And Neither Have I Wings to Fly by Thelma Wheatley

Author:Thelma Wheatley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inanna Publications
Published: 2013-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

28.

THEIR APPOINTMENT was on the first Wednesday afternoon in December of 1929, arranged by Miss Dorkins at the Toronto Psychiatric Hospital, Wednesday afternoons having been reserved for the Children’s Clinic in the Outpatients Department that had begun in March, 1926. It was run by Dr. Edmund Lewis, a psychiatrist with the Mental Hygiene Service (Toronto Public Health). He was joined in his work by a visiting psychiatrist who came in once a week from the Family Court. General reasons for referral to the clinic, as Miss Dorkins well knew, were behavioural difficulties, social problems such as stealing and truancy, illegitimacy, suspected mental defect, inability to hold a job, vagrancy, backwardness at school, deportation of people suspected of mental retardation or mental illness, and any other number of causes applicable to such as the Hewitts.

Miss Dorkins had explained the day before the necessity for the children to have a bath (and, preferably, Mr. and Mrs. Hewitt). One could hardly expect the nurse and Dr. Charles Meade to touch layers of Hewitt grime and sores. There had been great excitement in the kitchen. It had meant boiling up the kettle and soup cauldron in advance on the stove. Henrietta, with little Ella’s help, brought in water from the communal tap out in the yard. Miss Dorkins herself personally provided a bar of carbolic soap, a sponge, and a few (clean) towels. “First time they ’ad a wash since las’ Chrismus,” said Henry cheerfully. “Better ‘n’ the dirty ol’ Public Baths on Sackville.” He brought in an old tin bath from the yard spotted with rust and said he had “cleaned out the spiders an’ rat-shit first.” Miss Dorkins smiled wanly. The younger children were running half-naked round the kitchen, with Florrie Hewitt laughing, as excited herself at the prospect of dipping herself naked into the water after the others. Fourteen-year-old Henrietta held the soap and sponge as twelve-year-old Robbie stepped in first. Miss Dorkins glanced tactfully away. “Aieee!” he cried. “Oh aye, ’Ettie!” as his sister soaped up his back. Little Oswald — there was something wrong with his legs (but if one looked closely there was something wrong with every Hewitt child) — handed Georgie to Miss Dorkins, a dear child of about twenty months.

“Titties,” he lisped. And before horrified Miss Dorkins could protect herself he had pressed his grubby little fingers (who knew where they had been) on her breasts; she had felt them squeezing with childlike need. She had felt an unexpected pleasure at the touch and suddenly, she had wanted to sit down and put her head in her hands and sob.

The Hewitts now had a semblance of cleanliness. Mr. Hewitt lugged the tin bath out the back door and threw the dirty water over the yard. The boys had clean shirts and patched breeches; the girls had second-hand dresses from the Catholic Church ladies at St Paul’s. However, no amount of soap and water and new clothes could eliminate a certain odour embedded in this family.

They had

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