‘Evans…what…are…you…doing?’
This time I did manage to utter something, albeit very reluctantly. ‘Writing on the desk, sir.’
This reply immediately had my classmates in fits: they were clasping their hands over their mouths to suppress the laughter. It was obvious I was for the chop and when you’re at school, as long as it’s not you, that’s the funniest thing ever.
The sniggering and snorting was doing nothing to help my cause. It only added to making a mockery of the whole situation, something that thrust old Nutjob into hyper rage. He was furious by now, his ire consuming him. But what he hadn’t yet seen was exactly what I was writing on the desk, I was praying to God he wouldn’t.
‘And…what…are you writing?’
Well now, here’s the thing, you see, I was writing his name and my impression of his preferred sexuality.
‘Oh fuck,’ I thought.
‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘Fuck me.’
‘I’m fucked.’
And I was.
‘Come on Evans, WHAT DOES IT SAY?’ he screamed.
Now he still hadn’t seen what it said and was waiting for me to read it out, something I wasn’t prepared to do because whatever he thought it said, I bet he didn’t think it said what it did.
He asked me three more times but I just sat there. He couldn’t understand why I was being so defiant. The rest of the class couldn’t understand why either. Their sniggering had stopped, the room was now filled with an overwhelming air of tension, as if they were just urging me to get it over with. It was obvious I was going to get the whacks anyway. Why didn’t I just say whatever it was that was written on the bloody desk?
Some of them even began to mouth: ‘J U S T—T E L L—H I M.’
But I couldn’t, I had decided that the only thing worse than writing those words was then to vocalise them in front of a class of thirty-odd boys and a man who was now the most insane man on Planet Earth.
‘Alright Evans, then I will read it out. What does it say?’
‘Shit a fucking brick,’ I thought, ‘here it comes…’
And with that, his eyes widened as his brain engaged with the four simple single-syllable words that lay before him. There was a rumbling, like a volcano about to erupt, and then he screamed, ‘SIR…IS…A…QUEER!’
That was it, that’s what I had written, the fact that, in my ill-informed schoolboy brain, he was indeed a queer. The rest of the lads were immediately back in hysterics.
This was bad, very bad, and made worse by the fact that I had declared that he was a queer in front of a class of boys who all had supposed he might well be for some time now.
He ordered me to stand up. I was reluctant to do so. He ordered me again. Petrified, I slowly rose to my feet.
He looked at me as if he wanted to kill me.
He then punched me as hard as he could, not in the face but in the chest.
There was shock all around the room. My classmates sat open-mouthed in amazement as I was thrown backwards down the aisle where I hit the wall before slumping to the ground, completely winded.
What in Christ’s name did this psycho think he was doing?
I was a thirteen-year-old boy and, yes, I had been naughty, very naughty, but you don’t punch a kid, no matter what he’s done. My own father had never once raised a hand to me over anything and now here was a man whom I barely knew striking me with the full force of his adult strength.
I will never forget what I did next. There is a difference between bravery and fearlessness; I think bravery is more contemplated whereas fearlessness is more of reaction to a situation, the consequences of which are not an issue. This is exactly how I was feeling.
Incredulous as to what had happened, I raised myself up off the floor, scrambled back to my desk, picked up my chair and smashed it over his head as hard as I could—at least I think I did, that’s how it felt at the time anyway. It probably wasn’t quite as dramatic as that but I was so angry.
I do remember for sure him looking up at me and visibly cowering; suddenly his whole demeanour had changed: he looked like he was scared to death. The coward had shown himself for what he really was—a sorry and pathetic bully who had been stripped of his so-called might. I threw down the chair and walked out.
As the big heavy classroom door thud shut behind me with the help of one of those big brass cantilever arms that no one ever knows the name of, I found myself transported from chaos and calamity to calmness and serenity. I was suddenly alone. The corridors, often so busy during changeover and break times were now deathly quiet.
It was all very poignant.
I took one last look inside the classroom at the scene of bewilderment.
You can have that, I thought.
I was by no means a model student, but nor was I one of the bad lads and I certainly didn’t deserve what had just happened to me.
I turned and started to walk, the hollow sound of my own footsteps reminding me to keep on going. I can still picture it now, like a perfectly framed shot from a Luc Besson movie—the long, highly polished expanse of dark parquet flooring stretching out into the infinite distance, leading to a white light of hope, in my case the two huge main school doors which I was about to exit for the very last time, never to return.
When I woke up that morning I had no idea that by the end of the day, something would have taken place that would change my life for ever.
I would now need to find a new school, and the next school in question would have the added bonus of having girls—and one girl in particular.
But first let’s get death out of the way.
10 Elvis Presley
9 Princess Diana (sorry, but it’s true*)
8 My dog Max
7 My friend Ronnie
6 Uncle Harry
5 John Lennon
4 My friend James
3 My dog Rita
2 My dog Enzo
1 My dad
And so to the early death of my father—Martin Joseph Evans.
First of all let me I apologise for using the term ‘early death’ as I’m not quite sure whether that’s right, it’s just something we’ve always said about Dad. None of us know when we are supposed to die in the first place; therefore how can anyone’s passing really be declared ‘early’. Surely we are all meant to die when we do die and that’s why it happens when it does. The reason I suppose we refer to Dad’s death as being early is because he was relatively young, still in his fifties, when he was plucked out for promotion to that higher office in the sky.
Dad, like Mum, smoked twenty cigarettes a day—at least. Woodbines, evil non-tipped things. I often had a go on his dog-ends when he wasn’t looking. Enough to put anyone