‘Who are you calling a fucking Emu?
‘No, not an Emu. Emo, it means emotional, like the band’s songs. It has nothing to do with the birds.’ I was laughing. Her look of perplexity reminded me of Paris Hilton, not that she looked anything like Paris Hilton, thank God. It was just the sheepish way she reverted into herself that’s all, like a bimbo. I think she felt it too. Then, instead of doing the role-play, we had a conversation about music and school and students and teachers and just general nonsense.
‘You should check out The Smiths,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘You’ve never heard of The Smiths?
‘No.’
‘The Smiths will save your soul,’ I said.
‘Right, okay, John Peel, don’t rub it in, just tell me who they are,’ which I did. She told me that she would discover them that very night. Then the class ended. I was gutted.
I knew that the next day she would be eager to tell me that she had just listened to the best band in the world. And, if she hadn’t, if she thought they were completely shit, then I knew we were never meant to be. I had consigned myself to it. How could anyone think The Smiths were shit? It’s a good barometer with which to judge someone. The perfect barometer. Thinking The Smiths are shit tells me a lot about a person. Thinking they’re brilliant tells me more.
NEDs
When Rosie told me what it actually meant I thought it was absolutely hilarious. We had a comparable demographic in England yet the word Chav was nowhere near as inventive as the word NED. You have to applaud the clever use of the acronym. I mean Non-Educated Delinquent is brilliant in capturing everything about them. Classic. It was comical that some actually referred to the term NED to describe themselves. And how correct they were. One of them actually screamed down the corridor at me, ‘Don’t fuck with the NEDs.’ Middle fingers on full display. I didn’t believe their referencing the word was self-deprecation; they didn’t strike me as being that ironic. NEDs. The name tickled me.
I didn’t hate them. Hate wasn’t the word I’d use. I certainly disliked them, I even pitied them at one point, but hate would have been too powerful an emotion for me to express. I wouldn’t have given any of them the satisfaction of having my hate. I found them benign. More than anything else they annoyed me. That was on a good day when I could actually understand what the hell they were saying…oh, it was the usual thoughtless stuff; it didn’t extend beyond sexual preferences, religious bigotry, my clothes or what football team I supported. It was funny because it seemed to vex them more when I informed them that I didn’t like football. Apparently this is just not acceptable behaviour in Glasgow. Everyone has to be labelled, tarred or pigeon holed. I refused to be branded in such an infantile way. They categorised me regardless of my beliefs and preferences, however. My first experience of a lose-lose situation.
When all the slagging started I assumed it was because I was English, but I quickly learnt that it wasn’t. They viewed me as an easy target. A guy isolated in a big new school, in a big new city. Someone searching to find his way. I was a sitting duck to them. Easy pickings. Fodder.
I didn’t say anything in my defence as it was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that I’d be better off ignoring them. We did have a similar level of ignorance, prejudice and intolerance in England; Glasgow didn’t have a monopoly on brainless delinquency. I wasn’t much of a fighter, but I knew when and where to speak my mind, or to challenge sensibilities. I also wanted to maintain my dignity. What was the point in any case? Was I that special person who was going to ignite the flame of reason in their heads? Were we about to arrive at a common understanding through a succession of long-winded and exhaustive negotiations? No way. Be a man, walk away, takes the bigger and braver man, and all that jargon. Fundamentally I valued my own aesthetic too much to step over that line.
It started pretty much as soon as I arrived in the school, give or take a few days here or there. It wasn’t something I was used to in my last school. If anything problematic occurred it was settled rapidly through fisticuffs, or one swift fisticuff. That’s how I settled it in the past. An old teacher told me to belt the bully if he was becoming too tiresome. I did. We played rugby at my last school, so you could say there was an inherent level of aggression that permeated. And, in many ways, an honour to settling scores with fists. However, I didn’t think I would have taken on that advice here. That past, that experience, seemed like a lifetime ago.
I was thankful that Rosie was around. Not that I used her because I was getting a hard time. She was my girlfriend and we were together. Hard time or not, we would have still been together. Another thing to remember: I wasn’t singled out. They harangued the life out of most folk. At a rough guess there were about ten of them. Sometimes there would be just a handful. They were always in numbers and always a threat. I kept saying to myself, a year up here, tops. I had a thick skin and was very determined. My determination wouldn’t overstretch any boundaries. I was in control of the situation. There was no point approaching a teacher, it’s not as if they were oblivious to the situation either, they buried their heads in the sand and pretended that nothing was happening. Anything for an easy-life approach. Probably the reality is that half of them were NED intimidated too, especially the female teachers. They may have found their swanky cars scratched from boot to bonnet had they confronted them.
There were a few comments about Miss Croal. Water off a duck’s back. I heard the rumours. It’s not as if I wandered around the school like Helen Keller…what could I do? I let them wash over me; I started to realise the moments when to turn my iPod on, block everything out. My main concern was trying to alleviate Rosie’s fears. I was also worried that Miss Croal would be victimised because of what people were saying about her, about us, that the school’s superiors would get wind of it and make life difficult for her. In a sense I was thankful that the majority of the defamatory comments came from the NEDs because their opinions and beliefs didn’t exactly hold any weight or have any credence in the school. To quote the local parlance, they spoke pure pish. No, I’m not suggesting I was blameless. Not for one minute am I doing that. I’d admit that there was a part of me that enjoyed the attention, the ambiguity of the situation and, in a perverse way, the potentially dire consequences of the remarks being true. It’s good to be noticed. After all, we are all narcissists at heart, are we not? I could have dined out on the tale in years to come.
To my recollection, Miss Croal and I never fully discussed the situation. There was nothing to discuss. Nothing. Our relationship continued in a similar vein. But that’s not to say that it wasn’t hanging in the air, it was, but we never addressed it. The elephant hovered. I carried on with the study classes and my time spent in her English class was as it was: unfulfilling, unremarkable and uninspiring. That didn’t make her a bad person or a bad teacher for that matter. The problem could have been me. I understood she was pitching her lessons to a class that was inferior to my academic prowess. That’s not snobbery or arrogance on my part, that’s reality. I wasn’t challenged. Thousands of students like their teachers and vice versa.
The thing is sooner or later you’ll be hunted. Sooner or later they’ll sniff you out. In any environment, you get a sense of who to steer clear of. This new school was no different. They wandered around in packs. No less than four, no more than twelve. They looked malnourished and unkempt. What struck me was the state of their skin, it looked damaged and unhappy. The complexion of poverty. Two had distinctive scars straight down their right cheek in what appeared to be a premeditated assault. To my innocent and naïve eye it did, anyway. These scars were worn like badges and sent out a clear message of intent to onlookers. It worked, I was…terrified would be the wrong word to use…perturbed would be more accurate. I was perturbed by them, the scars that is. On the rare occasion I heard them chatting among themselves I found it nigh on impossible to understand what they were saying. The odd word here and there. Their tone and temperament, on the other hand
, was easier to decipher. I stayed clear of them.
I tried to make myself invisible around them, to draw no attention to myself. Did it work? No chance. As an Englishman in a Scottish school, I may as well have hung a red neon sign on my back saying English guy! Feel free to kick the shit out of him. At first it was stares and internal questioning. ‘Who the hell is that?’ ‘When did that prick come to our school?’ And they were not wrong about the use of our; it was their school, too. They controlled it. They provided its foundations. They controlled where other students wandered…as well as some teachers. They controlled the atmosphere of each lesson. After that came the odd bark, ‘Haw fanny man, wit ir you doin up here?’ ‘Git back tae yer own country, ya bawbag.’ Never once did I retaliate or make, what could have been, a misinter-preted gesture. Usually I plugged my earphones in, and blocked their comments out. As long as they remained just comments I could handle it, no problem. Keep eyes on the floor! Keep eyes on the floor! Keep eyes on the floor! My mantra when they were about. What galled me most was that these lowlife bastards drove fear into the vulnerable and insecure. Sought out and preyed on the weak. I was determined not to appear weak.
I was warned in advance by a few good souls in the school. People who obviously knew what they were capable of. I listened. I understood.
‘See those NEDs, man?’ Conor Duffy said.
‘NEDs?’ I asked.
‘The mad squad, the wans wey the trackies oan an the greasy napper.’
‘You mean funny mad, or mad mad?’
‘Listen, Clem, me old son, the mad squad ir the only wans in this school tae watch oot fur.’
‘Really?’
‘A’m tellin ye.’
‘So NEDs would be like chavs where I come from?’
‘Dae these chavs carry?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Knives, chibs, screwdrivers…dae they carry?’
‘I suppose some of them do. My last school didn’t really have a problem with chavs or NEDs.’
‘Thir the same hing, then.’
‘Like I said, we didn’t have a problem with them.’
‘Well this wan diz. We hiv a major problem wey NEDs,’ Conor said. I sensed the anger in his voice as well as a little seduction. Or maybe it was the way his dialect, put on or not, danced around and escaped from the side of his mouth. There was a perceptible pride to it as well. Like the pride of attending a school that so happened to house the maddest guys in mad town. My feeling was that Conor would be dining out for many years to come on his stories of surviving a school riddled with a NEDs plague. Tales would be fabricated and stories of fraternising embellished. Who knows, perhaps he could put together some sort of survival manual in the future.
‘Well, I’ll stay clear of them,’ I said.
‘Dae that, ma man.’
‘To be honest, I doubt I’ll have any dealings with them, Conor.’
‘Make sure ye don’t coz these mental bastards would hiv nae qualms aboot chibbin an English guy like yersel.’ Then came a theatrical pause. ‘Nae qualms at aw.’ He did a mock stabbing motion with an imaginary knife. (He was in the exam class for drama). That’s how I learnt what chibbing was. The verb ‘to chib.’ I liked it. But I couldn’t foresee a context of when I could, or would, use it.
‘Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘Aw it takes is a wrang word or lookin at sumbudy the wrang way.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Seriously, man, tread carefully aroon those psychos.’ Then Conor’s little friend entered the conversation. A feeble-looking guy, who had a ton of goodness about him, and not much else by the state of his dishevelled clothes; he was affectionately referred to as Wee Sean.
‘They need nae excuse, dude.’ I sniggered at the use of the word dude, which triggered Wee Sean’s I’m-as-serious-as-cancer persona into action. ‘I’d advise you tae keep yer trap shut aroon those mental loons.’
‘I intend to.’
‘We’re nae tryin to frighten ye ir anythin like that, it jist thit they might take exception tae yer accent.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Nae bother, dude,’ Wee Sean said, evidently content with his role as security consultant. My face must have contorted into a symbol of worry.
‘Don’t panic, Clem, me old son,’ Conor said, with an air of reassurance.
‘No, I’m okay. Seriously.’
‘Look, thir in the remdems anyway so ye won’t hiv much tae dae wey them.’
‘Remdems?’ I asked.
‘It means remedial.’
‘What, all of them?’
‘Ivry last wan, dude,’ Wee Sean said.
‘Listen, forget that, dae ye play fitbaw?’ Conor asked me.
‘I’m afraid I don’t. Rugby was what we played at our last school.’
‘Nae luck,’ Wee Sean said.
My negative response hammered the death nail into the conversation. That was me firmly out of the gang. Not that I wished to join it in the first place, but if I had any aspirations to be a part of it there was no chance. Above all else they probably thought I was gay. Not liking football has that effect on other males. It seems to be the main contributing factor to being homosexual. A prerequisite for entry into the gay set.
Lies
Rosie was fluctuating between being pissed off and making a half-arsed attempt at blanking me. She was fluctuating between talking and not talking. Her best friend, Cora, was giving me some serious intense looks as well. The evils as they say up here. At first I put it down to teenage girl things and then to girl things in general, and then, as it continued, I put it down to a Glasgow thing. The cold shoulder troubled me. Cora, I couldn’t have cared less about, but Rosie troubled me. We had been getting on brilliantly. I was spending loads of time at her house teaching her the guitar, listening to tunes and generally chilling out. She had a cool room. I loved just doing nothing with her, hanging out. I had never really experienced it like that before. We took our relationship to the next level in that room. We had become a damn good partnership. Solid. Both of us had almost mentioned the L word. That’s why it was so confusing that she was demonstrating this kind of behaviour. By the Tuesday afternoon it had gone on too long. I raised the issue in our Italian class. Was there a chink that had somehow alluded me? A caveat?
‘Have I done something?’
‘What?’
‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘I dunno, have you?’
‘That’s what I’m asking, Rosie.’
‘Well if you don’t know, don’t expect me to tell you.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s obviously something, Rosie. You haven’t broken breath to me for almost two days.’
‘What are you going on about? Course I have.’
‘Trust me, you haven’t.’
‘What are we doing now?’ Rosie asked.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Do I?’
‘Look, stop being so mental, if you have something to say to me then spit it out. I can’t be doing with all this evasive shit.’
‘Don’t start throwing your fancy words in my direction.’
‘Jesus, never mind.’
‘Rosie! Clem! Any problems?’ Mrs Lenihan interrupted.
‘No, Miss.’
‘No, Miss.’
‘Okay, good. Get on with it then.’ And we did get on with it. Copying verb conjugations into our notebooks as if our lives depended on it. We were playing that game where the action engaged in was intensified while the mind was pin balling around a completely different subject matter.
‘I wasn’t not talking to you, by the way,’ Rosie whispered.
‘Well, what is it then?’
‘Have you not heard the rumours?’
‘What rumours?’
‘What rumours? The rumours of you and that slapper Croal.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘What’s C
ora been saying now?’
‘Cora didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to,’ Rosie barked.
‘GET ON WITH IT YOU TWO!’ Lenihan said.
‘I’ll speak to you after class,’ I whispered.
If it wasn’t cowering away from the school’s nutters it was shielding myself from the rumour rousers and gossip-mongers. Not that I wish to go on and on about my old school, but in my old school it was perfectly natural, and somewhat encouraged, to establish and build relationships with teachers. If you applied a similar belief system in this environment it obviously meant you were either sucking someone’s cock or trying to shag them. What sadness. What a fantasy world. Did these people exist in the vacuum of television soaps and juvenile junk mags? How utterly preposterous. I despised each and everyone of them for this slur. For trying to separate Rosie and me. A shambolic shower if ever there was one; I hated the way they all purported to be free of their adolescence, I loathed the way they flaunted their pathetic adult demeanour and I detested the way they presented their sordid zeitgeist philosophies to whoever would listen. This odious spawn of Big Brother and X Factor could be exposed with the click of a finger, yet here they were collectively spreading their vile lies about me. It’s a bad place to be when the mind allows you to empathise with those mad bastards who shoot up their school somewhere in the US…or Germany. It’s the daily humiliation they undoubtedly suffer at the hands of their victims, along with the isolation, that sends them over the edge. In some macabre sense, they themselves have been killed way before those who soon will be. That was as far as my empathy took me.
I left school early that day, directly after Italian class. I had no appetite for them. No stomach for any discussion with Rosie. In any case it would only have uprooted the anger I had of seeing her hunched behind a car outside the school’s main entrance a few weeks previously. Spying. Badly. What happened was Miss Croal and I were chatting after the study class. A nondescript student-teacher chat ‒ something about the future and what I wanted to do, where I saw myself in years to come; the same chat most teachers have with their senior students. I think it made them feel empowered and worldly by passing on their words of wisdom to us fledglings ‒ pretty dreary really.
Boy Who Made It Rain Page 9
