# Please Don’t Make Me Go: How One Boy’s Courage Overcame A Brutal Childhood

John Fenton

The harrowing true story of one boy’s experiences in a brutal ‘approved’ school for young offenders in ‘50s London, run by Catholic monks where violence and abuse were rife.Beaten from an early age by his abusive, father, John struggled to fit in at school where his poverty marked him out. When, aged 13, his father brought a charge against him in order to remove him from the family home, John found himself in Juvenile Court – from here he was sent to the notorious St. Vincent’s school, run by a group of Catholic Irish Brothers.Beatings and abuse were a part of daily life – both from John’s fellow pupils, but also from the brothers, all of which was overseen by the sadistic headmaster, Brother De Montfort. Tormented physically and sexually by one boy in particular, and by the Brothers in general, John quickly learnt to survive but at the cost of the loss of his childhood.Please Don’t Make Me Go, tells in heart-rending detail the day-to-day lives of John and the other boys – the beatings, the weapons fashioned from toilet chains and stones, the loneliness – but we also see the development of John’s love of reading, his growing friendship with Father Delaney and his best friend, Bernard, and his unstinting love for his mother whom he feared was suffering at the hands of his violent father.A painfully honest account, Please Don’t Make Me Go is testament to the resilience of the human spirit as it documents how John learnt to survive and come through his ordeal.

## Please don't make me go

How one boy’s courage

overcame a brutal childhood

JOHN FENTON


## Copyright

This book is based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, some names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

Harper NonFiction

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperElement 2008

© John Fenton 2008

John Fenton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007263769

Ebook Edition SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007283835

Version: 2017-04-28

## Dedication

For Shelley and Maggie

Your support and faith were inspirational to me

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Mum and I were sitting at the kitchen table, eating bread and jam and talking about what we would do if we won the football pools. The top prize, £75,000, was a fortune to us. We often discussed this and I never got bored of speculating about all the great things we could do together, such as buy a big new house, go on holiday to the seaside, and get a television set of our own. I loved those moments of closeness with my mother when I got home from school in the afternoon. It was just the two of us in our private little world.

I flung my arms out to indicate how big my new bedroom would be and my sleeve accidentally caught the edge of my plate. It toppled off the table then seemed to fall in slow motion to the floor, where it smashed into tiny pieces. My remaining slice of bread fell jam-side down on the wreckage.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said, slipping from my chair to pick up the pieces.

‘Not to worry. Accidents happen. Careful you don’t cut yourself.’

Suddenly we both froze as the floorboards of the room above creaked. My mother looked up at the ceiling fearfully. The sounds of my father moving around his bedroom always signalled the end of our little tête-à-têtes. She hurried into the scullery and lit the gas under the kettle, holding her finger to her lips to signal that I should be very quiet.

I quickly gathered the broken plate and dropped it in the bin, then hurried to the far side of the table, opened my English homework book and pretended I was engrossed in my studies. I could hear my father’s footsteps stamping down the stairs and all of a sudden I wanted to pee. I always got the urge to pee when trouble was imminent.

The scullery door burst open and my father rushed in. He scowled angrily at my mum and strode purposely over to where I was sitting.

‘You little bastard.’ His right hand shot out and slapped me hard around my ear. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to be quiet when you get in from school?’

My Dad worked nights as a bus cleaner, so he slept during the day.

‘Leave him alone,’ Mum screamed. ‘We were just talking quietly.’ Acknowledgement

‘This one doesn’t know the meaning of the word “quiet”.’ He clipped my ear again and Mum rushed over to try and grab his arm.

‘Stop it!’ she yelled. ‘You only pick on him because he’s too young to hit you back. You wouldn’t dare pick on someone your own size.’

Mum’s sharp tongue often got her into trouble with Dad. This time, he drew back his fist and punched her hard in the centre of her face. She stumbled backwards and held up her hands to protect herself as Dad let loose a flurry of punches. One of them hit her high on the head and she slid down and sat dazed on the floor. Her nose and mouth were bleeding and she was totally at his mercy.

I was screaming at him to stop and in desperation I kicked him on the shin. It was the first time I had dared to attack him. I was only nine years old and a skinny, wiry kid – definitely no match for him – but I had to do something to protect my mother. He turned and backhanded me across the room.

‘So you think you’re big enough to fight me, do you?’ He smiled as he picked me up by the scruff of my neck and one of my legs. ‘I’ll show you how big you are, you little bastard.’ He threw me with all his strength across the kitchen. I crashed onto the table and bounced into the chairs. They toppled over backwards and I landed on my back on the chair legs, hurt and winded.

Dad glanced round at Mum, who was slumped on the floor, then back at me, and he seemed satisfied with his handiwork. I’d seen that expression before. He got real pleasure from being violent, as if it released all his pent-up tension. Through the pain I heard the scullery door slam shut and the sound of his footsteps going back up the stairs.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t catch my breath. I just lay gasping. Suddenly my mother was beside me and her hands were desperately trying to disentangle me from the chair legs. She was sobbing bitterly. ‘Are you alright, darling? Oh, he’s a wicked man.’

She lifted me up by my waist and I saw that her nose and mouth were bleeding, dripping large drops of blood onto the floor.

‘Please tell me you’re alright.’ Once she had got me upright, Mum wrapped me in her arms and we clung to each other for ages, both trembling and crying.

I watched my mother as she rinsed her face under the cold tap in the scullery. I had seen her do this so many times before and it always broke my heart. I loved her so much but there was nothing I could do to stop the endless misery she was suffering at my father’s hands.

Later, after Dad had left for work, we listened to our favourite programme ‘Journey Into Space’ on the radio, and tried to pretend nothing had happened. We were big fans of Jet Morgan and his crew and I always imagined that one day Mum and I would blast off into space on a spaceship like the Luna: travelling far, far away, through countless galaxies, never returning and living a life full of happiness and amazing adventures.

There is something comforting in dreams. Anything is possible and you can escape the misery of your day-to-day life. I often wished I could just live in a dream world and never wake up.

My Mum and Dad should never have married. They didn’t love each other. They only married because he got her pregnant in a moment of lust and in those days, with the stigma attached to being a single mother and the shame that would be brought on the whole family by her condition, there was only one course of action left open to them. But right from the start it was a marriage made in hell.

My mother was a fun-loving girl of eighteen. She was very bright, but was forced to leave school at fifteen and work in a shop in London to help support her mother. The fifteen shillings a week she brought in was all that kept the family from going under. My father was thirty years old and had recently arrived from Wexford in southern Ireland. He’d come to England looking for work and had got a part-time job as a barman in the West End. It was in this bar that he met my mother.

Elizabeth, my sister, was born in May 1939 just six months into their marriage. Four months later the Second World War broke out and my father enlisted in the army. Because he had flat feet, he was given a home posting in the big army stores in Southampton. This meant that he could get back to London quite regularly and, as a result of one visit, my mother gave birth to my second sister, Jean, in October 1942. Then, on April 22nd, 1944 I exploded into the world. My mother told me that I had rushed my way out – but maybe it was because a V1 rocket had gone off a few streets away at the critical moment.

My father was a small, slightly built Irishman. He was strictly teetotal; both his parents had died from alcohol abuse and, like so many small men, he walked around with a permanent chip on his shoulder. He fancied himself as a ladies’ man and went from affair to affair without a shadow of remorse. He had no qualms about hitting women and it was not long before my mother felt the power of his fist in her face. He had a job on London Transport as a night cleaner for the buses. He was not averse to hard work, so earned a decent wage, but never divulged the amount to my mother and only gave her the minimum for food. All of his extra money went on keeping up his appearance and conducting his extramarital affairs.

My earliest memories are blurred snatches of pictures here and there, but violence was always around – from the Carmelite nuns who used to whack our hands with a bamboo cane at my first primary school through to Dad’s explosions of temper at home. By the age of seven, just after my kid sister Jennifer was born, I had a pronounced nervous stammer and had to attend a speech therapy clinic in Hanwell. The therapist gave me tongue-twisting exercises to repeat. I still remember one: ‘Look at Lily, Lily up the lamppost; come down Lily, you do look silly.’

Because of my stammer I became a prime target for the bullies in my school. Having a stammer was nearly as bad as having to wear glasses, which got you called ‘four eyes’. Whenever I had to stand up to read aloud, the entire class would look in my direction and start sniggering. This made me stammer even more and the teacher would tell me angrily to sit down again. It wasn’t long before I developed a massive inferiority complex and tried to hide in the background away from the cruel jibes and laughter.

St Gregory’s Catholic Primary School was situated in an affluent part of Ealing and most of the children came from quite wealthy backgrounds. Mum had very little money, so while the clothes I wore were clean, they never came close to being like the other children’s. She had a nose for finding the best bargains in a jumble sale and she’d carefully scrub them in the large stone copper in the scullery. I was always excited when I tried them on, never noticing the odd frayed collar or sewed-up hole in my trousers. I’d feel proud as I strutted off to school with my nice new clothes but I was soon brought back down to earth when the children laughed and taunted me unmercifully about the way I looked. I stood out like a sore thumb in my shabby, secondhand clothes.

I hated having to get changed into my sports kit to play football. My underwear, vest and pants, were always hand-me-downs from my two older sisters. I complained to mum on several occasions about wearing girl’s knickers but she told me not to be stupid as no-one could see what I was wearing under my trousers. She had no idea the taunts I had to endure from the other boys when they saw them. ‘He’s got a fanny!’ was their favourite. I would feign illness to avoid school on days when we had physical education or sports. If I was forced to go I would sneak into one of the toilet cubicles and struggle into my kit in private.

My home life was equally unhappy. My father seemed to hate me and would hit me unmercifully for no apparent reason. On my eighth birthday, I remember I went into the back garden with my mother and sisters to play a game of cricket with a bat and ball my grandmother had given me. I accidentally hit the ball against the kitchen window and cracked a pane of glass. My father rushed out into the garden and pulled one of the cricket stumps out of the ground then proceeded to beat me all over my back and legs with it. The beating went on for two or three minutes, and when at last he stopped, I was left on the ground unable to move. My mother kept me off school for over two weeks until the bruising had gone.

Of course, she fared no better. I lost count of the number of times she came crawling into my bed of a night after yet another violent row. She was always inconsolable. I would cuddle up to her in the hope that it would make her feel better, but it was always to no avail. On these occasions it was the sound of her whimpering that sent me into a troubled sleep. I grew to hate my father and promised myself that when I was grown up there would be a reckoning.

He usually got out of bed around four o’clock in the afternoon. I never knew what to expect when I arrived home from school. Sometimes I would hear the shouting before I entered the house and would sneak up to my room and bury my head under my pillow to shut out the noise. Other times I would arrive home to find my mother already crying and my father scowling angrily. These were the worst times. Invariably, my father would hit me for just coming into the room. One day, I had fled the room screaming out how much I hated him. I went to my bedroom and cried myself to sleep but awoke some time later to the agonising pain of my father hitting me with a piece of timber, which he was wielding with exceptional ferocity. The next day at school I passed a lot of blood in my urine. It was then that I decided that my best option was to arrive home after six o’clock, which was when my father usually left for work.

My favourite place to go after school was Jacob’s Ladder railway crossing, where trains from Ealing Broadway and West Ealing passed under a bridge on their way to and from the West Country. I had a little book of train numbers and underlined them every time I saw a new train thundering down the track. It was always exciting when the Flying Scotsman came speeding by. I would run to the part of the bridge where the funnel smoke would engulf me in a thick cloud and breathe in the glorious aroma of smoke and steam. Sometimes I was enjoying myself so much that I would still be there at seven.

But I couldn’t stay out of my father’s way all the time. There were still weekends to get through and the evenings when he started work at a later hour. By the time I was twelve years old I had become hardened to my father’s beatings and nastiness, and I no longer hid with fear in my room. Whenever I witnessed one of his violent outbursts against my mother I would do my best to help her. I would try to kick him or throw something at his head. This meant, of course, that I got another beating but at least it stopped him hitting my mother. I hated him with a passion that was almost as strong as the adoration I felt for my mother. Often I would lie in bed and think about how I would pay him back in kind when I was older.

It seemed to me that things couldn’t get worse at home, but on a January day in 1958 I found out that they could. Dad and Gran had joint tenancy of the house we lived in. He hated her living with us, even though she only inhabited the front room and rarely came out of it. She hated him for the way he treated her daughter. They rarely spoke to each other and, when they were forced to, the conversation was always strained with underlying venom.

On that day Gran had come into the scullery to fill her kettle with water and my father was shaving in the mirror over the sink. She reached across to turn on the tap and accidentally jogged his arm, causing him to nick his face with his razor. He screamed out, ‘You clumsy old bitch. Get back in your own room.’ She retorted, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t cut your throat.’ That was it. Sixteen years of pent-up fury was unleashed. He grabbed her by her scrawny throat and started to strangle her, making no allowance for the fact that she was an old woman, nearly deaf and half blind. My mother jumped on his back to pull him away and his anger was then diverted onto her. He started to beat her unmercifully and the sound of her screams brought me running into the room. I found my Gran on the floor, clutching her throat and gasping for air, and my mother getting beaten to a pulp over the cooker. I grabbed the first thing that came to hand – a three-inch, sharp vegetable knife.

‘Leave her alone, you bastard!’ I screamed.

My father turned to me. I knew it was my turn to face his fury and gripped the knife tightly. His face blanched noticeably when he spotted it and he said quietly, ‘What are you going to do with that?’

‘If you don’t leave them alone, I’ll kill you.’ My voice was trembling with emotion but my eyes showed that I wasn’t bluffing. I knew that this could be my moment of destiny and I welcomed it. I made a move towards him and couldn’t believe it when he ran from the room.

‘Give me the knife, John.’ My mother gently took it out of my hand. ‘Help me with Gran.’

We lifted Gran off the floor and sat her down in the kitchen. She was in shock and her whole body was shaking as if she had been out in the cold for days. My mother wrapped her in a coat and made her a cup of hot, sweet tea. It must have been at least two hours before she was fit enough to return to her room and, even then, she was still whimpering. We didn’t see my father for the next two days.

Life slowly returned to normal, but in my heart I knew that it was only a matter of time until my father had his revenge on me. What was he going to do? Would he kill me? These thoughts troubled my mind and kept me awake at night worrying.

The bright, early-morning sun shining through my threadbare bedroom curtains woke me from a troubled sleep. Momentarily, I struggled with drowsiness and reached down to adjust the coats that I had piled on top of my blanket to keep me warm. Suddenly, I became alert. Why was the sun shining? It was a school day. It was always dark when I got up for school in winter. I jumped out of bed and shivered as I placed my feet onto the cold, lino-covered floor. The book I had been reading the night before, The Count of Monte Cristo, was lying on the floor so I picked it up and put it back on the mantelpiece. I hurried downstairs to see why Mum hadn’t called me. I found her sitting in the kitchen weeping silently. My father was sitting on his stool by the coke boiler, tracing patterns in the air with the glowing tip of his cigarette.

‘Why didn’t you call me, Mum?’ I asked.

‘You’re coming out with me for the day,’ my Dad said as he looked up at me. ‘Get yourself dressed.’ I noticed that he was wearing his Sunday best clothes.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘Are we going to see Uncle John?’ I liked my father’s brother. He was nothing like my father and was always full of fun and mischief.

‘Maybe we will and maybe we won’t. You’ll just have to wait and see.’

I hurried back upstairs and quickly got dressed in my own Sunday clothes – basically my school clothes, but with a nice blue jumper that my mother had knitted for me. I looked at myself in the mirror: with my dark hair in the typical short, back and sides of the day, dark eyes and scrawny features, I didn’t think I was anything special.

When I came back downstairs there was a steaming bowl of porridge waiting on the table. I sprinkled it liberally with sugar and wolfed it down. I was eager to be on my way – treats in my life were rare and a day at my uncle’s was definitely a treat.

My father looked at his watch. ‘Right,’ he said ‘it’s time for us to go.’ My mother followed us to the front door. I turned to kiss her goodbye and she wrapped me tightly in her arms. She whispered, ‘Take care of yourself, John. Remember how much I love you.’

I was puzzled by her remarks and looked deeply into her tear-filled eyes. ‘I’ll be fine mum, don’t worry. I love you too.’

I was surprised when my father led the way towards West Ealing. I thought we would have gone to Ealing Broadway to catch an underground train to Paddington. I walked by his side, not speaking, but curious as to where we were headed.

We went over Jacob’s Ladder and I could see the Uxbridge Road in front of us. It suddenly occurred to me that we could get to Paddington by bus. I had never been by bus to my uncle’s and I wondered which way Paddington was. Just before the Uxbridge Road, my father led me down a side street and up some wide flagstone steps to a large red-bricked building. Above the door was a printed sign: ‘Ealing Juvenile Court.’

I stared at the sign. My heart started to race with fear. I said, ‘Why are we here?’

My father took hold of my arm firmly and led me through the door. ‘You’ll see when you get there. Don’t give me any trouble as,’ he pointed to a policeman standing in the entrance hall, ‘he’ll deal with you if you do.’

He pushed me towards the large room the policeman was standing in front of and said, ‘It’s nearly time for your hearing.’

I looked appealingly up at him. I begged, ‘Please don’t make me go. I promise to be good.’

He shoved me forward again and I walked into the juvenile court with my head bowed and feeling an overwhelming urge to pee.

Chapter 2

24 January 1958

I was led into a courtroom and made to stand in front of a purple-draped table, above which two fluorescent lights hung from a discoloured yellow ceiling. My foot tapped uncontrollably on the highly polished slats of the floor and my eyes flitted nervously round the room. There were policemen standing under every window and two especially burly ones guarding the entrance. I wondered why they thought such precautions were necessary when faced with a scrawny thirteen-year-old. What did they think I was going to do?

Behind me and slightly to the right sat my father, his cold blue eyes staring unblinkingly through gold-rimmed glasses. He was in deep conversation with a woman sitting next to him. I noticed how often she nodded her head sympathetically then glanced in my direction with a distaste that wrinkled her thin mouth into a crooked line of red lipstick that appeared to be underlining her bulbous nose.

‘Everybody rise.’

A man in a black pin-striped suit who had been sitting at a side table now stood up and looked around the room. Everyone stopped talking and rose to their feet.

A small anteroom door swung open and three people came in – one woman and two men. They walked purposefully to the draped table and, with the briefest glance at the assembled onlookers, sat in the three seats behind the table, the woman in the middle.

The men could have been twins they looked so alike. Both were wearing grey, pinstriped suits, white starch-collared shirts, military striped ties and black brogues. They both had slicked-back black hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. The woman was dressed extremely elegantly in a light-coloured tweed skirt and mohair sweater with a string of pearls round her neck. She had lovely twinkly grey eyes, and these calmed me a little. She seemed nice, I thought.

‘Case number 247 in respect of John Fenton. The charge is brought by his father, Dennis James Fenton, who states that his son is beyond parental control. You may all be seated.’

‘Mr Fenton,’ the nice woman said, ‘please come forward.’

I heard a movement behind me and then my father was standing beside me. I turned to look at him but he never glanced in my direction. He was looking straight ahead at the nice woman with an expression of self-pity on his face.

‘Mr Fenton, we have read the charge that you have brought against your son and would appreciate a little more enlightenment as to why you think he is beyond your control.’ The nice woman smiled at my father. ‘Take your time – we are in no hurry.’

My father coughed quietly to clear his throat. ‘Your Honour. His mother and I are at our wits’ end as to the boy’s behaviour. We’ve turned to you as a last resort.’ There was desperation in his voice. ‘Please help us.’

I turned to see if my father was crying, as this was said with such anguish.

‘He kicks and hits his sisters without any reason. He comes in late from school and never lets us know where he has been. He is rude to his mother and grandmother and seems to get a perverse delight in using wicked and vile language. If I try to give him any corporal punishment he turns violent and tries to attack me.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

‘Are you all right, Mr Fenton?’ the woman asked sympathetically. ‘Would you like a short recess?’

‘I’m sorry, Your Honour. I’ll be fine now. It’s so distressing.’ Again, the handkerchief came out and my father blew his nose loudly. ‘If only you knew what we’ve been through. He’ll send us to an early grave.’

I couldn’t believe my ears. I was supposed to be the violent one in the house? I was amazed at his tirade of lies.

‘I am sure we can help you, Mr Fenton. Try not to distress yourself.’ The woman sounded even more compassionate. ‘I have dealt with situations like this before and I have always found a solution.’

‘I do hope so.’ My father’s voice was now under control. ‘We want him to be a normal boy – play football, go swimming, work hard at school and be a success when he grows up. Did I tell you he smokes? Well, he does, and I’ve been called up to his school about it, and worse than that, he steals money and cigarettes from his mother’s handbag.’

I turned to look at him, but he wouldn’t catch my eye.

The three magistrates were regarding my father with sympathy. He seemed to be having difficulty controlling his emotions and sniffed loudly behind a large white handkerchief. With an exaggerated wiping of his eyes he put the handkerchief away in his jacket pocket.

‘Thank you, Mr Fenton. I know how hard it must have been for you and your wife to take this course of action and I will now do my very best to help you both.’ She smiled sweetly at my father. ‘Please return to your seat.’

‘Well, John, what have you got to say for yourself?’ The woman’s eyes were no longer twinkling; they had turned flinty grey. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘Explain what?’ I thought. I didn’t know what to say. My dad had just told her a giant pack of lies. Why wasn’t Mum there to tell her that I only attacked him when he was hitting her and making her cry? Why wasn’t she there to tell this court woman that I bought my own cigarettes from the wages I got doing a milk boy’s job every Saturday and Sunday? Why wasn’t she there to tell her that I didn’t come home early from school because I knew my dad got out of bed at that time and he was always angry with me? Why wasn’t she there to tell her that most nights she climbed into my bed crying after yet another violent row with my father and how I cuddled her to make it better?

‘I am waiting for your explanation.’ The woman glared at me.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I tried to mask the trembling in my voice, ‘and anyway it’s got nothing to do with you.’ I was too ashamed to tell her the truth about my home life.

As if one, the three people behind the table were gawping at me with incredulity. ‘It has nothing to do with me! I can’t believe what I have just heard.’ The woman virtually spat out the words. ‘I’ll show you what it has to do with me.’

They huddled together in a hushed conversation for a few minutes then she addressed me again. ‘It is quite clear’, she began, ‘that you have a total lack of respect for anything and everyone. You seem to be hell-bent on self-destruction and because of this we have to protect you and society from what you, no doubt, are becoming.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘Therefore, it is the ruling of this court that you be remanded in a secure young persons’ establishment for a period of two weeks while reports are obtained.’

The three people behind the table stood up. Without another glance in my direction, they returned through the small door from which they had appeared.

What was all that about? I didn’t have a clue what had just been decided. I turned around to go back to my father but found he was no longer beside me and was, in fact, walking towards the exit. I started to follow him but a strong hand on my arm halted my progress.

‘You’re with me, sonny Jim.’

I looked up at a burly police officer.

‘Don’t even think of trying to get away,’ he said. ‘Just come along with me.’

The officer led me out of the courtroom and down a corridor. His grip on my arm became tighter as he opened a glass-panelled door and led me through.

‘Take a seat,’ he said firmly, ‘and no noise.’ These words were spoken so forcibly that they sounded like a threat. I quickly sat down and stared at the floor, utterly terrified. I had never had any dealings with the police before and this man was scaring the shit out of me.

The police officer stationed himself in the corridor opposite the door and stood staring at me through the windows. I looked around the room. It was about twelve foot square with no windows. The walls were green and defaced in places by names scratched on them. The floor was covered in faded green linoleum that was cracking noticeably in one of the corners. The only furniture was an equally defaced wooden table and six black plastic chairs. I checked the chair I was sitting on and found it was black plastic as well.

It seemed an interminably long time before the door was opened again. The officer asked if I needed the toilet but the nervous urge I’d had in the courtroom had passed, so I declined. It was shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon when they came to fetch me. I knew the time as I had heard a clock chime somewhere in the building. The two men that came were not as fearsome-looking as the one outside the door but they were equally as forceful. They led me by my arms out of the building and into a blue van with bars across the side and back windows.

‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked, at last plucking up the courage to speak.

‘St Nicholas House, Enfield,’ was the terse reply from the driver. That was all that was said during the thirty-minute journey out of London and into Middlesex. I was overcome with fear and confusion and battling within myself not to cry. Why was this happening? What had I done to deserve this? Who was going to look after Mum? I badly wanted my Mum to come and get me, tell these men it was all a mistake, give me a big hug and take me back home again.

Chapter 3

The van turned off the main highway and through a stone archway onto a long drive, which cut through some dense woods. After about five minutes of twisting and turning, a large Georgian manor house came into view. I was struck by how white it was and how big the windows were. I had never been in the country before and had certainly never seen such a magnificent building. If this was St Nicholas House, it didn’t look at all intimidating and I was looking forward to seeing the insides. My fear was dissipating and rapidly being replaced by excitement. I imagined that this must be how people felt when they went on holiday. I had never been on holiday and had always envied the rich children who went away to places like Southend and Margate that to me sounded exotic.

The van pulled up in front of two large wooden doors and I was led in through one. The interior of the building was even more inspiring than the exterior. The huge entrance hall had a floor of grey marble flagstones, which seemed to reflect all of the winter sunlight shining through the large windows. Everywhere I looked there were huge double doors with ornate brass doorknobs, or white walls with beautiful carved cornices. A wide marble staircase with a well-polished banister dominated the hallway.

The van driver knocked softly on one of the doors and opened it in the same motion. I was led into a large room whose grandeur was diminished by lots of modern office furniture. Several people were sitting behind desks and the clicking of typewriters reverberated. A suited man got up from his desk, came over to one of my escorts, and took the sheaf of papers he was holding out. His eyes briefly scanned the papers.

‘That’s fine,’ he said in a Geordie accent that sounded peculiar to me.

‘He’s all yours. See you later.’ My escorts let go of my arms and left without a backward glance. I heard the van engine start up again and the sound fading as it pulled away down the drive.

‘What size shoes do you wear?’

I turned to look at the suited man, who was eyeing me questioningly.

‘Six, sir,’ I said timidly.

The man went to a side cupboard and rummaged around for a few minutes. When he reappeared, his arms were piled high with items of clothing. He dropped them at my feet.

‘Pick them up and follow me.’

With great difficulty, I scooped them up from the floor and hurried after the man who was now climbing the staircase.

‘Get a move on boy,’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

I staggered under the precariously balanced pile and hurried to catch him up.

‘In here.’ The man opened a door halfway along the upstairs corridor. ‘Take all your own clothes off and put them in that basket.’

He gestured to a large wicker basket leaning against a side wall. The room was obviously meant for washing as there were two large sinks on the far wall and several on the floor. I had never seen washbasins on the floor before. As if the man had been reading my mind, he pointed to one of them.

‘Shower yourself and make sure you do your hair well. I will be checking for lice.’

Self-consciously, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the basin. It took me a few nervous minutes to figure out how this new-fangled contraption worked but at last I did and the lukewarm water felt good as it pelted down on my shivering body. The soap the man handed to me smelled the same as the one my mother used for scrubbing the front doorstep at home. After about five minutes of heavy soaping and scrubbing I was handed a threadbare white towel. I rubbed myself dry and dressed myself in the clothes the man had given me.

The clothes were far from being new but were definitely clean. They had a distinct odour of mothballs and I wrinkled my nose as I put them on. The vest and underpants were a greyish white and the shirt – which was too large – was blue and had a frayed collar. The brown corduroy short trousers were slightly tight but the matching tunic jacket fitted me well. To round everything off, I had grey ankle socks and a pair of well-worn-in brown sandals.

After briefly inspecting my hair and scalp, the man pointed at the wicker basket I’d put my clothes in.

‘Bring that and follow me,’ he ordered as he walked away. Virtually scampering, I followed him as we retraced our route back to the entrance hall. Pointing at the floor outside the office door he said, ‘Leave the basket there and come with me.’

This time the man opened one of the doors to the left of the staircase. I heard the voices of lots of young people coming from within and entered the room with trepidation.

‘One for you, Mr Jenkins,’ the man shouted across the noise.

A silver-haired man came over. ‘What’s your name, lad?’ he boomed out.

‘John Fenton, sir,’ I replied quietly.

‘Right, Fenton, go and meet the others and try not to make too much noise.’

There were about thirty boys in the room, their ages ranging from nine to sixteen years old. I was self-conscious about my appearance, but relieved to see that everyone was dressed in the same ill-fitting apparel as me. They paid me scant attention and just carried on with their various activities. Some were sitting talking, others were playing board games, and a few were standing by a table-tennis table watching two of the older boys having a game.

‘Where are you from?’ I turned to see where the voice had come from. A boy of about the same age as me was standing beside me. ‘I’m from Barnet.’

‘I’m from Ealing,’ I replied. ‘Where’s Barnet? I’ve never heard of it.’

The boy looked shocked at my ignorance. ‘Everyone’s heard of Barnet. Are you fucking stupid?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘If you’re so fucking clever,’ I emphasised the word fucking, ‘tell me where Ealing is.’

The boy laughed loudly. ‘That’s fucked me.’ He looked at me with a friendly expression. ‘My name’s Bernard. What’s yours?’

I smiled back. ‘John, John Fenton. What’s your last name?’

‘Connors.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘What are you in here for?’

‘I don’t know. My dad said he was taking me out for the day and I ended up in Juvenile Court. Next minute I was told I had to come here for reports. I haven’t a clue what they were talking about or what happened.’ I felt tears springing to my eyes and turned away so the boy wouldn’t see them and think me soft.

‘You’re lucky. They’re just going to do probation reports. You’ll be going home the next time you go to court.’ Bernard spoke with such assurance that I immediately felt better. Then he added, ‘I’ve had probation already – this time I’m going down.’

‘Going down where?’ I was in awe of the way Bernard spoke. ‘What have you done?’

‘Played truant. Nothing big, just truant.’ He laughed again. ‘The wankers were always round my house. My old lady would take me into school and I would leg it out the back gate. I hated the fucking place.’

‘So what happens to you now?’ My admiration for him was growing by the minute.

‘I reckon I’ll get three years’ approved school,’ he told me. ‘Quite likely I’ll go to St Vincent’s. I’m a Catholic. Yer, I’ll get Vincent’s.’

‘Let’s go and sit down.’ Bernard started towards an empty table. ‘I’ll put you wise as to what goes on here.’

I listened intently as my new friend outlined the daily procedure at St Nicholas’s. The routine was simple. Out of bed at 6.30 am. Wash and shower and then tidy the dormitory. Get dressed and go down for breakfast at 7.30 am. Between 8.30 and 10 am scrub and clean the interior of the house. After the morning house inspection it was off to help the gardener with weeding and cutting the lawns. At 1 pm lunch and at 1.30 until 2 pm recreation. Between 2 and 4 pm it was back to helping the gardener. All boys were required to bathe after work and to be inspected for cleanliness. Tea was at 5.30 pm and there was further recreation between 6 and 7.30 pm. We would then be given a watery cup of cocoa and a slice of bread and jam. Into bed by 8 pm and lights out at 9 pm.

All the boys smoked. It was strictly forbidden, but that made not the slightest difference and boys were always being caught having a crafty smoke in some shaded part of the building. The ‘Bosses’ – the name given by the boys to all who worked in ‘St Nick’s’ – tried their hardest to stamp it out, but always failed. I was amazed at the hiding places Bernard showed me to secure my cigarettes so they were not found in the frequent searches. They were taped underneath the table tennis table, or in the potting shed in the garden, or inside the chimneys. Visitors usually smuggled cigarettes in on a Sunday. One of the gardeners would also buy them for you if you had the money. The Bosses were fighting a losing battle and this alone made smoking worthwhile.

I followed Bernard around like an obedient lapdog. He made sure that I sat next to him in the dining room and he showed me how to get a steaming mug of tea out of the silver tea urn on the serving counter. He also advised me what were the best sandwiches to put on my plate and how to sneak food out of the dining room so that I could have a feast later in bed. The only thing he couldn’t do was arrange an exchange of dormitories so that I slept in the same one as him. He patted me on the back as I headed towards my room and said, ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

I walked into my dormitory and looked nervously around me. Bernard had been my support since I arrived, but now I was on my own again. There were eight beds in the room and I didn’t have a clue which one was mine. I looked at a boy who was sitting on the bed closest to the door and asked quietly, ‘Which is mine?’

He pointed to the other end of the room and said, ‘The one under the window.’

Even though all the boys were friendly, I felt ill at ease. I was embarrassed as I slipped out of my clothes and struggled into an ill-fitting pair of striped pyjamas. I had never exposed my body to other boys’ scrutiny and did my very best to hide my willy from their view. I dived into bed and pulled the bedclothes up tight under my chin then watched enviously as my room mates larked around and threw pillows and books at each other. I would have loved to join in but I didn’t have that sort of confidence, so I watched and laughed at their stupid antics from the confines of my bed. Mr Grey, one of the Bosses, soon appeared in the doorway and ordered everyone into their beds. He looked around the room to make sure everything was in order and turned off the light.

‘Goodnight boys and no more noise,’ he said as he closed the door behind him.

I think I half expected the riotous fun to continue and I was surprised when, apart from a few snickers, the room fell into silence. I lay quietly staring up at the ceiling and listening to the muffled sounds of the house settling down for the night. My mind was racing and I blessed my good fortune at having been sent to such a fun place. I closed my eyes and said my prayers and asked Jesus to watch over my mum. Momentarily I worried about her, but without warning the day’s events overtook me and I fell into an exhausted but happy sleep.

The first five days flew past for me. I had never had such a good time. Bernard taught me how to play table tennis, and although I was well and truly thrashed every time, I loved the game. Boys seemed to come and go and Bernard always knew what had happened at their court appearances. Trevor, a ten-year-old, had come back from court crying and was put into the infirmary for a few days. Bernard told me that he had been given three years in a junior approved school and the Bosses were keeping him in the infirmary so he couldn’t try to run away. ‘He’ll be OK,’ he said in his usual matter-of-fact voice. ‘He’s just got to get his head round it.’

I nodded as if I knew what Trevor was going through. ‘It wouldn’t bother me if they gave me ten years. I love the place.’

‘Then you’re fucking nuts,’ Bernard said harshly. ‘This may be a doddle of a place, but approved school’s a completely different ball game.’ He noisily cleared his throat and spat a big globule of phlegm between my feet. ‘It’s full of nasty bastards. They kick the shit out of you for nothing and, if you’re not careful, they’ll put it up your bum.’

‘How do you know that?’ I was staring down at the phlegm. ‘You’ve never been in one.’

‘Everyone knows what goes on in those places. Where have you been? Don’t you know anything about life?’ He seemed to be getting annoyed and I was shocked to see tears in his eyes.

‘I’m dreading it,’ he said, ‘and if you were facing it, you would be dreading it too.’

‘Then why did you play truant? You knew what might happen.’

‘Fuck off, John. You’re starting to piss me off.’ Bernard’s voice sounded menacing. ‘Don’t talk about something you know fuck all about.’

‘Sorry, Bernie. I didn’t mean to annoy you.’ It was the first time I had shortened Bernard’s name and it came out quite naturally. ‘Maybe you won’t get approved school.’

‘I wish,’ Bernie said quietly. ‘I just know in my heart that I’m going down.’

‘Maybe I’ll go down with you. I’m a Catholic and would go to the same one as you. That wouldn’t be so bad. Would it?’ I was trying desperately to reassure my friend.

Another globule of phlegm landed between my feet. ‘You’re getting probation. That’s for certain.’ He cleared his throat and sucked more phlegm into his mouth. ‘There’s no chance of you going down.’ This time the phlegm hit the wall by the side of me and slid down leaving a slimy green trail behind it.

‘I know you’ll think I’m stupid,’ I needed to ask the question, ‘but what exactly is probation?’

‘You really don’t know, do you?’ Bernie looked at me sympathetically. ‘It’s nothing really – a load of piss. I bet you everybody in here, apart from you, has had it. All you have to do is report to a probation officer once a week, usually after school, and listen to a load of bullshit. It only lasts for about half an hour. As long as you pretend you’ll do as he says, he’ll be happy.’

‘Is that all?’ I was amazed it was that easy. ‘You’re kidding me? Right?’

‘No. That’s all there is to it.’ Bernie lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘When your mum comes to visit, get her to get you an ounce of baccy – Golden Virginia – and a couple of packets of fag papers. It lasts longer than fags.’

‘If she’s got the money I know she’ll get them for me.’ I felt embarrassed. ‘But, she might not have the money.’ I had written to her every day since I’d been there but I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask her about the baccy because she might be upset if she couldn’t afford it.

‘It’s no big deal,’ Bernie seemed to understand. ‘I’ll get my dad to get plenty for both of us.’ He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘We’ll be OK.’

I had never felt such an overwhelming feeling of friendship – virtually love – as I felt for Bernie at that moment. I would do anything for him. I would repay his friendship tenfold. I felt ten feet tall as we sauntered over to the table-tennis table.

I awoke early on Sunday, excited because my mother was coming to visit that day. I wondered what time she would arrive and worried that she might not find the place. I was relieved when at last my name was called to report to the visitors’ hall. She hadn’t got lost, so I had been worrying over nothing.

I was led into the hall and hurried over to where Mum sat beside one of the large windows. I was disappointed to see that she was alone as I had hoped she would bring my sisters along so I could show off my new home.

She stood up and hugged me tightly. ‘Oh, my poor little darling. I’ve missed you so much.’ She started crying. ‘How are they treating you? Are you all right?’

I returned her hug and guided her back into her chair.

My mother was thirty-six years old but looked fifty. The unhappiness of her life had left indelible grooves scored deeply in her face. Her eyes had heavy bags under them and the thick lines around her mouth could never be mistaken for laughter lines. Her forehead had permanent wrinkles and her once-bright auburn hair was now streaked with grey. She had generously applied a cheap face powder in an unsuccessful attempt to hide a fading bruise on her cheekbone. Her clothes were shabby and her beige raincoat was at least one size too small. She had on a thick pair of stockings with a visible ladder running from her right shin to where it vanished under a scuffed pair of brown shoes.

She reached under the table and picked up a carrier bag which she handed to me. ‘I’ve brought you a few little treats.’

I opened the bag and looked inside. There were three apples and two comic books. She took out her purse and handed me a shilling piece. ‘And here’s something for you to buy some sweets during the week.’

I took the money reluctantly. ‘Are you sure you’ve got enough to get home?’

Mum smiled. ‘Of course I have. I want you to have it. Now tell me how you’re getting on.’

The next two hours flew past as I related everything that had gone on since I arrived at St Nicholas’s. Mum was very interested in my new friend Bernie and asked lots of questions about him. ‘Don’t admire him. You should really feel sorry for him,’ was the advice she gave me, but I didn’t understand why she was saying that. I thought he was the bee’s knees.

When I asked about my sisters and home, she was a little vague and only wanted to talk about me. Then when I asked how my dad was, she replied, ‘Forget about him. Tell me more about how you’re getting along at table tennis.’

All too soon the visit was over. I knew that Mum had very little money so I didn’t ask her for any cigarettes or baccy. It would only upset her if she couldn’t give me any. I decided that I would lie to Bernie and pretend that I had asked but she had no money. As she walked away and out of the main doors, I found myself crying and ran to the toilet so that no-one saw my weakness.

That night, for the first time since I had arrived, I found it difficult to sleep. My mind wouldn’t let me rest. I missed my mother badly. I worried about her. For hour after hour I lay awake thinking about my home and my old life there.