by David Cohen
It was a long-held assumption that those who came here arrived spoiling for a major fight. Perhaps that might yet occur before today is out. For the moment, though, all we need to remember to carry with us to Epuni this October morning in 1975 is the one thing that so many others always forgot to bring: imagination.
MOON OVER EPUNI
The faded yellow structure looks so uninteresting, so uninviting and so forgotten that for a moment you think you’ve arrived at the wrong place. Turning into the driveway, however, you realise that impression was misleading. Though the deliciously cold, overcast day is only just breaking, Epuni Boys’ Home already buzzes with activity as dozens of boys rouse themselves on the watch of various supervisors, one of whom carefully unlocks the front door and waves you in with a grunt. Far from being the neglected institution it appeared from the road, the interior of the building resembles nothing so much as a venue busying itself in preparation for an important event — a hopefully more inspiring one than the violent episodes that, as we shall see a little later in the story, have roiled this joint in recent years.
For the moment the young inhabitants of 441 Riverside Drive are approaching the morning in what seems to be an uncharacteristic silence for youngsters, all the more so because their monastic activity is ironically set against the jaunty sounds of a radio system whose wiring runs like a Zen arrow throughout the three wings and the passageways and a nearby cellblock. In deference to the chill, perhaps, all the doors and windows are locked, and the radiator pipes along the main hallways gurgle quietly as the first of the morning’s human traffic begins to move past.
The warmth, that’s what hits you, the warmth and the smell, a full-on reek of overripe vegetables and salty male adolescence and gluey chemical solutions, coming at you in waves, like punches thrown in time to the music.
This morning the radio system is alive with the harmonies of Donna Summer, murmurous with desire, her horny timbre no doubt received with some appreciation by the contingent of boys clad only in towels and socks, now yawning and scratching themselves with tattooed hands and rubbing sleep-putty from their eyes, standing in the doorways of their little cubicles. Brown faces galore.
Here come the supervisors again, counting heads, checking to see that each bed has been stripped of its linen, favouring each of the boys with a careful stare. They’re followed by a matron to check if any clean linen is required, especially among the institution’s high number of chronic bed-wetters. Time to get dressed.
If it’s true what experts say about the so-called paradox of choice — the idea that increased choice leads to increased unhappiness — those who live here should be very happy boys because theirs is a micromanaged existence that leaves little to chance.
At 7.20 am the boys line up again awaiting further instructions. Work duties are announced. Mostly these chores, which are rotated on a weekly basis, involve cleaning of one sort or another, which if nothing else gives the institution that omnipresent scent of cleaning solutions. In the wings a small posse of pint-sized cleaners fans out along the passageway, industrial sweepers whirring, whisking any dust or dirt in the corridors or in the cubicles into neat little piles while other boys track them with a half-broom, sweeping the trash into a wastepaper basket. Next follows somebody else with a dry mop, doing more or less the same thing, and then, finally, a designated duster, brandishing a damp cloth, applying his energy to the tops of chests of drawers, mirrors and ledges.
Over in the kitchen something of the same monotonous order is taking place. Time was when this used to be the only place in the building where the radio didn’t function, but it has been fixed now, after the principal successfully requisitioned one. ‘The boys stand all day at the sink,’ he wrote in the memo, ‘and a radio alongside churning out the latest pop seems to make the job a little more bearable. Seriously, we think there is a definite need for one.’ So a battery- and mains-powered Sony TR-55, with its distinctive red logo and valued at $35, now sits next to the window, crackling out what passes for news, the latest sports results and the current pop hits.
There used to be a dog here, too. Muck, a low-rent bloodhound from some nearby house, all chunky legs and floppy ears, perpetually wandered outside the kitchen in the hope of nabbing an extra bit of ‘muck’ to eat. Seldom did he leave empty-pawed. Eventually Muck became an honorary member of the Epuni community; the cook at the time — a stout middle-aged Englishwoman with a closed, practical face — even made a point of saving food for the dog. Poor Muck. The dog’s presence used to provide some lightness in the kitchen, the lack of which has been increasingly borne in on the young workers now that their adopted pet is gone and life is back to its grey-lidded monotony.
There’s no dog to play with anymore, just these walls and benches that need to be washed again and again with hot soapy water, doormats to be taken out and shaken again and again, and let’s not forget the concrete way between the main building and the boiler room, to be hosed down and swept dry.
Who was the guy who said life isn’t one thing after another but the same thing over and over? In the back of the kitchen area, as ever, one assignee (‘the pot boy’) is washing pots while another (‘the dish boy’) rinses, dries and puts things away, and another (‘the bucket boy’) empties out the pig-tin before sweeping the floor, taking out empty milk bottles and lugging empty crates to the back gate. Next they clean their assigned areas of the bench.
By this time the cook will have posted a list of vegetables for the day’s menus, along with the quantity needed, which the children are required to fetch from the storeroom. Next a couple of them feed the itemised vegetables into a machine that shreds their outer skins (and periodically emits small electric shocks), after which they’ll be expected to dismantle the machine and clean it thoroughly for the day ahead. Stifling a yawn, the other boy twiddles the radio dial. 2YA: a woman with a fruity voice, Jessica Weddell, is introducing something called Viewpoint. Boring. 2YC: ‘Richard Strauss,’ the announcer intones, ‘was something of a child prodigy, playing the piano at four and composing his own music by the age of six.’ Weird. 2ZM: rock’s most flamboyant black performer is declaiming verses from the Book of Isaiah. Now that’s more like it.
— He’s a Maori, y’know?
— A Maori? Who’s a Maori?
— Jimi. Did you know he’s a half-Maori?
— Hendrix?
— Yeah. His old lady was a hori. Father’s Negro.
— No?
— True. Rangi told me.
— What does he know?
— Knows enough to give you a hiding.
— Fuck you, cocksucker!
Jimi Hendrix the Maori? It makes sense. Everybody here is Maori. The relatively few boys who aren’t Maori to begin with are honorary Maori, as it were, so why can’t the guy singing ‘All Along the Watchtower’ be one too?
Did Hendrix smoke? Almost everyone here does, but it’s hard on those aged under 15, who are ineligible for the cigarettes the department supplies throughout the day to the older inmates. This is why, despite the monotony of the kitchen duties, most of the younger boys jostle for the assignment, because it also allows for the opportunity of slipping into the staffroom just down the way and executing the most sought-after of duties: emptying the ashtrays, which means the opportunity to coax some stray bits of tobacco out of the butts and pocketing the proceeds for a surreptitious smoke later on.
Forty or so minutes later comes the next of the day’s lineups, this one in the more usual setting of the four-square courtyard next to the big, bald gymnasium at the back of the main building. So much converges here. The boys stand in three silent lines, either at ease (arms loosely at sides) or to attention (hands clasped behind the back, legs slightly apart, chin facing upward) until the supervisor is satisfied the exercise has been correctly completed. Perhaps the housemaster, as these attendants are known, will dismiss the kids quickly; perhaps he’ll shake his head and keep them standing in line until they get this thing straight. De
pends. It can be daunting, this most common of the super-scheduled day’s correctional exercises.
At some point, though, everybody exits the courtyard, shuffling back into the building for breakfast, along the main passageway where they pass the front door, outside of which one of the few symbols of freedom — a beat-up Bedford van — is parked.
This van is symbolically interesting. It’s painted creamy mustard, an institutional colour that acts as a reminder that in its previous incarnation it served as a rural school shuttle for the Department of Education, which until recently had jurisdiction over Epuni and other centres like it. Look a little closer and you can still see the red and black coloured bands painted around the middle and the faintly recognisable DEPT OF ED lettering still visible on the paint. Inside the vehicle are a couple of rows of red vinyl passenger seats, enough to hold a dozen or so boys packed tight and one or two housemasters up front. For most of the kids who live at Epuni Boys’ Home this is the only real connection to any activities in the wider world. One week it might ferry its passengers to Eastbourne (swimming), the next to the Hutt River (swimming) or else the Naenae Olympic Pool (swimming). Epuni Boys’ Home is not big on variety.
As a senior housemaster sometimes growls with a deep-throated chuckle, ‘I want these little criminals where I can keep an eye on them.’ The epithet isn’t entirely gratuitous: a majority of these boys are here at the pleasure of the youth justice system, after all, to be analysed and assessed before a final decision is made on the future course of their lives.
But trips to the swimming pool play second fiddle to the infinitely more coveted routine each Saturday: the once-in-a-week opportunity to join the designated driver on the trip to Miramar Girls’ Home to pick up the film canisters for the weekend’s regular movie. These are the movies, generously made available from local movie houses, that the institution screens in the main lounge at 7.30 pm, with supper at halftime or between the first reel finishing and the next getting set up. The selection is seldom auspicious. Spaghetti westerns. Prissy English comedies. One or other of those dumb Elvis Presley movies where the hero breaks into song at the most ridiculous moments. The housemaster responsible for the screening fills in as usher, projectionist, bouncer and chief censor, the last of which involves halting the film and laboriously allowing the reel to move forward before once again switching it back on.
None of which, truth be told, is half as interesting or exciting as being allowed to make the half-hour drive to the girls’ home in Miramar. Where else can an Epuni boy hope to catch so much as a fleeting glimpse of blossoming hips, smoochable cellulite and pigtails? Realising as much, perhaps, the driver usually keeps these visits very brief, parking only long enough in the driveway to sprint into the residence and grab the cans before clambering back into the van for the homeward journey.
TODAY BEING WEDNESDAY, THOUGH, THE VAN remains unoccupied, and the day’s business proceeds apace, the only unusual accompaniment being what sounds like distant drums beating — from the radio system or somewhere far across the ocean — who can tell?
In the dining area the boys sit in silence, arms folded, waiting for the housemaster’s nod that allows them to queue for the food placed atop the counter in an industrial-sized metal tray with sliding lids. The wait must be painful for some of these kids; they look way too skinny. Somebody is nominated to say grace, inaudibly, ahead of the loud click and slide of cutlery, the scraping of spoons across plastic bowls, and hog-like sounds as many of the diners lick their plates clean. Once each boy has eaten he scrapes any residual food into a basin placed on each table for this purpose and flings his cutlery into another plastic bleach container (decorated with pictures) before the containers are taken away. Invariably the routine will be punctuated with threats from the supervising housemaster warning that various foods will be withheld unless everybody keeps things quiet. Eventually the diners are dismissed in table-groups to get ready for school or, in the case of ‘home boys’, prepare for the morning’s chores.
Unlikely though it would be for all 23 staff members, who normally work eight different rosters across two shifts, to gather together at such an early hour, let us assume that circumstances have conspired to draw out the full complement from the nearby staffroom to share in this morning’s breaking of bread.
Housemasters dominate the group, of course, since it is upon these residential social workers’ shoulders that the practical burden of running the 16-year-old institution largely rests. Sometimes the strain can show. Joe Bartle, for example, looks somewhat tired this morning. Hardly surprising. It’s an incredibly demanding existence, the beefy housemaster likes to say, keeping on top of the day-to-day operation. It’s a responsibility symbolised by the beeper the 31-year-old warden with the slicked-back hair has taken to wearing on his belt, as if he were an emergency repairman or some kind of medical doctor, perhaps like one of the specialists Joe used to work under in his previous job as a hospital orderly at a psychiatric institution in Nelson.
In a sense he’s a bit of both, and there’s no doubting the vigorous presence he brings to these various manifestations. A casually dressed, powerfully built man with a stentorian voice and something of a lumberjack manner, Joe is seldom seen without a cigarette in his hand — a lifelong habit that will eventually catch up with him in the early 2000s when he suffers a stroke — and a five o’clock shadow on his face. A rough diamond, in the view of some of his colleagues, he prides himself on calling a spade a spade rather than chuckling up to people and trying to make sweet; in another, later era, he would have had little time for political correctness, preferring instead to take the most direct route for getting any job done and using the most unvarnished language for explaining why. In short, big Joe has all the desirable attributes that Epuni Boys’ Home looks for and values among its frontline staff.
Another housemaster keeping an eye on things would be Graeme Stewart — lordly of baritone and gloomy of countenance, with a liability to press the fingers of both his hands together while holding forth like some grand old duke — who, like most of the highly strung employees at this institution with such a notably high staff turnover, is a recent hire. Like most of the others, too, Stewart looks to be in good physical trim. As well he needs to be. A number of the younger housemasters have in the not-too-distant past been hospitalised by their wards, with one of them still bearing the imprint of a towel railing that a freaked-out teenage gang member tore from the wall one morning just this past May and used to nearly throttle him.
Alas, the same can’t be said for the chief nightwatchman, a hulking Dutchman who calls himself Mr Tjeerd but whose actual name might be Mr DeJhers, the matter being the subject of some confused speculation. To the watchman’s barn-like physique is added the appearance of tobacco-stained fingers and a thick European accent that few here can successfully interpret as he mutters through a large mouth stopped frequently with hand-rolled cigarettes, salaaming and gesticulating as he goes, like some angry mute. Tjeerd oversees the employees who start work around 10 each evening and stay on until the first of the day’s housemasters show up the following morning, and whose role it is to provide a supervisory presence during the night.
Sometimes they are also required to wake kids to administer medication or escort them to the toilets to provide urine samples for a mandatory medical analysis. This last duty Tjeerd usually effects by entering the chosen room at around midnight, flashing a big torch into the occupant’s eyes and enjoining him to ‘Piss in da jar, half full!’ Still, it’s not as if the incumbent watchman’s lack of English skills is an entirely bad thing. One of Tjeerd’s predecessors used to routinely enter the bedrooms after dark and rummage through the dresser drawers in search of comic books, especially war comics. These he would read in his office (recliner chair, feet on table, cup of instant coffee to the side, spare hand drumming the desktop without rhythm) while passing the hours. So accustomed were some of the boys to his regular nocturnal rummaging that they took to leaving their comic
books on their dresser tables before going to bed at night — the comics were duly taken, but always returned before sunrise.
Rounding out the staffing complement are various operational staff, including a gardener and general maintenance guy and a couple of women with the décolletage of middle-aged barmaids — the last of the red-hot mamas if you’re a hormonally charged 13-year-old and care deeply about such mysterious things — who are, you correctly assume, the matron and cook. The much younger woman standing next to them, the one with the beehive hairdo and the frankly inappropriate short skirt? That must be the psych student who recently completed a survey on the boys’ mental states. Joining the others, as well, would be those who work at the on-site school on the watch of the physically imposing chief educator, Dave Kelsey, one of three teachers employed at the little schoolhouse adjoining the main building.
Finally there comes the man who brings this disparate group of individuals together. Maurie Howe is not only the institution’s principal, or chief executive, but also one of the pioneers of residential children’s care as it has come to be practised in New Zealand. Mr Howe is a YMCA man through and through — not, one hastens to add, in the louche sense of the song of the same title popularised a few years later by the Village People, but in the strictly New Zealand sense of the era. An impressively fit, undemonstrative man, quick of movement and speech, he is never emotional or anxious — or poorly dressed. This morning he emerges from his office (that’s the one located on the right-hand side of the main corridor near the front entrance) bedecked in a hat and tweed jacket and coordinated tie, in the fashion of John Steed from the adventure series The Avengers. For good measure, too, he is clutching an umbrella as Steed might a walking cane.
