When I had turned fourteen it was decided that since I was so far behind at school, it would not be wise to find me 'a situation.' Instead I was sent to Barnardo's Technical School in Hertfordshire, called Goldings. The administration people fondly hoped that I would learn a trade. On the last day of my final term at the outside school the headmaster summoned me to his office and gave me a pep talk about the evils of loose women, gambling and drink. Having lived an extremely sheltered existence I had not the slightest idea what he was on about so I dismissed all he had to say as utter rot.

On 8th July 1944 I set off for Goldings together with several other boys in a huge lorry with the letters DBH on the side of it; it had come especially from head office to take us on the journey. To my intense delight Pedro was in our number. I am certain that this was not because of any deference the staff might have had for our friendship but because we were near enough the same age.

I was very pleased to be getting away from the dreadful Kingston Home, but might have known that I was leaping straight out of the frying-pan into the fire. For Goldings turned out to be the most fearsome establishment I have ever been in!

Though the Governor was a mild clergyman named MacDonald, the institution was run with a rod of iron. Drill, marching, physical training and cold showers were the order of the day. The PT instructor was the most important man in the place for they adhered insanely to the idiotic adage about healthy bodies having healthy minds. You had to be tough or you went under. Indeed one boy died whilst I was there; it was said to have been from natural causes, but then, some causes are more natural than others.

Though I have complained bitterly about the incessant punishment inflicted upon me, the continual moralizing and their apparent inability to understand the first thing about why I was the way I was, etc, I think Barnardo's worst crime was their blatant under-estimation of the intelligence of just about every boy and girl in their care as a result of which they set their sights low. The only trades that could be learnt at Goldings were carpentry, cobbling, gardening, tinsmithing and printing, the latter being intellectually the most advanced. A boy with a creative streak in his make-up was a dead pigeon from the start. Artistic expression and individuality were squashed as soon as they reared their ugly heads. Certainly the country needed people with these kind of trades, and it may well be that the majority of the boys at Goldings were better suited to a trade than a profession. But certainly it was not true of all and absolutely it was not true of me. Not that I really had the slightest idea what I wanted to do with my life, for indeed I had not. But surely if they had delved into my mind a little they might have got some inkling as to what my capabilities might be. They didn't, so I just went on in the same old way, hating all around me and ultimately hating myself the worst of all.

I spent my first few months there being what they called a 'spare boy', that is to say a boy that they could find nothing to do with. After a time they did try me in the Carpenter's Shop, in the hope that I would learn a trade. It was useless. I simply could not handle such tools as planes, chisels and tenon-saws. I ruined every exercise that I was given, and was eventually taken out of the course, before I could destroy every last plank of wood they had in the place.

They tried me then in the Bootmakers' Shop. This too ended in desperation and disaster. They told me that I was not trying (I certainly was). It did not occur to them that perhaps I was not cut out to be a craftsman or a tradesman. Their attitude seems to have been: if you cannot learn to be a Carpenter or a Bootmaker you can learn nothing. So they put me in the kitchen, washing dishes and peeling potatoes.

These utilitarian trades were of course extremely beneficial to the other Homes throughout the length and breadth of the country. For the boots made by the cobblers, the chairs and tables made in the carpenter's shop, and the tea cans made by the tinsmiths were all sent to the various Homes in the DBH lorry that called every few weeks loaded with more slave labour and taking away finished work. The compositors printed Barnardo's propaganda as well as all their stationery. Goldings was if nothing else a going concern, employing child labour. The boys were fed, clothed and housed. If they worked hard they got a few coppers pocket money each week, and if they did not they were beaten for idleness, usually by the PT instructor who had biceps many inches in diameter, a shaven head and a sadistic nature. I am certain that he was employed by head office for his expertise with a cane.

The cockroaches in the kitchen outnumbered the boys ten to one. During the day they hid behind the steam coppers out of sight, but at night they ventured forth for a little exercise. If anyone walked across the kitchen floor at night when the lights were out, they would leave a trail of mangled corpses behind them, for the cockroaches covered the floor from wall to wall like a thick pile carpet in a Mayfair penthouse. An attempt or two was made to put them down, but to no avail; they were hardy creatures and defied every insecticide on the market, indeed I think they thrived on them.

At least working in the kitchen I got out of the incessant marching about and being bullied by prefects. I spent so much time in there that I began to smell like a kitchen and look like a dishcloth. The cook was a hard task-master, and inspected my washing-up as closely as a sergeant-major might inspect a squad of recruits. He warned me that every saucepan that I washed was to be wiped dry. He would then choose one at random and tell me to hold it upside-down. For every drop of water that dripped out he would strike me on the head with a wooden spoon. This tended to leave me somewhat dazed at times, depending of course upon how many drops of water fell out of the saucepans.

Whilst I mouldered away in the kitchen Pedro was learning carpentry and was within a comparatively short time as near to being a master craftsman as didn't matter. He had also become a member of the football and cricket team, he was greatly liked and highly respected by both staff and boys. Indeed a blue-eyed boy all the way around. Somehow we managed to remain on friendly terms, though the spirit of our friendship, so strong during the early days at Kingston, was severely impaired. I would have liked to have been able to emulate him but my heart just wasn't in it. Often under some duress he would defend me, when the other boys denounced me as useless. But he was fighting a losing battle for there was a great deal of truth in what they said.

© Frank Norman

Photo taken on leaving Goldings and Dr Barnardo's

For more of Frank's memories on Goldings you will need to get hold of his book Banana Boy published in 1969 Secker & Warburg.