by Mark Tilbury
‘Yes—’
‘Don’t care about all those poor lads, who laid down their lives for a spineless generation, like you.’
How was I supposed to feel grateful for something which happened before I was even born?
‘No. You don’t care. And, frankly, I sometimes wonder why the hell we bothered at all.’
What did I say to that? Fall to my knees and thank him for saving me from Hitler? ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You’re not sorry, Tate. You’re not grateful, either. But, I’ve got better things to do than discuss the merits of great men with the son of a whore.’
My heart stopped. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’ve got better things to do than stand here chinwagging with the son of a whore.’
‘My mum wasn’t a whore.’
‘Really? I have it on good authority she was screwing the local chip shop owner.’
Heat crept into my cheeks. ‘That’s a lie.’
‘Liked to batter his sausage.’
‘Shut up!’
He grinned. ‘Some say the only reason the Tates didn’t starve was because your mother went horizontal for a bag of chips and a pickled egg.’
Something fell through the bottom of my stomach. My heart pumped like a piston. ‘You take that back.’
He stepped back, the grin slipping from his chops. One of his hands balled into a fist. ‘What did you say, Tate? Are you disputing your mother was a whore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I fucking am.’
He looked uncertain. ‘I can see you’re a chip off your father’s block, Tate. You’ve got his arrogance. His swagger.’
I didn’t care what he said about my dad. But, my mother…
‘But, let me tell you, we don’t tolerate any of that nonsense here. Do you understand me, Tate?’
I shook my head. Fuck off.
‘I want you to repeat after me: my mother was a whore.’
‘No.’
‘My mother was a whore who sold herself for a bag of chips.’
‘No.’
‘A wishing well for drunks.’
I don’t remember what happened next. I didn’t make a conscious decision to attack him. I was vaguely aware of being in a struggle with him, my feet trying to get a grip on the slippery bathroom floor. The next thing I knew, Mr. Malloy, the senior block supervisor, was pulling us apart like a pair of fighting dogs.
I stood panting, holding onto one of the hand basins for support. My nose dripped blood. My head throbbed. Reader dabbed his face with a handkerchief and said something to Malloy. Precision parting no longer quite so precise.
Malloy ordered me to Kraft’s study and told me to wait there.
‘Do I get dressed first?’
‘Get there. Now.’
I did. Mercifully, Kraft wasn’t in his study. I saw an open fire burning in the study through a small side window. Apart from the reception and the staff quarters, Kraft’s office was the only heated room in the building. The junior block had hot-water pipes running through it, but the senior block had nothing. No heating whatsoever.
I stood there in my pyjamas and bare feet, shivering from head to toe, more nerves than cold. I considered legging it to the bogs and having a piss before Malloy came to do his worst, but I didn’t dare move. I was in enough trouble already.
The clock in Kraft’s office said six-twenty. Breakfast was at six-thirty, assembly at seven, then out front to catch the school bus. I didn’t think I would be getting any breakfast today. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. No Malloy. I wondered if he’d forgotten about me. But, he wouldn’t do that. My imagination filled in the blanks and designed its own brand of punishments; things that would make running naked around the field seem like a happy memory.
Once, during my first time at Woodside, Kraft made me crouch in the corner of his office for over an hour, hands held out in front of me. Every time I looked as if I was sagging, he whacked me across the back of my hand with his cane. One, single swipe. That hour had seemed like a month.
Now what are you going to do?
I took another peek at the clock. Six-thirty-five. Perhaps he was busy with breakfast.
Or he’s trying to make you suffer.
Fuck him. Reader had insulted my mother. If I ever got the chance, I would kill him.
Yeah, right, Mikey. You and whose army?
Malloy turned up at just past seven. He was tall, thin and stooped. His hooked nose was speckled red, like his cheeks. He opened the study door, walked in, and banged it shut without looking at me. I needed a piss. Why couldn’t he have just done his worst in the shower room? Left me to get on with it?
Because he enjoys watching you suffer.
They were all sick in the head. Reader, Malloy, and Kraft all had staff quarters on the first floor above the reception. Although I’d never been up there, Craig McCree, the head boy, who also had a room on the first floor, boasted about what they had. Proper showers, with hot water. A massive bath. A bar, with a full-sized cinema screen. A games room. McCree was every bit as bad as the staff. A snitch. A two-faced piece of slime, and as dangerous as a rattlesnake.
‘Get in here, boy,’ Malloy’s voice boomed.
I opened the door and walked in. Malloy was sitting at Kraft’s desk. He was writing something on a notepad, one arm resting on the huge walnut desk. He didn’t acknowledge me. I stood just inside the door, shifting weight from one foot to the other.
‘Were you born in a barn?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then shut the door, before I knock your head against it.’
I did as I was told. I wanted to see his eyes. Gauge his mood. But, he carried on writing, occasionally breaking off to check something on a calendar pinned to the wall above the desk. I watched the clock tick past seven-fifteen. I felt lightheaded. Nauseated. The need to pee nagged at me.
Malloy finished writing and put the pen on the desk. He swivelled around to face me. His eyes bore into mine as if he could see right inside my head and read my thoughts. I tried to make my mind go blank. No chance. It hopped from hatred to remorse and back again, like a scared rabbit.
He rested his hands in his lap. ‘Well?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You attack a dedicated member of staff, and all you can say is you’re sorry?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I dread to think what might have happened if I hadn’t come along, Tate.’
I looked at the floor. His eyes were on the verge of hypnotising me, like the snake in Jungle Book.
‘What were you thinking?’
Was he asking me, or was this leading somewhere terrible? ‘He called my mother a name.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Enlighten me.’
I felt anger bubbling just beneath the surface. ‘He called her a prostitute.’
‘So?’
‘She’s not.’
‘And you know this, do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think your mother would keep you informed of her sexual activity?’
I looked away, and bit down on my tongue.
‘Well?’
‘I know she’s not a prostitute.’
‘No, Tate, you don’t. I have it on good authority she was a common prostitute. That’s why your father killed her. That’s why we’ve all been left to pick up the pieces of your wretched life.’
The only reason she’s dead is because my old man is a bastard and a bully. ‘Yes, sir.’
Malloy unfolded his bony frame from the chair and towered above me. There were half a dozen wooden canes mounted on the wall, each with varying degrees of thickness. He selected one from the middle and swished it through the air like a sword.
‘Pull down your pyjama trousers and bend over the desk, hands on the top where I can see them. You need to learn respect, Tate. Respect and honesty.’
I did as he asked. What else could I do? I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Wou
ldn’t piss myself. Wouldn’t even give him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt me. I failed on all three counts. By the time he’d finished lashing my bare backside, I was standing in a puddle of my own piss.
‘What was your mother, Tate?’
‘A… whore.’
‘A whore, what?’
‘Sir.’
‘That’s right. And don’t you forget it. A cheap whore who dropped her knickers once too often, and dropped her whole family in the shit. Now, get out of this office before I really lose my temper with you.’
Chapter Twenty-One
I made the school bus with about two minutes to spare. I didn’t get anything to eat. I’d dressed alone in the senior block, tears spilling down my cheeks, hot and full of shame. I’d called my mother a whore. I’d never forgive myself for that. My dear, sweet mother a whore. I would be damned to eternal hell for saying that. And rightly so. Just as I’d stood by and let Billy the Bully murder her, I’d now allowed Malloy to put an indelible stain on her name.
North Oxford Secondary School was about a half-hour drive from Woodside. I stood up all the way; my backside hurt way too much to sit down, even on the cushioned seat. I would have no choice once I got to school, but wherever I could, I would stand up. My bum alternated between throbbing and stinging.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
I turned around to see a grinning kid, with a mop of dark frizzy hair and black National Health glasses looking up at me. I’d seen him in the shower room, but he hadn’t been at Woodside the first time around. Part of me wanted to wipe that daft grin off his chops, but I’d had enough arguments for one day, and I was still weak from my time in the sick bay. So, I just ignored him.
A few minutes later, he spoke again. ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’
‘What’s it to you?’
He shrugged. ‘Just saying.’
I turned away again and fiddled with the togs on my duffel coat. Some kids still had their hoods up. They looked like starving monks, faces white, hollow cheeks. In all my time at Woodside, I’d never seen a healthy kid. Except for McCree, but that slime ball didn’t count.
The bus dropped us off about half a mile away from school. I stepped into a freezing January wind, and fastened my top toggle. I didn’t put up my hood; I wanted the wind in my hair, to blow away the shame.
Kids split off into groups of twos and threes, messing about, pushing and shoving and letting off steam. Although I recognised a few of the faces, I hadn’t got to know any of them from my first time at Woodside. I was only there for five months, and I hadn’t been in any mood to make friends.
The lad who’d spoken to me on the bus fell in alongside me at the back of the group. He grinned at me again, revealing one crooked front tooth which seemed as if it might be hanging onto his gums by sheer luck. His sunken cheeks and dark eyes reminded me of a ghost, which in some ways he was. We all were.
‘What did Reader do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He keeps you behind in the showers and does nothing?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
We walked in silence for a while. There was a constant pain behind my eyes as if someone was drumming their fingers inside my head. I also had a sore throat and a nasty burning sensation in my lungs.
‘My name’s Liam. Liam Truman.’
‘Good for you.’
He laughed. ‘A right regular tough guy, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t feel well.’
He asked me again what Reader had done to me.
‘What difference does it make?’
‘I’ve been in Woodside just over a year. I started off like you, trying to tough it out. But, it sometimes helps to talk.’
‘I’ve been here before, too.’
‘When?’
‘Eighteen months ago.’
‘So, where you been? On holiday?’
I hacked up phlegm, and spat it onto the frosty ground. ‘They fostered me out.’
‘Why did you come back?’
I didn’t want to talk about it. Not even to God. ‘Because…’
He stopped and grabbed my elbow. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes until assembly. You want to have a smoke?’
‘You’ve got fags?’
He laughed, that wobbly tooth jiggling in front of his tongue. ‘Well, I’m not suggesting we go and set ourselves on fire, am I?’
In spite of my mood, I smiled. ‘Okay.’
We sat in the wooden bus shelter on a rock-hard bench; a stark reminder to my backside it had just been caned. He pulled out a pack of Woodbines, handed one to me.
‘Where did you get these?’
‘Hodges.’
Surely not the groundsman?
It was. ‘He sometimes gives us smokes when he tells stories.’
‘Stories?’
‘About the war. Boring shit, really. I doubt if he was even in the war, but he likes to make out he was at Dunkirk and stuff like that. There’s a few of us go down to his shed when we’re on gardening duty. He’s all right, though. He doesn’t mean any harm.’
That was the first time I’d ever heard anyone compliment a member of staff at Woodside. Surely the kids had to do favours to get free cigarettes. ‘I don’t trust adults.’
He offered me a light, cupping his hand around his Zippo lighter. I sucked for all I was worth until the end glowed red. I took a deep drag. My lungs and throat erupted in a ball of flame. I nearly dropped the cigarette as I was seized by a coughing fit.
‘Whoa, there. Steady on.’
Tears leaked from my eyes. ‘I’ve been sick,’ I offered by way of explanation. I didn’t want to appear weak.
‘I heard Kraft made you run around the field in the buff.’
I took another drag of my cigarette, this time careful not to take it back. ‘He’s a cunt.’
Liam looked at the ground. ‘That’s one word for him.’
We smoked our cigarettes in silence and then stamped out the butts. I asked Liam how he ended up at Woodside.
‘My parents died in a car crash.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He looked away. ‘Shit happens.’
Wasn’t that the truth? ‘Couldn’t anyone take you in?’
‘No.’ Short and snappy, as if I’d hit a raw nerve. ‘So, what happened to you?’
I told him my parents had died, too. I skipped the bit about how. Said maybe another time. I told him how Aunt Jean had refused to take me in. Again, I omitted the reason. ‘I used to think she was nice. Always happy to see me and let me stay over. Just goes to show you don’t ever really know someone.’
‘Blood’s supposed to be thicker than water.’
I wasn’t sure what that meant. I nodded anyway.
‘You find out who the arseholes are when the shit comes down.’
I laughed at this. It sounded poetic, in a crude sort of way. ‘True.’
‘You still haven’t told me your name.’
‘It’s—’
‘Let me guess? Michael Tate.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Your reputation precedes you.’
I liked his way with words. ‘Is that so?’
‘It’s so. How old are you, Michael?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘A year younger than me.’
My heart sank. I was hoping we’d be in the same class. ‘Oh.’
‘We can meet up at lunchtime, if you want.’
‘I’d like that.’
He grinned. ‘And Michael?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’
I thought about Reader and Malloy. Perhaps it was too late for that, but at least Liam seemed all right. ‘I’ll try.’
He punched me lightly on the arm. Then, he stood up, and headed off towards North Oxford Comprehensive School with all the swagger of a seasoned student. I followed him along the icy footpath. By the time we reached the school gates, I was puffing and bl
owing, like someone who’d trekked across the North Pole. There was a short, bald man standing just inside the gate with a clipboard, barking orders, telling kids to go straight to assembly.
‘All right. All right, keep your hair on,’ Liam said.
I laughed.
The bald man didn’t. ‘You find something funny, lad?’
I shook my head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Get to assembly. One more word out of you, and you’ll be in detention.’
I wanted to tell him I hadn’t said anything, just laughed, but my throbbing backside warned me against it.
As we reached the main entrance, Liam turned to me and held out his hand. ‘Friends?’
I shook it, and something warm passed through me. ‘Yeah. Friends.’
Maybe my time at Woodside wouldn’t be so bad if I had someone I could count on. Someone to help me through the darkest days, pick me up when I fell down, share my innermost thoughts with. Like stuff that happened at the Davieses’ house, and the real reason I had no parents. How I’d had to leave Oxo behind. Malloy calling my mother a whore. Thrashing me, because I refused to do the same. Someone who wasn’t on their side, waiting to beat you to a pulp, just because you were a kid whose luck had dried up like Corrigan’s Brook. A kid with nothing but a set of threadbare clothes and a duffel coat. A kid that missed his mum, missed his dog, and missed his tiny box room at Whitehead Street, more than he would have ever believed possible.
Little did I realise that this smart older boy, with his clever way with words and wobbly front tooth, would need me much more than I would ever need him. So much more.
Chapter Twenty-Two
School was, not to put too fine a point on it, shit. I sat through double maths, double English, and double history, believing my brain would curl up and die. I looked for Liam at break time and lunchtime, but he was nowhere to be seen. I won’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed, but I’d made it this far on my own. It was hardly the end of the world. At least the school wasn’t new territory for me; it was the same place I’d been to during my stay with the Davieses. The same freezing cold, drab classrooms, same teachers cast from stone, same sense they were all doing you the biggest favour in the world by even bothering to teach you. Even the same board rubbers hurled at anyone who dared to not pay attention. Same old, same old.