Grocer Jack

Mister McVie praised two girls in assembly. He’d given them a lift to school in his car that morning and somewhere on route they’d spotted an SOS signal at a house window. Between them they’d raised the alarm and got help. Everyone gave the girls a round of applause but the incident had me deeply puzzled. As commendable as it sounded, just what was the SOS signal? And how did the girls know it was an SOS signal? The more I thought about it the more perplexed I got. I wouldn’t have recognised an SOS signal and neither would any of my friends. Other than the famous five in the Enid Blyton stories, I couldn’t think of anyone who’d know about SOS signals. It all seemed a bit strange. That didn’t stop me looking out for SOS signals anyway, when on the bus for the next few days.

I didn’t own a recorder. I was happy not to own one and furthermore, I didn’t want one. Several boys in our class didn't own one but that was no excuse in Miss Rotherham’s class.

‘Those of you that haven’t got a recorder, please take one of these,’ she said, pointing to a box of old recorders set aside for the apathetic minority. Well worn, they reeked of disinfectant and no wonder. With so many kids flobbing into them over the years, Miss Rotherham always made sure we dipped the mouthpiece in disinfectant before returning them to the box.

‘Oh Gawd, not You +1'd this publicly. UndoFrère bloody Jacques again.’

The first four notes sounded heavenly. After that my fingers were all over the place. Thank goodness the girls were accomplished enough to drown out the freestylers. Poor Miss Rotherham must have known she was flogging a dead horse with some of us, but her enthusiasm never faltered.
 

Another RE lesson meant another quiet half hour in the canteen for me, 2A1’s only Catholic. Only it wasn’t so quiet with John Busby around. After rattling off my own work I'd go and talk to him. John, a first year boy, spent much of his day doing set work in the canteen, as a plaster cast on his leg prevented him getting up the staircase to lessons on the upper floors. Not that he seemed bothered. John didn’t strike me as the studious type and he wasn’t short of confidence either. He told me a bare faced, opportunistic lie when he told me he was Matt Busby’s nephew. I hadn't just swallowed it, I’d gone and told my friends, but when I challenged the cocky git about it he just laughed, and closed the subject by singing a dirty ditty to a tune of the day.

‘Grocer Jack, Grocer Jack, is it true what Mummy said you stuffed an apple up her crack, oh no, no.’

For all his cheek, I missed John’s company when his leg mended. Though we continued to acknowledge one another in the playground, a friendship of convenience had come to an end. He had his friends, I had mine and though we rarely spoke again, he'd given me a song that I'd associate with him forever.

Without him my solitary RE sessions in the canteen seemed twice as long. I did my work and I twiddled my thumbs, and when the period was over I rejoined my class. As often as not I’d find them lined up outside a classroom, where my appearance on the corridor prompted jeers and cries of Roman Candle from the usual suspects. Roman Spastic always got a laugh, too. Besides being indicative of an aggressive, bolder year, the insult was reflective of the times.