Louise Allen grew up in care and ran away from an abusive home aged 15. She is the award-winning author of the best selling series Thrown Away Children; an artist, foster carer and founder of Sparksisterhood.org.
"One, two, three, four. I’m staring hard at the ceiling, following a long crack in the paint up to the small plastic light shade. One, two, three, four cracks on the ceiling. I keep counting.
I did this all the time. I did this every night, especially whilst I was waiting. I did this whenever things were wrong. One, two, three, four: edges of the door frame, corners of my room. My eyes would run along the lines: counting, counting, counting, counting.
I no longer do this, I am no longer scared. I have never let my childhood experiences of abuse and neglect affect my life, I’m grateful that I learnt the life skills to be resilient, strong, patient and forgiving.
My story would not exist without the stories of my birth parents and my adopted family and a retired Irish Navvy called Sean and WW2. Wars are not too interested in children’s welfare. The emotional and physical impact of war on children was not a particular topic of conversation to many who were busy trying to rebuild their lives and the country. I wonder if we are still emotionally paying for the war, generations later, the pain and suffering feels embedded in our DNA. It also brought out the best in us, according to news articles and rosie-coloured tinted spectacles. Me, I’m an eternal optimist, I wanted the best to help others become their best.
I’ve lived through small wars, violence, hate, abuse and neglect - all acted out in the war zone of the house I grew up in. I was in the care system before I was born. My mother was 12 years old when she and her fellow girl guides walked home through the market square in the small town where she lived near Oxford. It was November 22nd 1963 and John F Kennedy had been shot. She joined a crowd gathering outside a television and electrical shop all scrambling to see the news transmitting through the shop window. A man approached her and began talking to her; he was a taxi driver, he was married with two children and that night began to groom my child mother. A few years later I was born. My mother told me that she was lied to by the man from the children’s department and gave me up at six weeks to be placed with a loving family who - she was told - would give me a good life.
I was adopted by the man and woman who initially fostered me; she loved babies, he had his own issues, as did she. This was despite the fact that a boy they had already adopted was on the children’s department's radar, because of complaints and concerns of her cruelty to him. When the children’s department asked the couple to adopt me they said no, I was too dark, tainted with the tar brush. I suspect I had jaundice. There was much to-ing and fro-ing; they wanted me, they didn’t want me, push, pull. They decided to keep me a bit longer, simply because the social worker said someone else was interested in me. Two years later and despite the many pleas from social workers, health visitors and the guardian ad litem I was adopted. At the top of my care plan was stated “this child must be baptised.”
I wrote my story in a book called ‘Thrown Away Child’ (published by Simon and Schuster) so I won’t go into too much detail and I may upset you and that is not something I want to do. I want to inspire you and give you greater awareness of just how amazing life can be. I have come to realise that the secret to my life, success and happiness is that somehow, I learnt the art of ‘turning things on their head’.
Let me go back to my birth mother who was still school age when she had me. Her life has been tough and she is mostly alone. My birth father died in August last year, I met him on his death bed, because I managed to track down a half-sister who suggested that we meet. I took my two teenage sons because part of the fallout of wars, which can last in other ways for years and years, is dispersed people. They wanted to know who he was, what did he look like? and so much more. As it turned out, they were both pleased to see that my father, aged 94 years old, had a full head of thick wavy hair. They were both relieved, I am not joking. When we spoke, we got on and I soon realised where my humour and olive skin came from. He remembered me, which was good because after his death two weeks later we learnt that I have quite a few half siblings and that my quick-witted, charming, swarthy, rogue father was in fact a serial paedophile.
Going back to Sean the Irish Navvy, he is absolutely key to my story and my happiness. He lived in a small blue caravan in the orchard next to my adoptive home. He shared the orchard with a few others who also lived in caravans, mostly refugees from Poland, WW2, there it is again, the effects of war go on and on. Sean had left Ireland and not found much kindness in England (“No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish”). He helped build the major roads around Oxfordshire. He knew every pub in Oxford and loved a pint of Guinness. He was the gentlest, kindest man I have ever known.
Not until I was much older did I understand how he protected me and how he got me into gardening. In his little garden he grew yellow, orange, white and pink chrysanthemums - like a narrow carpet lining his little patch of lawn that he mowed with a push pull mower, oh, how those actions are emotions too. He knew I was neglected and sometimes starved; that my fellow adopted brother and I ate bird seed from the shed. He knew, as it turned out the whole village knew, that we were mistreated. He was clever - he kept my adoptive mother onside. He took me off her hands, by allowing me to play in his garden whilst he sat on his step, reading the Oxford Mail. He let me put curlers in his hair and plaster him with make-up, he fed me Kia-Ora orange squash but forgot to add the water, he made doorstep ham sandwiches and tea so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. He never talked about what was happening, he kept me safe and helped me enjoy the bits of childhood that he could host in the caravan and the orchard.
At 15 years old I ran away, I knew I was not safe. It was the last time I was going to be abused and beaten. I had a little cash in my purse that I had earned from a Saturday job in a fruit and veg shop. I had had by head bashed against the kitchen sink, I had a boot in my face and I was kicked in the back as I slid down onto the floor. I packed a small bag and was gone, I walked to Oxford train station and got a train. I ended up in Portsmouth.
This photo was taken the day I arrived in Portsmouth, I was sitting on the beach wondering what to do, it was taken by an amateur photographer who sold garlic and onions from his bicycle. Years later he realised I was the girl in the picture and gave it to me, he said I looked lost. I explained to him that I was not lost - I had just found my freedom and was actually feeling safe and happy and excited by the challenge of life!
I made a life for myself, I’ve had an incredible life. It’s not always been easy. I have learnt that what most people perceive as a challenge I’ve not even noticed, I can endure and I am patient. I am a result of being a child in the care system, I am a result of what chaos and pain a war can cause and the ripples can keep going for years. My adoptive mum was not a bad person, despite what people think. I ended up looking after her in her final years. I am so grateful that I did. I learnt her story and I feel nothing but admiration for what she tried to achieve but she was burdened with the chaos and hardship passed on from the generations before her.
She like my birth mother was sexually exploited a child. Her father sold her to local men for beer money, he was an alcoholic and it was wartime. Her mother was also a drinker of gin and tried to eliminate her unborns with gin and falls. Knowing what we know now, I would say that my adoptive mother suffered from Foetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder FASD; she struggled all her life. She and her family ended up in a workhouse where she was once more abused. She became pregnant by 12 years old and gave birth in the outside lav. The doctor who was called to help punished her by sewing her tears too tight. Her baby became her brother and she was sent to a convent to train to become a children’s nanny, which must have been quite traumatic. War time lasts a long time after the fighting ends.
She did many terrible things but the one thing she did for me that I will always be grateful for, was to provide me with art materials, mainly to keep me quiet. I make art nearly every day, it became my thing, the thing I could define myself by - other than "that child from the troubled family." I found myself through art, I came alive, I woke up to becoming a creative thinker. The first recognition of my talent came from my displaying an alternative version to the class brief of creating a family tree. My reward was a trip to the Tate Gallery - it changed my life forever, ‘Art is for Everyone’.
I dramatically failed school for reasons that were not my fault and I later became a university academic teaching art. Over ten years ago, I left that world to write and paint. I have written 13 books and continue to write more. My husband, children and I became a fostering family, we look after children who for whatever reason cannot live with their families.
I recently set up Spark.Sisterhood.org; a charity for girls in care and leaving care. It isn’t just about care or charity, it’s about society. It’s about growth and the economy and championing those who aren’t getting a fair chance. Sending young women out of care without adequate skills (and I include confidence in that) is to perpetuate a cycle of under-achievement and state reliance that drains our economy and deprives society of positive contributions. And being women, it’s sadly a high likelihood that yet another generation will then be condemned to a similar fate. Unless and until society rebalances child rearing to both genders, women will still bear the burden and therefore be the dominant influence on a new-born’s start in life. Young women need to be financially independent, they need to know how to manage their finances and they must feel that they can see a financially stable and secure future. It’s all I ever wanted and it’s what I have achieved, but to help girls earlier and to save our nation's economy millions is exciting.
We partner with large corporate organisations who care about social impact. We offer a service for these companies to make savings and profit whilst they help girls and young women at Spark Sisterhood learn life and employment skills through our program and these girls can go on to become apprentices within their companies.
My next book is called Slave Girls, highlighting the exploitation of girls in care and leaving care and how this can be stopped.
www.sparksisterhood.org
