by George Friel
‘I mean his age.’
‘Who’s talking about his age? All I said was I feel sorry for him. All that stinky stuff in the papers. The poor man always gets the low boy’s classes.’
‘You mean the boys’ low classes.’
‘No, I don’t. I mean the low boys’ classes.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. He taught me once.’
‘He taught you? You never told me that. You been hiding your murky past from me?’
They liked to mention their past as if they had one and make little confessions about it that they never made to anyone else.
‘In third year. Before they started the comprehensive.’
‘Did you like him?’
‘He was all right. A bit sarcastic maybe.’
‘I can’t stand sarcastic teachers.’
‘I don’t mean he was all that sarcastic. Just sometimes.’
‘Tell me anybody that’s sarcastic all the time.’
‘Don’t nag.’
‘I’m not nagging. I was only asking a question. That’s not nagging.’
‘The way you do it it is. And it wasn’t a question. It was an order. You said, tell me!’
‘Who’s nagging now?’
‘Not me. It was you. I was only trying to tell you about Alfy.’
‘Well, go on. Tell me.’
‘He was quite amusing at times when I had him. But half the things he said were quotations. We didn’t know.
At least I didn’t know. Not till later on. He could be very cutting. Then I found out it was Shakespeare or Pope or somebody. How were we to know? In third year. I ask you.’
‘Casting his pearls before swine.’
He heard it as ‘perils’ and counted. Three was enough.
He was in no danger of trying to improve her. It was she as she was detained him.
‘Put it that way if you like. But what’s the point of quoting Shakespeare when nobody knows you’re quoting Shakespeare? That’s teachers of course. Of course some of them say, as Shakespeare said, or in the words of Pope.
But Alfy never. He was wasting his time showing off to us he knew his Shakespeare.’
‘Maybe he wasn’t showing off. Maybe it came natural to him.’
‘Shakespeare come natural? You’re joking of course.’
They were happy blethering and arguing, happiest then perhaps. Certainly happier than they were later when they expected to scale the heights or plumb the depths or learn the meaning of it all. But even then they had their troubles. When they gave up Ianello’s they tried other cafes near and not so near the school. None suited. They were either too small or too big, too cheap or too dear, either a pokey wee ice-cream shop for juveniles or an adult coffee-lounge where men twice their age smoked cigars. They were beaten. Graeme offered her an answer. Instead of meeting for twenty minutes on the way home from school Monday to Friday, meet one night a week for two or three hours. A return to what they did before the ban fell. Avoid suspicion by keeping it strictly to just once a week and varying the night.
‘It’s not the same,’ said Martha.
‘We’d gain on it,’ he said. ‘Arithmetically.’
‘It’s not a question of arithmetic. I’d rather see you every day, even if it’s only a few minutes.’
‘But this way’s no good. By the time we’ve said hello it’s time to say goodbye.’
‘Don’t exaggerate,’ she laughed at him.
‘By the time we find a place where we can talk, I mean,’ he said.
He was getting a bit sulky with her.
And he didn’t mean talk though he thought he did. The ambitions of a young male growing in him. The withheld nearness of her unknown body was having its effect on his blood. A demon in his ear told him he would get nowhere talking to her in a cafe or at the bus-stop. A meeting at night would let him find the place and opportunity to go further. He could use the car again. And when he found the place he would find the time. The time to seduce her. Or seduce himself. The demon left it all very vague.
Yet his imagination remained chaste. He wanted to be longer with her, closer to her. That was all. To know more. He began to have a documentary interest in the privacies of her life. He was curious about her underwear. He wanted to know what lipstick and powder she used, what earlier loves she had and how much she knew about making love. He wondered when her periods were and how much pain she suffered then. He wanted to know if she slept alone or shared a bed with a sister. He wanted to see her half-undressed for bed. He hadn’t got as far as thinking of her without her clothes on. But his hands longed to learn the precise mould and strength of her flanks, her thighs and breasts.
Past that point his uninformed thoughts faltered. What he could see kept them busy enough. The sheen of her blonde hair made him want to stroke it. But he couldn’t do that in a public place. Her pale hand, small-palmed and long-fingered, seemed mysteriously different from his own. He wanted to take it and make it as familiar as the square fist that was a congenital part of himself. But he knew she would be annoyed if he held her hand in public. When she laughed, and she was much given to laughing, the good teeth behind her unkissed lips made him long to be taken behind them, to enter into her. But it was a yearning for a penetration beyond physical space. So with her complexion. She was so blonde her pure skin gave him the illusion of seeing a transparency more spiritual than epidermal. There too she tempted him to dreams of passing through an insubstantial curtain and dissolving himself within her. Her nylon knees, uncovered by a schoolgirl’s skirt, whispered to his unlearned hand. For a time the height of his ambition was to fondle them. But he couldn’t do that either in a public place. He was tired of seeing her in public places.
‘I’m not keen on it,’ she was saying. ‘It would mean more deceit. I hate telling lies to my mum and dad. And once you start.’
‘It would be better than this.’
‘It’s like saying a square meal once a week is better than a sandwich every day. I don’t know that’s true.’
‘If you’re going to be crude about it,’ he huffed. ‘Talking about food!’
They were trying yet another cafe for the first time. A pop hit from the juke box rocked the walls. They winced together.
‘If music be the food of love,’ said Martha.
He wasn’t amused. He was in a bad mood.
‘Oh, don’t start quoting Shakespeare at me,’ he said. ‘You’re as bad as big Alfy. Maybe you’d rather go out with him. Hold his hand and stroke his fevered brow if you feel all that sorry for him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, little boy,’ she said.
‘I’m taller than you,’ he said.
But he won in the end. She gave in. They began to meet once a week, a different night every time. Since they were both fond of their parents they felt guilty.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gerald went back to school in triumph. Once her grievance was off the front page Mrs Provan took it to her local councillor, who brought it before the education committee, whose members decided the suspension was invalid. The headmaster’s writ didn’t run in the Weavers Lane after four o’clock.
‘It’s the last time I’ll—’ said Mr Briggs.
‘Why bother about the little bastards?’ asked Mr Campbell.
‘Let’s face it,’ said Mr Dale. ‘You can’t win.’
‘Alfy mucked that one up,’ said Mr Brown. ‘He should never have—’
‘Not after hours,’ said Mr Campbell. ‘Once it’s after four, well—’
‘They can commit murder and mayhem,’ said Mr Briggs.
‘You don’t get much thanks, do you?’ said Miss Ancill.
‘One minute after the bell, one inch across that gate, and as far as I’m concerned they can,’ said Mr Briggs.
‘I’d suspend him,’ said Mr Dale. ‘From the bloody rafters.’
‘Surely any grownup has a right to stop boys fighting anywhere,’ said Miss Ancill.
‘The position is,’ said Mr Kerr, ‘you h
ave the authority to stop fights only at the time and place when fights don’t occur, during school hours inside the school. At the time and place where fights do occur, after four o’clock outside the school, you have no authority.’
‘Sod them all,’ said Mr Dale.
Mr Alfred sipped his tea in the staffroom, stuck in a corner silent by himself at morning-break. He felt the world was like a crowded bus speeding past the stop. It had left him behind. The daily frustrations of public transport analogised his fate. He didn’t get on. Even if the bus did stop and some of the queue was allowed on board he was the one that was put off. He was always the extra passenger the conductor wouldn’t take. He was without a home, wife or child, without father, mother, sister, brother or wellwisher. He hadn’t even a car. He was unnecessary in the world, superfluous, supernumerary, not wanted. Nobody would miss him. He was an exile in his native land. Not that he had any love for his native land. He rated it as a cipher, of no value until a figure was put before it. But it had no figures. It existed only as terra incognita to the north of England. Hence formerly known simply as N.B. Note well. A footnote. Whereas England was where they spoke the language he taught, the language he once thought he knew. But he had been refused an immigrant’s visa there many years ago when nine publishers rejected his thirty-two poems. They had condemned him to stay where he was and go on waiting at the bus-stop till a hearse came along. He had silence and exile, but no cunning.
He had long forgiven the uninterested publishers. Maybe they were right not to want his poems. After all, they were the only arbiters he respected. The praise of a friend, if friend he ever had, would prove nothing. And now he didn’t know what to do. He was too old to earn a living anywhere else. He knew it was possible there was a vacancy for a scavenger in the cleansing department. But he was probably past the age limit. There was no job open to a middleaged man that would let him live in the manner to which he was accustomed. Besides the expenses of rent, food, clothing and transport, which everyone had to meet, he had additional necessities to budget for. He was a heavy smoker. He was a hardened drinker. And sometimes he bought paperbacks and even a book in hard covers. These indulgences were not to be gained on a scavenger’s wages.
He suffered an unwanted memory of the way Gerald ambled into the classroom that morning wearing new jeans and an old smirk. A spasm of undiluted hatred convulsed his guts and pained his sour face. His long lean body shuddered. He knew the emotion was unworthy of a cultured man like himself. But it was there. A glow of shame as well as hate warmed his forehead.
But Gerald and his friends were in high spirits. At the school dinner they chucked spuds across the room when the teacher on duty had his back to them. They skited peas on the floor at the server’s feet when she passed with a loaded tray against her big bosom. They poured salt ad lib on the sweets of the diners across the table. They rattled their cutlery with a cha-cha, cha-cha-cha accompaniment. Smudge and Poggy importuned the perambulating tea¬ cher.
‘Please sir he spat on ma dinner.’
‘Please sir A never. He done it on mines first.’
‘Please sir he’s telling lies. It was him.’
Accuser and counter-accuser waited to see what the teacher would do. He looked down on one and then the other, turned neutrally away, and went on perambulating.
They tried him again next time round.
‘Please sir he put salt on m’ice cream.’
‘Please sir he pinched mines.’
‘Please sir kin we have mair ice-cream?’
The teacher plodded silently on.
After four o’clock they went to Ianello’s for a celebration. Gerald ordered three cokes.
‘And three lucies,’ he added.
When Enrico served him he pretended he hadn’t any money, fumbled tediously in all his pockets. Enrico had to be patient. He had always to be patient with the boys from Collinsburn. Gerald put the money out at last in slow instalments of small change. He picked up the three loose cigarettes and handed them round. Fag in mouth, lifting their coke with a straw in the bottle, they all turned from the counter and surveyed the premises.
Gerald strolled to his favourite table, drawing his satellites round him. They were bigshots with a reservation in a posh restaurant sitting down to a drink before they called a waiter and ordered a meal. They talked loud and long. But they missed an audience.
‘Hey, Nello!’ Gerald shouted. ‘Is there nae dames come here noo?’
Enrico served a little girl with an iced lolly and ignored him.
‘Whaur’s Martha Weipers these days?’ Poggy bawled.
He scraped his foot on the floor like a restive stallion and lolled his tongue lasciviously.
‘Ach, her!’ said Smudge. ‘I bet she’s been screwed by yon toffee-nose.’
Enrico said nothing.
Gerald grinned.
Wilma and Jennifer came in, pushing each other on their way over the threshold. They giggled. They were chewing bubblegum, and a pink hemisphere was protruded and retracted irregularly from their lips. They joined the boys. Gerald was pleased. He welcomed Wilma and Poggy took care of Jennifer. Smudge entertained them with song and story. He was the court jester.
Enrico watched them. They could have been worse.
Apart from pocketing a couple of ashtrays, scratching their initials on the paintwork, and lifting a handful of tubular- packed sweets on their way out, they gave him no bother. Enrico saw them steal the sweets. But he knew it was his own fault for leaving the display-box so accessible. When they were crossing the door he called after them.
‘Tough guys, eh? Fly men! Don’t want you back here!’
Gerald stopped, turned round.
‘I saw you,’ said Enrico. ‘Next time I call the police. I warn you.’
Gerald raised his right hand, the palm in, and jerked two fingers forked at Enrico. Repeated the gesture, grinning.
He had only a month to go before he left school.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tired of living unloved unloving Mr Alfred fell in love. She was only a child, five feet one, seven stone two. But you can’t measure the depth of a man’s love by the height and weight of its object.
It happened when he was meditating hatred rather than love. For the first time in his life he was given a class of girls. Three periods a week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. The last forty minutes of morning school. He complained.
‘Somebody’s got to take them,’ said Mr Brown.
‘Why me?’ said Mr Alfred. ‘You’ve cut my free time.’
‘I’ve cut everybody’s free time,’ said Mr Brown.
‘There’s a shortage of staff. Or didn’t you know?’
‘Girls!’ said Mr Alfred. He was disgusted. A gloomy man glumly niggling. ‘What am I supposed to do with them?’
‘Poetry Monday,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Oral composition Wednesday. Debates, speech training, anything like that. Use the tape recorder. Spot of written work on Friday. Kind of diary of the week, say. Call it creative writing. Encourage them to say what they think. Self-expression. It’s only three periods. You can waffle your way through.’
‘Waffling’s more your line,’ said Mr Alfred. ‘Suppose they have nothing to express?’
‘Self-expression, I like that,’ said the eavesdropping Mr Dale. ‘Makes it sound good, eh? Dumb weans. Self-expression my arse.’
‘I’m paying you a compliment,’ said Mr Brown. ‘These are first year girls. I wouldn’t give them to a man at all if I could help it. They can be such little bitches. I certainly can’t give them to any of the younger men. I’m relying on you to keep them in order. Maybe even teach them some¬ thing. A man of your experience and may I say sobriety.’
‘I think your last word’s a bit—’ said Mr Alfred.
His head was high, his voice was cold. He saw an innuendo about his private life. He thought his aposiopesis more dignified than any word.
‘I mean in class,’ said Mr Brown. ‘You have what the Romans called gra
vitas. There’s no danger of you joking with them. I’ve always found it a mistake to make a joke with a class of girls. You lose them for good. It’s different with boys. You can make a joke with them and then all right – joke over! That’s it. But girls want to keep it up. They won’t stop giggling. The young men coming in now, flippant types, they’re no use with girls’ classes. But you have that special air about you. Like one of Shakespeare’s grave and reverend signiors.’
‘Butter,’ Mr Dale chanted.
‘Othello,’ said Mr Alfred.
Mr Brown was quite sincere. He was sure Mr Alfred was so humourless the girls would see no use trying to lead him on. There was plainly no fun to be had from him. He was such a sourpuss they would never think he was smashing or fab or terrific or out of this world or whatever their current word was for any male who excited their silly little minds. They would regard him as a dead loss, a square, a nutter, an oldie. They would settle down and perhaps do some work. If his guess was wrong he had nothing to lose. If a first year class of dim wenches were too slippery for Mr Alfred to control he could tell the headmaster the man had trouble with girls as well as boys. Then he could renew his plea to have him shifted.
The human need to find a silver lining through the dark clouds shining made Mr Alfred look for a ray of light on the Stygian session ahead of him. He tightened his jaws till his decadent molars ached the first morning he stood at his desk and watched this strange new class flood into his room. They were all a-giggle, untidy and sweating after forty minutes in the gym, waddling, mincing, slouching, shuffling, hen-toed, splay-footed, unkempt, unclean, black-nailed, piano-legged, pin-legged, long and short, round and square, fat and thin, bananas and pears, big- breasted and flat-chested, chimps and apes, weeds and flowers, a dazzling tide of miscellaneous mesdemoiselles, twelve to thirteen years of age. Some wore nylons, some wore socks, some wore white hose to the knees, some had long hair, some had short, some had their hair styled, some wore it as it grew, some had washed their face that morning, some it seemed hadn’t ever.
