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Making Allowances
Chapter 4, Part 2
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One such occasion stands out above
all others. It was January, during my Upper Sixth
Form year, my last year at school. It was the traditional time that pupils
received their projected “A” Level Grades. I was sitting three subjects;
Spanish, which I enjoyed speaking , Economics, with which I struggled, and my
favourite subject, English. I had my heart set on becoming a
journalist or an English Teacher at that time, so a good grade was important to
set you out on the road to a good English degree at a red-brick University. From
a social point of view, it also had its advantages, I was the only boy in the
class of nine and so I got plenty of chances to flirt and show off by playing
most of the male leading roles in plays, or long spoken passages of the books. For the first year, we had a
wonderful teacher called Miss Parks, a spinster in her mid-forties who lived for
the subject. She combined her enthusiasm and insight with a special talent for
motivating people. We were her prodigies, and she cared for us and nurtured us
with the dotage of a favourite aunt, reassuring us, praising our talents and
urging us on to greater heights. On theatre trips she was great fun, she
couldn’t get out into the foyer quickly enough during intervals to have a fag
and get the drinks in. We didn’t know, then, how lucky we were. Then, early in the second year, Miss
Parks was offered a Deputy Headship at a school nearer to her home and her
ageing parents. We were sad to see her go, but felt safe in the knowledge that,
thanks to her expertise and care, we were well on the way to good grades. I was
regularly scoring “A” and “B” grades. Then came trouble. The new teacher
was a guy called Mr Wells. He was a young, brooding type, who wore short
corduroy jackets and matching trousers, but never a tie. He spoke with a
distinct Northern accent. From the minute he began his first lesson, the whole
atmosphere changed, I remembered how he had sat in on one of Miss Parks’ last
lessons when we were reading from Pride
and Prejudice. I used to enjoy” hamming it up” when I was reading
Darcy’s lines, to make the girls laugh mainly. I got the feeling that he
couldn’t have liked that too much, or maybe , as the only boy, he felt safer
doing it to me, but for some reason I appeared to be the prime target for his
cynicism and criticism. The first set text we did with Wells
was Anthony
and Cleopatra. Suddenly, the styles and ideas started to be shot down in
flames. Essays, especially mine, were crucified. Some of the girls began to grow
upset and pined for Miss Parks. I just started to get angry; I couldn’t
understand what could have gone so wrong for us to have deteriorated that much
in so short a space of time. The whole thing snowballed; after it happened a
second time, I began not to care, and in consequence, the quality would
certainly have deteriorated, but there was no comfort to be found, and with the
absence of anyone to turn to, I went into free-fall. I began to see the long-term
implications. How the hell was I going to get the degree course and the job I
wanted with grades like that. My other work began to suffer, as my life started
to slide. I started drinking heavily. I had always enjoyed a crafty pint from
about fifteen, but three years on I would think nothing of five or six pints on a night out, and I was capable of
double figures if the mood so took me. The mock exams got the same brutal
treatment, Wells remarked that for some reason, our results were better,
generally than our class work. It was a chink of daylight during a dark time.
But things fell very dark again when it came to our projected grades, which were
recorded on our penultimate school reports. Mine was worst of all, an E/F, only
a borderline chance of passing. That afternoon, a Friday, it felt as
if my world had caved in. Even if I achieved the C and D grades in the other
subject, it would all have been pretty pointless if I was unable to do the
course I wanted. All my hopes for the future came crashing down around me, all
the plans I had would now have to be reviewed and quickly. I was in a state of
shock and semi-desperation. I could not face going home. I went to my mate
Colin’s house for tea and in the evening we went to the pub. In my confused and angry state, I
drank fairly heavily. By ten o’clock I was pretty drunk and at least knew that
I had drank more than enough, I staggered home. I began thinking about some
other old school pals I had seen in the pub earlier, who were now earning good
money in jobs, driving cars, with girlfriends, places to go and cash to do it
with. I started to feel very hard done by. I thought about my family, how
wonderful life had been as a small boy and how markedly different it was now,
struggling for every penny, no luxuries, frightened almost of your own shadow,
for fear of upsetting Dad’s fragile temper. What had I done to deserve this?
The inhibitions were fading fast, the alcohol was provoking me to fuel my anger.
If Dad hadn’t followed the stupid notion of wanting to be a jockey, none of
this would have happened. In this way, the touch paper was set alight. I struggled to unlock the back door
and ended up flinging it open, scowling at it as I shuffled in. Mum was making a
drink. “SShhh, you’ll wake the baby up!
Look at the time..” I shrugged. Where have you been anyway?” “Colin’s, then the pub…” “I’m a bit annoyed with you. Why didn’t you ring up and
tell me? I was starting to worry.” “Well thanks,” I replied, with an
almost theatrical flourish, “thank you, Mum, for your concern.” “Keep your voice down! Be quiet!
You’ll have your father out here in a minute.” “So?” “So, you’ll make him angry!” So f****g what?” I spat. “Don’t you use that language to
me. I’ll tell your father..” “Good, he doesn’t frighten me.
Not any more. Go ahead, Mum, bring him on out here, if you like. You can’t use
him against me, because it can’t hurt me. You might be happy to live by his
rules, I’m not..” “Quiet!” “I won’t be quiet!” I
snapped “I’m p*****d off with people telling me what I can and can’t do.
Are you getting this ?? !!.” Mum
looked hurt and angry. By now, Dad had heard the commotion.
Out he came. “What’s going on?” Mum tried to get hers in first
“He’s been drinking…” Dad looked at me in a pained ‘what
are you trying to do to yourself’ sort of way, but I was not interested. I
felt it was too late for any reconciliation. “That’s right!” I replied
“I’ve been drinking, lots, ‘ cause I’m tired of being stuck in this miserable life. I’ve drunk
loads. but unfortunately, I can’t forget it, how the hell did that happen?” Dad was having none of it. “What’s the bloody matter with
you?” “What do you care ?” I was tinkering now with explosives,
but I didn’t care. “Just a minute!” Dad was losing his rag. Still I kept
trying to set the explosives alight. “What do you care, all you’ve
ever cared about is yourself. You’re so cocooned in your own little world,
that nothing else matters. Everyone panders to you, frightened to upset you.
Careful everybody, don’t step on your Dad’s dream, he’s going to win the
Grand National one day….Well, let me tell you something. You’re never going
to ride in the f*****g Grand National! You’re finished! We could’ve had
great times together, playing cricket and that. But oh no! You were too busy
riding all those useless horses, pretending to be a champion jockey, to care
about me, or anyone else. Where were you? I needed you to be here for me, not
sitting like a bloody shell-shock case in there all day. You let me down. Where the hell were
you when I needed you Dad? It’s all over…..Your dream. My dream…Everything
is ruined. Over..” Dad reacted, he lunged towards me and
grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket. “This,
asshole, is my house.” He snarled between clenched teeth. “You come in here,
shouting your mouth off, drunk,
upsetting everybody, waking that little baby up and then you have the gall to
start taking shots at me? You ungrateful b*****d. If that’s the way you really
feel, then you don’t have to put up with it. Piss off and live somewhere else.
The farther away, the better, for all I care. But, if you want a fight before
you go, we’ll go outside and get it on. I might be crippled, but I’ll still
give you a good hiding. Do you want some? Do you? Come on, let’s go right
now!” I had never seen him like this, he
was raging like a mastiff waiting for the muzzle to come off. It was having a
very sobering effect. I went to hit him, but for some reason he caught my hand
and just held me tightly to him, in restraint, not retaliation. I thought he
would want to counter, but he didn’t. The effect of being restrained suddenly
made me feel very sick. I By the time I freed myself I was too late to reach the
bathroom.. Instead, I tripped up and collapsed in a putrid puddle of my own
vomit. Things had now truly hit an all-time low. Dad looked over me “ Keep out of my sight” he said quietly .”You are right. We are finished.” It was my last memory of that fateful night.
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If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
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