by David Cohen
A man in control. A sphinx without any secrets. The style never varies. He’s the rock that doesn’t move, isn’t moved, won’t be moved, can’t be moved: Maurie Howe casts his professional shadow throughout the buildings here as powerfully as the tune now being pumped out of the radio system, ‘If I Only Had Time’, the high and lonesome French standard that will eventually be covered by scores of Anglo-American acts. As sung today, in a smouldering voice, by a 21-year-old Kawerau kid, John Rowles, whose uncle is a Black Power member, but who has somehow made the song his own, taking it to the upper reaches of the UK hit parade seven years ago before rocketing to the summit of the pop charts on both sides of the Tasman Sea, and now casting its charms over this group of boys. The tempo is slow and quivery, the melody very lush, and the singer’s vocal delivery as straight as a bowling ball rumbling down the polished floors of any of the institution’s endlessly scrubbed wooden passageways.
If they only had time. In fact, both the staff and the inmates of Epuni Boys’ Home have all the time in the world. Epuni is among the oldest of the country’s 16 processing centres for delinquents, an institution of short-term correctional training, the term used to refer to the Ministry of Works-designed structure spread out across 1.5 hectares of grounds. The residence is charged with assessing and classifying the estimated 350 children aged between seven and 16 who at this historical point are pushed through its doors each year before passing out again, usually to some other form of state-sponsored residence or foster situation.
About half of the boys are state wards — which is to say, children who have been committed to the care of the Department of Social Welfare by a magistrate in the Children’s Court — while some of the others are among the 354 kids around New Zealand whose guardians have signed a voluntary agreement under which the department has custody of the children for a while. Most of the kids have been sent here by the courts from a wide area of the North Island and the upper South Island, a catchment area basically falling just short of the similar institutions in Hamilton and Christchurch, but often taking in kids from other areas that lack the facilities to provide residential care.
Practically speaking, Epuni is as much a holding pen for an overloaded youth justice system as any lofty setting for therapeutically based observation of the wards who live here for anything up to eight months at a time. Of the 38 inmates held here just a half-dozen years ago, for example, 23 were state wards, eight were on adjournment in child welfare cases and just seven were on remand; now eight out of every 10 boys are remand cases from the children’s courts. A majority of these inmates will remain in an officially supervised environment for the remainder of their early years, with a significant number going on to lengthier stretches of long-term training, borstal and jail — the institutional pathway for which, since the 1950s, a stint in ‘short-term correctional training’ is typically the curtain-raiser in respect of kids aged between eight and 17 whom the government has placed in care. In the department’s view, according to its official literature, it can be taken as read that these children are ‘disturbed, retarded or delinquent youngsters’.
The institution, as you’ve already seen, has three residential wings, known as Rata, Totara and Kauri (respectively, the senior, intermediate and junior wings), a small school, a large courtyard, a gymnasium, and a recreation and television area. Each inmate has his own small room. Typically there are about 35 youngsters in this ‘open’ part of the institution, although the numbers fluctuate between 20 and 40; their median age is 13. Detailed inspections of the operation are relatively rare. Supposedly, the institution is meant to produce an annual report, written to a common format, which allows the principal to unburden himself over what happens to be concerning him in any particular year — but these, too, are largely pro forma exercises only ever really changing in the aftermath of some scandal attaching itself to the residence.
The institution is also required to keep a set of diaries to record daily comings and goings, the names of the individual kids who receive corporal punishment, and other facets of day-to-day life. Here again few of the injunctions are ever followed to the letter. Crises of one sort or another often seem to be crowding in. Some days it’s as if it’s all Howe and his hard-working colleagues can do to keep the place from resembling one big happy Manson family.
Making their jobs all the harder are the questions that are starting to be raised in the wider culture about the use of facilities such as these, the usual criticism being that an institution such as Epuni is no place for children, the most recent complaint being that kids like these should be kept in their own communities.
But such reservations are out of step with the prevailing wisdom of the time and the assumptions of the department. As two of the era’s best-known researchers, Rosemary Dinnage and M.L. Kellmer Pringle, recently argued — and Howe likes quoting their words — there is ‘little basis for such sweeping rejections of residential homes. On the contrary, there is some evidence that certain children may find it easier to accept, or cope with, a larger, less intimate environment since it makes less intensive emotional demands.’
MID-MORNING. A KINGSWOOD POLICE VAN SWINGS through the main gates to deposit the latest addition to the institution’s ‘closed’ quarters, the relevant housemaster having already been alerted to the drop-off. The moment the van grumbles to a halt he is striding towards it, clipboard and pen in hand, to exchange a few words with the driver about the new boy. Is he a nail-biter? A bed-wetter? Will he be disruptive? The boy, hands shoved deeply in his jacket pockets, gets led off to the institution’s welcoming ‘secure’ block.
Once past the 42 beds in the main part of the institution, one cannot help but be taken a little aback at this readymade prison, which we saw a bit earlier, with its four cells, a shower and a day room. It’s among the institution’s busiest wings. Virtually all newcomers undergo what administrators describe as a three-day ‘induction programme’ in this hated part of the residence, designed, it is said, to thwart the chronic problem of absconding and provide an ‘individual oriented’ environment for newcomers, as well as a dedicated area for health checks. Because Epuni is almost perpetually strapped for cash and short of qualified staff, however, these programmes are infrequent at best, and the cellblock appears to serve little practical function beyond what its name suggests.
But that gluey tinge to the smell that hovers in the air, like the whiff of gunpowder after a fireworks display, owes something to the cellblock administrators’ commitment to their health-related duties. During Epuni’s first decade, head lice had never been considered a serious problem. But the number of cases of human louse infestations, or pediculosis, has apparently been on a roll since the construction of the cellblock, leading some of the institution’s growing legion of critics to wonder whether the supposed epidemic might simply be an excuse for what by any other reckoning appears simply to be a humiliating initiation ritual. Cases of head lice among kids of Polynesian descent, after all, are considered rare on account of the particular hair consistency of the ethnic group that accounts for the lion’s share of the Epuni cohort.
Nevertheless, the condition is considered sufficiently prevalent that every last resident in Epuni quickly becomes familiar with the Maori-language appellation — kuta — for the microscopic brown creatures that cause itching, sores and skin breaks. Accordingly, every newcomer is coated with a thick lotion, smothered across his entire body, almost as soon as the police deposit him on the doorstep and a staff member has managed to bundle him into the first available shower. The lotion needs to be applied only after the boy is dry, however, so first he is required to stand naked until the water has evaporated from his head; only then may the supervising housemaster dip a paint-brush into a pail of cream and use it to coat the boy’s entire head and body.
Because there is no product or method which actually guarantees the destruction of these eggs or hatched lice after a single treatment, the youngster will go without a shower for the next seven da
ys while the lotion supposedly does its work. So while the ubiquity of the treatment may or may not arrest the spread of the kuta, the presence of the paste on so many unwashed bodies lends the institution its notably pungent air.
Like everything else at Epuni, the kuta ritual is performed strictly according to the book — or more precisely, the manual — with something approaching the same degree of attention a medieval schoolman might have given the works of Aquinas. Over the decades, first on the administrative watch of the Child Welfare Branch of the Department of Education and more recently the Department of Social Welfare, these weighty black- and green-bound tomes have been promulgated for the guidance of staff.
These manuals enjoy a certain pride of place inside the main administrative office, a room of neatly typed instructions, official papers and 121 separate key sites, which otherwise resembles nothing so much as the cell of a slovenly monk. The Field Workers’ Manual, dating back to the late 1950s, is one; another is the venerable Social Workers’ Manual, which was first produced around 1970. Together they sit among other duty books and daily logs of activity recording significant events relating to a child (health checks, corporal punishment, time spent in solitary confinement) that staff working on one shift might need to communicate to others.
Workers are expected to know, as well, the content of the new Children and Young Persons Act 1974, passed with some political fanfare last November and effective from the previous April, in the interests of revising and consolidating the earlier Child Welfare Act of 1925. Finally, for good measure, this past year has seen a new Residential Workers’ Manual and a Principal’s Handbook, which like all the others are already evolving and growing over time with various insertions and modifications as the official mood dictates.
Heaven help any nocturnal prowler who encounters a staff member brandishing one of these volumes! Not only are a number of the housemasters reputed to be proficient in various of the martial arts, the sheer weight of any of the manuals swiped across the head could stun an ox — as one would expect of instruction books containing regulations and guidance on every conceivable aspect of a child’s perpetually supervised life during the three or so months he will typically be housed at Epuni.
‘Understanding Polynesians’, the title of one such entry, offers a taste of the general content. ‘Generally speaking,’ the section begins, ‘Pakeha children are taught from early infancy that they must respect other people’s property — “Jimmy, you leave Mary’s ball alone!” But it would never occur to Polynesian parents to say anything so restrictive …’ Given that the overwhelming majority of the young wards here are brown-skinned, such insights are presumably weighed carefully, and gratefully, by a complement of staff that is just as overwhelmingly white.
In the main, the manuals offer more straightforward advice on everything from dispensing weekly pocket money (75c) to perfecting a child’s work skills in, for example, correctly using a cloth to apply polish to furniture. A dedicated page in the Principal’s Handbook describes how this should be done in accordance with institutional policy, which in the first instance means spreading White Lily cleaning solution onto the cloth and applying the cloth to the surface until it has fully ‘become black’. Thereafter a dry cloth must be deployed to wipe off any excess polish: ‘If this is being done correctly, the area will be slightly polished but a little smeared.’ Finally, the handbook counsels, another dry cloth needs to be used; however, ‘if this gets damp,’ the guide warns, ‘the area being polished will continue to get smear marks on it’. And what if the kid at work gets fed up with all this and simply decides to slosh hot water on the wood — or, his wits at an understandable end, register his disapproval by heaving a chair through the first available window? ‘Well, YOU will have just WASTED the White Lily — and your time!’
The handbook is also big on making the boys feel occupationally special, offering names that distinguish their services from the rank and file. The child who reports to the kitchen at 7.15 am to help prepare the food, for example, is not referred to as such in the manual, but rather at all times as The Tea and Toast Boy or possibly The Morning Pots Boy. Similarly, for reasons that are never made entirely clear or else have been lost in the mists of time, the boy responsible for emptying trash and cleaning the pig buckets goes under the name of The General (or The Assistant General for the younger ones). Also contained within the volume’s 1000-plus pages are slightly cryptic copies of historical material relating to tattooing practices in ancient Greece and modern psychiatry, tips and instructions for staff, and the correct procedures for minuting and initialling individual files.
Replacing the manuals and continuing to wander around the buildings, something odd begins to dawn on you. Having dizzied oneself in these bulky tools of written instruction, the penny slowly drops that these tomes represent the only published words to be found virtually anywhere in the institution.
Neither in the play areas nor in what passes for a recreational lounge near the front doors, nor even in the classrooms, may printed material of any readable sort be espied, or indeed any published juvenilia at all. Especially troubling for some of the boys, you suppose, must be the absence of literature, apart from comics, in any of the bedrooms, because it’s here that they are required to spend an unusual amount of time, not just in the nights but for up to two hours each weekday afternoon, as part of a practice known as ‘rest therapy’ that is peculiar to Epuni.
Still, as the institution’s managers are always quick to point out, it’s not as if the wards are bereft of real exercise. The institution’s largest building, after all, is a customised gymnasium, which is often put to use at the end of the mid-morning and mid-afternoon lineups after the housemaster has first passed around a bucket of apples and dispensed the quota of cigarettes for the older boys.
The gym used to be such a fun venue. Once it even provided the setting for a game of basketball in which a local team faced off against members of the police training academy in Trentham; a humdinger of a game. The match took place on a cool spring evening, a see-sawing contest where the lead changed frequently until the final couple of minutes when the Epuni team scored the net. (The winners were not gracious in victory.) Nowadays, though, the usual activities are less auspicious, mainly comprising the physical exercise sessions that first became a part of the daily grind in the early 1970s.
The wards run in circles, or sprint from one wall to another, until they are told to stop. Climbing up a large ladder rack and then climbing down the other side, sometimes while using one arm to carry a large medicine ball, is another regularly prescribed activity. So is clambering up a thick gym rope that hangs down from the ceiling — and then sliding down again. Finally, perhaps, there will be a long round of press-ups, with the duty housemaster picking his way between the grunting exercisers and commenting on their performance.
Late afternoon. More chores. Moving from one allotted task to another, drifting from one corner of the building to another, is for many of these wards, you now begin to suspect, a kind of sleepwalking of no particular significance or importance, even though Epuni Boys’ Home may well be the cleanest institution in all of greater Wellington as a consequence of the endless attention. How to relieve the boredom? Rata Wing, the newest addition to the building, is fitted with fire sprinklers both on the ceilings of the passageway and in each of the cubicles, offering a perennial temptation. Those red glass phials, which release torrents of water in the case of fire, cry out to be interfered with. It isn’t unknown for somebody to road test the system by tampering with one of the valves and, inevitably, flooding the passage.
Alternatively, somebody might break open the firehose cupboard in the foyer that separates Rata and Totara wings and initiate a furious water fight. Alas, this could lead to a night in the cells, though, so more often than not the temptation is resisted in favour of some music, assuming the stereo is working. Time was when the main source of music was a portable record player shaped like a fat briefcase, complete w
ith handle and inside speaker and powered by battery or electricity. Now there’s an actual cabinet record player, securely mounted on the lounge wall, made out of fake wood with a couple of little speakers and a storage compartment inside for albums. Unfortunately it’s broken.
Little matter. Soon it’s time for more duties, another couple of lineups, the evening meal. Outside the dusk gathers underneath a rising moon that this evening is only a narrow crescent, a pencil stroke of light against the New Zealand sky, and still the distant drumbeat from somewhere across the waters sounds ever more loudly.
THIS BEING A WEDNESDAY NIGHT, HAIR SHAMPOO will be the order of the evening, as it is on Saturdays as well, a process adding long minutes to the 7.30 pm shower, for which all the inmates are required to strip and form a queue with towels draped around their necks. Always the boys are carefully instructed by the housemaster on the correct use of soap and the hair product (‘this may be a new experience for many of them,’ the manual warns), with the supervisor measuring out a portion of shampoo from a used kitchen container and sprinkling it on each of the heads clustered together in the one shower. For the youngest kids this will be the day’s final activity before supper and bed. For the older boys, at least those who haven’t misbehaved during the day, there’s some television time before turning in as well.
Rare is the moment when anything changes in the little universe that is 441 Riverside Drive. This evening, however, those distant drumbeats have moved nearer, an anxious rumble now much closer at hand, the noise of a distant world that is not so distant any longer.
Though much of what passes for scheduled life inside Epuni Boys’ Home tends to be intentionally uneventful, evening times are often a bit of a treat. This part of the day is also a lesson in practical economics, because those who get to savour it the most tend to be the ones who have earned their pleasure. This evening, as every evening, each boy taking a seat next to the old black and white TV set has already presented the 9 x 12 centimetre ‘credit card’, which he is meant to keep with him at all times, to the relevant supervisor. The housemaster then awards a predetermined number of clips for good work performed or other emanations of satisfactory conduct during the day. Earn 40 clips over the course of seven days — the weekly tallies are usually announced at lunchtime on Wednesdays — and a bedazzling new world of privileges opens up.
