Orphans

If you are still in a girl’s children home at fifteen you will have had a hard life. Sexual abuse, normally by a stepfather or step brother at an early age, gets you taken into to care. Several failed placements with foster families after further abuse, hardens your sense of rejection by society, and causes you to kick back, verbally, physically and of course sexually, making you unplaceable. Wives take one look and think of their husbands and sons, social workers take one look at male dominated families and see the lust in their eyes.

So you end up in a long term care home, with only a life on the streets to look forward to when you are kicked out at sixteen. A care home like Rosebank.

Of the twenty girls resident at Rosebank, Annabelle, Kelly and Chelsea were the lookers, so they formed their own clique. At fifteen they could easily pass for anything from thirteen to twenty. Those weren’t their real names of course, they had lifted them from St Trinians. Even dumped in one of societies scrap heaps, you have your dreams.

Chelsea was facing another period of detention after a brief but vigorous fight with another girl at the home. There was blood and casualty for the other girl, and blame and retribution for Chelsea. An idealistic head of social services thought service rather than punishment was a better way to deal with such incidents, which is how Chelsea came to have an old man’s hand up her thigh as she was feeding him soup in his wheelchair.

Community Service involved helping Meals on Wheels, now of course the ‘Meals at Home’ service. It was not just delivery, but in some cases help feed the more severely disabled recipients. Mr Hornsby was one. Confined to a wheelchair, he was dressed in the morning by a nursing assistant, fed at lunchtime and put to bed in the evening. They said he would be better in a care home, but they didn’t know about his hobby of watching films on the internet, the social worker did.

“Leave off” Chelsea demanded. She was straddling one leg, holding a bowl of soup in one hand and the spoon in the other. He left his hand on her thigh a bit too long before removing it, perhaps the very short skirt had been a mistake. She stood up and angrily put the bowl down.

“Pass me that wallet” he says. She glared at him, ‘how could she turn this’ she wondered.

“Come on, pass me the wallet, you will like what you see.”

She reached over to the side table where he kept the TV remote, his very expensive phone and an old leather wallet. He stared at her large breasts as she did, a small but very valiant little button doing its duty, just about holding everything in.

He takes out a brand new ten pound note. “Here, this is yours if you let me do it to you.” She is still angry, but she looks at the tenner and she doesn’t say no.

“Big girl like you must have done it before.” Well that was true. “And I’ll do it up your poo hole, won’t get up the duff and no mess that way. A couple of minutes for a tenner. Easiest money you will ever earn girl.”

She crosses her rubicon. “What shall I do?”

“Lock the door so that nosy meals bitch can’t rush in, get that tube of KY from my bedside table, Now pull my trackies down and give the old man a bit of a tug.” She does.

“Right turn round, take your panties off and bend over then sit on me in the chair.” She does. After a couple of minutes he lets out a grunt and pushes her off.

“Pull me trackies up.” She does.

“Not so bad was it? Here’s your money.” She tucks it in her bra. “Anytime you want some more you know where I am, call this number.” He scribbles it down on a pad. “Now some more soup.”

She finishes feeding him, has packed up the plastic crate and is on her way out to the van when he says “Oh, if you have any friends at that place who would like to earn a bit on the side, I’ve several mates round about happy to give them one anytime. Just call me.”

“So what do you think?”

“It wasn’t so bad if you could get over the smell. He never washes, they tried to give him a bed bath but the care worker said he got a stiffy and spurted it all over the place.”

“No I mean how many mates has he got?” asks Kelly.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well if there are lots, I mean we can do more than one a day. I reckon, with travel, three in an afternoon, twice a week, that’s sixty quid a week.”

Annabelle rubs her chin “Why twice a week?”

“Well you need time for your arse to tighten up, do it every day and it’ll be like the Dartford tunnel, and who’s going to pay for that.”

Chelsea sits up on one elbow and looks at her friend. “So that’s a yes then?”

“We’ve got a new boss though, some bloke’s bought this place. Make a difference do you think?”

“Nah, we can handle him.”