Читать книгу Please Don’t Make Me Go: How One Boy’s Courage Overcame A Brutal Childhood - John Fenton - Страница 7

Chapter 2

24 January 1958

I was led into a courtroom and made to stand in front of a purple-draped table, above which two fluorescent lights hung from a discoloured yellow ceiling. My foot tapped uncontrollably on the highly polished slats of the floor and my eyes flitted nervously round the room. There were policemen standing under every window and two especially burly ones guarding the entrance. I wondered why they thought such precautions were necessary when faced with a scrawny thirteen-year-old. What did they think I was going to do?

Behind me and slightly to the right sat my father, his cold blue eyes staring unblinkingly through gold-rimmed glasses. He was in deep conversation with a woman sitting next to him. I noticed how often she nodded her head sympathetically then glanced in my direction with a distaste that wrinkled her thin mouth into a crooked line of red lipstick that appeared to be underlining her bulbous nose.

‘Everybody rise.’

A man in a black pin-striped suit who had been sitting at a side table now stood up and looked around the room. Everyone stopped talking and rose to their feet.

A small anteroom door swung open and three people came in – one woman and two men. They walked purposefully to the draped table and, with the briefest glance at the assembled onlookers, sat in the three seats behind the table, the woman in the middle.

The men could have been twins they looked so alike. Both were wearing grey, pinstriped suits, white starch-collared shirts, military striped ties and black brogues. They both had slicked-back black hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. The woman was dressed extremely elegantly in a light-coloured tweed skirt and mohair sweater with a string of pearls round her neck. She had lovely twinkly grey eyes, and these calmed me a little. She seemed nice, I thought.

‘Case number 247 in respect of John Fenton. The charge is brought by his father, Dennis James Fenton, who states that his son is beyond parental control. You may all be seated.’

‘Mr Fenton,’ the nice woman said, ‘please come forward.’

I heard a movement behind me and then my father was standing beside me. I turned to look at him but he never glanced in my direction. He was looking straight ahead at the nice woman with an expression of self-pity on his face.

‘Mr Fenton, we have read the charge that you have brought against your son and would appreciate a little more enlightenment as to why you think he is beyond your control.’ The nice woman smiled at my father. ‘Take your time – we are in no hurry.’

My father coughed quietly to clear his throat. ‘Your Honour. His mother and I are at our wits’ end as to the boy’s behaviour. We’ve turned to you as a last resort.’ There was desperation in his voice. ‘Please help us.’

I turned to see if my father was crying, as this was said with such anguish.

‘He kicks and hits his sisters without any reason. He comes in late from school and never lets us know where he has been. He is rude to his mother and grandmother and seems to get a perverse delight in using wicked and vile language. If I try to give him any corporal punishment he turns violent and tries to attack me.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

‘Are you all right, Mr Fenton?’ the woman asked sympathetically. ‘Would you like a short recess?’

‘I’m sorry, Your Honour. I’ll be fine now. It’s so distressing.’ Again, the handkerchief came out and my father blew his nose loudly. ‘If only you knew what we’ve been through. He’ll send us to an early grave.’

I couldn’t believe my ears. I was supposed to be the violent one in the house? I was amazed at his tirade of lies.

‘I am sure we can help you, Mr Fenton. Try not to distress yourself.’ The woman sounded even more compassionate. ‘I have dealt with situations like this before and I have always found a solution.’

‘I do hope so.’ My father’s voice was now under control. ‘We want him to be a normal boy – play football, go swimming, work hard at school and be a success when he grows up. Did I tell you he smokes? Well, he does, and I’ve been called up to his school about it, and worse than that, he steals money and cigarettes from his mother’s handbag.’

I turned to look at him, but he wouldn’t catch my eye.

The three magistrates were regarding my father with sympathy. He seemed to be having difficulty controlling his emotions and sniffed loudly behind a large white handkerchief. With an exaggerated wiping of his eyes he put the handkerchief away in his jacket pocket.

‘Thank you, Mr Fenton. I know how hard it must have been for you and your wife to take this course of action and I will now do my very best to help you both.’ She smiled sweetly at my father. ‘Please return to your seat.’

‘Well, John, what have you got to say for yourself?’ The woman’s eyes were no longer twinkling; they had turned flinty grey. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘Explain what?’ I thought. I didn’t know what to say. My dad had just told her a giant pack of lies. Why wasn’t Mum there to tell her that I only attacked him when he was hitting her and making her cry? Why wasn’t she there to tell this court woman that I bought my own cigarettes from the wages I got doing a milk boy’s job every Saturday and Sunday? Why wasn’t she there to tell her that I didn’t come home early from school because I knew my dad got out of bed at that time and he was always angry with me? Why wasn’t she there to tell her that most nights she climbed into my bed crying after yet another violent row with my father and how I cuddled her to make it better?

‘I am waiting for your explanation.’ The woman glared at me.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I tried to mask the trembling in my voice, ‘and anyway it’s got nothing to do with you.’ I was too ashamed to tell her the truth about my home life.

As if one, the three people behind the table were gawping at me with incredulity. ‘It has nothing to do with me! I can’t believe what I have just heard.’ The woman virtually spat out the words. ‘I’ll show you what it has to do with me.’

They huddled together in a hushed conversation for a few minutes then she addressed me again. ‘It is quite clear’, she began, ‘that you have a total lack of respect for anything and everyone. You seem to be hell-bent on self-destruction and because of this we have to protect you and society from what you, no doubt, are becoming.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘Therefore, it is the ruling of this court that you be remanded in a secure young persons’ establishment for a period of two weeks while reports are obtained.’

The three people behind the table stood up. Without another glance in my direction, they returned through the small door from which they had appeared.

What was all that about? I didn’t have a clue what had just been decided. I turned around to go back to my father but found he was no longer beside me and was, in fact, walking towards the exit. I started to follow him but a strong hand on my arm halted my progress.

‘You’re with me, sonny Jim.’

I looked up at a burly police officer.

‘Don’t even think of trying to get away,’ he said. ‘Just come along with me.’

The officer led me out of the courtroom and down a corridor. His grip on my arm became tighter as he opened a glass-panelled door and led me through.

‘Take a seat,’ he said firmly, ‘and no noise.’ These words were spoken so forcibly that they sounded like a threat. I quickly sat down and stared at the floor, utterly terrified. I had never had any dealings with the police before and this man was scaring the shit out of me.

The police officer stationed himself in the corridor opposite the door and stood staring at me through the windows. I looked around the room. It was about twelve foot square with no windows. The walls were green and defaced in places by names scratched on them. The floor was covered in faded green linoleum that was cracking noticeably in one of the corners. The only furniture was an equally defaced wooden table and six black plastic chairs. I checked the chair I was sitting on and found it was black plastic as well.

It seemed an interminably long time before the door was opened again. The officer asked if I needed the toilet but the nervous urge I’d had in the courtroom had passed, so I declined. It was shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon when they came to fetch me. I knew the time as I had heard a clock chime somewhere in the building. The two men that came were not as fearsome-looking as the one outside the door but they were equally as forceful. They led me by my arms out of the building and into a blue van with bars across the side and back windows.

‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked, at last plucking up the courage to speak.

‘St Nicholas House, Enfield,’ was the terse reply from the driver. That was all that was said during the thirty-minute journey out of London and into Middlesex. I was overcome with fear and confusion and battling within myself not to cry. Why was this happening? What had I done to deserve this? Who was going to look after Mum? I badly wanted my Mum to come and get me, tell these men it was all a mistake, give me a big hug and take me back home again.