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Making Allowances
Chapter 6, Part 2
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“Did
you see the two essays that he marked me at “F”? “Yep.
Read them.” “Did
you see the Report?” “I
did, yeah.” “OK,”
I was ready to hear the verdict, “What do you think?” “
Well,” Dad began, “I’ve read the story, and your two essays he marked. I
think, he’s right and he’s wrong.” I might have expected it, a totally
ambiguous answer. Now I would have to ask him to explain, and he would go off on
one of his speeches. “Oh well”, I thought, “at least I’ve got a beer.”
I asked for his explanation. “Well,
I think his marks on your report are a bit ill-advised, seeing as he has only
had one text to base his opinion on your overall ability. Now maybe this is all
he could do in the circumstances, if he was asked for an opinion and asked to
write a report, all he can do is base it on what he knows. But I think he is
wrong to put all of his eggs in one basket like this”. He looked again at the
comments on the Report. “What’s
this ‘we think’ he writes here.
What is he, royalty? A bit poor that, from an English Teacher. “Perhaps
he is trying to speak on the school’s behalf”, I suggested. “I
don’t think he represents the views of your school,” said Dad dismissively,
“not if Mr
Pearce’s views are anything to go by. I sat up straight, open-jawed. “Pearce?
When did you talk to Pearce?” “Today.
I went to see him. I rang him on Tuesday and he suggested I went over to the
school after lessons today. Nice chap” I was astounded “You went to the
School? Shit. You didn’t have to do that, Dad.” “Listen”,
said Dad quietly, ”when my boy is so upset that he is considering quitting
school, then I need to find out what’s going on and try to put a stop to
it.” I
looked around, trying to come to terms with the measure of this man’s love.
All these little touches, the chairs, the table, the beer, the books, the bloody
tape recorder, the trip to the school. I was completely astounded. Less than a
week ago we had been two fighting men on the point of an irrevocable split;
today, I felt like a small child again, comforted, supported, loved. “You
said you thought he was right and wrong,” I reminded Dad, “You’ve only
said that he was wrong so far. How was he right?” “Well
champ”, he sighed, “these essays are, well, they are crap.” “Yeah?” “Yeah”
he repeated, “shit.” “How?” “Answer
me a question” he pondered, “did you, or did you not, do Julius Caesar for
“O” Level? Mum said she thought that you did.” “Yes
I did.” “Thought
so,” he nodded, “ I don’t think you really understand what this play is
about. You are concentrating on the wrong things. You keep talking about Rome,
Rome this, Rome that, have you forgotten the title? This isn’t a political
drama, it’s a love story, the only relevance of the two powers, really, is
that neither of them were mighty enough to conquer the love that the two main
characters feel for each other. You keep skating around it, you don’t confront
it anywhere in these essays. You try to use abstract images and empty rhetoric,
but all that serves to do is add to the feeling that you don’t really know
what’s going on in the story.
It’s about the power of love.” “The
power of love”, he repeated. “Bloody
hell.” I exclaimed. “The
power of love.” The
power of love…. “The
power of love” was something that I was only beginning to understand. Complete
silence. The jockey was right. “Let’s start again,” said the jockey, and
so we did. On
his advice, I returned to the English lessons, but said very little, just
listened carefully to the other pupils, so that I could get as much opinion on
things as possible. From then on, every Thursday and Friday night, Literature
Club was a regular feature. Each week, we discussed the different texts, often
tape-recording parts of our discussion, picking apart the issues, building
balanced views based on evidence, learning quotations to support our
contentions. Very occasionally, we would watch film adaptations of the texts, or
other stories by our set authors. Dad even drove us to Cardiff, for a memorable
evening in which we watched a live production of one of the set plays, before
going on to watch a British Boxing Title Fight (tickets for both events,
courtesy of Granddad!). Slowly,
but surely, the essays began to grow tighter, and Wells’ grades began to rise
a little; D’s, then a C, although he still seemed to be marking very hard. I
was concerned when, during one night at Literature Club, Dad announced that he
would be seeing Mr Wells at our final Meet The Teachers Meeting at the end of
April. He told me not to worry. The meeting itself was strained, as Dad tried to
redress the uneasy balance that I had been struggling with all year. Wells
had been almost aggressive in the defence of his style, which the jockey had
questioned. “With
respect,” Wells had said, “I think you must allow me to be the best judge of
his abilities. It is, after all, my profession. Whilst I know he is upset at my
observations, I am trying to be as objective as I can. It wouldn’t be fair to
put these pupils on a pedestal and create false dawns for them, think of the
damage that might do.” “I
think, Mr Wells,” said Dad, “that you are in danger of going to far the
other way.” “I can’t see that,” Wells replied dismissively. “Allow
me to help you then”, Dad retorted with an air of condescension, “this is my
son, and much as it is your profession to bless them with your insight and
opinion, so is it your duty to ensure that your pupils are motivated and
encouraged at every step. Instead, he comes home, with his dreams in tatters,
ripped to pieces by your opinions that you have based on one single text you
have studied together. One play. You’ve
got these kids doubting themselves at the most important times of their lives, I
don’t see how that is helping their situation at all.” Wells
remained unrepentant, stating in conclusion, that he was confident that he had
called the situation correctly. He believed that the best I could hope to aspire
to was a low grade pass. “We
shall have to see.” The Teacher said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Yes,
we shall”, said The Jockey, “I look forward to it. Good evening to you.” It
was the only time in thirteen years of schooling that he did not retire from
meeting a teacher without shaking their hand. He put a hand on my shoulder as we
walked away. “
We’ll show him.” He murmured. In
the months leading up to my exams, Dad devoted day upon day to studying the
texts, to be able to discuss them as an equal, as a contemporary. We had a lot
of late nights, drank a lot of beer, and burnt a fair bit of propane, but we did
have a lot of high quality discussion and by the time that June arrived, we were
as ready as we could ever be. Now
came a subtle, yet profound change. Dad was keen now to ensure that I got plenty
of relaxation and recreation. He encouraged me to go out for a pint and gave me
the self-belief to think that I could afford to take whole days off. I played
plenty of cricket in this time, which, to this day, I feel was very beneficial,
because it gave me something totally different to concentrate on for a while,
which probably stopped “burn-out”. During
the exams, I felt entirely comfortable. English Set Texts was the first exam, a
four hour marathon. Although I felt understandably apprehensive at first, as
soon as I read the questions, I realised that I could answer more questions than
I needed to produce answers for. Once I had conquered this, I set about my first
question. It was not long before things began to flow. Frequently in those next
few hours I would think about the jockey in that little tack room. By the time
the papers were collected, I felt a mixture of elation and humility. This was
the toughest test, and I had met it, head on, and given it my best shot. But the
real hero was the old man, the jockey, who had given me the strength to stick
two fingers up at the doubter(s) and bounce back. I
went home and told him how pleased I was with the paper. He was very pleased, of
course. “There
you are”, he said, “you did it. It was in you all the time.” But it was he
who had made it happen. I
spent a fairly lazy summer, playing cricket, going to the odd party, disco, rock
concert. I gave up my job in the last few weeks leading up to the results,
hoping that the quiet days would not prove to be the calm before yet another
storm. I
was feeling very ropey on the day of the results, with a headache, sore throat
and a little bit of a temperature. I decided to walk the three miles to school,
in an effort to shake it off. By the time I arrived, the adrenaline was well and
truly pumping. I
walked into the foyer, ours was a small Sixth form and I happened to be the only
one in the foyer at that time, apart from Reynolds, the Headmaster. Looking at
the board, I quickly found my name, and, with my heart on fire, I followed the
table across with my finger: Economics
“B” Spanish
“B” English
Literature “A”. With
mouth half open in a stupid smile, I looked around at Reynolds. “Fantastic,”
he smiled, “Congratulations”. I
laughed, “Can you kick me or pinch me or something, tell me this isn’t a
dream.” “Not
this time,” Reynolds chuckled, handing me a slip of computer paper. There they
were, in black and white, I took a deep breath, although inside I was screaming
with triumph, being hit by waves of elation, it was like scoring the winner in
the Cup Final, or coming up the hill to win the Gold Cup. It even turned out to
be better than sex ! I
remembered the jockey again. It was as much his victory as mine. I ran out to
the nearest phone box and managed to convey my good news. By the time I had run
home, I was beginning to feel very light-headed. I didn’t know whether it was
the success of my results, or my flu symptoms. Again, for a moment it was all
forgotten. My sisters had already got me a card, Mum was crying, even Granddad
was crying. Dad
came in, pretending to be all coy and reserved, offering his hand, then he threw
his arms round me as we both laughed, “That bloody showed ‘em” he murmured
with a quiet air of satisfaction. We
didn’t have any money, but somehow we managed to have a steak dinner and a few
bottles of wine, as way of a celebration. I
went to bed early, still not feeling at all well. I managed, nevertheless, to
stay awake long enough to remember the trials and tribulations of the last three
years, and how Dad, despite being physically and financially crippled, had
managed to find the strength and courage to help me through my darkest moments
and help me realise my dreams. I
vowed that, if ever I could do anything to make a dream come true for him, then
I would do so, no matter what the dream was, or how high the stakes. Little
did I know……
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If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
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