Please Don’t Make Me Go: How One Boy’s Courage Overcame A Brutal Childhood - John Fenton

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to go back to my father but found he was no longer beside me and was, in fact, walking towards the exit. I started to follow him but a strong hand on my arm halted my progress.

      ‘You’re with me, sonny Jim.’

      I looked up at a burly police officer.

      ‘Don’t even think of trying to get away,’ he said. ‘Just come along with me.’

      The officer led me out of the courtroom and down a corridor. His grip on my arm became tighter as he opened a glass-panelled door and led me through.

      ‘Take a seat,’ he said firmly, ‘and no noise.’ These words were spoken so forcibly that they sounded like a threat. I quickly sat down and stared at the floor, utterly terrified. I had never had any dealings with the police before and this man was scaring the shit out of me.

      The police officer stationed himself in the corridor opposite the door and stood staring at me through the windows. I looked around the room. It was about twelve foot square with no windows. The walls were green and defaced in places by names scratched on them. The floor was covered in faded green linoleum that was cracking noticeably in one of the corners. The only furniture was an equally defaced wooden table and six black plastic chairs. I checked the chair I was sitting on and found it was black plastic as well.

      It seemed an interminably long time before the door was opened again. The officer asked if I needed the toilet but the nervous urge I’d had in the courtroom had passed, so I declined. It was shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon when they came to fetch me. I knew the time as I had heard a clock chime somewhere in the building. The two men that came were not as fearsome-looking as the one outside the door but they were equally as forceful. They led me by my arms out of the building and into a blue van with bars across the side and back windows.

      ‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked, at last plucking up the courage to speak.

      ‘St Nicholas House, Enfield,’ was the terse reply from the driver. That was all that was said during the thirty-minute journey out of London and into Middlesex. I was overcome with fear and confusion and battling within myself not to cry. Why was this happening? What had I done to deserve this? Who was going to look after Mum? I badly wanted my Mum to come and get me, tell these men it was all a mistake, give me a big hug and take me back home again.

       Chapter 3

      The van turned off the main highway and through a stone archway onto a long drive, which cut through some dense woods. After about five minutes of twisting and turning, a large Georgian manor house came into view. I was struck by how white it was and how big the windows were. I had never been in the country before and had certainly never seen such a magnificent building. If this was St Nicholas House, it didn’t look at all intimidating and I was looking forward to seeing the insides. My fear was dissipating and rapidly being replaced by excitement. I imagined that this must be how people felt when they went on holiday. I had never been on holiday and had always envied the rich children who went away to places like Southend and Margate that to me sounded exotic.

      The van pulled up in front of two large wooden doors and I was led in through one. The interior of the building was even more inspiring than the exterior. The huge entrance hall had a floor of grey marble flagstones, which seemed to reflect all of the winter sunlight shining through the large windows. Everywhere I looked there were huge double doors with ornate brass doorknobs, or white walls with beautiful carved cornices. A wide marble staircase with a well-polished banister dominated the hallway.

      The van driver knocked softly on one of the doors and opened it in the same motion. I was led into a large room whose grandeur was diminished by lots of modern office furniture. Several people were sitting behind desks and the clicking of typewriters reverberated. A suited man got up from his desk, came over to one of my escorts, and took the sheaf of papers he was holding out. His eyes briefly scanned the papers.

      ‘That’s fine,’ he said in a Geordie accent that sounded peculiar to me.

      ‘He’s all yours. See you later.’ My escorts let go of my arms and left without a backward glance. I heard the van engine start up again and the sound fading as it pulled away down the drive.

      ‘What size shoes do you wear?’

      I turned to look at the suited man, who was eyeing me questioningly.

      ‘Six, sir,’ I said timidly.

      The man went to a side cupboard and rummaged around for a few minutes. When he reappeared, his arms were piled high with items of clothing. He dropped them at my feet.

      ‘Pick them up and follow me.’

      With great difficulty, I scooped them up from the floor and hurried after the man who was now climbing the staircase.

      ‘Get a move on boy,’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

      I staggered under the precariously balanced pile and hurried to catch him up.

      ‘In here.’ The man opened a door halfway along the upstairs corridor. ‘Take all your own clothes off and put them in that basket.’

      He gestured to a large wicker basket leaning against a side wall. The room was obviously meant for washing as there were two large sinks on the far wall and several on the floor. I had never seen washbasins on the floor before. As if the man had been reading my mind, he pointed to one of them.

      ‘Shower yourself and make sure you do your hair well. I will be checking for lice.’

      Self-consciously, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the basin. It took me a few nervous minutes to figure out how this new-fangled contraption worked but at last I did and the lukewarm water felt good as it pelted down on my shivering body. The soap the man handed to me smelled the same as the one my mother used for scrubbing the front doorstep at home. After about five minutes of heavy soaping and scrubbing I was handed a threadbare white towel. I rubbed myself dry and dressed myself in the clothes the man had given me.

      The clothes were far from being new but were definitely clean. They had a distinct odour of mothballs and I wrinkled my nose as I put them on. The vest and underpants were a greyish white and the shirt – which was too large – was blue and had a frayed collar. The brown corduroy short trousers were slightly tight but the matching tunic jacket fitted me well. To round everything off, I had grey ankle socks and a pair of well-worn-in brown sandals.

      After briefly inspecting my hair and scalp, the man pointed at the wicker basket I’d put my clothes in.

      ‘Bring that and follow me,’ he ordered as he walked away. Virtually scampering, I followed him as we retraced our route back to the entrance hall. Pointing at the floor outside the office door he said, ‘Leave the basket there and come with me.’

      This time the man opened one of the doors to the left of the staircase. I heard the voices of lots of young people coming from within and entered the room with trepidation.

      ‘One for you, Mr Jenkins,’ the man shouted across the noise.

      A silver-haired man came over. ‘What’s your name, lad?’ he boomed out.

      ‘John Fenton, sir,’ I replied quietly.

      ‘Right, Fenton, go and meet the others and try not to make too much noise.’

      There were about thirty boys in the room, their ages ranging from nine to sixteen years old. I was self-conscious about my appearance, but relieved to see that everyone was dressed in the same ill-fitting apparel as me. They paid me scant attention and just carried on with their various activities. Some were sitting talking, others were playing board games, and a few were standing by a table-tennis table watching two of the older boys having a game.

      ‘Where are you from?’ I turned to see where the voice had come from. A boy of about the same age as me was standing beside me. ‘I’m from Barnet.’

      ‘I’m from Ealing,’

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