The Charmed Life Of Danny Murphy - 7. Chapter 7

My first trip back home was for the Speech Day at my old school. That was to be on a Wednesday afternoon around the middle of November, so I caught the train back on the Tuesday evening and stayed two nights at home before getting the early morning train back to Sheffield on the Thursday morning. It did mean that I would miss two lectures on the Wednesday, but Nick offered to use a sheet of carbon paper to make a copy of the notes he would take in the lectures, meaning I wouldn't have a lot of catching up to do.

It felt strange to actually walk back into my old school that Wednesday lunchtime. The letter I had received had told me that last year's sixth-formers were to assemble in the old gymnasium from twelve noon onwards, where we could stay and chat before having a complimentary school dinner, and then head across to the theatre on the opposite side of the main road, where Speech Day was always held. Mr Settle, the deputy headmaster, was to come in around twelve-fifteen to chat to us about the seating arrangements and other administrative details. The ceremonies were to start in the theatre at two o'clock.

Those of us that were also receiving a prize as well as our A-level certificates had also received letters a few weeks previously asking us to decide what prize we actually wanted, which had to be a book for some reason. I had written back requesting a copy of Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, a book which, as a result of an review of it that I had read in the Scientific American, I had originally read in the local library during my sixth form. It had been the first book I had come across that had dealt with the way in which many of the modern day so-called scientific advances might actually be putting the future of the natural world in danger, and it was the prime reason for my interest in doing research into environmental issues.

I arrived around ten minutes early to find most of my old school buddies were also early, and we spent some time eagerly catching up on each other's news. Jock triumphantly told me that, not only was he playing rugby for Liverpool University's first team, but that he had had no less than three different girlfriends in the six weeks or so that he had been there. He seemed genuinely pleased for me when I told him about Alison. Mind you, I think I did make it seem that we were more than just friends, which wasn't really true since we'd never even really held hands, let alone do anything as serious as kissing each other. I think nowadays you'd say that I was more than just a little 'economical with the truth'. But I didn't see any harm in it. I think I just wanted to appear as normal as all the rest of my friends appeared to be.

"So enough about the fairer sex, Danny Boy. You playing rugger at Sheffield?" he asked.

"Nope. I missed the trials."

"How in the name of all that's holy did you manage to do that?" he exclaimed.

"Apparently they were held during Freshers' Week. I didn't attend that."

"Why on earth not? Freshers is a must. That's where you meet everyone, and all the student societies, and sports clubs and the like, make their sales pitches."

"I realise that now. But I honestly couldn't afford it. I'm dependant on the maintenance grant."

"Ah!" said Jock. "Understood. Extremely regrettable. But totally understandable."

"You don't know how much it means to me that you do understand. Thanks, Jock."

"No thanks needed, old sport. Now, just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Don't let that talent of yours go to waste. If it's too late to get on any of the teams this year, at least consider going out for trials next year."

"Sure thing," I replied.

Around fifteen minutes past twelve there were a few raised eyebrows and a certain amount of amusement when Herbert Byron arrived. Herbie had been famous for his artistic talents all the way through school. There was a mural of his covering most of one of the walls in the Art Room, that he had done whilst still in the first year, showing a spaceship in a crater on the surface of the moon with spacemen in spacesuits standing next to it. It was eerily similar to the images that would be beamed back to earth around nine years later, when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin became the first men to actually walk on the moon. There was also a framed watercolour that he had done at the tender age of twelve whilst in the second year, hanging in the school entrance hall. It was a representation of the gasworks towers in the centre of town, done something in the style of L. S. Lowry, even having matchstick type figures representing the people walking by.

As a result his nickname all the way through school had become Lowry. He had won a scholarship to study Art at Oxbridge on the strength of his portfolio of work. And, although he had never really hung around with any of the same crowd as me, he really was a sound guy. It had been he who had loaned me the pair of plimsolls on the day after the school roof painting affair.

"Oh my god!" Jock suddenly said to me, nodding towards the door. "Look over there."

I looked towards the door and it took me a moment to recognise the figure that had just walked through it as Lowry. Since I had last seen him at the end of the previous term he had let his naturally blond hair grow down past his shoulders. Sure, we were no longer at school, but I wondered just what old Griff would have to say about him going on stage to receive his prize with hair like that. Even though most young men in those days were trying to emulate the like of the Beatles and other pop stars, and grow their hair long, there was a firm school rule that no pupil was allowed in school with hair that was long enough to cover more than half their ears, or touch the collar at the back.

And not only had he grown his hair long, but he was dressed really flamboyantly. We had received strict instructions in our letters that, whereas we would not be expected to be in school uniform, we were to be dressed neatly; preferably in a suit and tie, but definitely not to be wearing the likes of jeans or T-shirts. Lowry was wearing a hat with a wide brim that flopped down over his forehead, a cape in bright check colours, a purple cravat, a pair of canary yellow trousers that widened out to at least eighteen inches at the bottom of each leg, and a pair of bright orange shoes adorned with large brass buckles. He was also holding in his right hand a walking cane about five foot high, with a carving of a dragon at the top.

"My god!" I whispered back to Jock. "He looks like a modern day Oscar Wilde."

"Another case of 'I have nothing to declare but my intelligence' methinks," smiled Jock.

"Genius!" I laughed back. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Whatever. But I sense trouble ahead."

"You and me both," I replied. "Old Griff'll have a heart attack when he sees him."

"It's Prize Giving. We're no longer pupils at this school. He surely won't stop him going up to receive his prize?"

"It may be Prize Giving, but it's also Open Day. The whole school will be in attendance. And parents. Griff'll surely consider him to be a bad influence."

"You're a worrier, Danny Boy. Always have been and probably always will be," said Jock. "But if you're right, as sadly I now think you just might be, and Griff doesn't let him go on stage, there'll be a rebellion. You mark my words, Danny Boy. You just mark my words."

"Damn right there will!" I replied with conviction. "He may only be an innumerate artist, and consider the likes of us to be illiterate scientists, but Herbie is one very decent human being. He was good to me more than once whilst we were in this concentration camp. If Griff tries to spoil his big day, he'll do it over my dead body."

"Spoken like the Danny Boy I've come to know and respect," laughed Jock. "But don't throw your life away unnecessarily. There are more ways in heaven and earth to get one over on the system than simply throwing oneself under the Queen's horses to make a statement."

At that moment the deputy headmaster entered the gym with his usual loud 'Settle down now, boys!' That was a stock phrase of his, and one might be excused for supposing that the name Settle was actually a nickname because of it. But his name really was Mr Settle, which only made his use of the phrase all that more hilarious.

However, all hilarity in the gym that day ceased as soon as he made his announcement. It wasn't so much the fact that he had made the announcement. Indeed he usually had to make it several times before we actually would settle down. It was what he did next that caused all the chatter in the gym to cease.

He looked at Lowry and his eyes widened, and his mouth opened and closed several times. But for the best part of ten seconds no words actually came out of it. Eventually several of the boys assembled in the room started to giggle self-consciously, at which point Mr Settle finally got control over his vocal cords.

"Mr Byron, come along with me, please," he said. "The rest of you please talk quietly amongst yourselves. I shall be back in a few minutes."

There was complete silence in the gym as Lowry and Mr Settle were leaving, but once the doors had been closed everybody seemed to be talking at once. It was difficult to really understand what anybody was saying, but phrases like bastards! mutiny! and won't get away with it! could be heard over the general hubbub. Jock nudged me in the ribs and raised his voice.

"Quiet, everyone!" he shouted, using the same commanding voice of his that I had so often heard when he was the school's rugby captain. "This is getting us nowhere!"

A silence even deeper than that which had occurred when Mr Settle had first spotted Lowry a few moments earlier fell on the room.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Jock said in a quieter voice.

"Now, Mr Lewis," he continued, looking at Bill Lewis who had been the Head Boy last year. "If I am not mistaken, and unfortunately I have very little doubt that I am, it would appear that our beloved ex-headmaster, Mr Griffiths, may be about to take away from our esteemed friend and ex-colleague, Mr Herbert Byron, the honour and privilege of being presented, on public stage, in front of his peers, ex and current pupils, his parents along with possibly other members of his family, and his friends, with the certification and prize that will not just mark the climax of his seven years in this fine establishment, but also his transition from here into the arms of an eagerly awaiting world." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Do you think I may be wrong in my assessment of the situation, Mr Lewis? Or do you think I may be correct?"

"Unfortunately," replied Bill, "I have to say that I think you may be correct."

There were a few mumbled voices of protest. Jock raised his hand for silence.

"So," he said in a quiet voice. "If that is the case, we are faced with a dilemma. Indeed we are faced with a serious question. The question being as simple as this. What are we going to do about it?" he asked in an even lower voice. He was looking directly at Bill, but his sheer presence and charisma seemed to be preventing the pandemonium from breaking out again.

"A difficult question to answer," said Bill. "Have you any suggestions, Jock?"

Voices started to be raised again. Jock again demanded, and received, silence.

"Personally I think any approach to Mr Griffiths would be better received if it were to be made by the ex Head Boy, rather than by someone who normally only ever graced the good gentleman's office because he had been sent there for trouble making. But, if you wish, I am quite willing to lead a delegation to his office to ask him to reconsider, should he indeed try to ban Lowry from the stage. Or do you think I should go alone?"

"I am willing to go and see him myself," replied Bill. "But the question remains: what will I say?"

I suddenly found my voice. "That's easy. We simply tell him," I said, laying emphasis on the word 'we', "that if Lowry is not allowed to go on stage, then none of us will go on stage."

Voices started to be raised again. Many of them were in support of my suggestion, but quite a few were against.

"This is an important day," someone was arguing. "Why should I spoil it just because Lowry decides to arrive dressed up like a clown?"

"He's an artist, for fuck's sake," someone else countered. "Artists dress like that."

"It's the principle of the thing," said another voice. "We can't let Griff run our lives as though we're still school children."

Jock gave me another nudge to the ribs with his elbow. "That's my Danny Boy," he said with a smile. "That's exactly what will have to be done. But I'm going to have to shut this rabble up again before I can get that fact through some of their thick skulls."

"Silence!" he called out, just as the doors opened and Mr Settle walked back into the gym.

But he was by himself. Lowry hadn't returned with him.