The Criminal Escapades of Geoffrey Larkin

by R. W. Hughes

  Ashness shouted out the names of the class until he came to Larkin. There was no reply. He shouted the name out again louder; ‘LARKIN!’ Again there was no reply.

  One of the lads, who had been in the toilets with Higgins and Norton, tittered. Ashness zoomed in to the work bench where the tittering had come from, there were four lads, two either side the bench. ‘Which one of you boys made that silly sound?’ he shouted. No one answered.

  ‘Which one of you stupid boys made that silly sound?’ he repeated much louder than the first time. The four boys looked sheepishly at one another but no one answered.

  The rest of the class were silent. They had seen this so many times before; Ashness was building himself up into one of his rages. ‘If the boy who made that silly sound does not own up this instant, all four of you at this bench will receive detention. And miss your tea!’ His voice had now reached a crescendo. There was no reply from the small group. Terry Ashness picked up a loose piece of wood from their work and smashed it onto the surface of the workbench with a loud crash, sending clouds of fine sawdust and wood shavings in all directions.

  The boy who had done the tittering went into a long, forced outburst of coughing, which caused further tittering from the rear of the room. Ashness ignored this, turned and went into the small cubby hole he called his office, and came out with a hammer. He then carried on where he had left off. ‘Does anyone know where Larkin is?’ There was a deathly silence.

  ‘I will repeat once more.’ There was the sound of someone from the body of the room blowing a raspberry. The hammer in the teacher’s hand came down with a crash, shattering one of the lad’s carved wooden fruit bowls, breaking it in half. ‘Does anyone know the whereabouts of Geoffrey Larkin?’ Ashness shouted, his face now turning purple with rage from the neck upwards.

  ‘Excuse me sir, but both him and my elder brother complained of a bad stomach after lunch so they went for a lie down on their bunks.’ Terry Ashness, with his hammer still in his hand, walked up the aisle between the work benches and stopped in front of Derek Bolton. He could see the boy had been fighting, but that was nothing to do with him, these lads were always fighting with one another, settling scores as they crudely put it.

  ‘You think they’ve got a bad stomach, eh? Don’t you know? Why didn’t you say this before when I first asked? Well boy! Answer me. Has the cat got your tongue?’

  There was a ‘Mee-Oww!’ from the rear of the room, this brought a ripple of laughter from the rest of the pupils which was quickly stifled as Ashness turned and glared at the class.

  ‘Well Boy! Answer me!’ continued the red faced Ashness. Derek Bolton was sweating; he did not have the nerve for this type of subversion.

  ‘I thought I’d get detention like the other lads, sir,’ came back the meek reply.

  ‘Those other idiots deserved punishing. You are just a fool Bolton, you had better improve very quickly or else you could be next in line for detention and reporting to the principal. See me when this lesson ends, we’ll both go and find Larkin and your brother!’

  Terry Ashness went back to his bench and continued to complete the registrar without any further problems. He did not enjoy teaching but he wouldn’t be able to get another job as well paid and as secure as this one if he resigned. He had served an apprenticeship in joinery but he was a very poor tradesman, quickly getting the sack from the building sites and joiners’ shops that had employed him. It was his uncle, a member of the Local Education Committee and a school governor who had used his influence to acquire this position for his nephew.

  Ashness also knew the nickname that the school inmates had given him; he didn’t like that at all, it only added to the hatred he felt for these boys, resenting the fact that he couldn’t lay in to them with the cane like his teacher used to do when he was at school.

  He would have liked to have gone straight away to the lads’ dormitory to check their story but he couldn’t leave this class unattended with all these sharp tools. These lads were untrustworthy, a bunch of idiots, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get another teacher to stand in for him at such short notice as the school was already short staffed.

  There were several minutes to go before the end of the class. Derek Bolton was watching the large clock fixed on the wall above Ashness’s little office, it showed 2.45pm, not long to go before the sound of the bell that would end this dreaded lesson.

  I wish that bastard Whiplash would move from that doorway, he thought as Ashness continued to hover around the bench near the entrance to the workshop. Derek was hoping that he could slip out unnoticed with the rest of the boys when the class was dismissed, and not stay behind as instructed.

  Where were Larkin and his brother? They were supposed to be back by now, had they been caught by the shop assistant and handed over to the police, or had they missed the train? Would they be caught with whatever they’d gone to get, when they tried to re-enter the school?’ All these thoughts were flashing through Derek’s mind and he was finding it difficult to concentrate. He had cut his piece of wood too short and made a mess of the joint he was supposed to be making; that would bring another telling off from Ashness. Oh what the hell, he was fed up messing about with bits of wood; anyway this was more of the thing that his brother enjoyed doing.

  Whiplash had blown his whistle which was a signal to stop work, telling the class to put away their tools and whatever project they were working on, when the sudden appearance of the principal’s secretary, Miss. Weatherhall, entering the workshop stopped the buzz of conversation amongst the boys.

  Miss. Weatherhall never left her office and it had never been known for her to venture into the workshops. Derek Bolton’s heart missed a beat as he saw her in deep conversation with Ashness. ‘This was it! They had definitely been caught. They had spilled the beans and he was going to be dragged up before the principal, Tattersall, and then given over to the police; he knew it!’

  ‘Carry on putting your tools and work away boys!’ shouted Ashness as all the class had stopped and were curiously looking at Miss. Weatherhall. It was the first time that Whiplash had called the boys, ‘Boys’ without either an insult or a name before or after it. The bell rang; it was three o’clock. ‘Class dismissed!’ shouted Ashness.

  ‘Bolton, you stay behind.’ The work shop quickly emptied of lads followed by Miss. Weatherhall, leaving Derek standing at his bench, supporting himself by his hands as his legs had suddenly gone very weak and felt as if they had turned to jelly. Ashness was sorting out some timber for the next class.

  He’s enjoying this, thought Derek, the bastard! He’s making me sweat. Ashness finished stacking his lengths of wood and turned to Bolton, still standing by his work bench.

  ‘Go and find Larkin, Bolton, tell him the principal wants to see him in his office. If he is too sick to go to the principal, go and tell the matron that he’s ill. Have you got that Bolton? Oh! And tell your brother to come and see me. If he’s too ill, tell the matron about him as well!’

  As the teacher watched Derek Bolton scuttle off, he could not help but feel a little sympathy for the boy Larkin; there was probably nothing wrong with him or the older Bolton boy, they were just skiving a lesson. Still, the bad news the lad was about to hear was, by far, much worse than a few hours detention.

  As Derek left the workshop, he did not know what to think, it was obviously very serious to bring Miss. Weatherhall out of her office. First he would try the playground, but he couldn’t hurry as his ribs were really sore after the beating from Higgins and Norton. Still, it had been worth it to see Higgins having his nose rubbed in the urinals by Sutton; it was a good job for him the big lad had got involved when he did.

  It was a tremendous relief when he saw his brother and Geoff Larkin at the far end of the playground. They were both smiling broadly as they came towards him so things must have gone OK, he thought.

  The smiles left their faces as they got closer to Derek and saw the black and puffy eye that was forming and the sc
ratches on his forehead. They quickly exchanged stories, Geoff omitting to say about the condition in which he had returned Mr. Shelly’s clothes, but what Geoff had done was to remove the bulb in the changing room so it would be dark when Slipper Shelly got changed and left the school.

  With a little bit of luck he would be back in his lodgings before he saw the condition of the garments he had travelled in from the school. He had decided to dump the odd shoe; Shelly would have to go to his digs in his trainers. What was the use of only one shoe anyway?

  John Bolton went to see Whiplash Ashness, getting a warning about missing any future lessons, feeling he had got off quite lightly. He liked woodwork; some off his efforts, especially his carvings, had been put on display at the school open day. Ashness had received some favourable comments from several of the governors, which he knew would please his uncle. The teacher also felt there was some hope for this boy, Bolton, as long as he kept clear and didn’t mix with the rest of the hooligans in his class.

  Geoff was not so fortunate; he eventually entered the principal’s office after a long, nervous wait in the corridor. At the front of his mind was, Have we been bubbled, has someone reported our escapade in the town?

  He stood in front of the principal’s highly polished desk. Mr. Tattersall looked up, smiled to acknowledge him, and then carried on reading a letter in his hand. Geoff relaxed a little; Tattersall didn’t seem agitated, as he would have been if he was aware of where they had been and what they had been up to that afternoon.

  He looked around and was amazed by the vast number of leather-bound books that lined all the walls from floor to ceiling, but the message that the principal, Eric Tattersall, passed on to him a few seconds later, quickly brought him back to earth. ‘Larkin!’ started Mr. Tattersall, in order to get the boy’s attention, ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news that I received this afternoon about a member of your family.’

  He stopped, looking at the frail young man, hardly more than a boy, standing nervously in front of him.

  ‘Your mother, who as you know was very ill, passed away early this morning.’ Mr. Tattersall hesitated again and then continued, ‘You have my deepest condolences. My staff and I will do our utmost to help you through this most difficult time. Arrangements will be made for the funeral by the appropriate authorities and, of course, transport will be provided for you to attend this service.’

  The rest of what the principal had to say, even though he could see the principal’s lips moving; to Geoff was just a distant muffled sound, and was not registering on his shocked brain. He left the principal’s study in a dream, after managing to mumble his thanks to Mr. Tattershall.

  He had never been very close to his mother but she was all that he’d known. Of course there had been problems but she hadn’t treated him like his father. He found he couldn’t cry, there were no tears, he went back to the only friends he had, the Bolton brothers.

  That night lying on his bunk he reflected on his past. The few happy times were those he’d spent with the old tramp, Sir Reginald, the bad times he preferred to blank from his mind. In six months’ time he would be eighteen. He would then leave the detention centre for good and from then on he would be expected to make his own way in the outside world.

  Several days later, he entered the taxi that had called at the school to collect him, taking him to the local cemetery to bury his mother. He missed the lecture that the principal gave at the morning assembly about how all the students should respect their teachers’ belongings. He would not tolerate any form of abuse to his staff or their possessions, any culprits being caught disobeying these rules would be severally dealt with by him personally.

  There were very few people at the funeral which was being held at the local crematorium. There was the vicar who attended the nursing home; he also conducted the service, several of the bearers from the funeral parlour and two old ladies from a local charity who visited the nursing home on a regular basis, plus the superintendent of the home.

  It was the superintendent who afterwards approached Geoff to ask if he would like to look at his mother’s few personal belongings, in the event of him wanting to keep any of the items.

  His mother’s room in the nursing home was small but tidy. It had a single bed, a small dressing table with a fitted swivel mirror above, a built-in wardrobe in the corner of the room and a comfortable armchair. He noticed there were no clothes or shoes in the room but there was a strong smell of disinfectant. There were only a few magazines in a brown, cardboard box along with several cheap trinkets, a photograph, going brown at the edges, of a man standing, a women sat on a chair in front of him and a four or five-year-old boy sitting by her side.

  Geoff studied the photograph for quite a while. The couple were smiling, they looked happy; the woman in the photograph favoured his mother. He wondered what had happened to destroy the couple’s hopes and dreams leaving them, a few years later, broken and destitute.

  He placed the photograph in the cheap frame in his pocket; the magazines he wrapped in some brown paper to make a parcel. He did not say anything to the superintendent or the staff of the nursing home, he just left the room and went back outside to the waiting taxi.

  On his return to the school he asked the taxi driver to drop him off at the far entrance from where he could enter the school unseen.

  First he went to collect the rare book he had hidden under his mattress in his dormitory. He dropped the magazines into the rubbish bin and wrapped the book in the brown paper.

  The changed situation offered a method of how to bring the book to Mr. Tattersall’s attention, he intended taking full advantage of this. There was a faint smile on his face as he made his way down the school corridors in the direction of the principal’s office.

  Miss. Weatherhall looked up from her desk as Larkin entered, ‘Could I see the principal, Miss. Weatherhall?’

  ‘Is it important, Larkin? The principal is a very busy man you know,’ she replied irritably.

  So much for the offer the previous day of, we will help you as much as we can; that was short lived, thought Geoff.

  ‘I just wanted to thank him for his help,’ he said, speaking to the top of Miss. Weatherhall’s head as she carried on with her paperwork.

  ‘Yes Larkin! Thank you, I will pass your message on to the principal.’

  Without looking up she continued in a very authorative manner, ‘you can go back to your classes now.’

  You don’t get rid of me that easily madam, thought Geoff as he still stood in front of her desk. Miss. Weatherhall looked up; she was not used to her instructions being ignored.

  ‘Was there anything else, Larkin?’ she said, looking at the boy who she could see was rather small for his age, still standing in front of her desk clutching a brown paper parcel.

  ‘Yes, Miss. Weatherhall,’ Geoff thought he would give her full title, it might help to get him in to see Mr. Tattersall.

  ‘My mother left me this book.’ He indicated the brown paper parcel. ‘It’s very old and I wondered if Mr. Tattersall could have a look at it and tell me what he thinks.’ Miss. Weatherman held out her hand as Geoff handed over the parcel. She removed the brown paper and studied the book; she opened it and looked at several of the pages.

  Over the many years she had been the secretary to the principal, she had acquired a fair knowledge of his hobby of rare and first edition books so she could tell that the book that Larkin had passed over to her was definitely worth an inspection by Mr. Tattersall.

  ‘I will pass the book on to the principal, Larkin,’ she said with a tone that said, you can go now! Even though he was small in size, Geoff Larkin was made of sterner stuff; a middle-aged spinster with her greying hair fixed in a bun did not frighten him.

  ‘But, Miss. Weatherhall,’ he countered, ‘the book was the only thing left to me by my mother, I don’t really want to lose sight of it.’ The secretary looked sternly at the boy standing in front of her. He was stubborn, that was obvious. She knew Mr
. Tattersall was free as she had taken him a cup of tea several minutes ago.

  ‘Knock on the door before you enter the principal’s office,’ she said in a dismissive fashion. She passed him the book and indicated to Mr. Tattersall’s office with a wave of her hand.

  Geoff smiled to himself as he knocked on the polished mahogany door, turned the knob and entered on the faint command from the other side of the door of, ‘Enter!’

  Mr. Tattersall was standing with his back to the door looking out of the large window that gave a view over the playground and part of the playing field. He was a slightly built man with rounded shoulders and wisps of grey hair partially covering a bald head. Geoff also noticed a sprinkling of dandruff over his back. He turned as Geoff entered. He was holding a saucer in one hand and a cup in the other. He placed them on the desk before he spoke. ‘Yes, Larkin. What do you want now?’

  Geoff could sense the irritation in his voice.

  ‘I was left this book by my mother sir. It’s rather old and Miss. Weatherhall said you might be interested in looking at it for me.’ Tattersall sat down in his chair and indicated for Geoff to pass the parcel over to him.

  As soon as he removed the brown paper Tattersall knew the book was old and most certainly a first edition.

  Geoff was watching his reaction closely, forgetting the uncomfortable feeling of the sweat that was running down his back being soaked up by his shirt. He could sense the principal’s excitement as he turned the book over in his hands.

  Well the bait hides the hook, thought Geoff. Now comes the tricky bit of winding him into the keep net.

  ‘Sir! I’m worried that the book will get damaged, especially with it being in such good condition, and with me being in the large dormitory.’ Geoff waited a few moments before he continued, ‘If I was in one of the small dormitories, sir, the book would be safe, especially if I had some of my friends with me. Better still, sir, I’d like you to look after the book for me after I’ve read it.’