Jersey Dreams and Nightmares

I first visted Jersey when I was about seven. I still have a tiny, square black-and-white Box Brownie photo of me in my primary school uniform, startlingly blond, with knobbly white knees peering out over long grey socks, as I stood grinning in front of the twin-propellor aircraft that took me there. The short sojourn in Jersey was one of the few happy memories of my childhood. It seemed to be hot all the time on the island, and the beach was briefly the centre of my life. Suntan lotion didn’t seem to exist in the 1950s; the wise slapped on vinegar instead, while the foolhardy had to try to repair the damage in the evening, with bright pink calamine lotion, the colour and texture of strawberry milk-shake. This cooled the skin, which later peeled.

Jersey was one of the few places where I felt safe, where I wasn’t subject to abuse (though I didn’t realise it was abuse at the time). So it is all the more poignant being there now, when the island is rocked by the scandal of the children’s home at Haut La Garenne. Many people here are in a state of denial, unable to credit that such apparently awful things could happen. Other are anxious to cover the whole thing up. But as each underground chamber is uncovered, there is no further room for doubt. I too don’t want to face up completely to things, and the thought that other children went through experiences far worse than mine leaves me numb and uncomprehending.