Ian Newman was as good a friend as I had in the first year, yet a
playground squabble led to us scuffling on the ground. Unlike most fights at
school, where the combatants grappled and traded body punches in front of a
crowd until Miss Pook intervened, our fight was over and done before it
attracted any attention. Punching Ian in the teeth as I dived on him was not my
intent but a knee to the chest skewed my aim and lo, the deed was done. I
couldn’t say who was more shocked; Ian with his bloodied mouth or me with a cut
knuckle that stung like hell
There were no bad feelings after the fight. That Ian and I should move
in different circles ever after was due to him being moved up a class. John
Conway was another who got promoted. In the opposite direction went Richard
Lloyd and the Saunders twins, John and Stephen, who’d not long joined the
school.
Sunny days gave us the freedom of the field at dinnertime. As long as we
stayed clear of the air raid shelters and respected an imaginary line extending
from the railings that separated us from the Infants, the field was ours to
roam. Playing on the grass was marvellous for rough and tumble games like piggy
back fights. Great fun, even if we ended up covered in pea sized spiky weed
balls that we were still plucking from our clothes when back in the classroom.
On the last day of term the retirement of Head Master Mister Pryor was
announced. A little bald chap, he said a few words and then introduced his successor, a tall imposing man called Mister Foster. I have no recollection
of us singing ‘Lord Dismiss us with thy Blessing’ in assembly that morning yet,
as surely as some kids got lumbered with the job of taking the classroom Busy
Lizzie’s home for the summer, it’s almost certain we did.
The big kids in the fourth year would be moving on too. Some, such as
Stephen Pemble and Janet Knight seemed ridiculously grown up.
In
class, it was time to say goodbye to Miss Frankland. She taught me a lot but the
Valentine card incident soured my appreciation of her:
I wouldn’t miss her, or her regular nit, fingernail and shoe inspections, one
bit.
And so my first year ended, but not without one last scare. As I neared the
boys’ gate upon leaving school, Timmy Kyle – the boy previously known to me as
Timmy Spiteful after he attacked me in my own front garden – was perched on one
of the gate pillars. Though I scurried by as quickly as I could, I needn’t have
worried. Timmy, in cheerful mood, was too busy belting out the parody version
of the Out of Town song.
“Say what you will, school dinners make you ill
Davy Crockett died of Shepherd’s Pie
Our school din-dins come from pig bins
Out of town”
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