by Fenton, John
Bernie and a few of the older boys came to greet me when I returned to the yard. I felt like a conquering hero and bragged about refusing the cane and sticking a nut on Eddie Lawson. The Eddie incident was initially met with a degree of scepticism but this quickly turned to open-mouthed amazement when he walked out of the schoolroom door sporting a closed and puffy left eye.
I told them how Brother Ambrose had lashed me over and over with the cane and Bernie said, ‘The nutty fucker.’ I burst out laughing and said, ‘That’s a great nickname for him. Nutty Ambrose.’
‘How many times did you get hit?’ Bernie asked. ‘If he was going loopy it might have been hundreds.’
‘You tell me. I can’t see behind me.’
The boys gingerly lifted my shirt and jumper up and I heard a few gasps and expletives.
‘Jesus, John,’ Bernie said, ‘you’re like a fucking zebra you’ve got so many stripes.’ My trousers and underpants were pulled down and there were even more expletives. ‘There are even stripes down the back of your legs. The nutty fucker must have been hitting you all over.’
‘I know he was but the best part is, I never felt a fucking thing. I was too busy struggling and shouting to feel anything. I’ve decided that if I ever have to have the cane again, I’ll do the same thing. It doesn’t hurt a quarter as much as when you’re wearing those fucking shorts.’
Bernie nodded. ‘You could well be right as you haven’t got a single cut.’
I looked at Brother Arnold as he walked across the yard and said, ‘The next time, I’ll stick a nut on that cunt.’
Bernie lit a roll-up and handed it to me. I sat down carefully with my back against the recreation room wall and resumed my study of the different boys of St Vincent’s.
I watched as Brother Arnold beat Pete Boyle for smoking. As usual, I could see he was taking a perverse delight in inflicting pain. For several minutes I imagined what it would be like to have Arnold on the floor and kick the shit out of him just as he had done to so many boys. I hated the man and felt sure that he was a pious hypocrite. He had no right to wear any church attire. I knew that because I’d witnessed him sinning at first hand.
A few weeks earlier I had been told to go to the Brothers’ living room and ask for the key to the television room. The room was situated near De Montfort’s office and was where all boys reported when they returned from holiday or from their home visits on the first Sunday of the month. I tapped gently on the door and opened it in the same motion.
The room was comfortably furnished and looked very similar to any lounge in any house. Brother Arnold was lying along the couch with his head resting on the cushioned arm rest. I was taken completely by surprise to see that a young Irish nurse who worked in the infirmary was also lying on the couch with her head resting on the opposite arm rest. Brother Arnold had his hand resting on the nurse’s knee in what could have been a perfect scene of domestic bliss. He snatched his hand away and quickly swung his legs onto the floor then jumped up and smacked me hard around the face. He said viciously, ‘Don’t enter a room until you’ve been asked to enter. What do you want?’
I walked out of the room with the key and with the almost certain knowledge that Brother Arnold and the nurse were more than just common acquaintances. Why else would they recline in such an intimate fashion? He was fucking her. It stood to reason. That was another reason he should burn in hell.
I watched him shove Pete Boyle angrily away and take out his notebook. I spat on the floor and contemptuously stood up and went to retrieve my book from my locker. I had to shut out the sight of that wicked bastard.
Chapter 22
I watched torrential rain falling from the sky and bouncing six inches off the ground before dropping into the rivulets that were streaming towards the drains. The school was deathly quiet and I could clearly hear the raindrops beating against the recreation room windows. I was once again left to my own devices as all the boys had gone home on their summer holidays. I didn’t envy them at all. If I had gone home my father would have made my mother’s life even more miserable than it already was and I would have had an awful time.
I cursed the rain. It was the middle of August and I had been looking forward to lying on the playing field, sunbathing and reading a book. I chuckled softly to myself as I thought of Bernie. He was going with his family for a week in Blackpool and he had talked about nothing else for the last three weeks, but in all of his plans, he had never predicted rain and the need for galoshes. A sudden crack of thunder made me jump and I looked eagerly at the black clouds in the hope of seeing some lightning. I didn’t have long to wait as a bright jagged streak illuminated the sky followed almost immediately by a booming clap of thunder.
Father Delaney suddenly appeared, coming out of the chapel. He peered up at the sky and then unfolded an umbrella before splashing his way across the yard. I wondered what was bringing him over to the recreation room and I hurried to the door and held it open for him. He stamped into the room and shook his umbrella into the porch. He smiled at me and said, ‘It’s a lovely day for the fishes, John.’
There was another flash of lightning, which was immediately followed by a crackling clap of thunder.
‘It must be right overhead,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope it soon passes over.’
He reached into the side pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thin booklet and handed it to me. ‘It’s a brief history of St Thomas à Becket. Have you ever heard of him before?’
I shook my head and peered down at the front cover of the booklet. It showed a picture of a bishop kneeling and looking up to heaven with four medieval knights surrounding him, one of them plunging a sword down through the back of his neck.
‘Why have you given me this, Father?’
Father Delaney looked pleased with himself. ‘I’ve arranged with Brother De Montfort that I can take you on an excursion to Canterbury Cathedral tomorrow. It’s not too far away and I’m certain that you’ll enjoy it.’ He pointed at the booklet I was holding. ‘That tells the story of Thomas à Becket, who was an Archbishop of Canterbury and was murdered on the 29th of December 1170. He was a person who stuck by his beliefs, no matter what, and was even prepared to die for them.’
‘When was he made a Saint, Father?’
Father Delaney nodded his head, pleased by my interest. ‘He was canonised in February 1173. That is quite soon after his death as lots of saints are not canonised until they have been dead for decades or longer.’
‘Is he buried in the Cathedral, Father?’
‘He was once, but his tomb was destroyed in Henry VIII’s reign with the Dissolution of the Monasteries.’ He patted me on my shoulder. ‘I won’t tell you anything else for now. You can read all about it in the book I’ve just given you. Let’s hope the weather is better tomorrow.’
‘What time are we leaving, Father?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I think we should be on our way by nine o’clock. It would be nice if we can spend a whole day looking at the wonders that Canterbury has to offer.’
The excursion to Canterbury Cathedral was possibly the most educational thing I had done in my life. Father Delaney was better than any official guide and pointed out and explained everything of significance in the Cathedral. I was thrilled to stand next to the small dark-coloured stone square on the floor of the Martyrdom where Thomas à Becket was slain. Father Delaney insisted that we said a decade of the rosary there for the sick and dying in the world. We moved on to St Michael’s Chapel (the Warriors’ Chapel) and he pointed out the large book of remembrance. He told me how a soldier from the Royal East Kent Regiment (known as the Buffs) marched to the chapel every day and turned the page so a new list of soldiers who had died for their country was on display.
I was excited when at last we arrived in the Crypt. I don’t quite know what I had expected to see but this exceeded every stretch of the imagination. The Chapel of Our Lady Undercroft was the most simple and beautiful place of worship I had ever seen. I ask
ed Father Delaney if we could stay a little longer in the chapel as I wanted to say a few prayers for the well-being of my family. Father Delaney smiled and knelt next to me in front of the altar.
When we returned to the main floor Father Delaney led me over to the tombs of Henry IV and his wife, Joan of Navarre. He explained to me that Henry IV was the only monarch buried in Canterbury. He wasn’t the only member of the royal family interred in Canterbury as earlier he had shown me the tomb of Edward the Black Prince, who had been heir to the throne of his father, Edward III. My brain was being swamped with tales of previous Archbishops of Canterbury and Father Delaney spoke with such authority and could deliver such wonderfully descriptive narratives, it brought the majestic building to life. At the end of our day in Canterbury I was a convert to England’s history and heritage and couldn’t remember ever having had such an interesting time.
Father Delaney was quiet on the journey back to Vincent’s and it was only as we approached Dartford that he spoke. ‘That was a marvellous day out, John. Did you enjoy it?’
‘It was great, Father,’ I said with passion. ‘I never knew that there were such wonderful things to be seen.’
‘The world is full of wonderful things,’ he said. ‘England is full of ancient castles and churches. When you leave the school you will be free to seek them out and learn about your country’s history. History has thrown up some great people who have achieved great things. I watched you today and you showed me that you appreciated the wonders of Canterbury Cathedral. Don’t let it be a one-off experience. Every chance you get to go and see some place of historical interest you must grab with both hands.’
‘I will, Father. I want to learn; I enjoy learning.’
‘I know, John. That is why it’s so tragic you’re in St Vincent’s.’ He turned the car on to Temple Hill, which led up to the school. ‘How long have you been with us?’
I had to think for a moment. ‘Two years and five months, Father.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘And with your history I would say you have another seven months to go. I don’t think there’s any chance of Brother De Montfort putting your name forward for licence; you’ve been too much of a pain in the backside to him.’
I laughed. ‘I’ve never even thought about getting licence as I know what the Brothers think of me. Seven months is no bother, I’ve got used to the place.’ I turned my head to look at him. ‘Who are you going to get to serve Mass when I’ve gone, Father?’
He shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue, John, but I’m sure I’ll find someone.’
He turned the car through the school gates, sped along the drive and pulled up outside the front door to the chapel. I reluctantly opened the car door and climbed out and stepped back onto Vincent’s ground. ‘Thank you, Father. It was a great day.’
‘It was my pleasure, John. I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
I walked slowly around the small graveyard and into the schoolyard. I was alone again and the wonderful day was finished. I looked wistfully at the booklet of Thomas à Becket and wished the day was just starting again. For the first time in over two and a half years I became discontented with my life. I was yearning for the unobtainable. I wanted a life with a loving family and all the treats that went with it. I felt tears coming behind my eyes and cursed. ‘For fuck’s sake, John, get a grip,’ I muttered. ‘You’ll get nowhere feeling sorry for yourself.’
Later that night, alone and lying on my bed, I let the tears flow freely.
Chapter 23
Shut the fuck up,’ Pete Boyle screamed out. He picked up one of his work boots and slung it at the bed next to me, where the sound of someone crying was disturbing the whole dormitory. It just missed me and I picked it up from the floor and lobbed it back at Boyle.
‘Sorry about that, John,’ he said. ‘It was meant for that noisy cunt in the next bed. Get out of bed and give him a slap.’
I looked across at the mound of bedclothes the boy was hiding under. His muffled sobs touched my heart. I had become a student of life and of the boys at Vincent’s and prided myself on assessing what sort of character they were within hours of their arrival in the school.
The boy hiding under the mound was John Lacey. He was just thirteen years old and had been in Vincent’s for a little over a week. When he came into the yard on his first day I noted how he kept himself to himself and, apart from a little fear in his eyes, looked confident enough to fit into the ways of the school. I was surprised to hear him crying under his pillow as I’d thought he was stronger than that.
I slowly climbed out of my bed and crept over to Lacey and shook the mound of bedclothes.
‘John, stop crying,’ I whispered. ‘You’re keeping the whole dorm awake.’ I was startled at his muffled scream when I touched him. ‘What’s up? Why did you scream?’
His pillow moved and tentatively his tearstained face appeared. His broken sobs became louder and he buried his head back under the pillow to muffle them from the other boys. I pulled the pillow off his head and threw it on the floor.
‘I’m taking an awful chance being out of my bed,’ I said. ‘If Brother Arnold comes along on his night patrol and finds me here, I’ll be in deep shit. So tell me quickly what’s wrong with you?’
Desperately trying to control his sobs he said, ‘I sneaked out of school this afternoon to ring my mother and I was caught by one of the Brothers as I climbed over the fence. They said I was trying to run away. I was taken upstairs and they made me put on boxing shorts and then caned me.’ He started to sob again. ‘They hurt me bad. Really bad.’
‘Do you mind if I have a look?’
He kicked back the bedclothes and rolled over onto his front. Very gently I lifted up his nightshirt so his backside was exposed. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. His whole backside was black and blue with no sign of any untouched flesh. There were five large cuts criss-crossing his buttocks and trails of dried blood running down the backs of both legs.
I gently covered him up again. ‘How many times were you hit?’
His sobbing had eased. ‘I think it was eight times. I don’t know for certain as I was hurting too much to count.’
My mind went back to the first time I had been caned by Nutty Ambrose and I could imagine the torment and suffering John Lacey had gone through. I cursed loudly, ‘Those fucking arseholes.’
I looked over to where Pete Boyle was sitting up in bed, looking at me. ‘Get your arse over here, Pete, and see what those cunts have done to this kid.’
He scampered over to where I was standing and I pulled up Lacey’s nightshirt again. ‘No wonder the kid was crying,’ I said.
Pete had been in the school for two years and was a few months younger than me. He had been caned a few times himself and, like me, hated Nutty Ambrose and De Montfort for the pain they had inflicted on him. He stared down at Lacey’s backside. ‘Those cunts,’ he muttered. He didn’t need to say any more. Cunts was an appropriate word for what we were looking at. He leant forward and covered Lacey over. ‘When is this ever going to stop?’
I had no answer. What could I say? This treatment was common in Vincent’s and had been going on, I should imagine, since the school was first opened in 1878. I said in a whisper for only Lacey and Boyle to hear, ‘Try to go to sleep, John. I’ll have a chat to you in the morning and me and Pete will do our best to make sure you’re OK.’
Lacey wiped his eyes on his nightshirt sleeve and smiled weakly at me. I pulled the bedclothes over him and climbed back into my own bed.
Pete Boyle sat on the end of my bed. ‘We’ve got to do something, John,’ he said. ‘We can’t allow this to keep going on.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better get back to my bed before the Kraut catches me.’ The Kraut was a recent nickname given to Arnold by one of the boys. It was a great name for him as he was just like a Gestapo officer with his general nastiness and inhumanity. I nodded my head and watched Boyle as he tiptoed back to his bed.
I couldn’t sleep. What Boyle said had to
uched a raw nerve. We’ve got to do something kept going through my mind and I searched over and over for a solution. I had thought for a long time that something should be done about the constant assaults we were subjected to. Somehow we had to expose the cruelty to the outside world. But how could we do that?
Suddenly I thought of Bernie and his new hobby. He had returned from his summer holiday, two months ago, with a camera his father had given him. It was a Box Brownie and it was his pride and joy. He had used at least three rolls of film photographing different boys and different locations in Vincent’s. His father developed the films for him when he went home on his first Sunday visit and he brought the pictures back for us all to see. I could get him to take pictures of any boy who was caned and show the damage done to them. Then it would only be a matter of getting the pictures out of the school and into the hands of someone who would take up our cause. Who the hell could I get to take up our cause?
I thought back to a recent conversation I had had with Father Delaney. He had been reading an article in the Daily Mirror that said 60 per cent of American pensioners live in poverty. He was annoyed that the American government could allow such a thing to happen and he was glad that the Mirror was exposing the scandal. I asked him why an English newspaper would be interested in what goes on in America. He told me that there were two sorts of people in the world – doers and dreamers. Dreamers thought about doing something; doers did it. The Daily Mirror was a doer.
If they thought a thing was wrong they would publish it so the world could see what was going on. It was only right, he said, that America’s bad treatment of its pensioners was exposed to the whole world. Maybe the Mirror would take up our cause. But how could I get the photographs to them and who would I address them to?
I turned over restlessly in my bed. The idea was good but I wasn’t happy with it. I wanted more than that; I wanted payback as well. Maybe, if we did something big enough, the Daily Mirror would come to us. The word riot flashed into my mind. Just the thought of it made my body tingle. All I had to do was get fifteen to twenty boys who could look after themselves. If the boys were committed enough, the Brothers would stand no chance. A picture was shaping in my mind of us barricading the small dorm and fighting off the Brothers. Boyle, who worked in the gardening group, should be able to get hold of some of the petrol that was used in the motor mowers. We could collect some of the small bottles that we got our daily ration of milk in and half fill them with petrol. Put a petrol-soaked rag in the neck of each bottle and we’d have petrol bombs. I kicked off the bedclothes as I was sweating with excitement. Everything was taking shape in my mind and I knew we could succeed if we kept our nerve.