Life at Grafton Close Children’s Home: A Journey of Survival and Rebellion

Arriving at Grafton Close Children’s Home

When I think back to the day I arrived at Grafton Close Children’s Home, a wave of mixed emotions washes over me. My social worker had driven me there from my family home, and as we pulled up to the entrance, I couldn’t help but feel a lump forming in my throat. Life had already been alienating due to the existing abuse I had endured, and now I was faced with the reality of starting a new chapter in this unfamiliar place.

A Temporary Room and Concerns

As I was handed over to the staff, I was shown to my temporary room. It was a large room located at the back corner of the home, furnished with three single beds and a large brown wardrobe. The first thought that crossed my mind was whether or not I would have to share this space with others. The uncertainty of the situation weighed heavily on me.

I remained in this room for at least a week, enduring the daily routine of cycling to school and the less-than-appetizing breakfast of Alpen, those small sachets that I grew to dislike. But I had no choice but to endure it all. Survival became my primary focus.

A New Room, New Challenges

Finally, I was given a new room at the other end of the corridor, the last one on the right. I thought that perhaps this change of location would bring some sense of safety, shielding me from the outside perils that had plagued my life. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

My time at Grafton Close Children’s Home was filled with distractions and occasional rebellious acts. The pocket money we received on weekends allowed us to go to the local shops, where I would often buy cigarettes or slim panetella cigars. I would then defiantly smoke them in the TV room, in front of staff members who seemed indifferent to our actions.

In my upcoming blogs, I will delve deeper into the darker side of my experience at Grafton Close Children’s Home in 1984. Stay tuned for more stories and reflections.