John Fenton - Please Don’t Make Me Go - How One Boy’s Courage Overcame A Brutal Childhood

The van pulled up in front of two large wooden doors and I was led in through one. The interior of the building was even more inspiring than the exterior. The huge entrance hall had a floor of grey marble flagstones, which seemed to reflect all of the winter sunlight shining through the large windows. Everywhere I looked there were huge double doors with ornate brass doorknobs, or white walls with beautiful carved cornices. A wide marble staircase with a well-polished banister dominated the hallway.

The van driver knocked softly on one of the doors and opened it in the same motion. I was led into a large room whose grandeur was diminished by lots of modern office furniture. Several people were sitting behind desks and the clicking of typewriters reverberated. A suited man got up from his desk, came over to one of my escorts, and took the sheaf of papers he was holding out. His eyes briefly scanned the papers.

‘That’s fine,’ he said in a Geordie accent that sounded peculiar to me.

‘He’s all yours. See you later.’ My escorts let go of my arms and left without a backward glance. I heard the van engine start up again and the sound fading as it pulled away down the drive.

‘What size shoes do you wear?’

I turned to look at the suited man, who was eyeing me questioningly.

‘Six, sir,’ I said timidly.

The man went to a side cupboard and rummaged around for a few minutes. When he reappeared, his arms were piled high with items of clothing. He dropped them at my feet.

‘Pick them up and follow me.’

With great difficulty, I scooped them up from the floor and hurried after the man who was now climbing the staircase.

‘Get a move on boy,’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

I staggered under the precariously balanced pile and hurried to catch him up.

‘In here.’ The man opened a door halfway along the upstairs corridor. ‘Take all your own clothes off and put them in that basket.’

He gestured to a large wicker basket leaning against a side wall. The room was obviously meant for washing as there were two large sinks on the far wall and several on the floor. I had never seen washbasins on the floor before. As if the man had been reading my mind, he pointed to one of them.

‘Shower yourself and make sure you do your hair well. I will be checking for lice.’

Self-consciously, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the basin. It took me a few nervous minutes to figure out how this new-fangled contraption worked but at last I did and the lukewarm water felt good as it pelted down on my shivering body. The soap the man handed to me smelled the same as the one my mother used for scrubbing the front doorstep at home. After about five minutes of heavy soaping and scrubbing I was handed a threadbare white towel. I rubbed myself dry and dressed myself in the clothes the man had given me.

The clothes were far from being new but were definitely clean. They had a distinct odour of mothballs and I wrinkled my nose as I put them on. The vest and underpants were a greyish white and the shirt – which was too large – was blue and had a frayed collar. The brown corduroy short trousers were slightly tight but the matching tunic jacket fitted me well. To round everything off, I had grey ankle socks and a pair of well-worn-in brown sandals.

After briefly inspecting my hair and scalp, the man pointed at the wicker basket I’d put my clothes in.

‘Bring that and follow me,’ he ordered as he walked away. Virtually scampering, I followed him as we retraced our route back to the entrance hall. Pointing at the floor outside the office door he said, ‘Leave the basket there and come with me.’

This time the man opened one of the doors to the left of the staircase. I heard the voices of lots of young people coming from within and entered the room with trepidation.

‘One for you, Mr Jenkins,’ the man shouted across the noise.

A silver-haired man came over. ‘What’s your name, lad?’ he boomed out.

‘John Fenton, sir,’ I replied quietly.

‘Right, Fenton, go and meet the others and try not to make too much noise.’

There were about thirty boys in the room, their ages ranging from nine to sixteen years old. I was self-conscious about my appearance, but relieved to see that everyone was dressed in the same ill-fitting apparel as me. They paid me scant attention and just carried on with their various activities. Some were sitting talking, others were playing board games, and a few were standing by a table-tennis table watching two of the older boys having a game.

‘Where are you from?’ I turned to see where the voice had come from. A boy of about the same age as me was standing beside me. ‘I’m from Barnet.’

‘I’m from Ealing,’ I replied. ‘Where’s Barnet? I’ve never heard of it.’

The boy looked shocked at my ignorance. ‘Everyone’s heard of Barnet. Are you fucking stupid?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘If you’re so fucking clever,’ I emphasised the word fucking, ‘tell me where Ealing is.’

The boy laughed loudly. ‘That’s fucked me.’ He looked at me with a friendly expression. ‘My name’s Bernard. What’s yours?’

I smiled back. ‘John, John Fenton. What’s your last name?’

‘Connors.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘What are you in here for?’

‘I don’t know. My dad said he was taking me out for the day and I ended up in Juvenile Court. Next minute I was told I had to come here for reports. I haven’t a clue what they were talking about or what happened.’ I felt tears springing to my eyes and turned away so the boy wouldn’t see them and think me soft.

‘You’re lucky. They’re just going to do probation reports. You’ll be going home the next time you go to court.’ Bernard spoke with such assurance that I immediately felt better. Then he added, ‘I’ve had probation already – this time I’m going down.’

‘Going down where?’ I was in awe of the way Bernard spoke. ‘What have you done?’

‘Played truant. Nothing big, just truant.’ He laughed again. ‘The wankers were always round my house. My old lady would take me into school and I would leg it out the back gate. I hated the fucking place.’

‘So what happens to you now?’ My admiration for him was growing by the minute.

‘I reckon I’ll get three years’ approved school,’ he told me. ‘Quite likely I’ll go to St Vincent’s. I’m a Catholic. Yer, I’ll get Vincent’s.’

‘Let’s go and sit down.’ Bernard started towards an empty table. ‘I’ll put you wise as to what goes on here.’

I listened intently as my new friend outlined the daily procedure at St Nicholas’s. The routine was simple. Out of bed at 6.30 am. Wash and shower and then tidy the dormitory. Get dressed and go down for breakfast at 7.30 am. Between 8.30 and 10 am scrub and clean the interior of the house. After the morning house inspection it was off to help the gardener with weeding and cutting the lawns. At 1 pm lunch and at 1.30 until 2 pm recreation. Between 2 and 4 pm it was back to helping the gardener. All boys were required to bathe after work and to be inspected for cleanliness. Tea was at 5.30 pm and there was further recreation between 6 and 7.30 pm. We would then be given a watery cup of cocoa and a slice of bread and jam. Into bed by 8 pm and lights out at 9 pm.

All the boys smoked. It was strictly forbidden, but that made not the slightest difference and boys were always being caught having a crafty smoke in some shaded part of the building. The ‘Bosses’ – the name given by the boys to all who worked in ‘St Nick’s’ – tried their hardest to stamp it out, but always failed. I was amazed at the hiding places Bernard showed me to secure my cigarettes so they were not found in the frequent searches. They were taped underneath the table tennis table, or in the potting shed in the garden, or inside the chimneys. Visitors usually smuggled cigarettes in on a Sunday. One of the gardeners would also buy them for you if you had the money. The Bosses were fighting a losing battle and this alone made smoking worthwhile.