Came the day that Billy had been dreading. His first day at Damian College! He donned his new uniform and felt very self-conscious in his new get-up. He looked new and he smelt new.
‘Everyone will be looking at me. Mam,’ he said.
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘No one will even notice you. Besides, David Priestley said he’ll go with you on your first day to show you the ropes. So stop worrying.’
For that first day, Mam had made up sandwiches and coffee in a new thermos flask. Billy brought out his new school set of pencils, pen, ruler, compass and protractor. He gathered everything together. It was then he made the discovery.
‘We’ve forgotten to buy a satchel. What am I supposed to carry all these things in? A paper bag?’
‘Oh, bugger it,’ said Mam. ‘I thought we’d got everything. It’s the one thing we didn’t think of. I’ll get you one this week as soon as I get the time to go into town again.’
‘But what am I going to do today? I’ve got all these things to carry, and there’s my gas mask as well. Mustn’t forget my gas mask.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘You can use that big strong
carrier bag what we bought on our trip to Blackpool. 5
‘But it’s bright red, and on one side it’s got a big picture of George Formby saying “Turned Out Nice Again” and on the other a dirty big Union Jack. 5
‘It doesn’t matter just for a few days. No one will ever notice. 5
‘Oh, all right. If you say so, 5 said Billy doubtfully.
David Priestley called for him at half past seven and they set off together. On the 42 bus, the conductor said:
‘What’ve you got in the bag, lad - your ukelele? If it’s Blackpool you want, you’re going the wrong way. 5
‘Take no notice, 5 said David. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where Regina Park and the school are. Don’t be nervous, Billy. You’ll be all right. I was just the same on the first day - as nervous as a kitten. But you’ll soon pick up the new routine. 5
They passed through two huge iron gates, not unlike those Billy had seen on the front of Strangeways, and into a large quadrangle. There it was - Damian College! A massive, towering, frightening red-bricked building with hundreds of windows. In the yard there was a great crowd of boys all dressed in school uniform - some obviously new like himself and looking very edgy and ill at ease. And a few looking petrified like the proverbial lambs. About the place there were also many adult-looking students in similar smart - but not so new - uniforms. The big fellows completely ignored the young ones. As they walked through the school gates, David Priestley glanced over towards his own form-mates, who were laughing and pointing at Billy’s red carrier and at David, who had now turned the same colour as the bag.
‘I’ll leave you here, Billy, 5 he said abruptly. ‘I have to join my own friends over there. You’ll be OK now. 5
Eventually, a master in a cassock appeared and blew a
whistle. They were shepherded - new boys first - into a large hall with a stage over which there was a giant shield with the school motto in large letters across the top: ASTRA CASTA, NUMEN LUMEN - which meant ‘The stars my camp, God my lamp’. The new boys were lined up trembling with fear, caps in hand, satchels on backs - with the exception, of course, of one who carried a red bag. The rest of the school was brought into the hall and arranged in ascending order of age, with the big adult- types at the back.
On to the stage came the all-male staff, wearing black gowns.
‘If they were hanging upside down from the ceiling,’ said Billy to the tall, thin boy next to him, ‘they could be a scene out of Mark of the Vampire .’
In unison, the staff sat down and Billy waited in trepidation for Bela Lugosi to appear.
He hadn’t long to wait. On to the stage he swept - the star of the show. As he did so, the whole staff rose as one to its feet. He was a giant, majestic figure wearing thick, dark glasses, and more terrifying than Lugosi himself. Adam McGrath, alias Brother Dorian, OD, gazed down on the boys as if they were ants, and even though there were over three hundred boys in the hall, you could have heard the pin. The new boys watched the performance, hypnotised.
Brother Dorian took out a small silver snuff-box, sprinkled a little snuff on to the back of his wrist and sniffed the powder deliberately up each nostril. From somewhere deep down in the folds of his black cassock he extracted a huge silk handkerchief, into which he blew his nose with a deafening explosion. Looking like a human giraffe sniffing down his nostrils at the mortals beneath, he glared at his juvenile audience. Slowly and meticulously
he proceeded to fold the handkerchief into a long sausage, which he used to polish under his nose with a side-to- side sawing movement. Lingeringly, he put the kerchief back into his cassock, removed the heavy spectacles, fixed his eyes solemnly upon his insect-like students and addressed them in deep, sepulchral tones.
‘Be under no delusions . . .’
Thinking that a delusion might be some kind of sword of Damocles, Billy looked up anxiously at the ceiling to make sure he wasn’t under one.
‘The world is now poised on the edge of an abyss,’ the silver-haired colossus continued. ‘Yesterday, war was declared on Germany. One third of our school has been evacuated to Blackpool and you who remain here in Manchester must be prepared for the might of the Boche and Goering’s Luftwaffe to be turned on us. It may not be tomorrow, nor even the next day. But make no mistake - come he will. We in this country must be ready for him. But I hear you ask . . .’
Billy looked round to see who had asked, but the school seemed to be listening stony-faced.
‘Yes, I hear you ask,’ continued Brother Dorian. ‘How long can Herr Hitler and his group of wicked men whose hands are stained with blood and soiled with corruption keep their grip on the docile German people? It was for Hitler to say when the conflict would begin, but it will be for us to say when it will end. Today is not the end. Nay, it is not the end of the end. It is not even the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning. But of one thing you can be sure - today, we begin to begin.’
The staff behind him looked perplexed at this statement.
Billy was almost sure he had heard a song on the wireless with very similar words: ‘When they begin
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t±ie beguine’ or something like that.
‘Now let us pray,’ said Brother Dorian.
After the prayers the school was dismissed, but the new boys were told to stay behind in the hall, where a roll-call was taken and they were allocated to their forms. Billy found himself in a form with the curious title of Three Alpha, and one of the bat-like masters - a particularly corpulent individual - herded them off to their form-room, with Billy making futile attempts to hide his conspicuous carrier bag. There, the master assigned each one of them to an individual desk and told them to print their full names on the cardboard badges which he had supplied.
‘These badges must be worn on your lapels for the first month,’ the fat man said, ‘until we get to know you. Woe betide anyone who loses his badge.’
Carefully, the boys set to work. When the task was completed, the master addressed them again.
‘My name is Ronald Puddephatt. If I see even a flicker of a smile on anyone’s face at the mention of my name, they’ll be for it.’
The boys sat staring ahead, poker-faced.
‘For my sins,’ he continued, ‘I am your form master and your English teacher. Right, let’s begin. Each of you will now introduce himself to the rest of us by giving his full name and telling us something about himself.’
‘We shall start with you,’ he said, pointing to a fairhaired, spotty-faced boy in the front row.
It was during this session that Billy came to a full understanding of how different this new school was from the dear, dear old St Chad’s he had left behind.
‘My full name,’ said the boy indicated, ‘is Rodney Arthur Potts, and I live with my parents and four older sisters in a detached house in Fallowfield. My father owns
a chain of grocery shops in the Manchester area; you may have seen one or two of them about the place.’
‘Next, Cash.’
Cash was an ugly, buck-toothed, thick-set, heavily built lad who looked a little older than the rest of the class.
‘My full name is Robert Edward Cash,’ he drawled. ‘You will note that my name could be abbreviated to R. Eddy Cash. Ready Cash, do you see? My father thought this rather droll, as he is a financial consultant on the Royal Exchange.’
‘Next, Hopkins. Aren’t you the boy with that hideous red carrier bag? Where on earth did you get it from?’
‘Yes, sir. P-please, sir, me dad got it with some sticks o’ rock when we went to Blackpool in the summer.’
‘Did he indeed! And why, may we ask, have you not acquired a satchel like the rest of the form?’
‘Please, sir, me mam forgot to get one o’ them satchels. But she says she’s gonna gerra new one tomorrer.’
‘Yes, all right. Go ahead. Tell us about yourself.’
‘Please, sir . . .’
‘And stop saying “Please, sir”. You’re not at your elementary school now.’
‘Yes, sir. Me name’s Billy ’Opkins and I come from Cheetham Hill and me dad’s a porter.’
‘ “Hopkins” isn’t a name,” remarked Cash. ‘It’s some sort of disease, isn’t it, sir?’
‘You stupid fellow,’ said the master. ‘You’re thinking of Hodgkin’s disease. No, this name is altogether different. It’s the name of a famous poet, but we can hardly call our new boy here “Gerald Manley”, can we? Perhaps George Formby would be a more appropriate name, eh? Anyway, this poet wrote, “ Glory be to God for dappled things -/For skies of couple-colour as a brindled cow ”, but in that beautiful poem, Hopkins, your namesake makes no mention of red
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carrier bags bearing the face of George Formby and the Union Jack.’
‘Perhaps Gerald Manley was his grandfather,’ volunteered Tony Wilde, another new boy.
‘I doubt it,’ said the teacher, ‘since Gerald Manley was a Jesuit priest! But one thing is obvious, my dear Hopkins, we are going to have to do a Pygmalion job on you. Does anyone know what I mean by that?’
‘Isn’t that the name of a fillum, sir, with Wendy Hiller and Leslie Howard?’ said Billy.
‘It is indeed,’ said the master. ‘Has anyone here been to see it?’
‘Not bloody likely,’ said Billy.
‘Get out here, Hopkins. You must be introduced to my method of dealing with unruly little boys.’
‘But, sir,’ protested Billy, ‘I was only quoting a line from the fillum. I read about it in the Evening Chron .’
‘The fact that George Bernard Shaw swears is no excuse for you to emulate him. Now turn your face over to the side.’
Mr Puddephatt made Billy stand by his side and then tilted his face at an angle, leaving him in that position.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Billy. ‘That fillum was on in town but we can’t go to see it now ’cos the gover’ment’s closed down all the picture ’ouses in case the Germans drop bombs on ’em.’
‘They won’t remain closed forever, boy. Now keep your head tilted.’
The next boy, Robin Gabrielson, had a face resembling one of the angels painted on St Chad’s altar. His head was a mass of black curls and his eyes seemed to dance when he spoke.
‘Don’t tell us you’re the son of an archangel,’ said Puddephatt after Robin had introduced himself.
‘No, sir. My father is a tea merchant. He buys and sells tea in the Manchester district. We live here in Rusholme, not too far from the school. 5
‘Sounds very impressive, 5 said the master. ‘Next boy! 5
‘Me name’s Nodder, sir. 5
Before Nodder could continue, however, Mr Puddephatt moved at lightning speed and delivered a stinging slap to Billy’s face, which was still inclined at the angle where he had set it.
‘That is known in the school as the Puddephatt Slap. Sit down and remember it! Now, Mr Nodder, you were about to enlighten us with a few details about yourself. Incidentally, I do hope you’re not related to the infamous murderer, Frederick, who was hanged at Lincoln last year. 5
‘No, sir. Me name’s Norbert - Norbert Nodder. Me friends call me Nobby. And me dad’s a driver on the 95 bus with Manchester Corporation. 5
‘Neither the number of the bus nor the particular corporation he drives for is of any interest to us here, 5 said the teacher. ‘But I trust, Mr Nodder, that you’re not going to nod off to sleep in my class. Anyway, I shall call you Fred. Next boy. 5
‘Me name’s Richard Smalley, but at me last school everyone called me Dick Smalley. And me dad’s a cleaner for the LMS Railway. 5
Not a muscle on Puddephatt’s face moved as he said:
‘Dick Smalley? Yes. Yes. A most interesting name. But in this class you’ll be called Titch, which has a less phallic ring to it, I think. 5
The boy sitting behind Titch had an even more unfortunate name.
‘I’m called Oliver Hardy, sir, 5 he said apologetically.
With a menacing scowl, Mr Puddephatt quelled the roar of laughter which had been suppressed since Titch
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had announced his appellation. When the noise had subsided, he said:
‘Go on. Oily.’
‘My dad’s got his own window-cleaning round and my brother’s learning to be a priest at a college in London.’
‘A window-cleaning round, eh? Another George Formby aficionado. Perhaps you should buy a bag like that of Hopkins.’
By break-time, Mr Puddephatt had managed to get round the whole form of twenty-five boys, hearing introductions, making what he thought were facetious comments and dishing out nicknames. Antony Wilde, a tall, thin boy, became Oscar, whilst a rather tubby, bespectacled boy named William Bunnell was awarded the sobriquet Bunter.
At the end of the session, Mr Puddephatt said:
‘It is quite evident that a number of you are going to have to learn the King’s English. For some of you, English is a foreign tongue. But remember this, to quote from Shaw’s Pygmalion : “Your native language is the language of Shakespeare and Milton and the Bible”, and I’m going to make sure you speak it correctly if it’s the last thing I do. It is vital that you read and read and read. I shall insist that you get through at least one book per month. Now, here is your first piece of homework. You will begin by studying the first tale in this book that I am about to present to you, and I shall test you on it in our very next lesson.’
He pointed to Cash. ‘I’m appointing you form monitor, as you seem to be the oldest and perhaps the most sensible boy here. Give out the books.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ said Cash as he distributed copies of The Arabian Nights around the class.
‘Secondly, by tomorrow - and not by tomorrer,
Hopkins - you will each write either a limerick or an epitaph based on one of the names of a member of this form. You may work in pairs if you wish. I look forward to hearing them. Class dismissed.’
As the boys filed out of the room, Cash mimicked Billy’s introduction:
‘ “Me name’s Billy ’Opkins and Ah coom from Cheetham ’ill and Ah bought me red bag in Blackpool, Ah did. And me dad’s a porter.” Good God, how have these working-class peasants got into one of our schools? And his father’s a porter, don’cha know? I do hope he’s not one of those black chaps who carry boxes on their heads for explorers like David Livingstone.’
He roared with laughter at his own joke. A few of the rich boys who were near him joined in, mainly to avoid becoming targets of his sarcasm themselves.
Robin Gabrielson overheard the jibes and immediately took Billy’s side.
‘Look, Cash, we’re all new here today and we’re all feeling edgy and nervous. We’ve got to make the best of it and try to make friends - not enemies. So lay off. And if you’re so high and mighty, why didn’t your father send you to a public school?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Cash, ‘my father did consider Downside, but I preferred to remain at home.’
‘S’all right, Robin,’ said Billy. ‘Cash don’t worry me. I’ve dealt with tougher guys than him in me time. But what do you make of this Mr Puddephatt then?’
‘Who does he think he is, making fun of our names?’ said Tony Wilde, joining in. ‘We’re not even allowed to smile at his stupid name. I think I shall call him “Pussycat”. ’
‘I think I’d rather have “Puppyfat”,’ said Billy.
The laughter which this suggestion occasioned decided the issue.
After the break there began what seemed like an endless procession of masters, each trying to sell his subject, rather like the stallholders on Tib Street Market - French, Latin, maths, physics, history, geography, art and physical education.
At the end of that first day, Billy went home with his head in a whirl and feeling distinctly unhappy.
‘I don’t think I’m going to like this school,’ he said to Tony Wilde who, since he lived in Moston, used the same 53 bus home.
‘I feel just the same,’ said Tony. ‘I don’t think I can put up with Puppyfat for a whole year.’
When Billy reached home, Mam was waiting for him with a cup of tea.
‘Well, how was it - your first day?’ she enquired anxiously.
‘I’m missing St Chad’s, Miss Eager, Henry Sykes, Joey Flewitt and even Stan White already. And please, please. Mam, can we go out now afore the shops shut and buy a satchel?’
‘No need,’ she said. ‘I’ve already done it!’ and she produced the most beautiful leather satchel.
‘Thank the Lord for Grandma’s teapot!’ he said.
The next day Billy went proudly to school with his new leather satchel firmly strapped to his back. He didn’t feel quite so bad on this second day, as he now knew what to expect, and he had made a few tentative friends in Robin Gabrielson, Tony Wilde, Titch Smalley, Nobby Nodder and Oily Hardy.
Things could be worse, I suppose, he said to himself.
In the first lesson of the day, Puppyfat wasted no time. ‘Right, yesterday I set you some homework. I hope for your sake that you’ve done it or it’ll be the Puddephatt Slap for some of you. So let’s hear your efforts. We’ll start with you, Oscar.’
‘Yes, Mr Puddephatt.
‘An unfortunate lad, Rodney Potts,
Was plagued by an outbreak of spots,
Zam-buk he applied oh so thickly,
Which made him look even more sickly,
But won him the name “Join-the-dots”.’
‘Quite good, Oscar,’ said Puppyfat. ‘And your reply, Potts?’ '
‘Very good, sir.
‘A beanpole whose name was Wilde.
Said “No, it can’t be denied,
When challenged to fight,
I take off in flight,
And burst into tears like a child ’
‘Touche,’ said the master. ‘Now let’s have your effort, Gabrielson.’
‘Mine is an epitaph for Titch Smalley, sir.
‘Titch Smalley’s dead, and here he lies,
Nobody laughs and nobody cries;
Where his soul’s gone, or how it fares.
Nobody knows, and nobody cares ’
‘That’s a very grave statement,’ said Puddephatt. ‘No doubt you have a reply to that, Titch?’
‘Yes sir. I knew he’d written that and so I’ve written an epitaph for Gabrielson’s tombstone.
‘Here lies Robin who came from heaven And left this world in thirty-seven.
Where he's gone, no one can tell,
We only hope it isn't hell'
‘You really are a bunch of malicious boys,’ the master said happily. ‘Your effort now, Cash.’
‘Very good, sir. Mine’s about Billy Hopkins.’
‘Yes, I thought it might be,’ said Puddephatt. ‘Let’s hear your masterpiece.’
C A slum-kid named like a poet,
Was stupid and didn't even know it.
He carried the flag,
On the side of his bag.
And thought he would hide it, not show it.'
‘I am not sure Gerald Manley would appreciate your wit. Cash,’ said the teacher. ‘Do you have a reply, Hopkins, to this onslaught?’
‘Yes, sir.
C A lad by the name Eddy Cash,
Thought he was really quite flash,
But when faced with a fight,
He quickly took flight.
And broke the school's hundred-yard dash.'
‘And that’s where I think we’ll finish,’ said Puddephatt.
‘We’ll hear the rest next week.’
★ ★ ★
As David Priestley had predicted, Billy soon fell into his new routine, and the days passed quickly. He travelled into school on the 42 bus with David, and at night he made the long bus ride home with Oscar Wilde on the 53. The days turned into weeks, and before he knew it, November had come round, and St Chad’s and the scholarship exam seemed like ancient history.
At school, the learning went on relentlessly. He found geometry particularly difficult, mainly because of the bad teaching of Brother Campion, who had the rare gift of making the simplest proposition sound like Einstein’s theory of relativity. Further, he had devised a cruel and inflexible means of punishing those who had the audacity not to understand his gobbledy-gook.
‘Let me introduce you to Paddy-whack,’ he said, flourishing a large gym shoe above his head. ‘If you get two out of ten for your homework twice running, he will make his acquaintance with your backside.’
Billy had already had one two-out-of-ten for his attempt to answer a question he did not understand: ‘ Show that if the mid points of the sides of an equilateral triangle are joined , the resulting triangle is also equilateral. What fraction of the whole triangle is it ?’ That weekend he made a superhuman effort to solve the problem and produced work of incredible neatness, but it was wrong again. On Tuesday morning he met Mr Paddy-Whack, and received two swipes on his rear which made it difficult for him to sit down for the rest of the day.
‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he confided to Oscar on the way home. ‘I shall have to get help at weekends from my brother-in-law, who’s a draughtsman at Avro’s.’
Indeed, it was Steve Keenan who gave Billy what little spare time he had to help him solve his problems and unravel the mysteries of Euclid’s theorems.
Soon, classroom personalities emerged and two distinct groupings began to form. The Cash group, made up largely of fee-payers and well-to-do pupils, sneered at the other set, which consisted mainly of working-class scholarship boys. There was no doubt which of the two divisions Mr Puddephatt favoured.
One day towards the middle of November, the master was called out of the room by a telephone call.
‘Cash, whilst I’m out, stand by my desk and take the names of any boys who make a nuisance of themselves.’
As soon as Puppyfat had left the room, Billy called out:
‘Who do you think you are, Cash?’
‘He thinks he’s a teacher,’ said Robin.
‘He thinks he’s rather flash, does Cash,’ said Oscar, unable to resist quoting Billy’s immortal verse.
‘You think you’re a teacher, Cash. Here’s a piece of chalk for you!’ shoutedTitch, and he threw a small morsel at Cash’s head.
‘And another from me!’ called Nobby Nodder.
At that moment Brother Dorian was walking by, and as he entered the room a deathly hush fell over the class.
‘Where is Mr Puddephatt?’ he asked sternly.
‘He had to leave the room for a few minutes, sir,’ answered Cash, ‘and he left me in charge and told me to take the names of troublemakers.’
‘And have you?’ asked the head. ‘I would very much like to know who was making all that row just now.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve taken down the names.’
Cash handed Brother Dorian his sheet of paper.
‘Right, the following boys will now go down to the gym and wait for me. I will not tolerate such hooliganism in my school: Hardy, Hopkins, Gabrielson, Wilde, Nodder and Smalley.’
‘I just knew there’d be trouble,’ said Titch.
‘Not many people know/ said Oily, ‘that if you relax your whole body on the first stroke of the cane, you won’t feel any pain.’
Trembling, the six boys made their way down to the gym. After five agonising minutes, Brother Dorian strode in swishing and testing out a long cane.
‘Line up,’ he said. ‘Gabrielson, you first. Out here and touch your toes.’
Robin went forward and bent down as if about to play a game of leapfrog. The five waiting boys watched spellbound. Brother Dorian took up his stance, raised the cane high in the air, and brought it down with a loud swishing sound. There was a thwack as the cane bit into the flesh of Robin’s bottom. The scream which started up from Robin’s throat was quickly stifled. The torture continued, and as the second blow was on its way down, Robin reached instinctively to his backside and the cane struck him across the back of his hand, immediately raising an ugly, livid, purple weal.
‘Stay down, boy,’ called the head. Robin received a total of six strokes, and when he straightened up there were two large tears glistening in the corners of his eyes but he made no sound.
‘Next, Hopkins.’
Slowly and fearfully, Billy went forward to take his punishment. No sooner had he bent over than the first blow landed. To his surprise, he heard the crack as it struck but he felt no pain. There followed five more strokes. Still no pain. He stood up, and it was then that a searing, burning sensation hit him, as if someone had applied a red-hot poker to his buttocks. The whole of his rump was aflame. He could hardly breathe let alone move out of the gym because of the agony. He forced the tears back and painfully made it to the door.
Outside, he waited with Robin for the others to emerge from the torture chamber. They heard the pistol shots of the stick as it struck buttocks, and the screams of torment as each in turn underwent his flogging. When all was over, the six boys climbed painfully back up the stairs.
‘That theory of yours. Oily,’ said Oscar, grimacing, ‘about not feeling anything. Well, it needs looking at again.’
‘That’s what was claimed in the book where I saw it.’
As they re-entered the form room, a strange, unearthly silence fell over the class and looks of admiration followed their return to their desks. Cash, however, could not look the heroes in the eye.