PORTRAIT OF A LADY

 

                                                                              Chapter Four
                                                                                Cast Adrift

 

Michael Selby learned the hard way about being an orphan. The shock of being bombed - even though he did not fully understand what it meant at the time - and then being told that his parents were dead - something else he did not comprehend at first - turned him into a very unruly child. But it was the loss of his sister that he found most difficult to come to terms with. His unruliness was total, prospective foster parents found it impossible to control him. It did not matter where he was sent, or how good his foster family or carers were, he would not conform.
      The authorities had tried, but no matter the kind of people with whom he was placed, it was always the same. Michael refused to be absorbed into another family. Even the existence of other children in the home made no difference, he stubbornly refused to be cared for, let alone adopted.

      The latest attempt had ended not only in failure, but had involved the police. Michael had cried himself to sleep again; just like he had the night before, and the night before that. Then he heard the sound of the door being opened; and the voices. He pretended he was still asleep.
      "I think he's got off at last the poor little mite." It was a woman's voice, soft and full of care. "I don't know what more I can do."
      "He'll have to go back if he's going to upset you." a man's voice answered.
      "We'll try a bit longer, see how it goes. Poor little chap's had a rough old time."
      Michael heard the door close and lay still and silent, eyes wide open but in the darkness seeing nothing. This was his third night in this house, though he had lost count of how many houses he had been in since that awful night. Two years he had heard someone saying, but he didn't know. All those places and all those people - none of whom he could remember. It was all so mixed up. It had got so he barely remembered his real mummy and daddy, or his life with them. He vaguely understood that they were dead and that was why he was not with them, but it never felt real. Memories of them and his sister had been so swamped by his ceaseless moving, and of the constantly changing faces, that it almost seemed as though they had never existed.
      The morning came, and the lady came into his room. "Come on pet," she said, "time to get up." She was gentle and quiet and Michael felt a little less afraid. But he didn't speak.
      "Come on now," she said as she sat on the edge of the bed, "I'll be taking you to your new school today." He flinched when she lifted her hand and gently moved some strands of hair from his face.
      "I know little man; they haven't all been very nice, but I'll not hurt you."
       School had been torture. Grown up faces close to his; smiles as they tried to get him to talk. Comments like, "Never minds, you'll do it when your ready." came thick and fast when he failed to communicate. The other children, knowing that this new boy was being favoured, gave him no quarter, believing that his advantage might be their disadvantage. Subsequently Michael was not treated kindly by the other pupils and he was excluded from all their games even though had he been encouraged to join in he might have done so.
     Mr and Mrs Spencer were not encouraged. They knew of course of the difficulties the council had faced, and of the string of failures; but they wanted to try. They were good living, church going people, who had no doubt that it was their Christian duty to open their home and their hearts to someone who's life had been devastated by the dark forces of evil. They had no doubt either that those dark forces were the work of the devil.
     "I hope he will settle with us, he needs some stability in his life, the poor we babe." Mrs Spencer said to her husband as they settled him down for another night. Carefully they closed the door, and Michael, who had been awake all the time gently eased himself until he was sitting upright, and with equal care pushed back the bed coverings. He had heard every word but had no way of knowing if this house would be any better than the others he had been to, or if the people here would treat him any better. All he knew was that he wanted to get out. Slowly and quietly he dressed, and with a skill which one so young should not posses, he slid up the sash window, reached for and grasped a drainpipe, and departed the house.
      It was not until six o'clock the next morning, when Mr Spencer got up to get ready for work, that Michael was missed. Another failure, another couple desperate to give a child their love disappointed. Moreover a six year old child was out on the streets, defenceless and lonely.
      But Michael did not feel defenceless and lonely, he felt somehow free. This was by no means the first time he had absconded, and, knowing the routine, made no attempt to avoid being found. He was discovered at the bus station by early morning travellers, from where he was collected, and once again returned to the orphanage. Ironically, the orphanage was the only place from which he did not run away. That became the pattern for Michael, and after one or two further attempts at fostering had failed he was left where he was. The orphanage became his home; the system had failed.
      One man however might have resolved the situation, but chose not to do so. Determined to prove that he knew best, not once during this time did the Children's Officer admit he was wrong and send him to the one place where he would have settled, with 'Granny' Wilkins.
      Michael continued to be unruly and dishonest, and by the time he was ten, he had acquired an unenviable reputation; almost the archetypal juvenile delinquent. It seemed that it would only be a matter of time before he was sent to goal, or at the very least a remand home. But nothing seemed to make any difference to the boy , and neither did he seem to care. By the time he was twelve he did indeed find himself in an institution; which was to became his home for the next four years.
      It was not surprising that Michael did not care, for had grown up in a world which, in his eyes at least, seemed not to care. He was oblivious to the helping hands he had rejected, uncaring of the efforts that had been made to try to find him a home and family. All he could see was hostility and rejection, and while that was not always the case his defence was to reject first. He had discovered that emotional pain was harder to deal with than physical pain, so he learned not to let people in. That way they could not hurt him. He had also learned not to care about physical abuse. Over the years there had been a number of times when he had felt pain, but he didn't seem to care about that either. Not, that is, until just before he was thirteen when he suffered sexual abuse for the first time.
    By now he had become settled in a boys remand home and had got to know some of the other inmates, and the wardens. This was a place for minor offenders, and for those who, for a variety of reasons had slipped through the fostering and adoption net. But it suited Michael. The rules were strict but not draconian, the discipline firm, but not too severe, and he didn't have to pretend. The regime was not repressive but tolerance of bad behaviour was limited, and as Michael had long been hard to manage, it seemed inevitable that he would reach that limit. He seemed to spend all his time at the boundary of what was acceptable, constantly pushing and testing, always trying to get away with that little bit more.
      One day after some mischief he was sent to the solitary room, where he was locked in without food or water. It was not the first time he had been disciplined in this way, and as usual he was unconcerned. About midnight the door was opened by one of the wardens carrying two buckets.
      "Brought you some supper." he said, as he unwrapped some sandwiches from one of the buckets.
      "Can't eat till I've had a crap." Michael said defiantly.
      "That's what the other bucket's for."
      "Can't I go to the lav then?"
      "You can do it in the bucket or shit in your pants; it's up to you."
      Michael urgently needed to relieve himself, and he knew that there would be little time to argue.
      "Well please will you leave the room?"
      "No chance."
      Michael couldn't last much longer, and the warden made no move to offer the privacy that he sought. This time his tearaway unruly manner got him nowhere.
      "Well at least turn around."
      "Just get on with, I'm going nowhere."
     Michael thought that it was part of his punishment; some kind of humiliation tactic. "Sod you then." he said as he dropped his trousers and his underpants and squatted over the bucket. At this point nature took over, and any idea of coyness or embarrassment departed as his bowels emptied in one complete rush, followed at once by the emptying of his bladder. Unfortunately he was not quite centred in his squatting, and the first squirt of urine wet his shirt and then the floor.
      "You messy bugger, look what you've done." his carer said with a leer. He reached forward and lifted Michaels shirt, and then grabbed the still streaming source, squeezing to stop the flow.
      "Hey that hurts." the boy shouted, more concerned at the discomfort, than the fact that this man was taking such a liberty.
      The man released the pressure allowing Michael to complete the job, but he did not let go.
    "Clean yourself up lad." he said, and took some tissue from the other bucket, but still he held on to Michael's most sensitive place. 
    "You want to move - you want to get on to the bed?" he heard the man saying.
    "Yes please."
    Still holding on to Michael, one hand on his buttock and the other ‘cupping’ at the front he lifted him on to the edge of the bed, face down, with his feet on the floor and his pants still around his ankles.
    "Now its my turn." the man said as he came behind the boy. He roughly yanked his trousers from his feet before dropping his own and then firmly pulling Michael's legs apart.
    The next half hour became a turning point for Michael, for though he had experienced physiological abuse before he had somehow convinced himself that shouting and threats meant nothing. Physical pain too meant little to him. It will be gone by tomorrow, he would tell himself.
     But this was different. Never before had he felt such uncertainty. Not since his separation from his sister had he felt at such a loss, and he cried and sobbed most of the night. The pain from his attack had subsided, though he was left with a feeling he could not describe. He was a little sore but mostly he felt that he had lost control of his legs. He felt a strange numbness and some uncertainty in his ability to stand up. The years of running from the police, the adoption agencies, and other social do-gooders - a phrase that was common parlance within the reform school - had left him with little fear from authority, and the occasional beatings served only to heighten his sense of defiance. Also he had discovered that by not giving in to those who inflicted pain, it often had the effect of ending their sadistic interest in him. Bullies, he was learning to discover, prefer easy victims. But this was different even though at that tender age, not quite a teenager, he was not at all sure how it was different.
     The next year continued it's relentless flow with a mixture of schooling, routine tasks of cleaning and maintenance, exercising and sport. In the evenings the boys were expected to read or play board games. They were allowed to write one letter each week to parents or other family members, which would be read by the governor or his staff, and censured where it was deemed appropriate. For most of the inmates the weekly letter was at best an irksome chore, while for others it was of no consequence. Michael was firmly in the second category for, as it was for many of the boys, even had he wished otherwise there was nobody he could write to.
      Night times however presented some of the boys with new set of priorities, for it transpired that those like Michael, those who had no-one on the outside waiting for them, were, by and large, the ones who became the subject of night time visits by certain of the warders. Moreover, to keep their young victims sweet and willing, they were treated in an ambiguous fashion. On the one hand they were warned of dire consequences should they squeal, while on the other hand their acquiescence was rewarded with certain privileges. Michael and his friend Ollie were about to take advantage of those privileges.
     Michael's life in the orphanage and the reform school had made him dependent of such institutions, and yet paradoxically his refusal to cooperate and his strong sense of independence had prevented him becoming institutionalized. He had learned to take from it what he needed, and at the same time to accept its demands on him. His plan was to ease through each day, knowing that one day - maybe tomorrow - it would be better.
     Amongst all the boys in the home he had found only one friend, Oliver Jackson, two years older than himself. But as Michael was on the tall side, and Ollie, if anything, was slightly small for his age, they just about matched physically. They had liked each other from the moment they met, and the age difference allied with Michael’s independent attitude, seemed unimportant. They soon got to know about each other, and how they came to be in the 'care' of the local council. Both were streetwise and confident, but it was in that respect that Ollie's extra years did count, for he had from the beginning assumed leadership. He had lived by his wits all his life, even when, he once told Michael, the lack of a resident father and five elder siblings, all versed in the various arts of self preservation, had left him well prepared when his mother had finally lost the struggle, and saw her three youngest taken into care.
     When Michael learned that his mother had given away three of her children he was shocked. "You mean she just handed you over and then walked off?"
     "Don't really know - I suppose so - I were only a nipper at the time; about two or three. Can't remember to tell you the truth."  While Ollie had answered with uncertainly, it was without any obvious stress. "Never seen her since." he added, somewhat nonchalantly.
     "Seems like a funny goin’ on if you ask me," Michael remarked, "at least mine were all dead."
     "How do you know that?"
     "I'm not sure now." Michael was trying to remember. "I used to have a big brown envelope with some papers in it; and a photo I think." He stopped again, unable to get to grips with vague recollections. "It's that long since I saw it I can't remember were it went to; but anyway it said my folks were killed by a German bomb."
     "A bomb?"
     "'I' ... blew the house to pieces they said."
     "Killed your mother and father?" Ollie was curious.
     "Yes - and my sister. She never properly recovered from her injuries they told me and she died later in hospital. Some complication or other." Michael added.
     It had been so long since he had said the word sister, but in spite of his cocky nature and laid back attitude, he could not help a moistening in his eyes. He never felt any emotion about his parents, in fact he could no longer remember them; but thoughts of his dead sister usually made him feel sad. The tears not only surprised himself, but also Ollie, whose friendship with Michael was developing; but not yet formally established. But at that moment Ollie put his arms about the younger boy and hugged him. It was the moment that he and Ollie became like brothers.
     Ollie, like Michael had grown to accept those clandestine visits, and had learned that keeping quiet seemed to be the thing to do. To start with they soon discovered that afterwards the were not disturbed again, and after a while the germs of a plan started to emerge. It was Ollie who had the idea, and it was he who had to carry it through. A certain boldness was required for handled carelessly the plan would backfire, with predictable - even painful, repercussions. It was simple really. Though no mention of their night-time visitors was ever made directly, the few whose delight it was to pay amorous attention to the boys were well known by them - much more than the perpetrators realized - and now Ollie had to decide which one of them would respond most fruitfully to a little counter threat, implied rather than explicit.
     As expected an opportunity presented itself,  on the occasion of yet another visit in the darkness by one of the warders in the small hours, Ollie, with beating heart let it be known that he and the other boys knew who their abuser was. With a skill typical of an experienced streetwise urchin he managed to suggest that they all believed him to be the only one, and though some of them didn't mind too much, there were others who were very unhappy about it and were ready to go to the chief superintendent.
     There was a discernible if controlled reaction, which Ollie could not be sure was fear or fury, but before the man could speak Ollie spoke up again. "I can keep them quiet for you, but a little sweetener would help."
    "You better had," the man answered. "You better bloody had." and after completing his task walked off, with no sweetener offered.
      That had been round one, and round two was slightly more dramatic, though in the end it appeared to be no more productive. This time Michael was in the front line, and when his turn came to endure the usual night-time ardour, he was surprised the hear a voice in his ear instead of the usual grunting. "Your mate's pushing his luck a bit."
     Michael was surprised, but realized that this might be an unexpected chance to make progress. Despite the awkwardness of the moment he said, "He only wants you to leave a door unlocked so we can get out for a couple of hours."
     "No way," came the slightly breathless answer, we'd never see you little shits again."
     "No, we don't want to run away; could have run away yonks ago if we'd wanted. We just want to get out for a bit of fresh air."
     The moment came that told Michael that his ordeal was over, at least for tonight. Nothing more was said, and shortly Michael felt the man rise and leave.
     Three days later while Michael and Ollie were in the kitchen scrubbing the dinner pans they both heard a voice telling then not turn round but listen. Both boys complied, though fearful that they might have gone too far.
     "Back door to the dustbin compound - nine o'clock, and listen good. If you do a runner I will find you and break every bone in your bodies."
     Both boys had little doubt that he could carry out his treat, or that he would.
     "Back by eleven - not a minute later. And if you are late I'll break half the bones in your bodies."
     They waited for the next threat, but no more came. When they turned around the mystery speaker, who of course they both knew, was gone.
     "What brought that on?" Michael asked.
     "Well, I was going to tell you!"
     "What were you going to tell me?" Michael asked, somehow knowing he wasn't going to like the answer.
     "Well last night;" he stopped when he recognised Michael's inquisitive look, "Yes," he repeated, "last night; I told him that I had spoken to the two lads who were unhappy, and if he would leave them alone, we wouldn't mind . . ." he stumbled on his words, "we wouldn't mind a bit extra."
    "What!" Michael almost screamed. "What do you mean the boys who were unhappy - there weren't any remember - we made it up."
     "Yes I know; but it sort of came out accidentally. I wasn't going to say it, but once I did I couldn't take it back."
     "Well who did you say?"
     "I had to think quick, so I just said the first two names who came into my head."
     "The lucky beggars." was all that Michael would say.
     "Yes I know, but at least we get to go out tonight." Ollie answered, seemingly unperturbed about 'the little extra' to which he had committed himself:  and Michael.

 

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