Читать книгу Please Don’t Make Me Go: How One Boy’s Courage Overcame A Brutal Childhood - John Fenton - Страница 10

Chapter 5

I remember very little about the journey. I know we travelled across London but I didn’t recognise any of the towns we went through. Bernie spent the entire journey regaling me with tales of his exploits with truancy officers. Our laughter must have been infectious as our two escorts – the driver and his mate – smiled on more than one occasion. We could see them through the grille that separated us from the front of the van.

‘OK, lads. Quiet down.’ The driver was putting on his peaked cap. ‘We’re here now.’

We both peered out to see where we were. The Black Maria van was reaching the top of a steep incline. On the right-hand side of the road was a field that was fenced off with mesh wiring. The fence was about ten feet in height with a string of barbed wire draped above it. Bernie raised his eyebrows.

‘Do you think they don’t want us to get out?’

I smiled weakly. I was more interested in the gateway the van was turning into. Two large black wrought-iron gates halted our progress. The gates were attached to two red-brick pillars and stretched across the top of the pillars was an arched, black, wrought-iron sign with the words ‘St Vincent’s’ standing out boldly on a fancy beaded surround. The driver got out and rang an electric bell on the right-hand pillar. It was only a short while before a black-robed figure appeared on the other side of the gates and proceeded to unlock them with an ornate black key.

He seemed to work at a laboriously slow rate. Every movement was precise. When at last the gates were open he stepped slowly backwards, leaving just enough room for the van to enter. As it manoeuvred past, I could just discern a white face peering in at us from beneath the black hood. Bernie had also been looking at the man and I was surprised to notice that fear blanched his face.

St Vincent’s came into view. It was monastic in appearance, with a small square bell tower situated in the centre of a grey slated and slanted roof. The walls were of red brick and punctuated with two rows of white, arched windows. In the centre of the bottom row of windows was a large stone arch above two large oak doors. The building was surrounded by a well-maintained garden and some early daffodils gave it an appearance of serenity. There was a big, gnarled oak tree in the centre of the front lawn, with clumps of daffodils around its roots, and large rose bushes were dotted around.

The van pulled up outside the oak doors. We waited patiently until the robed man came walking slowly up the gravelled path. He reached inside his cassock, produced another key and opened the right-hand door. He beckoned us forward with just a slight nod of his hooded head and disappeared inside. My escort held tightly onto my arm as we entered the building, as if he expected me to run at any moment.

The door opened into a large hallway. The floor had black and white ceramic tiles that struck me as looking like a chessboard; they were so highly polished that, looking down, I could see myself clearly. A tall statue of the Sacred Heart stood on a wooden plinth by the right-hand wall and opposite it, also on a wooden plinth, stood a statue of a saintly looking monk.

It has to be St Vincent, I thought. My eyes wandered over to a large framed print of the current Pope that was displayed proudly in the centre of the right-hand wall. Hanging five feet from the floor on the far wall was a large wooden crucifix.

‘It’s like being in bleeding church,’ Bernie whispered. I nodded my head in agreement and smiled at the irreverence of the remark.

We were ushered through a door to the right of the Sacred Heart statue. Hanging from the wood-panelled walls were numerous pictures of saints and one very large one of the Blessed Virgin behind a desk. Seated behind the desk was a monk, about forty years old and with the most penetrating stare I had ever seen. His hair was jet-black and heavily greased with Brylcreem. His nose was long and straight and there was a profusion of black, stubbly hairs sprouting from both nostrils. His lips were thin and cruel-looking and there was a blueish tinge around his chin and under his nose from where he shaved. His eyes were constantly switching from me to Bernie as if he were inwardly appraising us both. He turned his attention to our escorts.

‘Did they give you any trouble?’

I hated the way the monk spoke, his voice at least an octave above a normal man’s voice. He had a strong Irish accent which seemed to come from down his nose and not out of his mouth.

He whinges, I thought. He doesn’t talk, he whinges. It’s not far off sounding like my old man.

‘No trouble at all.’ The driver patted me and Bernie lightly on our heads. ‘A couple of nice lads.’

The monk’s mouth twisted into a cold smile. ‘Brother Francis will take you to the kitchen and get you a nice cup of tea before you head back,’ he said to the escorts. His eyes switched to the hooded monk standing quietly just inside the door. ‘Brother Francis, if you would be so kind.’

Brother Francis and the two escorts left the room, quietly closing the door behind them. Bernie and I stood in front of the desk being reappraised by the monk’s penetrating stare. Eventually, he diverted his eyes to the paperwork the driver had handed him. Slowly and methodically he worked his way from sheet to sheet until at last he gathered them all together and placed them in a neat pile. He turned to Bernie and me and seemed to stare at us interminably, though it may only have been a few seconds. I was relieved when at last he started to speak.

‘Which one of you is Connors?’ he asked. ‘Who’s the one with the itchy feet?’

‘I am, sir.’ Bernie was hardly audible.

‘Well, Connors, don’t try any of your disappearing tricks here. We won’t put up with any of your nonsense.’

He was now staring at me. ‘Unruly behaviour! We will soon get that out of your system. If you open your mouth out of turn here you’ll be in big trouble.’ His voice seemed to go up yet another octave. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

I nodded. I had lost the power of speech.

‘I will now tell you the rules of the school, so listen carefully, I will not repeat myself.’ He closed his eyes as if he were meditating. ‘I am Brother De Montfort and the headmaster of this school.’ He opened his eyes. ‘We have rules in this school that have to be obeyed. Any breach of the rules and you will be disciplined. I will not hesitate to cane you if you deserve it. You have been sent here because you are not fit to live with ordinary people. You are shit and nothing but shit. Forget about your parents for the next three years. You have no parents – no brothers and sisters – you have nothing but this school. Do you understand that?’ De Montfort stood up menacingly, and leant over the desk until his eyes were only inches from our faces. ‘Do you understand that?’

We both nodded our heads violently. Our fear was evident and De Montfort eased himself back into his seat.

‘You will attend Mass daily at seven o’clock in the morning. On Friday and Sunday you will take Communion. Confessions are heard on Thursday evening and you will attend Benediction every Sunday afternoon. If you are bright enough, which I doubt, you will get the chance to learn to serve Mass with the priest.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘If you had had God in your life before, you wouldn’t be here now. A child brought up in a house that loves Jesus is a good child. I hope and pray that by the time you leave my school, Jesus and the Blessed Virgin will be an integral part of your lives.’ I noticed how he bowed his head reverently as he said the name Jesus. ‘You will address all of the Brothers by their full title and all of the civilian staff as Mister. It is common practice to refer to the Brothers as Bro and I am quite happy for this term to be used as long as it is used with respect.’ He stood up and faced the picture of the Blessed Virgin and blessed himself with the Sign of the Cross. He turned to face us again.

‘Every boy is awarded 18 points at the start of the week. Each point is worth one penny. This means that every boy will be given one shilling and sixpence every week providing he has had no points deducted. If you are caught smoking it will cost you four points. If you are heard swearing it will cost you four points. If you decide to fight it will cost you 10 points and you will have to come and see me. At the end of the week I will inspect all of the masters’ notebooks and deduct points from any boys who have been booked. Do you understand that?’

Once again we nodded.

‘If a boy has a total of 18 points left at the end of the week this will be referred to as a very good week. If he has between 12 and 15 points left it will be referred to as a good week. If he has between seven and eleven points left it will be referred to as a satisfactory week. If he has between nought and six points this will be referred to as a blue-poor week. Anything below nought is a red-poor week. Do you understand that?’ De Montfort was looking at us and nodding his head. ‘Is it perfectly clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ we both answered in unison.

‘I’ll continue then. All the boys that achieve either good or very good in a week will be allowed to go to the cinema on Saturday afternoon. Nobody else goes. If you get a blue-poor week, this will mean the loss of a quarter of a day’s holiday off your annual leave. You only get 21 days, 14 days in the summer and seven days at Christmas, so every quarter of a day means a lot. We understand that a boy may slip up occasionally, so we allow a very good week to cancel out a blue-poor week. Nothing can redeem a red-poor week. That quarter of a day’s holiday is lost for good.’ He slowly adjusted his cassock and looked down at his shoes. ‘Is everything I have just told you perfectly clear?’ He looked up as Brother Francis returned quietly to the room.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good, so let’s go on. After you have been here three months, and providing your points are good enough, you will be allowed to go home on the first Sunday of the following month. You leave the school at nine o’clock in the morning and return by seven o’clock in the evening. If you are late back, you will never have this privilege again.’ He reached into a drawer in his desk and took out a book. He flicked through the pages until he found the one he wanted. ‘Fenton – you will be in the bricklaying department. Connors – you’ll be in carpentry.’ He closed the book. ‘Have you any questions?’

‘What class am I in, sir? You never told us.’ I felt my legs quaking under me but managed to sound calm as I asked the question.

De Montfort looked at Brother Francis and smiled. ‘I think Fenton believes he’s a scholar, Brother. What do you think?’

Brother Francis reached up and pushed back the hood that had masked his face so that it now rested neatly on his shoulders. He had the squashed nose of a boxer and I guessed he was around fifty years old. ‘Maybe he thinks he’s too good for bricklaying, Brother. Maybe we should change the curriculum so that he can sit in a classroom all day and pretend he can read.’ The sarcasm in his Irish brogue was evident to all in the room. ‘Maybe he should run the school.’

Both brothers laughed. De Montfort regarded me disapprovingly. ‘All of the boys attend class on a Tuesday morning. The rest of the week you will be taught a trade.’ He walked around the desk and stood staring down at me imperiously.

‘The average IQ of the boys in this school is 95. None of them, including you, has any academic capabilities. The Government has decreed that boys with such low levels of intelligence should be taught a trade. Is that all right with you? Are you going to question the Government as well?’

‘No, sir.’

De Montfort was silent for a moment, evidently deciding what to say next. He nodded his head slowly. ‘I think that covers everything,’ he said, still peering down at me. ‘You may take them away now, Brother Francis. I will tell Matron that you’ll bring them to her shortly.’ He was about to turn away when he decided to have a last few words. ‘Don’t forget, Fenton. I will not tolerate any insubordination.’

As we were led from the room, I thought to myself: I hope he’s dead before Christmas.

As he led us through the corridors to the uniform room, Brother Francis told us a little about the history of St Vincent’s. The school had been founded by Brother Augustine in 1878. Because of its success the government had awarded the Brothers the running of another five schools. The school was proud of its achievements in rehabilitating wayward boys back into society and teaching them a worthwhile trade that would help them make a living. The school’s sporting achievements were second to none. They expected their boys to win any tournaments they were entered into and they especially prided themselves on their boxing and football teams. Failure was not an option. Brother Francis told us that he was the boxing coach and boasted that he had three boys competing in the junior ABA semi-finals in two weeks’ time.

‘Once you’re settled in, I will give you the chance to join the team,’ he said. ‘You’re never too young to learn.’

‘How many boys are here?’ Bernie asked.

Like the strike of a cobra, Brother Francis slapped him hard on his left cheek. ‘How many boys are here, Brother Francis?’ He stood menacingly in front of Bernie. ‘Don’t forget the “Brother”.’

‘Sorry, Brother Francis.’ Bernie was close to tears and his left cheek showed the imprint of the slap.

I reached out and touched him lightly on the shoulder in a token gesture of comfort. He was my friend and he was hurting. Brother Francis was staring at me. His satisfied expression was similar to the one my father had after he hit my mother. Something in my look must have upset him because he suddenly attacked me with the ferocity of a rabid dog. The blows were fast and numerous and I cowered against a wall trying to protect myself, utterly stunned at what was happening to me. He was a monk, a religious man. Was he allowed to beat me like this? He was punching me as if in a boxing match, but without the gloves. When at last the beating stopped, Brother Francis was out of breath and noisily gasped in lungful after lungful of precious air.

I leaned against the wall and gingerly felt the growing lump on my forehead caused by his bony knuckle. I kept my eyes focused on the floor.

I hope you’re dead by Christmas. You ugly fucker. I hope your entire family die screaming. These thoughts comforted me and when I lifted my head I made sure there wasn’t a glimmer of emotion in my eyes.

‘You’ll get more of the same if you ever dare look at me like that again. Do you understand?’ Brother Francis was staring at me, waiting for a reply. He shouted loudly, ‘Do you understand?’

I nodded reluctantly. His hand lashed out and slapped me hard on my right cheek. ‘Answer me when I speak to you. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes, Brother Francis.’ My voice was barely audible.

Another slap landed on my cheek. ‘Speak up. I want to hear what you say.’

‘Yes, Brother Francis,’ I said more loudly.

Brother Francis stood staring at me for several seconds. I think he was trying to interpret the tone in my voice. Was it said with defiance? It certainly wasn’t submissive. He couldn’t be certain, but I knew he didn’t like it. I’m sure he would have liked to slap me again but the sight of the bruising he had already inflicted on my cheek probably stopped him.

‘No more speaking. No more questions. Just follow me.’ He spun on his heel and walked swiftly onwards.

We followed Brother Francis to the uniform room in complete silence. Bernie kept glancing in my direction. It was obvious that he had been surprised at the onslaught on me and amazed at my reaction. I had shown no fear, keeping my expression blank. This was a new side to my character that Bernie had never imagined. I was hardened to beatings, of course, from Dad’s violence at home and I’d learned not to fight back and not to show fear – just to take it. Bernie smiled at me quickly. Any worries he’d had about me surviving Vincent’s had gone. I knew I had impressed him with what he regarded as toughness. I occasionally touched the lump on my forehead, which seemed to be getting larger every time I touched it.

‘Take all your clothes off,’ Brother Francis ordered, glaring at us from within a walk-in cupboard. He watched impatiently as we scrabbled out of our clothes and quietly smirked in satisfaction at my discomfort as I pulled my shirt over my bruised forehead. ‘Put these on and be quick about it.’ He threw a selection of clothes on the floor in front of us.

In a very short time, both of us were kitted out in our new uniform. The clothes were not new but were in good condition and fitted us well. White underclothes, short grey trousers, grey shirt, maroon pullover, long grey socks and black hobnailed boots. We were also given a maroon blazer to be worn whenever we left the school premises.

‘You will be given overalls in your workshops. All of your sports equipment will be given to you when you need it.’ Brother Francis looked distastefully down at the clothes we had been wearing. ‘Those you will keep in your locker. Pick them up and follow me.’

Brother Francis opened a door opposite the uniform cupboard and led us through it. The size of the room we were led into took both of us by surprise. It was rectangular in shape, over 200 feet long and 30 feet wide. The left-hand wall had several doorways leading off it and I wondered where they went. The right-hand wall had windows along its entire length that were covered on the outside with a protective wire mesh. Glancing through the windows I could see what appeared to be a large concrete quadrangle, securely encased on three sides by school buildings and on the far side by some large wooden workshops. Between two of the workshops was an entrance that led onto a large sports field. I knew this as I could see some netted goalposts in the middle distance.

Turning my attention back to the room I saw that long wooden memorial benches lined every wall. The walls were all painted brick – the top half cream and the bottom half pine green. Two evenly spaced rows of pictures adorned all available space on the left-hand wall, showing football teams or boys standing in a classical boxing stance surrounded by trophies. I couldn’t make out the writing underneath and promised myself that I would look more closely at them when the opportunity arose. I wondered briefly if I would ever see my picture on the wall. I doubted it but thought how proud I would be if it ever happened.

‘In here.’ Brother Francis opened the last door on the left-hand wall. We entered a large square room filled with several rows of steel lockers. Each locker was six feet in height and divided in half by two doors. Each door had a number embossed on it and a name tag stuck on beneath. Brother Francis was scanning the names, searching his memory, looking towards the ceiling to seek guidance from above until at last he pulled open a locker door and peered inside. He gave a sigh of satisfaction when he saw it was empty. ‘This one is yours, Fenton.’

He checked the number on the door. ‘Your number is 71. Don’t forget it as that will be your number for everything you do for the next three years. Put your clothes in your locker and then wait outside the door.’

I stood outside the locker room and listened to the commotion coming from within. ‘Jesus Christ! Give me patience.’ Brother Francis was losing it again. His voice boomed out: ‘Jesus Christ! Where the hell is it?’

I heard a noise that sounded like a slap.

‘Get out of the way you little bastard.’ It sounded as though Bernie had been slapped again and I was tempted to go back in the room to help him but a shouted ‘At last!’ from Brother Francis meant that the trouble was over. When Bernie reappeared he had blood trickling from his nostril and tears in his eyes. I didn’t dare look at the monster in case I got another beating, but kept saying over and over again in my mind: I hope you’re dead by Christmas. I hope you’re dead by Christmas.

The journey to Matron’s office was made in complete silence. Bernie occasionally wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand. My eyes never left the back of Brother Francis. I was engrossed in praying for his early demise.

Matron was a tall, stout woman in her mid forties. Her hair was light brown and permed into tight curls. Her face was plump and not unattractive, though she had on far too much face powder, which gave her a very pallid complexion. Her lips were covered in the deepest red lipstick and there was a smear of red on one of her front teeth. She was dressed in a crisply starched white uniform and her more than ample bosom strained to break free from it.

‘I see you’ve been in the wars already,’ she said in a soft Irish voice as she looked at both of us in turn. She handed Bernie a ball of cotton wool. ‘Wipe your nose with that.’ She briefly inspected the lump on my forehead. ‘You’ll be OK. The skin’s not broken. Maybe you’ll both think twice about fighting next time.’ She naturally assumed we’d been fighting each other and we didn’t contradict her.

She went to an open cupboard and produced two toothbrushes, two bars of soap, two circular tins of Gibbs Dental Powder and two face flannels. She handed one of everything to each of us and smiled at Brother Francis. ‘I’ll put them down to see the doctor next week.’ She looked at a calendar that was hanging on the wall behind her desk. ‘He is due to visit next Tuesday.’

‘Say thank you to Matron,’ Brother Francis demanded.

‘Thank you, Matron,’ we said politely.

Bernie was straining to look down the front of Matron’s dress and catch a glimpse of her breasts. Matron saw what he was doing and immediately straightened up and adjusted the front of her dress.

‘That will do, Brother. You can take them into the school now.’ She dismissed us by sitting down at her desk and writing on some papers in front of her. I noticed that her cheeks had lost some of their pallor and there was just the slightest hint of pink showing through the powder. I had to stop myself smiling.

Brother Francis led us out of the room and down a small flight of stairs. He stopped in front of a plain wooden door and looked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s just after five o’clock. The boys will be getting ready for tea soon. You can go and join them.’

He produced a key from somewhere in his cassock and opened the door.