In the news… the investiture of Prince
Charles took place at Caernarvon
Castle. How he got be
Prince of Wales I don’t know. I was more Welsh than him.
At home… I sat down to watch Wimbledon on the telly, hoping to see Julie Heldman, an
American girl I’d taken an interest in the previous summer. When I found out
she’d been knocked out already, I lost interest in tennis for another year.
At school... Jean
Myles coming top of the class was no surprise. Nor was Davinder Kooner coming
top in maths. I was just glad the exams were over. My overall position of 22nd
wasn’t bad, even if it wasn’t good. People got demoted from the class twice a
year and others took their places, but I was still holding my own in the A1
stream. The only thing I felt bad about was the Art exam. Sixth, my lowest ever
placing, was a huge disappointment. I’d struggled with ‘The Bike Race’ from the
start and though it was the best option I could find in a selection of
mandatory titles, my heart just wasn’t in it.
At school… my old mate Kevin made me
laugh when he referred to the television programme Magpie as Shagpie, and I
laughed even more at the outrageous names he gave Tingha and Tucker. Kevin had
never been part of the football circle but when he joined us on the field for lunchtime
matches that summer; he showed a remarkable talent for goalkeeping. Throwing
himself at everything, he specialised in two handed punching.
The
flying gherkin was a sight to behold when he flew through the air, but there was
nothing he could do when…
I
brought the ball under control, Geoff Hurst style, and hit it left footed as it
bobbled up, smashing it beyond the airborne gherkin and high into the far
corner of an imaginary net. The exhilaration of the moment had barely passed
when, a minute later, I did the same thing with my right foot from the same
spot to score an otherwise identical goal. Lightning had struck twice. Oh the
elation!
Another talent to emerge was Richard Jordan. Tall and bespectacled, Richard was one of
life’s gentle souls and an unlikely athlete, but at full gallop he
was an incredible sight on the running track and worthy of the place he won in
the all-conquering Nowell house relay team.
Every
dog has its day and mine came on the practice track, on the top field, in a PE
lesson. Halfway round the first lap of an 880yd heat I found myself holding
onto second place, which was most unlike me. Eddie Adams had opened up a good
lead but he was no speed merchant himself and I sniffed a chance of glory.
Pushing a little harder closed the gap and at the start of the second lap, I
was right behind him.
I’ll stay on his shoulder and
try and take him on the final bend, like real runners do.
Though
I knew nothing of the science behind the strategy, I’d seen Olympic runners do
it and thought it a good idea. Much to my amazement the plan worked.
Accelerating past Eddie on the final bend I gave everything I had in a sprint
to the finish. I won, by what margin, I didn’t care. For a school nobody
winning a race, any race, was a moment to cherish. And that wasn’t all. At the
stroke of Mister Charlesworth’s pen, I’d become a Sports Day competitor in the
Gordon house 3rd year boys’ 880yds race.
Dinner
time: The usual crew weren’t around and, for once, I wasn’t bothered about
playing football. It was too hot, even for me. Alone, I wandered onto the
field, where I stopped short of the cricket nets to sprawl in the sun.
Michael
Elcombe, a third year kid in one of the B or C classes, was sitting with
friends nearby. A wrestling fan, he liked to watch it on telly on Saturday
afternoons, I heard him say. His favourites were Jackie Pallo and Mick McManus.
Then Michael and his friends wandered off and for a few moments all was quiet
and peaceful, as a summer day should be.
On
the far side of the field I spotted Brian Lack and Raymond Wright. As they
appeared to be eating ice creams or ice lollies, I assumed they’d just returned
from the tuck shop. Strolling along and in no apparent hurry, it seemed the
heat had got to the terrible twosome and with plenty of kids between them and me;
I had no reason to worry.
I
should have known better. Their pace quickened once they’d finished their ices.
Smelling trouble I leapt to my feet, but it was too late. At great speed they
came running, spreading out and trapping me in a pincer movement. A roughing up
was only to be expected but a contribution to their tuck shop fund, extracted
after I’d been hauled up by the ankles and shaken till the loose change fell
out of my pocket, was not. At least the thieving gits let me keep my bus fare.
I
still hadn’t asked Lindsay out. Getting her on her own was impossible in school
and difficult after school. Shaking off my friends whilst keeping Lindsay
in sight was one problem, another was Ann Howe. She and Lindsay always walked
home together and twice I’d been left tailing the wrong girl when Lindsay
disappeared somewhere on Gillingham Road.
In
the meantime I broke the habit of a lifetime and took a desk near the front in
a music lesson, just to get a bit closer to Lindsay. A good move, it turned
out, as Miss Rotherham was in a jolly, piano playing mood. All we had to do was
sing along to the song Marianina. From my desk on the second row I stole
sideways glances at Lindsay, on the front row, singing her heart out with a big
happy smile on her face. Sigh.
‘O'er
the ocean flies a merry fay,
Soft her wings are as a cloud of day,
As she passes all the blue waves say:
Marianina, do not roam,
Whither, whither is your home,
Come and turn us into foam,
Marianina, Marianina,
Come, O come and turn us into foam!’
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