John Bull's Schooldays

At the Orphanage

By PHILIP OAKES DUCA1 ION raged through my family like strong .drink. It was the key to success, synonymous with respectability and clean living. At fifteen, my mother had been a pupil-teacher, with a class of thirty. Before her marriage, she had been a headmistress. My uncle was a headmaster; and his eldest son, who taught history at a public school, had once written a book for Pelicans. No one in the family circle had, to my knowledge, eve read it. But it was an achievement that was always held up to me as a shining example.

I was a disgrace. When I was eight, a place was found for me at a bluecoat school. When I was twelve, the headmaster—a florid-faced singer, who performed on the wireless as The Midland Baritone—asked that I should be removed as quickly as possible. And within six months I was on my way to an orphanage, where the discipline (my uncle said) would lick me into shape.

We arrived in a blizzard. The bus from the station stuck in a drift, and we walked the last two miles. My uncle's hat kept blowing off, and he stood knee-deep in snow shouting wildly, 'After it, boy. Don't let it get away.' He was a tall, gaunt man who honked like a seal whenever he was angry or amused. Chasing his hat across a ploughed field I could still hear him, a quarter of a mile behind me.

The governor of the orphanage was surprised to see us. 'Never thought you'd get here,' he said cheerfully, glancing out at the snow. idea how you're going to get back.' My uncle, who had expected an invitation to stay the night, blew his nose loudly. 'No point in wasting time,' said the governor, 'kiss your uncle goodbye.' I did so, with some relief, and went off to my new home.

There were twenty boys in the house, which was supervised by a couple named Mr. and Mrs. King. Mr. King had been a sergeant in the Indian Army, and smoked cut plug in a stubby pipe. He had a red face, small angry eyes and a hard round belly. His wife was a gentle, ailing woman, who sipped her tea with an air of mild disgust and nibbled toast piled high with blackcurrant jam.

After tea, Mr. King called me into his sitting room. 'They tell me you were expelled from your last scbool,' he said. 'All right, then. This house is for the rough boys. We've tamed tigers before now. There are no gentlemen here. Only working boys. Try any nonsense with me, and you'll be flat on your back before you know it.' I held my breath and nodded. 'Feel that muscle,' he said, flexing his right arm. 'I was light-heavy-weight champion of my regiment, and I can still take on ten of you.' He jerked his head towards the door. `Go on,' he said, 'just watch your step.'

That night I shared a room with four other boys. They watched me undress, and fold my trousers across the bottom of the bed. 'She won't let you keep those,' said one of them. 'Keep what?' I asked. He pointed to the trousers. 'Only the big lads have longies,' he said, 'she'll give them to someone else for best.' That's stealing,' I said. All four of them grinned in silent derision.

Mrs. King came in to switch off the light. 'Have you said your prayers?' she asked. I said nothing and she walked over to my bed. 'Have you said your prayers?' she repeated. I shook my head. 'Say them now,' she ordered, 'kneel by your bed, and say them out loud.' I climbed out and kneeled down. A cold draught blew up through the floorboards, and I mumbled my way through 'Our Father.' No talking, now,' she said. 'If I hear one whisper, I'll send Mr. King up to you. And you know what that'll mean.'

In the morning I followed the rest of the boys downstairs. In the dining room all the chairs were stacked on the tables, and half a dozen boys were crouched down, each of them polishing a strip of the floor. I stood there, undecided what to do. 'Are you afraid you'll get your hands dirty?' asked Mr. King. 'Remember -What I said. We have no gentlemen here.' Someone gave me a rag, and a tin of polish, and I went to work. I polished my strip of floor until the sweat rolled down my face. Mr. King stood over me all the thine, his belly looming like a boulder. 'That'll do,' he said at last, 'next time you'll know what's expected.'

The orphanage lay at the foot of the moors. There were six houses for boys, and six for girls. All were built of grey local stone, with slate roofs that were purple when dry, and as black as seal- skin when it rained. The orphanage was at least partly self-supporting. There were a farm, a bake- house, a laundry and a smithy. There were also a boot repairer's and an office block. The school took children until they were fourteen. After that, they were apprenticed to one of the trades.

The governor of the orphanage was also the headmaster of the school. He had fair hair, neatly parted; a pink face; and hands that always looked as though he had just rinsed them under a cold tap. His voice was loud, and he lauihed a lot. If a game of football was going on in the play- ground, he would join in, collaring the ball and racing with it towards the nearest goal. 'Come on,' he would roar, 'tackle me. Don't let me get through.' Inevitably, the scrimmage would end in a goal, with the defenders sprawling on the asphalt. The governor was a very fit man for his age, and he liked everyone to know it.

The school was like a Christmas-card version of a country church. It had a steeple (but no bell), The class gardens laid out at the back were as formal as a graveyard, and the' cloakroom, in which coats clustered like sleeping bats, had the hushed air of a vestry, inexplicably littered with milk crates. The 'main building was a vast hall, spanned by varnished beams, and divided by sliding partttions. The governor's desk was at the far end, and on one side' his cane hung on a small brass hook.

Every teacher had a cane, but the school, taking its character from the governor, was ruled by a kind of bullying jollity. The governor him- self taught English Literature and Current Affairs. His favourite writer was 0. Henry, and I ingratiated myself by admitting that I knew the Jeff Peters stories, and that I had read he Tramp and the Organ.' 'A great writer,' said the governor, 'a man who understood humanity. Learn from Oakes. Everyone must read '"1 he Tramp and the Organ."' "The "class did as they were told, and hated me for weeks.

The rest of the staff were mainly women. They were employed, not by the orphanage, but by the local education authority, and they regarded their work either as some kind of charity (irt which case they were gentle and inefficient) or as a time-wasting spell in a rural backwater. Learning foundered between pityand contempt.

After three months, I was sent to the local grammar school. But at weekends I still worked at the orphanage. Every Saturday morning I re- ported to The Shop, a basement beneath one of the girls' houses, where the casual labour force (comprising boys who were still unapprenticec) chopped firewood and sorted out potatoes. Mr. King, whose official title was Labour Master, v as in 'charge. He sat by (he door, a vantage point from where he could see the road and check on anyone coming. He did as little work as possitle, preferring to gossip to an audience of scared sy■ 0- phants, of which I soon became a leading member. He told us about India, and how he cheated the merchants in the bazaar. `If they argued over the price, we'd spit on what We wanted, and then they'd have to sell it,' he boasted. He also confided his system for avoiding work. 'Always look busy,' he said, 'keep moving, and no one will get after you.'

One Saturday, three of us were sent to shovel a load of coke into the bakehouse cellar. There was no light down there, and we lit candles stuck into empty Tizer bottles. It was hot and dirty, and there was a sweet smell of baking. In the candle- ' light we looked like miners; our eyes shone like marbles, 'and our lips were cherry-red. Most of the cellar was hidden in the gloom, but the ceiling (we noticed idly) glistened like fresh tar. We shovelled the coke back to the far' wall, and then paused for a breather. I had a packet of Woodbines (one of the advantages of going out to school), and we lit cigarettes. 1 stood up to pass over the candle, and by accident the flame touched the ceiling.

Like black cellophane, the glossy surface peeled away, and 1 cried out as hundreds of cock- roaches rained down on my head. We panicked, all three of us. The candles were kicked over at d we scrambled around in the dark. Pieces ollocol'e tinkled away in a small landslide. I fell over my shovel, and felt the sharp edge stab, into my knee. We crawled out, one by one, and stood panting iD a fine drizzle. After a minute or so, we filed back to The Shop.

I passed my school certificate examinatica when I was sixteen, and came to London in 3 brown sports jacket and a pair of squeaky black shoes. The certificate never helped me to get a job. But the orphanage left its mark. It taught me how to lie, and how to .steal. It taught n e how to fool authority, and how to flatter. In a sense, it taught me how to survive. I suppose ycu could call it an education.