...And Through Wax Seals and Padlocks
St. Jerome's Orphanage.
“Stop it!” I quickly snapped at the annoying 5 year old boy pulling my hair. His smile turned into a wicked grin as ran the boy ran away before I could chase after him. I wasn’t that willing to chase the little annoying child down the corridors of the orphanage, so I still continued to lie down on my lumpy single bed in my little cramped shared room. I slowly turned over onto my back, trying to get a good glimpse at all my posters pinned on my wall. I had over 20 and they were just of old magazine cut outs. I couldn’t really afford posters, living in an orphanage and all and we weren’t supposed to have them either. But I still continued to break the rules, like I did many times at St. Jerome’s Orphanage.
My eyes moved over the wall, catching glimpses of bands like the Ramones, the Clash, the Cure, the Smiths, Joy Division; posters that my older brother had given to me before he died. Then I would look over to the left side of the wall, which had pictures of the Klaxons, Robots in Disguise, Bloc party, Arctic Monkeys and My Chemical Romance. These were the other bands I adored. Then finally to the middle of the wall were pictures of bands I drew, because I could never find any magazine cut outs of them. I didn’t know if they were accurate or not, but that’s the image I got of the bands when I listen to them. One of the pictures I drew had five members in it. When I listened to their album ‘Strange House’ I imagined all of them with black hair like all the old sixties garage bands I listen too. I didn’t know what they dressed like, but I had always guessed they would wear black skinny jeans. Because of their gothic/garage sound I always imagined them to be rather scary looking, but not one of your average typical emo bands. The name of the band was the Horrors I think, or something along the lines of that.
It seemed like they were unknown here in West End, but that could be because I live in an orphanage in an isolated part of London. Every magazine I looked at didn’t have a single picture of the horrors, or they did but I couldn’t tell if it was them or not. The only music I could get my hands on were cd’s from my deceased pretend brother, old records people took to second hand shops that they didn’t want anymore and half price cassette tapes I found in music shops that I would either steal or try and save up for. I knew stealing was wrong, but I had no money to continue my music obsession, and music was one of the few things keeping me alive. Besides, nobody bought cassettes anymore, so it wasn’t causing the local music shop a major financial loss.
I continued to gaze up at my magazine cut out’s, remembering the significance of what each band had on me. All the pictures were on my side of the room, which was the closest one facing the window. The wallpaper was a gross cream colour, but you could barely notice it anymore under all the various pictures. Under all my pictures was my bed, with thick brown itchy sheets that did a terrible job of keeping you warm. On top of the sheets were two white stiff pillows that were more uncomfortable then not sleeping with a pillow. Lying on top of these next to me was my doll Jemima. She had skin as white as snow, with long raven black hair made out of wool with bright green emerald eyes. Her big lips were crimson and she didn’t smile. She wore a little blue tartan dress and wore red shoes on her feet. She looked exactly like me.
I had Jemima since I was 3, when I found her in a charity bin at Christmas. The other nun’s had tried to convince me to taking the new, pretty blonde doll with a pink dress but I refused. Jemima looked sad; she had the same features as me and had no friends or family with her at the time (or so I could tell). I automatically took an attachment to her. I would play with her everyday and tell her all my secrets and dreams. She kept me company during the day when there was no one to talk to and kept me safe at night through thunderstorms and when I felt sad or alone. 14 years have gone by and I have never parted with the only family I had.
I looked around my room again and started to stare out the window. It was early evening and you could see the stars brighten up the night sky. You could still here the busy traffic in the background with all the screeching tyres and sirens. I slowly shut my eyes, allowing myself to think. I always liked to think when I was alone. It often helped me with ideas for drawing or even lyrics for poems I wrote. I always loved to draw and have been drawing ever since I could write my own name. It gave me something to channel all my creativity into and I would practice everyday so I would get better and better. Suddenly, I started to feel a cold chill from the window. My Ramones shirt wasn’t giving me much warmth and my denim jeans that were to big for me which only made my legs colder. I couldn’t be bothered to move into my blankets so I still continued to shut my eyes and think. Think about how I ever came to this orphanage; think about if I have any family out in the world, think about how I’m 17 tomorrow. Then something crossed my mind like it did many times before. When would I get out of here?
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Flash back 17 years ago:
It was a cold rainy night. The streets of West End were deserted and not a single soul was in sight. I figure was walking through the dark with a bundle in its arms. As soon as it came closer to the bridge, the more I could figure out what it was. From what I could see, it was a woman. A very young woman, from what I could see I would have to say late teens. She looked upset and had mascara streaming down her face. Her hair was dark and she was a very skinny thing. She sobbed quietly and placed the bundle on the ground. From what I could see, the bundle was moving. I could hear soft cries form the bundle, almost like the sounds a baby would make. The woman ignored the cries and continued to stare out into the water that flowed under the bridge. She kissed the bundle and walked towards the side of the bridge. As soon as I realized what the woman was doing, I started to run towards the woman, but it was too late. I splash was made and then silence. I ran as fast as I could to the side of the bridge to see if the woman was alive, but all I could see was nothing. She had committed suicide.
I then heard a cry from the ground, startling me. I looked at the ground and was surprised to find a baby, wrapped in cloth. I quickly picked the child up, making sure it was alright. It was a girl and was very cold from the rain. Moments went by as I phoned the police to come to the scene. Hours went by for trying to search for the body but no luck. It seems as if the woman was a mystery. I continued to nurse the baby, as if it was my own. I felt so sorry for the child; it looks like she had no family here in England. Turns out the woman weren’t from England and there were no relatives to at all to keep the child. So, the police and I decided to send her to St. Jerome’s, the orphanage near by. I called the child Nancy, after the bridge which she was found on and she was to be cared for at the orphanage.
That’s all I know about the child and the night I found her.
- Witness testimony by Mrs.E Musgrove, aged 48 on the 19th of December 1989.
My eyes moved over the wall, catching glimpses of bands like the Ramones, the Clash, the Cure, the Smiths, Joy Division; posters that my older brother had given to me before he died. Then I would look over to the left side of the wall, which had pictures of the Klaxons, Robots in Disguise, Bloc party, Arctic Monkeys and My Chemical Romance. These were the other bands I adored. Then finally to the middle of the wall were pictures of bands I drew, because I could never find any magazine cut outs of them. I didn’t know if they were accurate or not, but that’s the image I got of the bands when I listen to them. One of the pictures I drew had five members in it. When I listened to their album ‘Strange House’ I imagined all of them with black hair like all the old sixties garage bands I listen too. I didn’t know what they dressed like, but I had always guessed they would wear black skinny jeans. Because of their gothic/garage sound I always imagined them to be rather scary looking, but not one of your average typical emo bands. The name of the band was the Horrors I think, or something along the lines of that.
It seemed like they were unknown here in West End, but that could be because I live in an orphanage in an isolated part of London. Every magazine I looked at didn’t have a single picture of the horrors, or they did but I couldn’t tell if it was them or not. The only music I could get my hands on were cd’s from my deceased pretend brother, old records people took to second hand shops that they didn’t want anymore and half price cassette tapes I found in music shops that I would either steal or try and save up for. I knew stealing was wrong, but I had no money to continue my music obsession, and music was one of the few things keeping me alive. Besides, nobody bought cassettes anymore, so it wasn’t causing the local music shop a major financial loss.
I continued to gaze up at my magazine cut out’s, remembering the significance of what each band had on me. All the pictures were on my side of the room, which was the closest one facing the window. The wallpaper was a gross cream colour, but you could barely notice it anymore under all the various pictures. Under all my pictures was my bed, with thick brown itchy sheets that did a terrible job of keeping you warm. On top of the sheets were two white stiff pillows that were more uncomfortable then not sleeping with a pillow. Lying on top of these next to me was my doll Jemima. She had skin as white as snow, with long raven black hair made out of wool with bright green emerald eyes. Her big lips were crimson and she didn’t smile. She wore a little blue tartan dress and wore red shoes on her feet. She looked exactly like me.
I had Jemima since I was 3, when I found her in a charity bin at Christmas. The other nun’s had tried to convince me to taking the new, pretty blonde doll with a pink dress but I refused. Jemima looked sad; she had the same features as me and had no friends or family with her at the time (or so I could tell). I automatically took an attachment to her. I would play with her everyday and tell her all my secrets and dreams. She kept me company during the day when there was no one to talk to and kept me safe at night through thunderstorms and when I felt sad or alone. 14 years have gone by and I have never parted with the only family I had.
I looked around my room again and started to stare out the window. It was early evening and you could see the stars brighten up the night sky. You could still here the busy traffic in the background with all the screeching tyres and sirens. I slowly shut my eyes, allowing myself to think. I always liked to think when I was alone. It often helped me with ideas for drawing or even lyrics for poems I wrote. I always loved to draw and have been drawing ever since I could write my own name. It gave me something to channel all my creativity into and I would practice everyday so I would get better and better. Suddenly, I started to feel a cold chill from the window. My Ramones shirt wasn’t giving me much warmth and my denim jeans that were to big for me which only made my legs colder. I couldn’t be bothered to move into my blankets so I still continued to shut my eyes and think. Think about how I ever came to this orphanage; think about if I have any family out in the world, think about how I’m 17 tomorrow. Then something crossed my mind like it did many times before. When would I get out of here?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Flash back 17 years ago:
It was a cold rainy night. The streets of West End were deserted and not a single soul was in sight. I figure was walking through the dark with a bundle in its arms. As soon as it came closer to the bridge, the more I could figure out what it was. From what I could see, it was a woman. A very young woman, from what I could see I would have to say late teens. She looked upset and had mascara streaming down her face. Her hair was dark and she was a very skinny thing. She sobbed quietly and placed the bundle on the ground. From what I could see, the bundle was moving. I could hear soft cries form the bundle, almost like the sounds a baby would make. The woman ignored the cries and continued to stare out into the water that flowed under the bridge. She kissed the bundle and walked towards the side of the bridge. As soon as I realized what the woman was doing, I started to run towards the woman, but it was too late. I splash was made and then silence. I ran as fast as I could to the side of the bridge to see if the woman was alive, but all I could see was nothing. She had committed suicide.
I then heard a cry from the ground, startling me. I looked at the ground and was surprised to find a baby, wrapped in cloth. I quickly picked the child up, making sure it was alright. It was a girl and was very cold from the rain. Moments went by as I phoned the police to come to the scene. Hours went by for trying to search for the body but no luck. It seems as if the woman was a mystery. I continued to nurse the baby, as if it was my own. I felt so sorry for the child; it looks like she had no family here in England. Turns out the woman weren’t from England and there were no relatives to at all to keep the child. So, the police and I decided to send her to St. Jerome’s, the orphanage near by. I called the child Nancy, after the bridge which she was found on and she was to be cared for at the orphanage.
That’s all I know about the child and the night I found her.
- Witness testimony by Mrs.E Musgrove, aged 48 on the 19th of December 1989.