I remember very little about the journey. I know we travelled across London but I didn’t recognise any of the towns we went through. Bernie spent the entire journey regaling me with tales of his exploits with truancy officers. Our laughter must have been infectious as our two escorts – the driver and his mate – smiled on more than one occasion. We could see them through the grille that separated us from the front of the van.
‘OK, lads. Quiet down.’ The driver was putting on his peaked cap. ‘We’re here now.’
We both peered out to see where we were. The Black Maria van was reaching the top of a steep incline. On the right-hand side of the road was a field that was fenced off with mesh wiring. The fence was about ten feet in height with a string of barbed wire draped above it. Bernie raised his eyebrows.
‘Do you think they don’t want us to get out?’
I smiled weakly. I was more interested in the gateway the van was turning into. Two large black wrought-iron gates halted our progress. The gates were attached to two red-brick pillars and stretched across the top of the pillars was an arched, black, wrought-iron sign with the words ‘St Vincent’s’ standing out boldly on a fancy beaded surround. The driver got out and rang an electric bell on the right-hand pillar. It was only a short while before a black-robed figure appeared on the other side of the gates and proceeded to unlock them with an ornate black key.
He seemed to work at a laboriously slow rate. Every movement was precise. When at last the gates were open he stepped slowly backwards, leaving just enough room for the van to enter. As it manoeuvred past, I could just discern a white face peering in at us from beneath the black hood. Bernie had also been looking at the man and I was surprised to notice that fear blanched his face.
St Vincent’s came into view. It was monastic in appearance, with a small square bell tower situated in the centre of a grey slated and slanted roof. The walls were of red brick and punctuated with two rows of white, arched windows. In the centre of the bottom row of windows was a large stone arch above two large oak doors. The building was surrounded by a well-maintained garden and some early daffodils gave it an appearance of serenity. There was a big, gnarled oak tree in the centre of the front lawn, with clumps of daffodils around its roots, and large rose bushes were dotted around.
The van pulled up outside the oak doors. We waited patiently until the robed man came walking slowly up the gravelled path. He reached inside his cassock, produced another key and opened the right-hand door. He beckoned us forward with just a slight nod of his hooded head and disappeared inside. My escort held tightly onto my arm as we entered the building, as if he expected me to run at any moment.
The door opened into a large hallway. The floor had black and white ceramic tiles that struck me as looking like a chessboard; they were so highly polished that, looking down, I could see myself clearly. A tall statue of the Sacred Heart stood on a wooden plinth by the right-hand wall and opposite it, also on a wooden plinth, stood a statue of a saintly looking monk.
It has to be St Vincent, I thought. My eyes wandered over to a large framed print of the current Pope that was displayed proudly in the centre of the right-hand wall. Hanging five feet from the floor on the far wall was a large wooden crucifix.
‘It’s like being in bleeding church,’ Bernie whispered. I nodded my head in agreement and smiled at the irreverence of the remark.
We were ushered through a door to the right of the Sacred Heart statue. Hanging from the wood-panelled walls were numerous pictures of saints and one very large one of the Blessed Virgin behind a desk. Seated behind the desk was a monk, about forty years old and with the most penetrating stare I had ever seen. His hair was jet-black and heavily greased with Brylcreem. His nose was long and straight and there was a profusion of black, stubbly hairs sprouting from both nostrils. His lips were thin and cruel-looking and there was a blueish tinge around his chin and under his nose from where he shaved. His eyes were constantly switching from me to Bernie as if he were inwardly appraising us both. He turned his attention to our escorts.
‘Did they give you any trouble?’
I hated the way the monk spoke, his voice at least an octave above a normal man’s voice. He had a strong Irish accent which seemed to come from down his nose and not out of his mouth.
He whinges, I thought. He doesn’t talk, he whinges. It’s not far off sounding like my old man.
‘No trouble at all.’ The driver patted me and Bernie lightly on our heads. ‘A couple of nice lads.’
The monk’s mouth twisted into a cold smile. ‘Brother Francis will take you to the kitchen and get you a nice cup of tea before you head back,’ he said to the escorts. His eyes switched to the hooded monk standing quietly just inside the door. ‘Brother Francis, if you would be so kind.’
Brother Francis and the two escorts left the room, quietly closing the door behind them. Bernie and I stood in front of the desk being reappraised by the monk’s penetrating stare. Eventually, he diverted his eyes to the paperwork the driver had handed him. Slowly and methodically he worked his way from sheet to sheet until at last he gathered them all together and placed them in a neat pile. He turned to Bernie and me and seemed to stare at us interminably, though it may only have been a few seconds. I was relieved when at last he started to speak.
‘Which one of you is Connors?’ he asked. ‘Who’s the one with the itchy feet?’
‘I am, sir.’ Bernie was hardly audible.
‘Well, Connors, don’t try any of your disappearing tricks here. We won’t put up with any of your nonsense.’
He was now staring at me. ‘Unruly behaviour! We will soon get that out of your system. If you open your mouth out of turn here you’ll be in big trouble.’ His voice seemed to go up yet another octave. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
I nodded. I had lost the power of speech.
‘I will now tell you the rules of the school, so listen carefully, I will not repeat myself.’ He closed his eyes as if he were meditating. ‘I am Brother De Montfort and the headmaster of this school.’ He opened his eyes. ‘We have rules in this school that have to be obeyed. Any breach of the rules and you will be disciplined. I will not hesitate to cane you if you deserve it. You have been sent here because you are not fit to live with ordinary people. You are shit and nothing but shit. Forget about your parents for the next three years. You have no parents – no brothers and sisters – you have nothing but this school. Do you understand that?’ De Montfort stood up menacingly, and leant over the desk until his eyes were only inches from our faces. ‘Do you understand that?’
We both nodded our heads violently. Our fear was evident and De Montfort eased himself back into his seat.
‘You will attend Mass daily at seven o’clock in the morning. On Friday and Sunday you will take Communion. Confessions are heard on Thursday evening and you will attend Benediction every Sunday afternoon. If you are bright enough, which I doubt, you will get the chance to learn to serve Mass with the priest.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘If you had had God in your life before, you wouldn’t be here now. A child brought up in a house that loves Jesus is a good child. I hope and pray that by the time you leave my school, Jesus and the Blessed Virgin will be an integral part of your lives.’ I noticed how he bowed his head reverently as he said the name Jesus. ‘You will address all of the Brothers by their full title and all of the civilian staff as Mister. It is common practice to refer to the Brothers as Bro and I am quite happy for this term to be used as long as it is used with respect.’ He stood up and faced the picture of the Blessed Virgin and blessed himself with the Sign of the Cross. He turned to face us again.
‘Every boy is awarded 18 points at the start of the week. Each point is worth one penny. This means