Here is an entry from my diary. I cleaned it up a bit and changed the tense:
I am eight years old and my grandmother and I are in Jamestown. We have taken firewood, vegetables and flowers to sell in Jamestown. I remember going to the post office with my Grandmother. She was so happy she had received a letter from her son Mitchel on Ascension Island, a letter from her son Joe in London and a letter from my mum. All of the letters had money enclosed and she was so happy.
After handing the wood to our customers and selling the vegetables and flowers we went to see her friend Mrs. Glanville. We always enjoyed our time with Mrs. Glanville.
When we got back to the donkeys my grandmother could not find her black shiny handbag, she was so upset because all of her money and letters were in the bag. I stood there hopelessly watching her in tears. The thought of reporting it to the police never occurred to her.
The landlord of the Whitehorse and Standard pub had a whip round collection and very kindly replaced the money. We said thank God as my grandmother owed Popa Harold Crowie’s shop money and also owed Mrs. Emily Williams shop money. We found out the culprits who stole the money, it was the family who lived near the run, need I say more.
My grandfather was always getting my grandmother to take me to the doctors. He wasn’t thinking about my well being, he kept having my grandmother to ask the doctor to put me away in the mental home in Half Tree Hallow. The doctor, Dr. Noakes snapped at my grandmother and said that he thought that it was my grandfather that should be in the mental home and not me. In other words grandfather wanted to have me sectioned and locked away with the mentally ill and other ill people.
My grandmother was concerned when the children’s home opened next to my school in Longwood. My grandfather had asked my social worker Mr. Ward to have put me in the childrens home. My grandmother pleaded with me to tell the social worker that we were happy anyway.
I would have run away as I like my freedom. The children from the children’s home look frightened and scared and have broken spirits. The manager at the home of the time was Rosie King. She believed in beating the children to make them behave. Although I was growing up with an abusive environment for years, I was still a free spirit to run around Deadwood Plains barefoot and fancy free.