Joyce yelled at her to come along. Besides, she did not want to be left alone.
The children stood for a moment and looked around. The busy station overwhelmed them. People were rushing everywhere. Trains roared in and out. For a moment, they were lost in the noise and excitement, then remembered that they had left their mum behind, and all at once panic spread through the little group. The three younger children looked at their big sister. Joyce, remembering her promise to her mum, tried to hide her own fear.
It was this fear in the children’s eyes that affected Mary. As the train stopped, they looked so frightened and unsure of what to do. As Mary got up to follow, she noticed the grubby little doll lying under the seat. She gingerly picked it up on her way out. She stepped onto the platform, and called out to the children, holding up the doll. The littlest girl looked horror-stricken and ran back to grab her treasure.
Marjorie was the first to point out the big clock. Joyce directed the children towards it. As they stood there, Marjorie noticed the two women from the train watching them. They had black coats on. Hadn’t they been told to look for someone dressed in black? For a moment, Marjorie thought that it might be nice to stay with them. They looked like her friend’s grandmother and she liked the idea of having a grandmother.
Marjorie and her sister Joyce stand under one of the clocks in Newcastle Central Station in 2007. Retracing their 1937 journey from Whitley Bay to Newcastle upon Tyne brought back a flood of memories.
Photo by Patricia Skidmore.
Then someone shouted out, “Are you Winifred’s children?” The sound stopped Marjorie in her tracks, her pondering shattered by the shrill voice. Mary had been about to approach the little group, when she heard them being called. She turned to her friend, shaking her head — perhaps these children were orphans after all. Maybe that was not their mother in Whitley Bay. Mary looked back at the children, at their pinched shoulders, saw the fear in their faces, and intuitively thought that something was just not right. She watched them timidly head over to the nun. They reminded her of animals at her old uncle’s farm on their way to the slaughterhouse.
There was little about the woman with the long black robe to reassure the children. Her thin face didn’t smile and the wart on her chin made them think of a witch. Their hearts sank when she told them that she had been sent to pick them up. She told them to call her “Sister” and ordered them to come along, stating that she didn’t have all day. “Hurry up. Follow me and don’t get lost.” Her unfriendly greeting matched her unfriendly face.
The children crowded together and followed her out of the station. When Marjorie looked back, she could see the two women from the train walking away. She wanted to run after them. She should have talked to them on the train. She did not trust this unhappy sister.
The children struggled to keep up with their leader, but the busy sidewalks made it difficult. People pushed past and knocked into them. Lorries and trams raced close by, adding to their distress. Joyce grabbed tightly at Audrey and Kenny’s arms while Marjorie clutched at the back of Joyce’s coat and hung on.
The sister marched ahead unconcerned that the children were having problems keeping up with her. She turned to the little group and snarled a second time for them to hurry up. She called them “little guttersnipes” and told them that this country would be better off when the likes of them were all gone. Then she turned and walked even faster. The look in her eyes sent a cold trickle of fear running down Marjorie’s back. What did she mean? What did they do to make her so angry? She turned to Joyce for answers, but Joyce snapped at her, and told her to hush up and just do as she says and to hurry up. Then she asked Marjorie to help her to remember the streets so that they could find their way back to the train station. “This is Neville Street,” Joyce said under her breath.
Neville Street. Neville Street. Marjorie chanted it to herself. The sound of Joyce’s voice worried her. It sounded just like her mum’s voice last week when those horrid men yelled at her. Something told her that they would not be going back home. Ever. She was becoming more and more frightened. She wanted her mum.
Marjorie’s tight ill-fitting boots cramped her toes and rubbed her heels, setting her old blisters on fire. Every hurried step was agony. She tried to remember the way in her mind. Neville Street, then Mosley. No there was another one too. She could not keep the names straight in her mind. She read the next street sign — Dean Street. Neville Street, Mosley, then Dean Street. Maybe if she remembers some, Joyce will remember the others.
They turned down a steep street. A train chugged noisily on the high arch bridge at the bottom of the hill. The group stopped at Number 35.[3] They did not stay long, thank goodness, because she saw one of those horrid men who came to their house last week. He smiled as if he was happy for everyone. Marjorie shook her head at how mixed up adults were at times. How could he tell them that they should be happy and grateful? Grateful for what? All she wanted was to go back home to her mum.
They soon found themselves being led out of a different part of the building and they could see the steeple of the church they passed on Mosley Street. Or was it the other street? Marjorie felt really turned around now, but she was certain it was the same church. She was trying to keep track, just in case but felt hopelessly lost. The children were taken to the far side of the building, away from the steeple, and led through a doorway into a long, dark hallway. Immediately, someone whisked Kenny away. He reached out and called for Joyce and she tried to run after him, but the woman in black pulled her back. The three sisters watched helplessly as Kenny’s frightened face faded down the hallway and up a flight of stairs. The remainder of little group carried on down the opposite hall and through an archway.
The girls were escorted into a large room. There were several washing tubs along one wall. Large drains ran down the centre of the floor. Laundry, hanging on racks suspended from the low ceiling, dripped silently. Little rivulets made their way to the drains and disappeared. Even though there was a large wood boiler crackling away in one corner, the dampness of the room nipped at their bare legs and sent a chill through the children.
Sister said, “Okay girls, they are all yours. Clean them up.”
Marjorie jumped when a voice shouted out at them to take their clothes off. The children stood still as three big girls walked towards them. For a brief second the sisters hoped for some friendship, as the girls appeared to be about Phyllis’s age, but they soon found out that they were meaner than any schoolyard bullies they had ever encountered.
They slapped the frightened hostages and called them “filthy heathens,” as they removed their clothing, tossing everything towards the boiler. Marjorie reached out for her dress. It was a present from her last birthday. But one of the girls slapped her again. She stood there stunned and shivering in the cold February morning. Audrey whimpered and reached out for her doll. Marjorie started to tell them how important that doll was to Audrey, but she stopped when she saw Joyce. She shook her head and mouthed “No.”
Trembling with the cold and her anger, Marjorie looked to see if there was a way to scoot out and get Audrey’s doll. They couldn’t do this to them. What right had they to take their things? She stepped forward, but one of the girls abruptly stopped her. Slam! A hard metal thing landed on her head, knocking her off balance. Her shorn hair soon fell to the floor. It was the same for Joyce and Audrey. Marjorie wiggled, trying to get away, but the cutter snarled that she better keep still because if she got poked with the scissors, it would be her own darn fault. The girl cutting Joyce’s hair yanked at a clump and told her to watch it or she would cut her ear off. Audrey stood still, too terrified to move.
All three “cleaners” laughed at the sisters as tears streamed down their cheeks. When it was over, their
