You don’t know wit tae believe, do you? You hear all sorts. Big Liam knows a guy whose brother knows a guy who works doon at the polis station. Anyway, who knows? All you hear is one story after another. All ay them as mince as the nixt. A’m no speaking ill ay anyone, but it wiz just a matter ay time.
Rosie’s the one a feel sorry fir. Heart sorry fir the lassy. She didnay deserve that.
Mr Cunningham’s Boxed Up Version of Passion
Maybe, just maybe, Rosie Farrell’s subterfuge to regain the affections of her boyfriend went askew and the subsequent consequences of this led to these appalling events. A crime of passion you could say. Who knows what goes through the mind of a teenager scorned? God knows I don’t and I have been teaching for a many number of years. We are still learning new things from week to week in this job. It would be prudent for Pauline Croal to remember this fact. At the end of the day, however, what this is is a damn shame and nothing more. It’s something that could have quite easily leapt from the pages of a Shakespearean tragedy.
Of course, our school has organised counselling sessions for both our staff and pupils. Collectively we have to move on and learn the lessons of the event.
Rosie Farrell Gets Something off Her Chest
No, I didn’t go. There was no way I was going to that class. I knew that I’d pass my exams. I didn’t need to work with a group of nerds talking about poems and Shakespeare and all that crap. It wasn’t as if I was going to study English when I left school…I wanted to go to art college or study design or architecture or something like that. I don’t know really. But I knew I wasn’t going to spend my time at uni or college reading these pure mad thick books though.
It was nothing to do with the fact that Miss Croal was taking the study group. I had no real opinion about her. She just got to me. You know, rubbed me up the wrong way.
There was one time I went to school dead early. The janny had to open the doors for me. That’s how early it was. I wanted to make a start on my art project. So I’m standing there looking at the Miró calendar that I’ve brought in with me in order to draw out the inspiration I need. All that arty farty cack. Reflection, emotional memory and all that tosh. I bought the Miró calendar a few weeks ago in an art shop in town, at first I was going to give it to Clem as a wee ‘welcome to Glasgow’ present but I just kept it for myself. He could stick to his bands. It would have been inappropriate to give him a calendar of a Spanish artist as a welcome to Glasgow anyway. And there was no way I was giving him a Jack Vettriano. He’s dire.
So I’m standing there like a lemon in the middle of this big empty art room waiting for the god of art to come and scud me full force on the face. There wasn’t a soul about. Not a sound could be heard. Then I heard something in the yard. A click clicking sound. I look out of the window and see Miss Croal making her way through the yard wearing these heels. Not exactly stilettos but high enough to make an echo. I remember thinking, ‘she’s keen.’ And then thinking how she’s dressed like a slapper for school. If that’s what she’s jumping into on a Tuesday morning, I wouldn’t like to see her on the weekend. Who’s she out to impress? I didn’t give it another thought until I hear the same click clicking sound walking up the long corridor outside the art rooms. She had to walk that way to get to the English base. And then, all of a sudden, the clicking slows to long pauses between steps. Close to where I was. My mind was full of garbage art ideas: leeks for hair, broccoli noses, zucchini fingers and other rubbish plans when the sound stops. Just like that. As if dead.
Then I hear voices. Voices that are trying to be quiet so that people won’t detect anything or eavesdrop. Am like, ‘who the fuck is that?’ to myself. So curiosity killed the cat, and all that, and I try and sneak a peek. And, honestly, no word of a lie it’s Clem and Croal. Sharing idle chitchat? Just talking? No way Jose. She had her hand on his face. On his face! As if caressing him. The slut! The bastards! Then she moved closer to him and I swear I thought she was going to plank the lips full on him. I really did. I was clocking all this from a wee hole in the poster that covered the glass part of the door. I was ready to rip the door down and make a beeline for the pair of them. Kicking and screaming. My blood was boiling. I was ready to rip that door down and rip the head off the both of them. He keeps turning around to see if anyone’s looking. And I’m like ‘ya fuckin prick’ behind the door. Whispering it through gritted teeth. My breathing got heavier and I felt the sweat starting to form on my dome.
She looked worried as if they’d had a row or something and then she made a move on his face again.
Same hand.
Same part of the face.
This was a dangerous game they were playing.
In the corridor during school time!
I could have had the slag’s job on a plate.
I held it in the palm of my hand.
Her career.
Her life.
I could have made some serious dosh with the papers. The Sun would print any old crap, made up or not. Thinking back it’s mad to think that I had the power. One click with the moby and her tea was out. Goodnight Vienna. And so was his. No more Brighton. No more dreams of beaches. What a pair of bastards. Did they not think anyone would have found out? What a pair of complete eejits. Maybe the NEDs had the right idea after all. Then the touching stopped and they moved on, in separate directions. I think they heard something, or someone, coming. Probably Clem in his pants.
Put it this way he was no Olympic champion in that department. I could have strangled him. I was pure hyperventilating behind the door. I wanted to scream out loud. Just let it all out. I hated Croal. I fucking hated her fucking guts. Her and her figure and her brains and her eyes and her lips. I hated everything about her. I wanted to kick the life out of the art room, boot all the easels around. Smash up all the work in the class. Pull it down off the walls. Students’ work over the years. All the good stuff. Launched out of the window. That was him finished. But I had to compose myself. I took it in through the nose and out through the mouth. I stuck the Yeah YeahYeahs on the CD player and blasted it. Loud. Then it suddenly came to me. The inspiration for my art project. I’d do portraits of sluts, slappers and slags. An abstract representation of course. Thanks, Miss Croal.
When the break came I couldn’t find him. I looked everywhere. Asked around. I even wandered up to that bitch Croal’s class to see if their wee rendezvous was continuing. I went out to the smokers knowing full well that he wouldn’t be out there. I hated him for making me worried.
But I can rationalise it now. In that moment, in that art room, I hated Croal. Hated her with everything I had. But I kept it to myself. That’s why it’s bonkers when everyone says I always hated her! Why does everyone say that? That’s what confuses me. They know zilch. Just because I didn’t get a movement in my pants when she spoke to me, like most of the guys, or wish to be like her, like most of the girls, doesn’t mean I hated her. She was full of herself. And she was a flirt, I don’t care what anyone says, she was. She would do that thing where she would pure stare at guys for ages when she asked them a question without blinking, it gave me and Cora the heebies. It was like she was trying to seduce them with her eyes. Then she’d come in with these really tight tops on to show off her boobs. It was pure sad as anything.
So what if Clem liked her? He’s allowed to like teachers, we’re allowed to disagree on certain things. Not that we did disagree on it. We didn’t disagree on much. He liked her but he didn’t grovel over her like all the other guys. That time in the corridor she was touching his face, his eye. It was all bruised. Looked like he’d been shoved in a washing machine on full spin. She was concerned. That’s what I clung onto. The two of them went on all the time about books and writers and all these poets that I’d never even heard of. English was his favourite subject after all. He told her he wanted to write books when he was older. I think she was impressed by that…I think she was impressed by Clem in any case. Probably stuck her boobs in the air to show it too. I
’d no interest in that stuff; I got bored writing a two-page essay. If you told Mr Cunningham that you wanted to write books he’d probably laugh at you, I suppose she was good in that respect. Look, it’s not as if we spent our whole time talking about Miss Croal or anything. We’d better things to talk about you know.
End Of Part One
Part Two - What Clem Said
Moving
When your mother says, ‘look at the state of those sheets’, she doesn’t really mean that your bed sheets are dirty and thus require a high temperature wash (well she does in a roundabout way) but rather, bed is no place for masturbating and the bed sheets are definitely no place to clean the testicular muck.
I didn’t have the talk about puberty, onanism, hormones, lust, etc. Even love for that matter. Instead I was left to fend for myself. Set adrift in an otherwise hedonistic landscape, floating and bobbing away through one experience after another. Good and bad. I made a multitude of mistakes along the way: kissing like a washing machine on speed, groping around the upper torsos of many females with wild abandon (to the onlooker, or purist, they would have sworn in a court of law that an actual sexual assault had been taking place) and placing hands, and fingers, in places so unfamiliar that it was as uncomfortable for me as it was for the recipient. Blame it on my naivety. Or my parents.
Although being at the tender age of sixteen, I have a superfluity of future mistakes to make in this area. More than anything now I hope so. Superfluity is my new word. In fact, it’s the first time I have used it in context. Not sure if I have used it properly. I’ll give myself the benefit of the doubt. And where was this little gem of a word introduced to me? Mr Goldsmith’s English class. Where else?
‘I’ve finished that book you gave us, Sir.’
‘All of it?’
‘Well, I got to the last page.’
‘In that case I’d suggest choosing another.’
‘I’ve actually had a look and they are not that great.’
‘Really, Mr Curran?’
‘Afraid so, Sir.’
‘Oh nonsense, I’m sure we have a superfluity of books that would suit both your taste and appetite.’
And that’s how the word superfluity was born and introduced into my vocabulary. I’d like to do Mr Goldsmith justice. He’d be proud of me. What has all this got to do with anything? Nothing in particular. I am trying to hold on to memories. The issue with the sheets happened on that morning I was informed of our trip to Scotland.
Scotland!
To be precise: ‘Glasgow.’
Glasgow!
Even though mum already knew about it she looked as shocked as I was. In fact I was the one who was shocked, she was only stunned. I’d snap out of it. I had the distinct feeling that she’d take much longer to leave her stunned state. I was still coming to terms with the embarrassment of the sheets incident, hoping that nothing more would be said about it. I was dreading the imminent scene when walking home from school that night. I had played it over and over in my head and could foresee a painful conversation between father and son. Me nodding feebly at his feeble efforts of analogy. A feeble fusion. That was all I needed. Now it seemed something was pushing this fear into a wilderness of insignificance, which I was eternally grateful about. Actually grateful no; delighted, yes. I wiped the sweat from my brow and let out a loud phew! All in my head of course, I wouldn’t be so explicit. And then the implications hit home.
Glasgow? Why Glasgow? Of all the places we could have gone to, which I’m led to believe were none, why on this earth would someone choose to go to Glasgow? It’s not that I have anything against the Scots, or Glaswegians, as a people or a nation, it’s just, well, Eastbourne is so much not Glasgow. On the surface, they seem like the complete antithesis of each other. To someone, that is, who has no perception. That’s before you even consider the clichés. What would I do in Glasgow? What would we do in Glasgow? Why the hell are we going to Glasgow? What the hell is there for people like us in Glasgow? Won’t we be hounded out of the place? Again never said, all in the head.
‘It’s work, Clem,’ dad said.
‘It’s your father’s work, Clem,’ mother reiterated.
‘But you have a job here,’ silence. ‘Don’t you have a job here?’ Prickly silence, almost embarrassingly so. ‘Do you have a job here or not?’
‘I do, but the company is downsizing.’
‘So you don’t have a job?’ I said.
‘It’s a sign of the times, Clem. The economic situation,’ mum said, in his defence. Suddenly it all became apparent: it was me against them. And why does everyone blame their own shit on the ‘economic situation’? Why can’t people take responsibility for their own actions? I didn’t ask to be born in to this blah blah blah…immature brat thing…blah blah blah.
‘I do have a job, it’s just not the same job I had here.’
‘So you’ve been demoted,’ I said.
‘Oh, please don’t use that word, Clem. Your father has found a different position in a difficult job market that’s all. We should be happy for him.’
‘Difficult job market?’ Christ, is this the level my unfulfilled housewife mother is functioning at? She’ll be quoting the Dow Jones and Keynesian recovery practices next. I was still in shock, I guess. The word Glasgow buzzing around my head.
‘We should be happy for him?’ Oh, I’m ecstatic.
‘Look Clem, it’s the company offering me a similar position to the one I had here. They’re closing down their operation in Eastbourne, but not in Glasgow.’
‘So we have no choice?’ I said.
‘We have no other choice, I’m afraid,’ dad said.
‘Have you looked?’ I said.
‘Of course your father has looked,’ mother said. ‘What do you think we are, impulsive?’
‘Heaven forbid,’ I said.
‘We have no option,’ dad said.
‘So it’s settled?’ I said.
‘It’s settled,’ dad said.
‘We have no choice,’ mum said.
‘When?’ I said.
‘Next weekend,’ mum said.
‘Next weekend?’ I said.
‘Next weekend,’ dad said.
‘What about school?’ I said.
‘We have found a super school in Glasgow,’ dad said.
‘Does such a thing exist?’ I said.
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Clem,’ mum said.
‘So we leave our sense of humour here as well? Can I at least pack mine?’ I said.
‘Clem this is difficult for everyone concerned, let’s make it more bearable than it already is,’ dad said.
‘Can I not finish off the last year here?’ I said.
‘No,’ dad said.
‘Out of the question,’ mum said. ‘The market is forcing us. It simply wouldn’t allow it.’
There she goes again.
‘Next weekend?’ I said.
‘Next weekend,’ dad said.
‘It’ll be fine Clem, we’ll settle in quickly up there, you wait and see,’ mum said. ‘I hear the people are really friendly.’
‘Yeah, I hear that they have the highest rate in knife crime in Europe,’ I said.
‘Let’s think positively,’ dad said.
‘Exactly,’ mum said. ‘And who knows maybe the banks will get their act together quicker than we imagine.’
‘Yeah, fingers crossed, eh?’ I said, raising both hands and crossing my fingers. It didn’t end there, but it’s so tedious and unimportant that this point is the best place to cut it off. After boring me to near mental meltdown I reeled off to my room to begin the packing process. At least my sheets were fresh.
So that was it. That’s how unpredictable life can be as a teenager. Nevertheless, I was thankful of a few things, first, I was thankful that the sheet incident was dead and buried. The message had been received loud and clear. I swore never to allow myself to be open to such humiliating criticism again. Always use the bathroom for these kinds of activitie
s, unless, that is, you live alone, there is mutual consent or you can be sure that no one will go near your bed in order to change the bedding, like a flatmate etc. Second, I was glad I wasn’t leaving a girlfriend back in Eastbourne; the emotional baggage would have been too much to bear. I wouldn’t have wanted to cart it around Glasgow with me. I was happy there was nobody special in my life. Third, I needed a change of scenery, Eastbourne was destroying my desire and I needed to get out of there. This was the perfect opportunity. Oh I had to still play up to the tempestuous teenager tag, it’s an adolescent duty. They’ll sleep with their guilt and I’ll be the beneficiary.
Strangely enough I was delighted by my father’s inadequacies in the job market. He had had a variety of jobs in my time of understanding what working and employment actually meant. All his jobs were in and around the south coast so it didn’t seem like the world had shifted when he ‘moved on’. I always thought he did something special and important because he wore a shirt and tie. I suspect he did, too. How wrong I was. There’s no escaping the fact that throughout his working life he’d been a floater, a human frog hopping from one shit job to another. This time however he had outdone himself. That’s not to suggest that I wasn’t sensitive to his and mum’s plight, I was, but in equal measure I was sensitive to the fact that I didn’t want to portray the little prick of teenage impertinence for too long either. On the contrary, I was happy to view Glasgow as an experiment. Bring it on! Given that the life expectancy of the UK male is seventy-seven I had another sixty-one years of living to look forward to. Notwithstanding luck with accidents. One year spent in Glasgow wasn’t going to crush my plans for world domination.
I called my dad Willy Loman. Not to his face. I said it in my head. Just me and my head. As soon as we read ten pages of Death of a Salesman and Mr Goldsmith began to talk about the protagonist, all I could think of was dad dressed in Willy’s clothes, saying his lines and eating his food. In a flash it all became apparent, dad was the embodiment of Willy Loman, in soul and spirit. Chasing something that was unattainable. The poor bastard. Selling factory to factory, shop to shop, door to door, man to man, day to day, year to year is enough to break the strongest of men. My dad, like Willy, was broken. At least Willy had the gumption to have himself an affair, get some fun along the way before his downfall. Dad, on the other hand, was weak willed, let people walk all over him, allowed himself to be given orders, to be undermined and humiliated by recent sharp-suited graduates with no sense of anything other than themselves. I fucking hated those graduates. But what a state to get into nevertheless; the poor, pathetic bastard. If ever there was a motivation to learn from your parents’ mistakes... One thing for sure, none of those graduates were breaking their balls selling for their feed, no, they were too busy sucking the devil’s cock in order to fatten their wallets. None of those graduates were half the man my dad was. None of those graduates were going to Glasgow.
Boy Who Made It Rain Page 7
