I Think I'm OK Read online

  Mr Beall then told him that should the lad not sit down and keep quiet as requested then he had better throw him through the window otherwise he would be out of a job. An air of expectation spread around the room as both members of staff and every kid in the class looked at the slightly worried lad. Mr Beall’s expression was one of, ‘It’s your call now,’ the teacher’s was one of, ‘pleeeeeease sit down.’ As for the rest of us it was a win-win situation. We were about to see a teacher get the sack or a young lad go flying through a window.

  After what seemed like five minutes but was probably the most pregnant five seconds I’ve ever spent, the lad sat down. I don’t think it was just me who was thinking, ‘Oh Bugger.’ The teacher got a quick lesson on Mr Beall’s rules and the lad got a caning across his arse.

  Mr Beall was an immaculately dressed, usually in tweed, ex-military man with a neatly trimmed moustache and a permanently smart haircut. His Military career had cost him one of his legs during the war. I have a vague recollection of seeing a large chest with the words ‘Capt. P Beall’ on it. His false leg, as far as we could see, never held him back, he could move at quite a pace if he needed to. Luckily for us boys it creaked when he walked so he couldn’t quietly sneak up on us. Something which I know for a fact was an annoyance to him.

  He constantly smoked a pipe which you could smell throughout the whole school and when it needed emptying I often saw him do it by banging the pipe on his tin leg.

  Every boy in the school was, well I was about to say scared of him, but I think for some it was a mixture of fear and respect. A few of the more timid kids had a different view of him. I did hear a number of them talking about how he had touched them inappropriately. I never saw any of that but I did see the look on their faces whenever he was around them and it was a look I was painfully familiar with, especially when The Bastard had been around. I also saw him take quite an interest in us when we were showering.

  The member of staff in charge would usually ask us to raise our arms and turn around as we left the showers. This was to check we had washed ourselves correctly and rinsed ourselves off. Mr Beall would often make his way to the showers and take over the inspection. His inspections were more thorough and would involve bending over or pulling our, those of us that had them, foreskins back. I can honestly think of no other reason for him being in the shower block than to cop an eye full of naked young lads. When you consider the effort it took him to negotiate the stairs down to the basement, there must have been something in it for him.

  The same could be said for Mrs Airth. It wasn’t unusual for her to turn up when we were showering. Back then I felt uncomfortable in these situations, now I feel bloody angry. Had we been a group of 11 to 16 year old girls and some bloke popped in now and again for a crafty look there would have been all hell to pay.

  I guess the honeymoon period for myself and the school lasted a couple of months. I had been on my best behaviour which in turn meant I didn’t personally incur the wrath of Mr Beall or any other member of staff. The fact that I had been removed from a bad situation, you would have thought, would have been enough. I think it was probably too little too late and I was already slightly fucked up in the head. It wasn’t long before I had to make my way to Mr Beall’s office for a caning.

  The routine began with him calmly talking to you about whatever your misdemeanours were; another of his rules was that you should not punish a child when you were angry. Then you had to change into a pair of shorts and bend over with your hands on your knees. When it was over you had to say, “Thank you.” The first time a child was caned they tended to make the mistake of rubbing the cheeks of their backside, this just made the pain worse. I did it once but soon learned to leave well alone. I would stand with my fists clenched at my side; my toes were also clenched as though they were trying to dig into the floor. I’m sure my bottom lip was quivering and tears welled in my eyes however I wouldn’t cry. There was no way I was going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I had real difficulty in saying thank you, I wanted to say, “Fuck you,” and had to work extremely hard not to let it accidentally slip out.

  I clearly remember one occasion where Mr Beall appeared extremely pleased with his handiwork. One of the older boys had been caned for some reason and Mr Beall made him come into our classroom, I’m assuming the other classroom as well, and show us his arse. There were six very straight cane welts evenly spaced into what looked like a three inch by six inch rectangle. I think he must have been caned the previous day because the welts had turned black, yellow and blue with the bruising. Mr Beall’s reason for this display was to show us how accurate he could be if we didn’t move when we were caned. I know for certain that was his reason, A, because he told us and B, because on one occasion after I had been caned and I was bent over changing out of the shorts, he stroked the welts on my arse. I leaped a good two or three foot away from him and said something along the lines of, “Oi Oi what the fuck?” He told me he was checking to see what a good job he had done.

  Now I don’t know about you, but it seemed a bit pervy to me. I also think that was the only time I managed to say the word fuck in front of him and not be punished.

  There were a couple of members of staff who I thought were excellent. Mr John Airth and Mr George Masters, they were both firm but fair and I do believe they were in the job for all the right reasons, I don’t remember either of them being nasty. The same cannot be said for Mr Finney. This bloke was an out and out viscous Bastard. Every boy hated him and for good reason.

  When we were woken in the mornings a dark cloud descended over the dorm if it was Finney on duty. If you didn’t get dressed quickly enough or were making too much noise you could get a slap and this fucker had strangler’s hands so it felt more like a punch than a slap. If you were close enough to the child getting a slap you could get one too, just for good measure. I had only been in this kind of environment for a short while yet I seemed to have learned more than he ever did. It very quickly appeared to me that different children had different problems; therefore they should be treated differently. You may disagree with me, Mr Finney obviously did.

  Some of the lads had a problem with wetting the bed and not just the youngest kids. If they, in Finney’s opinion, took too long in the shower in the morning they too would get a good slapping. Even at that age I thought, ‘Yes, that’s just what they need, it’s not like they don’t have enough to deal with you Twat.’ If you had picked up any dictionary at the school in 1970/71, and looked up RAF, (those were his initials) you would have seen the correct definition scribbled out and replaced with Rat Arse Finney.

  The lads who were unfortunate enough to have a bed wetting problem had a rubber cover placed over their mattress, it was sweaty, slippery and bloody uncomfortable. I know because on my very first night at the school I awoke in the early hours desperate for a piss. I was unsure of the rules and afraid that if I left the dorm I could be in deep trouble so I held on as long as I could. I fell asleep for I don’t know how long then woke with a start as I felt a dribble of pee making its way out. My bladder felt as though it was about to explode and I decided, deep trouble or not, there was no way I was going to piss the bed. I shot out of the dorm and into the loo before enjoying what I can only describe as a very satisfying slash.

  When I got back to my bed there was a small damp patch in the middle of my bottom sheet, no more than a few inches in diameter. I spent the rest of the night trying to sleep around it.

  In the morning I did my best to sort out my bed clothes without anyone seeing the damp patch. I hadn’t counted on old Eagle Eyed Johnny Airth. With hind sight I guess it made sense on a child’s first night to look out for signs of bed wetting, especially with disturbed children. I did try to explain to Mr Airth that I didn’t normally wet the bed; I had just been worried about leaving the dormitory in the night and getting into trouble. He was having none of it. To be fair, he must have heard the same story or something similar a hundred times or more, even
from the lads who knew full well they pissed the bed on a regular basis.

  Mr Airth did listen to me even if he didn’t believe me. At least he didn’t make a big thing out of it though, thankfully, I was embarrassed enough as it was. He told me I would have to have the rubber mattress cover put on, but if my bed stayed dry for a few months they would take it off. For the next three months I put up with that bloody thing creaking every time I turned over, sticking to my skin if the sheet rode up and having to get into bed gingerly. I say gingerly because if, like young kids sometimes do, you were to jump into bed, with the rubber cover on you could end up sliding straight over the mattress and onto the floor on the other side of the bed.

  Apart from one occasion I managed to avoid having any dealings with Finney and I made damn sure it was never just he and I in a room. The occasion I refer to was not long after I had been at the school, maybe three or four months. It was either late at night or early morning and the whole dorm was asleep. Being the new kid my bed was nearest the door which meant if anyone wanted the loo during the night they had to go past my bed and invariably wake me up. On this particular night I thought one of the other kids was messing about as I awoke to the feeling of my bed clothes moving. I sat bolt upright just as Finney was pulling his hand away from my bed.

  I started to shout but his big, digger bucket sized hand clamped over my mouth. It was more like over my entire face but I could just about see his ugly fucking mush. He was quietly telling me not to make a row as it would wake everybody up. He then went on to tell me he was just worried about me as I was having a nightmare. He was straightening my bedclothes because of the kicking and punching I was doing in my sleep. I screamed at him to get his fucking hands off me but with his hand clamped over my mouth it just sounded like a ventriloquist doing the, “Let me out,” dummy in the box routine.

  He did get his hands off me and I looked at the bed clothes, there was bugger all wrong with them. I spoke about this incident to one of the boys I was friends with. In his words I, “got lucky.” Apparently some of the other kids were too afraid to put up a struggle.

  A few months later Finney left the school. As I recall we were told it was for health reasons. I don’t think any one of us could have given a shit why he left; we were just pleased that he had. If it was for health reasons then we just hoped it was nothing trivial and painless.

  Even the local Vicar got in on the act one day. We were having RE, which I have to admit I disagree with anyway being a non-believer and I managed to upset him. Apparently you were not allowed to question the vicar, you just had to accept his word that what he was saying was the truth even though, in my case, I was of the opinion he was talking complete and utter bollocks. I kept questioning him, which turned out to be a bad idea.

  Apparently I was a “Blithering Idiot” and a “Thundering Fool.” Having never heard either of those phrases before and knowing they were the worst words he dare use, it cracked me up. I then made the mistake of telling him not to forget “Maladjusted.” He hit the roof. I swear he was foaming at the mouth as he raced toward me and dragged me out of the classroom by my hair into Mr Beall’s office. He watched as I got the cane (again) and for the rest of the lesson he had a job to keep the smug grin off his face. I never questioned the Vicar again but neither did I become a believer, strange that.

  Mr Beall was big on character building exercises. We were taught how to use a map and a compass and often went on what were termed, ‘three day treks.’ A group of around fifteen boys were taken out in the minibus. We were driven either to the Lake District or North Yorkshire where, in groups of three, we would be dropped off at different points. We had with us a map, a compass, a packed lunch and a map reference. We then had to make our way to the first map reference where we would find another, usually hidden in a tobacco tin, (Mr Beall’s Gold Block I think it was) behind an obvious object i.e. a phone box or post box in the middle of nowhere. This would go on all day until the final map reference led us to a farmer’s field where three tents were waiting to be pitched, there would also be the following days first map reference. We then had to cook our evening meal, get some sleep, and do it all again over the next two days. I loved it.

  I loved the Outward Bound School, the two week canoeing camp where we spent all day on the river encountering rapids and weirs, putting to good use the skills we had been taught like slap for support, swivel for support and the Eskimo roll. I even enjoyed the mornings where we had to jump into the river for a wash before we could have our breakfast.

  I revelled in the camping and walking we did in The Lakes, enjoying immensely climbing Great Gable, Scafell and Scafell Pike and running down the scree at Wastwater. We once went up Pen-y-Ghent in the Yorkshire Dales, in the dark, reaching the top at ten past midnight. Why did we climb at that hour? I’ve not a bloody clue but again, I loved it. I hung on every word our instructors said, whether it was map reading, abseiling, survival skills anything to do with the outdoor life I took it all in. For a few months out of the eighteen or so I spent at WHS School I had the time of my life.

  It was whilst I was at WHS School that I started to rebuild my relationship with my dad. Over the years since he had left we, Andy, Paul and myself, got to see our dad maybe two or three times a year. Most of the time as I remember, they were short visits, a couple of hours or so, occasionally a weekend. My dad had been living in Southampton when he heard I was in the school and he made arrangements to come and see me. Something, which years later, he made a big thing about. Not just the fact that I was in there and he was the last to know but also because he had to use the last of his money to hire a car to come up and see me. Financially, over what had been about six or seven years by then, I think he got off pretty fucking cheaply the cheeky sod.

  Incidentally, my dad died last year and I don’t want you to think I’m having a pop because he is not here to defend himself, trust me, I told him the same thing to his face.

  Anyway, the saddest thing I remember about that first visit was, because I hadn’t seen him for a year or so, I was worried in case I didn’t recognise him when he showed up. I could not recall what he looked like. That was all I could think about over the days leading up to seeing him. It was a real concern to me and even back then it saddened me. I needn’t have worried. As soon as he drove up the drive and got out of the car I knew it was him and I took a flying leap to hug him as tightly as I could. He even smelled the same, a mix of Imperial Leather and Old Spice, it may sound rank to you but to me it was like a comfort blanket. The first thing I asked him was did he have a photo of himself? A bit of a daft question when you think about it, I mean who carries a photo of themselves? My dad did.

  Dad moved back to Bradford not long after our first meeting and I got to see him more often. I had been to my mum and Nelson’s once or twice also and even went on a holiday with them though those visits started to tail off. As well as being maladjusted I think they must have thought I was also deaf because I overheard them say I was a disruptive influence on my brothers so the less I was there the better as far as they were concerned.

  You may be asking why the hell I wanted to go there. Well for one thing, The Bastard was hardly ever around. Another thing was, I was now twelve and the anger was starting to overtake the fear. A further factor was that whilst I was attending William Henry Smith I was mixing with kids as fucked up, or worse, than I. There were also kids there as fucked up as The Bastard, so I had no choice but to learn how to hold my own.

  Oh, by the way, that reminds me. Was ‘Bastard’ on the list?

  As an adult, I just shake my head and wonder what he was thinking with regards to some of the things my dad used to say and do. As a child I thought it was brilliant.

  If he was working during my visits he would take me with him. At one point he was working for a chemists on Manningham Lane, I think it was called Rimmingtons. At the back of the chemist’s shop they made their own pop so I had a constant and free supply. My favourite was their dandelion a
nd burdock; to this day I have never tasted any so good. Dad’s job was to deliver this pop to different shops as well as delivering medical items, mainly oxygen tanks, to the elderly. We would drive all around Bradford with my dad telling me jokes and teaching me songs then getting me to sing along with him.

  One of his favourites was Elvis Presley’s, Wooden Heart. It wasn’t until I reached my late teens that I realised my dad had been making up the words when it came to the part where Elvis sings in German. Even though I now know what the real words are, when the song comes on the radio I find it difficult not to sing my dad’s version.

  When I said we would drive all around Bradford that’s exactly what I meant. At the age of twelve, my dad taught me to drive the transit van. Without knowing it he had opened up a whole new world to me.

  On returning to WHS School after my visits to my dad’s I would always be asked the same question.

  “Did your father break the law with you?”

  Every time I would say, “No.” What I was thinking was, ‘How the fuck do they know I’ve been driving the van?’

  I was sure they knew. I was sure they knew my dad didn’t mind me smoking. One of WHS school’s rules was, and they were sticklers for this, we were not allowed to smoke inside the borough of Brighouse. When I told my dad this, as we were on the way back, he just said, “Bollocks to ‘em,” and let me smoke until we were almost at the school drive. I was sure that was something else they were aware of.

  The school holidays were something I looked forward to. As most kids went to their homes I was left at the school with just a few lads in the same boat as I, some of the time I was the only child there. During the summer break I was temporarily moved into West Wing. I had a room of my own, telly when I wanted and days out with different members of staff with the occasional stay at my mum’s. The stay at my mum’s invariably broke down and I would be sent to my dad’s, if that wasn’t an option then I would be sent back to the school.