Glum.
Rain thrumming on the window, overflowing gutters and water gushing from downspouts. No lunch break from the classroom. Books instead of football, endless games of draughts, and a teacher to damp down anything more entertaining. Irresistibly everyone draws close to the windows and to the unrelenting rain. No surprise, really, England is a green for a reason
And yet … it’s not how I remember Maypole School. For me, it is bucolic place, bathed in a warm sunlight that draws the shadows out of every corner. Perched on the rise of Dartford Road. On the edge of Dartford Heath, it is hemmed in by modest houses for the estate workers. Behind them sit the grand mansions of landowners and high ups in London, hanging on while the world shifted around them. More distant are the derelict, ghost infested victims of waning fortunes. Many boys are dared to enter and explore them. Few do.
Built in 1919, Maypole School is now 40 years old. It has a high brick wall to keep us safe from the nearby asylum. The yard naturally divides into three playgrounds: bean bag football, car racing, hopscotch and skipping and the youngest chasing each other in endless games of tag. Shrieks and laughter overflowing; any gloom forgotten.
There is a daily routine that anchors my life. My four years at Maypole School are the closest and the happiest of times. Peter, Geoff, Jeremy, Arthur; no girls. I score a goal for the school football team, lead out the cricket team. I learn to roll and smoke cigarettes (it is illegal to sell them to juniors but not the ingredients and apparatus). Soothing memories
All save one. Mr. Tadgel is my Grade 2 and Grade 3 home teacher who probably sees the letter ‘V’ on my forehead.
I am bright, smart, and keen. Always first with my hand up, eager to shine. He labels me the ‘little professor’. My essays are vivisected before the class; presentations are met with silence. Each criticism is a rejection, and each rejection shames me. Little by little, I hide inside.
My paintings turn into brown mush. Essays shrink to paragraphs. I tear them up, bin them, hoping they will be forgotten. He ferrets around to find one and reads it to the class. ‘The little professor’s latest offering’ he announces. Trying to hide it, he is.’ He doesn’t need a switch; his tongue is enough. Everyone is afraid, each one grateful that they aren’t the target
I develop a nervous blink and a stammer. This is enough for my dad. He meets Tadgel and the headmistress and turns his cold anger and his vitriol on them. I know how that goes. The bullying and sarcasm vanish. No more ‘little professor’. I can stop hiding.
The sun, again, chases the shadows out of the corners of Maypole School, the shrieks and laughter echo around the playgrounds again. The good memories are triumphant.
