by Barry Hines
‘And get your head up lad! Or you’ll be falling asleep again!’
Billy lifted his face. Beads of sweat were poised on his forehead and the sides of his nose.
‘You were asleep weren’t you?… Well? Speak up, lad!’
‘I don’t know, Sir.’
‘Well I know. You were fast asleep on your feet. Weren’t you?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Fast asleep during the Lord’s Prayer! I’ll thrash you, you irreverent scoundrel!’
He demonstrated the act twice down the side of the lectern.
‘Were you tired, lad?’
‘I don’t know, Sir.’
‘Don’t know? You wouldn’t be tired if you’d get to bed at night instead of roaming the streets at all hours up to mischief!’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Or sitting up ’til dawn watching some tripe on television! Report to my room straight after assembly. You will be tired when I’ve finished with you, lad!’
Billy sat down, and Gryce pulled a thin wad of papers from between the pages of the Bible and placed them on top of it.
‘Now here are the announcements: – there will be a meeting of the Intermediate Football team in the gym at break this morning.’
He slid the top sheet down a step, on to the face of the lectern.
‘A reminder that the Youth Employment Officer will be in this afternoon to see the Easter leavers. They will be sent for from their respective classes, and should report to the medical room, where the interviews will take place. Your parents SHOULD have been told by this time, but if any boy HAS forgotten, and thinks that his parents may wish to attend his interview, then he can consult the list on the main notice board for approximate times.’
Securing the papers underneath with one hand, he pushed the notice away from him with the other. It caught the edge of the first sheet and shunted it off the lectern. Gryce grabbed at it, but the paper swooped away in a shallow glide, looped the loop, and slid into a perfect landing face up on the platform. Gryce looked across at it, and at the rows of upturned faces, then beckoned the reader from the back of the platform to come forward and pick it up.
‘I would also like to see the three members of the smokers’ union whom I didn’t have time to deal with yesterday. They can pay their dues at my room straight after assembly. Right. Dismiss.’
The three smokers, MacDowall and Billy stood in a loose circle in the foyer outside Gryce’s room.
‘It wasn’t me that coughed tha knows. I’m goin’ to tell him so an’ all.’
‘It makes no difference whether tha tells him or not, he don’t listen.’
‘I’m bringing my father up if he giz me t’stick, anyroad.’
‘What tha allus bringin’ thi father up for? He never does owt when he comes. They say t’last time he came up, Gryce gave him t’stick an’ all.’
The three smokers fell away and leaned back on the half-tiled wall to observe.
‘At least I’ve got a father to bring up, that’s more than thar can say, Casper.’
‘Shut thi gob, MacDowall!’
‘Why, what thar goin’ to do about it, Casper?’
They closed up; chest to chest, eye to eye, fists ready at the hips.
‘Tha’d be surprised.’
‘Right then, I’ll see thi at break.’
‘Anytime tha wants.’
‘Right then.’
‘Right.’
They stepped apart at footsteps approaching down the corridor. A boy came round the corner and knocked on Gryce’s door.
‘He’s not in.’
The smoker at the front of the queue jerked his head towards the back.
‘If tha’s come for t’stick tha’d better get to t’back o’ t’queue, he’s not come back from assembly yet.’
‘I’ve not come for the stick. Crossley’s sent me with a message.’
Billy took his place in the line against the wall.
‘It’s his favourite trick, this. He likes to keep you waiting, he thinks it makes it worse.’
The second smoker spat between his teeth and spread it with the sole of one shoe, making the red vinyl tile shiny.
‘It don’t bother me if he keeps us standing here ’til four. I’d sooner have t’stick anyday than do lessons.’
He began to feel in his pockets, collecting together in one palm a bunch of tab ends and a lighter without a cap. He offered them to the messenger.
‘Here, tha’d better save us these ’til after. Cos if he searches us he’ll only take ’em off us an’ gi’ us another two strokes.’
The messenger looked down at the hand without taking its contents. The other two smokers were busy in their own pockets.
‘I’m not having ’em, you’re not getting me into trouble as well.’
‘Who’s getting thi into trouble? Tha can gi’ us ’em straight back after.’
The messenger shook his head.
‘I don’t want ’em.’
‘Does tha want some fist instead?’
The smokers surrounded him, all three holding out their smoking equipment. The messenger took it. Billy, looking across the foyer and through the wired glass doors into the hall, stood up off the wall.
‘Hey up, he’s here; Gryce pudding.’
They formed up as neatly as a hand of cards being knocked together. Gryce strode past them and entered his room as though they weren’t there. But he left the door open, and a moment later issued his usual invitation to enter:
‘Come in, you reprobates!’
He was standing with his back to the electric fire, his stick tucked under his buttocks like a trapeze bar.
The boys lined up in front of the window and faced him across the carpet. Gryce surveyed them in turn, shaking his head at each face as though he was being forced to choose from a range of shoddy goods.
‘The same old faces. Why is it always the same old faces?’
The messenger stepped forward and raised one hand.
‘Please, Sir.’
‘Don’t interrupt, boy, when I’m speaking.’
He stepped back and filled the gap in the line.
‘I’m sick of you boys, you’ll be the death of me. Not a day goes by without me having to deal with a line of boys. I can’t remember a day, not one day, in all the years I’ve been in this school, and how long’s that?… ten years, and the school’s no better now than it was on the day that it opened. I can’t understand it. I can’t understand it at all.’
The boys couldn’t understand it either, and they dropped their eyes as he searched for an answer in their faces. Failing to find one there, he stared past them out of the window.
The lawn stretching down to the front railings was studded with worm casts, and badly in need of its Spring growth. The border separating the lawn from the drive was turned earth, and in the centre of the lawn stood a silver birch tree in a little round bed. Its trunk cut a segment out of a house across the road, and out of the merging grey and black of the sky above it, and although the branches were still bare, the white of the trunk against the dull green, and red and greys, hinted of Spring, and provided the only clean feature of the whole picture.
‘I’ve taught in this City for over thirty-five years now; many of your parents were pupils under me in the old City schools before this estate was built; and I’m certain that in all those years I’ve never encountered a generation as difficult to handle as this one. I thought I understood young people, I should be able to with all my experience, yet there’s something happening today that’s frightening, that makes me feel that it’s all been a waste of time…. Like it’s a waste of time standing here talking to you boys, because you won’t take a blind bit of notice what I’m saying. I know what you’re thinking now, you’re thinking, why doesn’t he get on with it and let us go, instead of standing there babbling on? That’s what you’re thinking isn’t it? Isn’t it, MacDowall?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘O yes it is. I can see it in y
our eyes, lad, they’re glazed over. You’re not interested. Nobody can tell you anything, can they, MacDowall? You know it all, you young people, you think you’re so sophisticated with all your gear and your music. But the trouble is, it’s only superficial, just a sheen with nothing worthwhile or solid underneath. As far as I can see there’s been no advance at all in discipline, decency, manners or morals. And do you know how I know this? Well, I’ll tell you. Because I still have to use this every day.’
He brought the stick round from behind his back for the boys to have a look at.
‘It’s fantastic isn’t it, that in this day and age, in this super-scientific, all-things-bright-and-splendiferous age, that the only way of running this school efficiently is by the rule of the cane. But why? There should be no need for it now. You lot have got it on a plate.
‘I can understand why we had to use it back in the ’twenties and ’thirties. Those were hard times; they bred hard people, and it needed hard measures to deal with them. But those times bred people with qualities totally lacking in you people today. They bred people with respect for a start. We knew where we stood in those days, and even today a man will often stop me in the street and say “Hello Mr Gryce, remember me?” And we’ll pass the time of day and chat, and he’ll laugh about the thrashings I gave him.
‘But what do I get from you lot? A honk from a greasy youth behind the wheel of some big second-hand car. Or an obscene remark from a gang – after they’ve passed me.
‘They took it then, but not now, not in this day of the common man, when every boy quotes his rights, and shoots off home for his father as soon as I look at him…. No guts…. No backbone… you’ve nothing to commend you whatsoever. You’re just fodder for the mass media!’
He slashed the stick in front of their chests, making the air swish in its wake, then he turned round and leaned straight-armed on the mantelshelf, shaking his head. The boys winked at each other.
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
He turned round slowly. The boys met him with serious expressions, frowning and compressing their lips as though they were trying their hardest to solve his problems.
‘So for want of a better solution I continue using the cane, knowing full well that you’ll be back time and time again for some more. Knowing that when you smokers leave this room wringing your hands, you’ll carry on smoking just the same. Yes, you can smirk, lad. I’ll bet your pockets are ladened up at this very moment in readiness for break; aren’t they? Aren’t they? Well just empty them. Come on, all of you, empty your pockets!’
The three smokers, Billy and MacDowall began to reveal their collected paraphernalia. The messenger watched them in panic, the colour rising in his face like the warming bar of an electric fire. He stepped forward again.
‘Please, Sir…’
‘Quiet, lad! And get your pockets emptied!’
The lad’s face cooled to the colour of dripping as he began to empty his pockets. Gryce moved along the line, broddling in their palms; turning and inspecting the grubby contents with obvious distaste.
‘This can’t be true. I don’t believe it.’
He placed his stick on his desk.
‘Keep your hands out.’
And started down the line again, frisking their clothing quickly and expertly. When he reached the messenger he beamed at him.
‘Ah! Ah!’
‘Please, Sir…’
The smokers leaned forward and looked at him, half turning and angling across each other like a prioll of Jacks. They squared their jaws and showed him their teeth. Tears came into the messenger’s eyes and he began to snuffle.
‘You’re a regular cigarette factory aren’t you, lad?’
From various pockets Gryce collected two ten-packets, which rattled when he shook them, a handful of tabs, three lighters and a box of matches.
‘You deceitful boy. You didn’t think you could get away with a weak trick like that, did you?’
He strode over to the basket at the side of his desk and dropped the lot into it.
‘Now get that other junk back into your pockets, and get your hands out.’
He picked his stick up from his desk and tested it on the air. The first smoker stepped out and raised his right hand. He proffered it slightly cupped, thumb tucked into the side, the flesh of the palm ruttled up into soft cushions.
Gryce measured the distance with the tip of his stick, settled his feet, then slowly flexed his elbow. When his fist was level with his ear, the hinge flashed open swish down across the boy’s palm. The boy blinked and held up his left hand. The stick touched it, curved up and away out of Gryce’s peripheral vision, then blurred back into it and snapped down across the fingers.
‘Right, now get out.’
White-faced, he turned away from Gryce, and winked at the others as he passed in front of them to the door.
‘Next.’
They stepped forward in turn, all adopting the same relaxed hand position as the first boy. Except for the messenger. He presented his hands stiff, fingers splayed, thumbs up. The full force of both strokes caught him thumbs first, cracking across the side of the knuckle bone. The first stroke made him cry. The second made him sick.
* * *
They all turned their heads when the door opened and Billy walked into the room. Mr Farthing, perched side saddle on the edge of the desk, stopped talking and waited for him to approach.
‘I’ve been to see Mr Gryce, Sir.’
‘Yes, I know. How many this time?’
‘Two.’
‘Sting?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Right, sit down then.’
He watched Billy to his place and waited for the class to settle before he continued.
‘Right 4C. To continue. Fact.’
He swung one arm and indicated the board behind him. On it was printed:
FACT AND FICTION
‘What did we say fact was, Armitage?’
‘Something that’s happened, Sir.’
‘Right. Something that has happened. Something that we know is real. The things that we read about in newspapers, or hear on the news. Events, accidents, meetings; the things that we see with our own eyes, the things all about us; all these are facts. Have you got that? Is that clear?’
Chorus: ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Right then. Now if I asked Anderson for some facts about himself, what could he tell us?’
‘Sir! Sir!’
‘All right! All right! Just put your hands up. There’s no need to jump down my throat. Jordan?’
‘He’s wearing jeans.’
‘Good. Mitchell?’
‘He’s got black hair.’
‘Yes. Fisher?’
‘He lives down Shallowbank Crescent.’
‘Do you, Anderson?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Right then. Now all these are facts about Anderson, but they’re not particularly interesting facts. Perhaps Anderson can tell us something about himself that is interesting. A really interesting fact.’
There was a massive ‘Woooo!’ from the rest of the class. Mr Farthing grinned and rode it; then he raised his hands to control it.
‘Quietly now. Quietly.’
The class quietened, still grinning. Anderson stared at his desk, blushing.
‘I don’t know owt, Sir.’
‘Anything at all Anderson, anything that’s happened to you, or that you’ve seen which sticks in your mind.’
‘I can’t think of owt, Sir.’
‘What about when you were little? Everybody remembers something about when they were little. It doesn’t have to be fantastic, just something that you’ve remembered.’
Anderson began to smile and looked up.
‘There’s summat. It’s nowt though.’
‘It must be if you remember it.’
‘It’s daft really.’
‘Well tell us then, and let’s all have a laugh.’
‘Well it was once when
I was a kid. I was at Junior school, I think, or somewhere like that, and went down to Fowlers Pond, me and this other kid. Reggie Clay they called him, he didn’t come to this school; he flitted and went away somewhere. Anyway it was Spring, tadpole time, and it’s swarming with tadpoles down there in Spring. Edges of t’pond are all black with ’em, and me and this other kid started to catch ’em. It was easy, all you did, you just put your hands together and scooped a handful of water up and you’d got a handful of tadpoles. Anyway we were mucking about with ’em, picking ’em up and chucking ’em back and things, and we were on about taking some home, but we’d no jam jars. So this kid, Reggie, says, “Take thi Wellingtons off and put some in there, they’ll be all right ’til tha gets home.” So I took ’em off and we put some water in ’em and then we started to put taddies in ’em. We kept ladling ’em in and I says to this kid, “Let’s have a competition, thee have one welli’ and I’ll have t’other, and we’ll see who can get most in!” So he started to fill one welli’ and I started to fill t’other. We must have been at it hours, and they got thicker and thicker, until at t’end there was no water left in ’em, they were just jam packed wi’ taddies.
‘You ought to have seen ’em, all black and shiny, right up to t’top. When we’d finished we kept dipping us fingers into ’em and whipping ’em up at each other, all shouting and excited like. Then this kid says to me, “I bet tha daren’t put one on.” And K says, “I bet tha daren’t.” So we said that we’d put one on each. We wouldn’t though, we kept reckoning to, then running away, so we tossed up and him who lost had to do it first. And I lost, oh, and you’d to take your socks off an’ all. So I took my socks off, and I kept looking at this welli’ full of taddies, and this kid kept saying, “Go on then, tha frightened, tha frightened.” I was an’ all. Anyway I shut my eyes and started to put my foot in. Oooo. It was just like putting your feet into live jelly. They were frozen. And when my foot went down, they all came over t’top of my Wellington, and when I got my foot to t’bottom, I could feel ’em all squashing about between my toes.
‘Anyway I’d done it, and I says to this kid, “Thee put thine on now.” But he wouldn’t, he was dead scared, so I put it on instead. I’d got used to it then, it was all right after a bit; it sent your legs all excited and tingling like. When I’d got ’em both on I started to walk up to this kid, waving my arms and making spook noises; and as I walked they all came squelching over t’tops again and ran down t’sides. This kid looked frightened to death, he kept looking down at my wellies so I tried to run at him and they all spurted up my legs. You ought to have seen him. He just screamed out and ran home roaring.
