The Convent: A shocking true story of surviving the care home from hell by Marie Hargreaves

Author:Marie Hargreaves [Hargreaves, Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Inspirational Memoir
Publisher: Mirror Books
Published: 2020-04-22T14:00:00+00:00

* * *

The following morning, there was no sense of excitement or celebration. We had a Christmas lunch, but it was muted and measured, as was the way at the convent.

But over those few days, I was at least given a brief respite from the attacks.

At the time, I saw it as a little bit like a Christmas gift, as though Sister Isobel, unlikely as it seemed, had been dusted with a layer of Christmas magic and she had called a stop to the beatings and the sexual abuse. Perhaps, in what was the season of goodwill to all men, she could not bear to see me suffer?

Looking back now, I think it far more likely that the attacks were paused because she was busy trying impress a continuous stream of Christmas visitors to the convent – and she could not risk being unmasked for the monster that she was while they were there.

Yes, looking back now, it was all about her, and not about me at all.

And so, she had to be content with simply frightening me with her withering looks and piercing glares, while charity workers and social workers, the local mayor and a bunch of meaty-faced councillors, all milled around the building, patting themselves and Sister Isobel on the back, for a job well done looking after the poor orphans.

As a mark of gratitude, we were made to perform a nativity play for the visiting dignitaries.

“You can be an angel, Kibby,” said Sister Isobel. “You’re one of the smallest.”

“Aah, little Kibby, an angel,” cooed the big girls. “Lovely. An orphan angel.”

I didn’t want to be an angel. Not at all. I thought back to the nativity plays we had performed at home, for my parents. I was director, producer and often the only one with a speaking part. I hated the idea of being a lowly angel for Sister Isobel.

Our plays at home had been full of fun and good will. They had cost nothing but meant everything to us.

I wanted to be Mary, on the donkey, holding the baby. But I was way down the pecking order and there was no chance of that.

“You can’t hold the baby Jesus, Kibby!” scoffed the big girls.

At home, I was used to looking after real-life babies. Here, they didn’t even trust me to hold a baby doll. Well, I decided, I didn’t want to be Mary, anyway. I didn’t want anything to do with their stupid plays and their façade of festive cheer. It was all a big lie to cover up the horror of what was really going on here every day.

I was handed a costume, and we rehearsed some Christmas carols: Silent Night, Away in a Manger and We Three Kings. The older girls taught us the words, though I knew the first verses from school and from singing at home with my parents.

My favourite was Silent Night, because it reminded me most of home. For a few moments, as I was singing, I could forget where I was and it was as though a bit of Christmas sparkle was shining through the gloom.

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