A
personal account of over 40 years’ experience in the residential
child service in the
United Kingdom, based on involvement in the services as a practitioner
and manager.
Names and places have been changed for obvious reasons.
“IN
AT THE DEEP END”
.................................
“So
which Labour Exchange did you come from then?” asked Simon,
on my first day, as I sat down for my coffee break in the staff
room.
Simon,
I was soon to discover, was a long-serving teacher at Pink House,
a regional Remand Home and Classifying School for boys, with a low
opinion of the professional status of the residential child care
staff.
“I
didn’t come from any Exchange actually; a friend recommended
me.”
“Some
friend”, laughed Simon.
It
was 1962 and I had only recently finished my national service in
the Army. I had decided I wanted to do something useful, back in
‘civvy street’, to help kids. When, over a pint, a friend
had told me how he had easily got a job at Pink House last summer
before going on to college, I decided I would follow up the idea.
I
had rung up the Home and had been quickly put through to the Superintendent.
“Can
you come and see me tomorrow?” he asked, after I had told
him my circumstances.
Next
day I approached the large old grey building with some trepidation.
What was I thinking of wanting to work in such a grimy-looking place,
full of young criminals, I asked myself.
I
rang the bell and after a while the key was turned and a door opened
to admit me into a large hall. A group of about twenty youths in
corduroy jackets and jeans, roughly in twos, and escorted by a harassed-looking
adult, passed noisily by at the far end of a corridor.
I
was taken down another corridor to the left. As I walked along I
had to step over two boys on their knees, buckets beside them, who
were slowly scrubbing the floor.
“Mind
where you’re walking, sir,” one called out.
“Keep
your head down, Rogers, and get on with it”, my escort briskly
replied.
My
interview lasted barely twenty minutes. The Superintendent was a
smartly dressed middle-aged man with a confident air about him.
He asked me about my past working experience and told me I needed
to be fit and committed to do the work and then asked me if I would
like the job.
“Well
- yes, I would, but what exactly will I be doing?”
“You’ll
be a housefather class 2. The pay is £625 a year less £145
a year for board. Just help keep the boys in order and do some reports
for the Courts. Is that OK?”
“Well
- yes”.
“Good
- when can you start?”
“I
suppose I could start tomorrow”.
“Excellent,
well, tomorrow it is then. I will write to those names you have
given as referees and you will have a letter of appointment from
County Hall, in a week or so. Matron will find you a room when you
arrive tomorrow. Good bye”.
So
here I was, starting work in a Remand Home for 120 boys aged ten
to seventeen, with a staff of housemasters, housefathers, teachers,
instructors, psychologists, admin. staff and a full time nurse and
matron, on my first day of work.
“You
new here, sir?” asked a tall tousle-haired boy with big boots
and a freckly face.
“You
could say that”, I replied somewhat guardedly.
“We
don’t go to bed until 11pm on Fridays.”
“Yer,
and we have an extra snout at supper”, added his smiling bright-eyed
companion.
“OK,
you two, stop telling your tall stories to Mr. Greene and go and
get the supper trolley -- now!”, boomed a tall thin man with
a toothbrush moustache.
“Look,
lad, I know your name is Greene, but you don’t want to believe
much of what these little blighters tell you. Stay by me tonight
and I’ll see you’re OK”.
“Thanks,
I will,” I said, much relieved to be with a man who knew what
he was doing and someone whom the boys clearly respected and feared.
“Johnson,
put that down”, yelled my new-found guardian, Mr. Robertson,
(known as Robbie behind his back to both boys and staff), at a boy
about to throw a billiard ball across the room.
The
boy obediently did as he was ordered.
“Come
here, lad.”
“What’s
your name?”
“Smollock”.
“Smollock,
sir.”
“Smollock,
sir,” the boy repeated.
“Well,
listen to me, Smollock. If I see you as much as lift a ball above
your chin, your feet won’t touch the ground as I whip you
round to the Super’s office. Do you understand me, lad?”
“Yes
- I mean, yes, sir”.
As
the boy left, Robbie turned to me with a glint in his eye and said,
“Don’t give ‘em an inch Mr. Greene or they’ll
take a mile.”
All
the boys were in bed by 9 p.m., with lights out for the younger
ones (13-15) in Tall Tree House dormitory at 9.15 p.m. and at 9.30
p.m. for the older ones (15-17) in Willow House.
An
elderly chap, (60+), with a newspaper in his pocket, came in at
9.45 p.m..
“Evening,
Robbie - all OK?”
“Mr.
Robertson to you, Maggs. Of course everything is all right. Is it
ever any different when I’m on?”
“I’ll
have a quiet night then”.
“That
doesn’t mean you can nod off!”
“Come
on, Rob—Mr. Robertson, would I do that?”
“Yer-
this young sprog, by the way, is Gus Greene, his first day.”
“I
bet you’re tired”, observed Maggs, giving me a nod of
greeting.
“Cor..
am I?”
“Well,
don’t spend too long down the pub”.
“Come
on, lad, we can leave Maggs to it now and be first at the Ploughman’s
Arms.”
It
was gone midnight when my head touched the pillow at the end of
my first day as a housefather, my head buzzing with the events of
the day and the tales the other staff had told in the pub about
their day. I wanted to sleep for a week but I had to be on duty
in the morning at 7 a.m.
