Episode 13: Love and Affection

The whole era was mounting. I bought Joan Armatrading and Bruce Springsteen albums and began to buy what could vaguely be described as fashionable clothes. With Seamus's forwardness, a second mass cinema date was somehow arranged. As previously mentioned, 'Grease' was the film of the hour. The whole thing held no appeal for me whatsoever. I hated rock and roll and John Travolta and Olivia Netwon John made shit pop records that dominated the charts instead of my punk favourites, but Seamus liked Elvis and as this was the current box office attraction, we targeted it as bait.

One rare piece of good fortune over the previous two years had been Wendy Longson. A good looking, muscular girl with enormous knockers. Wendy's non-stop chatter was the only reason she wasn't more popular. She was obsessed with outdoor sports, mostly canoeing, which with her powerful physique, she triumphed in. She was also intelligent and friendly and when I asked her to come to the film, she immediately accepted on a platonic basis. Hah! Now I could put childish notions of friendship aside and claim it as my first score.

By the time Saturday came, I'd begun to believe my own publicity. The crowds were huge as I stepped off the bus and I felt obscurely that they had come to witness my date with destiny. Seamus had a natural inclination to cheat and despite being small, pushed into the front of the queue, dragging me with him. We'd made it into the cinema, which would have been impossible if we'd queued up properly, but we'd had to take a chance that the girls would be inside waiting for us.

No sign in the foyer. Running along the back of the cinema and in and out of the auditorium eventually drew the attentions of the manager who I argued with half-heartedly before he threatened to throw us out. Seamus remarked afterwards: "I thought you were going to hit that bloke!" Me, thirteen, pale and skinny. Him a tatooed, fifty-year old teddy boy yob. It was a ridiculous notion. Hah! I was good at faking aggression.

We watched the film, which wasn't too painful and Seamus seemed to be enjoying himself. Almost every song had made the British charts. Even I liked a couple, and the cinema sang along to the hits. No sign of the dates though. Bah! It was never going to happen.

We filed despondently out of the back. It was now dark, but waiting at the front were Solomon, Wendy and the rest of the group. Some misunderstanding. I can't remember. Strolling through the darkened precinct, nerves jangling with the real prospect of attack, we came at last to the safety of the bus shelters. Solomon and co shunted off. This was my time. The opportunity would not be wasted. Despite Wendy's excuses for not coming into the doorway with me, I was going to be unreasonable. The night fell still, my lips pressed against hers. The last kiss two long years ago. But this was a new technique. Like a stand-up tonsillectomy. I was not finished. I held her in the correct stance. A few exchanged phrases and one more to finish. Seamus hung around in the background. I walked back to the bus-stop in ecstasy and relief. I could now lie and exaggerate from a firm basis. And I had a witness.

I let the news circulate on Monday. There was no need to brag; the inquisitors swam around. Having friends like Woodlouse and Weisman helped, who could generally be relied upon to blab anything around the class, especially if told in confidence. The rumours that we might be going out together circulated on the minor grapevine for a few days until a firm denial from Wendy prompted the hasty equivalent from me. So, the initial obstacle had been overcome. It was now time to find something a little more permanent.


The sum of the square

The end of my tether had been reached. 'Fuck Barnsley' I scrawled in the margin of my Maths book. Anyone who called me 'Innes' on a regular basis was heading for a fall. Blue, white and grey arms shot up and down around me. Unacknowledged fascist salutes to the tyranny of learning. I joined in as often as I could, readily abasing myself before the possibility of recognition.

Next morning, we joined the line shuffling along the corridor towards Assembly. I didn't see the human express train coming in the opposite direction. A moment later, I was seized by the collar and dragged at twice my previous speed back in the direction I'd come from. Shock turned swiftly to the realisation that I'd forgotten to erase my insult before handing in my Maths book the previous afternoon. It was a time for cowardice. And some razor-sharp thinking. The image of the polite and co-operative boy I'd sporadically tried to cultivate would now have to save my life.

Barnsley released me at his desk and pointed towards the book.
"What's this!!!?" he yelled.
"Dunno sir!" I cringed. Such deference was strictly contrary to my principles but I was fighting for my future domestic life. However, almost immediately I saw my uncertainty had come to my aid. Whereas the numbers stood obediently to attention, my 'literary hand' had followed it's usual forward-leaning slope. Similar, incidentally, to Weisman's. I was back off the defensive.

"Get yer 'ands out of yer pockets!" roared Barnsley.
My instinctive fear (of my parents' reaction) still hadn't corrected my habitually slovenly stance.
Barnsley hissed at me.
"Did you do this!!?"
"No sir!"
"Looks like your writing to me...!"
I shrugged hopelessly.
"Who do you think it was then?"
"......."
"Woodlouse?? Weisman..??!"
"It might have been..."
I reckon it was the flamboyance of the 'Fuck' that had got to him. The 'F' was like something out of Byron. It was the mockery of the effeminate.
Barnsley chewed on his pencil.
"Wait there while I fetch Mr Whiskey-Gommorah..."

I was through the worst. Our year head was an alcoholic who drank to initiate a dialogue with his problems. True, he was always too befuddled afterwards to draw conclusions, but at least he wasn't looking for anybody else to blame. Whiskey entered, looking harassed at having been dragged away from his morning coffee break and his tuts as he picked up the book were immediately one step removed from the offence. He started flicking back through the pages, trying to work up some spiel along the lines of, 'Seems fine up to now, Mr Barnsley?...Strange to go and spoil it all like this?" But in truth, it wasn't that good. Just about tidy enough to engender doubt.

"...Has anybody else had this book?" asked Whiskey, suddenly glimpsing a way forward.
"A few people....Woodlouse...Weisman..."
Whiskey wouldn't know the names, but he'd repeat them to Barnsley.
"Well then..." declared Whiskey.
"I suggest you sort out between you who did this...then come and see me!"
"Yes, sir!"
It was a bit melodramatic, but who cared? There was a parents' evening looming and Barnsley might still be looking for trouble. I wasn't out of the woods yet. Right now, it might be wise to consider taking out a little insurance...