by Chris Evans
I think I experienced almost all these various methods of sadism during my days at the grammar school—with maybe the exception of the yardstick and the strap, both of which looked too menacing to risk any misbehaviour. No thank you. Another reason I escaped their wrath perhaps was simply because I didn’t stick around at the school long enough—we ended up parting company before my fourth year.
One afternoon we were attempting to survive a physics lesson. It was a sunny pleasant day outside and we were stuck in a classroom which looked out over the school playing fields, past the cricket pavilion and on to the railway line in the distance.
I hated school generally but I really hated physics, I was sure I would have absolutely no use for it at any point ever again in my life. I was permanently angry that my time was being wasted learning something I would have no use for. I also thought my physics teacher was a serious nut job.
He was an old, wizened, twisted and bitter man who had forgotten how to smile; all he could do nowadays was contort. I often wondered what might have happened to him in the past to cause him to turn out this way. It was almost impossible to imagine he’d ever been young at all and somewhere along the line he’d turned into the kind of person who gives old people a bad name.
I had long since drifted off far away from whatever it was we were supposed to be studying that day and had taken instead to writing on my desk. I know this is wrong and I shouldn’t have been doing it, but as wrong as it was I didn’t deserve what was about to happen next.
Unbeknownst to me, the physics master had been stood behind me silently for the last few minutes, for the duration of my ‘vandalism’, watching me scrape and scratch away at the wooden lid of my desk. He waited for a while before choosing the moment to begin his attack.
He then proceeded with a slow and determined diatribe of disgust at what the hell I thought I was playing at.
He began calmly—certainly.
‘Evans, what-are-you-doing?’
It was one of those annoying questions when it was obvious what I was doing; he knew it and I knew it, he just wanted me to say it out loud, all perverts want you to say it out loud.
‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m bored out of my brains because you are a useless teacher and I hate physics anyway and I want to kill you but I know that is against the law, so now I am considering suicide which is also against the law but it means I’ll be the only one dead, so that’s alright in my book and at least I’ll be out of here and away from you and your warped idea of existence—you miserable old…’
Of course this is what I wanted to say and this is what all my classmates wanted me to say, but as it happened I didn’t say anything.
He repeated his question, this time so perplexed and through such gritted teeth I could barely understand what he was saying. The veins in his neck were standing out like a penis with an erection, his mouth foaming at the sides.
‘Evans…what…are…you…doing?’
This time I did manage to utter something, albeit very reluctantly. ‘Writing on the desk, sir.’
This reply immediately had my classmates in fits: they were clasping their hands over their mouths to suppress the laughter. It was obvious I was for the chop and when you’re at school, as long as it’s not you, that’s the funniest thing ever.
The sniggering and snorting was doing nothing to help my cause. It only added to making a mockery of the whole situation, something that thrust old Nutjob into hyper rage. He was furious by now, his ire consuming him. But what he hadn’t yet seen was exactly what I was writing on the desk, I was praying to God he wouldn’t.
‘And…what…are you writing?’
Well now, here’s the thing, you see, I was writing his name and my impression of his preferred sexuality.
‘Oh fuck,’ I thought.
‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘Fuck me.’
‘I’m fucked.’
And I was.
‘Come on Evans, WHAT DOES IT SAY?’ he screamed.
Now he still hadn’t seen what it said and was waiting for me to read it out, something I wasn’t prepared to do because whatever he thought it said, I bet he didn’t think it said what it did.
He asked me three more times but I just sat there. He couldn’t understand why I was being so defiant. The rest of the class couldn’t understand why either. Their sniggering had stopped, the room was now filled with an overwhelming air of tension, as if they were just urging me to get it over with. It was obvious I was going to get the whacks anyway. Why didn’t I just say whatever it was that was written on the bloody desk?
Some of them even began to mouth: ‘J U S T—T E L L—H I M.’
But I couldn’t, I had decided that the only thing worse than writing those words was then to vocalise them in front of a class of thirty-odd boys and a man who was now the most insane man on Planet Earth.
‘Alright Evans, then I will read it out. What does it say?’
‘Shit a fucking brick,’ I thought, ‘here it comes…’
And with that, his eyes widened as his brain engaged with the four simple single-syllable words that lay before him. There was a rumbling, like a volcano about to erupt, and then he screamed, ‘SIR…IS…A…QUEER!’
That was it, that’s what I had written, the fact that, in my ill-informed schoolboy brain, he was indeed a queer. The rest of the lads were immediately back in hysterics.
This was bad, very bad, and made worse by the fact that I had declared that he was a queer in front of a class of boys who all had supposed he might well be for some time now.
He ordered me to stand up. I was reluctant to do so. He ordered me again. Petrified, I slowly rose to my feet.
He looked at me as if he wanted to kill me.
He then punched me as hard as he could, not in the face but in the chest.
There was shock all around the room. My classmates sat open-mouthed in amazement as I was thrown backwards down the aisle where I hit the wall before slumping to the ground, completely winded.
What in Christ’s name did this psycho think he was doing?
I was a thirteen-year-old boy and, yes, I had been naughty, very naughty, but you don’t punch a kid, no matter what he’s done. My own father had never once raised a hand to me over anything and now here was a man whom I barely knew striking me with the full force of his adult strength.
I will never forget what I did next. There is a difference between bravery and fearlessness; I think bravery is more contemplated whereas fearlessness is more of reaction to a situation, the consequences of which are not an issue. This is exactly how I was feeling.
Incredulous as to what had happened, I raised myself up off the floor, scrambled back to my desk, picked up my chair and smashed it over his head as hard as I could—at least I think I did, that’s how it felt at the time anyway. It probably wasn’t quite as dramatic as that but I was so angry.
I do remember for sure him looking up at me and visibly cowering; suddenly his whole demeanour had changed: he looked like he was scared to death. The coward had shown himself for what he really was—a sorry and pathetic bully who had been stripped of his so-called might. I threw down the chair and walked out.
As the big heavy classroom door thud shut behind me with the help of one of those big brass cantilever arms that no one ever knows the name of, I found myself transported from chaos and calamity to calmness and serenity. I was suddenly alone. The corridors, often so busy during changeover and break times were now deathly quiet.
It was all very poignant.
I took one last look inside the classroom at the scene of bewilderment.
You can have that, I thought.
I was by no means a model student, but nor was I one of the bad lads and I certainly didn’t deserve what had just happened to me.
I turned and started to walk, the hollow sound of my own footsteps reminding me to keep on going. I can still picture it now, like a perfectly framed shot from a Luc B
esson movie—the long, highly polished expanse of dark parquet flooring stretching out into the infinite distance, leading to a white light of hope, in my case the two huge main school doors which I was about to exit for the very last time, never to return.
When I woke up that morning I had no idea that by the end of the day, something would have taken place that would change my life for ever.
I would now need to find a new school, and the next school in question would have the added bonus of having girls—and one girl in particular.
But first let’s get death out of the way.
Top 10 Deaths
10 Elvis Presley
9 Princess Diana (sorry, but it’s true*)
8 My dog Max
7 My friend Ronnie
6 Uncle Harry
5 John Lennon
4 My friend James
3 My dog Rita
2 My dog Enzo
1 My dad
And so to the early death of my father—Martin Joseph Evans.
First of all let me I apologise for using the term ‘early death’ as I’m not quite sure whether that’s right, it’s just something we’ve always said about Dad. None of us know when we are supposed to die in the first place; therefore how can anyone’s passing really be declared ‘early’. Surely we are all meant to die when we do die and that’s why it happens when it does. The reason I suppose we refer to Dad’s death as being early is because he was relatively young, still in his fifties, when he was plucked out for promotion to that higher office in the sky.
Dad, like Mum, smoked twenty cigarettes a day—at least. Woodbines, evil non-tipped things. I often had a go on his dog-ends when he wasn’t looking. Enough to put anyone off smoking for life—not that it did. Martin J was also marginally overweight, maybe a tad more than marginally if I’m brutally honest. He had a marvellous squishy belly that my finger used to disappear into whenever I would check it out. (I have one of those bellies now.) My inspection of Dad’s belly would usually take place while I was draped over him on the sofa, using it as a pillow. Another feature of this experience is that I would be able to hear his breathing loudly up against my ear. He always had a whistling wheeze at the end of each breath, like the last puffs of air faintly draining from a set of bagpipes.
When it came to Dad’s diet, it wasn’t the best in the world but by no means was it the worst either. He did, however, lead what was for the majority of his days a sedentary lifestyle, which couldn’t have been good for him. He was either sat in his car driving to and from work, sat at home in his favourite chair or sat at work doing his sums as a wages clerk for the local health authority.
On the face of it, maybe not such a healthy existence, but then again he didn’t drink, he went to bed at 10.30 every night, he led a nine to five existence which seemed pretty stress-free, and he enjoyed a steadfastly sound and happy marriage.
In short, I think the things he did do that were bad for him were counteracted by countless other things that he didn’t do that could have been bad for him. I’m guessing he might have expected to make his early seventies at least.
Smoking is obviously the main suspect when it comes to the demise of people like Dad and can be merciless, but when my father died the docs said he had the lungs of a non-smoker—a fact Mum loves to reel out to anyone who will listen. She has a library of such facts from her life that she never wants us to forget, but this is perhaps her favourite.
Dad was hardly ever ill. In fact I only ever recall him being ill twice. Once with the thing that eventually killed him and the other time when he had earache.
I remember the occasion when he had earache as if it were yesterday. I was attending the grammar school when out of nowhere one morning, Dad said he would be able to give me a lift, something he had not been able to do since my leaving the juniors. I usually took the bus.
He had taken the morning off work to go to the doctors and found himself with half an hour to spare. This was another one of those all-round cool situations—a total win-win, it meant I got to be with Dad for an extra fifteen minutes, plus it spared me the bus fare, which gave me extra sweet purchasing power—whoopee!
Dad drove us both proudly on our journey in our usual car mode of near silence. We didn’t talk much. For my part I didn’t feel we needed to. I have no idea of Dad’s thoughts on the matter. Was I the quiet one or was I quiet because he was quiet? Dad didn’t do car radios either—‘They only attract attention,’ he would say—hilarious!
Three miles later and there we were pulling up outside the main gates of the grammar school in our big, old, navy blue Vauxhall Victor. What a fine motor car that was—there’s nothing like the smell of vinyl in the morning.
After bidding each other farewell, Dad drove off to his doctor’s appointment while my mind turned to focusing on the far more important task of sweet selection with the spare cash I now had in my pocket.
The doctor duly examined both Dad and his ear but to no avail, he could find nothing wrong with either. Consequently he did what most doctors do in such circumstances and ordered a series of ‘tests’, a phrase I learnt to dread. It was the same doctor who would fail to spot Dad’s bowel cancer.
Mum had noticed Dad was acting a little strangely, especially when it came to his private business. She confronted him one day, at first he was embarrassed, but being a nurse she persisted and discovered that things were not at all as they should be.
Dad said he’d been to see his doctor, something that Mum was furious about as he had not told her this until now. They were a couple that had few, if any, secrets and this revelation did not go down well. Dad went on to tell Mum that he had been sent for more tests but the results had proved inconclusive. His doctor’s prognosis therefore was simply that Dad had an irritable stomach and so was prescribed Epsom salts.
This last piece of news sent my mum into apoplexy. She was more than aware of how easily things could go wrong as the result of a misdiagnosis, having seen such episodes at work. She ordered Dad to go and see her doctor immediately.
Mum and Dad had always had different doctors. It was the one thing I never understood about them. All us kids went to Mum’s doctor as in her opinion he was the best in town; now it was Dad’s turn.
Our doctor referred Dad straight away. As a result he was admitted to hospital. Upon further examination it transpired that Dad was riddled with cancer and there was nothing anyone could do to help him.
Had he been diagnosed in time, there was a good chance he could have been saved.
Mum was absolutely livid. She was told in no uncertain terms that within six to eight weeks, the man she had loved for her entire adult life would no longer be alive.
She is still justifiably very angry about it to this day.
Dad was a good man, a saint in her eyes. He had never wronged anyone, he had always put his family first and now here he was lying in a hospital bed unaware that he was dying.
Mum wanted him home. She wanted him home and she wanted him home now. The first night Dad had been admitted to the hospital the man in the next bed had died. As they wheeled away his body one of the porters gestured to Dad, who he thought was asleep, and whispered, ‘He’ll be next.’
This broke Mum’s heart, she could see that for the first time since she had known him, her husband was frightened.
Dad did come home and somehow Mum managed to turn those six to eight weeks into eighteen months, that’s how long Dad lasted with her tender love and care.
The irony of it all was that Mum and Dad never discussed the seriousness of his condition. Mum thinks Dad knew it was terminal but she can’t be certain. She says that the only time he ever alluded to the fact that he might not be around for much longer was when he once told her, ‘If anything happens to either of us, we will always be there for the other in the eyes of our children.’ Still one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.
As much as Mum didn’t discuss the inevitability of his condition with Dad, nor did she discuss it wi
th either my sister or brother and I. As far as we knew Dad was very sick, of that there was little doubt, but we had no idea he was so sick he was going to die.
Dad had been ill for over a year when one evening Mum, who had just finished attending to him, came down to the kitchen which I was currently using as a workshop for my bike. It was a dark night and cold and wet outside so Mum said I could tinker indoors. My bike now upside down, I was busy cleaning the spokes, oiling the chain, and carrying out other vital maintenance when she came in.
‘Oh hi, Mum,’ I said, still focused on what I was doing.
‘Hello luv.’ She sounded down, really down. I looked up to see she was absolutely shattered. Not only that but there was something else wrong. She closed the door behind her, leant against it and looked up towards the ceiling, half as if to plead for some kind of intervention and half to stop the tears, which were now clearly visible welling up in her eyes.
Immediately I began to feel both panic and fear. I had never seen Mum even come close to crying before.
‘What’s up?’ I asked in that kind of uncertain, nervous way a kid asks when he hopes the answer is going to be ‘nothing’.
‘It’s your dad.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s just so ill, love.’
Well, we knew he was so ill, very very ill, but ill people get better—that’s something we also knew, that’s what had always been the case. Other less fortunate people died but they weren’t ill, they were dying—our dad was not one of those.
‘I know he’s ill, Mum, but he’s going to get better, don’t worry.’ I said.
The tears were now streaming down Mum’s cheeks as if trying to speak on her behalf. There was something she was going to have to tell me, something she had been dreading. She walked over to where I was kneeling down, still next to my bike. She put her hand on my head and started to stroke my hair before whispering.
‘He’s not going to get better luv. He’s never going to get better.’
At this point she completely broke down.
This was the worst moment of my life. Nothing since has come even close to it. When I first heard those words come out of Mum’s mouth, I couldn’t compute what she meant, it had sounded for all the world as if she had said Dad was no longer going to get better and then of course I began to realise that’s exactly what she had said.
