Please Don't Make Me Go

by Fenton, John

  ‘I wanted this day to be so nice,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, son. When you’re older I’ll explain it all to you. It isn’t like he said. He’s lying. You are his son.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me. I don’t care what he said. He’s just a nasty bastard.’ I strained my neck to look around. ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘I do know that he said he wouldn’t be back until after you’ve gone. So that means we can have a nice peaceful day and you can tell me all the things you couldn’t put in your letters.’

  ‘Come,’ she took my hand and pulled me gently to my feet. ‘I think it’s about time I made you a nice cup of tea. I’ve also got something special for dinner.’ She squeezed my shoulders affectionately. ‘We’ve got an apple crumble.’

  I still felt light-headed as I sipped the sweet tea. My head felt sore from the beating I had taken and I occasionally touched the swelling around my mouth and cheekbones, trying to force back the tears. Feeling sorry for myself would do me no good and would upset Mum even more. I had become a master at hiding my emotions so it was easy to switch my attention away from my injuries and into the task of rolling a cigarette. Tobacco had become a tranquilliser for me. I sucked deeply on the cigarette, inhaling as much smoke as my lungs would allow, and watched the diluted smoke drift out of my mouth and disappear into the atmosphere. Eventually, after smoking three I was feeling more like myself.

  Mum had been watching me intently since I came into the house. ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘are you going to tell me about your new school?’

  ‘There’s not much to tell. It’s just a school.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. I know you too well,’ she gently rebuked. ‘I can always tell when you’re bottling something up. It’s what you haven’t said that makes me believe something isn’t right. If you were happy, you’d be chatting away nineteen to the dozen. Tell me all about it, I really want to know.’

  I shook my head. ‘What’s the sense in worrying you with my problems? You can’t do anything about them.’

  She smiled. ‘A problem shared is a problem halved. Even if I can’t do anything, I can give you some adult advice. It might help.’

  ‘How do you advise someone into being something that they’re not? I’m frightened of the other boys and I’m being bullied. I’m not a fighter and I’m scared of getting hurt.’ I angrily wiped the tears away. My voice was breaking up uncontrollably. ‘So, tell me what I should do.’

  ‘You’re not a fighter! You’re scared of getting hurt!’ My mother sounded astonished. ‘You’re the bravest boy alive. What do you think just went on in the garden? The only coward out there was your father. I’ve seen you take beating after beating and I’ve never seen you afraid. I know this sounds silly, but you’re my hero. Nobody on earth could ever accuse you of being anything but a hero.’

  I hated to see her like this and wished I hadn’t said anything. I reached out and took her hand. ‘That’s why I never told you, Mum. I knew you would get upset.’

  ‘Of course I’m upset. It’s my fault you’re in that place. If only – if only I had been braver, none of this would be happening to you.’ Her anger was evident and her maternal instincts were aroused. ‘I want you to tell me what’s happening to you in that place. Who is hurting you?’

  I told her of all the beatings I had seen and how they frightened me. I told her of the cruelty being dished out daily by some of the Brothers, and about the numerous times I had been bullied by older boys and how they had hurt me. I didn’t tell her about Wilkinson. That was my secret and I was still trying to come to terms with the shame of what had occurred.

  ‘So now you know everything, Mum,’ I said quietly, averting my eyes so she wouldn’t detect the lie. ‘How do I deal with it?’

  I watched as she brought her emotions under control. Her hand was visibly shaking as she opened a packet of cigarettes and put one in her mouth. I lit a match for her and watched as she puffed the cigarette into life. She relaxed back into her chair and blew out a long stream of blue smoke.

  ‘I hardly know what to say,’ she said quietly. ‘If I could take your problems onto myself, I would do it willingly. But I can’t.’ She took a long puff on her cigarette. ‘You know that, don’t you?’ She stared at me fixedly until I nodded in agreement. ‘You have to believe in yourself. Get rid of all that nonsense in your head that you’re a coward. You’re not a coward. You’re just a young boy being forced to grow up too quickly in a dreadful environment. Did you know that the biggest coward of all is a bully? Well, he is. You never see a bully hit someone he knows will hit him back. Why? Because he’s a coward. The only real way of dealing with a bully is to bully him. I suggest that the next time one of these boys decides to hit you, you pick up a big piece of wood and hit them hard across the head with it.’

  ‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’ I asked, incredulous.

  ‘Yes I do, and don’t you forget it. I hate the thought of those little bastards hitting you. I will feel a lot better if I know that you are going to deal with it.’ She stubbed the cigarette out angrily in an ashtray. ‘As for the Brothers, those evil, sanctimonious bastards, you’ll just have to try and keep out of their way. I’ve always hated the Catholic clergy and the way they behave.’ She hesitated, deep in thought. ‘I should never have converted when I married your father. I knew what they were like. Every time the parish priest comes around he stinks of drink, and how many of them have appeared in the Sunday papers for abusing young boys?’ She took out another cigarette. ‘And as for the Brothers, they are notorious for their cruelty. Nothing you’ve told me about them surprises me. They are all destined to burn in hell.’

  I was shocked by what Mum had said. She was advocating that I use weapons to defend myself but I knew in my heart I wasn’t capable of that. Weapons frightened me. I needed to speak to Bernie and ask his advice. At the same time, Mum convinced me that I had to somehow bring the bullying to an end and I was determined not to let her down. Maybe Bernie would have the answers.

  The rest of the day was filled with a lot of false joviality. We didn’t mention anything more to do with Vincent’s or my father. Occasionally Mum would get a bowl of cold water and dab my swollen face with a wet rag. I ventured a look in the bathroom mirror and saw that both my eyes were swollen and bruised. My lips were puffy and there was a small cut in the corner of my mouth. My father had done a real job on me and I promised myself that I would pay him back in kind when I was older.

  Mum clung on to me tightly as I was about to leave. It was as if she knew that it would be some time before she saw me again and she wanted to give me as much love as was humanly possible. I hugged her back and kissed her damp cheek. ‘Don’t forget what I told you,’ she said. ‘And don’t forget that you’re not a coward. You’re my hero. Don’t let any of those little bastards bully you.’

  ‘I won’t, Mum, I promise you.’ I kissed her again on her cheek and prised myself loose from her hug. ‘I have to go. If I’m late back I won’t be allowed out again.’

  It was with great difficulty that I walked away. I didn’t want to leave her. I dragged myself to the bus stop and began the journey back to Vincent’s. My mind was racing, my whole body tingling with anticipation at what Mum had advised me to do. But lurking in the back of my mind was fear. Would I be able to do what she had said I should? Would I get hurt attempting it? What sort of weapon should I use and could I stand being hit with a weapon?

  I was only a month past my fourteenth birthday and I would have to fight boys up to three years older than myself. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach, but I was determined to follow her advice. I had to become nasty and put aside feelings of being a coward and a wimp and replace them with a belief in my invincibility and superiority. I decided that every boy in that school was going to be my teacher. I would watch them all closely and learn from them. Every move, every trick, every bit of nastiness that worked for the
m I would practise until they all became a natural part of my self-defence. I smiled at my bravado. With Bernie’s help and a willingness to learn I no longer had anything to worry about.

  ‘You’re fucked, Wilkinson.’ I spat the words out and got a startled look from the bus conductor who happened to be passing my seat. I looked out of the window and smiled knowingly. ‘Really fucked.’

  Chapter 8

  Igrabbed Bernie by the arm and hurried him to the chapel gateway. ‘Kennedy and Robinson are going “around the back”. It should be a good one.’

  Bernie pulled his arm away angrily. ‘Fuck off, John. I’m fed up watching fight after fight. I must have seen twenty fights over the past three months and nothing has changed. We’re still getting thumped by the others. If you want to watch it, go ahead – but count me out. I’m going for a smoke.’

  I watched Bernie walk away until he disappeared into one of the brick porches that led into the recreation room. I felt slightly disappointed that he no longer had the same enthusiasm for watching and learning about fighting. I was as keen as ever and spent a great deal of my time in the locker room, practising moves I had witnessed in some of the fights. Bernie sometimes came with me and I enjoyed testing which of us could head-butt a steel locker door the quickest. I usually won and prided myself that I could head-butt the door and follow it up with a low kick while still keeping perfect balance. I was now trying to master a third move: after the low kick I would jump slightly backwards and grab a weighted money belt out of the back of my trousers and swing it ferociously downwards. I had nearly mastered this but I was far from happy with my present speed. I needed a lot more practice.

  Going ‘around the back’ for a fight was the crème de la crème of violence. It meant that the two protagonists were taking their disagreement out of sight of the Brothers and masters to a place where they wouldn’t be stopped. There would be a winner. Somebody could really get hurt. I had been in Vincent’s for six months and this was the first time two people had opted for ‘around the back’. I would have to be very careful when sneaking out of the yard as I would be taking as much risk as the combatants. If I was seen by any of the staff I would be accused of trying to abscond and duly punished. I would also be in deep trouble if Kennedy or Robinson saw me spying on them. These fights were private, no audience allowed. I knew the risks but my obsession to learn about fighting spurred me onwards.

  I crept unobserved into the chapel, quickly making my way into the vestry. My heart was thumping as I tried the vestry door that led into the small graveyard at the rear of the chapel. It slid open easily and I squeezed myself into the small porch, closing the door quietly behind me. I stood quietly, listening for any sounds, until I was certain nobody was following me. Satisfied I was alone, I sprinted to the three-foot-high cemetery wall and dived over it, landing in a crumpled heap on the grass of the playing field. I skinned my elbow on a hidden stone in the grass and cursed silently under my breath. After a brief inspection of the damage done by the stone, I belly-crawled my way along the base of the wall in the direction of the small yard at the rear of the carpenter’s shop. This was where the fight was due to take place. I hoped I was in time to witness it.

  As I drew near to the yard I could hear sounds of a struggle coming from its confines. I crept forward, closer, closer, until I thought I was near enough to look for an aperture to spy on the proceedings. Luck was on my side. Right next to the place where I was kneeling was a tiny gap in the brickwork that gave a complete, unobstructed view of the entire yard. As soon as I looked through the gap I knew that I was witnessing something nasty. I instinctively drew away to shut out the vision, but like a magnet my eyes were drawn back.

  Kennedy was sixteen years old, a tall, good-looking lad, with blond hair and dark blue eyes. He had been in Vincent’s for two years and was rated quite highly. He could definitely look after himself. Robinson was also sixteen years old. He was short and stocky with a swarthy complexion. It was whispered that he was a gyppo, but nobody really knew and nobody fancied asking.

  Kennedy was hurt, his face a mask of blood. He had been slashed twice across his left cheek with a razor blade that Robinson was brandishing in his right hand. Both cuts would need stitching and the blood was still streaming off his chin and down the front of his clothes. I watched with awe and admiration as he ripped off his bloody shirt and wrapped it around his left forearm. He was going to use his arm as a shield and the shirt would stop the blade penetrating his skin. He showed no fear – even though he must have been in a lot of pain.

  He reached into his waistband and pulled out a grey sock. I didn’t know what he had in the sock but I guessed it was a large stone or a chunk of lead from the metalwork shop. He walked slowly towards Robinson, swaying slowly from left to right, his left arm out in front of him, ready to protect him from any further slashes from the blade. Robinson backed away slowly. His movements appeared exaggerated as he feinted left and then right, seeking out a weakness in Kennedy’s guard, hoping to find an unprotected spot to slash at. Kennedy kept coming slowly forward. His eyes were riveted to the movement of the hand with the blade in it. He was manoeuvring himself in close enough to use the weighted sock.

  Suddenly, with blinding speed, Kennedy jumped forward and swung the sock in a vicious downward arc. Robinson tried to snatch his arm backwards, out of danger, but it was too late; the weighted sock hit his hand with a sickening thud. I clearly heard the sound of the wrist bone snapping. The second swing of the sock caught Robinson on the side of his face. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. Kennedy walked over to where Robinson was lying motionless and kicked him twice in his unprotected face. He then ran to the far end of the yard, climbed over the wall and disappeared from my sight. Robinson was still motionless on the ground when I left the scene and scampered back to the vestry.

  Bernie was looking at me with interest. ‘Did you see the whole of the fight?’

  I nodded. It was the talk of the school. Kennedy had needed thirteen stitches to repair the cuts on his cheek. Robinson had a broken wrist and a fractured cheekbone. He had been admitted to Dartford Hospital and was not expected to be released for at least a week. The police had been informed by the hospital administration that the injuries to both boys were consistent with being assaulted with a weapon.

  The only snag was the boys. They both insisted that they had been involved in accidents. The police had interviewed every boy in the school and had found nothing that could shake Kennedy and Robinson’s statements. De Montfort was furious. He hated anything that brought the school into disrepute as this could reflect on his ability to control the boys under his charge. The police made it clear to him that they felt sure there was a conspiracy of silence and that they knew both injured parties had been involved in a fight with weapons. However, they were powerless to charge either of the boys with an offence as they had no witnesses and no evidence.

  De Montfort gave the officer in charge permission to address an assembly of the entire school before supper that night. I was looking forward to hearing what he could possibly say about the incident. Apart from Kennedy and Robinson, I was the only person who could relate with authority what had taken place, and I hadn’t told a soul, except Bernie.

  I described the loaded sock and added, admiringly, ‘It was a good move. Kennedy’s one hard bastard. He deserved to win.’

  Bernie looked at me with disbelief. ‘You’ve changed, John. You’re starting to admire violence. It wasn’t a good move; it was a nasty move. Both Kennedy and Robinson deserved what they got. They’re fucking animals.’

  I walked away from Bernie feeling annoyed. I knew I was changing but I felt I had no choice. This school was completely run by violence. The masters were violent, the boys were violent, and I thought only violence would get me through my time there. I was dreading my first fight but I was determined that, when that time came, I wouldn’t disgrace myself. Why Bernie didn’t understand that completely bewildered me.

  It ha
d been three months since I had been home. No matter how hard I tried, the blue-and red-poor weeks just kept on coming. In the twelve weeks since I’d been back I’d had two weeks of satisfactory, six weeks of blue-poor and four weeks of red-poor. That meant I had lost two and a half days of my annual holiday. All my bookings were from being caught smoking. Sometimes I got caught four times a day and one day, much to Bernie’s amusement, I had been caught six times. I had long since resigned myself to having only a short holiday, as I had no intention of giving up smoking.

  Bernie had been craftier than me. He had not lost anything off his holiday and had been home on all of the first Sundays of the month. I was glad that he’d got to go home as it was the only way we had of acquiring tobacco. Wilkinson often tried to bully us into telling him where we hid our stash of tobacco but we never told him the secret. Much to De Montfort’s amazement, I had mastered the Latin Mass and Father Delaney, the school priest, had begun using me as a server for all of the services. I kept our tobacco hidden in one of the numerous boxes of hosts that were stored in the vestry. There was no chance of it being found as it was part of my job as the server to ensure that the main chalice was topped up with hosts. It was the safest stash of tobacco in the school. None of the staff would dream of searching the chapel and I felt sure that Father Delaney would never allow it if they ever tried. He was a decent man in his mid fifties, with big bushy sideboards, and we’d got on with each other from the start.

  I had an unexpected bonus land at my feet because of the work I did in the chapel: I found Jimmy Wilkinson’s hiding place for all the money he extorted by selling cigarettes. I saw him, from the vestry window, sneaking around the small cemetery. He lifted one of the flagstones that made up the pathway and placed a bulging handkerchief into a hole that had been hidden by the stone. After he had gone I went out into the cemetery and lifted this stone. Stuffed into the hole were at least nine or ten handkerchiefs, all bulging with sixpenny pieces, and a small leather purse with four one-pound notes inside it. I estimated that there had to be at least thirty pounds in his cache.