CHAPTER 33
That was going to take some planning, but we had time, and the Hairy Stotty was calling, a rally far more to my taste than the Midgesummer had been. We made our way down there with the van’s windows wide open so as to catch a cooling breeze, which didn’t work too well, and on arrival found that the ground was baked absolutely solid. That lasted right up to the Saturday evening, when the weather broke.

Typically for the UK, the government had only just appointed a minister for drought when a new version of Noah’s weather arrived. Thankfully, the site was well-drained as well as sloping, with the gate on the uphill side, but it still took a little bit of local help to muscle van and trailer out onto the tarmac on the Sunday.

It didn’t stop raining for what felt like a year, and Mam and Dad did their best to find slots at the semi-permanent markets where there was shelter in place. At least four rallies we had planned for were cancelled due to flooding, but we stuck it out until mid-October before giving up and scuttling back to Cannock. It was a very, very odd year. I didn’t really care, to be honest, because my birthday was fast approaching, and I was terrified. I buried the fear as best I could, working local markets and events from the house rather than the tent, but that worry was still sitting at the foot of my bed each night. I knew, in that tiny bit of my mind that could play at being rational, that I would be safe, that Mam and Dad would be too, but I kept hearing the words of the famous board game: do not pass Go, do not collect £200, go directly to Charlie Cooper…

The news helped a little in settling those fears, as more and more details emerged about the Carlisle Hellhole, and what was left of the guilty were sent down for life. Steven Elliott, the main survivor, even got a book deal out of it, which left me slack-jawed at what was either extreme courage or incredible insensitivity. Either way, it was one book I left well alone.

Christmas came and went in happy style, Carol excelling once more in delivering an ‘alternative’ set of meals, Peter getting cold feet again in a winter-dead lake, and eventually the rain left us in peace to settle our stomachs and turn off the rubbish on the TV. My birthday was due in three months, and I didn’t really want to spend my worrying time watching some old James Bond film, never mind ‘Quo bloody Vadis’ or that utterly silly film ‘The Greatest Story Ever Told’.

I am absolutely certain Dad insisted we watch that one so that he could make us all wince at his dreadful John Wayne impression at the end. Fine, great, but why not just watch the last five minutes? Never mind, it was finally over, and then Spring began knocking for attention. I understood why we used the Cannock house, but it always felt like a forced interruption to our real lives, and once the weather perked up, we would be released.

The only real advantage the house gave, in my eyes, was the stereo, where Mam and I would spend hours working through the family collection, as well as playing new stuff we discovered by chance or word of mouth. New Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull, a very odd man called Alex Harvey, all joined our stack of twelve-inch LPs, and we spent hours, Mam and myself, sitting together on the settee in darkness, just bathing in the sounds they made.

It reminded me in so many ways of those times spent lying in the marram dunes at Druridge Bay, listening to the sand grains overtaking each other in the constant breeze.

Happy times indeed.

Finally, we were free again, van and trailer loaded and hitched, and with a wave to Peter and Carol we were back on the road. Mid-week markets, that new version called a ‘car boot fair’, a couple of early folk events (strange people!), and steadily south-eastwards before turning back along the coast, all of it now so, so familiar.

My birthday arrived as we worked near Dorchester, and over breakfast, Dad handed me a brown foolscap envelope.

“We asked Carol to get this printed off for us all, Deb, but there’s two options. No pressure, duck, but you choose the one you want. Mam and me, well, we have our thoughts on it, but there’s reasons and implications and shit for what we think makes sense. Have a look”

The envelope wasn’t sealed, and it held two copies of an official-looking document called a Statutory Declaration, in which I swore and attested that I was dumping one name and forever using a new one. The old name was obviously William Wells, but it was the new one that left me trembling.

Two versions, two options, those were Dad’s words, and they were choices for my new and official name.

Deborah Petrie versus Deborah Petrie Wells. I held the sheets side by side for a couple of minutes, until I realised how badly my hands were shaking. Mam took them from me before they each took one of my hands.

“Dad and me think it makes sense to keep your old surname, love. It will make sorting your records out a little bit easier, and we think that’s going to be needed. The Man can be a real tosspot with things he doesn’t and can’t ever grok, so it’s one less problem for his prejudices to try and cope with”

“How do we do this? What’s it cost?”

“Fiver, that’s all. We see a solicitor, they witness it, and it’s a set fee. One other thing, love”

“Yeah?”

“We do it in Wales. We think it might be easier tying up your local records that way”

I sat for a while, stroking my little leather patch, the one that had declared my name to the world for the last few years, while I worked through their logic, finding no fault. It had to be Wells, which hurt, even though I understood the need. In the end, I couldn’t find any words, just tears, so I pointed at the one we needed, felling as if I was betraying the two of them.

The solicitor was someone whose office we spotted near the market we worked in Newport, their confusion withering under Mam’s glare, eased in the end by a five pound note. Two days later, we set up in Cardiff, which brought the real struggle.

“Can I help you? Gaf I eich helpio chi?”

Dad’s smile was brighter than real.

“I hope so. We have this young lady whose records need updating. They got messed up about seven years ago, and she seems to have been listed as a missing person all that time”

The receptionist looked confused, asking us to take a seat while she made a number of calls. First, though, she asked for my details, and after handing over a certified copy of the ‘Stat Dec’, I told her my birthday as well as my old address up north. We sat for over an hour, until I spotted three people approaching, two of them uniformed coppers. Dad was straight to his feet.

“Why police? Tell us now, or we leave”

One of the coppers, a man, bristled at Dad’s challenge, but the other, a woman sergeant, held up a hand to shush him.

“Child absconder from a children’s home, Mister…?”

“Petrie. Not a child, though, is she, duck? Eighteen, and an adult, so you tell me why you are here, or we leave”

“Sergeant Harris, Mr Petrie, and this is PC Wynsor. This gentleman is Mr Bennett from the General Registry Office. Could we at least talk this through, no arrests, no silliness? We have a private room available”

Mam sniffed.

“Down your nick?”

“No, Mrs Petrie. Just over here. You can sit by the door, if that would feel better, less cop-shop sort of thing?”

Mam nodded, turning to Dad.

“Need to get this sorted, love. What we came in for, yeah?”

The sergeant smiled, calling to her PC.

“Any chance of grabbing some brews for us all, Tim? Tea do everyone?”

Two minutes later, we were all seated on plastic chairs around a scratched Formica table, Bennett shuffling papers until Wynsor returned with a tray of tea, obviously from a canteen. Sergeant Harris smiled at us all before opening proceedings,

“William Wells, then, from Flintshire. Absconded from Mersey View children’s home in Runcorn after being their three years, and never seen since. Are we talking about the same person, because he appears to have changed rather a lot?”

I nodded.

“I was Billy Wells. I am now Debbie Wells. All legal-like, as you can see from that declaration. Is that a problem? And I am now eighteen. No crimes against me, not in either name, so nothing to detain me for, and most certainly not in some fucking kiddy-fiddlers’ place”

Mam put her hand to my arm.

“Softly, love. They know all that. You do know all that, don’t you, Sergeant? What went on there? Just like that place in Carlisle?”

The PC shuddered, eyes looking at the table for a few seconds, while Mam continued.

“Debbie didn’t ‘abscond’, love, Sergeant, she bloody well escaped, and she had to deal with what had been done to her in your ‘care home’. She is safe, now, has been safe for years, and she does NOT want to dig into old wounds. So can we get on with straightening out her records, social security, National Insurance, all of that shit, so that she can get on with her life?”

Dad spoke softly, but there was venom in his words.

“You and yours did sod-all to protect her when she was a little kid, so how about we all try and do something to make up for that, right here and now?”

Bennett spoke for the first time.

“John and Marie Parsons, am I right? Hired paedophiles as care assistants and used their inmates as pieceworkers? Slavery? Miss Wells, I do believe there are a number of things I can sort out for you. Some will take time, but I promise to do my best. Anita?”

The Sergeant nodded at him.

“No, Mr Petrie, there is nothing we could possibly do to make up for that. I will ask a favour, though, from Debbie, if I may?”

I nodded.

“Go ahead”

“The men, Debbie. The men who abused you. Any idea where they went?”

“Yes, but no, I am not getting involved, before you ask. One of them is dead and the other is banged away for life”

The policeman winced once more.

“Please tell me they didn’t end up in Carlisle”

I just nodded, and he swore under his breath.

“We done here, Sarge?”

“We are, Tim. Thank you all for your help. You were one brave child, Debbie. We’ll leave you with Mr Bennett here”

They left immediately, and Bennett smiled once more.

“Could I possibly take a correspondence address?”