The end of the summer holidays were very near after a very hot one. Uniform ready, new bag with pencils, pens, and all the gear for secondary school...
Myself and my pals were very excited about going. We got there by bus as we lived in the next village. Walking off the bus, the playground was massive with a big bell right in line with what I soon found out was the Headmaster's office. As first year pupils we had to walk through the older girls and boys who were eyeing up the ones to have a go at, and would be easy to bully- or that's what it felt like to us.
"Watch your back boys," I said in a quiet Irish accent. The first thing to do was to assemble in the big hall for our first look at the Headmaster and Deputy Head. They went through the rules and timings at the big school. The next thing to do was to be broken up into classes. Our first teacher was a man called Mr Nott. He had bryl-creamed hair and a big long black cloak. He had that much dandruff on his collar that if he turned around with any great purpose there would be a small snow drift left in his wake!
Believe it or not, our first lesson was RE. Great. What a start to big school. This class would not stop giggling at his dandruff, and his face was as red as a beetroot. We thought he liked the whisky a bit too much. The lad sitting behind me made some crack about the dandruff, and guess who got the blame?
"Right me boy," he shouted over the classroom, "Out here - now." So as I protested my innocence, he went to his desk and pulled out this leather belt with tongs at one end. "I'm going to make an example of you."
Just so you know, it was illegal to be struck on the wrists when a teacher delivered the belt. So he handed over a blackboard duster. "Put that on," he said. So, not knowing what to do, I placed it over my eyes and held my hands out. He went off his head and the class cracked up! "No on your wrists! You were going to get one but now you'll get six of the best!"
After my "six of the best", my hands were throbbing like crazy; I couldn't even pick up a pencil. Not bad for my first RE lesson!
On Monday morning I got ready for school; my mum didn't get up as she was still asleep from running her pub in Milnathort - the one we lived above. I needed money for the bus, and a bit of lunch. So I took a pound note out of her purse. Me and my pal had a fag on the way to the bus stop, then we rode the short trip to school, and got off just in time for the bell. Double English to start with a very good looking teacher. Mrs Campbell. She was a lovely looking lady, and all the boys fancied her.
Nearing the end of the period, the phone rang outside in the corridor. Everybody waited in the classroom, to see who was in trouble.
"James," Mrs Campbell shouted, "Headmaster's office - now." So, walking down the corridor - thinking about what I'd done - I arrived to find the
secretary there. "Straight in," she said "the Head is ready for you."
The headmaster was 6ft tall, and he walked with purpose down the long corridors with very loud, shiny brogues. He was ex-forces. He was always followed by the deputy head, who came in at the small height of 5ft. They both wore long black cloaks, flying behind them. They looked like Batman and Robin.
I walked into the office, the door open, thinking about what was going to happen. The headmaster was sitting to the right behind his desk, and to my horror, my mother was to the left. "Empty your pockets!" shouted the headmaster.
Suddenly I realised I had ten regal in my right-hand pocket, and the one-pound note in my left. So no brainer: give the quid back! So I reached into my left pocket and clasped it in my hand and lay it on the table where he opened it up to reveal a tenner.
Ohhh I thought, now I'm in the trouble department. "Sorry sir, I thought it was a quid for me bus and lunch."
"Hands out me boy." So with my hands out in front of me, six of the best were delivered. My hands were throbbing like my heart – and it was going ten to the dozen. He could give the belt very much better than Mr Nott.
Two years on I was very well settled into school, and proved myself on the sports field as a fullback in the first team of the rugby side, and did very well running for the school at 800 and 1500 yards. Yet...times were very different at home. My mother was always having a go at me for anything I did, her voice opening up like a roaring lioness that had not been fed.
Mum was always having a go at my father, so no wonder he left. I could not wait to be sent to Northern Ireland for the summer holidays to spend time with my granny, and aunties and uncles. I had a great time messing about on the farm, with frequent trips to Portrush and Portstewart. After the holidays were over, I would be taken to Belfast airport, tearfully saying goodbye to everyone, and thinking ‘was I crying because of Ireland, or going home to the shouting from my mother?’ I think the latter.
So the boy that tried will be back. And guess what? I'm still trying.