Loyalty: Secrets

By David Wiltcher

Do we owe ultimate loyalty and allegiance to others or to causes? Why? Kathy, an orphaned and feisty child and young woman, instinctively rebellious, drawn to challenges, a chancer but an idealist, is compelled to confront these issues, making choices and commitments that have major political and personal impacts on herself and others who are dr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Printing UK
• Release date: Jan 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781911113836

Book preview

BOOK 1

SECRETS

EAST ANGLIA

1928-31

I was one of those known as orphans, but the only one called bolshy. This was at age eight. I looked it up. The dictionary told me I was a member of a Russian revolutionary party, the Reds. I liked that, and made my first ever diary entry. We all wore the same colour dresses and nightclothes, but I was red inside. I knew of no Russians in rural East Anglia, so that set me apart. By eight and a half I had constructed a clandestine identity for myself. I said one day to my beautiful and older friend Jenny, ‘I’m probably Russian.’ I loved her.

Jenny went, ‘Ooh.’

I put my finger on her lips. ‘This is a secret.’ Jenny’s eyes widened.

It was a secret because a staff member had said to me that most of the information on us all lay filed under confidential. The dictionary told me that meant it was secret. I decided, before I was nine, that two could play at that game. I was Russian, and that stayed filed under confidential as well.

Where were we? Well, the dictionary told me that it was an orphanage. However, the sign on the gate said, The Sanctuary. We were somewhere in the countryside outside north London. Once, we went on a bus trip to other institutions in the country, asylums. There was a hint that you might end up in the asylum if you were stroppy, or worse, bolshy. A risk I was prepared to take. Being Russian, I felt I could handle things like that.

I had no memory of my parents, my second diary entry, but that was common. We were the rescued. Four girls had been prostitutes. That took me a while to find in the dictionary. Others told us their fathers drank, and they would tilt their heads back and pour an imaginary gallon of something down their throats. Others grabbed us by the neck, and said, ‘That’s what my dad does.’ Some were so poor they arrived without a case.

Being Russian, I reasoned, naturally I had a suitcase. Older staff remembered it contained some fruit, a bottle of orange juice and a soft toy doll wrapped in a length of bright red cotton. The doll never had a name until the bolshy matter came along. I then named it Red in a special ceremony involving Jenny, the doll and me. We gathered in the toilets at the back of the orphanage school. I said that it was my ninth birthday and, ‘I now name this doll Red, daughter of Bolshy.’ I got the words from a christening I had seen in a local church.

Church was a conflict zone. Every Sunday we would walk miles to a local church, in files of two, holding hands, in our identical best clothes, with a staff person at the head and rear. Local children marched alongside us, shouting, ‘Orphans,’ and making faces. Jenny said it was because we had clean clothes and decent shoes. It seemed more than that to me. There was something about their contorted faces. I consulted the dictionary and found the word hatred. We would go inside the churches, and be told about love and gentleness. I wondered about this contrast. I also wondered why some weeks I was with one group going to a Baptist, then a Catholic and then a Methodist church. Staff said there was confused information on my file. Why? No reply. I asked if these churches had different gods or shared one. No reply, except, ‘Shush child.’ I found out that bolshies were godless. I said that because of this I could no longer attend church. The reaction was sensational.

‘Sent away, she should be.’

For a week, I awaited placement on a train to Russia. Instead, every Sunday I stayed in a classroom doing arithmetic under the supervision of a disgruntled member of staff.

Jenny the gentle thought I went too far. I explained it was my duty as a bolshy. Further dictionary and encyclopedia research told me I was a rebel. Jenny would worry about all this. For example, she loved brushing my long dark hair. However, the hair was another field of conflict. I would not allow shortening. It hung halfway down my back, and it swung back and forth as a sign of my determination. There were confrontations with staff. Short hair was in the regulations.

‘It’s on hygienic grounds, young miss trouble.’

It was not that. It was so that we all looked the same. I was not a doll. One day they tried to hold me down, scissors wielded above my head. Someone outside rang the police, reporting screaming and that a murder had taken place in the orphanage.

Jenny would get anxious about all this. She saw the asylum looming. ‘Just have a few inches off Kathy.’

‘No.’

Staff persons attended to or looked after us. A further fraught area. They were kind but we were placements, residents, or inmates. Our instructions were to call them all Mother. At an early age, six, I decided that was not for me. From overhearing conversations, I knew they all had just one mother. ‘My mother fell down the stairs last night,’ and so on. My position was clear. Unless one said, ‘Kathy, I am your only mother,’ then none were entitled.

‘Please call the staff Mother.’ That came from a man in a dark suit.

‘No.’

There were also some fathers, rarely seen who called us My child. They were definitely staff persons. I ignored them as they roamed through our rooms.

‘Impolite child, tidy your bed.’

There were other names used on me. Some called me Trouble. As a Russian, I did not want or need this variant.

‘Kathy. Or Bolshy.’

‘I beg your pardon, miss mouthy?’

‘You used the wrong name.’

There was lots of behind-the-hand talk about me. I have owl-like hearing, so I picked up remarks. ‘Ungrateful.’ ‘Superintendent has plans for that one.’ At night, I would lie in my bed and recount these comments to Red. Red was phlegmatic, and I did understand staff better as I grew a little older. They were mainly well-intentioned women, bound by the rules. I would overhear them say their wages were rubbish, that they travelled long distances, did exhausting late shifts, and went home to men who came in, ‘The worse for wear,’ demanding food and yelling their sexual needs. I could not trace that in the dictionary.

The Sanctuary had no room for rebels, not even one. It was a collection of houses grouped around a grass square, peaceful, ordered, undisturbed by the world. Keep off the grass, unless permission is given, and keep the peace. ‘You should be grateful for what you have Kathy.’ It was not about being grateful. It was about being Russian. I had a mission to carry out, undefined yet, but not connected with grass squares. I wrote that in my diary.

……………

It was also about my personality, something in my past. ‘Something we can’t explain Kathy.’ I knew there was nothing in my past. How did I know? There was nothing in my file, or at least not the visible one on the desk. I had peered into that, empty. There was, however, a locked cabinet. We all knew that dreadful secrets lay inside folders in there. I promised myself that one day that cabinet and I would have a meeting.

Names were a crisis point. First, I was Agnes, Agnes Brown, then Winifred, finally Kathy. There was no explanation. That Agnes, where has she gone? I would say to myself, and the Winifred girl. The Kathy change was the last straw. Jenny, gentle soul, said I should just leave it. ‘Genevieve is my name really, but I don’t mind.’ I would not leave it. I asked one staff person why my name changed like the days of the week. She looked startled, ‘Well, never mind.’ I did mind. I approached a senior person at The Office. She looked down at me in disbelief, and then guided me to the door. I was quick on my feet, and darted back to the desk.

‘Why three names?’

‘Because, young madam, we have lots of paper and files to deal with.’ Then she softened, and said, ‘We know you like to find things out. There was a mix-up with the paperwork. Kathy is the right one.’ Her eyes were looking over my shoulder, lying. I said I had to go to class.

I reasoned that the mysteries of our existence lay in the files in an annex of the office, called Staff Only. That was where the cabinets stood. It was also, where Confidential took place. I said to Jenny that I had read in a library book that bolshies once stormed a winter palace. My sweet friend looked at me with alarm. I reassured her, ‘I’m just going to storm Staff Only.’ Jenny fainted. She actually fainted, on my bed. Other children came into the shared room and gathered round her prostrate body. I was fanning her with Red and told them to give her air.

My campaign was simple. I would wander in the office area around lunchtime, to discover when the cabinet room was vacant. Twice staff persons asked me what I was doing in a non-resident area. I said to one, that I had no friends and felt safe near staff. To the other I said I had sunstroke and this was the shadiest place. Friday was the day. They all said they were going out for a bevvie. The door was usually locked. One Friday the call of the bevvie was too strong and the keys swung like tempting fruit in the door. I slipped in, closed the door and rifled through the files on the desk. There were piles of them. I recognised a few names and became engrossed in finding out things about people, particularly children I disliked.

Then I tried the bottom drawer of the cabinet, locked. It had a grey label in a slot saying Confidential. Superintendent Only. Then I tried the top drawer, climbing on a chair. I found and opened my file, and there was almost nothing in it. A few slips of paper recording my failures to do homework, and a plastic folder. However, inside the plastic folder was a photo of me and a piece of folded paper that had the word obstreperous. Then I struck gold. On the other side it said, This nine-year-old girl has all the hallmarks of a miscreant. I had not seen this on anyone’s file. I was so pleased, I did not notice the door opening. There was a scream and suddenly the room was full of people.

I was not going to be frightened. I said, ‘Where are the bevvies?’

The file and secret cabinet incident became what the superintendent called a cause célèbre. ‘Do you know what that means Kathy?’ I was standing in front of his desk, my eyes level with his ink bottle. I asked if it was Russian. He said, ‘Good heavens no,’ but my actions had drawn unwanted public attention.

‘We don’t want you to leave us Kathy.’ He was rubbing his hands together. Two staff persons stood on either side of me. He spoke as if sentencing me to death. I had committed a most terrible act, an unspeakable crime. ‘Do you know what confidentiality means?’ I was more interested in miscreant. He repeated the question three times, and a staff person nudged me.

I said, ‘No, but it is written on the bottom drawer. What’s in there?’

Leaving the room, I heard the man mutter, ‘Will nobody rid me of this turbulent child?’ The two staff laughed, on cue.

I was removed from my shared room, and placed in a single near where the night staff stayed. One of the nighties, as I called them, was friendly. She liked me and I liked her. I would slip into her bedroom. She was young, as round as she was tall, and laughed at everything, especially herself. She had a strange accent.

‘I’m Welsh, you see Kathy. You see few of us round here you know.’ She was called Taffy. ‘It’s not my name, but English people are a bit thick like. They can’t remember things.’ She said we had something in common. ‘We’re different.’

This was someone I could confide in. I said I was very different, I was not only Russian, but also a miscreant. ‘It’s in my file.’ She screamed with laughter and asked if I knew what miscreant meant. I held up my dictionary, a gift from Jenny, and read out, ‘Rascal, scoundrel, and law breaker.’ She was sitting on my bed before lights out. I continued reading, ‘A depraved wretch. It’s because I’m a bolshy.’

Taffy rolled around on my blankets, helpless with laughter. ‘A nine-and-a-half-year-old depraved wretch and a Bolshevik,’ she kept saying. ‘Brilliant.’ Then she pulled out her purse and showed me a tiny, faded black and white photo. A man with a large white moustache glared at me.

‘That’, she said, ‘is a grown one.’ I looked puzzled. ‘A full-sized adult bolshy.’ I stared at his fierce eyes. ‘My uncle, you see. Ioan Jones. He was a rebel, and in the Russian revolution.’

‘Did he storm the palace?’

Every night she would arrive and tell me uncle stories. ‘They stir the blood. He demanded justice for everyone.’

‘Including children?’

‘Children especially.’

I asked if he was miscreant, but she could not answer. ‘I’m ill with laughing. Where do you come from?’ I said the answer was in the bottom cabinet under Confidential. She said, ‘I’m Delwyn. It means proud friend. I am proud to be your friend.’ We locked little fingers. ‘Remember this, true friends are a gift.’

I never forgot that.

We were friends until she had to leave for fraternising. It was a nice thing. I found fraternal in the dictionary, brotherly, or sisterly. The Russian in me was unhappy about that, and I raised it with a staff person after Delwyn walked out of the gates.

‘I’ll thank you to mind your own business. It’s a staff matter.’

I said to Red a real mother would not say a thing like that. Agreed.

……………

After Delwyn vanished, I concluded we were refugees. I saw photos in a history book of people at train stations or in fields with luggage, going somewhere, or nowhere. Children and staff just left. I remembered words on the files, discharged, transferred, removed. When your time came, there was a summons to the office. At thirteen or fourteen, this was routine. Jenny was twelve and said she was waiting. The wait was for a life in service or laundry work. That was our future. The files bore the stamp, Suited for routine manual work. My book said refugees were powerless. My dictionary was splitting at the seams with me poring through it for these words.

One day, a staff person announced that twenty of us were going to Canada. We dressed and packed. That did not take long. Then we sat in the polished entrance hall. We sat a long time. A male staff person then told us to unpack our cases. I unpacked, and Jenny came and sat with me. She said, ‘A mother said Canada was full.’ I had looked up Canada in an atlas. Canada was too big to be full. I said to her they were lying. Jenny placed her finger on my lips, ‘Kathy, it’s best if we accept what’s said.’

‘Not lies. I cannot accept them.’

We sat on the side of my bed, holding each other, realising we were different.

……………

The final issues were origins, families and parents. These exercised my Russian nature. I talked to Red about it. Some children knew who they were, even their parents and families, others had no clue. I was one of the latter. I told Red I was prepared to be a miscreant over this. It was that cabinet. ‘I can’t get in it.’

Jenny stroked my hair to calm me, although I was very calm. She said she accepted the confusion the mothers gave her. ‘I think I may be a Belgian called Genevieve, but they say I am Jenny Dove.’ Then she added, with an air of mystery, ‘We’re waiting for new mums and dads.’ I pulled all this together for my new campaign, following staff around asking if I was a Belgian or not and where were my family and new parents.

One older staff person finally responded, exasperated. She took me onto the grass square as she was leaving. ‘I’m not supposed to say this, but your bolshy behaviour is putting bands round my head.’ I waited. ‘A grandfather, or someone, just walked in the gates carrying you.’ She walked away and I followed. She said, ‘Please go away, my poor head. Alright, alright, he might have had an accent. It was a busy day, you were one of four.’ She got on her bike and cycled off home. I walked over to the gate, and gave it some thought. I devised a plan. If someone walked me through that gate, then someone was going to walk me out of it. I had one last resort, Miss Alston, a very young drawing teacher who smiled and was friendly.

I brought the origins-parents-family campaign to her after class. She whispered, ‘I should not say, records are secret, but your mummy may have been young and from abroad. It is only what I have overheard.’

She was nervous, and then put her hand on mine. ‘You do lovely drawings.’ This one was full of meaning. I had done it the previous evening. It showed a man and a woman, with a ten-year-old girl standing between them. It had a title: Kathy Brown and family. We stared at it together. I noticed her eyes were moist.

She said, ‘Kathy, I really want that to be true.’

I went back to my solitary room, and pasted the drawing on the wall. I showed it to Red. We stood and examined it for a few minutes. I asked Red for a review. It was a definite yes.

I said, ‘Just give me time. I am ten. It’s going to happen.’ Then we got into bed together and fell asleep.

……………

It was a hot day in 1930, and we were all told to sit outside on the grass square like yellow flowers in the sunlight. At morning assembly, the superintendent said that two people were visiting during our lunch break. We sat and listened dutifully in our rows, the high stained-glass windows slanting sunlight into our eyes. As always, we sang Jerusalem, although I now only mouthed the words out of loyalty to Russia. Then we were told to pray and give thanks to the benefactors who had saved us from a worthless life. I was so bored I felt sick. The information about visitors met with no interest. Adults were always arriving in cars, looking around and talking to staff persons, patting heads, not mine.

Jenny flopped beside me on the parched grass. Sit on the edge, I was told. There was a feeling I might contaminate some of the girls with my views. She was excited. Cleaning the staff rooms, she had overheard that the two people were coming not to inspect but to, ‘Choose one of us.’ I looked around at the eighty girls seated on the grass square, chattering, enjoying lemon barley and meat pies in their identical yellow dresses. Jenny swept my hair aside and put her mouth to my ear. ‘One of us could be lucky.’

I jumped up and ran to my room. I remembered my fascination with a photo of the tennis player Suzanne Lenglen. The caption said she stood out on the court in her red bandana. I picked up Red and said, ‘Help me.’ I removed the cotton wrapping from my doll and wound it round my head as tightly as I could, then ran back. Jenny was appalled. ‘Miss Jackson will have a fit, and send you in.’ There was no time for Jackson fits.

Walking across to the grass square, appearing out of the heat haze, were Miss Jackson, and two adults. She said, ‘Children, this is Mr. and Mrs. Muller. They are from Germany, but today they have come all the way from Cambridge to say hello.’ She then noticed me, and signalled with her hand for me to vanish. I ignored her. The man was tall, wearing a grey felt hat. He walked casually onto the grass, smiled and gave a little bow. The woman was dressed in a close-fitting green suit, and a cloche hat shaped to her head. She was alert, peering at us all. Miss Jackel, as I called her to Red, remained on the grass verge trying to gain my attention. Mrs. Muller spoke with a quiet voice and said good afternoon. The children politely replied, but went on eating and drinking.

They came across to the edge of the grass. Jenny smiled, as she did for everyone. I was sitting upright with my eyes fixed on the face of the German lady. The man strolled across, stepping over sprawling legs.

He said to me, ‘Ah, Madame Lenglen. Tennis anyone?’

The Jackal intervened, standing in front of me. ‘This is Jenny, a lovely girl, as kind as the day is long.’ Jenny blushed and looked at the grass. The couple smiled politely and turned to move away. I glanced at Jenny, who was still not looking up.

I stood up, and moved round in front of the Jackel, but too quickly. My bandana slipped over one eye. The woman stopped, surprised, and said, ‘Guten tag.’

I replied, ‘Gooden targ. I am Kathy. I am ten, and have a doll called Red.’

Miss Jackson said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

The man laughed and bowed deeply, sweeping his hat across his body. I held the gaze of the woman. I could smell the rich aroma of her perfume. The Jackel said something about moving back to the office to look at the files. I struggled to get my bandana right but it fell over both eyes. The woman said, ‘Let me.’ She rearranged the headgear, stood back to look, and said, ‘That’s lovely.’ The Jackel kept rambling on about the office and the files.

I glanced at Jenny, but she was twisting long pieces of grass between her fingers. I said to the German couple, ‘I have my own room, with a drawing on the wall. I would like you to visit.’

Miss Jackson said, ‘Really, how forward. We do not allow drawings on the walls. I am so sorry Mr. and Mrs. Muller.’

Mrs. Muller looked at her husband, and said something in German. He replied in English, looking at me with amusement. ‘I’m a tennis fan.’

I said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t have a racket.’ Miss Jackson was muttering things, ‘For heaven’s sake, this child,’ and so on.

Mrs. Muller said, ‘But you have beautiful long hair.’ The Jackel was sending dagger looks. Her husband said that I knew some German words as well. To my surprise, his wife brushed the back of her hand against one side of my hair, a light touch that I can still feel.

‘I won’t let it be cut.’

The man roared with laughter, took his hat off and threw it in the air.

Mrs. Muller was standing very close to me, our hands just touching. ‘May we see your room?’ I did not answer straight away, but looked at Jenny. Her face was sad. The woman said, ‘Only if you wish.’ Mr. Muller said, ‘Come on. Let’s see the artwork. This English heat is too much.’

I could not abandon Jenny. I said, ‘Jenny is my friend. Can she come?’ Miss Jackson asserted her authority. She said to the visitors that they might see other rooms later, if they wished.

The woman held out her hand and took mine, ‘Show us your room. We would love to see.’ I looked back at Jenny who smiled, and mouthed, ‘Go on.’ I took the woman’s hand. On my other side was Mr. Muller, twirling his hat and humming. At the entrance to my room, I looked back. I could not make out Jenny amongst all the girls in the dazzling sunlight.

The man placed his hand gently on my shoulder, and said, ‘I am Kurt, and this is my wife Hanne…’

We entered the night staff annex. Hanne said, ‘Is this where you live?’ The Jackel appeared to hide behind the door.

I led the way into my room, ‘That is my bed in the corner. This is Red, my friend, and that is my drawing.’ The three of us stood gazing at the drawing. It was hushed, just the ticking of a clock in the hallway. Hanne had jewellery on both hands and a necklace that sparkled in the light. Her perfume filled the room, making my head swim. We then sat together on my bed. Kurt took out a silver cigarette case, pointing to the monogram on one side. It said semper fidelis. I pronounced it, enunciating each syllable. He said that it was a present from Hanne on their fifth wedding anniversary.

I said, ‘What does it mean?’

‘Always loyal.’ Then they spoke to each other in German. I could tell the words were nice by their softened eyes and