The First Week

Assembly was about to begin when someone addressed the first year pupils from the stage.

‘Are there any Catholics here?’

What’s this about? I wondered. Raising my hand with some uncertainty, I peered down the line of my 1A1 classmates to see how many of us there were. The answer was none. Being on the front row, and blind to the hand count in the classes behind me, I suddenly felt anxious.

‘Please will you all go with Mister Carroll.’

Mister Carroll, a dark haired, sombre looking man, led a handful of bewildered first years out of the hall, through the canteen and up the stairs to his classroom, where we joined a dozen or so older pupils of Maltese, Italian and Irish backgrounds. We stood solemnly as Mister Carroll delivered an alternative Welcome to Upbury speech.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked mournfully.

Silence

‘You should not be here.’

Puzzlement and more silence.

You should be at Saint John Fisher, why aren’t you there? Why have your parents sent you here?’

His sorrowful, despairing tone added shame to my confusion. We would not be doing RE with our classmates, he informed us. Instead, we should report to his classroom and collect a questionnaire, prepared by him, along with a copy of the previous Sunday’s Mass sheet, and go and sit in the canteen. At the end of the period we would return our work to him and rejoin our classes. In addition, we would not attend assembly on Tuesdays and Thursdays but report to his classroom for Catholic Prayers.

I came out of there feeling miserable. Nothing of what I’d seen and heard had been in the brochure. A pupil at Upbury Manor, that’s all I wanted to be, same as my friends and everyone else, but in a matter of minutes my future had been redefined. I was now a Catholic pupil at Upbury Manor and vulnerable, once more, to the insecurities of being an outsider.

I cheered up when 1A1 had their first French lesson, though it was disappointing to find out the only difference between Gerard in English and Gérard in French is a bit of phlegm. The best part was hearing the names Miss Lake gave my classmates. Peter Burtenshaw became Pierre, and Brian Lack got stuck with a plum when renamed Bruno. Then much to my delight Shelley Jordan was renamed Solange. Naturally, I couldn’t wait to see my 1A2 pals at break time and tell them we had a Blancmange in our class as well.

In those early days when everything was new, I enjoyed the illogical novelty of the class moving en-masse from classroom to classroom for different subjects. Stretching the legs helped shake off the lethargy of dreary lessons, like Science. Despite Mister Berger’s best efforts, Science left me glassy eyed and Miss Rotherham’s Music lessons weren’t far behind. Older than her female colleagues, Miss Rotherham was slight of frame and big on crotchets, and though her rapturous enthusiasm was wasted on me, I was quietly chuffed when she issued everyone a Hymn Book. ‘Look after them, they’re yours to keep,’ she said. Turning the pages of a light blue hardback, all brand new and fresh, I knew I most surely would. 

Mister McVie the headmaster stood in for one of our first English lessons. If there was a side to him other than that of a gentle old soul, I did not see it. Afforded immediate respect for his personality and position, Mister McVie’s teaching style was calm, measure and assured. After teaching us a poem – The Blackbird, by a chap called Humbert Wolfe – he told us to write it in our exercise books and suggested we draw a picture letter.

What?

Once he’d explained to a sea of blank faces what a picture letter was, this kindly old gentleman sat with his hands clasped upon his knee while we produced something like this...

During the course of the next French lesson Miss Lake dried up when addressing Shelley Jordan. She couldn’t remember Shelley’s French name, and nor could Shelley. Miss Lake turned to the class.

‘Does anyone remember what Shelley’s French name is?’

Naïvely, I raised my hand, the only kid to do so.

‘Yes, Gérard?’

‘It’s Solange, Miss.’

‘Ah, mais oui, Solange! Merci bien Gérard! Tres bon!’

Happy to accept praise in any language, I smiled my humblest you’re welcome smile until – in a moment of mischief – Miss Lake pounced with a question loaded with ooh la la. 

‘And how did you remember that was Shelley’s French name, Gérard?’

My smile disintegrated as a jeer erupted around the classroom, a jeer that would be familiar to anyone that ever dropped a plate in a canteen. I didn’t know where to put my face.

 I like Miss Lake, but next time she needs help she can piss off.

Reconciliation: Kevin and I were friends again. Whatever the reason behind our fall out, the ties that bound us proved much stronger. My blood brother and I had shared too many things to let a punch up come between us. Together we’d caught sticklebacks, built bonfires, thrown cap bombs and gone scrumping. We’d captured toy soldiers from each other; buried them and tortured them, and dabbed jam on their heads so the ants would get them. And we’d donned plastic helmets and slapped each other round the head with rolled-up newspapers; all strands in an unbreakable bond. Yes, Kevin and me, the original fatty and skinny, were friends again.

Footnote: Assembly. In those first few days, 1A1 lined up to form the front row (facing the stage) at assembly. 1A2 stood behind us with 1B1 behind them. Within days these three classes were invited to sit on the steps at the front of the stage, with 1A1 taking the centre. This (possibly more familiar) arrangement remained in place for the rest of that school year.

Footnote: Mister Carroll, a kind man with a wonderful sense of humour, was a Catholic himself. Trapped by his faith and lumbered with a responsibility he hadn’t sought, I believe he was letting off a bit of frustration that morning.