by Fenton, John
I said quietly, ‘One day, you sick cunt. One day.’ I could feel Bernie’s eyes on me and turned to look at him. ‘I mean it, Bernie. One day, I’ll have that cunt.’
Bernie nodded. ‘I believe you. After what he did to you he deserves everything he gets. I couldn’t believe it when I was told you’d been caned again and were in the infirmary. It must have been awful.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. My arse is just a little sore.’ I watched as Bernie produced a roll-up from the side of his sock. He was careful not to be seen lighting it and handed it to me after he had inhaled two or three lungfuls. Because I hadn’t had a smoke for the last eight days the first couple of puffs made me light-headed. I closed my eyes and savoured the beautiful feeling of smoke hitting the back of my throat. Bernie reached over and took the roll-up out of my hand and extinguished it by squeezing the burning end between two of his fingers. I watched him secrete the remainder in his sock. ‘That was great, Bernie. Cheers. What’s been going on since I’ve been gone?’
‘Nothing much,’ Bernie said. ‘A couple of silly fights. Oh, and Terry Smith broke his arm at football practice. He jumped for a high ball and fell awkwardly on his arm when he landed.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Wilkinson’s been a right pain,’ Bernie said, ‘For the last three days he’s been thumping anybody who crosses his path. He’s searched everybody’s locker and everybody’s bed. I was glad when he had a fight with John Black and ended up getting caned.’
‘How did Black do in the fight?’ I asked. I wasn’t really interested but I felt I had to enquire in order to mask my jubilation at Wilkinson’s bad humour. Bernie didn’t have a clue why Wilkinson was behaving so badly, but I did. My eyes searched the recreation room looking for him. I found him sitting with his best mate, Jack Devine, and looking as miserable as sin. Every time someone walked past, Wilkinson looked at them spitefully and spat in their direction. He was definitely in a bad mood. I smiled and pressed my foot on the floor. I could feel his small wad of notes in the bottom of my sock. I’d guarded it carefully the whole time I was in the infirmary and never took it out of my sock, even at night.
Thank you, Jesus, I thought.
‘Black was losing,’ Bernie said, ‘and it was broken up quite quickly by Arnold.’
‘Did Wilkinson use the high boot?’ I asked. I felt sure that he would have, as every fight I’d seen him in, he always followed up his first punch with a high kick to his opponent’s face. This move usually won the fight and also did quite a bit of damage.
Bernie nodded. ‘Black still has a swollen chin and a nasty-looking graze.’
‘Who’s been serving Mass?’ I asked. I had been the sole server for the last four months.
‘No one. A different brother did it every day.’ He took the part roll-up from his sock and relit it. He had a puff and handed it to me. ‘I hope they haven’t found our tobacco in the vestry.’
‘They’d have had to remove all the boxes of hosts. It’s hidden right at the back.’ I took in a large lungful of smoke and handed the small burning butt back to Bernie. He managed somehow to get another two puffs before he burnt his fingers on the glowing end.
He cursed loudly. ‘Fuck it. I’m always doing that.’ He ground the butt into the floor until nothing of it remained. He looked furtively around the room to make sure he hadn’t been seen smoking. He groaned when he saw Brother Ambrose pointing at him and writing in his small notebook. ‘That’s three times this week,’ he said. ‘At this rate I’ll be getting a red-poor.’
I laughed. I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t have a red-poor week. I always seemed to be getting booked for some infringement of the rules and had long given up trying not to get booked. The quarter of a day’s holiday mattered nothing to me because in most respects I was better off here than when I was at home. I sometimes envied Bernie when he spoke about his home and the fun he had there. His father sounded like a great guy and was always sending Bernie money to go in his school account. All the tobacco Bernie smuggled into the school after going home was bought for him by his father, and Bernie said that he was always met at Barnet Station when he went home. They had a good father and son relationship and I wished from the bottom of my heart that I had the same with mine – but then, if I had, I wouldn’t be in Vincent’s.
Brother Francis came into the recreation room and walked purposely over to where we were sitting. He had disliked me from the very first day I arrived at Vincent’s when he saw the insubordination in my expression and gave me a beating with his fists and his views hadn’t changed over the last seven months. I had done nothing to improve his opinion of me and quite often smoked on his duty so that he would see I didn’t give a shit about him or the stupid rules. He scowled at me and said, ‘Brother De Montfort wants to see you. Get over to his office straight away.’
I stood up and followed him out of the recreation room and across the yard. As we entered the main building Brother Francis turned around to face me. He said, ‘As far as I’m concerned you’ve deserved everything that has happened to you. You don’t fool me. I know you’re a conniving little bastard and that you have no respect for anyone. The only reason you serve Mass is to further your own ends. If I had my way you’d never serve again.’ He slapped me hard across my left cheek. ‘Wipe that look off your face. I can see what you’re thinking.’
I lowered my eyes to the floor. I must have a very expressive face as I hadn’t intended to show the contempt I felt for him. I suddenly realised that I hadn’t flinched when he hit me. I wondered if I was becoming immune to ill treatment or if I was getting harder? Bernie was right: I was changing. I was no longer the same frightened child as the one who had come into the school all those months before.
Brother Francis was staring at me. I could feel his eyes boring into me and I had to fight the urge to stare back. That would have been stupid and would only have brought on another assault. I created in my mind a picture of Brother Francis in the nude and his withered willy dropping off onto the floor. I increased the size of the picture so that all of the Brothers were standing naked and all of their willies were dropping off. My mind was soon filled with grotesque images of blood pouring from damaged crotches and I had to blink several times to erase them from my mind. Brother Francis spun on his heel and we carried on our way to De Montfort’s office.
Brother De Montfort was sitting at his desk and Father Delaney was talking quietly to him as I was brought in. They both looked up in my direction and Father Delaney smiled. ‘How are you now, John?’
‘I’m fine, Father.’
Brother De Montfort’s face was impassive. ‘Father Delaney and I have been wondering how we can reward you for all the services and chapel duties you performed during the time of Brother Ephraim’s death. We thought that a suitable reward would be to allow you to go to the cinema on a Saturday afternoon for the next six weeks. Also, to allow you to go home on the next first Sunday of the month.’ He smiled coldly. ‘So, no matter what your points are, you get to go to the pictures and get to go home.’
‘Thank you,’ I said politely. ‘What do I use for money to go to the pictures? I never seem to get any points, so I never get any money.’
‘You’ll be paid for eighteen points no matter what you get.’ He looked at Father Delaney. ‘Is that satisfactory, Father?’
Father Delaney nodded his approval. ‘You deserve it, John. You worked really hard and I was told by the Bishop to pass on his compliments to you on how well you pronounced the responses. I do believe that he thought Latin was taught in the classroom here.’
Brother De Montfort looked pleased. ‘I told you when you came here that I would allow you to serve Mass if you were bright enough. Well, you proved to us that you were and now you’re being complimented by the Bishop. I agree with Father Delaney; you deserve these privileges.’
I didn’t want any compliments from De Montfort and I wasn’t going to acknowledge any. I looked at Father Dela
ney and smiled. ‘Thank you, Father. I couldn’t have done it without your help.’
‘Well, that’s settled.’ De Montfort stood up. ‘You can go back to the school now.’
I was in no doubt that my good fortune was due to the intervention of Father Delaney. He was the most decent man I’d ever come across in my life.
Chapter 13
24 December 1958
Three months later, at mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve, I was in Dartford Station waiting for the Charing Cross train. Most of the boys had gone home on the morning of 22nd December and were returning on the evening of the 28th. Because I had lost three and three-quarter days off my holiday I had to stay in school until 2.30 in the afternoon on the 24th and return a day early on the 27th.
I shivered as an icy blast of air swept along the platform. As I looked along the track I saw a cloud of smoke approaching, then the train pulled up at the station with a noisy screeching of brakes and a loud gush of escaping steam. I climbed into an empty third-class carriage and settled myself comfortably in the window seat. I rolled a cigarette and scratched a red match into life on the carriage door. The smoke burned its way down into my lungs and I savoured the aromatic stream I blew out of my mouth, which quickly permeated the air.
I looked idly out of the window and up at the billowing clouds that were moving across the sky. They had a faded yellowy tint to them and belched out an occasional flurry of fine snow, which swirled around the pavements and roads in powdery whirlpools. An elderly woman hobbled along the platform and glanced into my carriage. Her face was white and pinched with the cold and her watery blue eyes showed her disappointment when she saw it was already occupied. She disappeared from sight and I heard the sound of the next carriage door opening and closing.
The train jerked and emitted three or four loud blasts of steam before slowly and laboriously pulling out of the station. The smoke from the engine was being blown along the side of the carriages and gave an appearance of drifting fog. Although I was quite warm now, I shivered at the sight. I only had a thin jacket and it hardly gave me any protection. I said a silent prayer to keep the weather fine until I reached home, but it was in vain; large snowflakes began falling from the sky and soon hid the countryside outside from view. I looked out at the swirling snow and silently cursed my bad luck. Already a layer of snow was forming on the edges of the windows and the inside of the glass was misting up. I rubbed my window with the sleeve of my jacket and made a porthole in the mist but all I could see was a blanket of snow gusting past. ‘Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.’ I swore loudly three times.
Over the last three months I had grown to hate cold weather. I stared down at my hands, remembering how I dreaded the sound of Brother Francis’s footsteps coming down the dormitory corridor. The man had become a living nightmare. He kept telling me that I needed to be taught humility. What the fuck was humility? I had to look the word up before I understood what he was going on about. It wouldn’t have made any difference to him if I had humbled myself to everybody and everyone, he would have still punished me. He just never liked me from that very first day when he saw my expression after he had hit Bernie.
It was in the middle of October when he first came to my dormitory at night and ordered me out of bed. He walked over to one of the large sash windows and lifted the bottom half, then signalled me across to where he was standing.
‘I am determined to teach you humility,’ he said. ‘Since you’ve been here your attitude has not improved. You may have fooled Father Delaney but you certainly haven’t fooled me.’ He pointed out into the darkness. ‘Stand out there.’
I looked fearfully out at where he was pointing. Two foot below the window sill was the flat bitumen roof of the recreation room. It ran the entire length of the dormitories and stretched out thirty feet in front of the windows. The bitumen was still wet from some earlier rain and small puddles rippled on it as the night breeze gusted over them. I found it hard to believe that he meant me to climb out and stand on it in just my nightshirt. I said incredulously, ‘You want me to stand out there?’
‘Don’t question me. Just do as you’re told.’ He pushed me towards the open window. I could hear the sniggering of the other boys in the dormitory.
I climbed gingerly out of the window and lowered my feet onto the roof. It was wet and cold. The wind blew my nightshirt tight against my body and a freezing draught gusted up my legs and onto my crotch. I folded my arms against my chest and warmed my hands by tucking them under my armpits. I squeezed the tops of my legs together and rested one foot on top of the other. Brother Francis had closed the window and stood peering out at me with his ugly boxer’s face. My teeth began to chatter and my feet throbbed as the freezing water chilled them to the bone. I tried to stop my teeth chattering by gripping my jaws firmly shut but this only resulted in my whole head shaking. It seemed to me that the heavens themselves were laughing at me as the force of the wind increased and my nightshirt billowed up.
I don’t know how long I was out there – it seemed like an eternity – but I know it was over fifteen minutes. When, at last, Brother Francis reopened the window and called me in, I ran shaking to my bed and dived under the bedclothes. I honestly think that I would have preferred the cane.
I had been forced to endure this punishment at least three times a week over the last two months but as the weather got colder my resilience seemed to get stronger. I still felt the cold and I dreaded going out onto the roof but I was determined not to let that piece of shit Francis get the better of me. I no longer rushed to my bed and dived under the covers. I walked back to my bed and picked up my book to continue reading. My hands still shook and I found it difficult to turn the page but, whilst he was in the room, I showed no weakness. Fuck you, I would think.
Meanwhile, I had secured my position in the school football team. I hadn’t yet had a game for the first eleven but I was always playing at right back for the second eleven, and we were doing well in the Kent League. I soon learned that there was as much bullying done on the pitch as there was in the school. Mostly it was against players on the opposite team but occasionally, if someone’s performance wasn’t up to scratch, against the guilty team member. Losing a game was unheard of and I sometimes felt sorry for the opposition as our lads crunched into them in very hard, but fair, tackles. I hadn’t come across one boy on an opposing team who could do a sliding tackle and their sports masters would shake their heads and complain if one of their team hit the floor. The tackles were fair but too advanced for most of our competitors.
Occasionally, the odd boy would retaliate against us and that always brought a swift punch in the mouth and a sending off for one of our team. Tom Banks never disciplined any of us for fighting on the pitch as he said it was a contact sport and occasionally tempers were bound to be lost. I had only been in one little scuffle with an opposing player, when he tried to kick me after I had tackled him. I jumped on him and we both fell to the floor but, before I could hit him with my head, the fight was broken up and we both got sent to the dressing room. Tom Banks complained about my being sent off as he said the other player had tried to maim me with a kick, but his complaint got nowhere. We were both found guilty of fighting.
Jimmy Wilkinson still took a perverse delight in bullying me. There were very few days when I was not spat at or pushed. Occasionally I’d get the odd bang in the mouth as I walked past but he avoided my dormitory and that was the most important thing to me. Every day my hatred for him increased. I still hadn’t forgiven myself for allowing him to assault me in the toilet and I was determined that one day there would be a reckoning. I had now mastered another fighting tactic. Practising with Bernie, I could confidently catch his foot every time he tried to kick me in the head.
I peered out of the window again. It was still snowing but now darkness was beginning to obscure the countryside as well. I took out my tobacco and rolled myself another cigarette. I seemed to be smoking more than ever and I idly checked to make sure I had enou
gh to last me the next few days. I had close to an ounce of Golden Virginia and two packets of cigarette papers. I decided that I would buy more when I arrived in Ealing. The money I had stolen from Wilkinson would be put to good use during the next few days. I intended to buy my mother some chocolates for Christmas and some of her favourite cigarettes as well. The train was beginning to slow down and I strained my eyes to make out the name of the station we were pulling in to. I could just read ‘Bexleyheath’ on the station board and the shapes of a few people standing on the platform. I lit my roll-up and flicked the spent match onto the floor by the opposite door.
I hastily moved my feet backwards as my carriage door was flung open. A man and a woman climbed in and the man reached backwards and slammed the carriage door shut with a resounding bang. He glanced in my direction before stamping his feet on the floor to dislodge the snow stuck to his shoes. The woman looked at me and smiled. She asked, ‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’ I nodded my head and turned to look back out of the window. I would have much preferred it if they had got in someone else’s carriage and left me alone in mine.
By the time we reached Charing Cross Station the carriage had filled up with people and I was looking forward to getting out. Most of them were carrying festive packages and talking loudly. A man sitting next to me kept drinking out of a bottle in a brown paper bag and blowing foul-smelling cigar smoke over me. He was irritating me and I wished I was older so that I could have thrown him out of the carriage and on to the track. I was apprehensive about going home and my nerves were on edge.
As we pulled into the station everyone stood up and said ‘Happy Christmas’ to all and sundry. I opened the carriage door and jumped out without a word or a backward glance.
They might well have a happy Christmas but I didn’t have a clue what lay in store for me. If past Christmases were anything to go by it would be far from a happy time. I hurried out of the station and down the escalator to the tube train.
