Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

  At this point Rocky came in with the school’s full medical kit. With blood covering his hands, trickling down to mingle with the dirt on his face, and seeping through the large piece of cotton wool I was holding on his head, Jimmy looked a really serious casualty.

  ‘He’ll need stitches, I’ll bet,’ she whispered quietly to me. ‘It’s a miracle he didn’t knock himself out.’

  Carefully I removed the cotton wool as Rocky sprinkled a large swab with TCP.

  ‘Now then, Jimmy, ‘I’ll try not to hurt you. Let’s see if I can clean you up.’ Her voice sounded easy and comforting. Jimmy looked up and for a moment I detected a fleeting look of trust in his hard eyes. He lowered his hands to his lap where I started to wipe them to remove some of the ubiquitous blood. Rocky plunged her left hand into the tangled mop of dirty blood-stained hair at the back of his head to hold it steady and began swabbing with the other. Suddenly I felt her stiffen. I looked up at Jimmy’ face, and then at hers.

  ‘What’s up?’ I whispered

  My God, Nigel - look,’ she whispered back.

  I looked at the cut. It was nasty and looked deep. But vaguely I felt that it might have been worse.

  Hm, it’s probably quite deep, but....’

  ‘Not the cut - his hair.’ She grimaced and shuddered but kept her hands working. I peered closely. The reaction was thoroughly unusual for Rocky who normally seemed unmoved by blood, urine and vomit which the young children in her class contrived to present her with from time to time. It was some seconds before my mind registered what she meant. At root level the whole surface seemed to be moving. Jimmy’s scalp was alive with head lice.

  Chapter 31

  ‘Nigel, you’re coming to a stag evening on Friday.’

  Taff made this announcement almost belligerently in the staffroom one day whilst we were having lunch. Miss Rees was presiding, as usual. She looked up, disapprovingly.

  ‘Oh, am I? Who says so?’ I asked.

  ‘I do - all the MEN involved in school football are going. But no women allowed, you see,’ he grinned at Rocky. She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Oh, you mean the Annual Dinner. You won’t make me jealous. I hate beer. Anyway the whole thing is only an excuse for getting drunk.’

  ‘You men think far too much of yourselves,’ snapped Miss Rees. ‘If it weren’t for women primary education would collapse. On top of that we have to suffer iniquitous unequal pay. You men ought to be doing more work than women to make up for that, not wasting time going out pub crawling!’

  ‘It’s not a pub crawl.’ Taff assumed a shocked tone. I could see he was enjoying himself. He liked to stir the men v. women argument every now and then. Recently he had been having fun quoting an article asserting that men’s brains weighed on average two ounces more than women’s. Needless to say the female members of staff were not impressed with the deductions he drew from the fact.

  ‘Well, what is it in aid of and where is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the Annual Football Dinner and it’s organised by Mike O’Leary, the Secretary of the city’s Schools Football Association - and a very respected Headmaster.’ The last point was directed in pseudo reverence at Miss Rees who chose to ignore it. ‘It’s an annual institution and nearly everyone goes. Wilf is coming so you must come as well.’

  Wilf was not in the room because he was doing dinner duty. I looked at Rocky.

  ‘I think it’s most unfair Rocky can’t go. I know there aren’t many women who help with football to the extent that she does but that shouldn’t mean the majority should exclude them.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about me, Nigel, I’m not interested. I might be if it was just a dinner, but from what Taff told me about last year it’s a competition to see who can drink the most beer - and it’s well known the record holder is Mike O’Leary himself: You’ve only got to look at his shape to see that.’

  I had seen Mr O’Leary at Saturday morning matches. He was absolutely unmistakable. A caricaturist would have drawn a gigantic pear with short arms and legs.

  ‘True, I’m not in the same league as our respected Secretary,’ said Taff. ‘But Wilf and I, being ex-Army, reckon we ought to have our own little competition with Nigel here, who of course was one of the Brylcreme boys and as such doesn’t really know what beer drinking is about.’

  ‘There you are,’ Rocky said quickly. ‘Be warned Nigel, those two will have you drunk in no time.’

  ‘Oh, will they? I’m not so sure about that.’ Then I paused, realising I’d jumped in with both feet. Taff grinned victoriously

  ‘Right then, you’re on. Army v. RAF. We’ll show you.’

  It happens to be a fact that at the time I had no real taste for beer. I enjoyed wine and at someone’s demob party shortly before leaving the RAF I had tried to create something of a record in the consumption of port. The result was a day lost in my life for which I have no memory at all - fortunately it was a Sunday - followed by a day on duty with a hangover which is utterly impossible to forget.

  So I didn’t really expect to match Taff and Wilf at their chosen sport. I was prepared to go along with them to an extent and then bow out as gracefully as I could. I was quite prepared to submit to Taff’s chaffing which I knew would ensue in the staffroom on the Monday following. Nor was I worried the Royal Air Force would suffer materially as a result of my defeat.

  The hotel was on the northern side of the city which meant a comparatively short bus ride from my home. I met the other two in the bar before the meal. They had been there some time and were luxuriating in the bonhomie which exuded from Mr O’Leary on these occasions. Judging by the crush of young teachers in that bar I imagined he was spending a small fortune. Taff steered me towards him.

  ‘Here he is, Sir, this is Nigel Flaxton, he joined Dayton Road last summer.’

  Mr O’Leary looked at me hard with his small bright eyes. ‘Got you. Seen quite a bit of you on Saturday mornings but couldn’t put a face to the name when young Hughes here was talking to me earlier. Well, how do you like teaching in a big city?’

  ‘Oh, fine, Mr O’Leary, thank you. Actually I know it well, I’ve lived here practically all my life.’

  A questioning look spread across his face.

  ‘Flaxton, I’ve heard that name before. Now, where ...?’

  ‘Probably my father, Sir. He’s in the Education Office. Deals with our salaries, actually.’

  ‘Of course, Bernard Flaxton. So he’s your old man is he? First rate chap. Always a gentleman on the telephone.’ I stood awkwardly finding it difficult to answer his praises.

  ‘Barman, another pint. Bitter is it?’

  I realised he’d put the question to me. ‘Oh, yes, thank you, but really, I’d prefer a half, if you don’t mind.’

  The big man stiffened and gave me the sort of look a teacher lavishes on a child who has given a really stupid answer.

  “ ‘If you’re thinking in halves you’d better go home again. This do is for men. Good God, Flaxton, what would your father think of you?’

  I opened my mouth to reply but a sixth sense told me it would be inappropriate to inform him in the present company that my father was teetotal. Instead I mumbled my thanks as a pint glass was thrust into my hand.

  ‘Go on, knock it back man,’ Mr O’ Leary commanded loudly.

  Feeling trapped I looked at him, then at the foaming beer as I raised it to my lips. I took a couple of mouthfuls, then lowered it and tried to edge away. But then I became aware that not only was he still looking at me, but so were Taff, Wilf and quite a substantial number of others.

  ‘Come on, Nigel, let’s see what the RAF taught you,’ teased Taff in an infuriatingly loud voice. I glanced around and saw a circle of faces obviously expecting a performance. I had never sunk half a pint in one go, let alone a full one, but I could see no means of escape
. I realised only too well what was expected of me. I looked again at the vast container in my hand which was still almost full.

  ‘Get on with it, man,’ bellowed Mr O’Leary.

  I lifted the glass and gulped....and gulped....and gulped. I fixed my eyes on the surface of the liquid, going cross eyed in the process. I tilted it sharply towards me hoping desperately to swallow it more rapidly but only succeeded in spilling it down both sides of my chin. On and on I gulped until I felt my stomach would burst. Then, oh, bliss, I saw the bottom of the glass swill into view, then the brown tide levelled....sank....and at last was gone. Bent backwards with the glass inverted over my upturned face, I gasped for breath. Hurriedly I put it down and was engulfed in a mighty but ironic cheer. Mr O’Leary smiled benignly.

  ‘That’s better. Now you’re on the books, lad. Thought for a moment you were going to be difficult. Can’t have any behavioural problems here. Now come on, it will soon be time for dinner gentlemen.’

  I was about to stagger away to lose myself in the crush when Taff pushed me urgently. I looked at him and saw him nod his head towards the glass in my outstretched hand, then glance at Mike O’Leary. I saw I was still under scrutiny. Belatedly my brain started to function.again.

  ‘Let me get you a drink, Mr O’Leary.’ My voice revealed I’d just solved the trickiest question in an intelligence test.

  ‘Oh, thank you so much, Mr Flaxton,’ he boomed. Laughter enveloped me as a path opened up amid the crowd to the bar. I stepped along it to find a barman facing me expectantly.

  ‘A pint for Mr O’ Leary, please.’ I leaned an elbow on the counter and looked around. Though there was plenty of noise in the room there was a noticeable silence in my vicinity. The barman-remained quite still as well. This time my brain swung into action rather more rapidly.

  ‘Er, Taff, Wilf, are you ready for another?’

  ‘Yes please, Nigel,’ called two voices from a distance. ‘And two more, please, barman,’ I said importantly. This time he moved slowly towards the handles. I looked around again. There seemed still to be a certain atmosphere, an expectancy....

  ‘Er, would anyone else care to join....’

  A minor stampede rushed to the bar on to which hundreds of glasses crashed in overlapping salvoes. Actually, I got away with twelve in the round. In that crowd it could have been far worse.

  ‘Another one for yourself, Sir?’ The barman pointed accusingly at my glass which I had planted on the counter in front of me whilst I extracted the necessary small fortune from my wallet. Internally liquid sloshed around in the recesses of what had been my empty stomach. But I didn’t dare contradict him in such company.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, er, thank you.’

  I turned away into the crowd which now, mercifully, seemed to have lost interest in me. But Wilf and Taff suddenly were on my flanks. ‘Dinner in five minutes, Nigel, so you’d better lose that quickly,’ said Wilf. Inwardly I groaned, but outwardly I sipped with what I hoped looked like determination.

  ‘Alright, you two, but I’m going to enjoy this one, so don’t push me. Anyway, I’ll take it into dinner with me.’

  Taff looked at me in horror. ‘Beer with dinner? Oh no, Nigel, there’ll be wines and liqueurs, you can’t spoil them with beer. You’d better drink up quickly.’

  I eyed him suspiciously but he looked quite serious. After all, he had been here last year and obviously knew what he was talking about. So not wishing to offend protocol, I attacked my second pint. After a struggle I won.

  ‘Gentlemen, take your seats for dinner,’ called a voice across the jostling crowd. Immediately we were caught up in a surge which moved towards a pair of brown swing doors. Soon we were in a large room with tables placed in the traditional ‘E’. Wilf and Taff steered me to our places which they had reconnoitred earlier. To my stomach’s intense relief we were soon heartily tucking into a very satisfying meal.

  Very soon I realised that Taff’s assertions about wine was another example of his regular leg-pulling because waiters were flying to and fro with laden trays of drinks held on high, most of which were pints of beer. Neither did it surprise me when one man whisked three tankards in front of Wilf.

  ‘Your drinks, Sir.’

  ‘Funny sort of wine, Taff,’ I mumbled between mouthfuls.

  ‘Nonsense, vintage hop, boyo. Cheers!’

  ‘Up the Army,’ challenged Wilf.

  ‘Not if I can help it.’ I grabbed my glass and emptied half of it enthusiastically. Somehow I felt more in the swing of things. The food was helping enormously and I began to imagine that I might, after all, be able to give a good account of myself in this competition. Beer in quantity didn’t seem to be having the same effect upon me as cheap port.

  The speeches which followed the meal were unremarkable. Mr O’Leary was praised by various minions and he duly praised everyone else. During his speech I became acutely conscious of the call of nature and hoped he wouldn’t go on too long. Fortunately he announced that he had no intention of keeping us from the serious work of the evening, a sentiment which everyone cheered. He wished us all success with our teams in the remaining months of the season, thanked us all for the hard work we had put in and were going to put in, then sat down to thunderous applause. There was a brief moment of indecision after it had subsided; then we rose as one man and charged for the loo.

  Having gained the desired relief, which occupied me longer than anyone else, I found my way back to the private room which was ours for the remainder of the evening. Mike O’Leary was holding court from a large winged brown leather armchair which contrived to accommodate his bulk with nothing whatsoever to spare. Ranged about him on low chairs and high stools were his courtiers, amongst whom were Taff and Wilf. The low, shiny-topped tables dotted amongst them were covered with a rash of pint tankards. I turned aside to the bar, bought three more and added them to those facing my opponents. As I pushed them on to the edge, putting some others in danger of being dislodged, I looked up and detected a flicker of alarm in Taff’s eyes.

  ‘Duw, that makes another three each here, already.’

  ‘What, giving in on the wrong side of eight? I should have put some money on this.’

  In truth and quite unaccountably I was feeling fitter by the minute. I seized my glass, swallowed a satisfying proportion and took great delight in the hint of qualm which flashed between the other two as they did the same.

  Much of the remainder of the evening is not at all clear in my memory. I do remember feeling intensely happy and found everyone and everything vastly amusing, especially Mr O’Leary’s jokes. At one point he leant forward and began beating the table in front of him forcefully and regularly and I tried to ‘shush’ everyone loudly because I thought he was going to make another speech. However, he broke into song.

  She’ll be coming round the mountain, when she comes...’ he intoned.

  She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes,’ we all chorused. Soon the room echoed to innumerable vintage verses fresh in the minds of men not long returned from HM Forces. But it was intriguing to hear Mr O’Leary’s personal contributions. I found to my surprise that, in addition to the varied and distinctly risqué excitement which I knew was in store for the girl, she was also going to experience a delightfully outrageous interview and worse in the Headmaster’s study. An impish vision of the pear-shaped. Mr O’Leary prancing around his desk chasing a scantily clad female floated before me and I collapsed in helpless laughter.

  All the while glasses were emptied, and replenished, and emptied again...and I felt the RAF. would have been proud of my great courage and fortitude in the face of my unyielding enemies. But suddenly, to my intense surprise, they were unyielding no longer.

  ‘You’re a flamin’ dark horse, Nigel. What would our revered Miss Rees think if she could see you now?’ Wilf gesticulated none too accurately at t
he array of empty tankards. I looked around. There did seem to be a particularly large number and I became aware they were largely ownerless. The crowd had thinned considerably.

  ‘We retire gracefully, boyo. Never let it be said the Welsh can’t give in like gentlemen. Anyway, you’re taller than us two. You’ve got more space to put it.’ Taff rose to his feet, steadied himself, saluted beautifully and strode deliberately towards the door.

  ‘Goodnight Sir,’ he called over his shoulder to Mr O’Leary. ‘The Dayton Road contingent is falling out.’

  ‘Watch him, Nigel,’ urged Wilf. ‘I’ve got to get him on the all-night bus. I’ll get our coats. You keep your tabs on him.’

  The admonition was timely for Taff was attempting to march along the corridor towards the front door. I trailed him as he burst through it, slithered down the steps, and continued marching as well as he could across the forecourt towards the pavement booming left, right, left, right to help keep his feet in order. Wilf brought up the rear with our coats and together we tried to wrestle Taff into his. But the tussle made him obstreperous

  ‘Gerroff, I can put on my own uniform, damn you.’

  We twisted him round as we forced his arms into his coat as best we could. Somehow my own arms were not responding too well and I felt Wilf was experiencing a similar problem. Taff looked up abruptly from the melee’

  ‘Tis a fine night, men: Where are we going next?’ His parade ground tones echoed down the deserted street with its rows of shops topped by windows behind which no doubt owners were asleep. One or two showed lighted curtains still and a few shops boasted refurbished neon signs which gleamed throughout the night. The harsh greenish glare of the large street lights illuminated our little group and I became worried lest Taff’s noisy exuberance should attract complaint. I tried shushing him but my own voice was inclined to be unusually loud, I thought, and wasn’t doing quite what I intended.