Chapter 1: Plain Jane

If there’s one thing I’ve learned after my 82 years on this earth so far, it’s that you can’t take everything at face value. Not everything is as black and white as our brains try to make it. Our eyes have a color filter for a reason. It’s important we train our brains to use it.

This story starts 68 years ago when I was just plain old Jane.

Mrs Platt never failed to remind me how worthless I was. Though that didn’t make me feel as bad as you might imagine. All 12 girls at Platt’s Waywood House for Homeless girls were worthless, unwanted, naughty, or whatever type of evil Mrs Platt could think of at that moment. We all heard her but never listened. We had each other and that’s all we needed. It’s all we were given.

Mrs Platt may have owned the establishment but she certainly wasn’t a mother figure, though she did a wonderful job of telling us how we came to be here.

Many were left at the doorstep, including myself. Our real mothers never to return again. Here there was no obligation to go through an official registration process. That made it easy for mothers to leave their unwanted children behind. The world was in the middle of a war when I was born. Raising a child alone while husbands were fighting to save our country, was the last thing any young mother wanted. An open doorstep was a welcome place for young mothers to leave their babies.

The routine for every newcomer was the same. Come inside, get a bath, be given a clean dress and quickly learn to behave accordingly. Mrs Platt always said that we were privileged to have a roof over our heads and that deserved respect.

That’s also the last time we saw Mrs Platt. Except if you were somewhere you shouldn’t be and accidentally ran into her. Then you knew what was coming. Ten strikes of the whip and repeat the words that Mrs Platt drummed into us.

‘Children should be seen, not heard. I’ve a roof over my head and that’s all I’m worth. I am privileged to be a Waywood girl’.

In case you thought Mrs Platt was harsh enough, I should mention our school teacher Miss Davis. She shared many of Mrs Platt’s values. There was no time or even no attempt to play games if you were in her class room. Sewing is what she taught and sewing is what we learned. One step out of line and you’d feel the consiquences. There were more than enough sewing needles poked in our fingers when we didn’t listen.

Mrs Waynwright was more like a mother. She fed us, taught us how to care for ourselves and shared tales about the world outside of Waywood House. It felt like she was telling fairytales. People who lived in elaborately decorated houses and didn’t have to lift a finger, not even to dress as they had staff to do it all for them. She told of beautiful, well kept gardens full of colorful flowers and tall trees. Not to mention the fancy balls where young ladies in beautiful dresses would be introduced to society for the first time. She told with so much passion and detail that I would long to stay in bed so that I could dream about such things.

Alas, my dreams were repeatedly broken by the prick of a sharp sewing needle. You see, Miss Davis would over hear my enthusiasm as I quietly told my younger, best friend Jenny about Mrs Waynwright’s stories. One thing you should never do in Miss Davis’ class, is talk.

‘Plain ol’ Jane’ she would shout.

‘Not only must I continuously correct you for talking in my class room, I also need to remind you not to spread such lies. False hope will get you no where. You must sew. That is what plain Janes do’.