with compound words derived from these like ‘arse-kisser’ and ‘arse-licker’.
At some point in the lesson, Oscar began asking his historical questions.
‘Miss, is it true that during the Sino-Japanese War the Japs forbade the importation of Chinese prose?’
The question he was most proud of was:
‘Miss, yesterday, you were talking about the Boer War. Can you tell us please who’s Krujer?’
And Miss Dunn would naively begin answering his question:
‘You mean Paul Kruger, I think. Well, of course, he was the Afrikaner leader and president of the Transvaal.’
‘Ah, now I see, miss. The Afrikaner leader. He’s Krujer. Thank you, miss.’
Finally, as she was leaving at the end of the lesson, Oscar would call out to her just as she reached the door:
‘Miss, when’s your next period?’
But even Edith Dunn spotted the double-entendre and obligingly blushed for the class. If only she had taken a * leaf out of Bart Jarvis’s book and threatened them with Brother Dorian, she would have solved her problems in one go.
June the sixth 1944 was D-Day. A terse, low-key announcement from General Eisenhower’s HQ told the world that the long-awaited invasion of Europe had at last begun: ‘Allied naval forces supported by strong air forces began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.’
It was also D-Day for the Upper Fifth. The School Certificate examination of the Northern Universities Joint Board began.
From the beginning, it soon became obvious that the
exam was to be a travesty. The students were ill-prepared not only by the final year’s course but by the whole period of their grammar-school education, which had been completely disrupted by a world war.
Apart from this major factor, there were one or two local practices which did not stand up to scrutiny. In art, for example, Billy’s sketching and drawing skills were extremely limited - but not so those of his exam neighbour, Robin, who possessed a genuine talent in this direction. The subject for the drawing-from-memory part of the art exam that year was an inspirational one - a shovel resting across a bucket. The two friends sat at the same exam table. A quick switch of drawing boards, a quick switch back again, and lo! Billy had a most beautiful, accurate representation of the subject on his drawing sheet. The architecture section of the tests followed, and the art teacher invigilated the students - checking to see that there was no hanky-panky. As he circulated the examinees, he stopped at the occasional desk.
‘No, Wilde, you’ve got that buttress wrong,’ he murmured. ‘It should look like this. Here, let me show you.’
And he executed a quick, skilful sketch on Oscar’s exam paper.
He moved on, reached Billy’s desk and looked over his shoulder.
‘That Tudor chimney isn’t quite right. Don’t you recall doing it last month? This little drawing should help you remember.’
He left his crib on the desk for Billy to copy.
‘I’ll be back in five minutes to collect my drawing,’ he said softly.
But Billy wasn’t only a recipient, he was also a giver, and with his friend Robin he had a quid pro quo arrangement.
‘What did you get for number six, Hoppy?’ Robin asked in the algebra exam.
‘Um ... x = 69 and y = 73,’ whispered Billy.
And in the French and Latin exams, Billy was a ready source of information for vocabulary.
‘What’s the French for “nest”?’
‘Le nid. ’
‘What’s the Latin for “The boys were hurrying”?’
‘Pueri festinabantj Billy whispered.
Two minutes later, Robin called his attention again.
‘Psst! Hoppy, quick! That sentence Fraus est celare fraudem. What’s it mean?’
‘ “It is a fraud to conceal a fraud”,’ said Billy in an undertone.
Thus ended Billy’s grammar-school education.
The results of the examinations were published in July. Taken as a whole they were mediocre, as were Billy’s but he was the only one to pass in all nine subjects - including geography.
‘Blame the war,’ everybody said.
At the final meeting of the smokers’ club in the back- street alley, the members strolled along, puffing ruminatively at their fags and kicking away the odd condom.
‘Well, boys, that’s the end of the year,’ said Oscar. ‘See you next September in the sixth form.’
‘Not me,’ said Billy. ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘But don’t you want to go to college?’ asked Robin.
‘No thanks,’ replied Billy. ‘I can’t see the point in any of it. I’ve just completed five years’ grammar-school education. Some education! The whole thing has been a mockery and a sham. What have I learned? How to fend off a randy headmaster and how to cheat at exams. In addition, my brain has been crammed with a lot of useless
facts. I know about the Congresses of Vienna, how to copy a Tudor chimney from a crib and how to conjugate irregular verbs in French and Latin. Indispensable bits of knowledge to survive in the modern world.’
‘But you were top in maths, Hoppy. Surely you’re not going to waste all that?’ said Titch.
‘Maths!’ Billy said. ‘I know about quadratic equations, how to solve problems about filling baths and papering rooms, and, oh yes, that any two sides of a triangle are greater than the third, so I cross a field diagonally, but then the village idiot does that.’
‘What will you do then?’ asked Nobby.
‘I’m not coming back to school for more of the same old stuff, that’s for sure. I’ll look for a job.’
‘What sort of job?’ asked Oscar.
‘Dunno,’ said Billy. ‘I’d like to try my hand at being a writer. Maybe a job on a newspaper is the answer.’