Nobody Came (6 page)

‘Look, son,’ he said then. ‘We’re taking you somewhere you’ll be looked after. For your own sake, just be good and calm down. There’s a nice evening meal waiting for you where you’re going.’

I repeated that I just wanted my older brother.

‘You’ll all meet up later, so stop your nonsense now,’ he said, and promise after promise rolled off his tongue. Those policemen would have promised us anything if it meant they could keep us from crying.

But through the grille I spotted the telltale winks when they made those promises and saw the merriment on their faces; I heard their barely suppressed chuckles and knew that they were lying to us.

Davie and I were too drained to offer any more resistance and for the rest of that journey we huddled up to each other and sat in miserable silence. Even Denise seemed to have run out of energy and she just snuffled softly in the policeman’s arms.

The van slowed down and gradually came to a halt. A few seconds later the back doors were swung open. ‘Out you get, boys,’ said the tall, dark policeman.

It was mid-afternoon and the strong Jersey sunlight flooded in, momentarily blinding me. I put my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun’s glare. With a derisive snort the policeman caught hold of my wrist, jerked it hard and pulled me out.

‘I said out, you little moron. Can’t you ever do as you’re told? Let me tell you, in here you’ll have to.’ He chuckled as though at a joke, one that judging from his colleague’s answering snigger both of them understood the full meaning of. Young as I was, I instantly knew that joke was at our expense.

‘Do you know where you are, Robbie?’ asked the carrot-haired policeman, this time not too unkindly.

By then speech had deserted me and all I could do was shake my lowered head.

‘Sacre Coeur, or Sacred Heart to you, you little heathens.’

The name meant nothing to me. I still had no idea why we had been taken from our home or why we had been brought to this place. I understood that what Stanley had done was bad, but why were we all being punished? And where had Gloria gone? Even more to the point, where had they taken John?

His next words made even less sense. ‘This is going to be your new home, and by all accounts a lot better than the one you lot came from.’

I just wanted to be back in Devonshire Place. Back with Gloria and Mrs Stone’s familiar shouts, slaps and moans.

The tall, dark policeman lifted Davie down from the van. The moment his feet touched firm ground he started crying again. Tired, hiccuping sounds left his mouth while fat tears slid down his flushed cheeks and his round little-boy body trembled all over.

My eyes widened as I stared around me, trying to take in and make sense of our surroundings.

We were standing in front of the biggest building I had ever seen. Built of stone, it had been painted a dark cream colour. My red-rimmed eyes were drawn upwards, up and up the five storeys of the building until they came to the roof. On top of it was a huge statue. It frightened me. I didn’t know that the stone man with his arms outstretched to the sky was the same Jesus that I had been taught about at school. This eight-foot-tall figure was not the gentle man we had been told about in our Bible class. This statue looked macabre and threatening.

Then I noticed that the high walls surrounding the buildings had sharp, dangerous-looking spikes embedded in the top, adding to the intimidating atmosphere. A shiver of apprehension travelled up my spine and I felt the sharp bite of fear.

I was too dazed and far too upset to take in more of what the grounds and the buildings actually looked like. I just got the impression of its vastness, then my arm was grabbed again. We were swiftly marched up to the big double front door and a distant bell could be heard ringing.

The policeman who carried our baby sister was holding her as far away from him as possible. I could smell the ripe stink of her nappy and her wails of outrage, hunger and discomfort rose shrilly into the air. I could sense the policemen’s impatience and knew they just wanted to hand us over as quickly as possible. But who, I wondered, were they handing us over to?

T
he door was opened by a woman wearing a thick, black dress that came to just above her ankles. Her head was covered in the same black material and her face was framed in what looked like a huge white collar. Around her waist she wore a thick leather belt with a large bunch of keys and a crucifix hanging from it.

For the first time I looked up into the pale face of Sister Bernadette. I saw thin lips pressed firmly together and small dark eyes, lacking warmth and humour, that were staring back down at us. I felt my own eyes widen. Her white wimple completely hid every strand of hair, removing any sign of femininity, while her long black veil obscured the sides of her cheeks and gave an almost sinister quality to her unsmiling face.

I felt Davie grip my hand tighter and knew he was afraid of her. Neither of us had ever seen a nun before, and I felt a wave of panic at the sight of this strangely dressed woman.

She looked at the policeman. ‘These must be the Garner children,’ she said in a tone of indifference. ‘You had better bring them in.’

She ushered us quickly into a large marble-floored hall. Davie gave a gasp and clutched my arm. My eyes followed his frightened gaze. In front of me was another statue, only this time its chest looked as though it had been ripped open to expose a heart dripping with blood. At the sight of it Davie shook with fresh sobs.

‘We don’t allow crying here,’ the nun said, ignoring our distress. She cast an icy gaze over the weeping Davie. She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to. The coldness and authority of her words were enough: ‘Be quiet immediately.’

I heard Davie gulp. His crying tailed off until all I could hear were shallow little gasping breaths. I looked down at him. I wanted to tell him that everything was going to be all right but I didn’t believe that myself. My heart shifted when I saw how great a toll the day had taken on him. His mottled red face was covered with silvery tracks; so many tears had flowed that it looked as if an acid substance had burnt its path down his chubby cheeks. His eyelids were so swollen that they were almost closed shut. His mouth drooped with fright and bewilderment and he leant against me as though he had lost the ability to stand unaided.

The nun in front of us remained completely unmoved at the sight of two small boys who for hours had been traumatised, bewildered and frightened. That eventful spring morning we had woken up to the sounds of our mother’s screams and witnessed Stanley’s attempted suicide, then we had been removed from our home, seemingly abandoned by the only parents we knew, and finally we had been roughly and harshly separated from our eldest brother John, the boy who did everything for us and who we regarded more as a parent-protector than a brother.

I recognised the nun’s antipathy towards us and the recognition of it ignited a tiny spark of defiance in me. ‘Where’s John?’ I asked. Her eyes flicked over me and in their depths I saw a mixture of contempt and enjoyment of the predicament we found ourselves in.

‘He’s not here,’ was her reply.

‘Where is he?’ I repeated.

She paused and for a moment it seemed that she was not even going to grant me a reply for she just stared unblinkingly back at me. This time I held her gaze for I wanted an answer.

‘Somewhere naughty boys like him go,’ she said eventually. ‘Your landlady told the police what he was like. Trouble, we heard. A criminal in the making. Always stealing off the shopkeepers, wasn’t he? We don’t want that sort of boy here. So if you know what’s good for you, forget him and stop asking questions about him.’

I dropped my gaze then. That tiny spark of defiance that had flickered within me was totally extinguished by her words. I’d always thought the shopkeepers didn’t know about John’s thieving but I suppose they must have seen him sometimes even if they hadn’t caught him. Surely he hadn’t been sent somewhere we couldn’t see him? Surely that wasn’t true? But I knew it was; deep down I had known when I saw him being put into the other police van that I might not see him ever again.

When I raised my eyes and looked at the black-gowned figure, sheer panic froze my vocal cords. A huge lump rose in my throat, threatening to stop me breathing; I gulped and gulped again, trying as hard as I could to draw fresh breath into my lungs. All the time I gasped for air, Sister Bernadette watched me with a look of malevolent pleasure.

Another nun appeared as if from nowhere.

‘Ah, Sister Freda,’ she said. ‘Please relieve the policeman of the baby.’ With a look of relief the policeman passed over our sister.

‘She needs changing,’ Sister Freda said as she took her from him and left with a swish of her black robes.

That was yet another family member I lost that day.

Their duty done, the two policemen left quickly after that, but we still hadn’t been told what was going to happen to us. Sister Bernadette watched them go without saying a word, while we stood in front of her wondering what would happen next.

‘Follow me,’ she said abruptly. She turned and walked briskly towards a door set at the rear of the entrance hall. I pulled Davie along with me as I half-walked and half-ran, trying to keep up with her short, thickset figure moving swiftly in front of us. She never once glanced back to see if we could keep up. As I followed, the fear that I had felt for Mrs Stone seemed infinitesimal compared to the growing terror that this nun induced.

If she scared me, the building, with its long gloomy passages, closed doors, statues standing in corners and morbid pictures of the crucifixion hanging on walls, absolutely terrified me. Smells of floor polish mixed with the odour of stale air for, as I was to find out, Sacre Coeur’s rooms very seldom had windows flung open to allow fresh air to enter. This added to its depressing atmosphere, as did the eerie silence.

The sister unlocked a heavy wooden door that led into a courtyard and then led us through to a tarmac yard. ‘This is the girls’ play area,’ she told us. ‘The only time you are allowed in it is when you are going to the boys’ dining room. The girls have their own refectory.’

I found out later that the girls were always sent in to have their meals before us so that our paths never crossed.

‘When you’ve had your supper you had better learn your way about,’ she continued. ‘The yard on the other side of the hedge is the boys’ play area. There is another door, which is unlocked after supper, that leads into it. You are never to enter the girls’ area except at meal times. Do you understand me?’

‘What about our sister?’ I asked despairingly. ‘When do we get to see her?’

She ignored the question. ‘Robbie, I asked you if you understood what I’ve just told you. Have I been wasting my breath?’

I was too intimidated to dare ask about Denise again. Instead I just told her that I understood what she had been saying to me. I could see that the courtyard we were walking through was encircled on all sides by the massive building we had arrived in, and I could also see the hedge crossing the middle of that courtyard.

She opened another wooden door and led us into a long, narrow room where about sixty boys were sitting on benches at long tables. I was relieved to see some other children and to realise that this must be a dining room, so chances were we would get fed soon. The walls were painted the dreary green of bruised apples and the floor was covered with dark brown lino. There had been a low murmur of talking as we walked in but the boys fell completely silent when they saw Sister Bernadette.

‘What have I told you?’ she said sharply to the room at large. ‘There is to be no talking until after the meal.’

She pointed to two empty places. ‘That is where you are to sit, but first stand behind the bench and say your grace.’

Davie and I looked at each other, puzzled. I had to tell her we didn’t know the words of any grace. She gave an exasperated sigh and glanced along the table as though looking for inspiration. Her chilly gaze landed on a thin, wiry boy with curly, light-brown hair and a snub-nosed face liberally dotted with freckles, who was sitting next to the place I had been told was mine.

‘Ah, Nicolas,’ she ordered. ‘Say your grace again and they can repeat the words after you.’

‘Yes, sister,’ the boy replied without looking at us.

‘And after supper you can show them around, then bring them to mass.’

He looked up at us then. ‘Yes, sister,’ he replied obediently and gave me a slight smile.

‘Good. I’ll leave them in your charge for the rest of today. You’re responsible for them.’

Her gown brushed the floor as she turned and walked briskly out of the room, taking with her some of the tension that her presence had caused.

Nicolas climbed off the bench, stood behind it and hurriedly said grace. I repeated the words after him.

‘Better try and remember them,’ he told me with a quick grin.

I reckoned he was roughly three years older than me. There was something about him that reminded me of some of John’s friends. He had the air of a boy who’d had to live on his wits and I also knew, before he said anything, that he sympathised with our misery. His presence gave me some comfort that first bewildering evening. I sat down with him on one side of me and Davie on the other.

There was a clatter of metal plates at a nearby counter and another nun, much older and thinner than Sister Bernadette, started ladling food onto them from a large pot. As soon as we were seated she pushed two tin plates in front of Davie and me. They held a thin stew that consisted of gristly grey meat, cabbage and potatoes; its surface was spotted with white flecks of congealing fat. The smell of overcooked cabbage seemed to seep out of the walls, as well as from our plates. It mingled with the sour smell of the room as though the air was filled with the lingering stench of the thousands of miserable meals that had been consumed there.

‘Eat!’ snapped the old nun. I looked down at the unappetising mess on my plate and shook my head as I pushed the plate to one side. Watching me, Davie did the same. I didn’t want to be at that place or at that table. I didn’t want that food that looked and smelled so horrible. I knew if I put anything in my mouth it wouldn’t get past the lump that was still so firmly wedged in my throat.

‘This once,’ said the nun, perhaps noting our despondency, ‘I’ll overlook your behaviour, but don’t expect me to do so again. You must eat the food God blesses you with.’

As she moved away, Nicolas whispered that I’d had a lucky escape. ‘See that ladle she carries? She hits you with it. Bloody old witch, that one. It’s only because it’s your first day she didn’t lam into you. Just be careful of her, she’s going a bit dilly. She’s deaf as a doorpost too. But the one you really have to watch out for is Sister Bernadette. You never want her to notice you doing wrong.’ He must have noticed my fearful expression and hastened to add some reassurance. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll show you the ropes. You’ll be OK with me.’

Davie had heard the whispered words and the buildup of terror he had felt all day suddenly became too much for him to cope with. He put his hands on the table for leverage, started rocking himself backwards and forwards and howled loudly. The old nun turned round, glared at our table and scurried towards us.

‘Try and stop him,’ Nicolas hissed, a note of panic in his voice.

But it was too late to silence him before the old nun reached us. Quivering with outrage at our effrontery, she screamed that we had committed a cardinal sin. Firstly, for not eating what had been put in front of us. ‘Food,’ she shrieked, ‘that starving children in Africa would have been grateful of.’ Her rage increased with every screech and howl that left Davie’s throat. Secondly, she told us that nobody made a noise like that in her domain. Thirdly, Davie had placed not just his hands on the table but his elbows as well; both these actions were firmly against Sacre Coeur’s rules of behaviour. ‘Don’t think these sinful acts will go unpunished,’ she said, her rage bubbling over.

She swung the large metal ladle above her head to gain maximum force behind the forthcoming blow. I was scared that the weight of that ladle would crush or break Davie’s arm and in an attempt to protect him I started to get up from the bench.

Well aware of the damage that could be inflicted on my little brother, Nicolas reacted without thinking of the consequences. He placed his hand on the table, leaned across me and knocked Davie’s arms down to his sides. The ladle changed direction in mid-air and with a sudden crack it connected with Nicolas’s outstretched hand. He screamed in agony. The nun lifted her other arm and swiped him so hard across the side of his head that he fell with a deafening crash to the floor.

Davie stopped howling, his eyes wide with shock, and his face turned from red to white in seconds. Surreptitiously he slipped his thumb into his mouth.

‘That will teach you to interfere,’ the nun said with smug satisfaction when she saw the pain Nicolas was in. She turned her watery blue eyes onto us. I saw no spark of intelligence in that gaze; she looked old and senile, and utterly without any sympathy for the helpless children in her care.

‘And not another peep out of you or your brother, do you hear? If you can’t behave around others I’ll have to talk to Sister Bernadette about putting you on your own for a while.’

Having delivered her threat, she walked off in search of other victims. Nicolas clambered back onto to the bench cradling his bruised hand. He didn’t utter a word until she was out of earshot, then he muttered, ‘You’d better be careful. She means it. They put you in a dark cupboard. Leave you there. Just give you bread and water. I’ve been in it.’

I hoped Davie couldn’t hear him. The last thing I wanted was for him to start crying again. I knew if he did I would get blamed as much as him. But this time he kept quiet, just sucking his thumb for comfort.