It’s Not What You Think

And I was.

‘Come on Evans, WHAT DOES IT SAY?’ he screamed.

Now he still hadn’t seen what it said and was waiting for me to read it out, something I wasn’t prepared to do because whatever he thought it said, I bet he didn’t think it said what it did.

He asked me three more times but I just sat there. He couldn’t understand why I was being so defiant. The rest of the class couldn’t understand why either. Their sniggering had stopped, the room was now filled with an overwhelming air of tension, as if they were just urging me to get it over with. It was obvious I was going to get the whacks anyway. Why didn’t I just say whatever it was that was written on the bloody desk?

Some of them even began to mouth: ‘J U S T—T E L L—H I M.’

But I couldn’t, I had decided that the only thing worse than writing those words was then to vocalise them in front of a class of thirty-odd boys and a man who was now the most insane man on Planet Earth.

‘Alright Evans, then I will read it out. What does it say?’

‘Shit a fucking brick,’ I thought, ‘here it comes…’

And with that, his eyes widened as his brain engaged with the four simple single-syllable words that lay before him. There was a rumbling, like a volcano about to erupt, and then he screamed, ‘SIR…IS…A…QUEER!’

That was it, that’s what I had written, the fact that, in my ill-informed schoolboy brain, he was indeed a queer. The rest of the lads were immediately back in hysterics.

This was bad, very bad, and made worse by the fact that I had declared that he was a queer in front of a class of boys who all had supposed he might well be for some time now.

He ordered me to stand up. I was reluctant to do so. He ordered me again. Petrified, I slowly rose to my feet.

He looked at me as if he wanted to kill me.

He then punched me as hard as he could, not in the face but in the chest.

There was shock all around the room. My classmates sat open-mouthed in amazement as I was thrown backwards down the aisle where I hit the wall before slumping to the ground, completely winded.

What in Christ’s name did this psycho think he was doing?

I was a thirteen-year-old boy and, yes, I had been naughty, very naughty, but you don’t punch a kid, no matter what he’s done. My own father had never once raised a hand to me over anything and now here was a man whom I barely knew striking me with the full force of his adult strength.

I will never forget what I did next. There is a difference between bravery and fearlessness; I think bravery is more contemplated whereas fearlessness is more of reaction to a situation, the consequences of which are not an issue. This is exactly how I was feeling.

Incredulous as to what had happened, I raised myself up off the floor, scrambled back to my desk, picked up my chair and smashed it over his head as hard as I could—at least I think I did, that’s how it felt at the time anyway. It probably wasn’t quite as dramatic as that but I was so angry.

I do remember for sure him looking up at me and visibly cowering; suddenly his whole demeanour had changed: he looked like he was scared to death. The coward had shown himself for what he really was—a sorry and pathetic bully who had been stripped of his so-called might. I threw down the chair and walked out.

As the big heavy classroom door thud shut behind me with the help of one of those big brass cantilever arms that no one ever knows the name of, I found myself transported from chaos and calamity to calmness and serenity. I was suddenly alone. The corridors, often so busy during changeover and break times were now deathly quiet.

It was all very poignant.

I took one last look inside the classroom at the scene of bewilderment.

You can have that, I thought.

I was by no means a model student, but nor was I one of the bad lads and I certainly didn’t deserve what had just happened to me.

I turned and started to walk, the hollow sound of my own footsteps reminding me to keep on going. I can still picture it now, like a perfectly framed shot from a Luc Besson movie—the long, highly polished expanse of dark parquet flooring stretching out into the infinite distance, leading to a white light of hope, in my case the two huge main school doors which I was about to exit for the very last time, never to return.

When I woke up that morning I had no idea that by the end of the day, something would have taken place that would change my life for ever.

I would now need to find a new school, and the next school in question would have the added bonus of having girls—and one girl in particular.

But first let’s get death out of the way.

Top 10 Deaths (#ulink_d9066164-9346-51d1-a99d-50239450e9d9)

10 Elvis Presley

9 Princess Diana (sorry, but it’s true*)

8 My dog Max

7 My friend Ronnie

6 Uncle Harry

5 John Lennon

4 My friend James

3 My dog Rita

2 My dog Enzo

1 My dad

And so to the early death of my father—Martin Joseph Evans.

First of all let me I apologise for using the term ‘early death’ as I’m not quite sure whether that’s right, it’s just something we’ve always said about Dad. None of us know when we are supposed to die in the first place; therefore how can anyone’s passing really be declared ‘early’. Surely we are all meant to die when we do die and that’s why it happens when it does. The reason I suppose we refer to Dad’s death as being early is because he was relatively young, still in his fifties, when he was plucked out for promotion to that higher office in the sky.

Dad, like Mum, smoked twenty cigarettes a day—at least. Woodbines, evil non-tipped things. I often had a go on his dog-ends when he wasn’t looking. Enough to put anyone off smoking for life—not that it did. Martin J was also marginally overweight, maybe a tad more than marginally if I’m brutally honest. He had a marvellous squishy belly that my finger used to disappear into whenever I would check it out. (I have one of those bellies now.) My inspection of Dad’s belly would usually take place while I was draped over him on the sofa, using it as a pillow. Another feature of this experience is that I would be able to hear his breathing loudly up against my ear. He always had a whistling wheeze at the end of each breath, like the last puffs of air faintly draining from a set of bagpipes.

When it came to Dad’s diet, it wasn’t the best in the world but by no means was it the worst either. He did, however, lead what was for the majority of his days a sedentary lifestyle, which couldn’t have been good for him. He was either sat in his car driving to and from work, sat at home in his favourite chair or sat at work doing his sums as a wages clerk for the local health authority.

On the face of it, maybe not such a healthy existence, but then again he didn’t drink, he went to bed at 10.30 every night, he led a nine to five existence which seemed pretty stress-free, and he enjoyed a steadfastly sound and happy marriage.

In short, I think the things he did do that were bad for him were counteracted by countless other things that he didn’t do that could have been bad for him. I’m guessing he might have expected to make his early seventies at least.

Smoking is obviously the main suspect when it comes to the demise of people like Dad and can be merciless, but when my father died the docs said he had the lungs of a non-smoker—a fact Mum loves to reel out to anyone who will listen. She has a library of such facts from her life that she never wants us to forget, but this is perhaps her favourite.

Dad was hardly ever ill. In fact I only ever recall him being ill twice. Once with the thing that eventually killed him and the other time when he had earache.

I remember the occasion when he had earache as if it were yesterday. I was attending the grammar school when out of nowhere one morning, Dad said he would be able to give me a lift, something he had not been able to do since my leaving the juniors. I usually took the bus.

He had taken the morning off work to go to the doctors and found himself with half an hour to spare. This was another one of those all-round cool situations—a total win-win, it meant I got to be with Dad for an extra fifteen minutes, plus it spared me the bus fare, which gave me extra sweet purchasing power—whoopee!