Читать книгу Please Don’t Make Me Go: How One Boy’s Courage Overcame A Brutal Childhood - John Fenton - Страница 8

Chapter 3

The van turned off the main highway and through a stone archway onto a long drive, which cut through some dense woods. After about five minutes of twisting and turning, a large Georgian manor house came into view. I was struck by how white it was and how big the windows were. I had never been in the country before and had certainly never seen such a magnificent building. If this was St Nicholas House, it didn’t look at all intimidating and I was looking forward to seeing the insides. My fear was dissipating and rapidly being replaced by excitement. I imagined that this must be how people felt when they went on holiday. I had never been on holiday and had always envied the rich children who went away to places like Southend and Margate that to me sounded exotic.

The van pulled up in front of two large wooden doors and I was led in through one. The interior of the building was even more inspiring than the exterior. The huge entrance hall had a floor of grey marble flagstones, which seemed to reflect all of the winter sunlight shining through the large windows. Everywhere I looked there were huge double doors with ornate brass doorknobs, or white walls with beautiful carved cornices. A wide marble staircase with a well-polished banister dominated the hallway.

The van driver knocked softly on one of the doors and opened it in the same motion. I was led into a large room whose grandeur was diminished by lots of modern office furniture. Several people were sitting behind desks and the clicking of typewriters reverberated. A suited man got up from his desk, came over to one of my escorts, and took the sheaf of papers he was holding out. His eyes briefly scanned the papers.

‘That’s fine,’ he said in a Geordie accent that sounded peculiar to me.

‘He’s all yours. See you later.’ My escorts let go of my arms and left without a backward glance. I heard the van engine start up again and the sound fading as it pulled away down the drive.

‘What size shoes do you wear?’

I turned to look at the suited man, who was eyeing me questioningly.

‘Six, sir,’ I said timidly.

The man went to a side cupboard and rummaged around for a few minutes. When he reappeared, his arms were piled high with items of clothing. He dropped them at my feet.

‘Pick them up and follow me.’

With great difficulty, I scooped them up from the floor and hurried after the man who was now climbing the staircase.

‘Get a move on boy,’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

I staggered under the precariously balanced pile and hurried to catch him up.

‘In here.’ The man opened a door halfway along the upstairs corridor. ‘Take all your own clothes off and put them in that basket.’

He gestured to a large wicker basket leaning against a side wall. The room was obviously meant for washing as there were two large sinks on the far wall and several on the floor. I had never seen washbasins on the floor before. As if the man had been reading my mind, he pointed to one of them.

‘Shower yourself and make sure you do your hair well. I will be checking for lice.’

Self-consciously, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the basin. It took me a few nervous minutes to figure out how this new-fangled contraption worked but at last I did and the lukewarm water felt good as it pelted down on my shivering body. The soap the man handed to me smelled the same as the one my mother used for scrubbing the front doorstep at home. After about five minutes of heavy soaping and scrubbing I was handed a threadbare white towel. I rubbed myself dry and dressed myself in the clothes the man had given me.

The clothes were far from being new but were definitely clean. They had a distinct odour of mothballs and I wrinkled my nose as I put them on. The vest and underpants were a greyish white and the shirt – which was too large – was blue and had a frayed collar. The brown corduroy short trousers were slightly tight but the matching tunic jacket fitted me well. To round everything off, I had grey ankle socks and a pair of well-worn-in brown sandals.

After briefly inspecting my hair and scalp, the man pointed at the wicker basket I’d put my clothes in.

‘Bring that and follow me,’ he ordered as he walked away. Virtually scampering, I followed him as we retraced our route back to the entrance hall. Pointing at the floor outside the office door he said, ‘Leave the basket there and come with me.’

This time the man opened one of the doors to the left of the staircase. I heard the voices of lots of young people coming from within and entered the room with trepidation.

‘One for you, Mr Jenkins,’ the man shouted across the noise.

A silver-haired man came over. ‘What’s your name, lad?’ he boomed out.

‘John Fenton, sir,’ I replied quietly.

‘Right, Fenton, go and meet the others and try not to make too much noise.’

There were about thirty boys in the room, their ages ranging from nine to sixteen years old. I was self-conscious about my appearance, but relieved to see that everyone was dressed in the same ill-fitting apparel as me. They paid me scant attention and just carried on with their various activities. Some were sitting talking, others were playing board games, and a few were standing by a table-tennis table watching two of the older boys having a game.

‘Where are you from?’ I turned to see where the voice had come from. A boy of about the same age as me was standing beside me. ‘I’m from Barnet.’

‘I’m from Ealing,’ I replied. ‘Where’s Barnet? I’ve never heard of it.’

The boy looked shocked at my ignorance. ‘Everyone’s heard of Barnet. Are you fucking stupid?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘If you’re so fucking clever,’ I emphasised the word fucking, ‘tell me where Ealing is.’

The boy laughed loudly. ‘That’s fucked me.’ He looked at me with a friendly expression. ‘My name’s Bernard. What’s yours?’

I smiled back. ‘John, John Fenton. What’s your last name?’

‘Connors.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘What are you in here for?’

‘I don’t know. My dad said he was taking me out for the day and I ended up in Juvenile Court. Next minute I was told I had to come here for reports. I haven’t a clue what they were talking about or what happened.’ I felt tears springing to my eyes and turned away so the boy wouldn’t see them and think me soft.

‘You’re lucky. They’re just going to do probation reports. You’ll be going home the next time you go to court.’ Bernard spoke with such assurance that I immediately felt better. Then he added, ‘I’ve had probation already – this time I’m going down.’

‘Going down where?’ I was in awe of the way Bernard spoke. ‘What have you done?’

‘Played truant. Nothing big, just truant.’ He laughed again. ‘The wankers were always round my house. My old lady would take me into school and I would leg it out the back gate. I hated the fucking place.’

‘So what happens to you now?’ My admiration for him was growing by the minute.

‘I reckon I’ll get three years’ approved school,’ he told me. ‘Quite likely I’ll go to St Vincent’s. I’m a Catholic. Yer, I’ll get Vincent’s.’

‘Let’s go and sit down.’ Bernard started towards an empty table. ‘I’ll put you wise as to what goes on here.’

I listened intently as my new friend outlined the daily procedure at St Nicholas’s. The routine was simple. Out of bed at 6.30 am. Wash and shower and then tidy the dormitory. Get dressed and go down for breakfast at 7.30 am. Between 8.30 and 10 am scrub and clean the interior of the house. After the morning house inspection it was off to help the gardener with weeding and cutting the lawns. At 1 pm lunch and at 1.30 until 2 pm recreation. Between 2 and 4 pm it was back to helping the gardener. All boys were required to bathe after work and to be inspected for cleanliness. Tea was at 5.30 pm and there was further recreation between 6 and 7.30 pm. We would then be given a watery cup of cocoa and a slice of bread and jam. Into bed by 8 pm and lights out at 9 pm.

All the boys smoked. It was strictly forbidden, but that made not the slightest difference and boys were always being caught having a crafty smoke in some shaded part of the building. The ‘Bosses’ – the name given by the boys to all who worked in ‘St Nick’s’ – tried their hardest to stamp it out, but always failed. I was amazed at the hiding places Bernard showed me to secure my cigarettes so they were not found in the frequent searches. They were taped underneath the table tennis table, or in the potting shed in the garden, or inside the chimneys. Visitors usually smuggled cigarettes in on a Sunday. One of the gardeners would also buy them for you if you had the money. The Bosses were fighting a losing battle and this alone made smoking worthwhile.

I followed Bernard around like an obedient lapdog. He made sure that I sat next to him in the dining room and he showed me how to get a steaming mug of tea out of the silver tea urn on the serving counter. He also advised me what were the best sandwiches to put on my plate and how to sneak food out of the dining room so that I could have a feast later in bed. The only thing he couldn’t do was arrange an exchange of dormitories so that I slept in the same one as him. He patted me on the back as I headed towards my room and said, ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

I walked into my dormitory and looked nervously around me. Bernard had been my support since I arrived, but now I was on my own again. There were eight beds in the room and I didn’t have a clue which one was mine. I looked at a boy who was sitting on the bed closest to the door and asked quietly, ‘Which is mine?’

He pointed to the other end of the room and said, ‘The one under the window.’

Even though all the boys were friendly, I felt ill at ease. I was embarrassed as I slipped out of my clothes and struggled into an ill-fitting pair of striped pyjamas. I had never exposed my body to other boys’ scrutiny and did my very best to hide my willy from their view. I dived into bed and pulled the bedclothes up tight under my chin then watched enviously as my room mates larked around and threw pillows and books at each other. I would have loved to join in but I didn’t have that sort of confidence, so I watched and laughed at their stupid antics from the confines of my bed. Mr Grey, one of the Bosses, soon appeared in the doorway and ordered everyone into their beds. He looked around the room to make sure everything was in order and turned off the light.

‘Goodnight boys and no more noise,’ he said as he closed the door behind him.

I think I half expected the riotous fun to continue and I was surprised when, apart from a few snickers, the room fell into silence. I lay quietly staring up at the ceiling and listening to the muffled sounds of the house settling down for the night. My mind was racing and I blessed my good fortune at having been sent to such a fun place. I closed my eyes and said my prayers and asked Jesus to watch over my mum. Momentarily I worried about her, but without warning the day’s events overtook me and I fell into an exhausted but happy sleep.

The first five days flew past for me. I had never had such a good time. Bernard taught me how to play table tennis, and although I was well and truly thrashed every time, I loved the game. Boys seemed to come and go and Bernard always knew what had happened at their court appearances. Trevor, a ten-year-old, had come back from court crying and was put into the infirmary for a few days. Bernard told me that he had been given three years in a junior approved school and the Bosses were keeping him in the infirmary so he couldn’t try to run away. ‘He’ll be OK,’ he said in his usual matter-of-fact voice. ‘He’s just got to get his head round it.’

I nodded as if I knew what Trevor was going through. ‘It wouldn’t bother me if they gave me ten years. I love the place.’

‘Then you’re fucking nuts,’ Bernard said harshly. ‘This may be a doddle of a place, but approved school’s a completely different ball game.’ He noisily cleared his throat and spat a big globule of phlegm between my feet. ‘It’s full of nasty bastards. They kick the shit out of you for nothing and, if you’re not careful, they’ll put it up your bum.’

‘How do you know that?’ I was staring down at the phlegm. ‘You’ve never been in one.’

‘Everyone knows what goes on in those places. Where have you been? Don’t you know anything about life?’ He seemed to be getting annoyed and I was shocked to see tears in his eyes.

‘I’m dreading it,’ he said, ‘and if you were facing it, you would be dreading it too.’

‘Then why did you play truant? You knew what might happen.’

‘Fuck off, John. You’re starting to piss me off.’ Bernard’s voice sounded menacing. ‘Don’t talk about something you know fuck all about.’

‘Sorry, Bernie. I didn’t mean to annoy you.’ It was the first time I had shortened Bernard’s name and it came out quite naturally. ‘Maybe you won’t get approved school.’

‘I wish,’ Bernie said quietly. ‘I just know in my heart that I’m going down.’

‘Maybe I’ll go down with you. I’m a Catholic and would go to the same one as you. That wouldn’t be so bad. Would it?’ I was trying desperately to reassure my friend.

Another globule of phlegm landed between my feet. ‘You’re getting probation. That’s for certain.’ He cleared his throat and sucked more phlegm into his mouth. ‘There’s no chance of you going down.’ This time the phlegm hit the wall by the side of me and slid down leaving a slimy green trail behind it.

‘I know you’ll think I’m stupid,’ I needed to ask the question, ‘but what exactly is probation?’

‘You really don’t know, do you?’ Bernie looked at me sympathetically. ‘It’s nothing really – a load of piss. I bet you everybody in here, apart from you, has had it. All you have to do is report to a probation officer once a week, usually after school, and listen to a load of bullshit. It only lasts for about half an hour. As long as you pretend you’ll do as he says, he’ll be happy.’

‘Is that all?’ I was amazed it was that easy. ‘You’re kidding me? Right?’

‘No. That’s all there is to it.’ Bernie lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘When your mum comes to visit, get her to get you an ounce of baccy – Golden Virginia – and a couple of packets of fag papers. It lasts longer than fags.’

‘If she’s got the money I know she’ll get them for me.’ I felt embarrassed. ‘But, she might not have the money.’ I had written to her every day since I’d been there but I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask her about the baccy because she might be upset if she couldn’t afford it.

‘It’s no big deal,’ Bernie seemed to understand. ‘I’ll get my dad to get plenty for both of us.’ He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘We’ll be OK.’

I had never felt such an overwhelming feeling of friendship – virtually love – as I felt for Bernie at that moment. I would do anything for him. I would repay his friendship tenfold. I felt ten feet tall as we sauntered over to the table-tennis table.

I awoke early on Sunday, excited because my mother was coming to visit that day. I wondered what time she would arrive and worried that she might not find the place. I was relieved when at last my name was called to report to the visitors’ hall. She hadn’t got lost, so I had been worrying over nothing.

I was led into the hall and hurried over to where Mum sat beside one of the large windows. I was disappointed to see that she was alone as I had hoped she would bring my sisters along so I could show off my new home.

She stood up and hugged me tightly. ‘Oh, my poor little darling. I’ve missed you so much.’ She started crying. ‘How are they treating you? Are you all right?’

I returned her hug and guided her back into her chair.

My mother was thirty-six years old but looked fifty. The unhappiness of her life had left indelible grooves scored deeply in her face. Her eyes had heavy bags under them and the thick lines around her mouth could never be mistaken for laughter lines. Her forehead had permanent wrinkles and her once-bright auburn hair was now streaked with grey. She had generously applied a cheap face powder in an unsuccessful attempt to hide a fading bruise on her cheekbone. Her clothes were shabby and her beige raincoat was at least one size too small. She had on a thick pair of stockings with a visible ladder running from her right shin to where it vanished under a scuffed pair of brown shoes.

She reached under the table and picked up a carrier bag which she handed to me. ‘I’ve brought you a few little treats.’

I opened the bag and looked inside. There were three apples and two comic books. She took out her purse and handed me a shilling piece. ‘And here’s something for you to buy some sweets during the week.’

I took the money reluctantly. ‘Are you sure you’ve got enough to get home?’

Mum smiled. ‘Of course I have. I want you to have it. Now tell me how you’re getting on.’

The next two hours flew past as I related everything that had gone on since I arrived at St Nicholas’s. Mum was very interested in my new friend Bernie and asked lots of questions about him. ‘Don’t admire him. You should really feel sorry for him,’ was the advice she gave me, but I didn’t understand why she was saying that. I thought he was the bee’s knees.

When I asked about my sisters and home, she was a little vague and only wanted to talk about me. Then when I asked how my dad was, she replied, ‘Forget about him. Tell me more about how you’re getting along at table tennis.’

All too soon the visit was over. I knew that Mum had very little money so I didn’t ask her for any cigarettes or baccy. It would only upset her if she couldn’t give me any. I decided that I would lie to Bernie and pretend that I had asked but she had no money. As she walked away and out of the main doors, I found myself crying and ran to the toilet so that no-one saw my weakness.

That night, for the first time since I had arrived, I found it difficult to sleep. My mind wouldn’t let me rest. I missed my mother badly. I worried about her. For hour after hour I lay awake thinking about my home and my old life there.