that not even my occasional meetings with John filled. The other boys had started to get irritated by my sudden aloofness but that just made me want to keep my distance even more. They had never been close to Marc and they had no experience of what it was like when a close friend killed himself. No matter how much you tell yourself it wasn’t your fault, the dark side of your brain keeps prodding your conscience and saying if you had been a better friend he might have had the strength to cope.

What made everything more difficult was that we knew not to talk about the suicides anywhere near the wardens. When we were out of earshot, we asked each other how long the wardens thought they could keep everything quiet. Surely now there would be questions asked about why boys were so depressed that they killed themselves? At any rate, I hoped there would be. ‘They’ might not believe us if we told stories, but surely dead boys wouldn’t go unnoticed?

When I shared these thoughts with John he gave me a look that was both impatient and pitying.

‘You don’t get it, do you, Robbie?’ he said. ‘There’s no one who cares what happens to us. Why do you think we were put in the home in the first place? Because we were a problem to someone, a problem that no one wanted. No, it won’t be the authorities that do anything.’ I hadn’t taken very much notice of his last comment but I remembered it later.

That morning, when I saw Martin running towards me I just wondered what he wanted. I could tell he was excited, but I wasn’t particularly interested in finding out what it was about.

‘Hey, Robbie, have you heard?’ he asked.

‘Heard what?’

‘They say it was your brother, but no one knows for sure.’

My heart jumped. Had something happened to John? He saw the look on my face and hastened to reassure me.

‘Nah, he’s all right, nothing’s happened to him.’ A huge wolfish grin spread across his face. ‘It’s happened to that bastard Parker, though!’

I thought of Parker and how he had taunted me about Davie, those cruel cold eyes that slid over my body and his high-pitched sniggers when he hurt someone.

‘He got beat up real bad,’ Martin continued with a note of unmistakable glee in his voice. ‘He’s in the hospital.’

Maybe I should have found it in me to express some sympathy, some concern for his well-being, but all I felt was a sharp lifting of my spirits.

‘He was found in the gents’ lavatories. Whoever did it, and they reckon it must have been more than one attacker, broke his arm, his right one, really badly. They say you could see the bones sticking out like someone stamped on it hard. He’s got a few cracked ribs as well.’

‘Anything else?’ I asked.

‘He was unconscious when he was found, must have been the pain. Had to be taken off in an ambulance. The police were at the hospital.’

I felt a slight sense of unease then.

‘Did he say who did it?’ I asked.

‘No.’ Martin nearly doubled up with laughter. ‘The idiot said he never saw them, that the men who did it attacked him from behind. But he was lying by the washbasins when they found him. And what do washbasins have over them?’

‘Mirrors!’ I said. I grinned at the thought of Parker combing back his hair, then seeing someone behind him he really didn’t want to see.

‘Of course he knows who it was, but he’s too scared to talk. And I’ll tell you this and all: those wardens are looking worried. John’s teamed up with a couple of other boys from here and Sacre Coeur; your pal Nicolas is one of them.’

‘But they don’t know each other!’ I exclaimed, feeling puzzled.

‘But they both know you, Robbie. They both know Davie. They’re just warning those bleeding sods to lay off you both. Telling them that if you get hurt again they will find out who did it. Don’t you see?’ He paused. ‘I hope some more of those bastards get hurt!’ I knew that he must miss Pete as much as I was missing Marc, but at least his friend was still alive, albeit incarcerated in a mental hospital.

Davie arrived soon after that. It was almost three years since we last saw each other but he hadn’t changed much. He was taller, of course, but he was still emotionally subdued and slow to respond when you asked him anything. He told me Sister Claire had left and he sounded as though he was sadder about that than he had been when I left. His trusting little face looked up at me.

‘Is it nice in here?’ he asked.

‘It’s not too bad,’ I told him, crossing my fingers.

After Parker’s ‘accident’ the wardens left me alone, as did the bullies, but I would always remember who they were and what they had done. At least during those last months at Haut de la Garenne, while I studied as hard as I could, I knew that Davie would be all right.

I knew that the bullies were aware that when I left there would be another one of us Garners on the outside; another one who knew where they went for a drink, what they did on their days off. That, I prayed, would be enough to keep Davie safe.

B
efore the sun had tinged the sky pink, before the birds awoke to sing their chorus welcoming the new day, and before there were any sounds in the dormitory apart from the deep breathing of sleeping boys, I woke.

It was the early hours of my fifteenth birthday. For the last nine years my birthday hadn’t been celebrated, but this was going to be different, I told myself. This was the day I had waited for with impatience, with apprehension and most of all with hope. It was the day that I was finally going to leave Haut de la Garenne.

Mr Smith, the welfare officer who three years earlier had told me how much I would enjoy Haut de la Garenne, was coming to collect me after breakfast. He was taking me to what he referred to as a hostel, one of a number of large terraced houses that had been converted specifically to cater for teenagers like us.

I had been given a pair of grey trousers and a jacket to wear when I left. As I lay in bed I pictured the day that lay in front of me; the day that John had promised would come, the day that we would finally be together again. I knew there were hours to go, formalities to be completed and paperwork to be filled in, but nothing, simply nothing was going to stop me going through those doors and joining the outside world.

I had packed my few possessions the night before. There wasn’t much: an old pair of jeans, a shirt, a jumper and a change of underwear. A few toiletry articles, a pen, my drawing pencils and my sketchpads were the sum total of my meagre worldly possessions. But I didn’t mind. I had my apprenticeship as an electrician to start the following Monday, a small income of my own to look forward to and a new life in front of me, one I would be sharing with my older brother.

As soon as the other boys stirred, I dressed in my new clothes and went to the dining room to join Davie for my last breakfast at Haut de la Garenne. I was sad about leaving him yet again but he’d be leaving himself in two years. We had learnt to accept that a year wasn’t such a long time and two years was just twice not such a long time. Anyhow, that’s what we’d said to each other the night before. I had wanted to say my real goodbyes then, so as not to cloud my special day.

No sooner had I swallowed my last mouthful than one of the members of staff requested that I make my way to the head warden’s office.

Apart from my first day there, it was the only time I had entered that office without fear. There was nothing he could do to me now, I told myself. I knocked and when he called ‘Enter!’ I pushed the door open and came face to face with a man who seemed smaller and more insignificant than he had ever done before. He wore his formal mask, the one he showed to welfare officers and the police, the mask of good-natured concern. It was almost impossible to detect the power-mad sadist who controlled this regime of terror and corruption, where some members of staff took pleasure in terrorising vulnerable children.

He shook my hand as though he had my best interests at heart and I, against my will, was sucked into his act and played out my role. Politely and without emotion I thanked him for my time there.

Next I went back to my dormitory and said goodbye to my few friends. The usual promises were made about keeping in touch and meeting up again when they were released. Few would be kept, though, because we all wanted to put our time there behind us.

After that I just sat on my bed and waited for Mr Smith to arrive. Davie sat quietly next to me. His bottom lip trembled as he said what he had said three years earlier.

‘I know you have to go, Robbie. But it won’t be for ever, will it?’

‘No, Davie,’ I said, ‘it won’t be for ever. And when you come out John and I will both be waiting for you. We will all have a home together again.’

His trusting face smiled at me. ‘Will I have a room of my own?’

‘Yes, Davie,’ I replied, and he looked pleased.

I peered out of the dormitory window. ‘What time does Mr Smith eat his breakfast? Where is he?’ I wondered impatiently. And suddenly he was there.

‘Well, Robbie lad,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Ready to start your new life?’

Words simply failed me. Instead I felt my face stretch into a wide grin. I hugged Davie quickly, then I picked up my bag and followed Mr Smith down the stairs, out of the doors, to the car park, into his car, out through the gates, and at last I was free.

Mr Smith was driving a bright turquoise Ford Anglia. As soon as it pulled up at our destination, John was there. He opened the door, I jumped out and for a moment we forgot that we were meant to be grown-ups and hugged each other tightly. Tears streamed down my cheeks but for the first time since I was five they were tears of utter joy.

There was a flurry of activity as Mr Smith introduced me to the owners of the hostel, then he was gone and John and I were left grinning like idiots at each other.

I had been put in the same dormitory as him, a room with only five beds. I already knew two of the boys in our room, although not well. They had come out of the home a few months before me. John told me that they and the third boy, who had been there for over a year, didn’t socialise very much.

‘We’ve tried to get them to come out with us but they won’t. That bleeding place, it’s done something to them. I’ve said to them not to let it beat them. “Don’t let those bastards win,” I’ve told them, but they don’t listen. They have terrible nightmares.’ He paused briefly and looked away. ‘We all do. We can’t help what happens in our sleep, can we? Anyhow all they say is that they want to save up their money and get off this bleeding island. They never want to see anyone from there again. Can’t say I blame them. They don’t talk much, just watch television in the evenings and drink beer together. Anyhow, enough about them! It’s your birthday and I’ve got to get you some new gear. Can’t have my baby brother looking square, can I?’

He beamed at me. ‘We’re going shopping. And then you are going to have your first pint of beer. It doesn’t matter that you’re not eighteen yet; don’t worry about the pub because a mate of mine works there. Anyhow, when I’ve got you looking sharp, no one will know you’re only fifteen.’ As John had only just turned eighteen himself, I guessed he knew his way around all the important minor things of life like underage drinking.

‘Nicolas’s meeting up with us in the pub,’ he added.

‘Where’s he living?’ I asked, excited at the prospect of seeing my old childhood friend.

‘Another hostel just spitting distance from here. But he’ll come back here later, and after we’ve all had supper and changed we’re going out to celebrate your birthday and your freedom from that place!’

We walked to the main street; John already knew which shops to take me to. At the first one he bought me a tight-fitting pair of Levi jeans. They were the new, straight-legged ones, so tight that I wondered how I was going to sit down. Next stop was for shoes. My first pair of grown-up ones were bright blue with long pointed toes. ‘Winkle pickers’, John called them and assured me they were the height of fashion.

Then it was the pub, the Eagle Tavern. It was here where, on my fifteenth birthday, I was introduced to my first pint of beer.

There was an old jukebox in the corner. I had never seen one before and John had to show me how it worked, giving me the right change. I put on ‘Good Luck Charm’, one of Elvis Presley’s latest releases.

Nicolas turned up clutching a birthday card in his hand. He was a taller and older-looking Nicolas with very little left of the freckle-nosed boy who had once looked at life with such a hopeful smile. He ruffled my hair and I threw my arms around him and squeezed him tight. Being tactile was not something I found easy – even now I like to keep my physical distance from other people – but he was my childhood friend and I was just so happy to see him.

He was coming up to eighteen but looked older than his years. I think we all did. We stepped apart and punched each other on the arm as we hid our embarrassment at our display of emotion.

‘We’d better celebrate, Robbie,’ he said, ignoring the fact that I already had a pint glass in front of me. He sauntered to the bar and came back with what he called a ‘brown boiler’, which I discovered was half brown ale and half mild.

‘Don’t get him any more!’ John warned him, and then gave me a cheeky smile to take the edge off his remark. ‘Can’t get drunk yet, Robbie. We’ve got a long day all planned for you. You need to pace yourself.’

I sat there just soaking up the atmosphere in that smoky, beer-smelling pub. Nicolas and John talked about going to the dance hall and ribbed me about getting a girlfriend. After we finished our drinks, we wandered back to the hostel in high spirits, eager to have our supper. Nicolas had left his change of clothes there earlier and John, ever persuasive, had arranged with the owners to let him have his dinner with us.

My birthday dinner was a mixed grill and several thick slices of bread and butter, all washed down with numerous cups of strong tea. Although the one thing that had been good at Haut de la Garenne was the food, somehow the first meal I ate in freedom tasted just wonderful.

When I had finished I nearly left the table to go and ask the couple in charge of the hostel for permission to go out. I half rose from the table, then stopped.

‘Where do you think you’re off to?’ John asked.

I told him what had gone through my head.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I was like that for a long time. But, little brother, you’re free now and don’t you forget it.’

After supper we showered and I changed into my new clothes. I slid into my tight jeans, buttoned up my shirt then put on a black jacket with shiny lapels that John had lent me. John and Nicolas dressed in smart rocker suits: silver grey for Nicolas, bright blue for John. String ties were knotted, pointed-toe shoes pulled on and Brylcreem was applied, giving John and Nicolas fashionable quiffs and me a sort of sleeked-back look.

‘It’ll grow,’ John said kindly, looking at my short hair.

Out we went again.

I felt very sophisticated when we drank French red wine at a bar instead of beer.

‘Right,’ said Nicolas when a whole bottle had been consumed, ‘we’re going to a dance and you are going to meet a girl!’ He led the way to Springfield’s, the local dance hall.

Once inside we chose a table near the dance floor. It made me feel part of the crowd. I enjoyed watching my brother and my old friend saunter up to pretty girls. I enjoyed seeing them take an outstretched hand, lead the girl onto the floor and, fascinated, I watched their feet fly and their hips swing as they jived to the rock-and-roll music that was booming out.

‘Next time we’ll teach you how to pick up girls,’ they both said, laughing. ‘And I’ll teach you to jive too, Robbie,’ John added.

Suddenly I felt an intense happiness that brought a surge of blood rushing to my face. It was the thrill of simply being young combined with the dawning realisation that life might just turn out to be an adventure. Nicolas and John thought I was blushing and laughed even louder. I didn’t feel a need to correct them.

Later that night there was only John and me left. Nicolas had disappeared with a girl.

We strolled down to the beach. The air was still warm from the afternoon sun. A slight breeze blew small clouds of sand off crumbling sandcastles and touched my face with a light caress. Marc came into my mind then – Marc as he had been on that night we had spent on the beach. I felt a twinge of sadness and pushed it aside. Marc would want me to be happy, I thought. He had been adamant that I would be reunited with John and he would be pleased that I finally was.

Suddenly John asked me, in a hesitant voice: ‘Robbie, I know about the beatings, but did anyone, you know, touch you when you were in those places? When you were small, did the bigger boys do anything to you?’

I pictured the nuns washing my tiny penis when I was still only five and a half, pulling and jerking it as they washed it. It was as though that piece of flesh was separate from my body and they wanted to hurt it; after those bath times it had smarted when I peed.

I thought of Neville and the way he had hung Davie and me up next to the freshly killed chickens. And while those headless birds spurted blood and flapped their wings he put his hands inside our trousers. And I remembered what he had done then.

And I felt that terror of being small and at an adult’s mercy. I remembered how we had been mocked, bullied and degraded by them.

Finally I thought of the cellars, the parties, what I had seen there and what I had felt.

‘No,’ I said, ‘it happened to some of my friends, but not to me.’

I heard John breathe a huge sigh of relief. He didn’t look at me. We just kept walking along the sand as the air darkened around us and waves rolled up gently on the shore.

‘And you?’ I asked, pretending I’d never heard about John’s experiences. I wondered what I would say if he told me the truth and at the same time I prayed that he would¬ n’t. ‘In the home did the bigger boys touch you when you were small? Or those bastard wardens, did they do anything when you were in there?’

There was a silence and for a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. I didn’t dare look at him.

‘At night,’ my brother said, ‘after they’d been drinking, the wardens would come into our dormitories. They’d choose a boy, pull him out of bed and frog march him down to the cellars where they were partying.’ He told me they were just little boys and they were shaking with fear because they’d heard what happened to children who were taken in the night. ‘And down in the cellar, their faces were forced into pillows so they couldn’t scream and those men hurt them. They hurt them badly.’

As he talked, John’s pain rolled off him in waves. I wanted to say something, anything that would dispel it. But I remained silent. I wanted to reach out my hand to him, touch him, and comfort him as I had done when I was very young and he had wet the bed. But we weren’t little boys any longer, so I didn’t.

We reached a wall that ran along by the beach. He sat down on it and I sat beside him, then he took out his cigarettes, lit two and handed me one. He coughed as he inhaled deeply, blew out a puff of smoke and then carried on talking.