Out: A Schoolboy's Tale

by David Brining

  20: Red Letter Day

  AS the notes of The Last Post swelled and died from Luke Tredwell's bugle, drifting on the still morning air into the two-minute silence, I stood to attention between Paulus and Seymour on the damp grass and watched the Chaplain, the starched white surplice and purple stole flapping in the chill November breeze. He, Dr Crawford, had fought in a war. He had conducted burials out in the trenches. He had seen men die. He, like my grandfather and thousands of others, had been lucky. The bullet and the bomb had missed them and got someone else. Who knew why life was such a lottery?

  Monday morning's traditional Remembrance Day event was always more reflection than celebration, but we missed pretty much the whole of first period, yay! Usually we did this on Armistice Day itself, but this year that was tomorrow, and tomorrow, the second Tuesday in November, was Speech Day, and always Speech Day. Since the Dawn of Time itself. Even a T-Rex invasion wouldn't change the School Calendar. Set in Stone since the Stone Age. That's my school. Anyhow, I'd rather stand in the drizzle listening to Wheezy wheezing on than bend my brain round quadratic equations, so thank God for the War, eh?

  The Headmaster always did this meditation thing, where he'd read some memoir, diary or letter written by one of the school's Old Boys. About 800 had served in the First World War – the same number who stood here right now on the grass – and 129 had died. That was the whole of our year + L5G and half of L5W. There was a brightly coloured memorial window in the Chapel, a brass plaque in the Lupton Building and atop three steps in a corner near the woods a stone cross simply inscribed 'For the Fallen.' It was this we were facing whilst Dr Ashton read this letter written by 20 year old Captain Richard Herbert who'd been a company commander in the ninth battalion of the West Yorkshire Regiment and stuck out in the hell that became the Third Battle of Ypres in October 1917. Captain Herbert had left our school in 1915. Dammit, he had played rugby on the field behind us. He had probably fidgeted in the Chapel, like us, wondering if his Latin prep was any good and bored stupid by some early version of Leatherface intoning the Lord's Prayer. He might well have carved his initials in the wood panelling of the Refectory wall. I thought I'd search for it, scratched among the hundreds of others, next time I was in there, shivering under the vast hammer-beamed vault of that dark Victorian ceiling and avoiding the stony gaze of the oil-painted, gilt-framed grey-whiskered patrons and benefactors who hung suspended between the tall Gothic windows. Man, suddenly I could like sense the ghostly presence of Old Boys past, you know? Prickles on my neck, or maybe that was Seymour's bog-breath.

  Anyway, on November 10 (shit, that's, like, today, man!) Captain Herbert had peeped his little tin whistle and led his company up to Passchendaele Ridge where they had, of course, been gassed then mown down by machine guns concealed in the trees within three minutes of entering No Man's Land. The letter, written from a field hospital in Ypres, told his sweetheart Grace that an exploding shell had not only shredded his left leg but also embedded shards of cast iron in his abdomen and groin. I mean. He'd sat in a mud-filled, water-logged hole with five wounded men for a day and a half, listening to the sounds of war, the screams of horses, the shrieking squeal of shells, and the snarls and sputters as all five died. Some private's guts had been spilled all over the mud and a corporal had his face shot away. I tried to imagine what that looked like, a face shot away, and couldn't. Anyway, Herbert, the sole survivor, was finally found by a stretcher team two days after the failed attack. Shipped home to Blighty, he won a Military Cross (I think 80 Old Boys got MCs in World War I), married Grace and become a one-legged bank clerk in Heckmondwike, married Grace, had four kids and went mad with shell-shock. Shit, man. Corner of a foreign field preferable to the hetty-norm, right? Right.

  Sonning and Leverett laid this massive poppy wreath on the top step, Tom Redmond launched into that Binyon poem about not growing old while we that were left grew old then Tredwell played Reveille and Wheezy said some prayers, one for the Queen, one for the Royal Air Force.

  ''Let us remember before God,'' intoned Wheezy, ''And commend to his sure keeping those who have died for their country in war.''

  Shit, man. He'd fought in it. He knew men who'd died.

  ''Grant, O Lord, that our people may devote themselves unselfishly to the common good, giving much and taking little…''

  What is the common good? Am I, a little queer boy? Would you devote yourselves to me? As the chapel choir, grouped behind the stone cross, sang Tallis's Nunc Dimittis, and I watched Fred and Williams, Leo Trent and Andrew Paulus, their starched white surplices flapping in the breeze, Dr Ashton and Mr Gallagher in their gowns and hoods, Redmond and Sonning standing with Ali, then my class-mates, macho rugger-buggers Seymour, Brudenall, Arnold and Lewis, swotty spods Huxley, Burridge and Bainbridge, cool cross-overs Collins, Crooksy and Stewart, my best friends Gray, Fosbrook and Maxton, I wondered how many would fight for me, for us, for me and Alistair, if we were dragged off to Pol Pot's Killing Fields or Adolf Hitler's concentration camps or Josef Stalin's Siberian gulags or by any nutbag loony who wants to kill people who are different from them? How many of the thousands who died at the Somme or the Marne or Alamein or on D-Day would have died for me? For my freedom to be me? For my freedom to be GAY? I wonder.

  Remembrance Day was fairly cool, but, even better, tomorrow was Speech Day and we had the morning off. Yay again! It started at 3, and I had to be there around 1.30 (bollocks for being a prize-winner! Losers showed up an hour later!), so I thought I'd head off at half-twelve. This was the day the school displayed itself to the city, it was always spectacular and I was looking forward not just to getting my own prizes but seeing Ali getting his.

  I was receiving the Lower Fifth Writing prize, a book-voucher which I'd spent on The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (my bookshelf, according to Ali, was naked without one), the Upper School Piano Prize and the Lawrence Harvey Cup for Best Individual Performance in the Music Competition. That one brought with it a solo recital in spring, a generous music voucher and a shiny silver cup. Although I'd won music prizes every year, this was different. It was a proper cup, like the one I'd secured in Harrogate two years ago with Schumann's Arabeske in C Op 18. I still knew that piece by heart, this two-part rondo with an opening I liked to make pensive and lilting, especially into the E minor passage where I forced each right-hand note rigidly to the left-hand's rolling triplets, never resting, then into A minor and a haunting, spell-binding coda which I always let just fade into silence. Magical music.

  ''If he gives you the wrong book,'' Gallagher had said in Monday's post-Assembly briefing, ''Don't grab his collar and shout 'you’ve given me the wrong book, you dozy old fart' or you'll lose us the half-holiday which means you won't just get your tender little bottoms birched by me, you'll get something far, far worse – your friends will hate you for all eternity. Just smile and say thanks and Mrs Locke will sort it out later.''

  ''Try not to get in the wrong order,'' Yates advised. ''I know it's hard for bird-brains like you to remember when to stand up so I'll have a list but it's helpful if you stay in the order you're seated in. Be there at 1.30. I know it's a 90 minute wait but we'll get Rosie to put on a show, or maybe JP can play something on the organ…''

  A ripple of ribald laughter ran through the Sixth Form. I coloured hotly and looked at my shoes. What the hell did he know? What did they know? Maybe it reeked from me. Maybe my gayness screamed out for all to hear and see. But Cedric smiled affectionately at me. He'd told me several times how talented he thought I was. Now I wondered if he fancied me. I stared at his saturnine features, the dark hair, the piercing blue eyes, the slim build, then shook myself. Man alive, I muttered. He's so old he must be at least 30!

  ''Don't fall off the platform,'' Gallagher said. ''It narrows. Don't knock the books over because you've turned up pissed – yes, Mr Rice, I'm looking at you – and don't trip over the amplifiers. Pick your feet up, stand up straight, and be proud of yourselves. You're the best of this city, shown o
ff to this city.'' So no pressure then.

  I got Seat 6 in Row G, between Andrew Paulus and Geography prize-winner Graeme Vesey from U5B. Ali would be on the front row with the other prefects.

  ''Finally,'' said Frank, ''Try to look happy. You're receiving prizes, not a report from the clap-clinic.'' The Sixth Form guffawed. I could see why they loved him. ''But don't grin like village-idiots, Mr Lister. If he asks you why you chose that book, tell him intelligently. Don't say, Mr Fenton, that it was the cheapest. It may be excruciatingly boring, and the seats in the Town Hall will numb your peachy little bums but the Headmaster is not a comedian, at least not a professional one, and remember, do not, repeat not, laugh at the Lady Mayoress's hat. Now sod off, and remember, 1.30 sharp, or you'll find yourselves swinging from the Town Hall clock by your short-and-curlies, if you've grown any yet.'' We would follow this man through fire if he asked.

  Lying in bed on Tuesday morning listening to Radio 3's Composer of the Week (Aaron Copland) on the old Crown radio, I read more Viking Dawn - Harald Sigurdsson, 15 and savagely whipped in the market-place, was escaping through a tunnel to [SPOILER ALERT – if you haven't read it, yeah yeah…] steal a ship which would later break up in the icy seas leaving everyone to drown but him – had a soapy squirt in a steamy shower then fixed scrambled eggs with bacon and this pea-and-mint soup from Delia Smith's Cookery Course. Swotting French vocab for a test, I learned that 'appuyer sur' meant 'to press down', 'à peine' meant 'scarcely', 'se rassurer' meant 'to reassure oneself', 'un témoin' was 'a witness' and 'un choc' was 'a bump' then settled into a description of Casterbridge. The last test had been dodgy – 15/30. Willie had clearly hated answer (iv) 'The first detail says that bits of bodies were despatched around the country like ''butcher's meat.'' Jints means joints and this suggests that limbs were treated like joints for shops. It is effective because it shows that Casterbridge was used as an execution place (perhaps the Roman amphitheatre).

  'The second phrase means that they do not think about flowers and faces and looks unless they are cauliflowers or meat. This shows that the locals are not really bothered about people, only food and their way of life.'

  He'd written 'poor answer' in the margin. So I really wanted this essay to be an A.

  'The town of Casterbridge,' I wrote, 'is in Wessex. It is a country town, based on the corn industry. To the east there are moors and meadows, where water runs, playing ''singular symphonies.'' This agricultural town is almost totally confined within the Walks.'

  Two hours and five pages later I'd covered the streets, the church with a ''massive square tower'' that rises ''unbroken into the darkening sky,'' the inn built of ''mellow sandstone,'' the fairground, the Mayor's house and Mixen Lane, 'the Soho of Casterbridge, where all the bad characters meet.'

  I liked it. I thought it a good essay with a ton of quotation woven through my own sentences, the way Willie preferred. I splashed Clearasil and Old Spice over my face, sprayed myself with Dark Temptation, gelled my hair and ironed my grey trousers and white shirt. A button about halfway down was missing. It'd disappeared last week in some playground football match. Not to worry. No-one'd notice. I polished my Clarks into an oil-black shine and tied my school tie, for a school occasion, then slid into my blazer. Straightening the red poppy in my buttonhole, I checked my pockets for my comb, keys and Calendar and some tissues, shook a handful of coins from Piggy Piggy-bank into my palm, wrapped myself in the black trench-coat Sooty had worn for the play and stepped into the soft November air muttering something about putting a horse's head in Herbie's bed as the bloody Rainbow theme-song lodged in my brain: 'up above the streets and houses rainbow climbing high…la la la la la.'

  The branches of rust-brown beeches and chestnut trees seemed to droop under their burden of moisture. The faces of the houses, usually stark-white in the sun, appeared wan and ghostly through gaps in dull green hedges. In the soft mist, delicate, silky spider-webs glistening with silvery dew-drops were strung vaguely between twigs and fence-posts. The fallen leaves provided a crinkly, russet carpet under my shoe-soles. Other leaves, dead and dying, had been gathered into piles at the side of the road like route-markers for a race. The soft moss on the tree-trunks was a damp dark-green, sopping sponges glued to the rough, scaly bark. A dirty paper-bag, blowing lazily by, appeared to vanish into the hazy fog. There was a pungent smell of rotting vegetation and a sharper scent of burning leaves. Thick, black bonfire smoke billowing over a wall added another aroma to the heady mix. As I dribbled a conker along the kerb and kicked some rusty leaves out of the gutter, 'rainbow climbing high,' I realised I loved autumn very much even though I had to run, coat-tails flapping, for the bus.

  ''Captain's Log, Stardate 101180020914,'' I told my Walkman. ''Have teleported down to the surface to rendezvous with the Cardassian spy who is posing as a German zombie behind the old Cornmarket. Am hoping he will hand me the phials containing the rejuvenating potion in exchange for the passwords he needs to access the Romulan star-bird's command computers and take control of the ship before it destroys the Enterprise.'' I skipped across the pavement, dodging the cracks, 'cos I still didn't want a broken back then passed the soot-stained war memorial, the tattered red-poppy wreaths laid at the feet of the Unknown Warrior, and bowed my head to read lines inscribed on my memory, that 'they shall not grow old as we that are left grow old.' I didn't care what Mum or Alistair said. Soldiers who'd died fighting for freedom should be remembered, 'at the going down of the sun and in the morning.' Then I found myself wondering about the gay soldiers. There must've been some in the Somme, as it were. No-one talked about them. All the letters home we read in History were to female sweethearts. Not to men. And if Ali was right and they'd been jailed when they came home, what was the point? Whose freedom had they been defending? Not theirs. Nor mine. Nor anyone like me. As Alistair said, the regime whose victory we were celebrating locked the very people who'd helped win the war up in jail or drove them to suicide for being gay, just like Hitler did. Although, unlike our leaders, Hitler didn't lie about it. Our hypocrisy unsettled me hugely so I moved away, past the art gallery and library and arrived at the town hall, this hubristic statement of civic pride, a massive, vainglorious Victorian sandstone wedding-cake confection. Springing up the wide stone steps, I breezed past a huge bronze lion and between the thick Corinthian columns like the regular visitor I guess I was and met Tom Redmond striding through the foyer, black gown swelling away from his blue and gold blazer like a malevolent thunder-cloud. He was the Cardassian spy come to hand over the secret of life, the Universe and everything, I muttered to the tricorder's 'Don't Like Mondays' (ho ho).

  ''Hey Tom, last time I saw something that stripy was on a kitchen floor.''

  ''You're so not funny, Peters,'' he said, checking his clipboard for my seat number. ''G6. Up the stairs. Report to Mr Yates.''

  Shit, Cedric was the secret of life, the Universe and everything? Not fair. He wasn't having the Romulan codes for that. Not unless he was 42. I flung myself up the carpeted steps, three at a time. Entering at the top of the choir, I was, as usual, overwhelmed by this vast bowl of an auditorium. It comfortably seated three thousand people and was saturated with pink marble and gold-leaf. Massive pink and crimson pillars supported a domed, vaulted ceiling which was covered in cherubs and other angels, like some Michelangelo frieze. The Lower School would sit in the bow-shaped balcony whilst the Upper School would sit on the Rises, the Sixth Form grouped around the huge organ-pipes, the Fifth to the right. The staff would sit in the orchestra. A long table stood on the stage. Here Mrs Locke and Mr Donovan, Leo's form-master, were setting out books, cups and certificates. The Board of Governors would sit here, with the Headmaster and the Guest of Honour, this year some minor industrialist called Riverdene or Riverdale or something. A microphone to the right was where Mr Gallagher would call our names. A mike to the left was where Redmond would move a Vote of Thanks and ask the honoured guest to grant the school a half-day holiday. No-one had yet refused. I wondered
who'd lynch him first, the kids or the staff.

  Cedric nodded warmly as I moved to the seats on the left where the contraltos and the 'cellos play and now reserved for our prize-winners. I knew this stage so well. Four times I'd played on it, in the Primary Schools' Music Festival then in two recitals of promising pianists Mrs Lennox had arranged, and then in the city-wide competition which I'd won aged eleven with 'Farewell to Stromness.' The melody wormed through my brain and I found myself moving my fingers, unconsciously stroking out those limpid, melting, heart-breaking notes.

  Settling beside Paulus on a red cushion, I half-listened to a brief appraisal of the other house-plays. Brearley's Sean O'Casey had been a disaster, half the cast forgetting half the lines and the other half their cues. Goodricke's Noel Coward was shit (so fuck you, Christopher Crooks!) Andy Collins' collapse through a sideboard had failed to save Smeaton's effort and Tetley's Waiting for Godot had bored the arse off everyone, even Adam Austen, who was in it, for God's sake. I was glad I'd stayed home with Shoestring. From my pocket, I fished Asimov's Mysteries, this book of sci-fi short stories like 'Dust of Death' where [spoiler alert] the murderer uses a dust made from platinum coated on a gas cylinder to cause a massive explosion. I was always struck, in sci-fi, how Earth'd moved beyond its present tribal feudalism, nation-states and ethnic groupings to become a mature, stable, planet-wide integrated confederation. Not for the first time, I lamented living in such a retarded era, where people kill each other for waving the wrong little flag or singing the wrong little song. In Jeux Sans Frontières, nobody really cared about your flag. It was all just a laugh, yeah? It's why Europe was so good. They safeguarded our freedoms in spite of our governments.

  As the Town Hall slowly filled up, I watched my parents walk up the central aisle to their seats in the third row of the stalls, Mum in a cashmere sweater in peaches and cream stripes and matching silk scarf, a brown skirt and long brown boots, Dad in a smart black blazer with shiny gold buttons, white shirt and a nice red tie. They'd not let me down. I shot them a tiny wave, which made them smile. They seemed bursting with pride. Though I'd won prizes before, I think they still got a thrill. So, if I'm honest, did I.

  Mr Perry was playing a Bach prelude on the organ, the music swelling from the pipes rolling hugely through the auditorium. Mr Yates reappeared at the top of the Choir, a black gown and red Oxford hood over his suit. I was getting excited now.

  ''See that hat?'' said Vesey. ''Looks like a game-reserve. And that one? The fruit-bowl in the second row?''

  It was Mrs Wilson. Paulus and I laughed a lot. Niall Hill (U5B), winner of the Pollock Art Prize, spotted an enormously fat woman wearing what looked like a massive floral tent.

  ''Who's she with?'' I hissed.

  ''No-one,'' whispered Hill. ''That's all her!''

  ''You think she's watching her figure?''

  ''She'll be the only one who is,'' whispered Hill.

  ''Some men climb mountains,'' I quoted Louie from Taxi, ''Others date them.''

  We giggled until Cedric hissed 'behave' so we teased Paulus instead, reaching behind his back and over his shoulder to snatch the poppy from his blazer buttonhole. He got really mad with us, which made us giggle even more, so Cedric told us off again. Wilson, meanwhile, sat smugly by muttering something to Vesey about sitting with the children.

  ''Oh,'' sneered Hill, ''You're sooo mature, aren't you?'' Like Tim, he was in Rowntree House and like Tim did Art and Latin so I didn't really know Hill, except from break-time football. He was slightly taller than me, had a round, pleasant face, soft butterscotch hair cut over his ears, and pale grey eyes. I knew he was a brilliant artist, hence the prize, that he was good at football and was hoping, like me, to break into the cricket team this year. He had lovely, soft-looking lips. He would probably give me a great blowjob.

  The music morphed into Karg-Elert's 'March Triomphale' as the prefects, led by Redmond and Sonning, appeared at the door, and I stood with the others, buttoning my blazer, adjusting my poppy and hoping my semi-erection wasn't noticeable. I loved this spectacle. I loved this school. And most of all, I loved the boy who, head bowed, hands clasped, was walking slowly, solemnly towards me, the boy with the bruise-black hair and deep teal eyes, the boy in the charcoal suit, gold tie and black gown, the boy who raised his eyes to mine, the boy who made me smile as he climbed the steps to the A2 in the front row. Hill quietly raised an eyebrow. Blushing, I stared at my shiny black toecaps. Behind the twenty prefects came the staff in full academic dress. This was the School displaying its intellectual power to the world. This was a school where A was the benchmark, where C was an 'also-ran', where GCSE was like the start of our education, you know? Not the end.

  The colourful rainbow was dazzling, Gallagher with a white fur hood, Crawford in this scarlet silk robe with purple trimmings, fifty others flowing behind in golds and greens, reds and whites. Dr Ashton, in scarlet Cambridge gown, came last with Lord Riverdale, plain dowdy in a dark pin-striped suit. In the battle of appearances between intellectual and industrialist, the intellectual won hands-down.

  Now the Governors entered, eight men in suits, but our local bishop, the chairman, wore purple and white silk with gold facings. He was a lean man with dark hair and a hawk's face, but I really liked him. When I was 12, he'd confirmed me in the Cathedral (consecrated in 1914) and done my first communion, then, of course, awarded me this scholarship. He'd been at that Harrogate Festival, with Dr Ashton and Wheezy Wally, and been really nice to my folks. Now he walked with the Lady Mayoress, resplendent in scarlet, a white ruffled neck-cloth and heavy gold chain. OK, fine. Bishops and Mayors outdid even academics.

  Our school had been a religious foundation, by a notoriously stingy Tudor King, no less, and a bloody Lancastrian/Welshman, in Yorkshire, for God's sake, and underpinned by charitable donations and local philanthropists throughout its nearly five centuries. They gave the school its traditions, history and heritage, of which this annual display was a celebration, and of which, and I never forgot this, I was an integral part. I had a scholarship, after all.

  As the Bishop delivered the School Prayer, ''We bless thee for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life; but above all, for thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ; for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory,'' I remembered, with a jolt, I was supposed to be reporting on this for the magazine, not gazing at Ali or reading Foundation inside the programme. So I focussed on Dr Ashton's craggy, lined face, iron-grey hair, bushy, unkempt eyebrows, and recalled the evenings I'd spent round his house with his family, evenings of laughter and learning, how he'd never patronised or talked down to me or made me feel anything other than his equal. This Dr Ashton was different, dry, meticulous and very, very boring. I recalled Gallagher's warning that the Headmaster wasn't a comedian, at least not a professional one, and decided to use the line in my article. Into the microphone he droned numbers, investments, endowments, bursaries, scholarships, charitable donations, A-Level pass-rate (90.3%), GCSE (89.3%), a record year of Oxbridge entry successes (30), other university admissions (173), meaning 95% of last year's Upper Sixth went into higher education but mere statistics, he said, did not convey the type of education the school delivered.

  ''Alongside our Oxbridge successes, we celebrate the growth of multifarious artistic activity, of musical events, of drama, of areas like design and art and creative metalwork in Technical Studies. We are a day-school with short working hours but we do what we can.'' The school, he declared, valued diversity, celebrated difference, allowed boys' talents room to blossom and flower, wherever those talents lay. Every boy was an individual and given the space to be so. There was some applause, then he changed his tone.

  The times, he said, seemed anxious and depressed. ''The educational scene seems perpetually in turmoil. Recession means a hard time for us all, and it is no fault of the state-school sector that they are suffering cuts and changes yet again. They have our sympathy. But, at least fo
r the moment, things look better at our end. Through the generosity and self-sacrifice of parents we are able to preserve a full range of subjects taught by specialist staff and a vast range of out-of-school activities voluntarily organised by this same hard-pressed staff, who do it because they want to, not because their contract tells them to.''

  As we applauded our teachers for helping us develop into diverse individuals, I wondered how I'd have fitted into Thornbury Comp, like the kids from primary I'd lost touch with. Not well, I thought. I didn't think anything connected with the state welcomed diversity let alone difference, at least not this state, which wanted to put me in therapy, jail or both.

  At last, it was time for the presentations. Gallagher, programme in hand, moved to the microphone as Mrs Locke and Mr Donovan moved to the table to hand the prizes to Lord Riverdale and Mr Yates moved to the steps with his clipboard.

  ''The Longford English Prize, the T.J. O' Brien History Prize and the Younger Prize for Best Contribution to the School Magazine,'' read Gallagher, ''A.S. Rose.''

  Ali, glowing and radiant, left his seat. He was so clever. He'd won 3 prizes. God, he was such a genius. Tears pricked the top of my nose. My Ali was so clever and I loved him. I saw him searching for his parents, applauding proudly in the fifth row. His Dad, short, slightly rotund, had a bald, egg-shaped head framed with some feathery grey tufts, like a nest built by a blind bird, and glasses on a silver chain. His Mum had a fairly long face, a chin that tapered into a sharp point and nut-brown hair tightly curled into an unfashionable perm. His Dad looked kind, his Mum perpetually disappointed. They reminded me of Sir Basil and Lady Rosemary from The 'Herbidacious' Herbs.

  As he shook hands with Lord Riverdale and the Headmaster, he gave me a small, shy smile, then Mr Yates was marshalling us from Row G to the steps. Austen (History) and Driver (Mathematics) had already gone. Waiting in front of Vesey, who, being a six-foot blond hulk, towered over me, and feeling suddenly self-conscious, I wondered what to do with the hands dangling uselessly at my sides. I fingered the hem of my blazer, fiddled with the buttons, smoothed my trousers, then folded them in front of me. Feeling like a priest, if you know what I mean, I clasped them behind my back, then felt like PC Plod (oh, men in uniform!) so shoved them into my trouser pockets and gazed at the hundreds of Lower School gimps massed in the balcony. God. To think I'd once sat up there. Once. In 2W. Before I conquered the world from a keyboard.

  ''Peters. Get your hands out of your pockets, for God's sake,'' Yates whispered fiercely. ''And stand up straight. You're not leaning on a lamp-post at the corner of the street in case a certain little lady walks by, you know.''

  Struggling not to laugh and embarrass myself further, I complied, then suddenly, providentially, Gallagher left the microphone and strode to the sound-crew at the edge of the stage. Their speakers and amplifiers narrowed the space so much that boys'd been teetering and wobbling along the rim. The Sixth Form were laying bets as to who might fall off and their grudging applause for the prize-winners was punctuated by cheers, catcalls and disappointed groans. Frank had evidently decided to stop the sport.

  ''Come on,'' he snapped, ''Shift that stuff unless you want it kicking onto the floor.'' Angrily he toe-ended thousands of pounds of electrical gadgetry. A massive cheer went up from the Sixth Form, clearly hoping he was going to boot it all off. The dismay when he allowed the crew to rock the speaker into a different position was palpable. A hushed boo swelled.

  ''The Sixth are in high spirits today,'' I whispered to Paulus.

  ''Probably been drinking high spirits,'' he whispered back.

  ''Peters,'' went Yates, ''Stop grinning like an imbecilic baboon. You're on.''

  ''Pollock Prize for Art, N.W. Hill,'' Gallagher was saying, ''Upper School Music Prize for Strings and Lower Fifth Prize for Modern Languages, A.G. Paulus, Upper School Music Prize for Piano, Wellington Prize for Creative Writing and the Lawrence Harvey Cup for Outstanding Musical Performance, J.D. Peters, Lower Fifth Prize for Geography, G.J. Vesey, Lower Fifth Prize for Chemistry and Littlejohn Prize for Biology, T. N. J. Wilson.''

  I wondered what the W. in N.W. Hill was. I knew the G. in A. G. Paulus was Gavin, and Tim's N.J. was Nicholas James. What if it were William? He'd be William Hill, like the bookie.

  Vesey like prodded me in the spine so I bumped into Paulus who scowled almost as severely as Yates. We moved off to generous applause. Hill blushed when he received his prize. Paulus seemed almost indifferent. Then it was gulping me. My right hand was briefly gripped by a warm, dry piece of wood. Glancing up, I caught a glimpse of impassive grey eyes buried on either side of a hooked nose then heard a murmur of congratulation as he loaded me up with red-covered Oxford Shakespeare, Bach's blue-covered Henle Verlag Inventions and Sinfonias and this massive silver cup with a gilded inside. The year and my name, J.D. Peters, was inscribed on the plate in elegant, flowing script. The Head muttered something.

  ''Is that so? Prodigy, are you?''

  I was really embarrassed now, beetroot-red and stammering. Everyone was staring.

  ''Scholarship boy too.'' He took my hand again. ''Great to meet a young man who is making the best of his talents. Congratulations, son. Enjoy the Shakespeare.''

  ''I will, sir,'' I stumbled. ''Thank you, sir.''

  Ash-tray smiled affectionately then the Bishop caught my sleeve.

  ''Very proud of you, Jonathan,'' he said. ''You repay that scholarship every day.''

  Several Governors nodded approvingly. One or two even smiled, these sombre men in sombre suits who'd pledged their faith, and their cash, in me, an 11 year old boy, out of my depth but a fighter who'd do his best for them, and for myself.

  I muttered another 'thanks' but really I just wanted to get off. Hill and Paulus had vanished up the steps long ago and Vesey was hard on my heels. Riverdale hadn't exchanged words with him nor, I noted happily, with Wilson. Clutching my prizes, I hurried past a twinkling Gallagher, past the snide jibes of my fellow Fifth-Formers to the Sixth Form who looked resolutely bored and past Mr Perry, picking his fingernails at the organ.

  ''Thanks, sir,'' I said. After all, the Lawrence Harvey Cup was his award and he'd chosen me over his super-talented Sixth Form favourite Williams. His shrug suggested he didn't care. I was the best musician in the school so why did he dislike me so much? Just 'cos I'd turned down his bloody Chapel Choir.

  Collapsing back into G6 with Paulus banging on about cosy chats with the Bishop, I clapped the gimps getting their piddly little prizes then tuned into Lord Riverdale saying what a pleasure and privilege it had been to meet so many talented and personable young men. We were, he said, a credit to our school, a credit to our families and a credit to the city.

  ''I am not going to say what many speakers say on these occasions, that it isn't the winning but the taking part that counts. I am not going to say that I never won a prize and just look at me now, a self-made millionaire with a multi-million pound business and a seat in the Lords, because I recall one man who did say that at one of my earliest speech days, and I did look at him and resolved there and then to win as many prizes as I could.''

  The Sixth Form hooted like monkeys, aping Mr Rogerson, who had this distinctive laugh. Gallagher scowled. Rogerson himself added his own echoing hoot to the rest.

  ''So today,'' Riverdale continued, ''Is a day to congratulate the prize-winners. It is their day and we celebrate their achievement.''

  Yeah, you bloody losers! The label pasted inside the Shakespeare's front cover bore the name of the school, the corn-and-crown crest and 1507, then PRIZE in the centre surrounded by a laurel wreath for victory and For Creative Writing, Awarded to J.D. Peters, Form U.5.H. signed A.A. Ashton, Headmaster below, and today's date.

  I glared at Seymour, Brudenall and the other fuckers who teased me and put me down, then along the line at Tim. For all your bloody Maths and Science, you will never, in a gazillion lifetimes, be able to play the piano like me, and you will never, because you're too fucking scared, fall in love
with someone awesome like Alistair Rose. I glanced at my watch then at Paulus then at Hill and sighed heavily. I wanted it to be over so I could talk to Alistair.

  I leafed through the programme for like the trazillionth time, blue print on white, school crest and Latin motto 'invenire et intelligite' on the cover, 3 p.m. 11th November, the order of events, our names listed alphabetically, A.S. ROSE L.VI on page 1, J.D. PETERS L.V on page 2. Did he get the same thrill as me from reading our names? The middle pages contained the stats Ash-tray had relayed. But of the 825 boys in the school, how many were like me? Mr Trent had reckoned 10%. That'd mean 82. Who the hell were they? I scanned the crowd for signs and found none. 'La la la la la la la la rainbow climbing high…'

  The rest of the programme covered Staff News (leavers like Burnden and joiners like Vicarage), concert dates, drama ('The school play this year was 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' by William Shakespeare and was a joint production with the Girls' High School. It was directed by Mr W. Western – man, is that all? No 'awesome performance' by A. Rose (or J. Peters for that matter)? Just 'The House Plays provided their usual varied entertainment and were co-ordinated by Mr I.T. Hutchinson and Mrs S.P. May.'), Voluntary Service, the Locomotive Society (the what?), Scout Group activities, expeditions ('8th July, nearly 700 boys went as far afield as Winchester, London, Edinburgh, the Yorkshire coast and the Dales and included visits to the Stock Exchange, museums, a zoo, a research farm, an assault course and a brewery.' Who went to the brewery? It certainly wasn't L5C!) and sporting achievements (I noted with a thrill that 'M. Crooks came third in the Northern Schools Harriers Championship').

  Wondering how I should describe this for the school magazine, I began composing the piece in my head then got distracted by some chewing gum smeared blackly on the carpet between my feet. Could I scuff it away with the edge of my shoe? Hill seemed to be asleep. Paulus was reading the blurb on the back of the collected poems of some Frenchie called Baudelaire. Blond hulk Vesey was staring at his massive hands. Even Tim Wilson seemed restless. Ali was listening politely, head cocked on one side, but it was too late. I had tuned out of Riverdale and Rainbow and into 'Don't Like Mondays.' Before 'the silicon chip inside [my] head was switched to overload', Redmond was moving a dull vote of thanks which Ali would've done a billion times better 'cos he was a genius who'd've made people laugh.

  ''In closing,'' Redmond said, ''I wonder if your Lordship might prevail upon the Headmaster and the Chair of Governors, on behalf of the assembled school, to grant us and our hard-working teachers, a half-day holiday as a mark of your visit.''

  ''I believe,'' Riverdale replied, ''The Headmaster should grant you, and your teachers, a full-day holiday, and will prevail upon him, as you put it, to do so this very afternoon.''

  ''Very well,'' grinned Dr Ashton. ''A full-day holiday it is, date to be confirmed.''

  The teachers cheered louder than the boys. Suddenly we loved Lord Riverdale. Boring old fossil he might've been, but he'd delivered us a whole day off sometime in May.

  We stood to sing the School Song, something in Latin from 1897 I'd never fully mastered going ''Floreat per saecula, salus sit fidelibus.'' I mean, what? The National Anthem was much easier. Emotions swelled as I bawled ''Send her victorious, happy and glorious,'' although the queens I meant were not living in Buckingham Palace. They were sitting on Rows A and G and up in the balcony. Then Perry clattered into Widor's joyous Toccata, famous for launching a mazillion marriages. If only I could marry Ali. Then I'd be happy. Clawing open my collar-button, I struggled into the street with Paulus and Hill.

  ''Your play was great.'' Hill flashed me a knee-weakening grin. ''No idea what it was about but young Trent was awesome.'' He licked his lips. ''Especially in that frock. Man, I'd taste his bananas and custard any time, eh, Jonny?'' Then he was gone, leaving me confused on the red carpet. Niall Hill? Was Niall Hill gay too? What was he trying to tell me? And why me? Why was he telling me? What the hell did he know? Surely he wasn't telepathic.

  Dad shyly shook my hand. Mum proudly hugged me. In front of everyone. Yikes. Someone just shoot me. I'd rather steam and eat my own spleen, you know? With green beans and a nice Sauvignon Blanc than be kissed by my mother in public! As I was muttering 'get off, Mum,' Mrs Wilson bundled by, T.N.J. in tow.

  ''Well done, Jonathan,'' said Mrs W, ''Though you didn't get any academic prizes.''

  ''Nice cup, though,'' T.N.J. said graciously.

  ''It'll look good with the others he's won,'' said Mum smugly.

  Then the Roses appeared, Mr Rose beaming, Mrs Rose frowning, and Ali was radiating love and saying how brilliant I was, and everyone was shaking hands and meeting each other and I was just gazing adoringly at him. I sooo wanted to kiss him. He was so utterly beautiful. Then suddenly he was asking me out to a concert and dinner on Saturday.

  ''It's the first concert of the season,'' he said, waving a flyer he'd picked up in the foyer, ''Here at the Town Hall. City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra, doing Mahler 2 and Szymanowski. They're bringing their new conductor. He's really young and dynamic, really exciting. It's gonna be fantastic. We gotta go, J, got to. Review it for the school mag.''

  Mum and Dad were kind of like staring at each other, like cannot compute, right? And I'm kind of going 'please let me go, please… it's gonna be great' and Mum's going 'why?' and Ali's kind of shrugging uncomfortably as though he's said too much, and Dad's going 'it's only a concert' and Mr Rose is going 'what a great idea, you can take him to Adriano's, I'll book you a table' and Mum's kind of twitching and Dad looks confused, upset and irritated, all at the same time and I'm like almost on my bloody knees with my hands clasped, like begging to go.

  ''OK,'' says Dad finally. Man, right there in the Town Hall, in front of like a grazillion people, teachers, class-mates, parents, I chucked my arms round my father's neck and hugged him exultantly, gratitude like tumbling out of me like some bloody emotional Niagara had broken loose. Ignoring Mum's snort, I rejoiced. I was going on a date with Ali! At last! A proper date! With my lovely boyfriend! I was so like totally hyper-excited, you know? 'Cos suddenly my life was like totally totally fantastic!