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.
“ORDER
AND DISCIPLINE, OK?”
.................................
“Here,
Sir, which one do you like best, John or Paul?” asked Dobson.
“Sorry,
Dobson, I’m not sure I know what you are talking about”,
I replied.
“Come
on, Mr. Greene, you know, the Beatles!”
“Beatles?”,
I answered, more baffled than ever.
“Bloody
hell,” yelled Dobson across the room to his friends, “Mr
Green don’t know who the Beatles is.”
This
was in 1963 and I was in my first year as a Housefather, class 2,
at Pink House Remand Home and Classifying School for up to 120 boys.
I
had been moved from duties in Tall Trees House, where I had found
the 13-15 year olds rather difficult to manage. Some of them were
bigger than me and could be rather intimidating, and I did not yet
have the insight to know that they were only little boys in big
bodies and that most of them had even less confidence in themselves
than I did in myself.
I
had moved to Sapling House, where the boys were aged 10 to 13. They
were far less physically threatening and more like excitable puppies
with loads of energy and needing almost constant supervision to
make sure they stayed out of mischief.
It
was Saturday morning and the boys had just finished the weekly meticulous
cleaning of the house. Every room had been cleaned, the linoed floor
buffed, every ledge and edge dusted, windows cleaned, shower areas
dried and shining.
Each
job had to be inspected and the boy made to do it again if not perfect.
Finally, it was inspected by the Housemaster, who would run his
white handkerchief along a ledge and if he found any dust would
rule, “This is filthy, Mr. Greene; get it done properly”.
At
last the jobs were finished and the boys were relaxing before going
for the Saturday pep talk and then conduct points awards.
“It
ain’t fair, Mr. Greene. I’m only in here ‘cause
I nicked a bottle of milk off a float”, moaned Drycot.
“Yes,
I know, lad, but what about the previous four breaking and entry
jobs you did?”
“Well,
that’s got nothing to do with it? I got probation for them.
This is something different.”
“But,
Drycot, you broke your probation”, I insisted, trying to get
the 12-year-old to see the reality of his situation.
“Do
you fink I’ll get sent down then? Get three years for nicking
a bleeding bottle of milk!”
“Language,
Drycot… Well, you know you might. It partly depends on what
sort of report I write, what Mr. Dumski, the psychologist, says
and what your Probation Officer and the Magistrates think.”
“So
if I really behave and don’t get into any more trouble during
my two weeks here, I’ll get a good report when I go back to
Court and go back home?”
“I
wouldn’t believe him, Drycot,”, said a tall thin boy
with black hair and National Health specs, who was sitting on the
next table in the lounge-cum-diningroom.
“What
d’you mean, Brown?”
“Oh,
don’t listen to Brown. His is a different set of circumstances.”
“No,
it ain’t, Sir, well not very different. I only did three houses
and my last job was taking a few chocolate bars from a shop and
the Court’s given me a three years Approved School Order.”
“What
you mean, Brown, is that you were only caught doing three burglaries
and when you were caught leaving that shop you threw a tin of beans
at the shop keeper, just missing him,” I corrected him.
“Well,
it’s still not fair. I know kids that have done much worse
than that and they ain’t got three years.”
“I’ve
told you before, Brown, it won’t mean doing the full three
years. If you behave, you could get sent home on licence after a
year.”
“I’m
not a dog - I don’t want to be on licence”, quipped
Brown.
“Here,
that’s a good one,” laughed 11 year old Brunnson, “let’s
call him doggy Brown”.
“You
do, Brunnson, and they’ll call you battered Brunnson”,
responded Brown threateningly.
“OK
boys, get in line”, called Mr. Winston, the Housemaster, as
the clock approached 11a.m.
The
boys all got up from their chairs and formed two lines on the verandah
outside the house.
“Brown,
shut up”, boomed Mr. Winston, “and Spills move to the
front line. Right, group, right turn; lead the way, Mr. Greene”.
We
all marched in silence over to the main hall where all the other
house groups were assembling
When
every one was in their place Mr. Blyth came in. Everyone stood.
“All
right, sit down,” ordered Mr. Blyth, who was the Deputy Superintendent.
He himself sat down behind a table and began his ritual weekly talk,
reminding the boys why they were in Pink House and what processes
they would be subject to during their stay. He did all this is a
mumbled voice which it was hard to follow, even for staff who heard
it most weeks. As he came the end his speech got clearer.
“All
right. Now you know why you are here, I want you all to go back
to your houses for the conduct points awards and then return here
for laundry bundles and then the boxing. Staff, give the names of
the contestants to Mr. Archer before you leave the hall. ”
With
that, Mr. Blyth stood up, as did all the boys, and walked off down
the corridor.
“What
was all that about?” muttered Drycot.
“You,
boy, what’s your name?” called Mr. Winston across the
hall.
“Drycot,
Sir,” came the reply.
“Deduct
a conduct point from that boy, Mr. Greene,” ordered Mr. Winston.
There
was no doubt about it; the adults were in charge and intended to
remain so.
But
there was always the fear that the boys would turn the tables, and
some staff coped with this by defusing situations with humour as
well as discipline. Others got stricter, the more they sensed trouble,
and others just found the whole thing too much and got other jobs.
There
was a sudden disturbance at the far end of the hall. Chairs went
flying and boys jumped out of he way as two 15-year-olds fell to
the floor, fists flying. Within seconds, two of the biggest staff,
including Jobblers, the ex wrestler, were in with the boys untangling
them and escorting them separately to the end of the hall.
“
I think we’ve found the first two for the boxing, Mr. Archer”,
advised Joggy Jobblers.
