When someone comes up with a 'Great Idea', it is rarely
something that they may care to apply to themselves.
Rather, the 'Great Idea' is often imposed on others.
The result is seldom gratitude!
The teaching staff at the Lower Methil Annexe of the East
Fife Technical College, were, almost without exception,
dedicated and qualified teachers of their chosen
profession. All were practical men who had worked their way
up through the trade and were respected by the students.
They knew all the tricks in the book (and more than a few,
held back from publication!). They knew how to treat the
students. As adults (though inexperienced) who were trying
to learn the trade and earn a living.
They dealt with honest failings, with firm tact and sure
guidance. Any student who tried to pull a fast one, rapidly
learnt that the teacher had seen it, done it, buried it,
and dug it up many times before. There was no shame
attached. The would-be tricksters were often the star
students by the end of their educational voyage.
We had the occasional bad apple - Malky McLaren being a
less-than-shining example - but generally, the Annexe was a
happy place, and student-teacher relations were excellent.
Far better, in fact, than the main college in Kirkcaldy,
which tended to suffer from 'educational theories' and
'behavioural studies', when good common sense would have
been better.
I did say "almost without exception". The one, ugly stain
on the Annexe, was not a student, but a teacher.
Admittedly, he was foisted on us by the Main College - yet
another 'brilliant theory' - but he was one of us. And we
had to deal with him.V
It had been 'decided' that the Annexe students needed
physical activity, as well as mental backfilling. Everybody
'knew' that juveniles could not cope with the 'excess
energies of puberty', so 'healthy exercise' would produce
more amenable students. More able to digest the educational
pap.
Rico Napier had pointed out to the Higher Powers that
physical activity was readily available to the students.
Many were involved in the local football or rugby teams.
Even the Coal Board apprentices were exposed to levels of
exertion and labouring, that would provoke a heart attack
in the average galley slave. Shovelling coal, swinging a
pick whilst lying on your back, or building packs - that
was a 'man's job'! (Oddly enough, experienced mineworkers
were usually quite content to leave the hard work for the
apprentices!).
This also applied to the electricians and mechanics. If you
couldn't dig your own way out of a roof fall, then you
shouldn't be 'doon the pit'. Though they would move heaven
and earth to get you out if you were trapped. Every miner
knew that. You had to go down the pit every day, and you
had to believe that you would be coming up again at the end
of your shift.
As usual, the final decision was made by the Principal.
After carefully listening to, and rejecting all objections,
it was decreed that the Lower Methil Annexe would have a
Physical Education Teacher.
Rico Napier made one last objection.
"If a P.T. Teacher is such a good idea for the Annexe, why
does the Kirkcaldy College not have one on the
staff?"
David Falkland Orr, the Principal, drove Rico's objection
over the boundary with one mighty roundhouse swing.
"Heavens, No! We have young ladies, here in Kirkcaldy! The
last thing we want here, is some masculine type, sweating
with exertion. It could only be a distraction. Definitely
no! Methil it is!"
The Principal's secretary, Miss Penelope Pillan, was later
reported by one of the attendees, to have made a 'crackling
noise'.
"Is there some kind of problem, Miss Pillan?" enquired a
concerned Principal.
"Oh no!" replied Miss Pillan. "My pen appears to have
fallen apart in my hand. I have another one that I can
use."
"Excellent, Miss Pillan."
A mangled Parker pen was dropped discretely into a
bin.
"Methil it is, then."
The meeting closed with a smile.
Only the one smile.
The following week, R. (for Roger) Lawson McNichol appeared at the Annexe, and the education turned 'physical'.
On that Monday, I positioned myself to the side of the main
door of the Annexe. I thought that I knew who was coming. I
had a note in my pocket, from the Principal's Secretary,
Miss Penelope Pillan. I was to offer Mister Roger Lawson
McNichol 'any assistance required' in setting up a
'Physical Education Facility' in the Lower Methil Annexe. I
reckoned that this would be a fairly straight-forward task,
as the Student's Common Room had, at some time in the past,
been used as a gym. The wooden bars on the wall were a bit
of a clue. Obviously, this was not the first attempt at
'physical education' at Methil.
My main concern was the students. I couldn't see that
losing half of the Common Room would amuse them. And
experience of P.E. at school was never brought up during
any beer-assisted 'Good Old Days' discussions. Not in any
positive way.
A second concern was a note from Miss Pillan. She wished me
'Good Luck!' Of course, I would rather have a forced march
across the Gobi desert, than be personally instructed by
Miss Pillan. I am sure that Norse warriors, going into
battle, were never greeted with a cheery 'good luck' from
the Valkyrie.
Better a Gym Teacher than that! Surely?
My concerns and darker thoughts were interrupted as,
precisely on 9 o'clock, the main doors swung open, and our
new member of the Teaching Staff marched in through the
door. The sun-tanned, toned body was a give-away - the
locals tended towards small, wiry and pale. Not a lot of
sunshine down the pit.
I smiled, and moved forward to greet him.
"Hello. You must be Roger, our new Gym Teacher. Welcome to
Methil."
He stopped in front of me. And sniffed.
"I am Lawson McNichol. R. Lawson McNichol. M.A."
He ignored my welcoming handshake.
"The new PHYSICAL EDUCATION TEACHER."
I do believe that he could speak in capitals.
"Who are you?" This aimed down a slightly broken
nose.
I wondered if this was an old sporting injury, or, more
likely, the result of someone taking offence with an
arrogant numpty. I had encountered a few gym teachers in my
High School days. My money was on the latter.
"I'm Neil Collins. The Lab Technician. I've been instructed
to assist you."
"Oh." Another sniff. Obviously, I had failed some secret
test.
"In that case, you can direct me towards the office of the
College Registrar."
I did consider directing him towards the boiler room, but,
wary of crossing Miss Pillan, I pointed towards Rico
Napier's office. I must have been, in some way, obstructing
his path, because he made this bizarre 'shooing' motion
with his hands. I stepped back, and he marched off to,
presumably, 'sniff out' Rico Napier.
"Best of luck there, matey." I thought to myself.
Then thought about Miss Pillan's note.
"Good luck."
A very precise woman was Miss Pillan.
I think that she was telling me something.
As Mister R. Lawson McNichol presented his credentials to
Rico Napier, I wandered into the 'Students Common Room',
soon to be the 'Physical Education Facility' (or 'gym' for
short).
The tables and chairs had already been dragged to the front
of the room, and the floor swept by whichever student
passer-byes that I could press-gang into a workforce.
Judging by the swell in the muttering level, this was not a
popular task. I don't think that my popularity scale
benefited in any way.
"Aw surr! Do
we have to dae this?
Where the card school gonna sit?"
"Whit dae we
want with a gym, anyway?"
"Bluidy skivvies,
so we are!"
One of my (unofficial) duties was to act as a lightning
rod, drawing away any thunderbolts from the fabric of the
Annexe. Judging by the dark clouds of rebellion and the
growing tension of resentment, it looked like my task would
soon be done ...
... to a crisp!
"Aw!
C'maun lads! It's not my fault! I'm not the organ
grinder?"
"Aye!
An' we're no effin monkeys!"
I had found some free-standing partitions in the cupboard
at the rear of the Common Room. They were about 3 foot
high, 6 foot long and covered in beige cloth. There were
just enough of them available, to make a low separating
wall between the Common masses and the Physically
Educated.
"Whit a
stupitt effin idea! Stupitt effin ..."
"Rankine! Just line them up together. And less of the
swearing!"
"If you effin say so,
surr!"
"You could always explain your grievances to Mister
Napier?" I suggested.
"Shakin it,
boss! Shakin it!"
I groaned. Paul Newman and 'Cool Hand Luke'. Lord preserve
us from a dedicated picture-house goer!
Well, I thought that it was a good idea. The old Common
Room now looked like some classy Sporting Club, with a
classy dining area overlooking the contest area.
OK, the battered and grubby, melamine-covered tables lacked
a certain class - the hand-carved initials and gang slogans
didn't help - but if you ignored the plastic stackable
chairs (a future design classic, surely!), and enlisted the
aid of the ageing fluorescent lighting, it seemed to work.
Mostly.
To create the requested 5-a-side football area, we had
acquired, (from an unnamed College, not too far away) a
pair of small netted goals. They had arrived, courtesy of
Too Hot Hutcheson, and I made a point of not asking why the
paint was still sticky, on the part that said 'Property of
Methil Anexxe'.
A couple of mats, one at each goal, provided a measure of
protection for the goalkeeper.
A cupboard at the rear of the room, provided a supply of
games kit. Footballs, hockey sticks (in a male oriented
College?). Presumably left over from some previous
incarnation as a gym. Normally, the cupboard was locked, as
it carried the stocks of snacks and drinks for the vending
machines. With an wary eye on the predations of our
Janitor, we re-located the stock to the one sacrosanct area
in the Annexe - Rico Napier's office.
This was never locked - and never needed to be.
All that was needed, now, was for R. Lawson McNichol, to claim his kingdom.
My first impressions of R. Lawson McNichol - that he was an
arrogant
numpty - proved to unfounded. As subsequent events
confirmed, he turned out to be a monster. A thug and a
bully, but devious with it. He used his staff position to
instigate a reign of terror amongst the students.
A bad student, we could deal with. If the students
themselves didn't manage to sort it out amongst themselves,
then there was always Rico Napier. He could usually settle
matters with a firm, but fair, hand. Those that were
incorrigible - we are talking McLaren here - could be kept
at bay by a keen eye or a sharply pointed suggestion. In my
position as intermediary, I could 'assist' in keeping the
peace. Nothing official - but the students trusted me. I
worked hard at maintaining that trust, and I operated with
a certain flexibility when it came to the information that
was passed on to the administration.
Rico Napier knew exactly what I was up to. Often knew
exactly what transgressions had occurred, and where. But
could listen to my edited version, puff thoughtfully on his
roll-up, and ponder the fate of some low-grade
scoundrel.
I have often watched those students as they stood in Rico's
office. Eyes drawn inevitably to that cigarette, as the ash
grew longer and longer. Sweat beading on the brow as Rico
puffed and pondered. If that ash were ever to fall ...
"I've listened to all that everyone has said, and
considered all my options." Rico and that smouldering
cigarette would hold the perspiring plaintiff rooted to the
spot.
"Mister Collins has spoken in your favour ..."
Mister Collins took great care not to roll his eyes.
"... and I see no reason to take this matter
further."
The relief showing on the student's would be almost
comical.
"I do not expect to see you again concerning this, or
similar events. Go forth, and sin no more!"
The student would about turn, and scurry out of Rico's
office before that tottering ash cracked, and fell to his
desk. Men have been broken by lesser catastrophes.
In the Annexe, there were few repeat offenders.
A bad member of staff was something else. As history has often proved, accusations against authority are incredibly difficult to prosecute. And R. Lawson McNichol knew it. And used it.
At first it was difficult to detect. No official complaints
were made - no student expected their word to be believed
over that of a teacher. There was no particular incident
that stood out. Everything had a plausible explanation.
Only the mood of the place changed.
Normally, I would have little to do with the Physical
Education side of the Annexe. I was there to assist the
Radio, TV and Electronics Department, and not being of an
athletic frame of mind, the nearest I ever got to sport was
watching Star Trek in the Colour TV Room while Jimmy Baxter
and Reggie Fairfull practised their golf swing. What I did
notice first was the attitude of the students.
Instead of the casual nods in passing, the furtive smiles
and the odd chat on matters of no consequence, there seemed
to an increase in blank faces, lack of eye contact and a
tendency for students to clump together in groups. Herd
instinct when predators were in the neighbourhood.
My little market-place deals - one of this in exchange for
two of that - had disappeared almost entirely. Something
was very wrong. I tried asking around, but any student that
I approached, would mumble a few words then scuttle off on
pressing business. I needed a more direct approach.
I needed a word with Too Hot Hutcheson. Who, with excellent
timing, was just passing the door of my little
workshop.
"Hutcheson! In here!"
"Sorry
surr. Ca' hang aroond. Got tae go. Urgent like. Got people
tae do, an' places tae ..."
I was forced to use the 'Methil Elbow'! One swift arm
hooked around Hutcheson's, like an impromptu Highland reel,
and Hutcheson spun round and into the workshop. The door
was flipped closed with my foot. It is quite a trick to
draw a rabbit out of a top hat, but making a student vanish
without trace takes a touch more magic and timing.
"Right Mister Hutcheson. A word!"
Hutcheson did that strange head movement so reminiscent of
a Burmese dancer. Failing to spot any immediate danger, he
dropped into his theatrical villain voice.
"No me surr! Ah wiz naewhere
near when it happened!"
I blinked away the childhood pantomime memories, and fixed
him with the out-thrust jaw and the steely eye. (If he was
going to overact, so was I!)
"Some other time, Hutcheson. We have other issues to
discuss."
A spark of gold-fever kindled in his eye. Any kind of
monetary deal was always open to discussion as far as Too
Hot Hutcheson was concerned.
"Iz we
talkin business here, surr?" He drew nearer, the
better to seal some financial pact.
"No, we 'iznae',
sunshine!" The look of mild disappointment.
"I want to know what the hell is going on in this
College."
Hutcheson edged back towards the door. His eyes turned
towards the exit.
"Ah couldnae
say, Mister Collins." He fidgeted. Not his usual
stage act.
"Why not?" I must admit to a little exasperation towards my
lack of progress.
He hesitated. Then some spur of rebellion made him stare
into my face.
"Cause yer
staff! Same as the rest of them."
I made that little 'huh' sound, that infantile relation to
a throat-clearing cough. It gave me a moment to change
tack, compose my reply. Less aggression, more
enquiry.
"How do you mean 'Staff'?"
The rebellion had retreated into quiet resentment.
"Well! You lot always stick together ..." A pause. "...
surr."
This was not going well. Something was truly out of place.
I had never heard Hutcheson - or any other student, come to
think of it - speak in that way. I pointed to seat beside
my workbench.
"Just sit there a minute, while I think."
Hutcheson moved to the seat. Sat down. Never took his eyes
off me. I pulled out my cigarettes, and lit up. Hutcheson
watched me exhale a puzzle of grey smoke as I looked for
inspiration in the cloud.
"And take your hand out of the drawer behind you, Mister
Hutcheson."
Too Hot Hutcheson quickly brought the offending hand back
round to his lap.
"Sorry, surr! Habit!"
He smiled. Giving me my opening. I sat down in the chair at
my desk. No need to loom over the top of him.
"Do you trust me?"
Hutcheson's face went through a ripple of confusion, and
other incomplete expressions. I must have used a term that
he was entirely unfamiliar to him.
"What I mean is ... have I ever done you a bad turn?"
His face steadied - this was a question that could be
answered.
"No."
He continued thinking for a moment.
"No. Ye've never done that."
"Then tell me what is going on."
It came out. Slowly at first, then faster, more detailed,
as the minutes passed. And it all revolved around our
latest addition to the Staff.
R. Lawson McNichol.
"It's the way he does it, surr. Started aff slow, getting a
knock in here, a thump in there ."
I interrupted.
"He hits the students?"
"No. No like that. He joins in the the fitba matches, and it's a hard tackle
here, a bit o' a clash there. One minute yer on the ball,
and the next yer intae the wall bars."
"But that's what can happen in any football match.
Especially if it gets a bit hectic."
Hutcheson looked at me, a wariness tingeing his
expression.
"That's
whit all the high heid yins would say if we spoke
up. Who would take oor word over 'Ratshit' McNichol?"
I tried not to smile. My initial impressions of Roger
Lawson McNichol did nothing to render that nickname
'inappropriate'.
"Has anyone tried to complain?"
"Nae way! Rat ... ah mean Mister McNichol ... made it real
clear whit would happen if any 'cry-baby' was tae complain.
Ye mind that young Coal Board apprentice - the wan
that ye had sweepin the flair - Rankine, his name
wiz?"
"Yes. I know the one you mean. Dark hair. Swears a bit.
Goes to the pictures a lot."
In my thoughts, I recalled the previous week or too.
"I haven't seen him recently. Has he been off on the
sick?"
Hutcheson looked straight at me.
"Aye. Ye could say that! Bad bruising on his leg the first
time. Suspected broken ribs the second time when he said
that he would report McNichol."
I opened my mouth to exclaim my shock. Paused. Thought
about it.
"Has anybody else been treated to this ... "
I couldn't find the right word to describe it.
"A few."
Hutcheson looked certain about his answer. I had to
ask.
"You?"
He unbuttoned the cuff on his right arm. Rolled up his
sleeve. I looked closer. A massive bruise covered the
outside of the bicep. The mottled blotch varied through
black and purple to greenish-brown.
"That wiz a hockey stick."
"And you didn't report this?"
I was amazed.
"Naebody would believe me. No against him. And ah didnae want it broken the next
time."
"Somebody will have to do something about this. This cannot
go on."
Hutcheson stood up, and moved to the door.
"Whit can ye dae? All
you staff will stick together. That's why naebody wants to talk."
His eyes were accusing.
"You're staff. Whit can you
dae?"
There was an uncomfortable amount of truth in what he said.
I could only say that I would do what I could do. Not a
comforting answer. Then I had a terrible thought.
"Does Podge Cunningham know about that bruise? What
McNichol did?"
Hutcheson raised a sad smile.
"Naw! You know Podge. Big, strong, but no too bright. He
would rip McNichol apart if he knew. Ah'm his pal. Ah look oot
for him. And ah'm
no telling him."
My dread made the next connection.
"So what will happen if McNichol tries his thuggery on
Podge?"
"Dae worry about
that, surr. McNichol wouldn't try it. He only goes
for them that's no as 'tough' as he is."
"I only hope that's true."
As Hutcheson slipped out the door, I made a note to myself.
Something must be done.
But what?
I sat alone in my workshop. I had a lot of thinking to do.
Hutcheson was correct in one respect. There was no way that anyone could bring up a complaint to the College officialdom. McNichol made an art of bullying. No real proof - just an 'unfortunate sporting accident' - and his word as a teacher against that of a student. We couldn't get Kirkcaldy to throw out Malky McLaren. They were never going to do anything against the Principal's Choice.
Perhaps if there was a credible witness.
A member of staff, for example.
I made my way to the Student Common Room. The part with the tables and chairs. I was right. It did make a great spectating area. I could sit quite comfortably, soft drink in hand, and watch the action. Even smoke a cigarette. I knew that McNichol had tried to remove the ashtrays, but more were liberated from the local pubs and clubs. As for removing the cold drink vending machine - that would have been a 'fridge too far'!
I had arrived just before a class change, and was able to claim the best vantage point. I could see every part of the 5-a-side pitch. When I was cajoled into playing football at school, I'd always hated the rock-hard grass pitches. I really could not see that a wooden floor was superior (unless you considered the winter mud).
The next class that turned up for Physical Education was
from the Motor Vehicle Mechanics class. I could see the
towering figure of Podge Cunningham, with Too Hot Hutcheson
and the rest, standing in the shadow of his eclipse. There
was no nonsense about Gym Kit - everyone wore street
clothes. The only concession was the wearing of sand-shoes
(plimsolls, if you must), and the removal of jackets and
ties.
Come to think of it, nobody wore a tie in the College. Too
useful as a handhold in a punch-up!
Prompt as usual, in strode R. Lawson McNichol. He was
wearing shorts (legs suitably suntanned), a rugby shirt and
some kind of sporting shoe. Even he couldn't get away with
hobnail boots or spiked track shoes. Too obvious.
He glanced at me in the passing. Or, to more accurate, his
nose sniffed in my direction. No nod. No smile. No
acknowledgement. Not even a peep on the whistle that he
carried on a lanyard around his neck.
A few shouted instructions. A shuffling around of bodies.
And two teams lined up to play. As there were only nine in
the class, McNichol placed himself in one team. Referee and
player in one. There's fairness for you.
Too Hot Hutcheson and Podge Cunningham were in the
opposition. McNichol tossed a coin and called the kick-off.
Hutcheson kicked to his team mate on the left wing, then he
and Podge moved forward on the right, awaiting the pass
back. The ball curved back to Hutcheson and McNichol moved
in to intercept. A neat little two-step, and Hutcheson was
past his man and heading for the goal - only to come
crashing down as a late (a very late) tackle hooked round
Hutcheson's ankle. As Hutcheson lay groaning on the wooden
floor, McNichol pivoted around with the ball.
Back up the pitch, he ran towards goal. The defence seemed
entirely unwilling to intercept him. The goalkeeper
actually leapt out of his path, preferring the hard floor
to the soft mat - and McNichol! An easy shot, and
McNichol's team were ahead. Not that anyone on his team
looked overjoyed by the opening goal.
McNichol blew his whistle for a goal, then retrieved the
ball for the next kick off. Podge helped his friend off the
pitch, and on to a chair near me.
McNichol looked furious. He came striding across, his face
mottled with anger. I was hoping that he would forget the
whistle in his mouth, and choke on it.
"What's the matter, boy?" he thundered. "Can't you take a
little knock?"
I could see that Hutcheson was badly winded. Once a target,
always a target. I stood up between Hutcheson and McNichol.
I'm no great hero, but five minutes of this farce was
enough.
"Mister McNichol! Can't you see that Hutcheson is badly
winded. There is no way that the lad can play until he has
had time to recover. That was a really hard tackle."
The McNichol nose sniffed in my direction.
"Ah. Mister Collins. The . uh . Laboratory Technician, I
believe. Don't you have a Laboratory to attend to?
Somewhere else. Not here, perhaps ... "
I was really getting to dislike this guy. I should have
stayed out of the affair, but - Hell no! - I owed it to the
students. My mouth was heading into who knows what
territory. I just followed along for the ride.
"Mister McNichol. There is no way that this student can
continue with this football match. Surely, that is obvious,
even to you."
OK. Low on tact, but nothing too stupid. Yet! McNichol gave
me the visual appraisal that fitness fanatics always offer
to the non-athletic, lesser beings. He could see the
nicotine stains on my pointing finger. He sneered.
"Then perhaps you might care to offer yourself as a
substitute. If you could wheeze yourself onto the
pitch?"
With no words of wisdom holding me back, and common sense
having a day off, I shoved my face right up to his.
"Aye Ratshit! Yer on!"
He frowned for a moment, not used to any kind of negative
feedback, then filed the words as misheard; not
applicable.
I dumped my lab coat, and stepped on to the pitch.
Hutcheson pulled himself up, still grimacing with the
pain.
"Dinnae
dae it surr! He's just a b ..."
"Hutcheson. You are off the pitch. Just keep
quiet,son!"
Podge Cunningham tried to intervene, but McNichol ordered
him back onto the pitch.
"Just go, Podge. Don't get intae trouble, just for
me!"
His effort spent, Hutcheson slumped back into his seat. I
clomped alongside Podge as we headed out to the centre
spot. I still had my thick-soled street shoes on. My mouth
might talk me into trouble, but my instinct for
self-preservation hung on to any advantage in this
so-called football match.
A quick strategy talk with my newly-acquired
team-mates.
"Keep well clear of McNichol, and just let me kick the shit
out of him."
Not a great plan. But a possible survival option.
McNichol blew his little whistle, and I kicked off. Much
the same as the first kick-off. I passed to my team-mate to
the right, and Podge and I advanced to the left. The ball
was passed back to me - no-one wanted possession - and
McNichol came lunging in for the tackle. I never attempted
any fancy footwork. I just raked my shoe down the shin of
Mister McNichol.
McNichol's face turned white with shock. This was not how
his game was supposed to be played. The ball slid past us
both, and Podge blasted the ball towards goal. Right past
the keeper who had never anticipated it getting that
far.
A goal apiece. We did a little victory jig as McNichol
brought the ball back for the next kick-off. I've played in
only a few, good football matches, but I've played in a lot
of really bad ones.
McNichol glared at me as he prepared to kick off. I could
see the blood trickling down into his sock. His team-mate
suggested that he might want to go and get that seen to,
but McNichol just stared him into silence.
A quick peep of the whistle, and McNichol kicked off. Hard.
Straight at my face. I raised my hand to protect my eyes,
and the ball smacked into my fingers. It stung.
"A foul, Mister Collins. Hand ball!"
That silly little whistle again.
"Direct free kick!"
He positioned the ball as we tried to form a line to
protect our goal. As McNichol wound himself up to drive the
ball straight through us, Podge Cunningham stepped in front
of me. The crack of that kicked was immediately followed by
by the whack of the ball ricocheting off Podge's chest. He
didn't even flinch. I knew he was tough, but I never
thought that he might be bulletproof. As the ball cleared
away up the pitch, Podge turned to me.
"Mah
mum makes me wear a vest! Says that it'll protect
me."
I just shook my head. I had no answer to 'Mum's Wisdom'.
The game raged on for the next few minutes. McNichol 'going
for the man' (me), and myself jinking furiously, to avoid
him. Every time he got close, Podge would somehow get
between us, and that magic vest would protect both of
us.
Unfortunately, my luck was never going to last forever.
As the next attack developed towards our goal, McNichol
made his move. As I prepared to block him, he suddenly
passed the ball to the opposition. To be exact, he passed
the ball to Podge. Momentarily confused by this
unanticipated windfall, Podge hesitated before moving to
block McNichol's lunge at me. More a rugby tackle than any
legitimate football tactic, he smashed his shoulder into my
side, and I rebounded into the wall.
A moment of pain, then blackness.
Sometime later - lots of pain. And Rico Napier talking to
me. I could hear him speaking, but I really did not feel
like replying. Rico insisted. He was the Registrar; he
could do that.
"Are you all right? Can you hear me?"
I just couldn't manage both a 'Yes' and a 'No', so I just
grunted a 'No'. Rico took a close look at my eyes. Both
seemed to be working.
"You had us worried, there."
I tried moving, but it didn't seem like a good idea.
"Where's McNichol?"
I could only mumble the words, and Rico had to move closer
for a repeat.
"I said, 'Where's that ... McNichol?"
"I didn't quite get all that." Rico smiled.
"I think you might be recovering, though."
I finally managed to sit up.
I could see Podge at the next table, and Hutcheson sitting
beside him. Everyone else had taken the opportunity to be
elsewhere. I gripped Rico's arm.
"Is Hutcheson OK? McNichol gave him quite a
battering."
"He's all right. In fact, he is the one who burst into my
office, and insisted that I come to the Common Room. From
the look of you, you are the one who had been given a
'battering'."
I couldn't argue with that.
"So what happened after I tried to climb the wall
bars?"
It was Hutcheson who filled in the detail.
"After you got bounced of the wall, McNichol tried to kick
yer ribs in. Podge stopped him."
I didn't want to hear any more. I tried to stop Hutcheson,
but Rico told Hutcheson to carry on.
"McNichol didn't like it very much. Swore at Podge. Called
him stupitt. Then he realised that there wiz a lot o'
witnesses aroond. Didnae like that. Dismissed class, and
told them tae go. Ah don't think he saw me at the tables,
or mebbe he didnae care. He took Podge into the equipment
cupboard, there. Makin sure there wiz nae witnesses.
Must've thought that slow meant stupitt, and position meant
power."
Rico turned to Podge.
"Peter ..." I had to think for a moment there. " ... what
happened next?"
Podge looked to Hutcheson, who nodded.
"Mister McNichol took aff that
belt he wears."
Rico waited patiently for the next sentence.
"Then he tried to hit me with it."
Another pause.
"So ah stopped him."
We all waited for the next statement. I was starting to
worry. Podge didn't deserve any of this.
Just then, R. Lawson McNichol emerged from the equipment
room. His nose was even more distorted than normal, and
blood dripped on to his rugby shirt. His right eye was a
fair match for the shirt - black, blue and smears of red.
He lurched across to where we sat, and pointed an accusing
finger at Podge Cunningham.
"That ... that ... boy hit me. I demand that something be
done about it!"
Rico Napier looked at McNichol for a moment. The strands of
smoke from his roll-up drifting towards McNichol, making
him cough, and produce more bloody snot from his flattened
nose.
"Were there any witnesses, Mister McNichol?"
McNichol spluttered with disbelief.
"Of course there are no bloody witnesses. I sent them all
away!"
His eyes widened with his admission. Hutcheson and I
exchanged glances. Podge simply waited for the next
step.
"In that case, Mister McNichol, it would appear that it is
a case of your word against his."
He indicated Podge.
"And his."
He turned towards me.
"And his." Hutcheson this time.
"I simply see no case to answer."
"This is outrageous!"
His dripping nose lent McNichol no dignity. At least, it
had stopped sniffing.
"I shall complain to the Principal in Kirkcaldy!"
Rico did what Rico did best. He pondered for a moment.
McNichol actually broke into a sweat.
"That is your privilege. If you care to abuse it. And I
shall supply the Principal with any facts that you might
possibly omit. Good day, Mister McNichol."
Roger Lawson McNichol stormed out of the Lower Methil
Annexe. We never saw him again. Never missed him. Never
mind. But he did do the Annexe one last, great benefit. The
students recovered their belief in the staff at the
Annexe.
Someone had been on their side.
In the weeks ahead, having been cast in the role of 'Good
Guy', I could rarely walk up a corridor without someone
nudging me in the arm, smiling, patting me on the
back.
Oh God! How those bruises hurt.