“Love works both ways Rhattigan – I give you love and you give me love in return. And we both keep it a secret between us.”
“Yes, sir.”
He was so quick my trousers and undies were down around my ankles before I had even taken in the full impact of what was happening. He was fiddling with me and I was enjoying it. “Can I not swallow it this time, sir.” I had anticipated his next move, hoping he wouldn’t be angry at me and make me do it again. But I needn’t have worried. He told me to turn right around and gently held me on the bench, telling me to reach out across to the vaulting horse.
“That it. That’s a good lad.”
Doing as he asked, I leaned forwards across the leather top of the box. I could hear and feel his warm quick breaths on my neck, as he started to rub his fingers around my backside, before poking a finger inside me. “Shhh. Relax, it isn’t going to hurt.” He tried pushing himself into me, but it was too big to go in. “Open your legs wider and relax.”
I did what he’d asked and could feel him persisting in pushing himself into me, but it still wouldn’t go in and he stopped for a moment. I looked out through the dusty glass of the small four-paned window, where I could just about make out the empty swings, unmoving in the stillness. I could smell dubbin, the waxy oil we put on the leather footballs to stop them from drying out. And then I could feel him slowly entering me. It felt uncomfortable, but he was being gentle, whispering to me about loving me and asking if I liked being loved by him. I nodded my acceptance of the love he was giving to me, even though I didn’t understand what love really meant, or why he’d chosen to love me.
As he continued to move himself in and out of me, he was still playing with my mickey. But my thoughts were preoccupied with the big spider on its dusty web, which was hanging down in the top left-hand corner of the window reveal. It was dead of course, dried out and mummified, to my relief. I didn’t know why I was afraid of spiders, to the point of hating them. It’s not as if they had done me any harm. I felt brave enough to blow in its direction and see both spider and its web move as one in their everlasting dance of death, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it might have lain here undisturbed, until we had come along.
Mr Sweet was making strange noises, like last time, and I was holding myself back from giggling. And then I had this strange, thrilling sensation rising inside me, which I had never felt before. My knees buckled as the overwhelming thrill surged straight up from my goolies and through the rest of my body, causing me to involuntarily give out a loud sigh. He murmured a few words, which I didn’t understand, before he pushed himself right into me, staying close and still for a moment or so, before moving away.
“Get yourself cleaned up,” he said, and I pulled up my trousers and pants, while he opened the door to the storeroom and then unlocked the door leading back into the boot-room. Weak-kneed, shaken and a little dizzy, I scampered off to the outside toilets.
A Strange Kind of Caring
The second week of September 1966, we were up in the Lake District on our annual summer camp. We’d travelled up in the four vans belonging to the school, with the hired lorry carrying the tents and all the other camping equipment, following closely behind us.
I had a lot of different thoughts going on inside my head at the time and I was finding it difficult to make any sense of them, let alone describe them. My emotions seemed to be all over the place, and I just couldn’t seem to concentrate on any given subject, which made it even more difficult to understand what was happening to me. I cried a lot, when I could get a private moment, never daring to cry in front of other people, which would have been a sign of weakness. There was no obvious reason to why I should be crying. I didn’t feel sad. And yet the pain I felt in my heart when I was crying was truly agonising at times.
Despite my habitual frown, which made me look like a miserable sod, even when I wasn’t, I believe I was as happy as I knew how to be. I laughed and joked around and I accepted, without question, most of the things that had happened and were still happening to me. I’m not saying things couldn’t have been much better. But I was aware just how bad things could have been.
I still missed my brothers, and sisters. And there wasn’t a day or a night when I hadn’t prayed and asked Jesus to protect them from harm’s way. I would get very emotional when I thought about the possibility of them getting hurt in some way, with me not there to help them. I never thought I could have survived so long without my brother Martin, who was always at my side. But having no choice in the matter, I’d simply had to get on without him, having to stand alone and fight my own battles in the best way that I could. And though these physical battles were few and far between, I did seem to get injured in most of them. I’d had to acknowledge the fact that the aggressive streak I carried on the streets of Manchester was never going to be enough to see me through in this place. So I’d had to learn to assert a more intense aggression about me, even if it was mainly bluff, so any likely bullies might have second thoughts about having a go at me. Most of my adversaries were psychologically and physically aggressive, with taunting and unfair use of their feet and heads meant to inflict maximum pain. Whereas I, on the other hand, was minded not to sink as low as them, preferring instead to use only my fists. I knew I still had a long way to go before I could match the others, but when I eventually got there, woe betide you, Brian Walters!
I would often find myself thinking about those many journeys I’d taken with Martin and the others around the towns and small villages of Manchester, where we got up to all sorts of mischief. I remembered one time we’d strayed too far from home and were unable to find our way back in the dark. When we happened upon an old stone barn, we’d decided to spend the night inside. It had ponged a bit, but we were used to stinky smells, so it hadn’t really put us off making ourselves at home in the large pile of dry hay, where we’d soon drifted off into a deep sleep.
I awoke in the early hours of the morning to strange grunting noises, which I’d first assumed was one of the others, until I saw they were all awake and that we were in the company of pigs. All nine of them, roaming freely around the barn. Martin and I took a gander outside the open door, where we could see the back of the farm cottage, some 20 or so yards away. The aroma of fried bacon hit our nostrils as it wafted out through the open window of the cottage in our direction.
“I’ve an idea,” said Martin. Jaysus, not another one! I stood watching as he hurried back inside the barn, coming out moments later, a rope around the neck of a pig happily trotting behind him.
“Yer not expectin’ us ta tow that ting all the way home, are yah?”
“Don’t be daft, Tommy, come on.” He ambled past me with the pig following behind him.
“There’s the door,” he said, throwing a knowing nod towards the back door of the cottage.
“And?” I queried, looking at him a little bemused.
“Knock on it, then.”
“I’m not knocking on there! We’ll be kilt for sure.”
“Ah, bollocks.” Martin did the knocking, before taking a backwards step.
In a matter of seconds, the old door had swung inwards and we were confronted by a giant of a man. I didn’t know how tall he was, but I’d say if Martin, Bernie and I had stood on one another’s shoulders, we probably wouldn’t have come up to his eyes. He was a frightening sight, with untidy, greyish-black hair and a bushy beard to match, as he stood gawking down on us.
“What’s that you have there?” he asked, eyeing the pig.
“A pig,” said Martin.
“I can see it’s a pig,” smiled the big fella. “Anyone that knows what a pig looks like can see that’s definitely a pig you have in tow there.”
“We found it, didn’t we, Tommy?”
“Where? I mean, we did that. We were coming up the road last night…”
“Dis mornin’ it was,” Martin cut in. “We
were walking along mindin’ our own business when we saw the pig escapin’ and we decided to catch it and bring it back, so we did.”
“Well that was very kind of you,” said the big fellow. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a bacon sandwich as a reward?”
“We weren’t expectin’ a reward –”
“Yes please!” I shouted above Martin.
“Well you’d best come in then.”
“Bernie! Nabby!” I called out to my brother and sister. “Where do yah want us ta tie the pig?”
“She never leaves the yard, so you can leave her where she is.” The big man turned his back and walked into the kitchen and we followed.
It only seemed like yesterday when we were all together, laughing and joking, singing and crying and getting up to all sorts of mischief. I couldn’t help but wonder if we would ever see one another again. I’d often conjure up all sorts of images in my mind’s eye of what Hulme might look like now, and what, if anything, was now standing on the site where our home had once stood. Another house? A shop? A new road? Or was it still the empty space Martin and I had stood mournfully over, when we went back and found the surrounding streets were no longer there?
Thinking of my siblings always reminded me of how lucky I had been to have had them, even for such a short time. More so, because I had such fond memories to fall back on when I was feeling lonely.
I couldn’t for the life of me fathom out what made some of the boys I was forced to live alongside tick. Some were so carefree in the cruelty they inflicted upon others, for no good reason other than to prove they could do it. I had only ever held my ground trying to protect myself, never once setting out to deliberately antagonise or inflict pain on any of my peers. And yet, here in this former lunatic asylum, now run by the Catholic Church and the Nugent Care Society (a charity – the abuse here was all free), it seemed inflicting cruelty upon a weaker opponent was accepted as the norm – not only by the kids, but by adults, too. Why? What makes a child want to be cruel to another child? What makes an adult want to inflict cruelty on a child?
I didn’t have the answers. But I did know what it was like to be subjected to cruelty from my own father and I’m sure many of my peers at the school had experienced the same. But surely this could not be a reason for a child to want to inflict pain on another child. I would have thought it should be the opposite. And yet it was a fact of my life at St Vincent’s, all part of the learning process. And by Christ, I was learning very quickly!
It was nearly a year since Sister Ignatius and her coven had left St Vincent’s. The time seemed to have flown by much more quickly than the previous year. The nuns were now a distant memory, though we still had the odd one or two popping up now and again to join us for Sunday Mass. My reading and writing were improving all the time, though I’d still a way to go before I got on to the Janet and John books. But the fact that I was able to read and write some words had opened up a whole new world to me. I’d even learnt to spell a couple of words off by heart: Mississippi was my best and, even more impressively, I could spell it backwards, too. And then there was the other word, “bastard”, which, on the odd occasion, I could call another lad if I had good cause to, by scrawling it in big letters across their schoolwork, without them knowing it was me.
I’d also noticed how I had unconsciously drifted further away from the companionship of my closest friends, like Donkey, Bunter Barnes, Stuttering Pete Collins and the others in the group. And although I still hung out with them on occasions, especially in our many war games on the beaches, I often had an urge to be on my own. I’d felt that way for a long while, though I didn’t really know why. Perhaps I felt I no longer needed them, or the protection I’d had from the group, now that I had Mr Sweet as my protector. It could even have been an age thing. Some of the boys mentioned that Matron had told them it was “an age change” after they’d gone to see her about their personal matters. I too had noticed this age thing in myself, spotting the few dark pubic hairs sprouting around my private parts. And of course, I was proud of them, keeping a close eye on their progress and taking a hair count almost every day, with another two growing after about six weeks. I also began to experience wet dreams, which some lads still thought meant pissing the bed! And I’d spend ages in the toilet flogging the bishop to bring about that thrill feeling I got (though taking an age) when Mr Sweet was playing with me.
My time with Mr Sweet could never compare to what had taken place at Rose Hill Remand Centre, with Mr Butterworth and the stranger. There was no affection or promises then. Nor did I feel any more special to them than any of the other boys. With Mr Sweet, it was different. He told me I was special to him and he was keen to show me, at every opportunity he could get, with repeated warnings never to mention what was going on between us, to anyone. Otherwise he would have to stop loving me and I’d also be in serious trouble.
As big as he was, it was truly amazing how he could be such a different person when he was being gentle with me. This was in contrast from the slaps, knees and the punches he used to give me to get his message across – and which he still did to the other boys. Besides letting me have my full pocket money each week, despite being docked most of it from my weekly points chart, he brought me in the odd bag of sweets, or a small toy. More importantly, if I had any problems from any of the other boys, all I needed to do was tell him and he’d have a quiet word in their ears, without mentioning the fact that it was me who’d snitched on them.
I had willingly committed to giving myself to him, in return for him treating me differently from the others. Though I did sometimes feel guilty because I didn’t have anything to offer him in return for the attention he gave to me.
Camping with the Devil
We reached the Lake District by mid-afternoon. Not surprisingly, it was raining, just like last year. Not that it bothered us, though the grown-ups – Mr Alston, Mr Sweet, Mr Keenan and the headmaster – seemed rather pissed off about it.
Rain or shine, I loved being in the Lake District. I’d been looking forward to coming back since the previous year, when I cried as we left. I always felt most at home in that vast wilderness of the mountain ranges, which brought to the surface all sorts of emotions deep within me. And if I were given the choice, I would gladly have stayed there and become a part of the serene landscape.
Mr Lilly informed us he was to be the camp’s skipper for the first week, with Mr Alston taking over the helm in the second week, when he would be leaving to go off on his holidays to Rome. He told us he’d planned many exciting hiking trips and adventures for us. Though how exciting these really were remained to be seen. The most exciting thing that could happen would be for him to topple off the side of a mountain and give us all some peace! He went on, taking us through the usual boring safety rules and all the dos and the don’ts, which he read from a book on camping. And then we spent the rest of the day setting up the campsite in a field surrounded by high mountains.
First to go up were the 11 army surplus tents, eight of which slept six boys in each. The remainder were for the staff, with Mr Lilly having one for himself. Next, we pitched up the huge marquee, which seemed to take an age, before we finally hammered home the large wooden peg securing the last guy-rope. Finally, we erected the four toilet tents, which were always kept about 200 yards downwind from the main campsite. These would be emptied every day by the four lads picked for that day’s toilet duties.
The school’s brass ARP bell rang out, echoing across the fields, to let us know it was teatime. We had sausages and beans, with a special treat of greasy fried bread, all washed down with a pint-sized tin mug of hot sweet tea. Once we’d eaten and cleared up, we sat around the large campfire, wasting a few precious hours singing boring songs, such as “Old McDonald Had a Farm”, “Ten Green Bottles”, and “One Man went to Mow”. Then Mr Lilly began to tell us one of his boring ghost stories about a mysterious man. If he’d wanted to scare us to dea
th, it didn’t work. At least not for me.
I’d been fast asleep in our tent when Paul Riley woke the lot of us up. He was crying for his Granny, who’d died a few weeks earlier.
“I wish you’d feck off and join yer Granny!” snapped Terry Pritchard, one of the four school prefects.
I climbed out of my warm sleeping bag and went over to Riley, kneeling on the ground next to him.
“What’s the matter with yah?”
“I want my Granny.”
“She’s in Heaven.”
“I know. But I miss her.”
“She’s dead, yah daft bastard,” snapped Pritchard.
“I’m scared,” said Riley.
“Ah, take no notice of Pritchard. He’s all mouth.”
“I mean, I’m scared of the ghost.”
“What ghost?” He had me looking around the tent.
“The one in the haunted lift.”
“The liftman in the story?”
“Yeh.”
“I wouldn’t be botherin’ about him,” I said. “Mr Lilly makes these stories up as he goes along. Anyways, we don’t have a lift in the field, do we?”
“I never thought of that.” Riley, seemingly calmer, climbed out of his sleeping bag.
“Where are yah going?” I asked.
“The bog.”
“Careful the Bogeyman don’t get yah!”
“Fuck off Pritchard!” snapped Riley.
“Come on, I’ll watch out for yah,” I offered.
It was almost pitch black, with just a flicker of light from the moon peering through the swiftly moving clouds. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear some sheep bleating, along with the noise Riley was making as he took a pee up the back of the tent, which gave me the urge to go myself.
“What’s that?” Riley suddenly called out, causing me to jump and pee down the leg of my pyjamas.
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