Please Don't Make Me Go

by Fenton, John

  ‘You cheeky little bastard. You deserve everything that’s coming to you.’ The policeman slammed the door and stationed himself on the other side, glaring at me through the windows.

  I was relieved when at last they came to collect me and take me back to St Nicholas’s.

  ‘You said what? I can’t believe you’re that stupid.’ Bernie was staring at me in complete amazement. ‘No wonder they gave you three years.’

  ‘I meant it. I do love the place and I did have a good time here.’ I grinned. ‘It means you and I will be together in Vincent’s.’

  Bernie gave me an appraising look. ‘You’re hardly equipped to handle an approved school. You’re not exactly Mr Universe.’ He shook his head slowly, still finding it hard to believe that I had come back from court with a three-year sentence. ‘Have you ever had a fight? Do you know how to look after yourself? If you don’t, you’d better learn quickly. We’re going to a shithouse of a place.’

  ‘Maybe it won’t be as bad as they say.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be as bad as they say and possibly worse. We’re both in deep shit now and if we’re not careful,’ he pretended to cut his throat with his finger, ‘we’ll be dead meat.’

  ‘If anybody hurts us,’ I said nervously, ‘why can’t we just report them to one of the Bosses?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Nobody goes to the Bosses. You’d be a grass and, believe me, you wouldn’t want to be one of them.’ Bernie had a serious look on his face. ‘Promise me that you’ll never be a grass. I mean it, John. Promise me.’

  ‘OK, I promise.’ Bernie looked relieved. ‘So how do we look after ourselves?’

  ‘With difficulty I expect. We’ll stick together until we know the ropes and then do our best to survive.’ He nodded at my feet. ‘You’ll need to use them when you fight.’

  ‘How do you know so much about these things, Bernie? You’ve never been in an approved school. How do you know for certain what it’s like?’

  ‘My brother Jimmy did three years in St Swithin’s on the Isle of Wight. He told me all about it.’ He nodded his head approvingly. ‘Jimmy’s a real hard case. Nobody fucks with him. He’s great.’

  ‘Are you a bit of a hard case, Bernie?’ I asked hopefully. ‘I know I’m not. I’ve never had a fight.’ I remembered how often I had been hit by other boys at school and how I had run away, usually crying. ‘I don’t like fighting.’

  ‘I’m no hard case. But I’ve had a few fights.’

  ‘Did you win?’ I asked with admiration. ‘I bet you did.’ I couldn’t imagine Bernie not being good at everything he did.

  ‘I did OK. But the boys I fought won’t be anything like the ones in Vincent’s.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘They’ll be nasty.’

  For the first time since my first appearance in court I viewed my future with trepidation. Everything Bernie said filled me with dread. How would I survive in an environment like the one he claimed would exist in Vincent’s? My only consolation was that Bernie would be with me. At least I would have a friend.

  ‘How long do you think we’ll be here before we get a place in Vincent’s?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe a couple of weeks. Who knows?’ Bernie reached into his tunic pocket and produced a squashed cigarette. He rolled it expertly between his fingers until it was back to its original shape. ‘Let’s go for a quick fag before tea.’

  I stood up and followed Bernie as he strolled towards the door. I still had an overwhelming feeling of doom but was determined not to show it. I would take a leaf out of Bernie’s book and be nonchalant about my situation. I would survive. Bernie would help me. Fuck them all, I thought. I hope they’re all dead by Christmas. I liked that expression and decided I would use it more often. It made me feel better.

  Bernie was wrong. It wasn’t two weeks before we were taken to Vincent’s. It was four days.

  Chapter 5

  Iremember very little about the journey. I know we travelled across London but I didn’t recognise any of the towns we went through. Bernie spent the entire journey regaling me with tales of his exploits with truancy officers. Our laughter must have been infectious as our two escorts – the driver and his mate – smiled on more than one occasion. We could see them through the grille that separated us from the front of the van.

  ‘OK, lads. Quiet down.’ The driver was putting on his peaked cap. ‘We’re here now.’

  We both peered out to see where we were. The Black Maria van was reaching the top of a steep incline. On the right-hand side of the road was a field that was fenced off with mesh wiring. The fence was about ten feet in height with a string of barbed wire draped above it. Bernie raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Do you think they don’t want us to get out?’

  I smiled weakly. I was more interested in the gateway the van was turning into. Two large black wrought-iron gates halted our progress. The gates were attached to two red-brick pillars and stretched across the top of the pillars was an arched, black, wrought-iron sign with the words ‘St Vincent’s’ standing out boldly on a fancy beaded surround. The driver got out and rang an electric bell on the right-hand pillar. It was only a short while before a black-robed figure appeared on the other side of the gates and proceeded to unlock them with an ornate black key.

  He seemed to work at a laboriously slow rate. Every movement was precise. When at last the gates were open he stepped slowly backwards, leaving just enough room for the van to enter. As it manoeuvred past, I could just discern a white face peering in at us from beneath the black hood. Bernie had also been looking at the man and I was surprised to notice that fear blanched his face.

  St Vincent’s came into view. It was monastic in appearance, with a small square bell tower situated in the centre of a grey slated and slanted roof. The walls were of red brick and punctuated with two rows of white, arched windows. In the centre of the bottom row of windows was a large stone arch above two large oak doors. The building was surrounded by a well-maintained garden and some early daffodils gave it an appearance of serenity. There was a big, gnarled oak tree in the centre of the front lawn, with clumps of daffodils around its roots, and large rose bushes were dotted around.

  The van pulled up outside the oak doors. We waited patiently until the robed man came walking slowly up the gravelled path. He reached inside his cassock, produced another key and opened the right-hand door. He beckoned us forward with just a slight nod of his hooded head and disappeared inside. My escort held tightly onto my arm as we entered the building, as if he expected me to run at any moment.

  The door opened into a large hallway. The floor had black and white ceramic tiles that struck me as looking like a chessboard; they were so highly polished that, looking down, I could see myself clearly. A tall statue of the Sacred Heart stood on a wooden plinth by the right-hand wall and opposite it, also on a wooden plinth, stood a statue of a saintly looking monk.

  It has to be St Vincent, I thought. My eyes wandered over to a large framed print of the current Pope that was displayed proudly in the centre of the right-hand wall. Hanging five feet from the floor on the far wall was a large wooden crucifix.

  ‘It’s like being in bleeding church,’ Bernie whispered. I nodded my head in agreement and smiled at the irreverence of the remark.

  We were ushered through a door to the right of the Sacred Heart statue. Hanging from the wood-panelled walls were numerous pictures of saints and one very large one of the Blessed Virgin behind a desk. Seated behind the desk was a monk, about forty years old and with the most penetrating stare I had ever seen. His hair was jet-black and heavily greased with Brylcreem. His nose was long and straight and there was a profusion of black, stubbly hairs sprouting from both nostrils. His lips were thin and cruel-looking and there was a blueish tinge around his chin and under his nose from where he shaved. His eyes were constantly switching from me to Bernie as if he were inwardly appraising us both. He turned his attention to our escorts.

  ‘Did they give you any trouble?’

  I hated th
e way the monk spoke, his voice at least an octave above a normal man’s voice. He had a strong Irish accent which seemed to come from down his nose and not out of his mouth.

  He whinges, I thought. He doesn’t talk, he whinges. It’s not far off sounding like my old man.

  ‘No trouble at all.’ The driver patted me and Bernie lightly on our heads. ‘A couple of nice lads.’

  The monk’s mouth twisted into a cold smile. ‘Brother Francis will take you to the kitchen and get you a nice cup of tea before you head back,’ he said to the escorts. His eyes switched to the hooded monk standing quietly just inside the door. ‘Brother Francis, if you would be so kind.’

  Brother Francis and the two escorts left the room, quietly closing the door behind them. Bernie and I stood in front of the desk being reappraised by the monk’s penetrating stare. Eventually, he diverted his eyes to the paperwork the driver had handed him. Slowly and methodically he worked his way from sheet to sheet until at last he gathered them all together and placed them in a neat pile. He turned to Bernie and me and seemed to stare at us interminably, though it may only have been a few seconds. I was relieved when at last he started to speak.

  ‘Which one of you is Connors?’ he asked. ‘Who’s the one with the itchy feet?’

  ‘I am, sir.’ Bernie was hardly audible.

  ‘Well, Connors, don’t try any of your disappearing tricks here. We won’t put up with any of your nonsense.’

  He was now staring at me. ‘Unruly behaviour! We will soon get that out of your system. If you open your mouth out of turn here you’ll be in big trouble.’ His voice seemed to go up yet another octave. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  I nodded. I had lost the power of speech.

  ‘I will now tell you the rules of the school, so listen carefully, I will not repeat myself.’ He closed his eyes as if he were meditating. ‘I am Brother De Montfort and the headmaster of this school.’ He opened his eyes. ‘We have rules in this school that have to be obeyed. Any breach of the rules and you will be disciplined. I will not hesitate to cane you if you deserve it. You have been sent here because you are not fit to live with ordinary people. You are shit and nothing but shit. Forget about your parents for the next three years. You have no parents – no brothers and sisters – you have nothing but this school. Do you understand that?’ De Montfort stood up menacingly, and leant over the desk until his eyes were only inches from our faces. ‘Do you understand that?’

  We both nodded our heads violently. Our fear was evident and De Montfort eased himself back into his seat.

  ‘You will attend Mass daily at seven o’clock in the morning. On Friday and Sunday you will take Communion. Confessions are heard on Thursday evening and you will attend Benediction every Sunday afternoon. If you are bright enough, which I doubt, you will get the chance to learn to serve Mass with the priest.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘If you had had God in your life before, you wouldn’t be here now. A child brought up in a house that loves Jesus is a good child. I hope and pray that by the time you leave my school, Jesus and the Blessed Virgin will be an integral part of your lives.’ I noticed how he bowed his head reverently as he said the name Jesus. ‘You will address all of the Brothers by their full title and all of the civilian staff as Mister. It is common practice to refer to the Brothers as Bro and I am quite happy for this term to be used as long as it is used with respect.’ He stood up and faced the picture of the Blessed Virgin and blessed himself with the Sign of the Cross. He turned to face us again.

  ‘Every boy is awarded 18 points at the start of the week. Each point is worth one penny. This means that every boy will be given one shilling and sixpence every week providing he has had no points deducted. If you are caught smoking it will cost you four points. If you are heard swearing it will cost you four points. If you decide to fight it will cost you 10 points and you will have to come and see me. At the end of the week I will inspect all of the masters’ notebooks and deduct points from any boys who have been booked. Do you understand that?’

  Once again we nodded.

  ‘If a boy has a total of 18 points left at the end of the week this will be referred to as a very good week. If he has between 12 and 15 points left it will be referred to as a good week. If he has between seven and eleven points left it will be referred to as a satisfactory week. If he has between nought and six points this will be referred to as a blue-poor week. Anything below nought is a red-poor week. Do you understand that?’ De Montfort was looking at us and nodding his head. ‘Is it perfectly clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ we both answered in unison.

  ‘I’ll continue then. All the boys that achieve either good or very good in a week will be allowed to go to the cinema on Saturday afternoon. Nobody else goes. If you get a blue-poor week, this will mean the loss of a quarter of a day’s holiday off your annual leave. You only get 21 days, 14 days in the summer and seven days at Christmas, so every quarter of a day means a lot. We understand that a boy may slip up occasionally, so we allow a very good week to cancel out a blue-poor week. Nothing can redeem a red-poor week. That quarter of a day’s holiday is lost for good.’ He slowly adjusted his cassock and looked down at his shoes. ‘Is everything I have just told you perfectly clear?’ He looked up as Brother Francis returned quietly to the room.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, so let’s go on. After you have been here three months, and providing your points are good enough, you will be allowed to go home on the first Sunday of the following month. You leave the school at nine o’clock in the morning and return by seven o’clock in the evening. If you are late back, you will never have this privilege again.’ He reached into a drawer in his desk and took out a book. He flicked through the pages until he found the one he wanted. ‘Fenton – you will be in the bricklaying department. Connors – you’ll be in carpentry.’ He closed the book. ‘Have you any questions?’

  ‘What class am I in, sir? You never told us.’ I felt my legs quaking under me but managed to sound calm as I asked the question.

  De Montfort looked at Brother Francis and smiled. ‘I think Fenton believes he’s a scholar, Brother. What do you think?’

  Brother Francis reached up and pushed back the hood that had masked his face so that it now rested neatly on his shoulders. He had the squashed nose of a boxer and I guessed he was around fifty years old. ‘Maybe he thinks he’s too good for bricklaying, Brother. Maybe we should change the curriculum so that he can sit in a classroom all day and pretend he can read.’ The sarcasm in his Irish brogue was evident to all in the room. ‘Maybe he should run the school.’

  Both brothers laughed. De Montfort regarded me disapprovingly. ‘All of the boys attend class on a Tuesday morning. The rest of the week you will be taught a trade.’ He walked around the desk and stood staring down at me imperiously.

  ‘The average IQ of the boys in this school is 95. None of them, including you, has any academic capabilities. The Government has decreed that boys with such low levels of intelligence should be taught a trade. Is that all right with you? Are you going to question the Government as well?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  De Montfort was silent for a moment, evidently deciding what to say next. He nodded his head slowly. ‘I think that covers everything,’ he said, still peering down at me. ‘You may take them away now, Brother Francis. I will tell Matron that you’ll bring them to her shortly.’ He was about to turn away when he decided to have a last few words. ‘Don’t forget, Fenton. I will not tolerate any insubordination.’

  As we were led from the room, I thought to myself: I hope he’s dead before Christmas.

  As he led us through the corridors to the uniform room, Brother Francis told us a little about the history of St Vincent’s. The school had been founded by Brother Augustine in 1878. Because of its success the government had awarded the Brothers the running of another five schools. The school was proud of its achievements in rehabilitating wayward boys back into society and teaching them a worth
while trade that would help them make a living. The school’s sporting achievements were second to none. They expected their boys to win any tournaments they were entered into and they especially prided themselves on their boxing and football teams. Failure was not an option. Brother Francis told us that he was the boxing coach and boasted that he had three boys competing in the junior ABA semi-finals in two weeks’ time.

  ‘Once you’re settled in, I will give you the chance to join the team,’ he said. ‘You’re never too young to learn.’

  ‘How many boys are here?’ Bernie asked.

  Like the strike of a cobra, Brother Francis slapped him hard on his left cheek. ‘How many boys are here, Brother Francis?’ He stood menacingly in front of Bernie. ‘Don’t forget the “Brother”.’

  ‘Sorry, Brother Francis.’ Bernie was close to tears and his left cheek showed the imprint of the slap.

  I reached out and touched him lightly on the shoulder in a token gesture of comfort. He was my friend and he was hurting. Brother Francis was staring at me. His satisfied expression was similar to the one my father had after he hit my mother. Something in my look must have upset him because he suddenly attacked me with the ferocity of a rabid dog. The blows were fast and numerous and I cowered against a wall trying to protect myself, utterly stunned at what was happening to me. He was a monk, a religious man. Was he allowed to beat me like this? He was punching me as if in a boxing match, but without the gloves. When at last the beating stopped, Brother Francis was out of breath and noisily gasped in lungful after lungful of precious air.

  I leaned against the wall and gingerly felt the growing lump on my forehead caused by his bony knuckle. I kept my eyes focused on the floor.

  I hope you’re dead by Christmas. You ugly fucker. I hope your entire family die screaming. These thoughts comforted me and when I lifted my head I made sure there wasn’t a glimmer of emotion in my eyes.

  ‘You’ll get more of the same if you ever dare look at me like that again. Do you understand?’ Brother Francis was staring at me, waiting for a reply. He shouted loudly, ‘Do you understand?’