‘Let me out…’ Nat was stricken. ‘You mean I have to stay there, sleep there?’
Maria gave a sympathetic nod and brushed at his wayward lock of hair with her fingers. ‘But they say I can come and visit you.’
Sep couldn’t help a cruel tweak in retaliation for all the times Nat had snubbed him. ‘Well, you’ve done nowt but complain about sleeping on the sofa. This should make you realize how lucky you are.’
Nat’s drained face was still aimed at his mother, who had shot a look of reproach at her companion. ‘When do I have to go?’
Maria hesitated.
‘They’re coming for you on Sunday,’ Kendrew informed him.
Nat reared his head. ‘I don’t want to go – Mam, tell him! Don’t send me away.’
Maria gave Sep a pleading look. Angry at the boy for causing her pain, Kendrew led him out of earshot and bent his face close. ‘You’re going,’ he said in a tone that was hushed but promised retribution, ‘and you’ll damn-well stay there till your time’s up. And don’t even think of running away before Sunday ’cause I’m not going to let you out of my sight, d’you hear? You’re not going to your blessed Maguires or anywhere. Look at the shame you’ve brought on your mother, dragging her through the courts. The least you can do is take your medicine like a man and not a whining, spoilt little brat.’
Though he felt like crying, Nat straightened his shoulders in defiance and made no more complaint, not even on Sunday when the policeman came for him.
‘Will they let me take my whistle with me?’ His eyes were nervous as he looked up at his mother. She replied that she didn’t see why not. ‘And will you give my watch to Bright? I’ll be too old for it when I come out.’
Her face collapsed. At this wan response, Nat allowed himself to be led away. His mother attempted a half-hearted wave and bit her lip to prevent a flow of tears.
Sep laid a protective arm around her, saying, ‘Nat’ll be fine. This is just what he needs to show him how fortunate he is at home.’
* * *
The Industrial School for Boys was in Marygate, a street off Bootham on the northern side of the city. At its upper end stood a limestone tower and part of the ancient wall of St Mary’s Abbey. A row of tall, narrow houses lined the slope to the River Ouse. Formerly, the school had been held in the old workhouse building but fifteen years ago this had been deemed obsolete and a new school was erected on the same site. The building was quite modern and well-equipped.
Three older boys were being admitted at the same time. Nat did not care for the look of them. On entering, each was divested of his possessions, though these were of no value. Nat wished now that he had entrusted his whistle to the safekeeping of his mother until he came home. He and the others were then ordered to remove their clothes, inspected for lice and given a cold bath. No uniform as such existed, but there was little variation in dress, the inmates’ shirts and trousers being composed of the rough drab and grey beloved by institutions. Afterwards, their heads were shorn and a pungent liquid rubbed into their scalps before they were given to the charge of the matron who, dressed in a black bombazine dress and a little lace cap, marched them along a corridor that stank of disinfectant and cabbage with all the tenderness of a sergeant-major.
‘Left, right, left, right – get in line, boys!’ Her shoes clip-clopped behind them.
Some of the lotion that had been rubbed into Nat’s scalp had trickled into his eyes and was burning like acid. His back and shoulders itched from the hair clippings that had fallen inside his shirt. He put a hand up to rake the irritation and was immediately told by the matron to, ‘Stop scratching, boy!’
He turned and gave the large grey-haired woman a pathetic look. All it earned him was a cuff. ‘Eyes front! Keep in time. Left-right, left-right!’
At the end of the corridor the matron curled her lip with its incipient moustache, barked, ‘Halt!’ and, with a tug of her starched white collar and cuffs opened a door on which a plaque announced that this was the office of the superintendent, Mr Raskelf. The latter had an air of great piety about him as he welcomed the boys in and told them to stand before his desk. Like the matron, he was grey-haired; also like her he had a moustache, but his was more walrus-like, completely covering his mouth, and was joined on to a beard that divided under his chin to form two long and rather bedraggled looking tufts. His nose was not large in itself but had a lumpy growth upon it like an under-ripe blackberry that held Nat’s fascinated eye. Raskelf had been in the post for only a year and had had to tackle a great deal of unrest at the beginning. Boys had absconded by the half-dozen – as was quite usual with any change of superintendent. However after the recalcitrants had been captured and made to see that such behaviour would not be tolerated he had been able to establish his own brand of discipline, though this was based on Christian doctrine and not on tyranny. Raskelf considered himself to be very sparing of the rod compared to others.
Nat’s eyes left the man’s nose and examined the contents of the office. It was what he considered to be a rich person’s room, with lots of shiny wood and brass. Around the walls, hanging on long cords from picture rails, were a number of portraits, one of them an elderly man with a beard. This was the founder, though of course Nat could not know and did not care. There were portraits of past and present managers, and one of the Queen, which reminded Nat of the classroom at his old school and immediately turned his mind even further against this establishment. The other frames held samplers of tapestry which spelled out potent messages: Be Ever Cheerful, Obedient and Willing… The Devil Makes Work For Idle Hands, and more ominously, Prepare To Meet Thy God.
Standing and clasping his hands behind his black frockcoat, the superintendent addressed Nat and his three companions in a rather simpering voice. ‘It is understandable that you will wish to know a little about the place which will be your home for the next few years…’ By the rules of the establishment, no boy was received for a term less than two years. ‘You have already met my good wife, Mrs Raskelf, who is the matron here.’ He indicated the woman who had overseen their admittance. ‘We also have several officers…’ He listed their names and departments. ‘It is a lot for you to digest but I am sure you will soon become acquainted with them all. Besides yourselves, there are almost one hundred and twenty boys in residence, whose conduct gives me great satisfaction. I should like this happy state of affairs to continue. If you devote yourselves to hard work, be assiduous and cooperative in your lessons, and Christian in your outlook, then your period of detention will be a happy and informative one. You will also be rewarded with a fortnight’s holiday in Scarborough in the summer.’ His tone conveyed great magnanimity.
Then it changed. ‘If, however, you choose to persist in your intransigent ways, are disrespectful to your officers and lax in self-discipline, then you can expect to reap the consequences.’ He pinned each boy with a disapproving eye. ‘I trust that there are no Roman Catholics amongst you?’ This was usually ascertained before the boys’ admittance but it had been known for a papist to slip through.
There followed the shaking of heads. ‘Good. You shall receive religious instruction every morning and evening and on Sundays you will attend church. As for secular instruction, this will consist of reading, spelling…’ Nat groaned inwardly, ‘…writing and ciphering, with occasional lessons in geography and history, taught by our schoolmaster and mistress Mr and Mrs Screeton. This will take place after morning worship. For the most part, the remainder of the day will be dedicated to learning a trade that will be of benefit when you leave here. You will spend a short time in each department in order that we may assess your aptitude for any particular trade. Our departments are: turnering, shoemaking, tailoring and carpentry. You may on occasions be put to work in the garden or on general duties. You will have two hours recreational activity per day, which may include football and cricket, and it is our policy to teach every boy to swim. There could also be the opportunity to join the school band, of which we are very
proud. There shall be no work on Sundays which is devoted to worship and religious instruction, some of which is undertaken by our Lady Visitors.’ The simpering voice became more firm. ‘Let me make it very clear now so that none of you is in any doubt: I will brook no impudence to our Ladies. If I find out that there has been one word of disrespect the culprit will receive the severest punishment that the rules permit. Parental visits will occur every two months. As the last one took place only recently then the next will be…’ he peered at a calendar, ‘ah, at Christmas!’
Nat received a jolt. Two months sounded an awfully long wait to see his mother.
Raskelf looked at the ceiling. ‘Now, is there anything else you should know? Ah yes… Matron, would you be so kind as to excuse us for one moment?’ Mrs Raskelf bowed her head and left the room. After she had gone, her husband spoke again to his audience, enunciating each word. ‘Should an officer find any boy abusing himself there will be retribution not only from the officer but also from God. This accursed practice will not be tolerated. Not only does it contaminate the body but it also perverts the mind and if habituated will rot the brain.’ After touring the row of innocent expressions his sternness receded. ‘But I can see by your demeanour that you are not yet tainted. Let it remain so, and should any older boy attempt to lure you into this malpractice then you must come straight to me. Normally I do not encourage tittle-tattle, but this is a most serious offence and must be curbed.
‘Last but not least, each boy is responsible for his own appearance and I expect him to be neatly turned out at all times. I understand that this is a new experience for you and you are bound to feel unsure. If you have any worries then Matron will be as a mother to you.’
The tick of the clock’s brass pendulum had been the only thing to interrupt his flow; Raskelf looked at it now. ‘You will be shown to your dormitories and allowed to settle in before the midday meal. I trust that all our future exchanges will be as civilized. What is your name, boy?’
He was looking at Nat, who answered in a quiet tone, ‘Nat.’
‘When you address myself or any other officer you will refer to me as sir. What is your surname?’
‘Prince, sir.’ Self-conscious, Nat attempted to bury his hands in his trouser pockets but found them sewn up.
The superintendent wrinkled his brow, then referred to a list on his desk. ‘Prince… I do not seem to have anyone of that name. Each of you, recite your identity.’ They did: Cobbins, Larkin and Dalby. The superintendent peered at Nat over the growth on his nose. ‘Then you must be Smellie.’ Nat waited for the inevitable sniggers.
‘You think that is amusing?’ Raskelf shouted at the boy who had dared to laugh.
‘Yes, sir.’ The culprit showed no remorse apart from tucking his chin into his chest in an attempt to muffle his laughter. He had dealt with tougher characters than this old bible-thumper.
The superintendent’s voice was quiet again. ‘Repeat your name.’
‘Cobbins, sir.’ The boy was about fourteen with large nostrils, an insolent air and a crop of pimples on his chin.
Raskelf’s sibilant tone held a warning. ‘Well, let me inform you, Cobbins, that I do not like people who mock their fellows – even those who are without sin, which I doubt applies to you. You had better watch out.’ He looked down at his list, reading against Nat’s entry, ‘Mother: Maria Smellie. Father unknown. Why did you not give your correct name?’
Nat tried to entreat sympathy with his eyes. ‘I don’t like it, sir.’
‘Well, like it or not that is the only name you have and you cannot change it on a whim. Lies will not be tolerated, Smellie. However, your name shall be no longer a handicap to you. Pay close attention to the number I am about to assign to each of you. Smellie, you are to be known as twenty-seven…’
After giving the other boys a number he turned back to Nat. ‘Twenty-seven, open the door and ask Matron to step in.’
Nat readmitted Matron, who then marched the boys down to their dormitory – a stark, unwelcoming room. Of the twenty or so iron bedsteads she pointed out four, on each of which was a bare mattress, a pile of neatly folded bedlinen, a grubby pillow and a grey blanket. ‘Make up your beds. I shall return to inspect them in five minutes.’ In military fashion she left.
One of the boys immediately mimicked her, performing a marching salute between the row of beds. ‘Do we have to call her sir an’ all?’
The amusement was shared by number fifty-nine, alias Tom Larkin. ‘D’yer fink she’s ganna tack us in ternoight? Oy, an’ wha’ aba’ ol’ Bramble Conk givin’ us ve lecture about grapplin’ wi’ ve ol middle leg! I bet ’e gets loads o’ practice lookin’ at ’is missus.’ He grinned at Nat who, not understanding one word of the Cockney dialect, did not respond.
‘What’re you ven?’ asked the older boy with a shove. ‘A bleedin’ dammy?’
‘Don’t know,’ mumbled Nat.
Larkin guffawed. ‘’E don’t know wha’ a dammy is! He mast be wan!’
‘Not just a dummy,’ mocked Cobbins, ‘but a smelly dummy!’
‘Pooh, I’m not sleepin’ next to him!’ Laughing, they began to toss Nat’s bedding all over the dormitory. When he tried to retrieve it they pulled it off him and attempted to throw it out of the window, but that was locked. Then the fourth boy warned that the old grey mare would be returning soon and a hurried bedmaking session ensued. When Matron Raskelf returned, poor Nat was still trying to stuff his pillow into its case. ‘What! Not done yet?’ Matron boxed his ears, grabbed the bedding and performed the feat in a few seconds, telling him, ‘That is how it is done!’
There was some consolation in that each of the other boys got his ears boxed too for not having neat enough corners. Then, lobes burning, all were marched into another corridor where after a few moments of silence the entire male population of the world seemed to converge on Nat from every direction, a horde of shaven-headed, ring-wormed thugs. Terrified, he pressed his back into the tiled wall away from the herd of pigeon chests and knock-knees, hoping not to be noticed, but Matron handed him and the others into the care of the biggest, roughest-looking boy in the school, and so began the march to the dinner hall.
Here, like everywhere else, there was great military precision, each line of boys in turn collecting their plates and moving in clockwise fashion around the hall to the appropriate table. Nat just copied the others, whilst simultaneously keeping a shifty eye on his overlooker, number eight, previously known as Bowman. The youth resembled a bulldog standing on its hind legs, broad at chest and shoulder, tapering to narrow hips and short muscular legs. He sported the same cropped hair as the rest of them. His eyes were passionless, his neck thick, his lower jaw heavy and his upper lip dark with the beginnings of a moustache. To Nat he seemed huge, but in truth he was quite short and it was only his dedication to physical exercise that had put muscle on the stocky frame. Short or no, he looked formidable. His robustness was inconsistent with the rations: four ounces of compressed beef, two slices of bread and a mug of coffee. Nat was too nervous to eat and merely nibbled on a sliver of the beef. Bowman asked if he was going to leave the rest, and Nat barely had time to answer before the meat and bread was stuffed into Bowman’s mouth, thereby explaining the paradox. With nothing on his plate to occupy him, Nat looked around at the other inmates who used a variety of accents. Apparently the school took boys from every corner of England. Very few of them appeared to be his age – some of them were much older and very tough, with the sunken eye that denotes innate villainy. The oldest in fact was sixteen and the youngest eight, but the average age of the institution was thirteen years and three months. Statistics didn’t matter to Nat. He wanted to go home. His hand kept roaming over the stubble on his head.
Bowman was talking to one of the other newcomers, Cobbins. ‘What’re you in for, then?’
‘Liftin’ baccy,’ provided Cobbins through a mouthful of beef.
The same question was asked of each. Dalby answered, ‘I got thrown out on the
street and were copped for bein’ a vagrant.’
Larkin, like Cobbins, was a thief. Bowman turned his thuggish face on Nat. ‘What about you?’
‘I wouldn’t go to school.’
The other new boys roared. ‘A real criminal, ain’t he!’ scoffed the Cockney.
To his credit, Bowman defended Nat. ‘Well, let’s see how hard you are, plushskull, when Matron catches you tossing yourself off on a night and puts your goolies in the crusher.’
Larkin stopped leering and gawped. By means of a nudge, Bowman encouraged Nat to share the joke, but Nat, barely understanding anything that was being said, judged Bowman as bad if not worse than the rest.
‘How come I’m number forty-six and he’s twenty-seven?’ demanded Cobbins, jabbing a thumb at Nat.
‘There’s nowt important attached to your number,’ replied Bowman. ‘Otherwise I’d be number one. They just give you the numbers of kids who’ve left.’ There came a roar of, ‘Silence!’ which set Nat trembling, and the interrogation was curtailed for the time being.
Meal over, the same military precision as before eventuated in the clearance of tables and hall. Afterwards, the Lady Visitors mentioned by Mr Raskelf came to teach them the Scriptures. This lasted all afternoon and upon its end the boys were marched to tea. This time, though still churned up inside, Nat ate his bread ration and drank his cocoa.
In the evening the boys were permitted to associate quietly. Nat found himself amongst a fresh group of inmates whose first query was, ‘What are you in for?’ There was again derision when he said he was only here for truancy and he discovered that a larger percentage of his fellows were in for theft, the remainder having been detained for begging, frequenting, or simply because their parents were criminals. A few of the boys were here because they were deemed uncontrollable. Due to Mr Raskelf’s Christian discipline these were now impossible to pick out. For the rest, most chatted amiably to the newcomers and the atmosphere was quite relaxed until bedtime when tension returned as the boys were marched to their dormitories. Nat lay rigid in his narrow bed, not daring to go to sleep for fear that Matron might burst in and catch him in the unspeakable act that every boy seemed to know about except himself. What was this tossing off? How could he avoid it if he didn’t know what it was? Thoughts of his mother produced the urge to cry, but he would not succumb; his peers held him in low enough esteem as it was. Thrusting his face into the pillow he squeezed his eyes shut.
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