I Think I'm OK Page 6

  RIP

  If the pair of them could see their names together like that, they would be spitting.

  Chapter 6

  Springfield was on Duckworth Lane in Bradford, well technically it’s on Squire Lane but when you got off the bus on Duckworth Lane, if you were in the Reception Centre as I was you never walked round to the main entrance. There were a number of different units on the site, separate homes housing children of different ages and I guess different needs. The one I was in held the largest number of children, perhaps thirty or so. There were boys and girls in the same building which was something I was not used to but soon got to grips with. I was about to say no pun intended but changed my mind.

  The ages ranged from around seven to 16? I’m not sure on the youngest age however I do recall, after I had been there only a few days, a young girl was in floods of tears as she was about to leave and move to a place of her own. She could have been anything from fifteen to eighteen.

  The first couple of days I was there were a bit of a culture shock for me. The regime was completely different to WHS School. The first thing they had to do was buy me some clothes. Everybody wore their own clothes but all I had to wear were the clothes I was standing in, and they had been hanging on somebody else’s washing line a few days earlier. I asked if I still had to take the Librium and after what I assume was a consultation with a medic and me lying through my teeth about not having had any for almost three weeks, they said that I didn’t have to. I was informed that I should address the staff as Aunty and Uncle, apart from the head of the unit, whose name I think was Mr Harrison. I had little to do with him however I do remember he was a big bugger and he had one of those Citroen cars which when the ignition was turned on, raised up at the rear when the suspension kicked in.

  The unit was split into two, girls on one side and boys on the other though we were allowed to mix during the normal everyday routine, which I have to admit I enjoyed very much. There was one particular girl that I had an on off very short relationship with. It was nothing more than a bit of snogging and holding hands. That was when she hadn’t fallen out with me for doing boy’s stuff and ignoring her. I do remember her name but I won’t embarrass her by putting it in, though her initials were A M.

  There are a few children who I remember very well from those days and as I have no idea what their families and friends know about their pasts I will only refer to them by their initials. That is of course unless they have given me their permission. I’m now in contact with some of them via the Internet. You know, one of those sites where people ask if you remember them and you say, “Yes, yes, how are you?” When what you want to say to some of them is, “Yes, and I couldn’t stand the sight of you then so what makes you think I want to talk to you now?” That works both ways by the way and in my case I don’t blame them in the slightest.

  Another revelation to me was the punishment dished out at Springfield. There was no slapping or caning, well not for me anyway, I can’t speak for anyone else. My punishments tended to be loss of certain privileges which although admirable, didn’t really make me behave any better. Having said that, getting a hiding didn’t do any good either so I guess they must have been scratching their heads.

  Because I was only thirteen they had to find me a school which they eventually did. Now this may sound like a young boy’s dream, trust me it wasn’t, they sent me to Gregory Girls School. It was some new idea that somebody sat at a desk, no doubt bored shitless, came up with. The same sort of halfwit who nowadays comes up with plans to put bus stops next to traffic islands and traffic lights, they don’t think it through.

  (Oooo, grumpy old man).

  Anyway, Gregory Girls School was empty as they had moved the girls to a newer school. There were a number of kids in the Bradford area who had been expelled from schools and kids such as myself who schools were unwilling to take on. The plan was to put these kids, between six and ten of us, together in one place and have just two teachers who they believed could cope, tutor them.

  It didn’t work, not even sort of, not even for a short while. By the time I had stopped attending that school the day there consisted of the following. Go into the staff room, drink tea, read the paper, smoke and play cards. The experiment, if that’s what it was, I think could be deemed a complete failure. I have my own theory as to why this might be.

  The two teachers had been to WHS School on a sort of fact finding mission prior to starting the project. In fact I was there at the time and I remembered them being given the guided tour. They even used the term Maladjusted, Gregory School for Maladjusted Boys. If they had wanted similar results to WHS School then they were missing a few vital components. Drugs, a bucket full of canes and a few members of staff who could, for different reasons, scare the shit out of the pupils.

  Life at Springfield wasn’t bad at all for me. I made some friends who I got on with very well and the atmosphere in the place was nothing like as regimented as WHS. I went to school (stop laughing) went back to Springfield and had my tea then watched telly and did pretty much the same as any normal kid of my age would do. The only real difference was where I lived. Oh and the fact that a social worker would call and see me every week or so.

  The social worker had only been assigned to me once the care order had been put in place and unlike all the other kids, I had not had any dealings with them until that point. To be honest I had no idea what the role of the social worker was. They asked me the same questions every week and I gave them the same answers. There was one question which left me thinking that all the male social workers were puffs (It was 1972. We used the word Puff). They all, without exception, asked me my opinion on Homosexuals. (They were social workers, they didn’t say Puff). This left me thinking all sorts.

  ‘Are they queer?’

  ‘Do they think I am?’

  ‘Is it some sort of test?’

  In the end I finally walked into one of the meetings and said, “Before we go any further, you start that Puffta talk and I’m walking out.”

  They never asked me again.

  Then Christmas came. Most of the children had gone home for the holidays but there were a number of us who stayed at Springfield. I have to admit that they did an excellent job in trying to make things as normal as they could. The place was full of Christmas decorations, we each had sacks full of presents and we all sat around a big dining table, staff and kids together. Even the big fella and his family were there. One of my friends there was Steve L. We were about the same age and of similar minds though he was always a lot calmer than I and I suspect a great deal smarter.

  I should point out at this stage that I was now quite often being called by my first name which is Chris. My brothers and I are all known by our middle names. When the officials came onto the scene and they read my file they just assumed I was called by my first name. I couldn’t be bothered correcting them. Some would call me Steve some would call me Chris. On one occasion a stand-in social worker came to visit me and called me Kenny all the way through our chat. She was one of those soft spoken, touchy feely, “I really do care about you,” people.

  Now I don’t know about you but when I was younger, anybody calling me by my surname was usually someone in authority and in my case it usually meant I was in deep shit. A bit like nowadays when my wife calls me Steven instead of Steve.

  The social worker was trying so hard to hold our chat on a friendly, caring, understanding level, yet all the while calling me Kenny, it wasn’t doing it for me, though as I just found it amusing I didn’t put her straight. When the chat was over she was going into the main office to have a word with one of the staff members who said to me, “Is everything all right Chris?” I answered, “Yes. Can I go watch telly?” The staff member said I could and the social worker looked down and studied the file she was holding. She then went bright red in the face and I felt sure if she could have crawled up her own arse she would have done.

  I walked off leaving her with her mouth moving but no
words coming out of it. In fairness Kenny is also a Christian name, but if you are a social worker reading this and in the near future you are about to pretend to be concerned about a particular child; do us a favour, make sure you know what the child’s name is, it goes a long way towards gaining a little trust.

  Once we had finished our Christmas dinner the big fella decided that everyone should stand up in turn and tell a story, a joke or sing a song. I don’t know if Steve L will remember this but he was involved in my story. His and everyone else’s faces were a picture when I told it, I think they thought I had lost my mind. For your benefit I will shorten it, it went along these lines.

  “The previous Saturday Steve and I had been in town looking to buy Christmas presents. Though we both saw something we wanted to buy we couldn’t afford it so we decided to do some shoplifting.”

  It was at this point the atmosphere around the table changed. I had that sorry ‘little boy lost’ look on my face and my voice went with it. The other kids had their eyes wide open and were staring at me as though screaming in silence, ‘Don’t tell them that.’ They knew I probably had been shoplifting. Steve L’s look was one of, ‘Don’t fucking drag me into this.’

  I was revelling in it and carried on.

  “Two security staff caught us and took us up into an office then phoned for the police. After a couple of minutes they left us locked in the office and Steve and I decided to climb out of the window. Steve managed to get out but as I was climbing out the staff came back and one of them grabbed hold of one of my legs. He was pulling it and pulling it... just like I’m pulling yours.”

  An old joke I know but it worked a treat. The applause I received wasn’t as loud as everyone else’s, but twinned with the combined sighs of relief it was very audible.

  I was only ever called in to see Mr Harrison when it was something official that I had to be informed of and a couple of times when I was in bother. Here is one of those occasions.

  A few of us lads had been for about a week, sneaking across to the girl’s bedrooms in the middle of the night. One night we were sussed and muggins here was the only one to get caught, boy did the shit hit the fan.

  I found out later that a girl of about fifteen from one of the other units had gone on the run with a male member of staff. They had been found somewhere and the staff member was being prosecuted. So I reckon the big fella had enough on his plate without me adding to it. Which is probably why he went absolutely ape shit when I told him I had been lying on the bed with J S. I explained to him (through my teeth) that she was under the covers and I was on top of them. When I reached that part his face turned purple and I got, what I believe in footballer’s terms is now known as ‘The Hair-dryer.’ If I had told him the truth I think he would have had a frigging heart attack. I got away with him thinking it was just I that was messing about with a girl and that it was just the one night.

  I was thirteen and a virgin, JS was at least sixteen and wasn’t a virgin. She was also not in the least bit shy or backward in coming forward. This was pretty lucky for me because I was totally clueless. I have no idea of the real days but let’s say on Monday I was thirteen and a virgin, by Wednesday . . . I was thirteen.

  AM never really spoke to me after that (no shit Sherlock) mind you, I did hear her tell her friend that she didn’t like my teeth, so it could’ve been that, girls eh?

  Once all t’do about my night time activities had died down things got back to normal, however they did tighten up on the night security by making sure all the interconnecting doors were locked, spoil sports.

  Children who I became friends with left and others took their place. One of which was PC, a lad that I quickly made friends with, we all called him by his nickname which was Spanner but to be honest I’ve no idea how the name came about. He was about three years older than me and a lot wiser, I don’t mean socially or educationally, I mean criminally. He was a tall lad, blonde hair, smartly dressed and all the girls fancied the pants off him. Normally my mates and I would have disliked someone like him, mainly through jealousy probably, but we didn’t. He was one of those lovable rogues who despite yourself, you liked.

  I have no intention of blaming him for what follows it was totally my choice. SL had the same choice and he decided not to join us.

  Spanner was only ever meant to be at Springfield for a short while, he had a job as I recall and they were just looking for somewhere for him to live. One night we were chatting in my room and he asked me if I knew how to get out of the unit at night. It was difficult; all the doors were securely locked. The windows were the sash type but only opened about six inches as wooden blocks had been screwed into the runners, so it wasn’t easy to get out. That was until I remembered one of my Christmas presents, a small tool kit.

  On a regular basis we would wait until the last head count had been done which was around midnight, we would then undo the blocks with my Christmas present screwdriver and climb out of the window and down the drainpipe. Having found a suitable target we would then break in and steal whatever we could before returning to Springfield. After climbing back in we just screwed the window blocks back in.

  Up until that point I had been afraid of police officers, if one had shouted for me to stop, I would have stopped. Then one night we were making our way back to Springfield when a police car pulled up beside us. I was ready to just put my hands up but Spanner had different ideas.

  “Just keep walking,” he said, as the copper climbed out of his car and told us to stop. Then Spanner said, “Leg it” and we were off. After about fifty yards he shouted, “Split up, see you at home.” Now I don’t know if it was adrenalin or not but I overtook Spanner like a friggin whippet and disappeared out of sight. I think I was hoping the copper would go for the slowest one and I made damn sure that wasn’t going to be me.

  When I got back to Springfield I checked Spanner’s room and he wasn’t there. I decided not to put the blocks back on the window and just left it open the regulation six inches before climbing into bed. About thirty minutes later an out of breath Spanner was saying, “Giz hand,” as he climbed into my room. I must admit that the excitement I felt that night was amazing. We shared out the money we had stolen, recounted the nights events over and over again before finally calling it a day. In fact I think it was daylight before I nodded off. That adrenalin rush seemed to stay with me for days. I never stopped for a police officer again after that. According to Spanner it was their job to catch criminals; our job was to not make it easy for them.

  Another lad, JD joined us and our night time escapades continued for a few more weeks. JD was more ambitious than Spanner and wanted us to do more difficult but more financially rewarding burglaries. I know for a fact he looked down on me because of my age, he was the same age as Spanner and he would have preferred it had it just been the two of them. That was until Spanner had been found somewhere to live and was moved out. So it was just JD and I.

  He wanted us to break in to a warehouse and his father rented a garage from the council that he didn’t use, so the plan was to store any goods we could get hold of in the garage. He said he knew people who would buy anything we stole and we would split the money. I didn’t trust him and he didn’t like the idea of teaming up with a kid, even though this kid was as tall and bigger built than him. None the less, we went ahead with it.

  At around two o’clock in the morning, after a half hour walk, we arrived at the warehouse. We spent a few minutes looking for the easiest way to break in and I went for a pee about three times. I say that because whenever I was waiting to do something I knew was illegal I needed a pee, in fact just trying to recall this accurately has made me want to go. It didn’t take much effort and we were inside the warehouse where we quickly looked around. Then I lost my temper. It was a warehouse full of sweets, boxes and boxes of different sorts of confectionery.

  “It’s just fucking sweets,” I shouted at him.

  “Yeah,” he said, “we can sell them and I know someone who
will buy them.”

  “Oh right and we carry a couple of boxes at a time to your dad’s garage do we?”

  “Yeah.”

  I really wanted to punch the fucker but I resisted the urge, however within seconds the dynamics of our relationship changed. It was as though I was now the elder and he was the kid. I stormed rather than walked over to a transit van which was parked in front of a roller door. The door was secured with a metal bar where a padlock should have been and the keys were in the van.

  “Load the van up with this shit,” I said, pointing to the rows of boxes, “and put the dearest stuff in.”

  “I can’t drive,” he blurted out.

  “I can, now fucking load it while I check the office and get a move on”

  Without saying another word he did as I said and I looked around the office. I found a till with about eight pounds in and a cash box with about five. I remember wondering as I stuffed the money into my pocket, whether or not I should tell him that I had it. I decided not to.

  “There’s nothing in there,” I said and started to help him load the van. Once finished I started up the van, he rolled up the door, jumped in the passenger seat and we were away to his dad’s garage.

  I had realised that JD was a complete bullshitter and decided to have nothing more to do with him. I told him he could keep whatever money he made on the stolen sweets, he probably just ate the bloody lot anyway, then I informed him that from now on I would do my own thing, what I meant was, ‘stay away from me.’

  I’m not sure if it was coincidence or not, but pretty soon after that I was confronted by ‘Uncle Fred’ after one night time outing with three of the older lads and had my tool kit confiscated. Not that it mattered much as I absconded from Springfield a short while later.

  I spent a couple of weeks on the run and during those weeks I turned fourteen. The day after my birthday I was arrested, taken to court, then for the second time I was sent to Ashbank in York.