Mister Mister

"We loved, sir- used to meet:

How sad and bad and mad it was-

But then, how it was sweet."

Robert Browning

"Old Spice- The Mark of a Man."

There was to be no funeral. It’s not what he’d wanted. Instead there was to be a simple scattering of the ashes, followed by a get together for a select group of family and friends. It seemed a long way to come for something so small but still, it wasn’t every day that your father died.

They were travelling towards Hull as the graceful concrete arch of the Humber Bridge beckoned into view. In the past someone would have commented- the first one to see it wins. Not now. His wife, Kate, snored away the pain of the 4 am start whilst their daughter, Tilly 15, bobbed along to her iphone playlist. The bridge’s appearance was met with silence.

The Humber Bridge. He eventually said to no one. Kate shuffled slightly in her sleep and Tilly looked up briefly before descending once more into her digital abyss.

The driver was left alone with his thoughts. He was closer to fifty than forty in years, whereas the metallic grey Audi A7 was closer to ninety than seventy in speed; and his state of mind, despite an outward appearance of calm, was sloshed with present day distractions and scrapbook memories. Some of which he knew to be true, others he could never be sure. After all, it had all happened such a long time ago, if not in a different city than certainly a changed one: a city, which he had only visited once in the last five years.

At this moment the present-day distractions were foremost. The memories could wait. Last night he received a text. It was from Jen who was currently working on her band’s latest album at the studio he part owned in the gentrified back streets behind Hoxton Square. They’d been flirting openly for the last two weeks and it looked as if matters were coming to a head. LOVE WHAT YOUR DOING WITH PLASTIC PONIES MAYBE COME OVER FOR DINNER NEXT FRIDAY? MATT’S AWAY... ;) xxx. It hardly counted as infidelity but the fact he hadn’t replied with a definitive no, pointing out he was a happily married man, or just deleted it, troubled him. He was happy enough but there was something thrillingly illicit about being chased by a talentless, but nevertheless dangerously attractive blue-haired woman fifteen years his junior. Maybe if he were to go round there, nothing would happen, no one need know...

Who’s that?

What? Tilly had taken out one earphone and was asking him a question. It was a novel experience.

That. Clive Sullivan? She pointed to the sign marking the main entry into the city.

Oh right, The Clive Sullivan Way. It’s named after a rugby player. He was black and played for both teams.

What’s his ethnicity got to do with it?

Nothing.

Why mention it then? His daughter was becoming just like her Auntie Charley when she was this age.

He was a brilliant player. A winger. Moved like lightening...I used to play y’know.

Play what?

Rugby. As a kid.

This statement was too much for Tilly who took out the other earphone and laughed. His wife woke with a stretch.

God- we already here? What you laughing at?

Dad. He reckons he used to play rugby.

You? Rugby? The laughter was now in stereo.

Laugh away. I used to play rugby and I was bloody good at it.

Tracey Townsend- Rugby legend? Really? I didn’t know that.

Well, there y’go. You don’t know everything. I mean, we all have secrets...

September

1

Mally was to blame, first for calling me Tracey and second for getting killed by that bus. The second one wasn’t his fault. Mam said the puppy was to blame for that, the name though, that was all his doing.

Stop snivelling, otherwise I’ll give you both something to snivel about. I’m not crying.  I feel like it. Already the snot has mixed up with the blood from my nose and lip and started to go hard. It’ll be an ace scab. Mam says not to pick at scabs but its impossible not to, she says if you do they’ll never heal, but what if you don’t want them to heal. Maybe somethings can never heal. Some things will never scab but always stay raw and red and stinging.  

The boy next to me is crying. Or maybe he’s just breathing heavy. It’s hard to say and I’m too scared to look. The man in front of us might batter us and then bury us in the far corner of the school field just for a laugh. He’s real old, about fifty or something and he’s got these thin wisps of ginger hair which only just cover his bald freckly head. His eyes are watery- green and he’s got his sleeves rolled up.

So, what do I owe this pleasure?

Dunno Sir, I let the other boy talk. He’s already a pupil here so he’ll know what best to say. The teacher waits- he already knows the answer to his question. "We were...fighting Sir.

You were fighting Sir?

Yes Sir.

Yes Sir. Fighting on the first day back? Not exactly a great start to the term is it Mr.Tomlinson?

No Mr. Sergeant.

No Mr. Sergeant.

I wonder who Mr. Sergeant is. Is it the man with the red face and ginger hair or is it the boy? Maybe they are both called Mr. Sergeant. And who is Mr. Tomlinson? Maybe another teacher is in the room, stood behind us and staying quiet because he’s not the one in charge. It wouldn’t be a good idea to look around.

You. Name? He jabs his fountain pen in my direction. It’s a posh one, a Parker.

Sir Tracey Townsend, Sir.

Sir Tracey Townsend? Excuse me while I genuflect. I don’t know what he’s going on about. Tracey Townsend?

Yes Sir.

I wait for the laugh, but it doesn’t come. He just gives himself a little nod as if to say he’s heard about me, about my situation. Taking his pen, he writes in red curly writing the date- Monday 4th September, 1981 and then our names. Darren Tomlinson. Tracey Townsend. Carefully he puts the silver lid on the pen and closes the hard green book- it has punishments written in red on the front. He then bobs down into a drawer and takes out a massive white sandshoe which he carefully places in front of us on his shiny wooden desk. 

It’s massive. At least a size 11. Maybe even a 12. I look at his strong forearms. The thick blue veins.

Tomlinson. Bend. As if he’s used to it the blond boy stands up and bends over. Mr. Sergeant is smooth and quick. THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK. I can’t look but I can feel the pain. He finishes and lets out this little cough, which is sort of like an apology but not quite. Townsend. Bend. I get to my feet. Even though I got into trouble at my last school I never got the cane or slipper. Mrs. Taylor, our head mistress, was progressive and didn’t believe in physical chastisement. It’s only when I sit back down do I feel the burn. I won’t cry though. I bite my lip and look down at my Monkey boots.

Now... Sergeant looks at his Timex. Five and twenty past nine. You have until four to reach your decision. Dismissed. What decision? Sergeant can see I don’t know what he’s going on about. Oh, of course, new boy...at four o’clock you and Tomlinson need to return here. If you can shake hands and let bygones be bygones, then I shall consider it the end of the matter. However, if you wish to continue with hostilities then it shall be resolved through the noble art of pugilism.

I look at Sergeant. Darren Tomlinson explains what he means. He means boxing. If we don’t mek up we ‘ave to ‘ave a boxing match. In the gym. Everyone gets to watch an’ that. Sergeant smiles as though he likes the idea.

Exactly. Now, get out of my sight.

Boxing. That’s mental. I ask the kid if it’s true. The kid I’d kicked in the face- the kid with the killer punch. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods. Nods and walks off down the corridor. 

For the rest of the day I think about nothing else. I’m in the same classes as Tommo (that’s what the other kids call him because it’s short for Tomlinson) but he only looks at me once. The other kids do though, all the time. The one with the little Specials badge has short black hair and a fringe flicked into a wedge. He’s always smiling but it’s not a happy smile, more a smile like he knows something no one else does. Like the smile of a snake.

Are you two lasses gonna box it out then? He asks but then stops because Mrs. Abbey gives him a look.

We’re having this extended form time with Mrs. Abbey- 4A3’s form tutor. She’s got these long plaits and wears tan coloured tights and brown sandals. You can see her long toenails poking out through the tights. I like her though because she gave me an orange boiled sweet and when she made everyone in the class say a surprising fact about themselves she missed me out. Her surprising fact was that she’s got a black belt in Judo- which can’t even be true because she’s a woman.

We’re going to our first lesson.

Are ya?

"What?

"Gonna box it out?

Dunno. I say. I look at Tommo but he just glares at the kid with the Specials badge. I don’t think he likes him.

What’s it to do with you Sheep...Shepherd? He finally answers. The kid laughs.

Calm down Tommo. Only asking...Gaz He holds out his hand towards me. I go to shake it but he sticks his thumb to his nose and wiggles his fingers. Ahh...nob head. He runs off the corridor, pointing back at me and laughing and trying to impress his square-headed mate. That’s when I meet Tommo’s eyes. They don’t look angry anymore. Something else? It’s hard to say. His shrugs a little and walks off by himself down the corridor.

I can’t think about any of the lessons. In French I look at Mrs. Taylor’s plump top lip. It’s got this little brown spot just above it. A beauty spot. I touch my own lip and feel the cut- the crusting edges and still soft centre. I winch a little. This girl with shoulder length black hair and thick red lips sees me and smiles. She’s called Ann Cogan. I know this because she answered the question ‘how do you say traveller? Voyager. Mrs. Turner said Merci Ann. Later she called her Mademoiselle Cogan. A new girl is brought into the lesson- she’s tall and dead skinny and got browny- red hair and bright green eyes. She stands looking a bit embarrassed because there’re no seats, so I take my bag of the chair next to me so now there is. I can see that she hasn’t got a pen so I give her my spare. I tell her she can keep it. She smiles and I smile back. I don’t really concentrate on the lesson though because all I can think about is being in the gym, in a make-shift boxing ring made by four gym benches. Sergeant’s in the middle being the ref and all the school are hanging on the wall bars screaming for my blood. Ann Cogan is there too. I wonder if she would laugh or cry.

It’s the same in Woodwork. I just keep thinking about being brayed by Tommo in front of the whole school. Ann isn’t in this class. It’s just the boys, which makes sense because girls would cut themselves or complain about getting spells in their fingers. They’re probably doing cooking and sewing and stuff. Charley would say that’s oppressive towards woman because she’s doing something called Sociology in the 6th form. She’s wrong though. Boys should do boys’ stuff, girls should do girls’.

Mr. Snell, the teacher is demonstrating the safe and correct way to use the standing drill. He’s got loads of hairs in his ears and nostrils- like massive spiders have crawled in there to keep warm. Eyebrows like the Russian president- Brezhnev.

GOGGLES! Goggles on at all time boys. Just one stray piece of metal and it’ll have your eye clean out. Don’t believe me? I’ve seen it! When he says this I feel Tommo’s fist again- the shock of it. Pummelling into my eye, dislodging the special bit- the retina.

It’s no better in History. I like the teacher though. He’s just as mad as the woodwork teacher but at least looks like he enjoys his job. He’s got this massive mail order replica War of the Roses sword which he shows to the class. His massive moustache bristles with excitement. At my last middle school most of the teachers were women, here most of them are men which is loads better, even if they are strict.

Here. Pick it up. He’s speaking to me.

He passes it over and I nearly drop it. It weighs an absolute ton.

Heavy isn’t it?

Yes Sir.

Exactly. Heavy and strong. One true blow and it’d take your head clean off.

That’s what Tommo would do. Not with a sword but with his fists. It’d be ‘ding-ding, round one’. I’d bob and weave a bit while Tommo would just stand in the middle of the ring, waiting. As soon as I got within punching distance it’d be ‘Oh my word, Tomlinson has knocked Townsend’s head clean off his shoulders.’ Even though my head was no longer attached to my body I’d still be able to see. Like when a chicken can run about after its head has been lopped off. I’d see the crowd with all their mouths open as they’d follow the parabola (which means curve or arch or something) of my flying head before it came clunking down onto the gym floor, just beneath Ann Cogan’s skirt. I’d probably be able to see her knickers.

Wouldn’t you? Clacton has asked me something but I don’t know what.

Er...yes sir. The room explodes into laughter. I feel the blood whoosh into my cheeks. I smile back unsure.

An honest man among ten thousand. Back to your seat.

At dinner time I sit with Frogger. He’s fat and weird and wears plastic winkle pickers. It was his fault that me and Tommo had a fight. He told Tommo I was called Tracey. Tommo laughed. I asked Tommo for a Pacer Mint. Tommo said no. I pushed him. We had a fight.

Frogger tells me why everyone was laughing in History.

’e was talking about when young kids went to battle they would piss and bab the sens...

’e didn’t say that. I’m getting fed up of Frogger. The white flecks of gob round his mouth have been replaced with yellowy custard.

Yeah. But that’s what ‘e meant. ‘e asked if you’d piss and bab yersen, an’ cry fo’ yer mam. You sed yeah. It was really funny.

Is that what you’d think I’d do? I stare at him. Not blinking. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his jumper. Custard and dried snot.

No. You’d batter ‘em.

Yeah, I say. I would. I throw my knife and fork onto my plate and walk away from the table, leaving Frogger by himself. Even if was going to have no mates at all for the rest of the year I’m not going to hang about with a Joey Deacon like this. No way.

But maybe Frogger and Clacton have a point. Maybe I am a coward. Maybe I’m not as tough as Mally, that maybe I’m going to let him down. Every time I close my eyes I feel the electric white blur as my face explodes. Imagine what it would be like over and over again? Not been able to kick. Queensbury rules.

So, my youthful pugilists. Are you ready to sort your differences out like the brave young bucks that you are?

It’s four o’clock. Tommo is stood next to me again. I’ve got no idea what he thinks. I can hear him breathing.

Not sure Sir.

What do you mean, not sure Sir? Surely you’ve discussed it Sir? Frogger told me that Tommo lives on Prezzie Road council estate and his mam’s a prozzy. Sergeant’s just trying to be clever by calling him Sir.

What about you?

Not sure Sir. The best thing to do is copy.

Not sure Sir?

No Sir, Sir...no.

Sergeant stares at us. I’m glad Tommo hasn’t said yes. It’s not over yet though. Maybe he’s going to make us. Tommo’s mate with the big brown hair tells me Sergeant’s even bought his own special bow tie for the occasion. Sergeant looks disappointed and rubs his temples.

Let me get this straight- you don’t want to be friends and you also don’t want to settle your grievances through the time-honoured tradition of gladiatorial combat?

We both look at him.

What now? Do I simply let you depart and allow your hostility to fester like an un-lanced boil until it explodes, showering us all in its purulent pus?

It’s best to say nothing. He’s not really asking questions.

I won’t have it. He slaps his huge hand onto the shiny desk. One of the little stamper things falls from its holder. Absolutely not. This school is a living organism and its health depends on the purity of its parts. Something must be done to purge this excess of aggression...so be it. Tomorrow night you will both attend training for Mr. Cornell’s rugby team. He puts the little stamper thing back on to its holder, not looking at us.

But Sir...

But what Tomlinson? Mr Sergeant looks up again, his Hulk green eyes shine like a mad man.

Nowt sir.

Good... He takes a steel-stemmed pipe out from one his of drawers. Maybe he needs a smoke after all this. Now, get out.

By the time I leave the school most of the other kids have gone. The sun has come back out and even though it’s September it still feels a bit like summer. I pass the school sign next to a Pussy Willow tree. On the sign is a badly drawn cock. Tommo’s waiting for me. Crap. I don’t want to fight again. Maybe this time he really is going to kill me. He steps in front of me, blocking my path.

Hiya.

Er...Hiya.

Mates? He sticks his hand out. Except unlike the other boy- Gaz Shepherd- he doesn’t pull it away. I take it. It feels good, like we’ve been through something together.

Mates.

We walk along a little bit, to the dark corner of tree-lined Southcoates Avenue. We’re both going to be in the rugby team. I’m not sure what I think about this. Mally would have been pleased. Mally loved rugby. I’ve never played before. I ask Tommo what the rugby teacher is like.

Dunno. He’s not been at the school for a bit. Just come back. Looks like we’re gonna find out. He kicks a crumpled-up Shaw’s Dandelion and Burdock can.

Yeah. I say. It does.

I watch as he goes off swinging his Grandways plaggy bag- like Frogger it’s the only bag he has. Again, I lightly finger the scab- the centre has now gone hard. Even though it’s being a bad start to the school I’m glad in a way. At least now I’ve got a mate. Maybe.

2

I’m on the settee watching Minder. Charley is at the table pretending to be clever, reading a text book- Patriarchy and the Nuclear Family, listening to her Walkman. She’s wearing black Levis jeans, a black fluffy cardigan and black nail varnish. She thinks she’s really ace. On the telly Terry is beating this big guy up. He has a moustache and is wearing a leather jacket. The one being beaten up, not Terry. He’s wearing a grey sweatshirt. Arthur Daley is watching while he smokes a cigar. Every time Terry whacks the guy in the leather jacket Arthur winces, as though it hurts him a bit too. I wonder if Terry prefers football or rugby- probably football because he lives in London.

Mam comes in followed by Jonny Bessit. Again. This time he’s helping to shift some boxes. He’s wearing these tight stone washed jeans and a white capped sleeved T-shirt. Men as old as him (he must be at least 30- which is well old but still loads younger than Mam) shouldn’t dress like this- it looks stupid. He’s even got blond highlights and wears this little necklace that is supposed to be a shark’s tooth or something. It’s probably plastic. Mam must think he’s great though because she’s wearing tight stone washed jeans as well. She’s also had her hair permed.

Where you want this? He’s got this old biscuit tin that looks like it belonged to Granddad Townsend. It’s got a picture of a really young-looking Queen and her husband, Prince Duke of Edinburgh. I’ve seen it before but I can’t remember when.

That...give it ‘ere. She snatches it from him and quickly leaves the room.

Now then bruiser. He’s talking to me. As usual he rubs the top of my head. Christ, what ‘append to you? He means my lip- it’s swollen right up.

British Bulldogs. It’s what I told Mam. I don’t want her to worry.

Hooligan. I don’t know how Charley can hear us. Maybe the cassette’s finished. She then reads something out loud from her book- A man feels himself more of a man when he is imposing himself and making others the instruments of his will. I never know what she’s going on about.

Shut up. I’m tryna watch this. I don’t just mean Charley. 

"Minder eh? I could be so good for you...love ya like ya want me to..." Jonny Bessit starts singing the theme song to Minder, like he’s a cockney or something. Mam comes back in and laughs like she’s a lot younger than she really is. In some countries when their husband dies the wife will wear black forever and never smile. Maybe Charley was married before in a past life? Mam’s the opposite. She’s bought a turquoise leotard and has never been happier. She’s drinking Nescafe from this mug that asks Who Shot JR?  I look up and catch Charley’s black eye-liner eyes. She looks back and turns her nose up a bit- I know she isn’t listening to music, just pretending. Come on then Eileen, these boxes aren’t gonna shift the sen.

3

My Casio says 18:05:23 which means its five past six. We’re all in a little room in the back of the Science lab. On one side are large windows with a bench beneath them. You can’t see through the bottom half of the windows because they’re all frosty and have little threads of metal running through them. In the corner is a huge white sink. Stood against one wall is a massive wardrobe thing- like a really wide coffin. There’s little pencil marks all over it with dates. One says Jonno- 5 foot 3, 7/4/70. The other two walls have book shelves crammed with loads and loads of books- Basic Physics; Balls to all that: A Selection of Saucy Rugby Songs; The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  Beneath the book shelf there’s another bench- a bench wide enough to sit on.

That’s what we’re doing, sitting on the benches which go around three sides of the room-most of us anyway. A couple of kids are leant against the wardrobe and one (Luke Knight- Gaz Shepherd’s square headed mate) is sat at the table in the middle. It’s a big rectangular table and it’s been varnished so many times it looks almost black. We’re the team. There are 18 of us and I know some of the names. Luke who already thinks he’s the captain. A tall kid with a massive Bruce Forsyth chin called Macco. The kid with the mad pudding basin hair cut who was sat next to Tommo on the steps when we had the fight- Wiggy. A tall ginger kid who everyone calls Duracell. A small kid called Fozzy. Gaz Shepherd. A black kid called Moody. A fat kid called Gav. Another kid with really large gums called Chas. Me and Tommo. The Conway twins and some others I don’t know. Oh yeah, and Frogger. But I don’t know what he’s doing here because he’s total crap and kept sticking the ball up his Kermit the Frog T-shirt pretending to be pregnant.

We’ve just had our first training session and we’re waiting for Mister Cornell to come and speak to us. He’s poured 18 cups of orange squash (Kia-ora) out and there’s a plate of biscuits. Sports Biscuits. The one I’ve got is of a stick man on a bike- cycling.  Tommo’s is of two men joined together with a rope. Mountaineering? I wonder who got the rugby one. Probably Luke because even though it’s only our first session Mister Cornell thinks he’s the best. Well played Luke. Lovely pass. Excellent. Keep going. Well done Luke. The good thing though is that we’re all in the same position- not the same rugby position because it wouldn’t work and we’d never win any matches- but the same position in that we’re all new. It’s a brand-new team with a brand-new coach. Mister Cornell has worked at the school before but it was ages ago. Now he’s back.

All the chattering and shuffling and biscuit crunching stops. He stands beside this grey board. It must be made of metal because there’s these little red and black magnets stuck to it- 15 of each. The board is divided up into lines like it’s a pitch or something. A rugby pitch? Tactics? He takes off his thick black glasses and gives them a quick rub on an immaculate white handkerchief. He’s wearing a dazzling white shirt, a thin knitted black tie and a green tweed jacket. His hair has been shaven into a tight grey skinhead, his head looks like it’s been carved out of Oak and there’s not a spot of dirt on him anywhere.

My name is Mister. Not Mr. Cornell or Sir, just Mister. He puts his glasses back on. Frogger laughs to himself and says ‘Mister Mister’ but we all ignore him because there’s no way he’s going to be picked for the team. Who am I?

Mister. We shout back.

Good. I’d like to show you something. Here. Mister takes out a small photograph from his inside pocket and passes it to Duracell who’s sat at the end of the bench. Take a good look. Duracell takes ages, as though he’s trying to absorb the image onto his eyeballs. Pass it on. He passes it on.

It’s an old faded colour photograph of a rugby team. I recognise the school behind them- it’s on the school field just in front of the staff room. All the kids have long shoulder length hair and Mister Cornell is in the middle except he has a moustache and his hair is dark and curly. By his feet is a shining silver trophy. Like all the other boys I hold the photograph in both hands, being careful not to smudge it, gaze at for at least ten seconds then pass it to Tommo. All the time we’re doing this Mister says nothing but just watches us, as if he’s trying to work out by our reactions whether we’ll be any good in the team. There’s a lot of nodding of heads and narrowing of eyes. We need to show we’re serious. Eventually the photograph is returned and Mister carefully puts it back in the side pocket of his jacket.

Did anyone notice the salient point of the photograph?

No one says anything. His unblinking eyes land on me. I’m not sure what salient means.  I have to say something.

It was ages ago Sir.

Mister.

It was ages ago Mister.

Exactly Tracey. He knows my name. I haven’t told him and nobody said it in the training session. Ages ago. Ten years to be precise. Rather a long time to go without a trophy, wouldn’t you say? We all nod. "Exactly. A ridiculously long time. Ten years. Ten years. TEN...YEARS. He shouts and the thick, rope like veins in his neck stick out. I wonder why he’s so mad, it’s not our fault. There’s no way I’d say that though. Again, he takes off his glasses and gives them a little rub with the hankie. Ten years since this pathetic little school has had anything remotely good to be proud about. Ten years since pupils have shown any vim or vigour or zeal or spunk... I think of the drawing on the school sign by the Pussy Willow tree. Except now that’s all going to change. When I told my parents... His parents? They must be about ninety or something? Does he still live with them? ...that I intended to come home and teach once more at Alderman Bradshaw C of E middle school they thought I was mad. They said..." I think he’s going to say his real name but he doesn’t. Maybe it’s embarrassing like mine. Shirley? Like Big Daddy. "What do you want to do that for? You’ve spent the last