The Dangling Burty

In the news… Bobby Kennedy was assassinated. ‘Not again,’ I thought, as I watched the sickening event on television.

Football… Italy beat Yugoslavia in the European championship final. England took third place after beating Russia.

At school… it was exam time. But more exciting things were happening like my mate Burty disappearing at dinner time.

‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked when he reappeared.

‘Mister Sharp’s room, Chess Club,’ he said.

How boring. I’d tried chess once. My friend Kevin Garlick taught me the different moves, but getting checkmated every five minutes was a misery that soon choked my interest.

‘We’re having a knockout contest; winner takes all,’ said Burty.

‘How much?’

‘Five bob.’

‘Then you’ll need a manager; me, for 20%.’

Next time my boy went off to his chess club I wished him luck. When he came back victorious I congratulated him. How far he could go in the contest remained to be seen, but for 20% I was backing him all the way.

Along with a couple of others, Burty and I spent an afternoon break sitting on the wall that separated the playground from the pool area. Or we would have done, had the wall not been crawling with red spiders. Slapping the little blighters with our hands was good enough for everyone but Burty, who clonked them with his duffel bag.

On another hot afternoon, if not the same one, we trudged up the zig zag staircases to Mister Askew’s classroom high on the top floor. Mister Askew wasn’t around and finding his door unlocked, we swarmed in.

Along with the sensible majority I was already seated when a kerfuffle broke out; someone had grabbed Burty’s duffel bag. Who was unclear, but the usual suspects and more besides were present when Brian Lack dangled the bag from an open window. Somewhere in the melee was Burty, up on his tiptoes, reaching out for his bag. The stakes got raised, and Burty too, when someone locked their arms round his shins and hoisted him in the air. I turned away in horror as two thirds of him vanished through the window,

‘Mister Askew!’

Thank God for that and not a moment too soon. A white faced Burty was hauled in seconds before Mister Askew entered the room. 

‘What’s going on?’

‘My bag was being held out of the window, Sir’

That wasn’t the half of it, but it was enough to get Mister Askew fuming. Brian Lack, still in possession of the evidence, was singled out as the chief culprit in a bag snatching prank and told to stand in front of the class. Burty and the other lads were told to sit down.

In the blink of an eye Mister Askew had armed himself with a stoolball bat and was standing behind Brian. ‘Bend over and put the bag on the floor in front of you.’

Brian did as he was told, and braced himself. When the expected whack didn’t come, he straightened up again.

‘Now pick it up,’ said a grim faced Mister Askew.

Brian picked up the bag.

‘Put it down.’

Brian put the bag down.

‘Pick it up.’

The cycle was repeated until Mister Askew, satisfied Brian was unprepared, let fly… THWACK!

‘Now give the bag back to Burtenshaw… and don’t ever do anything like that again.’

Brian Lack and Raymond Wright were the kings of the lower school that year. Like Ronnie and Reggie, their power was absolute. Which of them bought a maroon jumper first, I couldn’t say, I only noticed when both started wearing them. And they weren’t the only ones. Half a dozen imitators, like Derek Johnson, were wearing them too. The common denominator being that they were generally regarded as the boys of their respective classes. A coincidence or a token rebellion, I wondered, though not enough to ask.