Someone to Love Us: The shocking true story of two brothers fostered into brutality and neglect. Terence O’Neill
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‘Life gets tedious, don’t it?’ Dennis commented drily to me. I didn’t know the word ‘tedious’ but he explained it meant dull or boring. I supposed that was one way of putting it.
In bed that night I asked him, ‘What do you think our next place will be like?’
I could almost have predicted the answer, which had become a catchphrase of his: ‘If things don’t change, they’ll stay as they are.’
I decided to be optimistic. Every move so far had taken us somewhere better than the last place. But what could possibly be better than the Connops? I hoped we would be placed on another farm. I liked the farming life, the open fields, the animals and, of course, the access to delicious food when I knew other people were having to put up with rationing. (Mrs Connop was always reminding us that we should be grateful.) I was also going to miss Mr Connop who had been a father figure to me in a way that my own father had never been.
On Wednesday, 28 June 1944, Mr Connop wakened us bright and early and Mrs Connop and the new maid came upstairs to pack our belongings. We didn’t own any suitcases so Mrs Connop agreed that she would lend us some so we could take with us all the new clothes we’d been bought during the three years we’d been staying with them. Mr Connop wrapped up our board games and books in brown paper parcels and tied them with string. He was trying to be all jolly but it sounded false and empty and no one was laughing.
I felt an ache in the pit of my stomach. Why did we have to move? I loved staying at the Connops’. Was it my fault for fighting with the local boys? What was I supposed to do when they were bullying me?
We came downstairs for breakfast but I could hardly eat because of the tight feeling in my chest.
‘I’ll make you sandwiches for the journey,’ the new maid said. ‘It’ll take you a while to get there and you don’t want to go hungry.’
It only occurred to me afterwards that she must have known where we were going – something that no one thought to share with us.
At ten o’clock, there was a knock on the front door and a tall man, wearing a brown suit and a trilby hat, was shown into the hall. Mrs Connop came out to shake hands with him.
‘They’re all packed up and ready,’ she said. ‘I’ll just fetch them for you.’
Dennis, Freddie and I trouped out, our faces tripping us.
‘This is Mr Easterby,’ we were told. ‘He’s going to take you to your new home. Be good boys for him and don’t cause any trouble.’
Mr Connop shook hands with each of us in turn, wishing us good luck in a gruff voice, and then Mrs Connop gave us each a quick hug.
‘Have you got all your things?’ she asked. I thought I saw a glint of tears in her eyes but I might have been mistaken. I think she was fond of us, but she was probably looking forward to a more peaceful life once we were gone – me in particular.
Each of us had a small suitcase and our brown paper parcel to carry. We picked them up and Mr Easterby led the way out of the front door and down the path. We caught the bus from Yarpole to Hereford and got out at the stop beside the railway station.
When we realized we were going to our new home by train, Dennis and I looked at each other with barely contained excitement. All those years we’d been watching the trains in the sidings down at Pillgwenlly docks, we’d never actually been on one. We’d seen them puffing along, belching out clouds of steam, pistons chugging in and out of the cylinders, but what would it be like to be a passenger on one, speeding through the countryside?
We climbed the steps and Mr Easterby held the door and ushered us up into a narrow carriage with four seats on either side. He lifted our suitcases into the woven nets hanging from racks above our heads, gesturing for us to sit down. Dennis and I managed to nab the window seats, and Freddie squawked in complaint.
The train puffed away from the platform and we sat mesmerized as the scenery rushed past us. I remember lots of electricity pylons stretching across the fields, and a village called Craven Arms, which made us giggle because it seemed such a silly name. Mr Easterby sat reading a newspaper and not paying any attention to us at all, as we chattered and directed each other’s attention to some new sight. He only roused himself to snap at me when I pulled down the carriage window and tried to peer out.
‘Sit down, Terence, unless you want your head knocked off when a train comes the other way.’
I jumped back into my seat smartish at that.
The train journey was way too short for my liking – only about an hour – and then we were getting out at Shrewsbury station, from where we had to catch a bus to our destination. There was a long wait before we got onto a trundling country bus that wove its way out of the city, stopping every hundred yards or so for passengers to get on or off. We were starving, so we ate our sandwiches and looked out the windows at the hilly landscape.
‘Over that way is Wales,’ Mr Easterby gestured, and I gazed out at the dark hills on the horizon, wondering if that’s where we were going.
Finally the driver called out ‘All passengers for Hope’ and Mr Easterby stood up and said ‘That’s us!’ A village called Hope seemed like a good omen.
‘I hope we’re going to like it in Hope,’ I quipped, and Dennis rolled his eyes and said ‘Very funny!’
As the bus moved off, we stood by the roadside with our suitcases and packages and Mr Easterby squinted at a sheet of paper on which were written the directions we were to follow. We were standing beside the village shop, which doubled as a post office, and I was aware of some women inside peering out at us with curiosity.
‘This way,’ Mr Easterby said, pointing across the road. ‘Pick up your things and follow me.’
We walked over the road and past the village school. I wondered if this would be the school we were to be sent to and whether I would like it or not. We climbed a steep hill, the road all the while getting narrower. There was a farm near the top called ‘White Gates’ and, sure enough, I saw the gates were painted white. At a crossroads just beyond, the road split into three and Mr Easterby led us down the narrowest road, which was little more than a dirt track. It was late afternoon by this time and we were all getting tired but there was no sign of human habitation – just a long winding track disappearing off between the trees.
Mr Easterby took off his hat and wiped his brow. ‘Not much further now, boys,’ he said, and I thought it was all right for him because at least he wasn’t carrying a suitcase and a parcel. They weren’t heavy but they bumped against our legs awkwardly as we walked.
The track wound its way down a steep hill, and at the bottom there was a metal gate. Were we really at the right place, I wondered? It seemed so isolated, literally miles from anywhere. The track shrank even further until it was just a footpath. We passed a farmhouse on the left and then, finally, another house came into view and Mr Easterby said, with a sigh of relief, that this was the one.
It was a shabby, grey stone house that didn’t look very big. I couldn’t help thinking that it felt like quite a letdown after the Connops’, but I suppose nothing could have been as good as theirs.
Mr Easterby knocked on the door and a grey-haired woman opened it almost immediately.
‘Mrs Pickering?’ he asked. ‘I’ve brought the Newport boys.’
‘Oh, goodness! You’d better come in,’ she said, seeming flustered. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Here, boys, put your things down in the hall here.’
We marched in and piled up our belongings where she indicated. A little girl, who looked about seven or eight years old, was sitting at the table watching us with a serious expression.
‘This is Dorothy,’ Mrs Pickering said. ‘She arrived earlier today. There’s been some kind of mix-up, I think.’
‘A mix-up?’ Mr Easterby looked exhausted from the walk. He took his hat off and sank into a