Sue Martin - No Way Home: The terrifying story of life in a childrens home and a little girls struggle to survive

I wish to make it absolutely clear to readers that this is a story of what I suffered in what was then called 'Dr Barnardo's Homes' from 1944-1957. The perpetrators of the horrors I write about must be long dead and, with them, the sort of behaviour I experienced. That said, even though there were appalling Homes, there were also wonderful places run by caring, lovely people, dedicated to the welfare of the children in their charge. It was my misfortune to spend most of my time in the former and all too little time in the latter; just long enough to discover the positive experience that I was to miss out on.

Barnardo's, as it is now called, closed the last of its Homes over twenty years ago. I am glad to say that Barnardo's is, today, a very different organisation from the one I experienced all that time ago.

My very first memory is of me, a tiny girl, standing between the knees of a man. He was wearing thick dark trousers, which felt rough against my skin; so it wasn't an entirely comfortable place to be, but I do remember feeling blissfully safe and secure. We were in a kitchen; there was a black range, a door so laden with coats on hooks that they seemed to defy gravity, and in front of me was a window. In the middle of the room a woman worked at a table; my fascination centred on the drawer she occasionally opened. The open and shut movement changed the underside of the table completely, showing bits not previously visible.

Throughout a frequently sad childhood, I comforted myself with this treasured picture, yet for years I reflected on the reality of the scene. Was I really standing by my dad before he died? Was the woman my mother, who abandoned five of us to our fate in care so shamelessly soon after the early death of our father? Was it an enduring memory of a warm, happy family life or the dream of an imaginative little girl who wished so much that it was real? Placed in Dr Barnardo's Homes at two and a half years old, without even the comfort of a doll or teddy bear at bedtime, this picture had been mine to hold on to.

When I left the Homes in 1957, fourteen years later, I described this memory to my maternal grandmother; I even drew a sketch for her. She said that it was indeed my father. In her estimation, I must have been between 18 months and two years old, and everything I told her about this scene was exactly right. The range was lit only during the winter months; by the following summer my dad had died and we left that house. However sad the circumstances it was a thrill to know my memory had been a reality.

Our personality is largely formed in infancy and a little beyond, by the extremes we see and hear; the gloriously happy and the heartbreakingly sad. We remain unaffected by the mundane and the mediocre the everyday experiences. War-torn countries and disaster areas produce traumatised children because of these extremes; horrific events mean they cannot properly develop or control their emotions. With insufficient kindness to create a balance, these children struggle and flounder, their personal horrors lasting a lifetime.

My time in Barnardo's was deeply traumatic, most especially in my formative years. Lesbian paedophilia is rarely discussed; however, my personal experience of shocking assaults carried out by certain of the all-female care staff, accounts for its existence. Aside from this horrific exploitation of power, too many of the staff frequently resorted to wanton bullying and gratuitous punishment in their desire for controlled discipline. Although impossible to ignore, I tried hard to develop a strong mind and body to cope with this misery. I decided when very young to make it a battle; my survival instinct took over, the staff became my enemies; I would not allow myself to be beaten down. Once they realised that I would not play by their rules, they sank to even greater depths of degradation and humiliation. Sometimes this proved to be a challenge almost beyond my own endurance; so I struggled harder and tried to remain undaunted. Determined to beat them, and, when older, driven by the utter misery of some of the other children treated similarly, I used my natural physical and mental strength to my advantage; the rest was sheer guile. Although my childhood journey was fraught with fear and pain, I faced it with fortitude and hope. That hope and the strong determination never to give in that was the success of my childhood. No Way Home is my account of that journey.