The Charmed Life Of Danny Murphy - 3. Chapter 3

"Where on earth did that come from?" I asked, more than just a little confused by this sudden change in conversation.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not judging you or anything. But it can't have been easy. Coming to grammar school from one of the council estates."

"Oh, that," I said flippantly.

Whereas in my early years at grammar school I had felt ashamed of where I lived, I had in the past few years actually become proud of the fact. So I wasn't in the least bit upset at him for bringing up my working class background.

"I suppose I found it difficult at first," I said. "I got the impression that everyone thought they were so much better than me when I first got here. It was all a bit intimidating to begin with. But as I got to know people I came to realise that the only real difference was that most of them were just lucky to have been born into families with a bit more money than my own. And anyway, I wasn't the only one to come from a poorer home. The advantage of the Eleven-plus, and being born just as the Welfare State was being set up, I suppose."

"Some of them still look down on you for your working class background, though."

"Let them. They're just snobs, that's all."

"A case of ‘I have nothing to declare but my intelligence', as George Bernard Shaw is reputed to have said?" Jock asked with a smile.

"I think you'll find that the correct quotation is ‘I have nothing to declare but my genius.'" I smirked. "And it was one of Oscar Wilde's, not Shaw's. But I certainly don't lay any claim to being a genius. Just lucky to have been born with a bit of intelligence."

"Touché," responded Jock, in reference to me correcting his quote and source. "But what about life on the estate? Was that made difficult by the fact that you came to the grammar school instead of the local secondary modern?"

"No more than it had been whilst at primary school. I used get called a swot and the teacher's pet when I was there. They're a tough lot down there. But they're my neighbours; and my mates. There's the usual neighbourhood feuds and the like, but I reckon that's not something that's just confined to council estates. And the vast majority of them really do have hearts of gold, you know, even if they don't always give that appearance. I'm one of eight kids, so I don't get singled out for any special treatment, either at home or on the street."

"So were you the first from your estate to get to grammar school?"

"Actually the second. I've an older sister who also passed her Eleven-plus. But there's quite a few have passed since I did, including my partner-in-crime, Peter Entwhistle."

"Ah, good old Piper!" Josh said with a genuine smile. "Good guy. In spite of the fact he plays soccer instead of rugger. He's starting the Upper Sixth this time, isn't he?"

"Yea. I think he may be the only person to be upset about my good grades. He was probably hoping I'd be sticking around for another year."

"I doubt that. He'll probably be pleased for you. Sure, he may be upset about you heading away to uni, but that was always on the cards anyway."

"But what was that ‘You've come a long way' bit about, anyway?" I asked.

"Just what I said. You've come a long way. I see sitting beside me a confident and articulate young man who's about to embark on a university career, and possibly go on to do research into conservation matters. A young man with passion about the state of the world, and an ambition to do something about it. A far cry from that scared little kid I remember from first year. The one who looked completely out of place, had a speech impediment that made him sound more like a blabbering village idiot than a grammar school pupil, and who seemed to spend most of the first term hiding away in the library during break and lunch hour, almost as though he had a fear of actually having to make friends."

"Calling me a young man, are you? I'm actually almost a year older than you are, let me remind you, old Mr James Patrick O'Connor," I retorted, with a laugh. "But I think I felt intimidated by everyone when I first started here. And the speech impediment certainly didn't help. Some people really did believe I was a moron because of it. It took six months of speech therapy during most of my first year, two evenings a week after school, to actually get that sorted."

"So that's why you can now say something like ‘I thoroughly enjoy maths lessons' without it coming out sounding more like 'I fuwwuwy enjoy maffers wessons' is it?" laughed Jock.

"Yea. Although I did find the letter R difficult for a long time, even after I started speech therapy. That's the reason Monsieur le Trump was so proud of the fact I could get the guttural French R when the rest of you couldn't. My speech therapist suggested I try that one to begin with, instead of using the tip of tongue to get the sound."

"Well you seem to have mastered the latter now."

"Yes," I laughed. "I don't have to worry nowadays that someone will pass me a red crayon when I ask them for a lead pencil!"

"Did that really happen?"

"Sure did! I can laugh about it now, but it sure wasn't funny at the time."

"Anyway," I continued. "As for hiding away in the library, I seem to remember it was you who finally coaxed me out of there."

"Well, I'd seen you playing rugger during games periods. I'd also seen your turn of speed on the running track. Old Blakey was trying to put a first year rugby squad together. One of the things he was complaining about was the lack of a good loose forward. I just happened to know where a potentially brilliant one was hiding."

"I think you're slightly over exaggerating my ability there. But I still think I owe you a belated thank-you for actually getting me to turn out for practice. It certainly helped me to fit in and start to make friends. It's just as well that practice night wasn't the same night as one of my speech therapy sessions, though."

"Sure was! Otherwise we'd have finished up with a winning team whose left side loose forward thought he was a ‘woose forward' playing ‘wugger'. Either that or you'd have continued the speech therapy and then become a star centre forward when Peter Piper joined us the following year."

"Doubt that. I was always useless at soccer. At primary school they made me play in goal because my dribbling skills were non-existent."

"Soccer's loss was rugger's gain."

"I really do have to thank you, though. Had you not brought me out of my shell back in the first year, I'm not sure how I would have turned out. You've been a good mate this past seven years."

"You'd have turned out okay, Danny Boy. Your inborn intelligence would have seen to that."

"Oh, I'm not talking about how I'd have turned out academically. I know I've got the brains. It's just that I'm far too often just too damn lazy to use them. But I'm thinking more about how I'd have turned out socially. Had you not dragged me kicking and screaming from my hiding place behind the bookshelves."

"I don't remember much kicking and screaming. More a series of bewildered ‘What? Who? Me? Wugby?' utterances. And you weren't actually behind the bookshelves. You were sat at a table with your fingers in your ears. Reading a book by Paul Gallico, as I remember."

"Blimey! You actually remember what I was reading?"

"Sure do, pal. And don't you ever dare tell anyone this, or I'll have to kill you and cut your body up into very small pieces and feed them to the fishes in the pond in the park, but I actually borrowed that book from the library a week or so later. Damn good read it was, as well."

"Erm… Which one of his was it, by the way?"

"The Snow Goose."

"Ah! The Dunkirk evacuation. Loved that book. Thought you were going to say Thomasina."

"The cat who thought she was god? Had a great laugh out of that one. I reckon Gallico must have been under the influence of mind altering drugs when he was writing it!"

I burst out laughing.

"You know, James Patrick O'Connor, for a supposedly thick Irish lad who claims to be only interested in rugby and loose women, in that order, you're actually a very deep individual. It's been an honour and a privilege to have been able to call you my friend this past seven years."

"The feeling's absolutely mutual, Danny Boy. And I sincerely hope that the mere fact that we are about to head off to different universities to read different biological sciences does not signal an end to that friendship."

"God, no! We'll have to keep in touch. We should exchange addresses or something."

"You have a telephone at home?" asked Jock.

"Unfortunately not."

Jock hunted through his pockets and found a pen and a piece of paper. He carefully tore the paper in two and wrote his name, address, and telephone number on one of the halves. He passed both pieces of paper to me along with the pen, telling me to add my name and address to the blank one for him, and to put the one with his details into my wallet.

Having done that, we sat in silence for a while, watching our fellow ex-pupils coming and going. Some of them were celebrating, and some not. A few of them came over to compare results with us. The vast majority, it seemed, were heading to the Dog and Partridge.

"Fancy joining them at the watering hole?" asked Jock.

"Not especially," I replied. "Not really a fan of the demon drink. Especially this early in the day. Why? Do you?"

"Ditto, old sport. How about we head down town and get a bite to eat? My treat."

"Make it Greasy Joe's for steak pie and chips, and a large mug of his extra strong coffee, and I'll pay."

"Deal! Let's shake the dust of the beloved alma mater off our heels and make our way there post-haste," he said, rising to his feet.

Having sat for a moment wondering whether to ask him what alma mater meant, I rose to follow him. I found myself staring at the curve of his neck and the way the sunlight filtered through his hair as he walked ahead of me down the path. Shaking my head, I quickened my pace to catch up with him.

As we reached the gate I turned and looked back. On the school roof Mr Griffiths Shags Sheep, in two foot high capital letters, could just be made out under a huge rectangle of fading grey paint.

+ + +

The next six weeks sailed by, if only because there were lots of last minute things to organise. Sheffield University sent me their firm offer, which I gladly accepted. Information about student accommodation quickly followed. The cost of staying in the student Halls of Residence was far too expensive for my limited budget on a student maintenance grant, which, I was soon to find out, would be three hundred pounds to cover the three ten-week terms of my first year. Students were forbidden for some reason to live in a bedsit during their first year, but apparently the Accommodations Office at the university had details of approved places where I could pay for bed and breakfast type accommodation, or ‘digs' as they called them. Most of these would cost about two pound ten shillings a week, which would leave me with just seven pound ten shillings a week to pay all my other bills; books, travel, meals, etc. It doesn't seem a lot nowadays, but a pound bought a whole lot more then than it does now. The grant would be available from the Bursar's Office at the beginning of each term, assuming that I let my Local Authority, who would be paying the grant, know that I had accepted the place. The thought of having a cheque for a whole one hundred pounds was almost unbelievable. I don't think I'd ever even seen that much money in my whole life before. I'd need to open a bank account when I finally got to Sheffield; and learn how to write a cheque. So many new and confusing things to get used to.

Term wasn't due to start until the third of October, but Freshers' Week would start a week earlier. The literature I received through the post advised that, although attendance at Freshers' Week was not compulsory, it was highly recommended as an introduction to university life before the actual lectures started. I did a quick calculation and decided that I would skip it. The grant was generous enough, but I knew I was going to find it difficult to keep within budget, even without the expense of an extra week. And there was no spare money at home to help pay my way.

Peter was delighted for me. I think he was also intrigued to see all the paperwork that he would probably have to go through himself the following year. We still managed to get up to mischief during those last six weeks. Just before the end of August we both enjoyed a good night in the Dog and Partridge with lots of other mates from the grammar school, plus a few of Jock's mates from home, helping him to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. Peter was upset that the landlord wouldn't serve him any alcohol because he was only seventeen, and looked even younger. I had two pints of shandy, felt slightly tipsy as a result of them, and made a bit of a fool of myself by insisting on hugging just about everyone at the end of the night, because I probably wouldn't see most of them again until the school Open Day and Prize Giving ceremony sometime in November. My boss at the café offered to let Peter have my job when I finally left, so he worked alongside me occasionally during those final few weeks, as a way of learning what the job entailed.

And so the long summer of freedom finally came to an end. The farewells had been said. My bags were packed and safely stowed on the luggage rack above my head. The wheels made a rhythmic du-du-du-dum du-du-du-dum sound as they passed over the joints in the railway tracks. I was sitting on the train to Sheffield; feeling both excited and just a little bit scared.

For a new chapter in my life was about to open up.

I was finally leaving home.