Tripping Over. John Hickman

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СКАЧАТЬ time,’ he said as he wheeled us in.

      He kept his promise and bought us splendid afternoon teas. True to his word the others who never showered after the game went without.

      As we finished up goatee master balanced a teaspoon across his forefinger.

      He stared down at his pale unworn hands. When he spoke he avoided eye contact. ‘Best not tell your parents about our little arrangement, boys.’

      He paused. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me buying you afternoon tea, but unfair questions may arise as to why I didn’t do the same for the other boys.’ He let out a giant sigh. ‘Let’s keep this as our little secret, shall we?’

      I felt uncomfortable. David looked unsettled. Goatee master appeared ill at ease. He flashed a forced grin and then continued, ‘Or, you do realise I’ll have to stop doing it, right?’

      I tried the nod thing, again. I looked at David. His eyes were big as saucers.

      He looked as if he’d entered a dark room and was lost.

      I felt strangely anxious. ‘I’ve never kept secrets from my dad.’

      ‘Me neither,’ David whispered.

      Next day rumours at school were rife, which was good in a way because David and I were low on topics to chat about. Turned out our day would end with a big surprise. Those in the know or thought they were, reported goatee master had been summoned to the headmaster’s study more than once. Raised voices had been heard. David and I worried about being involved. Neither of us wanted to be caned.

      ‘Have you said anything to your parents?’ David sounded nervous.

      ‘I haven’t said anything to anyone,’ I replied, ‘but what would be wrong if we did? I still don’t understand the secrecy, do you?’

      I dismissed further thoughts even before they’d fully formed.

      Later we were told a parent of a student who’d not attended our tea had made an official complaint to the school about goatee master being a nasty piece of work.

      ‘Not sure why they’d say that,’ David said, ‘I enjoyed the tea didn’t you?’

      ‘Yes, I did.’

      Rumours circulated fast. We weren’t sure why but some had portrayed goatee master as a rung or two below that of a mass murderer.

      Next big news was he’d fled the school.

      When I told Dad he gave Mum a strange look.

      ‘Why do you think he left, Bill?’ Mum asked, arching a fine eyebrow. ‘Why on earth would he be unhappy teaching boys at Eaton House?’

      ‘I don’t know, Alice, but I suspect he broke a finger nail,’ Dad said as he left for work. ‘That, or if he’s as pure as the driven snow, he should get the Nobel Prize.’

      After Dad had gone I sidled up to Mum. ‘What’s the matter? What do you want?’ she asked.

      I became teary. ‘I don’t want to go to the swimming baths next week.

      David will have a note from his mum. Can I get one, too?’

      Mum held my face in her hands. She wiped my tears with her apron. ‘I doubt you’ll get one from her,’ she giggled, ‘but let me look at you. You could be coming down with something. Remind me Monday and if you still want a note, I’ll give you one.

      All right?’

      I hugged Mum but then hoped she wouldn’t tell Dad.

      

      Dad didn’t stop Mum from writing the note but I thought that was because he was too involved with work and forgot.

      ‘I’m too busy making money for you all to spend,’ was all he said.

      His jewellery business was situated in rented premises in Portobello Road.

      He always wore a business suit to go there but his jackets were never shiny at the elbows like some. Our headmaster wore leather patches on his sleeves. Dad liked to sport his RAF tie. Obsessed with timepieces he was never without an understated gold watch, which he wore on his left wrist.

      For my birthday that year I received a smart gold wristwatch with a black leather strap and was told by Dad to wear it on my left wrist. ‘It’s effeminate to wear it on your right arm,’ he explained.

      I didn’t understand what he meant but remembered goatee master had worn his watch on his right wrist. I interpreted that in Dad’s eyes goatee master had been effeminate and he would be displeased if I followed suit. I never did.

      I also received from my grandparents a rolled gold propelling pencil engraved with my name. Mum beamed. ‘You are a lucky boy. Look it’s the latest in technology able to take an assortment of leads and easy to keep sharp.’

      We lived at 78 Campden Hill Road in the leafy upmarket suburb of Kensington. Its major features were big open fireplaces with ornamental stone mantelpieces and high ceilings. My backyard was Kensington Gardens where I fished for tadpoles in the Round Pond and learned to ride my bicycle.

      We appeared prosperous but Mum was unhappy with Dad. ‘You’re allergic to most kinds of fun, Bill, except expensive alcohol. It’s as though whisky has become the coin of your realm. And you drink far too much.’

      Gran agreed with Mum. ‘But asking him to stop drinking is like asking turkeys to vote for an early Christmas.’ Mum saw the funny side of that.

      Dad usually slept off his colossal hangovers with a bucket beside his bed, which further displeased Mum.

      Mum looked like Mum. She smelled like Mum and had a feminine figure.

      For some reason she was popular when we shopped. Men always smiled at us in the shops and often stopped what they were doing to talk with Mum. I think the way they looked her up and down they were admiring her legs. They were always encased in expensive thirty denier nylons. She was particular about her appearance. Always she checked her seams were straight at the back and never wore nylons with ladders even at home.

      Mum was an unavoidable presence and I liked that. She drifted about like ground fog always busy with household chores.

      My parents did their best for me. They took me everywhere with them, tried to encourage me to be good at something, anything. I grew up with a strong desire to be as clever as Dad. But growing up in his shadow I continually fell short of his expectations.

      Opposite to Gramps, my dad never fantasised. He was too solid and dependable for that. He supported me but always demanded greater effort. I’d never been good at black and white. My life accepted extenuating circumstances, which led to shades of grey. I liked grey. In grey I could achieve a degree of comfort, but that angered Dad. ‘Don’t grow up wasting your time with pipe-dreams like your Gramps.’

      ‘Dreams are necessary, Bill. Surely goals are only dreams СКАЧАТЬ