Bridge To Eternity

CHAPTER THREE-2

September 1965

This is the secret diary of Robert Oakes

DO NOT READ UNTIL 2065

I am thirteen years old and frightened. I am not very bright. When stressed I cannot get the words out. My parents took me to a doctor. He recommended vigorous physical exercise in an outward-bound school. He said it would cure me of my stutter and help me with my school work.

It took five hours for my father to drive my mother, sister, and me to the fifteenth-century former monastery. As we drove onto the humpback bridge, which spans the River Hawk, I got my first glimpse of my uncertain future rising up out of the moor. Why do all boarding schools have to be so frightening? Why can’t people be friendly?

My father parked our car near the front door. School had not officially started so there was lots of room. I wanted to fail the entrance exam but it was so easy, even I couldn’t achieve that dream. A woman called Mrs Barry opened the door and guided us through the various corridors to the headmaster’s study. On the way she told my parents that I wouldn’t be entering the school through the main entrance once they had gone. Junior boys had their own entrance where they could change their shoes and take off muddy sports clothes. She didn’t speak directly to me but to compensate my mother gave me reassuring smiles, except she wasn’t really smiling. We were told by Mrs Barry that Mr Gibbs was a mountaineer and had climbed Everest or tried to. Frostbite had got the better of him and we were not to be surprised by his hands, which every boy has to shake after lunch.

Mrs Barry knocked on the headmaster’s door and walked in without waiting for a reply. The room was large for an office. My first thought was that he needed the space to wield his cane – surprisingly, it was my mother’s first question. Brilliant news!! There is no caning – they have many other punishments that Mr Gibbs said were much more effective.

Mrs Barry left, and Mr Gibbs invited us to have a guided tour. He went into the history of the school; how it was once an abbey and then a hospital for people with highly infectious diseases before being converted into a school in the 1920s. Being an outward-bound school, there are lots of activities apart from rugger, hockey and cricket, such as climbing the high ridge, canoeing on the River Hawk, camping on the moor and at least half a day each week working on the school farm that provides much of the food eaten by the boys. My parents nodded politely. I shivered. All I hope is that I survive until Christmas when I can go home. Mr Gibbs took us back to our car, weighed down at the rear by my heavy trunk. He held out his hand to me and, for the second time, I had to shake his hard, stubby claw. I felt sick.

My boarding house is a tall building a mile away from the school, across the river in the local town. It has many locked doors that Matron said once housed workers for the local cotton mill. She showed my parents and me up to my dormitory at the very top of the house, which I share with three other boys. My sister was forced to wait in the car as Matron said her skirt was too short and would attract unwelcome attention from older boys. It’s freezing in the house and it’s not even fully-autumn yet! The cold truly bites into my legs. Part of the school uniform is that we have to wear corduroy shorts, whatever the temperature outside. My father helped me lug my heavy trunk up the stairs to the top room. My mother, under Matron’s guidance, helped me unpack, as Matron says that all the trunks are stowed in the attic until the end of term. Luckily, I can keep my tuck box under my bed.

The moment came that I dreaded and feared almost more than anything in my life. My mother pulled her coat around her neck and I could tell that she wanted to return to the car before she started crying. Matron said that I could have a few minutes with my parents to say goodbye and then I was to go and see her. Outside the house, the cold gripped me – not the wind off the moor, but the unwelcome chill that emanates from every brick within the building.

Mummy gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and a pack of stamps so that I could write as often as I wanted, and she would write to me. My father gave my shoulder a squeeze and said, “Chin up old boy. You’ll be fine. And remember, what I told you – think what you want to say and then say it – clearly. Don’t stutter. If you do, other boys will pick on you and make fun.” My sister hugged me and had to be prised off.

How could they leave me here? What have I done? Thirteen weeks lie ahead, but what sort of condition will I be in by the time I go home for Christmas?

I watched as the rear car lights disappeared into the rising moorland mist. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. I have never felt so alone. I have no money as the school keeps my allowance and just gives me five shillings each week to spend on tuck. I went to Matron’s private room. I knocked on her door, and she actually gave me a smile when I entered. She’s quite old, at least forty. She told me about the bed sheets which I have to change once a week. We’re allowed to change our shirts and underwear on Wednesdays, and on Sundays so that we look smart for chapel. Jockstraps are washed after every game. I hate the look of my jockstrap. It’s so ugly and way too big. Matron said that she encourages showers to be taken as often as required, but each boy must shower every other day.

More new boys arrived, and Matron gave us jam sandwiches in the house kitchen. We sat there, silently eating, eight condemned boys thinking of home. The rest of the new boys coming to the school sleep within the main school building out on the moor – we’re the lucky ones, Matron told us with a smile. I don’t think any of us felt lucky.

After tea, we were allowed into the Common Room to watch television and to read a book. We watched The Man From UNCLE, but I couldn’t follow the plot – my mind was hundreds of miles away.

Other boys arrived, older boys who turfed us out of our comfy chairs and called us names. We decided to go up the squeaky stairs to the loft room. In the dim light emitting from the bare bulb, we chatted and got to know each other. They all seem resigned to their fate, as though this experience is something that just comes with life. I know I’m here because it’s my fault. If I were cleverer and didn’t stutter, I wouldn’t be here. This school is for boys whose parents are at their wits’ end, or that’s how it feels, although some of the boys seem to be really smart. I’m doing my best not to stutter and to avoid words that begin with ‘W’. That’s my worst letter. Sometimes my mouth goes into a spasm and my face contorts just trying to get out the word “where”.

In the bed next to mine is a boy we have nicknamed ‘Mini’. We’re all small, but he’s even smaller. I think we’re going to be good friends. His real name is Small – that’s funny. We all laughed – I hope he didn’t mind. There’s a boy called McGrath who’s trying to take control of the dorm. I don’t like him very much – I hope he doesn’t read this. If he finds out how I really feel he’ll probably give me a fat lip. The fourth boy is Phillips. His middle initial is ‘L’ but he won’t tell us what it stands for. I don’t have a middle name, but I already have a nickname – B.O. – short for body odour. They got the idea from the TV when a woman whispers into a man’s ear telling him he has B.O. and that he needs deodorant. I shall write home and ask my mother to send me some. Mini told me that it’s after my initials which are burned into my tuck box. But my initials are R. O. – Robert Oakes. Of course, Bobby, which my sister calls me, is short for Robert and Oakes is my surname. I’ve only been here a few hours and I’m B.O. – I expected a black eye but not that. I’ll probably get used to it, but I’m still going to ask my mother to send me deodorant – just in case.

If you are reading this diary in a hundred years’ time, ignore the printed dates. I want to be a writer and my English teacher at my prep school said that writing down thoughts and events helps to keep them in proportion – makes them more bearable. It helped Scott of the Antarctic to write down what was happening, especially as he knew in his heart that they were all doomed.

Am I doomed? I feel it.