In a very short time, both of us were kitted out in our new uniform. The clothes were not new but were in good condition and fitted us well. White underclothes, short grey trousers, grey shirt, maroon pullover, long grey socks and black hobnailed boots. We were also given a maroon blazer to be worn whenever we left the school premises.
‘You will be given overalls in your workshops. All of your sports equipment will be given to you when you need it.’ Brother Francis looked distastefully down at the clothes we had been wearing. ‘Those you will keep in your locker. Pick them up and follow me.’
Brother Francis opened a door opposite the uniform cupboard and led us through it. The size of the room we were led into took both of us by surprise. It was rectangular in shape, over 200 feet long and 30 feet wide. The left-hand wall had several doorways leading off it and I wondered where they went. The right-hand wall had windows along its entire length that were covered on the outside with a protective wire mesh. Glancing through the windows I could see what appeared to be a large concrete quadrangle, securely encased on three sides by school buildings and on the far side by some large wooden workshops. Between two of the workshops was an entrance that led onto a large sports field. I knew this as I could see some netted goalposts in the middle distance.
Turning my attention back to the room I saw that long wooden memorial benches lined every wall. The walls were all painted brick – the top half cream and the bottom half pine green. Two evenly spaced rows of pictures adorned all available space on the left-hand wall, showing football teams or boys standing in a classical boxing stance surrounded by trophies. I couldn’t make out the writing underneath and promised myself that I would look more closely at them when the opportunity arose. I wondered briefly if I would ever see my picture on the wall. I doubted it but thought how proud I would be if it ever happened.
‘In here.’ Brother Francis opened the last door on the left-hand wall. We entered a large square room filled with several rows of steel lockers. Each locker was six feet in height and divided in half by two doors. Each door had a number embossed on it and a name tag stuck on beneath. Brother Francis was scanning the names, searching his memory, looking towards the ceiling to seek guidance from above until at last he pulled open a locker door and peered inside. He gave a sigh of satisfaction when he saw it was empty. ‘This one is yours, Fenton.’
He checked the number on the door. ‘Your number is 71. Don’t forget it as that will be your number for everything you do for the next three years. Put your clothes in your locker and then wait outside the door.’
I stood outside the locker room and listened to the commotion coming from within. ‘Jesus Christ! Give me patience.’ Brother Francis was losing it again. His voice boomed out: ‘Jesus Christ! Where the hell is it?’
I heard a noise that sounded like a slap.
‘Get out of the way you little bastard.’ It sounded as though Bernie had been slapped again and I was tempted to go back in the room to help him but a shouted ‘At last!’ from Brother Francis meant that the trouble was over. When Bernie reappeared he had blood trickling from his nostril and tears in his eyes. I didn’t dare look at the monster in case I got another beating, but kept saying over and over again in my mind: I hope you’re dead by Christmas. I hope you’re dead by Christmas.
The journey to Matron’s office was made in complete silence. Bernie occasionally wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand. My eyes never left the back of Brother Francis. I was engrossed in praying for his early demise.
Matron was a tall, stout woman in her mid forties. Her hair was light brown and permed into tight curls. Her face was plump and not unattractive, though she had on far too much face powder, which gave her a very pallid complexion. Her lips were covered in the deepest red lipstick and there was a smear of red on one of her front teeth. She was dressed in a crisply starched white uniform and her more than ample bosom strained to break free from it.
‘I see you’ve been in the wars already,’ she said in a soft Irish voice as she looked at both of us in turn. She handed Bernie a ball of cotton wool. ‘Wipe your nose with that.’ She briefly inspected the lump on my forehead. ‘You’ll be OK. The skin’s not broken. Maybe you’ll both think twice about fighting next time.’ She naturally assumed we’d been fighting each other and we didn’t contradict her.
She went to an open cupboard and produced two toothbrushes, two bars of soap, two circular tins of Gibbs Dental Powder and two face flannels. She handed one of everything to each of us and smiled at Brother Francis. ‘I’ll put them down to see the doctor next week.’ She looked at a calendar that was hanging on the wall behind her desk. ‘He is due to visit next Tuesday.’
‘Say thank you to Matron,’ Brother Francis demanded.
‘Thank you, Matron,’ we said politely.
Bernie was straining to look down the front of Matron’s dress and catch a glimpse of her breasts. Matron saw what he was doing and immediately straightened up and adjusted the front of her dress.
‘That will do, Brother. You can take them into the school now.’ She dismissed us by sitting down at her desk and writing on some papers in front of her. I noticed that her cheeks had lost some of their pallor and there was just the slightest hint of pink showing through the powder. I had to stop myself smiling.
Brother Francis led us out of the room and down a small flight of stairs. He stopped in front of a plain wooden door and looked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s just after five o’clock. The boys will be getting ready for tea soon. You can go and join them.’
He produced a key from somewhere in his cassock and opened the door.
The door opened into the large rectangular room we’d been in before but now the benches were lined with boys. We couldn’t even see the entire length of the room as other boys moving around obstructed the view. Two boys who had been standing close to the door looked at us with interest. When we tried to get past they made no attempt to move out of the way and we were forced to squeeze gingerly around them. I was scared and glanced at Bernie for comfort. The look on his face showed me that he was feeling exactly the same and he nervously gestured with his head for me to follow him. We made our way over to a bench that only had one boy sitting on it.
‘Where are you from?’ The boy looked at us with mild curiosity. ‘What Remand Home?’
‘St Nicks,’ Bernie replied. ‘My name is Bernard,’ he pointed in my direction, ‘and he’s John.’
‘What number have you got? I’ll tell you what house you’re in.’
‘I’m 116 and he’s 71.’
‘You’re in St David’s,’ he said, looking at me, ‘the same one as me. You,’ he switched his attention to Bernie, ‘you’re in St George’s.’
‘How does the house system work?’ I asked.
‘Simple. All numbers between 1 and 30 are in St Patrick’s; between 31 and 60 are in St Andrew’s; 61 to 90 are St David’s; and 91 to 120 in St George’s. When we have to line up we do it in houses and in numbers. You should always be standing behind the same person.’ He looked around the room furtively. ‘Be careful about who you upset.’ He gestured towards a group of boys standing against the opposite wall. ‘All of those are nasty. The tall one with the blond hair is called Jimmy Wilkinson and he’s the governor. You can’t have any smokes unless you buy them from him or his mates. If he sees you smoking and you haven’t bought it from him …’ He never finished the sentence. He just smiled wanly. ‘Put it this way; you’ll regret it.’
I looked more closely at the group of boys opposite, especially the blond one. He looked about fifteen years old and was approximately five feet ten inches tall and of medium weight. He had a pronounced Roman nose and watery blue eyes. As I was watching him, he squirted a stream of saliva from