Ahead of his Time

by Adrian Cousins

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he spat aggressively, with his arms outstretched.

  “Ha, well mate, I came around as I thought you might be a bit lonely. It appears not!”

  Martin grinned. “She’s a real goer!”

  “Right. Yeah, I got that impression,” I replied, as I arched my eyebrows and shook my head. “Look, mate, it’s none of my business, but you were careful?”

  “What, you my dad now! Did I use a condom?” he threw back, rocking his head side to side and rolling his eyes.

  “No. I’m mean your tattoos and, well, you know … where you come from.”

  “Oh yeah! Didn’t think about that. Don’t think she noticed them, really.”

  “No, quite. Anyway, where did you meet her? She looked very young.”

  “We met at school today when she came to collect her younger sister. I was fixing the hinge on one of the school gates, and we just got chatting as you do. We hit it off, and she popped back to school at the end of the day. You know how these things happen?”

  “Not sure I do, to be honest.” I just didn’t get how some men just seemed to suck women to them without any effort.

  Although I’d had the average amount of short relationships at Uni, they were always tricky affairs. Most wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t part of a group of lads that included Mark, Joe and Sam. There was a pecking order in the group that put Mark at the top and me at the bottom. Whenever we were clubbing, and on ‘the pull’ as it was called back then, Mark would always be the girl magnet. He was closely followed by Joe and Sam, leaving me missing out altogether. Sometimes I was lucky and managed to cop off with the remaining free girl if she felt sorry for me or had nothing better to do.

  Philip, another close friend who was gay, often used to say he was my ‘wingman’. I’d never met anyone who had such a natural ability to talk to the opposite sex with no awkwardness. The girls just loved him. He would often introduce me to a group of girls and, almost immediately, the conversation would become awkward, leaving him to give me a bollocking for just standing there with a stupid grin on my face. No, I definitely didn’t ‘know how these things happen,’ as Martin had put it.

  “Okay, Martin, as I said, none of my business. But please make sure you’re careful. You need to have a cover story prepared to explain your tattoos.”

  “Yeah, okay. You don’t need to worry,” he replied and grinned.

  “Hmmm,” I replied, not convinced Martin was taking this seriously.

  I pulled open the kitchen door and glanced back at him. “How old did you say she was?”

  “Who, Mandy? Nineteen, I think she said.”

  “Jesus, Martin, she’s a child! You’re twelve years older than her!”

  “You’re twelve years older than Jenny, so I’d keep your gob shut, mate!”

  “But—”

  “See you tomorrow, Jason. Oh, and knock before entering next time. You never know who I might have for company,” he smirked and shovelled me out of my own rental property, leaving my nose inches from the back door. A position relative to a door which Miss Colman was quite used to, I thought.

  28

  28th January 1977

  Buzz Lightyear

  I arrived at school early on Friday morning. My old Cortina was already parked up, so Martin also appeared to have made an early start and hadn’t been worn out by his exertions the night before. Now I had the Acting Head role I’d taken over running most morning assemblies; a responsibility which Roy was happy to relinquish. I mixed the process up, moving it away from a Christian focused assembly, thus saving the pain of hearing the students’ poor rendition of a hymn. This also avoided having to wince through listening to old Bummer’s dreadful performance on the school piano. His recitals often sounded like a sketch from a Les Dawson show, as he randomly banged out the wrong note, although by mistake, and there was nothing remotely amusing about his performance.

  I’d encouraged the Sixth Form students to participate. This supported their development in their ability to perform public speaking. Also, I persuaded the various after-school clubs to complete presentations. I’d borrowed my ideas from Mr Elkinson, my Headmaster from ten years in the future, now realising he was quite progressive. Although I could still remember the Deputy Head, Jones, AKA Hermann Göring, occasionally running assembly, which was how I imagined a roll call would have been in a Nazi death camp. I recall praying he wouldn’t make eye contact which could lead to being singled out to perform some terrifying act such as reading aloud from the Bible – an act I remember, oh so well, that I was particularly disastrous at.

  The students clearly preferred my assemblies to Roy’s dreary affairs. I would always round off with a joke, and I’d developed a cult following from the senior year who all held up apples of different varieties as a mark of homage to my new invigorating assemblies.

  These morning events were fast becoming one of my favourite parts of the day. I recalled how my disengaged team reacted to me at Waddington Steel when I held sales meetings with them, most of whom stared out of the window or scrolled through their phones. Comparing those painful affairs to these informative and engaging assemblies proved to me I’d made a significant change for the better. It provided me with a real sense of value, knowing my students enjoyed what I offered.

  I was straight in to class this morning with a senior year physics lesson. This was my least favourite subject, but I was competent enough to deliver the required syllabus. The class worked through an exercise on the Electromagnetic Spectrum, specifically the properties of electromagnetic waves and their ability to penetrate anything. Based on what I’d witnessed last night, I expected Martin would be exceptionally competent at this subject.

  Whilst I prowled around the room, peering over students’ shoulders to assess their progress or be ready to offer support, I had a shock. I peeked over Sarah Moore’s shoulder, fully expecting to see she’d grasped the subject with ease as she was one of my most capable students. However, I didn’t see what I expected.

  On the cover of her textbook, which was covered in a baby blue wallpaper – something that most students seemed to do – she had drawn a perfect heart shape, with an arrow threw the middle. Her name was penned underneath the arrow, and Martin’s name above. The heart had been neatly coloured in red, apart from the top corner, where she’d drawn Martin’s face. Sarah was an A-grade student in all subjects, including PE, and she’d represented the school at cross-country running last year. But by far her best subject, where she truly excelled, was Art. Her drawing of the ‘handyman’ on her book was the closest likeness to Martin I’d ever seen, almost a perfect portrait. It appeared Sarah Moore had a crush on her thirty-one-year-old son.

  Oh, bollocks.

  Sarah noticed I’d been hovering behind her longer than usual. She nudged another textbook over the picture, thus covering up the heart drawing. Clare Keelan, who sat to Sarah’s left, started to giggle, and I noticed that one of her textbooks had a similar drawing. Clare’s artwork wasn’t to the same standard as Sarah’s, although it was clear to see it was a drawing of Martin with her name in the heart. Oh, bollocks again. I’d introduced a male pin-up to the school in the form of Martin Bretton.

  There were another five months before Clive would return to school. I needed his recovery to be swifter as the longer Martin was here, the increased probability of a difficult situation would arise with his mother. Somehow, I needed to make Martin invisible. I thought perhaps I could change his working hours, so he could perform his duties in the evenings and weekends. The more time he wasn’t parading himself in front of some young impressionable young ladies, the better.

  This new revelation and concerning turn of events required immediate action. I felt an urgent need to order an emergency committee meeting of all four members of the time-travellers-believer-club to discuss a strategy for the next few months.

  During lunchtime, sunk into my favourite armchair in the staff room, the situation escalated whil
st I enjoyed a coffee and cigarette. Jayne was recalling a humorous event from an early morning chemistry lesson that involved a Bunsen burner, an orange rubber hose, and the third-year student, Matthew Porter’s backside – enough said. I was musing myself listening to her funny tale whilst gazing out of the staff room window. The outlook conveniently provided a clear view of the central courtyard where students would be milling about, playing games or just sitting eating their pack lunches on the wooden benches.

  On warmer days, the courtyard would usually be packed with students and could put to the test the marshalling skills from those unfortunate teachers who had the dubious task of monitoring lunchtime events. Most students stayed in the school dining rooms at this time of year, but there were always a few brave souls who ventured out. Sadly, you would always be able to spot the loners or misfits who sat by themselves regardless of how poor the weather was, just so they could avoid all other students and the teasing or bullying that came with the territory.

  In my early years as a pupil here, I could undoubtedly resonate with those students. Even when the weather was shite, I could be found sitting on those benches on my own, or sometimes with Beth.

  Jayne rattled on with her story and then moved onto a different subject as I drifted off thinking about Beth and our conversations whilst sitting on those benches, shivering in the cold but determined not to go back into the main hall. I guess I had Beth to thank for my growing confidence in the latter years at school. The toughness she developed from living in Lexton house, she managed to install in me, thus dragging me from the pit of wallow after losing my parents. School break times were a form of natural selection. The strong survived, and the weak shrunk to the dark corners to hide.

  “Jason … Jason, did you hear me?” Jayne asked, as she leant forward and tapped my knee.

  I jumped, which caused a large blob of ash to drop onto my regulation leather-patched-elbow jacket. “Sorry, Jayne, I was miles away. What were you saying?”

  She shifted forward in her seat, adjusting her skirt hem over her knees with one hand whilst pointing out the window with the other. She waved her long brown More cigarette, which she expertly held between her fore and index fingers. “I was just saying that you didn't say how you knew Martin. He does seem to attract a lot of female attention,” she said, as I followed to where her finger was pointing.

  “He’s an old frie—nd,” I slowly replied, as I looked to where Martin was leaning up against one of the wooden benches. Five senior girls were swarmed around him. He appeared to be telling a story with great animation as his hands shot in all directions and the girls hung on his every word. They were giggling, playing with their hair and gazing at him as if he was some Greek Adonis. Concerningly, one of the five was his mother.

  “Jason … Jason, are you alright?” Jayne asked, as she turned her head to look at me. I was transfixed on the view of Martin and his femmes’ fatale.

  “Yes, sorry, Jayne. I used to work with him some years ago. He’s a reliable chap,” I replied without looking at her.

  “Oh, okay. As I said, he does seem to have the senior girls’ undivided attention. And to be quite frank, I find him a little odd. I don’t think it’s right he attracts the attention of those girls.”

  “No … I agree.”

  “You’re sure he’s okay and not one of those pervert men?”

  “Ha, no. He’s no Jimmy Savile.”

  “Oh, I don’t know what you mean. We like Jimmy Savile and always watch ‘Jim’ll Fix it’ on a Saturday night.

  I turned to face her, momentarily taking my eyes off Martin. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “You’re away with the fairies today. I said I don’t know what you mean about Jimmy Savile.”

  “Oh … err … nothing.” Stubbing out my cigarette and keen to distance myself from this conversation about Mr Savile, I sprang out of my chair and headed outside to break up Martin’s love-nest.

  “Very odd,” I heard Jayne reply, but I was already halfway across the staff room.

  Whizzing along the corridors, skilfully negotiating the chicanes of students who were milling about, I quickly made it to the foyer and the stone steps which led down to the central courtyard. As I hopped down the steps, the five girls were all walking back to the main entrance. Glancing up to the bench where Martin had been holding court, he’d disappeared and the girls were excitingly chatting as they passed me.

  “Ohhhhh God, he’s gorgeous. He looks just like Woody!” blurted Sarah, as she clutched her hands to her chest.

  I presumed she meant Woody from the Bay City Rollers, not the cowboy doll from one of the twentieth century’s greatest animated films. The girls were oblivious to my existence as I stood on the bottom stone stair, with my mouth gaping open and gormlessly staring at nothing. In fact, if you stuck a cowboy hat on my head, I think I had that shocked appearance which Woody donned when Buzz Lightyear first arrived.

  This was a ‘Back to the Future’ dilemma. Marty had this very same problem and solved it by ensuring his teenage mother fell for his teenage father at the school dance. I didn’t have the luxury of a Hollywood storyline, and Martin’s father was a rapist, so that wasn’t going to work. This was a serious problem, and I’d have to sort Martin out as he’d failed to follow my explicit instruction not to talk to his mother.

  29

  Frenchie

  My five mobile-phone-free months had, for the most part, felt like a release of the shackles of that tracking device that was permanently in your pocket. On balance, I definitely didn’t miss that all-consuming gadget that informed the world of your whereabouts at every precise moment, nor its magnetic ability to compulsively make you keep looking at it. However, after unsuccessfully searching the whole school and grounds for Martin, I wanted to scream and just pluck out my phone and ring him.

  After conducting my first lesson of the afternoon, I had some free time. Although Roy had a pile of jobs for me, I set about on my search for Martin and located him back in the school office chatting to Miss Colman.

  “Oh, Martin, thank you so much. I really do appreciate it as I know you must be so busy.” Miss Colman stood holding the small wooden step ladder as Martin expertly wielded his screw-driver, fixing a bracket to the top of the pigeon-hole unit.

  “No problem, Trish. I’ll have this all fixed up for you real soon, lol.”

  Miss Colman patted her hair-bun as she smoothed down any stray hairs which had escaped during her exertions of holding the step ladder whilst gazing up at Magnet-Martin. As Miss Colman turned, she saw me standing there and glanced away, coughed, and stared down at the floor. She was clearly highly embarrassed that I’d caught her swooning over Martin with the use of first names flowing freely between them.

  “Mr Bretton, when you’ve finished screwing Miss Colman, I need a word.” Martin turned and burst in to laughter. Miss Colman stood open-mouthed, so shocked she was struck dumb, which was a rare occurrence.

  “Oh bollocks, sorry you know what I mean … when you’ve finished putting that screw in Miss Colman … for Miss Colman … or whatever you're doing.” I waved my arms about, trying to play down what I’d said and desperately trying not to look embarrassed. Miss Colman was frozen in time as if she’d been turned to stone by Medusa.

  Martin grinned, and I could see he was enjoying the spectacle of my embarrassment. He hopped off the ladder and tapped Miss Colman on the arm as if to break the Medusa spell. “Trish, don’t worry. Jason can be a bit of a dick sometimes.” He turned to face me and grinned again.

  I now seemed to have been struck by Medusa, as I was stunned at what Martin had said. My fear Martin wouldn’t fit into the school life of the late ’70s was becoming very real. I accept it’s not easy fitting into an era forty years in the past, but Martin seemed to make no effort or think about his words or actions.

  Roy broke the spell as he opened his office door. His head popped out as he leant against the door frame. “Mr Apsley, do you have a moment?”

 
; With that stern flustered look across his face, I knew it meant further problems were about to heap upon me.

  “Mr Bretton, don’t go anywhere. I need to talk to you,” I said, as I entered Roy’s office, without looking at either Martin or Miss Colman. Closing the door, I stood whilst Roy stared out of the window with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Jason, this Martin chap. Did you sell him your Cortina?”

  “Err, yes, sort of. Well, yes, that was my old car.”

  “Yes, I thought so,” he replied, without turning around.

  “Is there a problem, Roy?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But there’s a chap sitting on the bonnet of Martin’s car, and I don’t know why he’s on school grounds.”

  I marched over to join Roy at the window.

  “He looks familiar, but I can't place him,” he added, as I peered out to see who he was looking at.

  Half perched on the bright yellow Cortina’s offside front wing and facing the opposite direction was a chap wearing a brown leather jacket. We both just stared for a few seconds, neither of us adding to the conversation.

  “D’you think he’s one of Martin’s friends? I think you better have a word with Martin. Remind him that school property is private grounds, and he needs to ensure any acquaintances wait outside the school gates for him.” Roy turned to face me, arching his eyebrow that changed what he’d said from a statement to a question.

  “Yes, of course, Roy.” I was now confused as I believed Martin had no friends. Well, maybe Mandy, whom I’d the pleasure of meeting last night. But this person sitting astride Martin’s car was not female and had clothes on, so it couldn’t be her. I was about to turn around when the man sitting on the car wing turned and faced the school entrance as he checked his watch. A cold shiver sprinted down my spine as I was transfixed to the spot. Medusa had got me again.