school days

Tuesday Tale – Parcel

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When I answered the door bell the postman was standing holding out a parcel. I wasn’t expecting anything, but he insisted it needed to be signed for and sure enough my name was written on it in large shaky capital letters.

It was vaguely rectangular, not solid enough to be a book and wrapped roughly in reused brown paper with no sender address. Who would pay extra, the price of postage these days, to send a parcel special delivery and not wrap it properly? What was it and who sent it? My life was far too boring to have threats sent in the post and certainly not a bomb or something.

‘Why don’t you just open it and see?’

Geoff had appeared at my shoulder.

I ripped off the paper to reveal a battered old leather satchel, like the one I had in junior school, in fact very similar. I felt a pang of sadness. My satchel had been a birthday present and I loved it, the scent of new leather, the shiny buckles and my initials embossed on the flap PMT. I presume when my parents chose my names they had not heard of pre menstrual tension, nor had I back then.

The long leather strap I wore round my shoulders to carry it on my back. I imagined myself to be a horse in harness trotting, cantering to school. A lot of the time in the playground we would play horses, taking it in turns to be rider or horse. The sash we wore round the waist of our gymslips was ideal to use as reins.  In addition to the satchel and equally exciting was the blue zip up pencil case the size of a book. Unzipping and folding open to reveal slots for everything, pencils, Lakeland coloured pencils, rubber, pencil sharpener and my pride and joy, the grown up protractor and compass. Did children have such things these days? Probably not the compass with its lethal point.

I didn’t enjoy my satchel for long, it disappeared without trace. My parents were furious that I had been so careless. I had not been careless, but had no explanation as to how I had it one moment, getting ready at the end of the school day, chairs on the desk, then suddenly it was gone.

Lost in memories it was Geoff who was examining the satchel and noticed the initials PMT. Even he had to agree things were getting weird and quickly opened it up to reveal an equally battered pencil case which was just about recognisable as blue. The zip was broken, it fell open to reveal pencil stubs, a worn rubber, cracked protractor and a bent compass; wear and tear to remind me sixty years had passed since I last saw it. If it was mine.

‘Ah, a letter inside the satchel,’ said Geoff ‘go on, read it, obviously some rational explanation.’

The shaky writing was not easy to read.

‘Dear Pauline, I expect you are surprised to have your lovely satchel returned. Yes it was me that sneaked off with it and of course I am ashamed now, was ashamed, but didn’t have the courage to give it back. Now is the right time. I haven’t got long to live, a cliché I know, but I want to tidy my life up. If you could spare an hour to visit, I have no one else to talk about the old days with.

Apologies     Patricia Mary Thompson’

Geoff looked expectantly at me, I handed him the letter.

‘I don’t even remember a Patricia in my class.’

‘She had the same initials as you, maybe that’s what tempted her.’

In the envelope was a card with the address Mary Mannings House, our local Hospice named after a forgotten worthy.

‘How did she find me Geoff, is she even real?’

‘You still live in the same place, though you have never kept up with old class mates?’

‘No, we all went to several different schools when we left juniors, I think most people went on to careers and travels world wide… Patricia, Pat, Tricia… Thompson, Thompson I think we had two Patricias and three Thompsons … yes, yes I think she was quiet, not naughty, not clever, not in my group… ‘

I arrived at Mary Mannings House feeling very nervous. What on earth did one bring? Flowers, grapes… I had never been inside the place. I took nothing, it was me she wanted to see.

I didn’t recognise her, but then I hardly recalled what she looked like when she was ten. Her voice was as shaky as her writing, she was not playing games, this was a dying woman.

‘Pauline, you came and I am doubly grateful; that you came today and for the satchel. It brought me such luck. I have travelled all over the world with it, jungles, dessert, oceans. I became an artist and a secret agent, had glamorous lovers, turned out I was much clever than anyone at school gave me credit for. So I have no regrets that I’ve ended back in our home town like this. It was a good life. My only regret was I stole from you.’

‘Oh it was so long ago, you probably didn’t realise how precious it was to me, but just please tell me why you took it?’

‘Simple jealousy I’m afraid, you were popular, in that group of clever clogs who never played with me, didn’t even notice me and you had a nice family who came to sports day and school fetes… I never got nice presents like you did…’ She lay back on the pillow exhausted from talking.

I was stunned, jealous of me?

‘Patricia, that was the only nice present I remember, Mum and Dad didn’t have any money. Those girls only let me in their group so they could share my pencil case. Their mothers were all good friends, I was the odd one out, didn’t get invited to their houses. As for my life, well you made the best of yours by the sound of it and my satchel has certainly had a more exciting life than me. I have had a pretty dull life, ordinary job, nice but boring Geoff in the same house since we got married…’

I realised Patricia had fallen asleep, probably hadn’t heard a word, dreaming of adventures past while I was left with my regrets.

.

Saturday Short Story – Reunion

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What does one wear to a fifty year school reunion? Nicholas the introvert writer would have worn his usual boring clothes, while his wife would have agonised over what to wear. But Nicholas was going to the reunion as Nigel Palmer and his wife was not invited. Nigel was a fascinating character with decades of derring do behind him and he would certainly not have a homely classroom assistant wife in her sixties in tow.

Nicholas tactfully explained to his wife that Nigel Palmer had a string of broken relationships and liked to keep his personal life private.

‘I am glad you are keeping me out of this. Even if it is vital research for your new best selling novel it can’t be right to impersonate a real person.’

Nigel Palmer was the one person from their year at Clacket Lane Junior School who had not been traced. No one had seen or heard from him since the summer of 1972. Of course that did not mean he knew nothing about them. Nicholas’ writer’s imagination conjured up several scenarios in which Nigel followed the burst of Clacket Lane internet activity, but had too much to hide or far more interesting things to do than go to reunions. Or perhaps Nigel, who Nicholas remembered as a lively, entertaining often naughty boy, would enjoy surprising everyone. He rubbed his face as he wrote notes on Nigel’s imagined life, his new beard was itchy, but should ensure nobody recognised Nicholas, especially as nobody seemed to remember him anyway.

The evening was going well, Nigel Palmer was the centre of attention. it was easier being someone else than himself, he could have been a successful actor instead of an unsuccessful author. Thanks to David Attenborough and the internet, Nigel’s tales of discovering tribes in the South American rain forests and his time with Medicine sans Frontiers in Afghanistan felt real.

But Nicholas was getting tired, he was not used to socialising and drinking so much and he wondered if he should leave before he blew his cover. It was as he pondered how he could slip away quietly that attention was drawn away from him. There was a kerfuffle at the door and the authoritative voice of organiser Caroline Hepworth could be heard above the chatter and background music.

‘No, this is a private reunion for Clacket Lane, invited guests only.’

The others drew back to reveal a tall man standing in the doorway. Nicholas first noticed his red bandana and matching beard, then the tattoos on the huge biceps emerging from his tight black Tshirt. Everyone instinctively moved aside and politely quelled their gasps. Emerging from a pair of khaki combat shorts were two jointed sturdy steel robotic legs ending incongruously in heavy duty boots. The man laughed at the flustered gathering.

‘Caroline Burton, you haven’t changed a bit, you must remember me, Nigel Palmer, I used to pull your plaits. I guess I have changed a bit, a lot’s happened in fifty years.’

Friday Fiction – Friends Reunited

~ tidalscribe.com ~ 16 Comments

At least he wasn’t dead, that was the best that could be said so far since his decision to reply to the Facebook post. As a writer Nicholas had merely set out to do some research for his latest novel, how easy was it to find your old classmates on the internet? Typing in Clacket Lane Junior School had produced a screen page of blue headings, but he didn’t want to know about the latest Ofsted report or the summer fete. Typing in 1968-1972 narrowed the search considerably; there was a nostalgia group for the anonymous town where he had spent his childhood, a history page that celebrated a few tenuous links to national events and famous persons… he almost missed the reunion announcement.

Could it really be fifty years since that last summer; the celebration of the school’s centenary, prancing round the maypole dressed in Victorian clothes. His wife had been more excited than he was, urging him to attend, despite his pleadings that he just wanted to know if it was possible to meet up with the past, he didn’t actually want to meet his old class mates, he was appalled by the thought.

Old boys and girls could join the closed FB group, go on twitter, email or even phone the organiser Caroline Hepworth, nee Burton… Caroline Burton, it would be her, milk monitor, teacher’s pet. She was organising the get together at the Holiday Inn; that was a contradiction in terms, who would want to go on holiday to that God forsaken town, unless it had changed a lot.

Nicholas emailed her and got a reply ten minutes later.

Hi Nicholas, don’t remember you but please join the group, it’s really interesting hearing what everyone’s been up to in the past half century lol.

He groaned as his wife brought him a cup of coffee. ‘Does she have to rub it in, half a century?’

‘A good way for you to get more readers’ said his wife brightly.

‘I’ll join, but I’m not posting anything, let alone pushing my website.’

He read through the posts; memories of pranks played on teachers and each other, gentle teasing where once there had been bullying, tales of exotic travels, brilliant careers and wonderful children. No one had mentioned Nicholas. In some of the profile pictures he could recognise the child in the middle aged face, others had cheated by posting school pictures or snaps of their dog, cat, motorbike or grandchild. But with only some of the names could he conjure up a memory of the child.

The next day things took a sombre turn. Caroline’s post was pinned at the top of the page.

Martin Fletcher’s wife has emailed to say he passed away last November after a brave battle with cancer.

Nicholas recalled Martin well, though he was in the other class; top of the school for his sporting achievements, he could beat anyone in a playground sprint, scored most goals at football, whacked the rounders’ ball with a strength that gave a glimpse of his potential when adolescent testosterone kicked in.

Martin Fletcher had barely crossed his mind for fifty years, but the shock of his mortality was like a kick in the stomach. The comments scrolled down the page, people were still typing them in, but Nicholas the writer could think of nothing to say.

Incongruously the next post was up beat.

Hey guys, great to catch up with you all, bet you didn’t recognise me in Game of Thrones, well the name on my equity card says Zane Swartz, but back then I was Peter Potts.

Frail, pale Potty, who would have thought it? His profile picture was the last school photo taken at Clacket Lane, Peter with his hair combed neatly. It was unlikely that anyone would recognise him behind beards, shields and spears. Nicholas clicked the Like button, everyone was Liking each other. Nicholas decided it was time to join in, at least he was still alive.

Remember how Mrs. Walker always told me off in English for not writing enough, guess what, I write long novels now.

He paused then put a link to his new website. There was no way they could know he was self published and was never likely to give up the day job.

 The next day no one had Liked his post, let alone left a comment, perhaps they were still overwhelmed by the latest bad news.

Susan Fielding, everyone remembered her, all the girls wanted to be her or at least be her friend. Not surprisingly she had gone on to be head girl at grammar school. Perhaps others would have remembered Nicholas if his father’s work had not taken him to the other side of the country soon after he left the junior school.

Still, mustn’t complain, his life had been okay, while Susan’s obviously had not, she had taken her own life. News had filtered through via someone’s aunty who knew the family. Caroline had posted a hasty comment pointing out that it was not helpful to debate how or when it had happened. She was going to remember happy days with Susan at grammar school.

A sad comment from Howard.

 I’m gutted, she was my first love

Howard, he of the Adonis looks, probably be called a gay icon now, presumably not gay as he had ‘gone steady’ with Susan during their years at the church youth group. He had not seen her since she left for university. While Nicholas had been battling acne and crippling shyness, Howard was enjoying dream teen years with Susan.

Nicholas was lost for words yet again. Would he put a sad emoticon to add to the list of comments on Susan?  He logged out, glad that he was invisible to the rest of his year at juniors.

He went a whole week without being tempted, then promised himself to just go on once more, to post an apology that he could not attend the reunion as he would be out of the country; he was tempted to say he now lived abroad, but in the unlikely event someone looked at his website they would see him described as living in the dead centre of the country. Unfortunate choice of words, perhaps they would think he was also dead.

New post from Caroline.

Amazingly, all except one pupil have been tracked down. What happened to Nigel Palmer, no one seems to have seen or heard of him since the last day of juniors. He was such an unusually talented boy, he could be anywhere in the world.

Nicholas logged out, but his brain had not logged out, his author’s mind was racing; every other pupil’s life was being recorded in more and more detail, but he was only interested in the missing boy. Nigel, a lively, entertaining, often naughty boy; Nicholas had admired his courage in the face of authority; who was the man he became? He was determined to find out.

Chords and Discord

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Do you like those music quizzes on the radio where you have to listen to the opening or closing notes of a pop song or piece of music and see how quickly you can guess what it is? If you listened to an opening chord strummed on guitar for less than three seconds and not a single note more, would you guess the song? For many of us A Hard Day’s Night by the Beatles is instantly recognisable, probably bringing memories of the cinema where you saw the film of the same name. Paul McCartney famously never learned to read or write music, instinctively using chords, complex harmonies and change of key without ever learning the mathematical theory of music. Songs have always passed down through the generations without needing to be written down and we all learn to talk before we write. Perhaps McCartney feared the magic would be broken if he tried to learn music properly. Straight to fame without the years of study at music school, the only downside apparently being that he needs help to write his orchestral pieces.

In the days before recorded music, Bach’s astonishing output would have been lost forever if he had turned up every Sunday morning at Thomaskirche in Leipzig, expecting the Thomanerchor to perform his new cantatas off by heart, because he couldn’t write them down.

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For most of us, our attempts at learning an instrument bring our first contact with musical notation. I still feel aggrieved that I always ended up with the triangle and not the drums on the rare occasions when we had ‘the instruments’ out in junior school. But another opportunity presented itself when I was seven or eight. I waited till bedtime to ask my parents if we could get the violin out of the loft as I had to take it to school the next day. We had been told in class that if anyone had a violin they could have violin lessons, this was the first my parents knew about it. How I even knew that Dad had an old violin he had bought for half a crown in his youth remains a mystery, he had never shown us, let alone played it. But the instrument was duly produced and at school the violin tutor took it away and exchanged it for a quarter size. Maybe Dad’s original instrument was a Stradivarius and she made a fortune, we will never know.

Violin lessons took place in the same room as school medicals, the headmaster’s office up a narrow staircase in the old Victorian building, in winter an ancient bar gas fire was lit. I memorised the four strings GDAE, put rosin on my bow, learned the treble cleff  and did give one public performance; in our garage in the back garden. Mum’s friend round the corner had six children and we put on a variety concert when aunties and uncles were visiting. I played a solo, Three Blind Mice. The audience had paid sixpence each for the excruciating experience. That was the height of my career as a violinist.

Like the rest of my family I later attempted to learn various instruments, with little success. The guitar can sound impressive merely by learning a few chords, or that’s what I hoped, but I had the wrong hands, fingers not long enough. At college I was in a recorder consort, playing descant while the more proficient played alto, tenor and base. We performed at our lecturer’s wedding … and that was the summit of my musical career.

Since then I have attempted to teach myself on the electronic keyboard and piano, at least progressing to learning the bottom line, base cleff, but never getting up to speed or coping with any music that has more than an f sharp or b flat to deal with.

The fun of being a writer is that if you can’t be a brilliant musician yourself, you can create one. Emma Dexter is a famous young violinist, pianist and composer from a very ordinary unmusical family. In Three Ages of Man, second of the Brief Encounters Trilogy, a stranger has made an impossible journey to find out what really happened to the woman whose music he loves so passionately.