Twenty Something (25 page)

‘Why not?'

‘I'm back with Buddy.'

I'd stuck to my bit of the script. She'd deviated horribly from hers.

‘Thsir, thsir, is it true that it was your birthday yesterday and you're now forty-six?'

‘Blenkinsop, shut up.'

‘Oh is thsir tired today? Is thsir in a bad mood?'

‘Right Blenkinsop, detention. Three hours on Saturday.'

There's no point teaching kids if you can't take out your personal problems on them.

Remembrance Sunday.

There's something in the simple beauty of the service that always hits me. The last post, the music, the poetry:

But when we all stood in the school chapel for the minute's silence, I found it impossible to concentrate on the war dead. It wasn't Blenkinsop with his beeping digital watch a couple of rows in front. It wasn't Anson and his blasted sniffling in the front row. It wasn't even Alice Price giggling next to me because Charlie Blackwell was pinching her arse and saying ‘Oooh, Matron' and then blaming it on me.

I found it impossible to concentrate because I was thinking about what an idiot I am when it comes to Leila. I am all blast and bombast and no results. And then I felt like even more of an idiot for thinking about her when I was meant to be thinking about the millions who sacrificed their lives so that I could sit there and think about girls.

That's the problem with our generation. We've got no cause, no belief, nothing worth fighting for. Our grandparents had world wars. Even our parents had the 1960s and Vietnam. What do we have? Fox-hunting and PFI partnerships. It's not much to get worked up about.

We want everything and we are left with nothing.

I was just coming out of my haze as the service ended and we were filing out of chapel.

‘So, Lanky, what are we doing with the boarders this afternoon?'

‘The boarders, Norris?'

Yes, Mr Lanky, this is a Sunday in a boarding school and the boys need to be entertained. I think maybe a spot of paintballing.'

‘Don't you think that's a little bit insensitive, given the date?'

‘Nonsense, utter nonsense. An inverted pyramid of piffle. Our countrymen died to protect our freedom to spend a Sunday afternoon paintballing. It'll toughen the boys up a bit. I'll see you after lunch by the minibus.'

So Norris Beaumont and I took the boys paintballing and shot ten degrees of hell out of them and each other. Norris captained one team; I took charge of the other. We both sent our troops over the top as fire-diverting decoys while we went for the flags ourselves. Field Marshal Haig would have been proud.

Leila called in the evening and I smothered the phone under the cushions. Felt much better.

I have thrown myself so completely into my work that I've demoted Leila from the forefront of my thoughts. Gone are the sleepless nights and the endlessly rehearsed internal dialogues. Of course, there is the complete frustration that I screwed everything up and embarrassed myself. But at least I now have the release that I've said something at last. I've promised myself that I will never again keep things to myself for so long. Farewell ‘Jack the Bottler'. Hello Mr ‘Open Man' Lancaster. From now on, I will sort things out quickly and move on.

There was a time when one word from her could have changed my life around completely. When I was a miserable banker, she was all the hope I had. Now that I have something else to focus my energies on, she has become an optional extra. It doesn't sound very romantic, but it's much more healthy. Perspective, I believe it's called (or maybe just denial?). It's almost as good as closure.

The school is a hub of excitement as there are inspectors coming in on Thursday. It's the first inspection under Stuart Ackland's headship and he's as nervous as the rest of the staff. Bob Lowson has sent his only suit to the dry-cleaners to get the Bunsen burner stains off in time. Geoffrey Aitken has had his comb-over trimmed. Simon Reeve has started chewing Nicorette gum so that he can last an entire lesson without smoking his pipe. Amy Barbour has been told to put on a short skirt to distract them into thinking she's a good teacher. Even the cleaners are working overtime to make the whole place look like less of a bomb shelter.

Only Norris Beaumont remains unperturbed by the whole charade.

‘It's my fifteenth inspection, Lanky. Did you know that?'

‘I can't say I did.'

‘Piffle, the ruddy lot of them. Every time, they tell me that I speak French like Colonel Blimp and that my methods are unconventional but effective. It's only so that this wretched government can pretend to keep an eye on the private sector. They only come here to moan about how much better our facilities are.'

‘Is that so?'

‘It is so. One word of advice, Lanky. Don't change anything in your teaching style. The children will smell a rat a mile off.'

‘Teaching style? I don't believe I possess any such thing.'

‘Thsir, thsir, why are you giving us printed handouts? We don't normally have printed handouts.'

Blenkinsop, I'll murder you later.

‘Thsir, thsir, can't we just watch a video like we normally do?'

Anson, remind me to tell your yummy mummy what a little pest you are.

‘Thsir, thsir, you are our best, favouritest teacher. We've learned so much from you.'

‘Very good Fereday, you little creep. Right, boys. Let's have none of that when the inspector comes in.'

And, sure enough, they were good as gold, and the inspector was charmed by my firm, but fun, teaching style.

I am an excellent pedagogue, a pillar of the community, a key worker.

We're in the last two weeks of term and the school has switched from the football to the rugby season. Given that I am marginally less bad with the oval ball, I have been promoted to coach the under-11 B team.

We are on the bus for our first match, away at Cotcote House. I'm more nervous than the boys. They're stuffing their faces with iced doughnuts and crisps. I'm looking out of the window and trying to remember if the team going forwards in a maul gets the scrum at this age group, or whether it's given against the team which fails to recycle possession. Thank God I don't have to referee.

‘Thsir, thsir. Blenkinsop's mooning out of the window to passing cars.'

‘Fereday, you're a little sneak. And, Blenkinsop, pull your trousers up. We don't want to frighten the other motorists.'

Our bus pulls into the grounds of Cotcote House. It's a large, snobby school. Even their youngest boys are imbued with a sense of God-given arrogance that they are being groomed to run the Empire.

A wheezing Classics master comes out to greet me.

‘Lancaster? You must be the new chap. I remember your father well. Terribly sorry. My name's Piggott. So, how are your crop?'

‘Oh, you know. They're a fearsome and deadly fighting machine.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Blenkinsop being travel-sick over Cotcote House's pristine lawns.

‘Righty-ho. Should be quite a match, then. I'll get my boys to show your boys where to change. Why don't you come into the common room for a pot of tea? There are a couple of parents milling around already.'

We amble into the palatial entry hall.

‘I say, Lancaster. I was wondering if you could be an absolute cove and referee for me this afternoon? I wouldn't normally ask, but I had triple bypass surgery last month and I can't keep up with these whippersnappers.'

‘Of course, no problem. You might have to lend me some clothes and a rule book, though.'

I'm just heading off to the staff changing rooms when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

‘Jeremy,
salve
. How are you?
Quo vadis
— not to mention how are you? I am not unaware of the fact that my boy hasn't made the A team.'

Oh. My. God. He hasn't noticed me yet. I hide behind one of the balustrades.

‘Oh, Mr Cox,' replies Jeremy Piggott. ‘How jolly nice to see you. Yes, we thought we'd try Frankie out in the B team for this week. See how he gets along. I have made him captain, though.'

Unbelievable. Even his son's teachers call him “Mr Cox”.

‘Francis, Jeremy. His name is Francis. And you appear not to be following. I don't think I pay
circa
twelve thousand pounds in school fees
per annum
for my son to play in the B team. Perhaps I don't have to remind you, open brackets, a lowly Latin teacher, close brackets, that I, open brackets, the successful managing director of a major city bank, close brackets, donated a considerable amount of money to the school sports hall.'

Jeremy Piggott draws himself up to his full height.

‘Indeed you did, Mr Cox, open brackets, a parent, close brackets. I am currently
in loco parentis.
I alone will make decisions regarding your son's suitability for the under-11 B team. Perhaps if the little mite spent more time in your blasted sports hall, he'd make it into the A team.'

Jeremy Piggott — a scholar and a gentleman. I love the man already.

Ten minutes later, and I'm changed and heading out on to the pitch, where my team is warming up by throwing mud at each other.

‘Thsir, what on earth are you wearing?'

‘Shut up, Anson. There's nothing wrong with plus-fours and a cricket jumper.'

‘Thsir, Blenkinsop is still feeling ill.'

I bet Sir Clive Woodward never had to put up with this kind of shit
.

‘Right, boys. Gather round and listen up. You have absolutely no idea how to play rugby. I am a useless coach and you have learned none of the basics from me. Fortunately for all of us, what you are about to play is not a game of rugby. Oh, no. You are at war. From now on, Cotcote House is your morbid enemy. Their fathers have slept with your mothers. Their brothers have stolen your PlayStations. And they themselves have kidnapped your black Labradors and tortured them to death.

I feel like Henry V before Agincourt.

‘No, Fereday Dry your eyes. It's just a metaphor I'm sure Betsy is just fine Look, if you try to play rugby against them, you will lose. Do not pass the ball except as a last option; you will only drop it. Do not kick it; it will probably go sideways. And, whatever you do, do not try to tackle anyone properly; you'll only get hurt. When you have the ball, run straight and hard. When they have it, try to trip them up. In the scrums, bite, scratch and gouge. In the mauls, pinch. In the rucks, stamp.

‘And always remember this: they only have fifteen prepubescent boys on their team. Morley Park has fifteen
prepubescent boys and a fully grown referee on their team. I can be very short-sighted at times. Win this for me, boys, and there will be an extra KitKat for every single one of you.'

I call the captains over for the toss.

‘But thsir, we don't have a captain.'

‘Oh, don't we? Right, Blenkinsop, it's you. Do up your shoelaces and come over here.'

Blenkinsop skips up to the halfway line and shakes hands with Francis Cox. Cox is a short, fat fellow and instantly dislikeable. He has a face that would market very well as a punchbag.

‘Right, Cotcote House captain, which hand is my whistle in?'

‘Your left hand, sir.'

‘No, it's not. It's not in either hand. Bad luck. Right, Blenkinsop, I suggest you play with the wind and the sun behind you in the first half. Cotcote House, you can kick off, if you must.'

The thirty mini-men line up in their battle groups. I can see Mr Cox on the sideline attempting to reingratiate himself with Jeremy Piggott. He appears to be pointing at me.

I blow the whistle to start the match. I blow it again two seconds later.

‘Sorry, Cotcote House. You weren't behind the kicker. Morley Park captain, do you want a penalty or a scrum in the centre?'

‘What's a scrum?'

‘Blenkinsop, do try and sound a little more intimidating.'

The match fizzes on. My little pep talk seems to be working. My boys are playing dirtier than an England vs. France encounter. But there's still no score. One of the Cotcote boys was clean through on our line when a dog ran on from the sidelines and tripped him up. A couple of minutes later, Anson broke through their ranks and did a spectacular dive over the line before looking up and realising that it was the twenty-two-metre line. Bowles also managed to cross their line,
but then he ran over the dead ball line as well and ended up on the girls' hockey pitch.

And then Fereday hoists a kick high into the autumn sun. The Cotcote House full-back squints up and then sits down and starts crying.

‘I can't see, I can't see,' he's yelling.

Blenkinsop can see. He picks up the loose ball and storms over their line.

‘Put it down, put it down,' the entire team is shouting at him.

He does. 5—0. He's our hero.

‘Boys, stop hugging each other. This isn't a game of football.'

Bowles dribbles the conversion along the ground and I blow the whistle for half-time. Twenty-five minutes have elapsed.

I'm too exhausted to say much to them in the half-time team talk. I haven't done this much exercise for years.

‘Thsir, thsir, are you out of breath?'

‘Not as out of breath as you should be, Drysdale. A little more effort from you in the second half, please.'

‘And all of you, listen up. The wind and the sun have dropped. Keep on playing like you have been and there won't be any problems. I would give you some tactics, but I don't know any. Just go out there and beat them up.'