The last few days of the holidays sped past faster than I thought possible and I tried to prepare myself for school. I realised, though, that it isn’t something you can prepare for and I just spent the time nervous and irritable and not hungry. And when the first school day dawned the weather matched my mood. The town was cowering under black clouds that lagged so low they almost rested on rooftops. The wind swung into the surrounding hills and bounced back into town with more energy than before, like a fly in a war with a window. The gusts brought the cold hill rain back down from the fells and into the narrow streets and water shot at random angles, striking people in their faces and shooting up their sleeves.
Dad drove me down into town and stopped a sensible distance from the school despite the weather. We’d agreed that he would drive me to school in the mornings and I would get the bus back at the end of the day. That way he would be back at the house before nine o’clock and would be able to work right through until the evening. I was surprised to find that there was a bus that ran out past our house but Jon said that the council had to provide it for children who lived in rural areas. He said that it was called the sheepshaggers’ express and that he’d always been the last person on the bus, but now that would be me.
Dad wished me luck and I climbed out of the car in my horribly new uniform and braced myself against the weather. I walked towards the school gates as kids shot past me as fast as the rain, shouting and squealing, running to get indoors, to get out of the weather, excited to be back at school. I did as the letter instructed and found my way to the school office and reported my presence. The lady behind the glass screen cocked her head and smiled and told me that I was the only new starter in my year and they were pleased to have me. She took my letter and told me to go and wait in reception and my form teacher would come and collect me. She told me that I had Mr Hartley and I shouldn’t worry because he was lovely. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t give a toss how lovely Mr Hartley was but she was too nice to upset so I tried to smile and look less like a thunderstorm. I pushed my way back to the reception through throngs of kids pouring through the corridors. I was aware of eyes on me. From head to toe. Assessing. Calculating. Considering. But I couldn’t blame them. There’s something obvious about a new kid that you can spot a mile off and you just have to look. Everything about them gives them away and there are so many clues. The shiny new uniform, itchy and unworn. The tie, knotted like kids did at your old school but not how it’s done here. The walk, trying to convey confidence and calm and ending up nowhere near either. It probably would be easier to give all new kids a siren that you strap on your head for the first day and get it over with.
I was only waiting a couple of minutes before Mr Hartley swept into reception and dragged me off. He walked quickly down corridors and up and down stairs and spent the time telling me how refreshing it was to have a new pupil to work with, how he hoped I would enjoy my time at Duerdale High and make the most of all the opportunities presented to me. He swept around one last corner and we arrived: Room 19, turquoise blue door. He paused for dramatic effect, did a mock-horror face and then swung the door open and wheeled me to the front of the classroom. He shouted for quiet and when the noise eventually tapered into silence he rested his hands on my shoulders.
‘This is our new pupil, a Mr Luke Redridge.’
Thirty-two faces stared at me.
‘And I hear on the grapevine that he is, and I quote, a wonderful artist, so let’s make him feel very welcome!’
My heart sank and right on cue one of the boys at the back of the class coughed out ‘Ponce!’ which raised a few laughs and I forced a smile to try and show that I didn’t take myself too seriously. I was shown my seat and given my timetable and saw that I had to survive Science, English, French and Geography before I was released for the day. The bell rang and Mr Hartley told Leanne Cunliffe to make sure I knew where I was going and then strode out of the room. Leanne Cunliffe looked at me, picked up her bag and walked off. I followed, five steps behind, hoping that she was on her way to the Science lab too. For the rest of the morning the other teachers barely seemed to notice that they had a new pupil. They hunted out textbooks and exercise books, told me to find a seat and tried to hide the fact they were miserable to be back at work.
I was in the same year as Jon but not the same classes and I spent most of the first day on the lookout for him. We couldn’t even meet at lunch because I got sent to the office to fill in a bunch of forms about next of kin, emergency contacts, school trips and allergies. It was strange to only write Dad’s name on each sheet and when I handed the forms back they seemed only half finished and incomplete and I thought I might get told to do them again. I didn’t see Jon at all until just before the last lesson. I was walking down the main school corridor, along with loads of other kids, and I could see, further ahead, the back of a familiar head bobbing along. I tried to catch up with him but it was hard work trying to push past the groups of kids flooding my way and I never did get to him. But I did see what happened. And it explained his silences. As he passed one group of older kids, a stray leg kicked out and got him on the shin. When he passed the next group he got an elbow in his side, and just before he disappeared around the corner and out of sight he got a quick slap to the back of his head. And it only took a few minutes into my next lesson to learn the name Jon was commonly known as. A big, greasy-skinned kid called Kieran Judd leant across my desk and asked me, ‘Do you live on the fell with that weird kid, that spastic kid? Slack Jaw Jon?’
When the final bell rang I found our small bus idling outside and climbed on. I saw Jon, sitting quietly, third row down, his face set. I sat down next to him and we watched the other kids walking past baaa-ing at the bus. I didn’t mention to him that I’d seen what’d happened in the corridor. And I didn’t tell him what Kieran Judd had said. We both stared out of the window of the half-empty bus as the town disappeared and the few country bumpkins got delivered back home at the end of the day.