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Richard Eastwood
PSTS Broughton House number 58
I can still picture the tall boy of 15 years wearing naval uniform, black cap, jersey, short trousers and boots, who was waiting at Bournemouth West station to collect me. The date was Jan.4th 1955, his name was Fred Whinney, Broughton House number 6 and to me he seemed like an Admiral, a world above a frightened, weedy, new boy. I had come down from The Village Homes at Barkingside, by train, accompanied by a woman who I am sure did not speak one word on the journey, until approached by Whinney with the time honoured words, ”is this the new boy for Parkstone?” She replied “yes”, turned and was gone, thank you so much Miss.
Well lucky old me landed the top prize, a berth in Broughton House, ruled with a rod of iron, also a strip of leather bootlaces and other instruments of torture by “Charlie Woods”, together with a harridan I was told to call “Mam Woods”. I am sure it was instant dislike on both sides and remained so until that glorious day about 18 months later, when the word went round ”Charlie’s gone”. Where, I asked? Got the sack, kicked out, done a moonlight were the informed reasons. So there was a God after all, the misery was going to end, prayers had been answered.
Would we be lucky enough to get someone decent such as “Archie” Harrington or George Moore? Would I get chores other than cleaning the “heads” and “scavengers” a job saved for me in the winter months?
The answer was neither yes or no, but we got a decent man, Frank Seviour, a strange choice for an officer, his uniform never fitted, he was normally covered in fag ash and we felt slightly embarrassed when it was his turn to take a parade. I don’t think he quite understood words of command or the difference between right and left. Still, he was miles better than his predecessor and “Mam Seviour” was OK too, at least they had children of their own so could understand the things that boys go through at that age. They were not sadistic bullies that ruled by fear and by pitting the strong against the weak.
To
add to the misery of being in Broughton, I had the added challenge of my
surname which was Goble. Yes, you can make up loads of cruel jibes from
that name, with the war just 10 years away, the words to “Colonel Bogie”
took on a whole new significance, Goballs to No balls in one easy lesson.
In 1960 I found my name was actually Eastwood, once again God smiled on
me.
Being absolutely useless at sports, running, boxing and swimming I devoted my energy to school work. We were lucky to have some really good teachers. I remember with great affection “Harry”Ford, and will be ever grateful for the things I learned from him. Together with Mr Norbury-Williams, Mr Giles and the headmaster Mr Wheeler, schoolwork was something to look forward to.
In 1996 I went to Barnardo’s at Barkingside to receive copies of the record of my time in care, I had to be “counselled”, as there were things that I never knew about my parents and it was felt this could upset me. What did upset me were the absolute lies that I found, not only in the records, but those told to me over the years, such as my father being killed in the war. The facts are he didn’t die until 1998! As my mate John Wallace has said, how could the Captain write things about you when he had never spoken to you?
As you may have gathered by now, I did not enjoy my time at PSTS, in fact I hated the place enough to “do a bunk” twice and you know the reward for that!
This may be getting a bit boring for most, so will call it a day for now.
Richard
Eastwood. (Goble)
Broughton house 58, Jan 1955 to
Sept. 1958.
PART 2
For those of us with nowhere to go for the holidays, summer meant two weeks at a holiday camp in St, Marys Bay, near Dymchurch, in Kent. It was something to look forward to; the downside was that Mr & Mrs Wood were the ones supervising us. The first year I went, we travelled by train, this was a bit of an adventure in itself, especially when Charlie nearly had a fit when they couldn’t find one of the boys at Waterloo. The next three years we went, was in the school lorry, this was driven by Mr Stoakes, considered by all of us to be a really “good hand”. Imagine if you can, two dozen mouthy, sex starved teenagers, hanging out of the back of a lorry, shouting and whistling at every girl we could see. A family following us once, waited until we stopped, and complained to Charlie about the bad language and obscene gestures emanating from the back of the lorry, the remainder of the trip was made in darkness as he tied up the canvas back to stop us looking out.
Christmas holidays were spent with all of us in one house, yes, you guessed it, the first year was Broughton, oh goody, goody! Christmas with the Woods, what joy. 1956 was in Howard with “laughing Bert Busby”, who wouldn’t have known a joke if it jumped up and bit him on the leg. At least he didn’t dish out a good hiding for no particular reason. My last Christmas there, 1957, was in Arranmore, I don’t remember seeing a lot of Mr and Mrs Butcher, but they seemed to be nice people.
Just before Christmas began, it was the custom for the school to put the names of those staying behind in the Bournemouth Echo newspaper, the idea was that any kind-hearted member of the public could send one of us a present. I clearly remember my great delight on receiving a nice wrist watch from a Mr and Mrs Potter who lived in Verwood. Some years later, I was driving an excavator for Selwoods, on hire at a site in Verwood, in the mess hut one day I asked if anyone knew of a Mr Potter of Coronation Rd. A quiet chap in the corner got up and said that was him. He and his wife were absolutely delighted that I remembered their gift and also their name and address, small world isn’t it. What I could not tell them was that the watch was stolen two days after Christmas, so I hope the scumbag that took it is reading this and knows that every Christmas I think about that watch and would dearly love to kick his head in!
“Doing a bunk” was great fun until you got caught and sent back, then you were made to see the error of your ways first by Charlie Woods then by the Captain, at the end of the day all you had to show for it were the marks of the cane on your backside, which all would come to see and remark on the severity and the positioning. My first break for freedom was made by walking to Highcliffe, the only place I knew. The journey was about 20 miles, it was February 1955 and bitterly cold, I can remember being so hungry and as I started my journey before lunch on a Saturday, it got dark after about 5 hours and I wished I had never left. I got to Highcliffe around 6 pm and met one of my old school mates, he took me to his house and his Mum gave me a great big tea, she let me stay there for the evening but of course in the morning they took me to the local policeman and by Sunday lunch I was back “inside”.
My second trip was made in the summer, once again on a Saturday but this time I waited until we went out on leave so I had my number ones on. As I had prepared for this break, I saved money over a few weeks and clever old me, I went by bus! Once again back to Highcliffe but I was there in 1.5 hours and of course stood out like a sore thumb! This time I got a mate to get me some food, stayed around till late and slept on the beach. By now I was a bit of a hero with my mates, plenty of food lots of laughs but when they all went back to their homes in the evening, I was left on my own. Then it started raining, just what I needed, so I surrendered to the copper, who telephoned the school who asked if they could collect me the next morning and I could stay in a cell overnight. I can’t begin to tell you how pleased Charlie was to see me on that Monday morning! Although I was only at the school for 44 months, it seemed like a lifetime, at times I thought I was never going to get away from the place. Of course there were good times, summer camp wasn’t too bad and Xmas meant a few trips out, a pantomime, a good feed at a hotel or similar and a present or two from some kind member of the public. There were also the trips over to Studland and Shell Bay (watch out for the queers) and a trip to the New Forest where someone always managed to get lost.
To be fair to the place, it taught me how to look after myself both domestically and physically but I saw other boys suffer from the cruel treatment that they were just not used to, did this affect them in later life?
Until I received my records from Barnardo’s, I did not realise that all of our mail, both incoming and outgoing, was censored, I am not sure by who, I find this to be totally inexcusable, whatever did Barnardo’s have to hide?
That’s all for now folks.
Richard
Eastwood. (Goble)
Broughton house 58, Jan 1955 to
Sept. 1958.