Читать книгу Tripping Over - John Hickman - Страница 10

My best friend, David, and I were queued up with the school to enter the swimming baths. He was a few inches shorter than me, stockier in build but the same age. We were dressed in layers to keep out the stiff northeast winds that bite across London from the North Sea even in springtime. We’d broken into huddles to shelter as best we could from the wind and rain.

David looked miserable. His voice was muffled. ‘I don’t like Tuesdays, do you?’ Only his brown eyes and runny nose were visible between his school scarf and cap.

‘No, me neither.’ I tightened my cold fingers in my soft leather gloves.

‘Why do we have to learn to swim anyway?’ David whined. ‘I don’t like water. Do you?’ His words sounded thick only to be whipped away on the wind.

‘No. I don’t. But my dad says to hear me carry on it sounds more like a bad day in Northern Island than a school outing to the swimming baths.’

‘No talking, Hickman,’ snapped our sports master in the nasal twang of north London. ‘Silence in line or you’ll be reported when we get back to the headmaster.’

He paused, ‘That is unless I deal with you, my way,’ he added with a smirk. He moved on.

My guts churned. If I didn’t watch out I could be in the running for a bare arse caning. But at least he didn’t call me Honey.

‘I can’t feel my toes,’ David whispered as he shuffled and stamped his feet.

‘Me neither.’

We cuddled our satchels as if they were our favourite teddies. I would have liked to manage a smile but hated these visits with the same intensity as appointments with the chiropodist, which often followed these memorable outings. On my last visit she hacked out a verruca from the underside of my right foot. Crippled, I hobbled about for days.

As we filed in a strong smell of chlorine made me feel sick. I plunged into sulk mode again. These dreadful baths outings and the legacies of what followed them had got me down. Now name wise I had another worry. I wondered what Dad had meant when he said, ‘That’s another reason I changed my name.’ If there was another reason besides what he’d told me, I worried about what it might be?

After we’d disrobed and put on our swimming trunks we jockeyed towards the shallow end to enter the water. My teeth chattered even before I ventured in with my big toe.

Now, how best to get in and avoid a bare arse caning?

A few courageous fellows jumped in. Others like David and I edged slowly down the steps. We complained loudly, which amused our sports master. Half way in and my testicles retreated up around my ears.

‘Once in, your skill levels range from chimpanzees to hapless water buffalo,’ he said.

David forced a grin and looked around. ‘There seems to be few water enthusiasts among us.’

Although the building was heated I noticed our sports master never removed his outer coat. Lucky bugger, I thought. His modern attire and colourful bowtie remained hidden beneath his scarf, coat and hat. He was tall, built like a greyhound, with long dark hair silvering at the temples. His neat goatee beard, barely visible behind his scarf, looked as if it had been pencilled onto his face. Inwardly, I smiled. I decided I’d nickname him goatee master.

I ran my idea past David. ‘What do you think?’

David was unsure. ‘As long as the rotten sod doesn’t get wind of it, I suppose.’

Goatee master settled comfortably onto a bench seat near a heater. At school in class when he took us for English Literature, I half expected to see him squint through a monocle but he never did.

He filled his elegant long silver cigarette holder. Then crossed one leg over the other and leaned back heavily against the tiled wall. From there he could view us, the unwilling entertainment. As he scanned his charges I noticed him shoot a glance at my goose-pimpled torso. My eyes for a moment met his. He inhaled deeply, ‘What if you nearly drown, boy?’ he sounded almost hopeful. Then after a pause, ‘nearly being not near enough,’ he sniggered.

He tried to renew his smile, which somehow never quite reached his eyes.

I’d developed a yeoman’s job of an inferior version of the breaststroke. My head above water allowed me to breathe air and avoid those ghastly inner ear infections, which whenever I dunked my head under seemed to follow in tandem with the verrucas.

I had not a bump of direction but neither had David. And then with the masterful strokes of salmon in their death throes, we managed to return and hug the entry rail.

On our walk back to school the dampness had blown away. Leaves on the trees looked two shades lighter green.

‘I’m pleased that’s behind us for another week, David.’

‘I might not go next week if I can get a note from my mum.’

I brightened up. ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll get one too.’

I relaxed a little. So intense was my dislike of the swimming baths I pledged to use my sickly reputation to get an excuse note from Mum.

Deep in thought about that another problem surfaced. The days I enjoyed most were our Thursday excursions to the nearby Duke of York’s Headquarters where we played sports if the weather permitted.

Not that I was athletic. I looked like a newborn giraffe taking its first steps. Trouble was if I got an excuse note from Mum for the Tuesday, I’d need a spectacular recovery by Thursday! But I was all right for this week. I cheered up.

Thursday arrived and with it a new downside. Goatee master, his smile locked on autopilot, made an announcement following the games. ‘You should all shower before you go home.’

I was unenthusiastic. Their showers were open, draughty and cold. The concrete floors were slippery, their water was not hot. The prospect of a luke-warm shower on a chilly afternoon while I shivered on bare concrete held no appeal to me.

In an effort to avoid the showers I tried, ‘Sir, I can’t shower. I’ve brought no towel.’

Goatee master let out a long sigh. He rolled his eyes upwards. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, boy. Big boys use their sports shirts, when they haven’t a towel. Grow up!’

David and I exchanged subdued looks. The last thing we wanted to do was upset him. It was then goatee master added encouragement in an unexpected form. He fixed us each in turn with his sad, brown eyes. ‘Look, if you behave like grown up boys, and shower like them, I’ll treat you the same. All right?’

His eyes brightened. He swiped his curtain of hair aside and grinned. His mouth was like a caved-in hole above the goatee. ‘How’s about super-duper Devonshire cream teas before you go home? My treat.’

I felt confused. I looked to David for support. He grinned widely and nodded. Visions of fresh cream and gourmet jams with assorted chocolate and marzipan cakes had swayed his judgement.

The showers were not pleasant and I missed not having a towel to wrap myself in. None of us wanted to linger for long. Goatee master hovered. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette as if agitated and wanting to finish it off in one puff. Then he stared down at my male part. As I’d never been circumcised it appeared different to my three friends who were Jewish.

David said with a sadistic smirk. ‘My dad says if you’ve got a curtain on your willy, it’s because you’re German.’

‘I’m not German,’ I snapped and covered myself with both hands.

David was thoughtful for a moment but then fired back with, ‘My dad says your name’s German.’

I was horrified. ‘My name isn’t German. I’m English. And anyway, my dad doesn’t like Germans. He was a Lancaster bomber pilot in the war and he killed thousands of them.’

Goatee master said, ‘Hickman is only a German name if it’s spelled with two n’s at its end.’

I felt good about that. I almost liked him but at that moment I wished my name was Honey because then no one could think I was German.

David went quiet for a while.

Another boy scratched his nose and asked, ‘If you’re really English how come you’ve still got a curtain on your willy?’

‘My dad’s been done but he says Mum kept forgetting to take me to the doctor.’

David shook his head. ‘You don’t forget something like that.’

‘My gran says Mum didn’t so much forget but hated the idea of having me cut.’

‘Why?’ David asked.

I shrugged. ‘Gramps says she worried if we lost the war to the Germans they’d treat me like they did your lot because the Nazis were bullies.’

Silence.

That shut them up. Good, I thought. Dad had often told me the best form of defence is always attack. Next I tried, ‘So what did your dads do during the war?’

There was a long pause before David replied. ‘Nothing.’

Unable to make eye contact with me his voice trailed away. ‘Look, enough already. My dad was too busy running away from the Gestapo to be a hero like your dad.’

I felt elated. David had acknowledged my dad as a hero. Suddenly, I felt sorry for him and decided he’d always be my best friend.

Goatee master handed us each our dry shirts. His hand caressed my bare shoulder, which I thought strange. I moved away.

I hoped my shirt would dry soon.

On our way back my hair remained damp and my wet shirt clung uncomfortably to my back under my blazer. David pointed out a blackboard sign outside a cafeteria near Sloane Square tube station. ‘There,’ he said, ‘Delicious cakes – Fresh daily.’

Goatee master smiled as he checked his watch on his right wrist. ‘We’re fine for time,’ he said as he wheeled us in.

He kept his promise and bought us splendid afternoon teas. True to his word the others who never showered after the game went without.

As we finished up goatee master balanced a teaspoon across his forefinger.

He stared down at his pale unworn hands. When he spoke he avoided eye contact. ‘Best not tell your parents about our little arrangement, boys.’

He paused. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me buying you afternoon tea, but unfair questions may arise as to why I didn’t do the same for the other boys.’ He let out a giant sigh. ‘Let’s keep this as our little secret, shall we?’

I felt uncomfortable. David looked unsettled. Goatee master appeared ill at ease. He flashed a forced grin and then continued, ‘Or, you do realise I’ll have to stop doing it, right?’

I tried the nod thing, again. I looked at David. His eyes were big as saucers.

He looked as if he’d entered a dark room and was lost.

I felt strangely anxious. ‘I’ve never kept secrets from my dad.’

‘Me neither,’ David whispered.

Next day rumours at school were rife, which was good in a way because David and I were low on topics to chat about. Turned out our day would end with a big surprise. Those in the know or thought they were, reported goatee master had been summoned to the headmaster’s study more than once. Raised voices had been heard. David and I worried about being involved. Neither of us wanted to be caned.

‘Have you said anything to your parents?’ David sounded nervous.

‘I haven’t said anything to anyone,’ I replied, ‘but what would be wrong if we did? I still don’t understand the secrecy, do you?’

I dismissed further thoughts even before they’d fully formed.

Later we were told a parent of a student who’d not attended our tea had made an official complaint to the school about goatee master being a nasty piece of work.

‘Not sure why they’d say that,’ David said, ‘I enjoyed the tea didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

Rumours circulated fast. We weren’t sure why but some had portrayed goatee master as a rung or two below that of a mass murderer.

Next big news was he’d fled the school.

When I told Dad he gave Mum a strange look.

‘Why do you think he left, Bill?’ Mum asked, arching a fine eyebrow. ‘Why on earth would he be unhappy teaching boys at Eaton House?’

‘I don’t know, Alice, but I suspect he broke a finger nail,’ Dad said as he left for work. ‘That, or if he’s as pure as the driven snow, he should get the Nobel Prize.’

After Dad had gone I sidled up to Mum. ‘What’s the matter? What do you want?’ she asked.

I became teary. ‘I don’t want to go to the swimming baths next week.

David will have a note from his mum. Can I get one, too?’

Mum held my face in her hands. She wiped my tears with her apron. ‘I doubt you’ll get one from her,’ she giggled, ‘but let me look at you. You could be coming down with something. Remind me Monday and if you still want a note, I’ll give you one.

All right?’

I hugged Mum but then hoped she wouldn’t tell Dad.