Social stigmas and our physically and mentally handicapped children.
The secretary’s instructions, given to me over the phone, were spot on. After passing the lightning struck oak tree, I steered my Triumph Herald under the impressive stone arch, between the rustic iron gates, and continued up the long drive, tires crunching over pebbles. I was mindful of the 5 mph posted speed limit, and a yellow sign that warned, ‘Children at Play’.
I crawled the car onward around the curve beside beautifully manicured lawns, passing by a cascading water fountain, into which a fat tabby cat was dipping its paw and cleaning its face.
When the magnificence of the building could be seen close up the stained glass windows, edged in what I can only describe as a stone embroidery, reflected the sun’s early rays.
I eased my car into a clearly defined parking spot, marked: ‘Visitors,’ and climbed out. The forecast was for sunshine all day so I left the hood folded down; it leaked like a sieve anyway, and collected up the large kit bag from the rear seat, struggling to get its bulkiness over my shoulder before climbing the mosaic stone steps up to the porch.
Two large oak doors had been fastened back by a brass hook, and entered into the lobby; exquisitely decorated, and having an elegance as only money can do. On the plush, dark red carpet stood a large round black mahogany table, topped with a white sculpted bust. I didn’t recognize the name on the brass plate at its base.
I continued across the lobby and entered into what felt like a reception hall where my attention was immediately drawn upward into the high vault ceiling, showing a frieze of the heavens with constellations and moons painted in all their artistic glory. I felt I was standing in a palace.
The card-mounted notice that sat on a well-varnished fruitwood table against a wall, instructed visitors to sign the guestbook then ring the bell for attention, both of which I did, and waited. Also on the table were several pamphlets on mental health care, child abuse, and several envelopes into which any visitor wishing to leave a donation may do so.
Sounding deep within the building, coming closer, I heard the high heel tip-tap sound of a woman’s stride approaching. Her entrance was enthusiastic and confident.
“You must be Harry. Welcome to Bernardo’s. I’m Helen Roberts.”
Ms. Roberts, with dark hair tied back tightly, was primly dressed in a two-piece tweed outfit, a ruffle of cream chiffon blossoming from the jacket and on which she wore a beautifully ornate Victorian style brooch. It completed her tall perfection. She peered over dark-rimmed spectacles, precariously balanced on the end of her nose, and came up to me holding out her hand. I accepted its lifelessness into mine.
“Yes. Thank you for allowing me to come, Ms. Roberts.”
“Not at all, it was a kind offer. The children are looking forward to meeting you. Have you signed the guestbook?”
“I have ma’am.”
“Splendid. Okay — let me take you to meet Grace, she’s our longest serving care worker. This way.”
I collected up my kit-bag, again throwing its weight onto my shoulder, and ascended the ornate staircase behind her. We turned left along a dimly lit corridor of closed doors, then turned right into another corridor which ended with doors into an empty, but magnificent room.
“Two hundred years ago this was the ballroom. The architecture is the only one of its kind in the country, though several others exist in Germany,” she told me.
She halted briefly, allowing me a moments rest, and time to take in the beauty of the plasterwork.
“Whenever the weather is not suitable for our children to play outside, we play games in here,” she said.
I was surprised by that information because the ballroom had three gorgeous crystal chandeliers which hung low from the center of the Rococo style ceiling, showing the scene of the Four Elements.
We continued across the room, passing through large rosewood doors that lead to another staircase, just as sweeping — though not as grand as the first, but still impressive.
“We call this the mirrored staircase,” she said, stating what seemed obvious.
I imagined the women of the period loving this staircase, knowing that their admirers could view them as they descended wearing their gowns. We reached the third floor.
“Grace keeps her children on this floor. In fact, all the children reside on this floor. Not much farther now,” she said. Probably noticing how hard I was blowing.
Ms. Roberts’ passion for vertiginous footwear didn’t slow her stride on the polished parquet floor.
“They’ll just be finishing breakfast,” she said, wrapping a single knuckle three times on the door. Then entered. I followed.
“Good morning, children. Good morning, Grace. I’ve brought Harry to meet you all,” she said.
Grace rose from the table, pushing her chair back. She looked like someone in her sixties, graying hair tied back. The smile on her face was welcoming and warm. None of the children had responded to Ms. Roberts or my presence. Grace, wiping her hands on her apron, came forward.
“Hello, Harry. We’re all looking forward to spending the morning with you.”
I clasped hold of her firm, gentle and sincere handshake. She turned her head in the direction of the breakfast table. “Aren’t we children?”
The children showed no recognizable response.
Ms. Roberts, with other matters to attend to, said: “I’ll leave you in Grace’s capable hands. Thank you, Harry. I’m sure the children will have a fun time.” She turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.
“Come and meet the children,” Grace said. I halted, somewhat sheepishly at the table.
“Children this is Harry. He’s come to play games with us this morning. I want you all to say hello. Susan, let’s begin with you.”
Susan looked up from eating cornflakes.
“Aarllo ‘arry,” she muttered, smiling all over her face. Her misshapen hand emptying its milky content onto the table in her attempt at a wave.
“Hello, Susan,” I replied, and raised my hand in response.
“Michael — your turn,” said Grace.
“Mmm..uum…elleeeeeeeoo Haaryyy…”
Michael’s head, being grotesquely large, offered no eye contact. Instead, he held up his hands, fingers lightning bolt straight, and gyrated his body wildly side-to-side.
“Hello, Michael,” I answered.
Grace turned her attention to the biggest child at the table.
“Okay, Norman. Are you going to welcome Harry?” Grace used a tone that she didn’t know what to expect.
Norman sat looking glumly into his breakfast bowl. He hesitantly picked up the jug of milk with a weakling arm, trembling from his shoulder, and poured milk over his cornflakes, splashing excess over the tablecloth.
“Norman, how much milk do you want on those cornflakes?” Grace inquired, sweetly.
“Enuf ta fuckin’ ide’em, I really ate’em. We always gits fuckin’ cornflakes. I want toast.”
He slopped the spoon into his bowl and sat back into his cripple friendly chair and folded his arms across his pyramid shaped chest.
“Now come along, darling. Be nice. There’s a good lad. You won’t get anything more until lunchtime.”
There’s not a hint of anger or frustration in Grace’s voice. Norman wasn’t done, he was mad.
“It’s Friday; fuckin’ fish day in’it?”
“Yes, Norman. Friday is fish day. You like fish.”
“Can’t be any fish left in da fuckin’ sea. I et’m all”
“Norman, must we use that language every morning?”
“Wot fuckin’ language?” He snapped back.
“That language, Norman. We have a guest today. Harry is going to show us how to play games with a parachute. Simon, will you say good morning to Harry?”
Simon, however, was staring at the puddle of milk on the table.
“Norman spilled milk, Grace. He spilled a lot of milk.”
“He did, Simon. You are correct. Norman was a little clumsy this morning. Thank you for telling me. Do you want to tell Harry good morning?”
“Good morning, Harry. Thank you for coming to play with us,” he said.
“Hello, Simon. I’m very glad to be here,” I said.
Grace moved on around the table.
“Trudy?” Grace nodded, smiling at the smallest of the children who was strapped into a custom built highchair.
“Airryy — will you sit neks tto me?”
Her four inch long arms waved frantically with excitement. But her grin was as perfect as any bright day.
“Hello, Trudy — I’d be honored to sit next to you.”
I looked round, and pulled a chair from the wall between Trudy and Norman.
Grace offered me a slice of toast.
Norman observed that offer.
“Da ya want my fuckin’ cornflakes, Hairyyy?”
There was an audible tittering around the table.
“I think I’ll be okay with toast, Norman. Thank you,” I said.
Grace stared her dismay at the roguish Norman. His chin dropped but it didn’t disguise or hide his giggles.
“That just leaves Maureen, doesn’t it?
Grace beamed with a special affection. Maureen sat quiet, arms hidden under the table. There was no bowl of cereal in front of the child, just a mug with a bendy straw.
“Welcome to play with us, Harry.”
“Thank you, Maureen. Thanks to all of you for allowing me to come and play today, I said.
Grace then, with kindly tone, instructed, “Okay boys and girls, we all know the routine. Bathroom please.”
Norman quickly spoke up.
“But I avent dun wiv me fuckin’ cornflakes!”
“That’s because you did too much talking, Norman,” Grace said, whipping his bowl away. She winked at me.
Norman shrank away from the table, making his way to the door. His collarbones more resembling a bent wire coat hanger under his jumper. No boy I ever saw was so bent and so misshapen. He stopped, leaner back, turning his head and shoulders and looked directly at me.
“Wots a game wiv a pareeshoot anyway? Da we need a plane?” He said, giggling at his own joke.
“If we did need a plane, Norman, would you be brave enough to jump out with a parachute?”
“Nuffin to it. I wanna do dat sky divin stuff. Anyone can do pareeshooting.”
“How old are you, Norman?” I asked.
“Fifsteen, so wot?”
“No reason, just wondered. Maybe you’ll get a chance to do the easy parachute jump one day.”
Norman grinned like a bewitched boy.
There’s a lot about Norman that remindedvme of myself. ‘If you can’t do it….pretend’ That was always my motto as a kid.
Norman left the room. I looked over at Grace, who raised her eyebrows, “Well, there’s an improvement.”
I must have looked at her, bewildered. “He didn’t say fucking plane.”
In that second I understood I was in the presence of a woman’s specialness. I was in a place hidden from the outside world, where life is about the tiny moments of hope.
Grace moved toward Maureen, picking her out of the chair and receiving a no arms hug, feet wrapping around her. Grace set Maureen onto the floor and like a bouncing toy, she scurried toward the door on her bottom. I resisted asking Grace questions.
“Maureen, ask Trudy to turn the shower on for you,” Grace called out.
There’ was no answer, no recognition that Maureen had heard, it was just an understood thing. Michael remained at the table.
“Michael, time for the bathroom,” Grace reminded him.
Michael, in response, placed his hands to his ears.
“Michael, please…” Grace’s voice was stern, but not cruel.
Michael, pressed his hands harder to his ears, and let out a piercing yell as his fingers, fanned and straight, trembled with rage.
Grace moved closer to Michael, who immediately sprang up, the chair falling, and made his way to the door, which he slammed shut.
From far away I heard Norman’s cheeky voice calling out. “Michael, you’re doin’ me fuckin’ ed’in!”
Grace raised her hands to the heavens, her face smiling as she explained.
“Michael is not a candidate for this room, but unfortunately, with all the cut backs, young adults such as him have been diluted into different programs. Michael is twenty-two years of age, normally at eighteen he would have left here and been taken into a different program.”
She moved to the table and commenced clearing the breakfast dishes.
With the children gone I took a moment to look round, seeing many pictures of children on the walls. Many children of different nationalities, with different problems, some obvious, many not so obvious. Grace came to stand by my side. She looked lovingly and with great pride at the pictures.
“Barnardos was willed this house in 1968. Every child you see on these walls has spent time in our family.”
I stepped closer, looking hard at each picture. There were no names.
“That’s Jeremy,” Grace said, anticipating my question, “he was here between seventy nine and eighty four. He was a lucky one — adopted.”
I continued to browse. Grace returned to the kitchen area and began washing the dishes.
“Can I help?” I asked.
Grace willingly threw me a tea towel.
“I’ll always take help, Harry, you’d be best advised not to offer!”
She laughed gaily.
I loveD her bubbly nature, yet, detected a strange heartbreak in her expression. Grace was a woman of a very different kind. Beauty had to be more than skin deep, and real beauty lay very deep inside this woman. Her clothes were practical, with clunky shoes, and she had a pear shaped posterior. Her grey hair, secured back in ponytail by an elastic band.
“Ms. Roberts tells me you’re her longest serving care worker?”
“Well, Harry, I came when the house opened. My own children had flown the nest. I just love kids I suppose.”
“I can see that, Grace.”
She laughEd, rubbing soap bubbles off her nose with the back of her hand.
“No, Harry, you can’t see such things. Homes like this one are to protect the public from understanding how to cope with such children in our society. We are their last hope, residential institutions.”
“I thought such things were Long dead and buried?” I said.
“Well, you’d be wrong. They’re not as obvious as they once were, but we have them sure enough.”
As each bowl was washed, she racked it in the drainer, and continued.
“Throughout the eighties it was politically correct to be seen shutting down institutions. It became ‘fashionable’ for politicians to encourage their own communities to accept into their midst the mentally and physically disabled. All well and good, till the ‘safe houses’ that were purchased for this reason happened to be a house next to you! All kinds of community resentments figured into the collapse of such ideals and by the late nineties the government was leaning back toward institutions; even if the word is never used.”
She rinsed the sink.
“Politicians Have failed to understand that people, the vast majority anyway, like the idea of our mentally challenged being integrated into communities, provided, of course, it didn’t happen to be THEIR community.”
She slipped the table cloth into the washer, pushing the ‘on’ switch.
When the room door opened, Trudy bounced her way back in. She was holding a hairbrush between her teeth.
“Ah ha, here’s our first clean child.”
“Arry..wi ou bwush my hair?”
It’s hard to resist the plea in her eyes. I smiled, stepping toward her.
Grace anticipated my next move. “Trudy is fourteen, Harry, don’t you think a big girl of fourteen can brush her own hair?” I hesitated — then understood.
The little girl chuckleD with glee. She held the brush between her only two fingers on the right stub of her arm, and let the brush fall along the long length of her hair.
Suddenly, with an enormous slam, the door burst open. Michael entered carrying a cup. He looked enraged. Obsessed. In a flash he dashed forward, hurling the cups contents at me. I heard Grace let out a scream — “No, Michael!”
It was over in a heartbeat. Michael had thrown a cup of urine over me, soaking my hair and shirt, stinging my eyes, it’s taste in my mouth. He immediately sat on the floor, legs crossed; fingers twined together, his body rocking back and forth. Grace immediately lunged at a button on the wall. A bell sounded, shrill and long. She handed me a cloth.
“Are you okay?”
I didn’t answer. I was in a state of shock. The urine somehow embarrassed me. I felt humiliated. Michael remained cross-legged, still humming and staring at his fingers, which he twisted and twined together in front of his face.
People came hurrying down the corridor. Two male residential care workers entered. Grace quietly explained how Michael had carried out an attack. I understood by what was being said that such an attack is not his first. Michael seemed terrified, his face contorted and his humming becoming ever more loud.
“Ted, take Harry to the staffroom, show him the shower and where the overalls are kept, please?” Grace instructed.
“Sure thing — you okay, Harry? Come with me, we’ll get you sorted out,” Ted said.
I felt myself trembling. I could cry.
I willingly followEd Ted, passing over Michael’s legs as I did so. He was shrieking. It seemed and felt like mayhem. Norman met us at the door — I wanted to give him a wide berth, almost fearful something else might happen.
“Is yer goin’ fer yer plane, Arry?”
Then, sensing the fun in his voice, my fear subsided and normality took hold of my senses.
“I’ve just got the parachute today, Norman. We won’t need a plane to play together.”
He leaned his twisted body to one side to let me pass and looked over at Michael, still screaming on the floor.
“Ut oh, Michael, ya fucked up good dis time! Evry’uns goin ta be moighty pissed at ya!” Norman said.
“Michael had a little set back, Norman, that’s all.” Grace said, her hands resting on Michael’s shoulders, soothing. “Why don’t you go to your room and I’ll come and get you shortly.”
“I ain’t goin’ ta ma room, Grace. Michael fucked up, not me. Can I turn telly on, you knows I like to watch tv.”
“Of course, Norman. Pull yourself a chair up and keep out of the way please. Not too loud now.” Michael scuffed his way toward the TV set.
“I gots to ‘ave it pretty loud, Grace, all da fuckin’ noise Michael’s makin’!”
With everything appearing to return to normal, Ted closed the door and escorted me down the corridor.
The staffroom was brightly colored; children’s paintings and drawings decorated the mustard shade walls. Two women were ironing clothes.
“Hello,” one said, “my name is Teresa. This is Linda.”
The other woman nodded and smiled. I wasn’t going to hold out my smelly hand. What I wanted was to make a quick exit from their gaze.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea for when you’re cleaned up.” Teresa said, assured I would want one.
The shower stream was steaming hot. I stood beneath the pelting water and tried to think about what happened. Nothing made any sense. I didn’t even know what I felt about Michael — except a kind of numbness. The boy was dangerous, why would someone like him be allowed to have the freedom of the house — well, the freedom of the third floor anyway?
The soap rinsed down my body. I stood motionless, letting the steaming water cleanse my pores.
As I left the stall I saw overalls and a shirt on the bench. They were warm. They fit closely enough.
“Feel better now?” Theresa asked, when I entered back into the staffroom.
“I do. Thank you.”
Linda handed me a cup of tea.
“There’s no sugar in it, help yourself.”
I held up my hand in a gesture that signaled none was necessary.
“You look good in those overalls,” She said. An obvious kindly remark to settle me; have me feeling better about myself.
“Grace called down to ask if you were okay. I explained you were in the shower still.”
“Thanks, I’m fine…really.”
I did feel fine, though not sure why. The hint of anger had subsided to something resembling sorrow.
“Good, I’ll call up — she’s very worried.”
Linda pickEd up the phone and dialed an extension.
“Hi Grace, Harry is just having a cup of tea, he said to tell you he’s fine.” She looked over to me and winked. “Okay, I’ll tell him.” She replaced the receiver.
“Bad news and good news I’m afraid,” she said, looking at me, “Norman is asking Grace where the fucking plane is? But to tell you Michael said sorry. He’s never ever said that before, Harry.”
It was a remarkable thing to watch the brightly coloured partitions of a parachute rise and fall over the children. It was playtime in the lush grounds of a Georgian mansion.
To the outside world looking in, it must seem like heaven. Who’s to say that such a place isn’t? For here angels work unseen and uncomplaining.
