Making Allowances

Chapter 6, Part 1

I didn’t turn up for my English Class on that Monday. I had told Dad that I was still definitely going to sit the exam, but I didn’t want to go back to Wells’ classes, just yet. For him, for now, going back was enough.

When I got home that night, Mum said that Dad wanted to see me in the front room. I was a little apprehensive, wondering if he wanted to draw fresh battle lines. I went into the front room.

“How did it go today?” he asked.

“I didn’t show for English”, I said apologetically, “ I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s OK,” he replied.

“I want to help you”, he continued, “we’ll sort out this one together. I need to have a look at a few things, and then I’ll tell you what I think we should do.”

It was as if a great weight had been lifted from me. But what could a wannabe jockey do ?”

“I want to see that report; then I want a copy of that play you’ve been reading, Antony and Cleopatra, and all the notes and essays you’ve done on it.”

I brought them out. He had a brief look through it all and then said.

“Right then, I’ll be keeping these for a few days”.

The next day, I missed another lesson. I was putting the time to good use, retreating to a private study room to work on a project I was doing for Economics. At lunchtime, I returned to the Sixth Form Common Room to hook up with my mate Nick. We were putting plans together for an Open Evening Presentation to parents of prospective Sixth Formers. We had just set out all of our material when Sally, Nick’s girlfriend, walked in. Sally was also in my English group, and had just come from her History lesson, which was taken by our Head of Sixth Form,  Malcolm Pearce.

Instead of sliding onto the sofa next to Nick, she walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder.

“ Pearce wants to see you.”

“When?”

“Well, I think he means now.” I hung my head and slowly stood up.

Nick gave a foreboding look. “Good luck mate.”

I wasn’t unduly worried, because I had known Pearce all my school life. He had taught me at eleven through to sixteen, when he became my Head of Year. He had that “Early 70s” aura; Lennon spectacles, greying beard filling out his thin features, fabric ties, wide lapelled jackets and zip-up boots. He was a very peaceable sort of chap, usually, but had a very strong sense of right and wrong, and I had seen one of his rare excursions into anger, which was rather frightening, because it was such a rare sight.

I thought to myself, even Pearce at his worst couldn’t be as bad as what I’d experienced with Dad that weekend. The door was ajar and Pearce saw me coming, he stood up and beckoned me in.

“Hi,” he greeted me, “shut the door, sit yourself down. Fancy a coffee?”

“Erm, no, no thanks,” I replied.

Pearce looked doubtfully at the low level of coffee in his percolator, and felt the pot for warmth, he screwed up his face.

“No, me neither, how about a beer?”

This was more like it. “OK”.

“That’s settled then,” he said, “a pub lunch”

We walked over to the pub, but fortunately, on the way over, we were distracted by the sight of an old car travelling up the road, with the exhaust virtually hanging from the underbelly of the car, scraping along the carriageway. Pearce watched the car and correctly identified the driver as an ex-pupil. He asked me if I knew what the lad was doing these days. I told him he’d just got out of a Young Offenders Institute.

“Clearly”, joked Pearce, “he never became a mechanic.” I began to relax.

We sat down in a corner of the pub with our lunch. Pearce got down to business, but in his own special way, and I immediately began to feel more at ease.

“So, how’s it going?”

I sighed, “Well, you know, not so good.”

“Hmmm” said Pearce, “so I hear.”

I wondered what he had heard.

“Mr Wells tells me you haven’t shown up for English this week.”

“That’s right.” Pearce waited, but I didn’t feel like volunteering anything.

“What’s the deal there then?” asked Pearce.

“I just need a bit more time”, I replied, floundering for a better answer, I couldn’t tell him that I thought Wells and I were having a personality clash.

“These grades are a bit of a blow”, I continued, “I’d set my heart on doing an English course, or go to Journalist’s College. Clearly, I am not capable.”

“Well”, Pearce responded, “I don’t think those of us who know you well would agree. How are you so sure that this isn’t just a temporary thing? You’ve had a tough few years, nobody would blame you for having a bit of a dip in form. All good horses do, don’t they? “

“But, is he right?” I protested.

“Only you really know that”, replied Pearce, a little testily.

“But I can’t give myself projected grades.” I pointed out. Pearce reminded me. “Remember, these are only opinions, when all is said and done. If, as I think you will, you do a lot better, I am certain that there will be places available at “clearing”, and I will do everything I can to help you with that. All I am asking you to do is think carefully, don’t do anything too rash. I hope you’re still going to sit the Exam. I know Miss Parks would be mortified if she thought you were going to quit the course.”

“No,” I assured him, “ I won’t do that, I’ll sit the Exam, but I may not go to any more lessons.”

“Think about that one carefully,” Pearce advised.” I know that Mr Wells probably isn’t on your Christmas Card list at the moment, but he may not be the nemesis that you think he is. I would hope, for the English Department’s sake that there is some value in his subject knowledge, if not in the way you think he is teaching it.”

This was strong stuff for Pearce.

“Just think about it,” he urged.

“I will, I promise you that,” I nodded.

“Remember all the positives, too” Pearce closed. “All the good grades and reports that Miss Parks gave you, she believed in you, so do I, the question is, do you?”

After a few seconds of silence, Pearce changed the subject.

“So, how’s Dad?”

I told Dad about my pub lunch with Pearce that night. He said that the fact that Pearce had gone to those lengths to speak to me must tell me something about my value to the Sixth Form, and my future potential. Mum said later that he had spent most of the day shut away in the front room or the tack room, reading. And so this went on for most of the week. On the Thursday evening, I remarked that Dad was not at home. Mum advised that he had gone out just after lunch, and that she, too, was now growing a little concerned about him, as he had not told her where he was going, nor when he would return. No sooner had she mentioned this when we heard the familiar pitch of his car engine. He pulled into the driveway but then he spent another half hour down in the tack room. Finally, he came up to the house.

“Come on down to the tack room,” he urged.

I looked mystified at Mum, who shrugged. I followed him down the dimly lit path to the warm glow of the tack room. On entering, I noticed that the propane heater was turned up, the clutter had all been tidied away, an oil lamp was burning on an old coffee table, between two battered armchairs, draped in clean horse blankets. There was a faint humming sound in the air, which I noticed was coming from the old fridge which we just used as a store cupboard. I wasn’t aware that we had anything down there that needed chilling.

 “Good evening sir,” announced Dad pompously, “and a very warm welcome to the opening of the Thursday Night Literature Club. Let me, without further ado, introduce you to the fine facilities our members can expect to enjoy!” With a flourish, Dad opened the fridge. To my surprise and delight, it was crammed full of stuff, milk, butter, yoghurts, cans of soft drinks, cans of beer, and big bars of chocolate. Then, as if performing a magic trick, he opened a trunk, to reveal more provisions, bags of crisps, nuts and fruit. There was a kettle, a teapot, biscuits; it was like Fagin’s Den.

The final surprise was a cabinet which, when opened, revealed copies of all my set texts. Some looked brand new, others looked very old indeed. Where he got them from remains a mystery to this day, but there they all were. To complete the picture, on the table lay some jotter pads, pens and a battered old cassette tape recorder.

“I’m impressed,” I laughed, “but where are we going with all this?”

Dad straightened himself to his full height, “say hello to your new study partner.”

I looked askance at him. “You?” I laughed. Then I stopped.

“You’re serious, aren’t you.” “ Too right,” he replied. “ All fighters need a coach if they are going to bring out the best in their fights.” Even if these sporting metaphors seem a little crass in hindsight, they were hitting all the right note at the time, and I was inspired by the thought of a young fighter, battling his way to the title in the face of overwhelming odds. He’d painted the picture though, the jockey had done that. Suddenly, though, something dawned on me.

“Hang on,” I said, “If you are going to help me, then you are you going to have to read all these set texts, and the critiques.”

“Yes”, he said. “I have already read Antony and Cleopatra” .

Chapter 6, Part 2

Synopsis

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