67 The Ink Fight

On a grey afternoon our class traipsed up the staircase to Mister Berger’s classroom for the last lesson of the day. Science, a twice weekly ordeal that made half an hour seem endless, was the dreariest subject on the timetable.

On entering the classroom I was surprised to see Mister Berger, standing behind the classroom door, in conversation with Head Boy Geoff Bray, a rising star in the football world.

What’s he doing in our classroom?

Then something wonderful happened; Mister Berger left.

‘Just read your library books or get on with some homework,’ said Geoff, as he strolled across the classroom to sit at Mister Berger’s desk by the window.

Berger’s not coming back? No Science? Hooray!

Thought Eddie Adams and I, on the end of a row, flopped our school library books on our desks, we sensibly decided to get some homework done, only my head was still buzzing from Mister Berger’s departure and I found it hard to concentrate. Other than the odd rustle of a page being turned, all was quiet. A peaceful, scholarly atmosphere existed until…

…an ink spatter appeared on the pages of my exercise book.

Eddie apologised. An accident, he said. It surely was, but a quick flick of my fountain pen made us even anyway. Eddie wasn’t happy. He took exception to the violation and gave my exercise book another spattering, which I duly returned with interest. Then Eddie spattered me across the mush and an ink fight broke out.

Alerted by the commotion, our stand-in teacher sprang to his feet and came to investigate.

‘What’s going on? You two, stand up. Come here… and bring your library books with you.’

Eddie led the way to the front of the class. With a heavy heart I followed, nervous and fearful.

Little Eddie had ink on the left side of his face. Tall gangly me had ink on the right. We must have looked a sorry sight as we stood in front of a gleeful class.

‘Well, well, what shall we do with these two?’ our minder asked, inviting titters from around the classroom.

I squirmed, sensing a show up. Sure enough, comments about Spotty Muldoon and Spotted Dick turned titters into shrieks of laughter. The class loved it, not least the fawning females on the front row, who lapped it up.

‘Let’s see your book,’ Geoff said to Eddie.

After a cursory glance through the pages of Eddie’s gardening book, he returned it and instructed him to read to the class – a doddle for Eddie, already an established reader in assembly and drama.

The very thought of reading to the class filled me with dread. It didn’t matter that five years of living in Gillingham had taken the edge off my Northern accent, I knew exactly what coming, having heard it all before from people who rhymed grass with arse.

After yawning and calling time on Eddie’s boring monologue, our minder asked to see my book.

His eyes lit up. ‘Ah, this is more like it! I can’t wait to hear this!’ After a quick flick through the pages he handed it back then resettled in his chair.

I’d no sooner got the first sentence out when I heard my words coming back at me in a mock northern accent. With laughter ringing around the classroom, our head boy continued his mimicry, much to the delight of the girls on the front row. Conscious of my burning cheeks, I kept my head down and muddled along for what seemed an age, focusing on the words of Jimmy Greaves. Even Eddie was laughing, the rotten sod.

The ordeal ended with me and Eddie being sent to get cleaned up ready for home time. Mercifully, there was no further punishment, for which I was truly grateful.