Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Then, from the bed nearby, came a muffled sob. Nat turned his head to listen – Cobbins was crying! No, not just Cobbins, there were wet sniffles emerging from all corners of the dormitory. Encouraged, he allowed his own silent tears to flow, relieving the great lump in his throat, and shortly fell asleep to nightmares of Matron descending upon him with her goolie crusher.

  * * *

  It was still dark and bitterly cold when he was roused from his bed by number eight’s voice the next morning. ‘Rise and shine, tossers!’ The bulldog prowled the dormitory, throwing blankets off and shaking ankles. ‘Away. Larkin!’ He poked at the Cockney. ‘Get them slops emptied sharp.’

  Larkin groaned and turned over. Bowman lifted the edge of his mattress, tipped him to the floor and dragged him towards the pail at the end of the dormitory that had served all the boys through the night. ‘Last in gets the job!’

  ‘I weren’t the only one to come in yesterday!’ objected Larkin.

  Bowman grabbed him by the throat. ‘Don’t argue with me, chum, else I’ll tip the piss on your head – now move!’ Taking it for granted that he would be obeyed, Bowman swaggered from the dormitory.

  ‘Bastard!’ spat Larkin. ‘He needn’t think I’m doin’ that.’ His puffy eyes looked for a stand-in. Nat, one leg into his trousers, felt Larkin’s gaze fall on him and expediently averted his own, but it was too late; the Cockney grabbed him and shoved him in the direction of the bucket. ‘That’s more in your line, Smellie!’

  Breeches around knees, Nat stumbled. Without defence he must do Larkin’s bidding. Fumble-fingered, he managed to do up his trousers and bend over the pail, wrinkling his nose at the stink. Buckling under its weight and having no idea where to empty it he padded from the dormitory, looking to right and left. After a couple of wrong turns he saw another lad with a bucket descending a flight of stairs and, slopping the urine over the sides, Nat followed. Others performed tasks too, applying matches to fires and boilers, though the effects could not yet be appreciated; Nat’s bare feet were mauve with cold. Pail emptied, he made his return. There was the rumble of much activity now. Boys started to teem from the dormitories. He tried to fight his way upstairs but found the route impassable. An officer came along, saw him standing motionless and lashed out at him. ‘Look sharp, boy, or you’ll be late for roll-call!’

  Nat held up an arm to protect himself whilst trying to struggle upstairs through the tangle of bodies. The officer hailed Bowman. ‘Number eight! You’ll have to organize these new boys better than this!’

  Observing Nat with the pail, Bowman narrowed his eyes and began to seek out Larkin. The Cockney was at the back of the queue. He saw Bowman waiting for him and hung back.

  ‘Smellie!’ Bowman hollered at Nat who had just managed to negotiate half the crowded staircase and now had to come down again. Bowman took the pail off him and crooked a finger at Larkin. ‘Did you rinse it out, Smellie?’

  Nat’s heart fell. He was in for a beating. ‘I didn’t know I was meant to.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter today,’ said Bowman, eyes fixed on the approaching Larkin. When the latter was before him, Bowman upturned the pail and rammed it upon the unfortunate Larkin’s head. ‘When I give you an order, plushskull, you do it! If I want Smellie to do a job I tell him myself. Now take that bucket back upstairs and every morning you have the job of emptying it till I say different – got that?’ He thumped on the bucket to endorse this and made Larkin grope his way back upstairs with it still on his head. ‘An’ if you’re late for prayers I’ll break your legs.’

  Unable to credit his luck, Nat was ordered to go and finish dressing, make his bed and join the others for roll-call and morning worship. Larkin managed to wriggle in just before the doors closed. From then on, there was no time for boredom. Every second of the day was accounted for, from breakfast to bedtime, and the merest insubordination was quashed instantly with a cuff. After morning worship came a vigorous drilling with dumbbells followed by a breakfast of oatmeal porridge, and then there were floors to be swabbed and woodwork to be polished. Nat was given the task of picking cinders from a pile of ashes to be used again. He was content to perform any job so long as it postponed that which he dreaded most – lessons.

  On entering the schoolroom with its bare wooden floor and high ceiling he searched the rows of benches for a place that was inconspicuous. Alas, Mr Screeton was wise to the ways of the sluggard and dragged him to the very front bench. Nat resigned himself to the blows that would follow when Screeton discovered he was left-handed – a sin punishable by death in Lillywhite’s book. However, Screeton was imbued with more patience than Lillywhite and apart from firm insistence that Nat should use his pen with his right hand, the morning, though wearisome, passed without violence.

  At lunchtime Bowman made it plain that he wanted some of Nat’s food. ‘I look after you, don’t I?’ Ah, so that was the reason for his amity. Nat weighed the consequences of a refusal, and decided it was worth going hungry to have Bowman’s protection.

  In the afternoon, being a little young to be taught a trade, Nat was put to sweeping up after Bowman in the carpentry department. Contrary to his rough handling of Larkin, Bowman had a friendly nature for those who did not question his superiority and those such as Nat who catered for his large appetite. Nat could have liked him had he not given so many orders.

  ‘You’ll like Old Chippy,’ said Bowman. Even this emerged as an order to the little boy, who swore to himself that he wouldn’t. ‘He’s not so hard on the new blokes.’ Nat was pushed into a room where the smell of cabbage and disinfectant was masked by that of timber. ‘Lovely, in’t it? Got a new one for you, Mr Chipchase! Twenty-seven, Smellie.’ The name was still enough of a novelty to cause hilarity amongst the other boys.

  Chipchase did not laugh, indeed he barely looked up from the piece of furniture he was examining. ‘Come here and take a look at this, twenty-seven.’ Unlike that of the superintendent the accent was Yorkshire and the tone pleasant, though his pleasure appeared to stem more from the furniture than the newcomer.

  Bowman gave Nat a shove. The boy pursed his lips and approached the officer, a man in his fifties who, without an ounce of spare fat managed to appear somehow elephantine. This was largely due to the casual but deliberate movement of his limbs and the small brown eye in the creased cheek, an eye that had seen everything.

  Chipchase presented an oak chest which one of the older pupils had made. ‘This is what you can achieve if you put your heart into it. Look at these lines!’ He removed a drawer and showed it to an indifferent Nat. ‘See those joints? Exquisite!’ He ran his fingers over them. ‘Just like silk – feel.’

  Nat went through the motions, unable to detect anything special – it was only a lump of wood.

  Heaving with pleasure, Chipchase inserted the drawer. ‘See how it glides! Oh, that all you boys could achieve such excellence instead of blighting my life with furniture that looks as if it’s only fit to hold apples.’ Chipchase, a thoughtful, moderate man, had entered the post with a view to helping life’s unfortunates by imparting his passion for crafting wood, but fifteen years’ experience had displaced zeal with cynicism. There were those here who neither wanted help nor indeed were worthy of it. At first he had despaired when they had not shared his passion, nor even the vaguest interest. Nowadays he wasn’t sure he even cared any more, except perhaps on the rare occasion that one boy excelled with a piece of furniture-making worthy of a craftsman. With the rest it was just a case of there being boys he liked and boys he disliked. He wondered, though without great interest, which category Nat would fall into.

  ‘Right! Well, there won’t be much for you to do until the end of the lesson, twenty-seven. Just take that brush there and whenever you see a pile of chips start to grow, sweep them up. Now then, number eight, about this table you’re making…’

  Walking across the room he came to stand by Bowman’s work. ‘What did I tell you about fitting the legs?’

  Bowman pondered
for a moment. ‘You said… the legs should look as if they’ve just grown there, Mr Chipchase.’

  ‘Correct! However when I said they should look as if they’d grown there, I didn’t necessarily mean like a bunch of bananas.’

  Boys doubled over. There was laughter from all but Nat.

  ‘Look at this!’ Chipchase lifted the end of the table and waggled a leg. ‘Call that a right angle!’

  ‘I thought it might be useful for people who live on a hillside,’ quipped Bowman.

  Chipchase delivered a light blow to the youth’s head. ‘Please rectify the matter!’ He glanced at Nat, who refused to smile. Here was a deep one, but the officer could not be bothered to probe him just now.

  During the lesson Chipchase wandered around the classroom offering praise, criticism and advice. Stooping, he rescued an off-cut of wood from the pile that Nat was sweeping and threw it into a box. ‘Too big to waste.’

  ‘Aye, it’ll make half a pair o’ clogs for a mouse,’ cut in Bowman.

  ‘Less of your insolence, number eight,’ Chipchase pointed.

  ‘You can’t bear any waste, can you, sir?’ Bowman spoke for Nat’s benefit. ‘Only owt smaller than an inch square goes in the bin. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have us making patchwork quilts out o’ wood.’

  ‘You’ve been reading my mind. Except in your case it’ll be a patchwork coffin. Come on now, back to work.’ He turned to Nat. ‘I trust you won’t use number eight as an example of how to behave towards your officers?’

  Nat mumbled a, ‘No, sir,’ but did not take up the friendly offer of conversation.

  Despite the lack of communication Chipchase decided he liked the boy’s face – not that it mattered what he thought. For here was one of the villains of tomorrow. It was all very well saying that a short sharp shock and a good dollop of Christianity would put them back on the right road and that might well be true about some, but this boy was not such a case. The lad was neither cocky nor disrespectful, nor was there that quiet insolence paraded by many; he would simply not respond to anything, neither beatings nor kindness. Chipchase had had great experience of boys like this. Nat was quiet and uncommunicative, but he had spirit that would buck against everything the authorities threw at him, regardless that they were trying to assist, viewing it only as punishment. He might not voice one word of defiance but defiance was there in the cut of his shoulders and in the slant of his mouth. Whilst other officers might try and beat number twenty-seven into submission Chipchase had little confidence in the effectiveness of violence. Though not averse to punishing the out and out thug in this mode, he preferred his own method of coping with boys such as Nat; if you wanted them to turn right you said turn left. Nevertheless he could not prevent a sigh as he watched Nat’s half-hearted efforts to sweep up. It was going to be a hard two years for this boy.

  After a week Nat’s body had become attuned to the regime but his mind still rebelled. There was much for a small child to remember and Nat found plenty to confuse him. Whilst old Chippy’s name fitted his occupation, the shoemaker was called Mr Taylor and the tailor was called Mr Boot. The drillmaster was called Baker and the cook was called Turner, whilst the head of the turnery department was called Carpenter. In the end, though, names were irrelevant. All were out to subjugate him – even the female officers were not to be trifled with – and Nat loathed everyone. The only person he did not hate was Bowman, but even he could infuriate Nat with his patronizing air. When Nat had summoned enough courage to ask the older boy what this ‘goolie crusher’ was, Bowman had looked down at him, laughed and said, ‘I don’t think you need worry about that.’

  Nat did worry about it. He could not sleep through fear of it. It became his obsession to discover the nature of the offence which the superintendent termed ‘that repulsive and sinful practice’ but which the boys called ‘tossing off’, for he had the dreadful suspicion that he might already be guilty of it. Out of self-preservation, Nat was a lad who watched everyone and everything and during his careful surveillance he had noted that after the lights were turned out there was a lot of movement under certain areas of the blankets; even in the darkness he knew where that area was. His mother had once caught him with his hand there and had told him he was a naughty, dirty boy and he was never to let her catch him doing that again, and he hadn’t – hadn’t let her catch him.

  It was quite a revelation to know that other boys did it too. At least he surmised that that was what they were doing. He could not be positive, for sometimes a boy would leave his bed and climb in with another boy and there would be all sorts of noises and groans, but then they would hardly be doing that in front of each other would they? He hated being in such ignorance. If only the lights were on.

  However, the revelation was to come in broad daylight. He had been granted rare permission to visit the latrine during lesson time and hurried down the corridor to relieve his distended bladder. There was an outside door on the latrine building, but the doors on the cubicles had been removed in order to prevent sinful acts. When Nat entered he heard a voice. He would have ignored it but for its pleading tone. ‘Oh please, do it for me, Merry.’

  The voice was coming from the end cubicle. Nat held onto his water and crept along the row of stinking closets.

  Another voice said, ‘No, you’ll tell.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise. Oh please, go on.’

  Nat paused a while to listen on the other side of the partition. One of the voices came again in a low moan of euphoria. Unable to contain himself, Nat peeped round the corner and was so shocked that he let out a gasp. Merryfield’s hand left Watson’s flesh as if burned, whilst a red-faced Watson scrabbled to stuff his turgid member back into his breeches. Then, noting that it was only a younger boy, their fear turned to anger and they grabbed him, pushing his head down the pan.

  ‘Swear you won’t rat!’

  Nat struggled and tried to escape.

  ‘Swear!’ repeated Watson.

  How can I swear when my head’s down here, thought an angry and terrified Nat, at which point Watson hauled at his collar and grimaced into his red face. ‘Swear you won’t talk or you go back in!’

  ‘I swear!’ coughed Nat.

  ‘I’ll make sure you don’t!’ Watson hauled Nat’s trousers to his ankles, groped a cold hand between his legs and spat, ‘If you ever say one word I’ll sprag you to Matron and you know what that means!’ He gave the boy’s genitals a vicious squeeze just to emphasize his threat.

  ‘Ow! I promise!’ squealed Nat, and half in fear, half in retribution let his bladder run free.

  ‘You dirty swine!’ Watson withdrew his contaminated hand which he used to slap Nat’s face before hurrying away with his partner in crime, leaving Nat to mop up the puddle.

  They watched him warily for a few days, terrified that he was going to tell. Despite the hazard this posed, it gave Nat an unaccustomed feeling of power. In fact he felt brave enough to risk Matron’s wrath with a sinful act of his own. But afterwards such guilt! Would anyone be able to tell? When he entered assembly he felt that all eyes were upon him. All through the Lord’s Prayer his glance flicked furtively from side to side, but retribution did not come. After prayers, Mr Raskelf made his usual morning speech. Lulled by the pious drone, Nat’s mind dwelled in his loins. Lots of things now fitted into place. He had often wondered why every pair of trousers had its pockets sewn up – had imagined that it was to prevent slovenliness. It made him grin to be conversant with the true reason. Ooh, it was lovely; he couldn’t wait to do it again.

  ‘…And now it is my duty to perform a sad task.’ The change of Raskelf’s tone jerked Nat from his dream. All ears pricked up. There was going to be a punishment. ‘Last evening, when all good boys were sound asleep, the most dastardly act occurred. Mr Screeton visited one of the dormitories and discovered that we have among us a most repulsive character…’

  Nat tensed. A nerve started to twitch in his buttocks.

  ‘In his abhorrent practice he def
iles not just the body which the good Lord created in His own image, but the innocent minds around him…’

  Nat felt sick. His thighs quivered. He badly needed to go to the closet. Glancing to his right he saw sheer terror on the faces of Watson and Merryfield.

  ‘I would not soil my tongue further, we are all aware of his sin. So, let him come forth and receive his punishment. The most disgusting, the most vile boy in the school… one-one-five.’

  Nat almost wet himself with relief, as did numerous others. Yet in a moment he tensed again, this time with excitement as he strained on tiptoe for a better sight of one-one-five’s goolies being mangled in Matron’s instrument of torture. It was almost disappointing to witness the receipt of six strokes of the birch, though encouraging to know that the goolie crusher was a mere invention by Bowman to frighten the new boys. With only a beating as a threat he felt quite happy to risk his nightly thrill.

  Having tasted the birch themselves, Watson and Merryfield were not so cool and still watched Nat like hawks, fearing betrayal. Occasionally he would enjoy making them squirm by pretending to approach a master, then veering away at the last minute. Watson tried to buy him off with the loan of a special key that would open any door. It just looked like a bit of bent metal to Nat, but Watson demonstrated by gaining entry to the food store and providing him with a slice of Matron’s ham. Merryfield shared his knowledge too, as did others. Nat was to learn all about life and survival and sex. Indeed he was to learn many things during his confinement here, most of them illegal.