Escape!

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This is a brief description of how I escaped from Borstal in Liverpool in 1960. There is no transgendered element. Just the bare facts from escape to finally achiving permanent freedom. I don't even dwell upon events before or after that day. In fact the event only covers a period from about 2 pm Friday to 5 am the following Saturday morning.

Escape.

The words were still ringing in my ears as was my head still ringing from the beating.

‘You’ll do another five laps for that you cheeky little sod, then you’ll come to me and beg. D’you hear me! Beg!!’

Despite the bleeding lip and stars before my eyes, I just couldn’t believe my luck.

‘How could Fatso Gardiner be so stupid?' I asked myself. He’d fallen for my ploy hook line and sinker. Now I had to do five extra laps and I knew this particular warden, Fatso Gardiner didn’t check us on the course. He preferred to hide in the changing rooms smoking a sneaky fag. It was always Fatso Gardiner who supervised us on Fridays and I had based my last attempt to get away on his being on duty.

I’d been preparing for this time since my fourteenth birthday; weeks (No months!) of careful preparation; months of enduring the abuse, the rapes, the beatings, and the approaching loss of all hope.

So this was it then. The last chance, the last hurrah; now or never. The bastard had told me five extra laps!

‘How long was that?’ I wondered as my mind was trying to do the maths. Sadly it couldn’t, or more correctly I was too stressed and frightened to concentrate on the figures. I didn’t have much maths to do it. I did know however that five extra laps meant twice the normal time cos we normally only did five laps. Now I had to do ten laps (That was twice the number if laps if my arithmetic was right.) If I was right that meant twice the time to get to my stash of clothes that I had been carefully, and perilously’ collecting at every opportunity since my fourteenth birthday in February. I’d even planned to wait until the summer because previous attempts in January and February had failed dismally because of the cold and lack of food. Now it was August and there would fruit on the trees and stuff growing in the market garden farms north of Liverpool. Stuff I could steal to eat.

Since turning fourteen in February, I was compelled to run on the ‘senior cross country course’ ... barefooted!

But hopefully no more; for now I had it ... trousers, a shirt, a 'bomber jacket' and ... shoes! Oh yes shoes! Shoes! You couldn’t go anywhere without shoes; for me, shoes had become an obsession.

You see, after a few previous failed attempts to escape, they had taken my boots away. After that cold February Saturday when they had caught me again, they removed my boots permanently Now, everywhere I went, I went barefoot; the mark of a ‘runner’, ‘an escapee’! Even if I had escaped, people would have immediately wondered where my shoes were and quickly reported me back to that place. Without shoes, there was no hope.

Shoes had become the final badge of normality; the completion of a disguise that would finally enable me to escape without being noticed, without being recognised as ‘an escapee’. Shoes ... yes shoes! Nobody except those who were there, could ever know the importance of shoes!!! Shoes were a passport to freedom! Shoes were a badge of legitimacy, authenticity, normality. Shoes brought anonymity and invisibility. Shoes were all!

It’s impossible to explain to those who were never in that position, just how big an item shoes were.

I’d been there, in Borstal, in Liverpool, since aged twelve, firstly being stupid and antagonising those who were more powerful than me. Then, secondly, being doubly stupid by trying to ingratiate myself with ‘protectors’ that served only to worsen my lot. Finally, after two years of ‘punishments’, I had finally concluded I was not going to make it. Being there until I was sixteen or possibly even eighteen, meant I would definitely not make it. This was probably my last chance; fourteen years old and already condemned to run the senior course for ten laps and of course, barefoot.

At the end of the first lap, I had diverted from the course. That bit was easy. I told my fellow runners that Fatso had hurt my ankle when he kicked me and I had to stop to rest it. Naturally, they didn’t stop, none of the runners could be certain Fatso wasn’t waiting for us at the end of each lap, and they wouldn’t dare wait back to help. None them would have waited for me anyway, I was the pariah, the sicko, the pervert. To be associated with me was to invite trouble from all quarters. The rest of the runners sped on.

After they had disappeared from view, I located my carefully accumulated stash of stolen clothes and made my bid for freedom. If my luck held; if my desperate plan worked, I would be several miles away before they realised I had not reported after ten laps.
With my shoes draped by their shoe-laces over my neck and my clothes tied inside a waterproof, polythene ‘sausage’ over my shoulders, I stumbled ever further away from the hell that was my life. (Did I say life? More like existence, and a bloody desperate one at that!

After several miles running along a paved sidewalk beside the A580 (East Lancashire Highway,) I finally stopped and hid under a bridge that took the road over a ditch that drained into the Preston arm of Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Invisible from helicopters, I rested for several minutes and took stock.

‘Yes my ankle was killing me but it was run or be caught.' The further I got away before cold and hunger overtook me, the better my chances.

‘Was I being melodramatic?’ I wondered. ‘Would it really be like in the films if I got far enough away and was missing long enough to warrant a proper search with police and everything?’

I listened nervously but no. No baying bloodhounds, no wardens in wailing cars, no police loitering curiously at every corner, no helicopters clattering above ... just the roar of traffic thundering overhead as it travelled up and down the ‘East Lancs’ road..
Now was the time to turn off the road and take off across the fields. My plan was to go north along the towpath then cross the River Ribble and make my way to Preston. It was no good trying to get to Liverpool, there were too many knowing eyes on that route.

So why Preston? I hear you ask.

“It’s a city stupid! Cities have market stalls where food can be stolen and shops, where clothes can be stolen. Cities have buildings were shelter can be found. Cities bring anonimity! I was already an accomplished thief but was I any good as a fugitive?

Soon I was trotting still barefoot along the canal towpath and looking for a boat; any sort of boat, to get me across the River Ribble. I didn’t find one. All the boats were secured by locks and chains. Thus when I came to the River Ribble bank I was afraid and desperate so I had no choice and I never hesitated.

It was a summer evening, it was daylight for quite some time yet and the water wouldn’t be too cold ... not like January and February. With my clothes in a polythene bag and my shoes around my neck, I stepped carefully through the mud to the waters’ edge then waded out to deeper water. As soon as it was deep enough, I struck out for the far bank. The Polythene bag gave me buoyancy.

I was lucky, it was low tide and the tide was beginning to flood. If I was washed up anywhere, it would be upstream, nearer to the city centre. I was lucky but sometimes, just sometimes, a tiny bit of luck comes the way of those unlucky enough to be like me; a pervert.

I emerged from the River Ribble, cold and wet but relieved and feeling just that tiny bit safer.

‘I had beaten the bastards!’

Now I had to find somewhere safe for the night, then somehow organise my disguise the next day.

Finding somewhere dry was easy, an old warehouse beside the Preston Lancaster Canal served well enough. It was dirty and draughty but I’d slept in worse places courtesy of my abusers who had locked me in various places as punishment during my time in Borstal.

In the early morning, long, long before the city was coming alive, the summer sun sent a shaft of light through the broken window frame I had forced the previous night and I woke up to the realisation I was still free. Now I could put on my disguise.

After trying to at least clean my hands and face, I emerged looking almost normal with grey flannel trousers, a white linen shirt, a bomber jacket and some shoes that fitted fairly well. My borstal issue underpants were still damp but that was little discomfort when compared to the fact that I was still free.

Free! I had to pinch myself! Free! I had to keep repeating the word silently to myself to avoid attracting attention.

Free! Free! Free!

The end.

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Comments

I never had the courage to try.

My heart goes out to you Bev. I simply can't imagine being treated like that. Sure, I was beaten a great deal but that only lasted for a while almost every day. I just can't get my mind around having that continuously.

Much peace

Gwendolyn

I had no choice Gwen.

I had no choice Gwen. If I had stayed I certainly wouldn't be alive today. My escape was driven by a sense of worthlessness ... a nihlism that was tantamount to a death-wish. I didn't really care if I lived or died, I just couldn't stand the abuse anymore.

It is better to be on the outside without any friends at all, than on the inside with your enemies!

Thanks Gwen.

Skype you soon.

XZXX

Bev.

Growing Old Disgracefully

bev_1.jpg

I hope this sort of regime

Angharad's picture

is a thing of the past. It has no place in even a semi-civilised society. I'm glad you survived and I hope sharing this with us helps to heal some of the old wounds.

Cofleidiau,

Angharad

Angharad

1960 - 1961

Bev, it saddens me when I think of the desperation you were feeling. I'm glad that you ran and I hope that you stayed free.The very thought of our poor world bereft of your writing and the magnificent disgracefulness of you brings me to tears.

I too was inside, for 2 1/2 yrs but I'd had it the worst at home with the beatings and abuse. That is what saved me. I was so full of rage that when someone did try something, I went totally crazy berserker and nearly killed the fool. Word went out, stay away from that little one, he's crazy and will kill you. And so, my fem little (5'3" 9 stone) ass was at least safe, if totally alone.

Joani

Women are Angels. And when someone breaks our wings.... We simply continue to fly ......... on a broomstick...... We are flexible like that.

Staying free.

Hi joani. You wondered if I remained free; well ... yes, I did, but at a cost.

Thieving; either shop-lifting or burglary, proves too stressful to be living on your nerves every waking minute. I don't care what people say, when you've no friends or companions and no regular place to sleep and nobody you can trust, your nerves eventually get shredded. You end up falling asleep in the middle of the day in bizarre places. That makes you very vulnerable and you end up living like a hunted rat.

If you still need to stay out of the clutches of the authorities, you end up doing the only thing left. Prostitution.

I survived as a transvestite 14-year-old prostitute from August to October. I didn't make much money because the tricks often refused to pay. Duh! I was fourteen and not very strong so there was no way I could force them to pay. That's what pimps are for but a fourteen-year-old tranny prozzie needs a pimp like a hole through the brain. The words 'frying pan' and fire spring to mind.

Anyway I had to keep moving to avoid the authorities so pimps were a none starter. Fourteen-year-old transvestite prostitutes were pretty hot news on any working street in 1960 and the word travelled like wild fire.

In october 1960 I was picked up by a paedophile, gay engineer and he got me a 'job' on his ship in Manchester.

After a few initial misadventures and misunderstandings, I got to stay on the ship and never looked back, well not in fear anyway.

XZXX

Bev.

Growing Old Disgracefully

bev_1.jpg

I was too cowardly and stupid

I was offered the chance to go live with my friends parents, but they were very stern also, so it felt like the hell I knew was better than the hell I didn't. I'd have finished High School with higher grades and perhaps have gone to College sooner.

It is impossible to know what I should have done.

Bev I know this is painful to write about, but perhaps you should write about your pain. I often wept when I was doing my first work, but in retrospect, it was healing also.

Gwendolyn

If I may...

Andrea Lena's picture

...first, I cannot add to what has been already said other than thanks to Bev.

Second...a scared kid bullied by a cruel family member for years wasn't cowardly or stupid, just human. I wish you'd escaped as well, but I am glad that you did 'escape' by surviving like so many of us to this day, alive to tell our tales. Much admiration to Bev and to your, Gwen!


Dio vi benedica tutti
Con grande amore e di affetto
Andrea Lena

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

Escape!

Glad you escaped and are now here.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine
    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

An amazing story about an amazing woman

Beverly, my heart breaks thinking of what you had to endure. There still are kids out there who need help.
You are an Angel to these kids, you are truly a singular woman, bless you.

Karen