by Fenton, John
I had never seen so much money. I made up my mind that it would disappear before he had a chance to take it home with him on leave. The thought of his anger and upset when he found his fortune gone gave me an almost orgasmic feeling in my body. Anything that upset Wilkinson pleased me and I knew that losing all his money would drive him berserk. I didn’t tell Bernie about what I had found as I didn’t want any awkward questions about my hatred for Wilkinson. This was my secret – part of my payback. This was personal.
‘I don’t think you boys have a clue what an accessory before and after the fact means.’ The police inspector had been in full flow for ten minutes. I looked around me and noted that nearly all the boys had a look of bored resignation on their faces as they were forced to endure his lecture. ‘It is a very serious crime. Men have been hanged for committing the offence.’ He paused and looked around the room. It was obvious he was hoping the last statement would shock somebody into coming forward and telling him all about the Kennedy and Robinson fight.
Bernie nudged me and whispered. ‘He’s got two hopes – Bob Hope and no hope.’ I laughed quietly at the remark and got a disapproving look from Brother Michael.
‘There are times when you have to stand tall and speak out. This is one of those times. Two boys have been seriously injured – one of them could have been killed – and none of you know anything about it.’ He let out a hollow laugh through almost clenched teeth. ‘Do you think we’re stupid? Do you think I believe that in a closed environment like this nobody knows what went on? Of course you know what went on. I dare say that most of you admire the boys and the level of violence they used against each other.’
He looked at us accusingly and slowly shook his head. ‘You’re as guilty as the two boys who were fighting. You may believe that your code of silence is protecting Kennedy and Robinson. Let me assure you that it does no such thing. Your silence is leading them to believe that the using of weapons is all right, acceptable in society. Well, it’s not all right and decent society will not tolerate that sort of behaviour.’
Brother De Montfort came forward to stand next to the inspector. His face was a mask of anger. He shouted loudly, ‘And I most certainly won’t. How dare you refuse to co-operate with the inspector. All first Sundays are cancelled next month. Instead, you will spend the day in the chapel, reflecting on your unacceptable code of conduct.’
De Montfort’s punishment got an immediate response. There were whispers of discontent from nearly everyone – ‘fucking wanker’, ‘cunt’, ‘arsehole’ were just a few of the discernible words being muttered. The Brothers and masters tried desperately to catch someone making one of these remarks but were thwarted by the fact that nobody’s lips seemed to move and most people were looking down at the floor.
The inspector stared at us open-mouthed, not believing what he had just heard. I had to turn my head away as I knew I would end up smiling. Did he think Vincent’s was an ordinary school? Did he think that being locked away and abused would make a boy better behaved? This clown was living in cloud cuckoo land.
Brother De Montfort took a silver whistle from a secret pocket in his cassock and blew out a shrill blast. ‘One more remark will mean the loss of another first Sunday. Is that what you want?’ His voice was trembling with rage. ‘Every boy has lost nineteen points.’
All of the boys went silent. De Montfort had just taken a quarter of a day off our annual leave. He looked at us with imperious satisfaction. He had stopped any form of rebellious behaviour. He knew that our annual leave was the thing we looked forward to the most.
The inspector saw the futility in speaking to us and took De Montfort’s interruption as an excuse to leave the room. De Montfort hurried after him. He whispered an instruction to Brother Francis as he was leaving. Brother Francis now took up a position in front of us. ‘Strip out of your clothes. Put them in a neat pile on the floor at your feet. I mean all your clothes – that includes your underclothes. I want you standing naked.’
Strip searches were not unusual. They usually produced a few items of contraband. Tobacco, matches, cigarette papers and occasionally a few weapons. Each boy in turn had to walk to the front of the recreation room carrying their clothes. We had to place our belongings on a table and wait while two of the masters searched them. I was always amazed at the amount of black and blue bruising on some of the boys. It would cover the whole of their backsides and sometimes encroach onto the tops of their legs. In a lot of cases they would also have cuts, which had scabbed over, standing out above the bruises. I had been told that these were the marks left after you were caned by Brother Ambrose. I hoped and prayed that I would never have to carry those marks.
De Montfort reappeared before the searches were finished and took a perverse delight in walking up and down the ranks telling every boy that he had lost nineteen points. He never realised that because every boy was now on a red-poor week anyway, they could brazenly smoke for the rest of the week without fear of the consequences. I went to bed thinking about how little the police understood boys who were put into approved schools. I was also proud to have been part of a successful conspiracy of silence. It gave me a feeling of getting my own back on a system that stank.
Chapter 9
St Vincent’s was a relic of a bygone age. Time seemed to stand still as boys from all walks of life had to suffer sadistic customs that had been in place since the end of the last century. I was amazed at the dates by some of the initials that had been carved into the wooden pews in the chapel. There was one scratched into the stone step at the foot of the altar where altar boys had knelt since the chapel had been opened in 1889 – ‘AL.1897’. I often knelt on the step and wondered who those initials belonged to. What kind of boy was he? Was he still alive in 1958? I knew for certain that if he ever came back to visit the school he would find familiar surroundings. The only improvements he would find would be electricity instead of gas, hot water for ablutions, showering facilities and mowers for cutting the grass. The rest of the amenities were the same.
All the tools in the workshops were old but very well-maintained. At the end of all working days the tools that had been used were checked for cleanliness. The shovels in the bricklaying department were at least twenty years old and had been used to mix thousands of mixes of mortar and concrete but at the end of the day they were left shining like new. The same applied to the trowels, hammers, plumb lines, bolsters, buckets, mortarboards and any other tool we may have used. The minutest trace of dirt found on a tool would result in being booked and getting a hard slap around the ear. Peter Cornell, who was in charge of our department, was a master bricklayer and a fairly nice sort of man. He would turn a blind eye if any of his boys had a crafty smoke and he would just point a finger if a boy cursed. But show him a dirty tool and one of his big hands would hit your ear like a jack hammer. It was safer to take extra time cleaning your tools.
It was September 1958 and the football season was about to begin. I had wanted to go for football training ever since I arrived at Vincent’s, but up until now I had been too timid to put my name forward. I think my self-confidence started to improve as soon as I started to practise fighting. Bernie had already put his name forward and now I decided to have a go as well.
Tom Banks was in charge of the football teams. He was the most popular master in the school. In the seven months I’d been in Vincent’s I had never seen him hit a boy around the head or book a boy for smoking. He was a fanatical Charlton Athletic fan and rarely missed any of their home matches. He spent hours speaking to the boys about matches he had seen. He gave a pass-by-pass analysis and tried to bring similar moves into the training matches. I don’t think it was possible to find a fault in him. He really was a great guy.
‘So what makes you think you’re good enough for the team, Fenton?’ Tom was staring at me. ‘Do you think you’ve got what it takes?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I just want to learn how to play properly and maybe get in the team next year.’
‘Have you ever played in a team before?’
‘No, sir. But I’m a quick learner and don’t mind how much I have to practise. I won’t let you down.’
Tom smiled at my enthusiasm. ‘You wouldn’t be letting me down. You’d be letting yourself down and your team down. Last year neither of our teams lost a match. They achieved this by hard work and a well-founded belief in their ability. If I let you join our squad of players I will expect the same sort of attitude from you. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you support a football team?’ He looked at me with interest. ‘Most of the players support the best team in the country.’
‘Why would they support Manchester United, sir? They nearly all come from London.’ I was trying to stop myself smiling. ‘I thought they’d support Chelsea.’
‘Manchester United? Chelsea?’ Tom laughter boomed out across the yard. ‘You’re a cheeky sod.’ He patted me on my shoulder. ‘You’re in. Join the lads for training every lunchtime and evening. And Fenton, let that be the last time you ever mention those two teams. The only team I allow to be talked about is Charlton.’
Bernie smiled at me. ‘I take it from Tom’s reaction that you’re in the squad. What did you say that made him laugh so loudly?’
I told him and he chortled. ‘What position do you want to play in?’ Bernie asked. ‘I want to play on the right wing.’
‘I don’t mind. I’d just like to get into the team.’
‘If you put as much practice into football as you do into learning how to fight you’ll have no problem getting in the team.’
‘I will, Bernie. I’ll put the practice in.’ I nodded my head and added, ‘But I’ll also continue to practise fighting. That’s for certain.’
‘Jesus, John, what do you think you’re going to achieve by it? We’ve been here seven months and nothing has changed. Both of us are getting thumped by every arsehole in the place and it’s going to continue as far as I can see.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re just wasting your time.’
‘Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. I don’t know, but I intend to keep it up. It makes me feel better about myself.’
A shrill blast on a whistle brought our conversation to an end. Brother Ambrose was indicating that we were to line up in our houses before filing into the washroom before lunch. The washroom was a large, one-storey building recently renovated by the various building departments in the school. We had done a good job and the new tiles and washbasins gave the interior a clean and sterile effect. Above each of the washbasins were two wooden shelves at head height. Each of the shelves had two numbers printed on them. The four numbers on the two shelves above my washbasin were 11, 41, 71 and 101. On the shelf by each number was a tin of Gibbs tooth powder and bar of Palmolive soap. Hanging on two brass hooks by each number was a toothbrush and a face flannel. Behind the washbasins, in the centre of the washroom there was a large, aluminium frame made up of circular pipes with lots of numbered hooks welded on to them and from each of the hooks hung a white towel.
I had just finished washing my face and started to turn around to reach for my towel when suddenly I was pushed violently towards my washbasin. I had no time to put my hands up for protection and my forehead slammed into one of the brass hooks on my shelf. I screamed out in pain and immediately vomited into the sink.
‘Don’t get in my way again, you fucking wanker.’
I turned around to see who was speaking and had caused me so much pain; it was a boy called David Love. He was nearly fifteen years old and a member of the school’s boxing team. He had often hit me and Bernie and we both hated him. He came from Bermondsey in south-east London and loved bullying all the smaller and younger boys. He smirked when he saw the trickle of blood running from the cut in my forehead. It was one smirk too many.
A blinding rage took over me. I jumped at him and we both fell through the towel frame, landing in a heap on the floor. Brother Ambrose pulled us both off the floor and hit us each around the ear. He shoved us roughly away and reached for his notebook. I went back to my washbasin and tried my best to stem the flow of blood from my forehead. I couldn’t do it and was forced to go and ask Brother Ambrose if I could see matron. He looked at the small cut and nodded his head.
‘It serves you right. That’s what you get from fighting,’ he said, staring at me angrily.
‘Thank you, Bro.’ As I hurried out of the door, the blood was starting to drip off my chin and down the front of my clothes.
When I came out into the yard I was immediately jumped on by David Love, who had been waiting for me to emerge from the washroom. He grabbed me in a headlock and tried to smack me in the face with his other hand. Bernie and I had practised getting out of a headlock a hundred times. I threw myself backwards and we both fell back onto the floor. This manoeuvre put Love underneath me and all I had to do was turn over. I rolled over quickly and pulled my head out of his arm grip. As soon as my head was clear I smashed it downwards into the centre of his face. It was the first time I had ever used my head as a weapon and I was relieved to see that it had done damage. His nose and mouth were both bleeding and his eyes were watering so much he couldn’t see. I was just preparing to smash my face downwards again when I was yanked to my feet by Brother Michael, who was on yard duty. He smacked me hard around the left side of my face.
‘You’re both booked and you’ll be seeing Brother De Montfort later.’ He pointed to the far corner of the yard. ‘Get over there and don’t come over this side.’ He pulled Love off the floor and hit him hard around the cheek. ‘I saw the whole thing and you started it. I’ve sent Fenton over to the other side of the yard, away from you. You stay on this side. You’ll both see Brother De Montfort later.’
I went over to the chapel wall and sat on the floor at its base. My forehead was still bleeding but somehow it didn’t seem to matter any more. Bernie ran over and stood in front of me, grinning. ‘That was great, John. You really hurt the bastard. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it was you fighting Love.’
‘I told you that it pays to practise.’ I was feeling elated. I had had my first fight and I hadn’t lost it. ‘Did you see how easy it was to get on top of him? It worked just like we had practised.’
‘What was it about?’
‘He shoved me in the washroom and made me bang my head. I jumped on him and then it was broken up. When I came into the yard, he jumped on me.’ I looked over to where Love was standing on the other side of the yard. He pointed his finger in my direction. ‘I don’t think it’s over yet. Look at the way he’s pointing his finger at me. I think there’s more to come.’ I stood up and beckoned him over, taunting him with my arrogance, laughing him into anger. The whole school was watching so he had to come.
‘Jesus Christ, John. What the fuck are you doing?’ Bernie was horrified. ‘He’s going to kick the fuck out of you for taking the piss.’
‘He’s coming, Bernie, so get out of the way.’
Bernie spun around and saw Love sprinting across the yard in my direction. He stepped a few paces away. ‘Watch yourself,’ he shouted as Love swung a looping right hand punch at my face.
It was easy for me to move out of the way of the punch because Love was angry and wild in his swing. I kicked him hard in his shin, just above his right foot and saw his mouth grimace in pain when it connected. He hopped a few paces on his good leg.
‘You fucking wanker,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to kill you.’
‘Don’t talk about it. Do it.’ I had heard a boy called Peter Larch say that in a fight once and had decided there and then that if I ever got a chance, I would use it.
Love’s left hand shot out and hit me just above my left eye. It really hurt and I could feel the swelling straight away. From the corner of my eye I could see Brother Michael running across the yard in our direction. Love saw him coming also and in that moment, while he was distracted, I managed a good kick to his left knee.
‘Fuck,’ he yelled and re
ached down to hold it.
I kicked him again. This time it was his right knee and he shouted out angrily, ‘You little bastard.’
Brother Michael grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and hauled me towards the classroom porchway. Brother Arnold had come into the yard and was beating and pushing Love in the same direction. Brother Michael unlocked the classroom door, opened it and shoved me through the doorway and in the direction of De Montfort’s office. I could hear Brother Arnold and Love coming in the same direction. Before we reached the office, Brother Francis came hurrying towards us. He looked at the damage done to Love’s legs, shook his head at the sight of his two swollen knees and signalled to Brother Michael.
‘Come with me, Brother, and you can tell us what happened.’ They both disappeared into De Montfort’s office.
Five minutes later I was standing in front of De Montfort. He peered at me as if he had a bad smell under his nose.
‘So you’ve decided to take up fighting. You’ve decided that school rules no longer have to be obeyed.’ He smiled with his mouth only. ‘I’m sure that after you’ve visited the small dormitory with me and Brother Ambrose your views will change for the better. I told you when you first arrived that I would not hesitate to discipline you. Now you are going to find out that I did not lie.’
I stepped apprehensively through the doorway that led into the small dormitory. A long row of beds, each with a chair beside it, lined both sides of the room. At the far end was another door, which led into the toilets and wash room. I didn’t know what to expect and every noise or sound made me jump with fear. Brother De Montfort followed me into the room and threw a pair of silk boxing shorts onto the nearest bed.
