A Georgian Heaven (standard:non fiction, 3531 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Dec 08 2008	Views/Reads: 3301/2168	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
WARNING! There is abusive language in this story. My defense is simply that this is a factual account. The foul language was spoken by an impish young man, whom gave me joy. This story is for Grace Wellers, whose beauty has never left me.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

another fine staircase, this one just as sweeping - though not as grand 
as the first, but still impressive. 

“We call this the mirror staircase,” she says, stating what seems
obvious. 

I can well imagine the women of the period loving this staircase,
knowing their admirers could view them as they descend wearing their 
gowns. We reach the third floor. 

“Grace keeps her children on this floor. In fact, all the children
reside on this floor. Not much farther now.” 

We rapidly pace another dark corridor, Ms. Roberts' obvious passion for
vertiginous footwear pattering on the polished parquet floor. I'm cast 
back to my own childhood, hearing Mrs. Grimshaw parading the red stone 
school corridor looking for a child to scold. That thought fled on 
hearing strange gurgling noises mingling with hysterical laughter. We 
pass the door behind which those sounds emanate and walk several more 
paces before halting. Ms. Roberts looks at her watch. 

“They'll just be finishing breakfast.” She wraps a single knuckle three
times on the door and enters. I follow. 

“Good morning, children. Good morning, Grace. I've brought Kelly Shaw to
meet you.” 

Grace looks up from the table. She looks to be in her sixties, greying
hair tied up. The smile on her face is welcoming and warm. None of the 
children respond to Ms. Roberts, or my presence. Grace, wiping her 
hands on her apron, comes forward holding out her hand. 

“Hello, Kelly. We're all looking forward to spending the morning with
you.” I clasp hold of a firm, gentle and sincere hand. She turns her 
head in the direction of the children. “Aren't we children?” 

Still no recognisable response. 

“I'll leave you in Grace's capable hands. Thank you, Kelly. I'm sure the
children will have a fun time.” Ms Roberts turns and leaves, shutting 
the door quietly behind her. 

“Come and meet the children.” Grace instructs kindly. I halt, somewhat
sheepishly at the table. 

“Children this is Kelly. He's come to play games with us this morning. I
want you all to say hello. Susan, let's begin with you.” 

Susan looks up from eating cornflakes. 

“Aaarllo K..ee...lleee!,” Susan mutters, smiling all over her face and
seemingly oblivious to the fact her arm is raised, and the spoon in her 
misshapen hand is emptying its milky content onto the table. 

“Hello, Susan.” I raise my hand. 

“Michael – your turn,” says Grace. 

“Mmm..uum...elleeeeeeeoo  Keyleee...” 

Michael's head is grotesquely large. He offers no eye contact. Instead
he holds up his hands, fingers lightning bolt straight, and his head 
gyrating wildly side-to-side. 

“Hello, Michael.” I reply. 

“Okay, Norman, are you going to welcome Kelly?” 

Norman, the bigger of the children, sits looking glumly into his
breakfast bowl. He hesitantly picks up the jug of milk with a weakling 
arm, trembling from his shoulder as he does so, and pours milk over his 
cornflakes, splashing excess over the tablecloth. 

“Norman, how much milk do you want on those cornflakes?”  Grace enquires
sweetly. 

“Enuf ta fuckin' ide'em, I really ate'em. We always gits fuckin'
cornflakes, I want toast.”  He slops the spoon into his bowl and sits 
back in his cripple friendly chair, arms folded, chin on his chest. 

“Now come along, darling, be nice, there's a good lad. You won't get
anything more until lunchtime.” 

There's no hint of anger or frustration in her voice. 

“It's Friday; fuckin' fish day in'it?” 

“Yes, Norman, Friday's fish day. You like fish.” 

“Can't be any fish left in da fuckin' sea, I et'm all” 

“Norman must we have that language every morning?” 

“Wot fuckin' language?” 

“That language, Norman. We have a guest today.  Kelly is going to show
us how to play games with a parachute. Simon, will you say good morning 
to Kelly?” 

Simon continues to stare at the puddle of milk on the table. 

“Norman spilt milk, Grace. He spilt a LOT of milk.” 

“He did, Simon, you are quite right. Norman was a little clumsy this
morning. Thank you for telling me. Do you want to tell Kelly good 
morning?” 

“Good morning, Kelly, thank you for coming to play with us.” 

“Good morning, Simon, it's my pleasure.” 

“Trudy?” Grace nods, smiling at the smallest of the children. The little
girl is strapped into a custom built high chair. 

“Kayllleee – wi ou sit neks tto me?” Her four inch long arms wave
frantically with excitement, while a grin, as perfect as any bright 
day, breaks open on her face. 

“Hello Trudy – I'd be honoured to sit next to you.” 

I look round and, seeing a chair against the wall, pull it between Trudy
and Norman. Grace offers me a slice of toast. 

Norman observes the offer of toast. 

“Da ya want my fuckin' cornflakes, Kelly?” 

There is an audible tittering around the table. 

“I think I'll be fine with toast, Norman, but thank you.” 

Grace stares at the roguish Norman. His chin drops, but doesn't disguise
or hide his giggles. 

“That just leaves Maureen, doesn't it? Grace beams with a special
affection. Maureen sits quiet, arms hidden under the table. There's no 
bowl of cereal in front of her, just a mug with a bendy straw. 

“Maureen?” 

“Welcome to play with us, Kelly.” 

“Thank you, Maureen, and thanks to all of you for allowing me to come
and play today.” 

“Okay boys and girls, we all know the routine, bathroom please.” Grace
instructs. 

“But I avent dun wiv me fuckin' cornflakes!” Norman blasts out. 

“That's because you did too much talking, Norman.” Grace says, whipping
his bowl away. She winks at me. 

Norman slinks away from the table, making his way to the door, his
collarbone like a bent wire coat hanger under his jumper. No boy I ever 
saw was so bent and so misshapen. He stops, leans back, turning his 
head and shoulders and looks directly at me. 

“Wots a game wiv a pareeshoot anyway Mr Kelly? Da we need a plane?” 

He giggles 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 ask. 

“Fifsteen, so wot?” 

“No reason, just wondered, maybe you'll get a chance to do the easy
parachute jump one day.” He grins like a bewitched boy. 

There's a lot about Norman that reminds me of myself. ‘If you can't do
it....pretend' That was always my motto as a kid. 

Norman leaves the room. Grace raises her eyebrows, “Well, there's an
improvement.” I must have looked at her bewildered. “He didn't say 
fucking plane.” 

That second I understand that I'm in the presence of a woman's
specialness. Here life is about the tiny moments of hope. 

Grace moves toward Maureen, picking her out of the chair. She gives
Grace a no arms hug, feet wrapping around her. Maureen is set on the 
floor and like a bouncing toy, scurries toward the door on her bum. I 
resist asking Grace questions. 

“Maureen, ask Trudy to turn the shower on for you.” Grace calls out. 

There's no answer, no recognition that Maureen heard, it's just
understood. 

Michael remains at the table. 

“Michael, time for the bathroom.” 

Michael places his hands to his ears. 

“Michael, please.” Grace's voice is stern, but not cruel. 

Michael, pressing his hands harder to his ears, lets out a piercing
yell. His fingers, fanned and straight, tremble with rage. Grace moves 
closer to Michael, who immediately springs up, the chair falling, and 
makes his way to the door, which he slams shut. 

From far away a voice can be heard calling out. 

“Michael, you're doin' me fuckin' ed'in!” 

Grace raises her hands to the heavens. Her face smiling. 

“Michael is not a candidate for this room, but unfortunately, with all
the cut backs, young adults such as Michael have been diluted into 
different programmes. Michael is twenty-two years of age, normally at 
eighteen he would have left here and been taken into a different 
program.” 

She moves to the table and commences clearing the breakfast table. 

With the children gone I look round, seeing many pictures of children on
the walls, children of different nationalities, different problems, 
some obvious, many not so obvious. Grace comes to stand at my side. She 
looks 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 step closer looking at each picture. There are no names on the photos.


“That's Jeremy,” Grace says, anticipating my question, “he was here
between seventy nine and eighty four. He was a lucky one - adopted.” 

I continue to browse. Grace returns to the kitchen area and begins
washing dishes. 

“Can I help at all?” I ask. 

Grace throws me a tea towel. 

“I'll always take help, Kelly, you'll be best advised not to offer!” She
laughs gaily. 

I love her bubbly nature. Yet there's a strange look of heartbreak in
her expression. Grace is a woman of a different kind. Beauty is more 
than skin deep, and real beauty lies very deep inside this woman. Her 
clothes are practical, with clunky shoes, and a pear shaped posterior. 
Her grey hair, tied back in ponytail, is kept by an elastic band. 

“Ms. Roberts tells me you're her longest serving care worker?” 

“I came when the house opened, my own children had left the nest. I just
love kids I suppose.” 

“I can see that, Grace.” 

She laughs, rubbing soap bubbles off her nose with the back of her hand.


“No, Kelly, you can't see such things. Homes like this are to protect
the public from understanding how to cope with such children in our 
society. We are their last hope. From here it's residential 
institutions.” 

“I thought such things were dead and buried?” 

“Well, you'd be wrong. They're not as obvious as they once were, but we
have them sure enough.” 

As each bowl is washed, she racks it in the drainer. 

“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 rinses the sink then immediately removes the tablecloth, placing it
in the washing machine tucked neatly under the work surface. 

“Politicians fail 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 slams the door to the washer and begins to put away the dishes. 

The door opens and Trudy bounces her way back into the room. She's
holding a hairbrush in her teeth. 

“Ah ha, here's our first clean child.” 

“Kaylleee..wi ou bwush Tudy's air?” It's hard to resist the plea in her
eyes. I smile, stepping toward her. 

“Trudy is fourteen, Kelly, don't you think a big girl of fourteen can
brush her own hair?” 

I hesitate - then understand. 

“I would like to watch Trudy brush her own hair, Grace. Is that fine?” 

“That will be nice. Trudy, you show Kelly what you do every morning.” 

The little girl chuckles with glee. She holds the brush between the two
fingers on the right stub of her arm, and lets the brush fall along the 
long lengths of her hair. 

Suddenly the door bursts open. Michael enters carrying a cup. He seems
obsessed. In a flash he dashes forward, hurling its contents at me. I 
hear Grace let out a scream – “No, Michael!” 

It is over in a heartbeat. Michael has thrown a cup of urine over me,
soaking my hair and shirt. He immediately sits on the floor, legs 
crossed, fingers twined together, his body rocking back and forth. I 
feel a severe stinging in my eyes; taste the urine in my mouth. Grace 
immediately plunges at a button on the way. A bell sounds, shrill and 
long. She hands me a cloth. “Are you okay?” 

I don't answer. I'm in a state of shock. The urine somehow embarrasses
me. I feel humiliated. Michael remains cross-legged, though now he's 
humming and staring at his fingers, which he twists and twines together 
in front of his face. 

People are hurrying down the corridor. Two large male residential care
workers enter. Grace quietly explains how Michael has carried out an 
attack. I understand by what is being said that this attack is not his 
first. Michael seems terrified, his face is contorted and he hums very 
loudly. 

“Ted, take Kelly to the staffroom, show him where the overalls are kept
and the shower, please?” Grace instructs 

“Sure thing - you okay, Kelly? Come with me, we'll get you sorted out.” 

I still cannot utter a word. I feel myself trembling. I could cry. 

I willingly follow Ted, passing over Michael's legs as I did so. He is
shrieking. It seems and feels like mayhem. Norman meets me at the door 
–  I want to give him a wide berth, almost fearful something else might 
happen. 

“Is yer goin' fer yer plane, Mr Kelly.” 

It feels strange, but with his voice the fear subsides and normality
takes hold of my senses. 

“I've just got the parachute today, Norman. We won't need a plane to
play together.” 

He leans his twisted body to one side to let me pass. 

“Ut oh, Michael, ya fucked up good dis time! Evry'uns goin ta be moighty
pissed at ya!” 

“Michael's had a little set back, Norman, that's all.” Grace says, her
hands on Michaels 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 likes to see Eamon.” 

“Of course, Norman, but its Saturday – Eamon isn't on TV.  Pull yourself
a chair up and keep out of the way please. Not too loud now.” Michael 
scuffs his way toward the TV set. 

“I gots to ‘ave it pretty loud, Grace, all da fuckin' noise Michael's
makin'!” 

“Richard is going to take Michael up to his room.” 

Richard, the second of the care workers, kneels beside Michael. He is
soothing him with his hand on his head. Grace encourages Michael to 
stand up. 

With everything appearing to return to something resembling normal, I
close the door and follow Ted, waiting patiently down the corridor. 

The staffroom is brightly coloured; children's paintings and drawings
decorate the mustard coloured walls. Two women sit at a desk reading 
newspapers. One looks up. 

“Hello,” she says, “my name is Teresa, this is Linda.” 

The other woman nods and smiles. I can't bring myself to hold out my
smelly hand. What I want is to make a quick exit from their gaze. 

“You ran into Michael I see,” Linda states,  “most of the time it's hot
drinks.” 

I let out half a grin. Hot drinks or urine, I think to myself. The rank
smell of cold urine has me favouring a scold. 

“I'll make you a cup of tea for when you're cleaned up.” Teresa says,
assured I will want one. 

The shower stream is steaming hot. I stand beneath the pelting water and
try to think about what happened. Nothing makes any sense. I don't even 
know what I feel about Michael - it's a kind of numbness. The boy is 
dangerous, so why would someone like him be allowed to have the freedom 
of the house - well, the freedom of the third floor anyway? The soap 
rinses down my body. I stand motionless, letting the steaming water 
cleanse my pores. 

As I leave the stall I see overalls and a shirt on the bench. They are
warm. They fit closely enough. 

“Feel better now?” Theresa asks, as I enter back into the staffroom. 

“I do. Thank you.” 

Linda hands me a cup of tea. 

“There's no sugar in it, help yourself.” 

I hold up my hand in a gesture that none is necessary. 

“You look good in overalls.” She says, 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 am though not sure why. The hint of anger has subsided to something
resembling sorrow. 

“Good, I'll call up - she's very worried.” 

Linda picks up the phone and dials an extension. 

“Hi Grace, Kelly is just having a cup of tea, he says to tell you he's
fine.” She looks over to me and winks. “Okay, I'll tell him.” She 
replaces the receiver. 

“Bad news and good news I'm afraid, Norman is asking Grace where the
fucking plane is? But to tell you Michael said sorry.  He's never ever 
said that before, Kelly.” 

It's a remarkable thing to watch the brightly coloured partitions of a
parachute rise and fall over the children, 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. 


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