Little Criminals: The Story of a New Zealand Boys' Home Read Online Free
Author: David Cohen
Tags: History, True Crime, Non-Fiction, New Zealand
system, after all, to be analysed and assessed before a final decision is made on the future course of their lives.
But trips to the swimming pool play second fiddle to the infinitely more coveted routine each Saturday: the once-in-a-week opportunity to join the designated driver on the trip to Miramar Girls’ Home to pick up the film canisters for the weekend’s regular movie. These are the movies, generously made available from local movie houses, that the institution screens in the main lounge at 7.30 pm, with supper at halftime or between the first reel finishing and the next getting set up. The selection is seldom auspicious. Spaghetti westerns. Prissy English comedies. One or other of those dumb Elvis Presley movies where the hero breaks into song at the most ridiculous moments. The housemaster responsible for the screening fills in as usher, projectionist, bouncer and chief censor, the last of which involves halting the film and laboriously allowing the reel to move forward before once again switching it back on.
None of which, truth be told, is half as interesting or exciting as being allowed to make the half-hour drive to the girls’ home in Miramar. Where else can an Epuni boy hope to catch so much as a fleeting glimpse of blossoming hips, smoochable cellulite and pigtails? Realising as much, perhaps, the driver usually keeps these visits very brief, parking only long enough in the driveway to sprint into the residence and grab the cans before clambering back into the van for the homeward journey.
TODAY BEING WEDNESDAY, THOUGH, THE VAN remains unoccupied, and the day’s business proceeds apace, the only unusual accompaniment being what sounds like distant drums beating — from the radio system or somewhere far across the ocean — who can tell?
In the dining area the boys sit in silence, arms folded, waiting for the housemaster’s nod that allows them to queue for the food placed atop the counter in an industrial-sized metal tray with sliding lids. The wait must be painful for some of these kids; they look way too skinny. Somebody is nominated to say grace, inaudibly, ahead of the loud click and slide of cutlery, the scraping of spoons across plastic bowls, and hog-like sounds as many of the diners lick their plates clean. Once each boy has eaten he scrapes any residual food into a basin placed on each table for this purpose and flings his cutlery into another plastic bleach container (decorated with pictures) before the containers are taken away. Invariably the routine will be punctuated with threats from the supervising housemaster warning that various foods will be withheld unless everybody keeps things quiet. Eventually the diners are dismissed in table-groups to get ready for school or, in the case of ‘home boys’, prepare for the morning’s chores.
Unlikely though it would be for all 23 staff members, who normally work eight different rosters across two shifts, to gather together at such an early hour, let us assume that circumstances have conspired to draw out the full complement from the nearby staffroom to share in this morning’s breaking of bread.
Housemasters dominate the group, of course, since it is upon these residential social workers’ shoulders that the practical burden of running the 16-year-old institution largely rests. Sometimes the strain can show. Joe Bartle, for example, looks somewhat tired this morning. Hardly surprising. It’s an incredibly demanding existence, the beefy housemaster likes to say, keepingon top of the day-to-day operation. It’s a responsibility symbolised by the beeper the 31-year-old warden with the slicked-back hair has taken to wearing on his belt, as if he were an emergency repairman or some kind of medical doctor, perhaps like one of the specialists Joe used to work under in his previous job as a hospital orderly at a psychiatric institution in Nelson.
In a sense he’s a bit of both, and there’s no doubting the vigorous presence he brings
But trips to the swimming pool play second fiddle to the infinitely more coveted routine each Saturday: the once-in-a-week opportunity to join the designated driver on the trip to Miramar Girls’ Home to pick up the film canisters for the weekend’s regular movie. These are the movies, generously made available from local movie houses, that the institution screens in the main lounge at 7.30 pm, with supper at halftime or between the first reel finishing and the next getting set up. The selection is seldom auspicious. Spaghetti westerns. Prissy English comedies. One or other of those dumb Elvis Presley movies where the hero breaks into song at the most ridiculous moments. The housemaster responsible for the screening fills in as usher, projectionist, bouncer and chief censor, the last of which involves halting the film and laboriously allowing the reel to move forward before once again switching it back on.
None of which, truth be told, is half as interesting or exciting as being allowed to make the half-hour drive to the girls’ home in Miramar. Where else can an Epuni boy hope to catch so much as a fleeting glimpse of blossoming hips, smoochable cellulite and pigtails? Realising as much, perhaps, the driver usually keeps these visits very brief, parking only long enough in the driveway to sprint into the residence and grab the cans before clambering back into the van for the homeward journey.
TODAY BEING WEDNESDAY, THOUGH, THE VAN remains unoccupied, and the day’s business proceeds apace, the only unusual accompaniment being what sounds like distant drums beating — from the radio system or somewhere far across the ocean — who can tell?
In the dining area the boys sit in silence, arms folded, waiting for the housemaster’s nod that allows them to queue for the food placed atop the counter in an industrial-sized metal tray with sliding lids. The wait must be painful for some of these kids; they look way too skinny. Somebody is nominated to say grace, inaudibly, ahead of the loud click and slide of cutlery, the scraping of spoons across plastic bowls, and hog-like sounds as many of the diners lick their plates clean. Once each boy has eaten he scrapes any residual food into a basin placed on each table for this purpose and flings his cutlery into another plastic bleach container (decorated with pictures) before the containers are taken away. Invariably the routine will be punctuated with threats from the supervising housemaster warning that various foods will be withheld unless everybody keeps things quiet. Eventually the diners are dismissed in table-groups to get ready for school or, in the case of ‘home boys’, prepare for the morning’s chores.
Unlikely though it would be for all 23 staff members, who normally work eight different rosters across two shifts, to gather together at such an early hour, let us assume that circumstances have conspired to draw out the full complement from the nearby staffroom to share in this morning’s breaking of bread.
Housemasters dominate the group, of course, since it is upon these residential social workers’ shoulders that the practical burden of running the 16-year-old institution largely rests. Sometimes the strain can show. Joe Bartle, for example, looks somewhat tired this morning. Hardly surprising. It’s an incredibly demanding existence, the beefy housemaster likes to say, keepingon top of the day-to-day operation. It’s a responsibility symbolised by the beeper the 31-year-old warden with the slicked-back hair has taken to wearing on his belt, as if he were an emergency repairman or some kind of medical doctor, perhaps like one of the specialists Joe used to work under in his previous job as a hospital orderly at a psychiatric institution in Nelson.
In a sense he’s a bit of both, and there’s no doubting the vigorous presence he brings
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