2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (4 page)

He is drying his hands on the blue roller-towel thing when a load of bigger boys—Primary Twos and maybe even Threes—come tumbling into the room, laughing and bumping into each other. Most of them go and pee into the teardrop things, but two of them just take a drink from the water-fountain. It is one of this pair whose interest is suddenly taken by the cubicles.

“Heh, somebody’s in there daein a shite,” he announces with a joy that Colin finds odd, and a hint of malice of which he instinctively knows to be wary, something compounded by the use of a bad word. Now finished peeing, several of them approach the cubicle. None of them washes their hands, not even a quick skoosh. One of them bangs on the door.

“Are ye daein a big huge toley in there?” he shouts.

“Big broon shite,” laughs another.

“Big smelly keech.”

“Mingin big plops.”

There is no response from within. Colin, having been seated in the next stall only moments ago, can vividly imagine why not.

He remains confused, if darkly fascinated. What’s so unusual or remarkable about doing a poo? Are they making out they don’t, or something? Surely not washing your hands is far more deserving of ridicule, if smells are the issue?

Then one boy, who had not joined in with the shouting, steps forward among the small gathering. He is taller than the others and looks a bit fierce. “That’ll dae, yous,” he says. “Stop it. That’s a fuckin sin. Lea the boy alane. Just a wee Primary Wan. Staun back.”

They do, allowing him to approach the door, which he knocks gently.

“Wee man? It’s awright. Mon oot. Naebody’s gaunny touch ye, okay? It’s awright wee man. I’ll look efter ye.”

There is a long, silent pause, then Colin hears the lock being slid back on the cubicle door.

“Mon oot, wee man,” the tall boy repeats. Brian, one of the others called him.

The Primary One emerges cautiously, looking scared. He’s not greeting, but he’s not far off it, either. The tall boy puts a hand out like grown-ups do when they want you to come with them or trying to stop you being feart. The Primary One takes it and steps fully away from the stall, now in full view of everyone.

“You okay?” he asks.

The wee one nods shakily.

“Did you do a wee poo?”

Another nervous nod.

Then the tall boy lets go of his hand and points right into his face. “Aaaaaaaaah—jobbie-bum, jobbie-bum, jobbie-bum,” he sings, at which all the others start howling with laughter.

The Primary One bursts out crying and runs through the door. Colin follows him. He knows he has had a lucky escape, that it could have been him, could yet be him, but he has also learnt an important lesson. Wet trousers, flies or not, he will be peeing at the teardrop things from now on and will never, ever, do a poo-poo in school.

§

Martin is talking to Scot and the boy who said his squirt of milk was doing the nineties. His name is James Doon. Martin heard this when the teacher called him out to get his name written, and noted his second name because there are two Jameses in the class. They have been wandering around the playground, exploring the place together. They have walked as far as the wall to the Big Ones’ playground, then around the back of the Infant Building, past big smelly metal bins as tall as trees, and back to where they started.

There is another boy standing nearby, against a drainpipe close to the Primary One and Two double doors. The Primary Threes have their own entrance round the other side. Martin can’t remember for sure, but thinks the boy’s name is Robert. His desk is at the front, nearest the door, and Martin noticed he was watching him when he went back to get his milk. He looks very serious, not like Scot and James. Scot likes Slade and has a big sister who owns singles, so he can hear the songs all the time, not just when they come on the radio. James doesn’t know about Slade. Scot asks him who he likes. He says, “Celtic.”

Two girls walk by and stand at the foot of the stone steps leading to the double doors. One is Alison, who sits next to Martin, and the other is Joanne, the girl who gave out the jotters.

“We’re gaunny be first when the teacher calls the lines,” Joanne announces.

Martin feels a moment of anxiety at this. It’s always good to be first. He doesn’t know how long playtime lasts, other than until the bell rings, but doesn’t understand why anyone would want to spend it just waiting on the spot. However, as it is his first day and other boys and girls—especially those with big brothers and sisters—seem to know more than he does, perhaps there is something he is missing.

Martin looks to Scot for his response to this. He shows no intention of moving, so Martin decides he’ll wait and see what advantage Alison and Joanne win from their vigil before deciding whether it’s worth it in future.

There is, however, a reaction from the serious boy, Robert. He narrows his eyes until they are like slits and tells Joanne: “You’re a fuckin sook.”

“No I’m urnae,” she protests.

“Aye ye are. Giein oot books for the teacher, staunin first in line. You’re a fuckin sook.” And with this he finally smiles, though it seems no more friendly than when his face was all serious. He confirms this when he turns to look at Martin next. “You an aw,” he says. “I saw ye oot there wi the teacher. “Very good, Martin.” Fuckin sook. You’ll get fuckin battered. Ma big brer says sooks get battered.”

Martin doesn’t know what a sook is, but knows he doesn’t want to be one if it means you get fuckin battered. “I’m not a sook.” He searches his mind for proof of other status to offer in defence, words conferred by Mum and Dad. “I’m a good boy. I’m clever.”

“Aye. At’s whit ma big brer says. Sooks are fuckin clever. Good boys are fuckin sooks.”

Martin is horrified by having apparently supplied the evidence for his own conviction. Fortunately, Joanne comes to his rescue. “You’re a porteed,” she says shrilly.

Martin doesn’t know what a porteed is either, but whatever it is, it has little impact on its target, who remains at his spot next to the drainpipe.

He has learnt a few new words today, but none with the frequency of ‘fuckin’; and despite the number of times he has heard it, the context has never made its meaning clear or even consistent. The only thing he has been able to deduce for sure is that it is intended to add emphasis, but seems to be equally applicable whether positive or negative. He has been called a fuckin sook and warned he’ll get fuckin battered. However, earlier Scot told him that
Gudbye to Jane
is a fuckin great song and James described the bins behind the Infant Building as fuckin giant. Elsewhere on their tour, Martin heard talk of fuckin big dugs, fuckin wee weans, fuckin fast motors, fuckin slow buses, fuckin sweeties, fuckin shoes, fuckin troosers, fuckin teachers, fuckin tellies, fuckin puddles, fuckin skippin ropes, fuckin bells, fuckin jotters, fuckin milk and fuckin Rangers.

He watched Scot put the ends of his forefingers together and invite James to ‘break the wire’. James did so with a digit of his own, upon which Scot announced: “You’re on fire.” This, according to James, was fuckin funny, but according to another, named Richard, it was fuckin ancient.

In order to demonstrate something more recent, Richard had then placed a clenched fist on the palm of his hand and asked James to ‘sniff the cheese’. James obligingly placed his snib close to the offered outstretched fingers, whereupon Richard punched him on the nose and shouted, “Mousetrap!”

This, James exclaimed, was fuckin sair.

The bell rings and they make their way the few short yards to the steps, where Joanne and Alison have pride of place. The Primary Twos and Threes start forming separate lines, well versed in the procedure. The Primary Ones gather themselves in a less regimented order, gradually forming into two and then three and then four single-file queues as various new arrivals decide they like the idea of being head of the line and promptly start their own. After a few minutes, Mrs Murphy and another teacher appear. The first thing they do is tell the bigger ones to go in: first ‘Miss Taylor’s class’, then ‘Miss O’Neill’s class’, and so on. Then, with only the Primary Ones remaining, Mrs Murphy tells her class to form a queue on the far left and the others, Mrs Fitzpatrick’s class, to line up alongside. This sudden change of circumstance strands Joanne and Alison on the wrong side of the throng, and by the time the proper lines have formed, two abreast, the pair of them end up having to go around the outside and join at the very end. Martin doesn’t quite understand why, but he finds this enormously satisfying. Then he sees that boy Robert smiling sourly to himself about it and doesn’t feel so good any more.

§

Mrs Murphy is at the blackboard, drawing letters in white chalk. Each time she draws one, they all have to copy it over and over in their jotters while she walks up and down the rows to see how everyone is getting on. She has to tread carefully around a couple of areas where the floor is still a bit damp. The janitor’s mop and bucket sit by the door. Colin can smell something sharp and nasty, but it’s better than the smell of wee and definitely better than the smell of spilt milk, which nearly made him sick once when a carton burst in the car and Dad said he’d cleaned it all up but hadn’t, not properly.

She started off getting them to do simple circles and lines, all the same size, which Colin thought was just a boring drawing exercise, but once they moved on to the letters he understood, because they were all made of circles and lines.

They have done ‘a’, ‘b’ and ‘c’ and are now doing ‘d’. Mrs Murphy says, “No, dear, like this,” to the girl in the next row, and draws something for her. Colin looks across to get a glance at what the girl’s mistake was, but can’t see because her arm is in the way. Instead he notices through the window that some cars have pulled up outside the gates. One of them is a blue Cortina. He stands up excitedly and shouts, “Mummy!” At this, lots of the others look out of the window, too. There are now a few adults standing at the gates, which causes lots more children to get up from their desks.

Mrs Murphy tells them it will be time to go soon, but for now they have to stay in their seats until the bell goes. She says this last bit in a stern voice and everybody does what they are told, though some of them start crying.

“And before we can go, we have to tidy up,” she adds. “Colin, as you were keen to be on your feet, you can go round and collect the jotters. On you go.”

Colin likes being given the task, particularly as it involves going right round all the desks, but is less pleased that it also sounds a bit like a telling off. Lots of children stood up, but he is the one they are all now looking at because of it, and that makes him feel uncomfortable.

He soon forgets this, however, once he begins pacing the aisles and picking up the jotters. It’s like being a postman doing his rounds, trading brief greetings with everybody as he goes, except he is taking things, not delivering them, which makes it also like being Mummy at the supermarket. This reminds him of the pennies he has in his pocket. He and Mummy dropped in at Gran McQueen’s house on the way to school, and Gran gave him pennies ‘for the tuck shop’. Mummy said she didn’t think there was a tuck shop and they should go in his piggy bank instead, but she let him keep them in his pocket anyway. Gran’s always giving him pennies. It will be his birthday soon, and she’s promised to get him a Dinky UFO Interceptor, like on the telly. Colin loves programmes about space. He’s going to be a spaceman when he grows up.

He decides it would be fun to pay for the jotters with Gran’s pennies, and places a small brown coin on the desk next to the pile of workbooks as the girl sitting there adds hers to the top. “There’s your change,” he says, which he has heard shopkeepers say to Mummy.

“Thank you,” the girl replies with a smile.

He repeats the exchange three times, saying the same phrase on each occasion. The second recipient, a girl called Alison, gets a small silver coin. The third, a boy called Martin, gets a big brown one. The game ends with the last coin, a big shiny silver one with jagged edges, which goes to James Doon.

Colin wishes there were more coins so that he can keep doing it. He thinks about asking for them back so that he can give them to the people in the next row, but he catches a glimpse of his mummy out by the gates and knows he must hurry up and finish. Most of the children have been too focused on the gathering outside to notice him doling out coins, so they don’t look disappointed when they don’t receive one. He says thanks to each of them as they hand over their jotters, and gets a smile back from all except one boy, who gives him a nasty look and says: “Fuckin sook.”

§

Martin is sitting at Gran’s kitchen table, where she has laid on a surprise party to celebrate his first day at school. There are sandwiches with egg, which he likes, and some with tongue, which Gran loves but Martin hates. Well, in truth he has never tasted it, but he knows it will be horrible just by looking at it. There are cakes bought from the baker’s, and Gran’s homemade clootie dumpling—Martin’s favourite—as a special treat. Gran, Granda and Mummy are there, of course, but so is Great Auntie Peggy, Auntie Lynn, Auntie Joan, Uncle Peter and Auntie Mhairi, who is not a real auntie but Gran’s friend.

Gran announces that they are going to have ‘a toast’, which Martin knows is about clinking glasses together like at Granda’s birthday, and not an actual piece of toast. “To Martin, the big schoolboy,” Gran says, and they all do the clinking thing, which Martin loves. “And did you enjoy your first day at St Elizabeth’s?” Gran asks.

“Yes,” he replies. “It was fuckin brilliant.”

S
he turns over in bed and he holds his breath, hoping she’s just going to roll over in her sleep. She doesn’t.

Shit.

“What you doing?” she asks.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you. It’s okay. Just go back to sleep.”

But she doesn’t. Instead, she sits up and pulls the sheet over her breasts. It’s like wrapping an awkward parcel, as there’s no give in the things. They’re not massive, but they still seem an encumbrance, maybe because she isn’t long used to having them sit there like that. He doesn’t get it. Why would she do that to herself? Yeah, okay, he knows: she never made the cover of
FHM
when she was 32B. But he doesn’t get that either.