Marjorie Too Afraid to Cry. Patricia Skidmore
oldest cannot be more than nine or ten years old and the youngest bairn is just a wee whip of a thing.” She could not for the life of her understand why they were on the train by themselves. She shook her head in disbelief.
Dora looked up from her knitting and suggested that the children were probably up to no good. She said to Mary, her voice high, “See what happens when you try to save a few bob! If we’d got first-class tickets like I wanted, we would not be sitting in this third-class coach. We will get nits from them for sure. Look at that one scratching at her head! Just ignore them, Mary, please. They probably do not have any tickets. The ticket man will take care of them.” She shook her head, making no effort to keep her voice low or to hide the distaste she felt at being so close to the little group.
Mary would not let it go. She told Dora that the children did have tickets because she saw their mother hand them to the older girl. She tried to illicit some compassion from Dora, so she asked if she saw the fuss the little girl made. The older one had to clutch her and pull her onto the train. Tears were flowing from everyone. But Dora said she hadn’t noticed anything. Mary continued, stating that she simply could not understand it. The girl on the platform looked positively heartbroken. “It was quite a commotion, I tell you, Dora. This world is coming to no good. Imagine sending little children off alone.”
Paying no heed to her friend, Mary stared over at the group determined to find some answers. She asked the children again, a little louder this time, why they looked so sad and why they were travelling alone. However, the children turned away again and said nothing.
They found some safety in looking out the window, and kept their eyes glued to the view and watched their world whiz by. The trip to Newcastle did not take long and soon the buildings were closer and closer together. Audrey was the first to point out the huge church steeple.
Just before the train pulled into the station, Mary and Dora put away their knitting. Dora started to get up, but Mary grabbed her arm, nodded towards the children, and told her that she was going to wait to get off after the children because she wanted to see what they did when they got off the train. She wondered what they would do if there was no one to meet them. She couldn’t bear to think of them stranded in the busy train station. Dora shook her head, and muttered that she could not understand why her friend concerned herself with things that were not her business. These children were not her responsibility, but she knew that once her friend had made up her mind to get involved there was no stopping her, so she sat back down.
Their train entered the enormous station and squealed to a stop. They heard the announcement — Newcastle Central Station. Joyce turned to her siblings and told them that they were to get off here. Joyce’s voice had a new edge to it. Their mum had told them that someone would meet them on the platform beneath the big clock. She said that the clock would be easy to see. Joyce hesitated, then quickly stood up and told everyone to follow her. Marjorie dawdled, as if she did not want to leave the train but followed when Joyce yelled at her to come along. Besides, she did not want to be left alone.
The children stood for a moment and looked around. The busy station overwhelmed them. People were rushing everywhere. Trains roared in and out. For a moment, they were lost in the noise and excitement, then remembered that they had left their mum behind, and all at once panic spread through the little group. The three younger children looked at their big sister. Joyce, remembering her promise to her mum, tried to hide her own fear.
It was this fear in the children’s eyes that affected Mary. As the train stopped, they looked so frightened and unsure of what to do. As Mary got up to follow, she noticed the grubby little doll lying under the seat. She gingerly picked it up on her way out. She stepped onto the platform, and called out to the children, holding up the doll. The littlest girl looked horror-stricken and ran back to grab her treasure.
Marjorie was the first to point out the big clock. Joyce directed the children towards it. As they stood there, Marjorie noticed the two women from the train watching them. They had black coats on. Hadn’t they been told to look for someone dressed in black? For a moment, Marjorie thought that it might be nice to stay with them. They looked like her friend’s grandmother and she liked the idea of having a grandmother.
Marjorie and her sister Joyce stand under one of the clocks in Newcastle Central Station in 2007. Retracing their 1937 journey from Whitley Bay to Newcastle upon Tyne brought back a flood of memories.
Photo by Patricia Skidmore.
Then someone shouted out, “Are you Winifred’s children?” The sound stopped Marjorie in her tracks, her pondering shattered by the shrill voice. Mary had been about to approach the little group, when she heard them being called. She turned to her friend, shaking her head — perhaps these children were orphans after all. Maybe that was not their mother in Whitley Bay. Mary looked back at the children, at their pinched shoulders, saw the fear in their faces, and intuitively thought that something was just not right. She watched them timidly head over to the nun. They reminded her of animals at her old uncle’s farm on their way to the slaughterhouse.
There was little about the woman with the long black robe to reassure the children. Her thin face didn’t smile and the wart on her chin made them think of a witch. Their hearts sank when she told them that she had been sent to pick them up. She told them to call her “Sister” and ordered them to come along, stating that she didn’t have all day. “Hurry up. Follow me and don’t get lost.” Her unfriendly greeting matched her unfriendly face.
The children crowded together and followed her out of the station. When Marjorie looked back, she could see the two women from the train walking away. She wanted to run after them. She should have talked to them on the train. She did not trust this unhappy sister.
The children struggled to keep up with their leader, but the busy sidewalks made it difficult. People pushed past and knocked into them. Lorries and trams raced close by, adding to their distress. Joyce grabbed tightly at Audrey and Kenny’s arms while Marjorie clutched at the back of Joyce’s coat and hung on.
The sister marched ahead unconcerned that the children were having problems keeping up with her. She turned to the little group and snarled a second time for them to hurry up. She called them “little guttersnipes” and told them that this country would be better off when the likes of them were all gone. Then she turned and walked even faster. The look in her eyes sent a cold trickle of fear running down Marjorie’s back. What did she mean? What did they do to make her so angry? She turned to Joyce for answers, but Joyce snapped at her, and told her to hush up and just do as she says and to hurry up. Then she asked Marjorie to help her to remember the streets so that they could find their way back to the train station. “This is Neville Street,” Joyce said under her breath.
Neville Street. Neville Street. Marjorie chanted it to herself. The sound of Joyce’s voice worried her. It sounded just like her mum’s voice last week when those horrid men yelled at her. Something told her that they would not be going back home. Ever. She was becoming more and more frightened. She wanted her mum.
Marjorie’s tight ill-fitting boots cramped her toes and rubbed her heels, setting her old blisters on fire. Every hurried step was agony. She tried to remember the way in her mind. Neville Street, then Mosley. No there was another one too. She could not keep the names straight in her mind. She read the next street sign — Dean Street. Neville Street, Mosley, then Dean Street. Maybe if she remembers some, Joyce will remember the others.
They turned down a steep street. A train chugged noisily on the high arch bridge at the bottom of the hill. The group stopped at Number 35.[3] They did not stay long, thank goodness, because she saw one of those horrid men who came to their house last week. He smiled as if he was happy for everyone. Marjorie shook her head at how mixed up adults were at times. How could he tell them that they should be happy and grateful? Grateful for what? All she wanted was to go back home to her mum.
They soon found themselves being led out of a different part of the building and they could see the steeple of the church they passed on Mosley Street. Or was it the other street? Marjorie felt really turned around now, but she was certain it