Pic of the week 2/7/17
To a pint sized twelve year old, Mr Newman – “Barry” behind his back, never, ever, to his face – was a fearsome creature, the beard framing a frightening visage. He was our tutor, our English teacher, our “stuff of nightmares.”
We awaited the return of our homework books with trepidation. To have transgressed was to incur Barry’s wrath. You didn’t want to incur Barry’s wrath. Today it was Tim’s turn. Tim Wilkins – intelligent, quiet and unassuming. In 13 years of schooling with him I can’t recall a time that he ever deliberately challenged the authority of our Masters.
The books were handed back in stoic silence, as ever in alphabetic order. As the A’s, B’s and C’s of the class register inwardly sighed (I think some may even have sobbed) with relief as they received their work with mere disdain, for those of us further down the alphabet the tension, the unbearable tension, rose as the odds of being today’s victim shortened. Being a “W”, Tim was last on the list. Silence hung heavy over the classroom, we’d got away with it – no way would Tim, bright, shy, clever, Tim have done anything wrong.
The pause lengthened, then the silence shattered. “What is the meaning of this? Boy”
Stunned silence swamped the room. A combination of fear and incredulity that Tim was the object of the day’s ire, left us dazed and confused. “Explain yourself, do you think you are funny? Boy.”
“I, I, I … I did what you said, sir” replied Tim, sounding braver than he probably felt.
Confusion turned to questions in our minds. What had Tim done to so displease? Emboldened as we weren’t the “chosen ones” that day, our curiously was piqued and, involuntarily, we sat up a little straighter, inched forward, intrigued to discover what Tim had done.
With a theatrical flourish, Barry threw open the pages of Tim’s book and held it aloft for all to see. Some struggled to stifle a gasp, others a laugh. There, in the middle of the page, was a hole, a gaping, great big empty space in the middle of the page.
And right next to the hole was Barry’s red pen correction instructing the hapless pupil to “Cut it out.”
Whether he meant it or not, we knew we had a genius in our midst. Our respect for Tim soared, our fear of Mr Newman remained unchained.
It was with mixed emotions that I traveled to Wells on Saturday night for our 30 year (thirty years – that can’t be right, can it?) re-union. I was looking forwarded to catching up with some old friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen in those intervening thirty years, but I’ll be honest – I was a little apprehensive too. What if no one remembered me? What if I couldn’t remember anyone else? The magic of FaceBook had mitigated those two concerns but what if, even if I remembered and was remembered, we just didn’t “get on?” “Not to worry” I told myself. Worse case scenario – turn up, make polite small talk for a couple of hours, tick the box, go home and get on with your life.
Oh how those fears were unfounded. I had a fantastic night as the years just rolled back. I needed the odd prompt with one or two names – and I did spend a fraught five minutes desperately trying to recall the name of an acquaintance before it was pointed out that they were a spouse and I hadn’t spent 10 years growing up with them. Few!
Tales were told – like the one above – which I had long since forgotten. Absent friends, and their haircuts, were remembered – Andrew “Klebs” Kirby: that perm was not your finest hour. To be fair, we grew up in the 80’s so fashion faux pas’ abound.
I think we can collectively say that we’ve done alright: waistlines might be a little wider and hairlines certainly a lot higher, but faces were etched with laughter lines and smiles, smiles that got wider as the night got later. And I’ve been smiling ever since, it truly was a life affirming evening and we’ve a lot to be grateful for. The freedoms we had whilst growing up would be incredulous to the youth of today, but we all survived. The quality of teaching was variable but as a cohort we’ve been successful in our fields, although, despite 12 years of an expensive education, Thor has still ended up as a drug pusher.
To those of you there on Saturday night – and to those that weren’t – Thank You. I loved every minute of my childhood and teenage years and that is in large part due to your company on that often perilous journey.
[In the interests of fairness, I should point out that I bumped into Mr Newman a few years ago. He was still sporting a backpack and shod in walking boots – the ideal kit to navigate the difficult terrain of Shepton High Street. We had a nice chat, he seemed a nice bloke. He was much smaller than I remember him, but that’s probably because I’m much taller now. The red beard was tinged with grey, softening his appearance: he now more resembled a friendly garden gnome than one of Tolkien’s hammer wielding warrior gnomes. And fair play to him, here I am, more than thirty years later, writing for pleasure and (hopefully) getting my grammar correct, so he must have done something right all those years ago.]
