A Georgian Heaven (standard:non fiction, 3443 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Apr 17 2006	Views/Reads: 3513/2240	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Behind the facade of Georgian elegance unfolds a story about human dignity...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


I could very well imagine the women, especially during the Georgian
period, loving this staircase, knowing men could view them as they 
descended the stairs in their lavishly ostentatious gowns. 

When we reach the third floor Ms. Roberts speaks while we continue along
another corridor. 

“All our children are housed on this floor. Not much farther now.” 

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 Tom Schofield
to meet you all.” 

Grace looks up from the table where she and six children are eating
breakfast. None of the children respond to Ms. Roberts, or my presence, 
while Grace, wiping her hands on her apron, leaves the table and comes 
toward me holding out her hand. 

“Hello, Tom. We're looking forward to spending the morning with you.” 

I clasp hold of her sincere hand. 

She turns her head in the direction of the children. 

“Aren't we children?” 

There is still no recognisable response. 

“I'll leave you with Grace, Tom. 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 says, taking my arm. 

“Children this is Tom. 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 T..ttt...om!,” Susan mutters, smiling all over her face and
raising her hand.  That hand holds a spoon, once filled with milk and 
cornflakes, now spilling onto the table. 

“Hello, Susan.” I raise my hand, too. 

“Michael – your turn,” says Grace. 

“Mmm..uum...i...elleeeeeeeoo  T...om” 

“Hello, Michael.” 

Michael offers no eye contact. 

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

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

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

“Enuf ta fuckin' ide'em, I really ate'em. We always gits fuckin'
cornflakes, I wants toast.” 

He slops the spoon into his bowl and sits back in his cripple friendly
chair, arms folded, head hanging down. 

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

There's no hint of frustration in her voice. 

“It's Friday; fuckin' fish day!” 

“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 have that language every morning?” 

“Wot fuckin' language?” 

“That language, Norman, you can see we have a guest today.  Tom is going
to show us how to play games with a parachute. 

“Simon, will you say good morning to Tom?” 

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 Tom good 
morning?” 

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

“Good morning, Simon, thank you.” 

“Trudy...?” 

Grace nods, smiling. Trudy is the smallest of the children. She is
strapped into a custom built high chair. 

“Tooooom – wi ou sit neks tto me?” 

Both of her four-inch arms wave frantically, while a grin, as perfect as
any bright day, or any newly found seashell, breaks upon her face. 

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

I look round, seeing a chair against the wall, and pull it so I can sit
between Trudy and Norman. Grace offers me a slice of toast, which I 
gladly accept. 

Norman observes the offer of toast. 

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

“Sure I do, Norman, do you want my toast?” 

There is an audible tittering. 

“Grace'll be cuttin my tongue out Mr. Tom.” Norman grins. 

“I'll bet she will, Norman.” 

The clock in the room chimes nine times. 

Grace stares at the roguish Norman, who lets his chin fall onto his
chest but can't disguise, or hide his giggles. 

“That just leaves Maureen, doesn't it?” 

Grace beams with affection. 

Maureen sits quiet. Unlike with the others, there is no bowl of
cornflakes in front of her, just a mug with a bendy straw. 

“Maureen?” 

“Welcome to play with us, Tom.” 

“Thank you, Maureen, and thanks to all for allowing me to come and spend
time with you.” 

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

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

“They're not your cornflakes, Norman,” I chirp in, “you're eating MY
toast, remember?” 

“O yez, gess I am,” he says, slinking from the table, toast in hand. 

Grace winks at me and begins collecting the dishes together, which she
whisks away to the sink in the corner of the room. Norman, slowly 
making his way to the door, looks to have a bent wire coat hanger under 
his jumper. No boy I ever saw was so bent, so misshapen. He stops, 
leans back, turning his head and asks... 

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

He laughs at his own joke. 

“If we had 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 that easy
parachute jump one day.” 

He grins, like a boy bewitched, leaving the room still eating my toast. 

Grace raises her eyebrows. 

“Well, there's an improvement,” She says. 

I must have looked at her bewildered. 

“Well, Tom, everything that happens here is cherished in small triumphs,
and Norman refrained from saying ‘fuckin plane'. That is a tiny moment 
of hope.” 

It is in this shining moment I realize I'm in the presence of a special
motherliness. 

All the children have left the table bar one, Maureen. Grace moves
toward her and picks her up. She gives Grace a no arms hug, her feet 
wrapping around her. Maureen is let loose on the floor, and like 
bouncing toy, she scurries to the door.  Now I understand why no bowl 
was set in front of her. I resist asking questions. 

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

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

I look round the room, seeing on the walls pictures of children, tens
and tens of them, many different nationalities, many different 
problems, some obvious, many not so. Grace sees me looking. 

“Barnardos was ‘willed' this house in 1968. Every child you see there
has spent time in our family.” 

I step closer and begin the process of looking at each picture. There
are no names on the photos. 

“That is Jeremy, he was here between seventy nine and eighty four. He
was a lucky one -- adopted.” 

I continue to browse while Grace washes dishes. I offer to help. She
instantly holds out a drying towel. 

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

Grace looks to be in her mid fifties, with curly, greying hair, not an
ounce overweight, as well as being the tenant to a beautifully bubbly 
nature. 

“Ms. Roberts tells me you are her longest serving care worker, Grace.” 

“I came when the house opened, raising my own children with the homes
children. 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, Tom, you can't see such things. Homes like this are to protect the
public from having to understand such children in our society. We are 
their last hope. At eighteen they are dispersed into residential homes 
for the physically or mentally handicapped.” 

“I thought such things were dropped during the seventies and eighties?” 

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

As each breakfast bowl is washed, she racks it up 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 happened to be a house next to you! All kinds of 
resentments figured into the collapse of such ideals, and by the late 
nineties the government was leaning, once again, toward institutions; 
even if the word was 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, how's that for a phrase? and 
our physically disabled, being integrated into communities. Provided, 
of course, it doesn't happen to be THEIR community.” 

She slams the door to the washer and begins to put away the dishes. 

“Actually it was severely under-estimated just how many of our mentally
challenged preferred the seclusion and safety of institutions. I 
remember Frank, a twenty two year old, educationally subnormal, with a 
history of touching young girls, and peeing wherever he found himself 
at the time, being moved away from his ‘safe' place. The experts said 
he wasn't a ‘danger' to the public; more just a public nuisance. He was 
placed in a closely supervised community ‘safe' house on a Neasden 
housing estate.  The poor lad was beaten up three times in six months, 
one time having his arm broken. The politically correct hierarchy of 
Barnardos hadn't take into account the home next door housed a family 
of four, with two young girls living there. Frank was continually 
climbing the fence to watch the girls play. Father took a golf club and 
broke his forearm... ah ha, here's our first clean child.” 

Trudy barges her way in, sitting in her wheelchair, holding a hair-brush
in her left hand. 

“...T..om bwush my air?” 

It's hard for me to resist the plea in her eyes. I smile, stepping
forward. 

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

I hesitate for a moment --then understand what Grace is saying. 

“How will it be if I watch Trudy brush her own hair, Grace, is that
fine?” 

“That will be very nice, Trudy, won't it? You show Tom what you do every
morning.” 

Trudy chuckles and shakes with glee, holding the brush between two
fingers on the stub of her right arm, letting it fall over the longer 
lengths of her hair. 

The door opens. Michael enters the room carrying a cup. Michael has not
yet shown me any eye contact. He seems obsessed with steam rising from 
whatever the cup holds. Suddenly he dashes forward, hurling the 
contents at me. I heard Grace let out a scream – “No, Michael!” 

It is over in a flash. Michael had pee'd into the cup and thrown it over
me, soaking my hair, stinging me eyes, and staining my shirt. Almost 
instinctively he sits down on the floor, legs crossed, fingers twined 
together, and rocking back and forth. The taste of urine in my mouth is 
vile. Grace immediately rings a bell, sending a loud shrill sound down 
the corridor, then comes to me with a cloth, dabbing my face. 

“Are you okay?” 

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

I hear the sound of people hurrying down the corridor. The door is flung
open and two male residential care workers enter. Grace quietly 
explains how Michael carried out an attack. Michael seems terrified, 
his face is contorted, and he is humming very loudly. 

“Ted, will you take Tom to the staffroom, show him where the showers
are, and give him clean overalls, please?” 

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

I still haven't spoken a word. I feel myself trembling. I could cry. 

I walk toward the door, following Ted, passing over Michael's legs. He
is shrieking. It seems and feels like mayhem. Norman, with water soaked 
toast, meets me at the door – I want to give him a wide berth, fearful 
something else might happen. 

“Is yer goin' fer da fuckin' plane, Mr Tom.” 

It feels strange, but the fear subsides, his cheeky grin warming my
heart. 

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

Grace is quick to soothe. 

“Michael's had a little set back, Norman, that's all. 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 in the mornin'.” 

“Of course, Norman, but its Saturday – Eamon isn't on TV on Saturdays.
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, kneeling beside Michael, is
soothing him, stroking his head. Grace moves to join them. 

With everything seeming to return to something resembling normal, I
close the door and follow Ted, waiting patiently a few yards up the 
corridor. 

The staffroom is brightly coloured, children's paintings 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.” 

Linda 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, my head a moving like nodding dog. 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 when you're cleaned up.” Teresa says,
assured I will want one. 

The shower is steaming hot. I stand beneath the pelting water and try
not 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, I think, 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 stay minutes more and let the heat sink 
in through my pores. 

Ted collected a shirt and overalls on the way down. They fit closely
enough. 

“Feel better now?” Theresa asks. 

“I do, thank you.” 

Linda hands me a cup of tea. 

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

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

“You look good in overalls.” She says, an obvious kindly remark to
settle me and have me feeling better about myself. 

“Grace called down to ask if you were okay. I explained you were still
in the shower.” 

“Thanks, I'm fine...really.” 

I am, but not sure why. The hint of anger has subsided to something
resembling sorrow. 

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

Linda picks up the phone and dials an extension. 

“Hi Grace, Tom 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
‘fuckin' plane is? But she said to tell you that Michael said sorry. 
He's never said that word before, Tom.” 

It's eleven o'clock as we begin playing games with the parachute. 

It is a remarkable thing to watch the brightly coloured partitions of
the parachute rise and fall over the children; this is their playtime 
in the grounds of a beautiful mansion. To the outside world looking in, 
it must seem like a perfect heaven. 

Who's to say that such a place isn't? For it is here that angels work
unseen and uncomplaining. 


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