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.
Goodbye
Bluebells! Hello Chestnuts!
“Mr.
Greene, I’m pleased to tell that we have decided to offer
you the job in charge of this remand home, er, special school –
children’s home, er….Well, whatever it is - you’ve
got the job.” With these words the Chairman of the County
Council Children’s Committee announced, when I was called
back in after my earlier interview, that I had been successful in
my bid to become the manager of my own establishment.
In
the early 1970s there were well over 30,000 children in residential
childcare establishments in England and Wales. With many of the
larger children’s homes being broken down into smaller ones
in the community, there were a significant number of home manager
posts on offer.
I
had enjoyed working at Bluebell House and had learnt a great deal
whilst there, but I believed I was now ready to move on and run
my own place.
I
had applied to take over a new venture. It was a 16-bedded home
for adolescents with special needs. Well, that’s what the
advert said. In reality it turned out to be a home in Wales, relocated
home from the valleys to a city. I was to be called the Superintendent,
which was an improvement on the title of the man in charge of the
old home; he had been known as the Master.
The
interview, which said a lot about the local authority I was to work
for, had been like an episode from an Alice in Wonderland
tale. It took place in a large impressive-looking Edwardian building,
full of marble columns, corridors and large meeting rooms.
In
was in one of these meeting rooms that the interviews took place.
The whole of the twenty-five or so members of the Children’s
Committee sat on a semi-circular raised platform. In the centre
of the otherwise empty room, facing the Chairman of the group, was
what appeared to be, in these vast surroundings, a little table
and a chair. I sat down.
“On
the table you will find a piece of paper. Pick it up,” a voice
from the dais announced. I fumbled and found it.
“On
the piece of paper you will find two questions. Answer them”.
This
was an interview!
I
spoke for about five minutes without interruption.
“Thank
you, Mr. Greene,” the Chairman said.
A
voice from the wings called out, “I don’t think he’s
answered the second question yet”.
“Have
you?” asked the Chairman.
“No”,
I replied.
“Well
carry on, carry on”.
I
carried on for another six or seven minutes. I was sure I could
hear snoring coming from the right side of the platform.
“Have
you finished now?”
“Yes”.
“Any
questions, anyone? Right. No questions, Mr. Greene. Just wait outside
a while.”
To
be fair to me and to the officers of the local authority concerned,
I had visited and met with the County Children’s Officer and
viewed the home prior to the interview.
The
house, known as Chestnut House, was a large Victorian mansion with
two floors with about eight bedrooms, a large lounge and a big dining
room and adjacent kitchen. There were lawns and flower beds in the
front and a small two-bedroomed gatehouse just inside the large
entrance gates. At the rear there was a lawn, fruit trees and a
vegetable garden and green house.
My
wife and I and our young baby took up residence in the gatehouse.
The
staffing consisted of a Deputy, 6 care staff, a Gardener/Handyman,
a part-time Cleaner and a Cook. Three of the staff lived in rooms
in the main house. There were rarely more than three staff on shift
to care for the sixteen or so children.
Most
of staff had come with the children from the closed down institution
in the valleys and brought with them narrow, rigid ways of working
and thinking. Since the last manager, the Master, had left, they
had found it difficult to retain order, especially in a new environment.
The Deputy was, like me, a new appointment. We had a tough task
ahead.
Many of the children, aged from ten to seventeen, had special needs
and attended special schools, taken there each day by taxi. The
children were still feeling the loss and disorientation caused by
the move from the area where they had been born and lived. Now the
young people and the staff had to cope with a new manager.
I
was keen to apply the lessons I had leaned at Bluebell. The first
thing I did was to let everyone know that I was to be known by my
first name, Gus. Although the staff were known by their first names,
it seemed almost shocking that they should go from Master to Gus.
I
also ensured that there were regular staff and children’s
meetings. I soon found that I had dug something of a trap for myself
in the staff meetings by giving the impression that it was the ultimate
decision-making body as the home would be run on democratic lines.
“Well, no”, I soon had to explain. There were some decisions
that I as the manager had to make, after consultation when possible.
“So much for democracy”, they said, and I realised I
had undermined myself by giving an incomplete message.
The
children were a bit confused as well. “If we can call him
Gus and not Master, he must be a matey kind of chap who has less
power over us”, some seemed to reason and I had to struggle
to assert control. I also felt I had to gain credibility with the
staff, showing them that, although progressive in my ideas on how
to relate to the children and young people, I still had the authority
with them.
I
thought I would lead by example and put myself on the same rota
as staff, despite all the admin work, in the shape of book-keeping,
budgeting, petty cash management, record-keeping, County Council
returns and chairing of meetings that I had to do.
When
I got home to my young wife and our baby at about 11 p.m. most working
evenings, having left at 7.30 a.m. and just called in for a coffee
or snack, I was not always given a warm welcome. Life at Chestnut
House was going to be more of a challenge than I had anticipated.
To
be continued……
