Stowlangtoft Hall

I was three. There was a lot of shouting, hand gestures but no tears the first time I smelt that powerful disinfectant. I was pulled to the cream London County Council bus, carrying only my festival of Britain Pixie and thrown on board. I went to the back of the bus and looked out of the window, no one looked back at me. The bus drove off slowly

Soon other children were picked up, some had parcels most like me had only what they stood up in. The smell in the bus was overpowering. Others and I, asked to go to the toilet, the driver ignored us. Eventually we all needed to go, but told to do it in our pants. The smell of urine mixed with the disinfectant started most vomiting. Still the bus sped on unwilling to stop in case some one escaped.

A few children were taken off at a large house, the rest of us stayed on the bus, with a drop off, for the odd one or two, at smaller houses. Only three remained on board the bus, to the final destination, Stowlangtoft Hall. The bus drove down a line of trees to a gravel parking area in front of the North entrance to the grand house.

We were taken straight to the bathroom stripped and bathed in the same tub of tepid water. I let go of Pixie and never saw him again. Once clean and in coarse pyjamas we were taken to our dormitories. Mine was on the cold North side of the house facing the tower.  The dormitory had two huge oblong windows, open at the top. The room smelt like a toilet. The walls were bare, windows without curtain, beds without pillows. The six beds were metal with a thin horsehair mattress protected by a rubber sheet. In summer which, it was, one sheet lay on the bed, and you were expected to roll up in it at night. In winter the sheet was folded but a blanket was placed on the top. The reduction of laundering more important than comfort of children.  I was the youngest in the dormitory, all the others were orphans, their parents killed in the war by Germans.

I spoke a mixture of German, Dutch, and Cockney English. Speaking was a mistake, I became the kraut, bottom of the heap, the kicking stool to be lashed out at for any excuse. After that first beating, a bell rang, and the other boys ran off. They went for supper while I, cried in a corner, going to bed hungry.

In the morning those that wet the bed were taken to the bathroom, stripped, beaten, and dunked in a bath of cold water. The first in the bath suffered the extreme cold but had a dry towel to use. Others enjoyed warmed water, by the passing of small bodies through it, but had the saturated towel to use as a scraper for removing running water.

Once dressed in damp clothes you went to breakfast. The few that did not wet the bed had already had their breakfast of lumpy porridge and a mug of tea. The rest had the cool or cold porridge when they arrived late. Tate and Lyle golden syrup sweetened the porridge. A metal bowl for syrup sat in the middle of the table for the porridge and tea, when empty was not refilled.

After breakfast those of primary school age went to school, away from the Hall. Infant age children were taught at the Hall. Only one had to be taught English, me.

By the time I had learnt my true place in life, at the bottom, I was left alone, treated as an outsider. Then I met Peter, He was older than I was, and more acceptable to the other boys. Peter had both legs in callipers and supported himself on one crutch. We were pleased to discover a child lower in status than ourselves. Peter had a penknife. He kept it with him always, I never did find out how he managed to avoid loosing it to older boys, or those in charge. He taught me all that boys needed to know. He taught me how to make a bow and arrow, how to make a catapult, and how to set a snare. He showed me his greatest gift, how to endure, how to take the beatings and punishment without tears. He taught me the battle was not avoiding conflict but acceptance of pain with dignity, as he did every day of his life.

The Matrons in charge were religiously motivated to bring their wards to the true faith. Suffer little children to come unto me was not just a religious text. They taught us to pray, and pray we did. I was convinced God was utterly incompetent until the miracle. All the orphan older boys went. They did not go all at once but in ones and twos over a short period. The result of which was a sorting of children and changing of dormitory for some. I stayed where I was but Peter was moved in. I was thus able to clean the sores and wounds on his ankles and legs.

In 2010 the British government apologized to a deputation of Australian orphans that were deported to Australia from England. Many were brutally treated in their new country. That seemed to explain the miracle, Vengeance is mine said the lord, I wonder.