The Charmed Life Of Danny Murphy - 11. Chapter 11

There was still one worry in all our minds when we finally took our seats for the ceremony. Although it seemed that Griff certainly had capitulated, quite a few people had pointed out that he might just simply skip over Lowry's name when last year's sixth form were going up to receive their prizes. We had agreed that, if that happened, the rest of us would rise to our feet, quietly walk in single file to the closest exit door, and leave the theatre. There'd be no speeches, no dramatics, just a silent withdrawal from the proceedings.

The ceremony started with the headmaster giving his speech. The same pathetic jokes that he told every year were trotted out again. He gave his usual report on the high points for the school during the previous year: sporting achievements, trophies won both by sports teams and other clubs and societies, school trips, number of university entrants. Basically the same boring inormation that we had had to listen to at every Speech Day since we had first entered the school seven years earlier. He thanked the chairman of the Board of Governors for agreeing to present the certificates and prizes, and said that he was sure everyone present was looking forward to hearing his speech afterwards. That got a subdued chuckle from a lot of the current pupils, as what they were really looking forward to was the customary request from the chairman to the headmaster to grant an extra half day holiday to the whole school at some time during the year, in recognition of the excellent work that everyone in the school had done during the previous year.

On and on he went. I don't think there was more than a handful of people in the audience who really cared a jot what he was talking about. Indeed three years earlier, Mr Edwards, our form teacher at the time, had actually fallen asleep part way through the headmaster's speech. He had been sitting at the end of the row that our class was occupying and, although we thought it was hilarious, Carrots, who had been sitting next to him, had eventually decided it would be wise to gently shake him awake, since his snoring had started to become noticeable in other parts of the auditorium.

Mr Griffiths finally ruffled his papers, lifted his reading spectacles up onto his forehead, cleared his throat, and looked at the audience:

"Ladies and gentlemen, honoured members of the Board of Governors, parents and families, ex-pupils and current pupils, I think I have taken up enough of your time. I always have to remind myself on occasions like this of the old adage ‘The longer the spoke, the greater the tire.'”

He paused. It was the same joke he had been telling at every Speech day since at least 1959, and probably for far longer back than that. It wasn't even all that funny the first time anyone had heard it. But just about everyone laughed. Same as they did every year. It was the polite thing to do, after all.

"We now begin the part of today's proceedings where we acknowledge the hard work and dedication that pupils of this school, both current and past, put in during the last academic year. We shall start the proceeding as usual, with the presentation of Advanced Level certificates and prizes to our prestigious pupils who took their examinations last June. I shall announce the name of each worthy individual, who will then come up onto this stage to receive his certificate, and prize if he has merited one, from our honoured guest, Mr Illingworth, the chairman of the Board of Governors of this school.”

Lowry was due to be the seventh person to have his name called out. So, when David Buckley, or Buckles as he was known to the rest of us, was on stage to receive his prize, each and every one of us was holding our breath. Buckles shook the right hand of the chairman of the Board of Governors, took the certificate from his left hand, said ‘Thank you', and moved across the stage.

The audience applauded and, as the applause was dying away, we all held our breath. The headmaster was standing to one side at the front of the stage.

"Herbert James Byron, special prize for Art”, Mr Griffiths announced in a dignified voice when the applause finally stopped.

And we all started breathing again. The crisis was over.

Lowry rose from his seat and started to mount the stage. As the rest of the ex-pupils on the front row were quietly moving one seat to their left, as we had all been instructed to do, so that the next person to be called up would then be sitting at the end of the row, and space would have been made for the person who had just left the stage, Buckles in this instance, to rejoin the row from the other end, a few surprised, but hushed, gasps could be heard from various parts of the theatre. Lowry certainly cut a dashing figure, with his long flowing blond hair and his strange attire. He moved gracefully across to the centre of the stage and firmly shook the chairman's hand. When he had received his prize and certificate he turned to half face the audience.

"Thank you,” he announced in a heartfelt voice. It was probably not noticeable to anyone else in the audience but, just as he said those words, he moved his eyes so that he was looking directly at all of the previous year's Upper Sixth form.

And, as he started to move across to the other side of the stage, the people in the audience applauded.

The applause died away, and Mr Griffiths announced "David Caldwell.”

And so the ceremony continued on its way, as dignified and just as stupefyingly boring as it had been for the seven previous years that we had all been forced to sit through it. Eventually all the certificates and prizes had been handed out. All the boring speeches had come to an end. The chairman of the Board of Governors had thanked the headmaster for the wonderful afternoon, and had made his usual request that the headmaster should bestow upon the pupils an extra half day holiday for all the splendid work they had done the previous year. The headmaster had graciously agreed to the suggestion, to the excited applause of all the current pupils, who still had to look forward to having to suffer more such boring afternoons on an annual basis. Mr Griffiths finally announced that the ceremony was over, and we all made our way back out into the fresh air.

Mr Thomas, my A level Biology teacher, came across and congratulated me on my excellent result. A result which he informed me he had never been in any doubt that I would achieve. I accepted his congratulations graciously, but couldn't help but remind him of what he had written on my school report the previous Easter, just a few months before I had sat my exams. 'When Daniel entered the sixth form I expected him to pass this subject with flying colours. Now I will be surprised if he even manages to get a bare minimum pass' it had read. He laughed and told me that he had written that to try to wake me up to the fact that I really needed to buckle down to some serious work before the exams. I just smiled at him.

Then Mr White, who had been my A level Physics teacher descended on me. He told me how happy he was with my result, and genuinely sounded as though he meant it. He looked at me long and hard and then said that I only had one failing as far as exams were concerned. And that was that I was a perfectionist. I would come out of an exam knowing that there was one single thing I'd got wrong, and then persuade myself that, because I didn't know every last little detail, I must have failed. It was a failing that I needed to accept, and work on, he told me. Otherwise I'd perhaps finish up having a nervous breakdown during my exams eventually. He didn't sound at all as though he was having a go at me, more that he was trying to help me with this advice. I smiled at him and told him I'd remember what he'd told me.

Jock had heard this exchange.

"Just what I keep telling him, Sir. He's a worrier. Always has been, and probably always will be.”

"Perhaps, James,” said Mr White. "But hopefully he'll heed my advice and not worry quite so much in the future. Well done yourself, by the way. A remarkable achievement.”

"I never had any doubts myself,” said Jock.

"No, you probably didn't. But I certainly did!” Mr White retorted with a laugh.

"The cheek of him!” laughed Jock, after Mr White left to talk to some of the other ex pupils.

"Ah now, Jock,” I laughed. "He was probably only winding you up.”

"Yea,” said Jock. "He wasn't the worst of them.”

"He was one of the good guys,” I said. "There weren't many of them, but he was up there with the best of them.”

I was to remember what he had said to me about being a perfectionist, and the possible nervous breakdown, in years to come.

Some of us headed off home shortly afterward with the promise that we'd meet up later when the Dog and Partridge opened and have a celebratory drink and catch up on old times. I found my mother, explained that I was going for a bite to eat with Jock and Peter, asked her to take my certificate and book home for me, and headed off with them and several other of my mates to Greasy Joe's.

Over plates full of steak pie, chips and peas, and mugs of Joe's speciality strong coffee, we told Peter about the events of dinner time. He didn't believe us at first when we told him about the drama that had taken place. He said there had certainly been no evidence of anything amiss during the ceremony. He could believe that Griff would have tried to ban Lowry from receiving his prize, and said that one or two people had commented on his long hair and the way he was dressed. But he insisted he would never have realised during the ceremony that so many of us had very nearly pulled out of it. He said that when he'd seen Lowry's long hair and strange clothes he'd been surprised that the headmaster had allowed him to go up on stage, but that he had had no idea that the whole prize giving ceremony had almost been boycotted. As far as he had been able to make out, everything had gone as boringly smoothly as every other year. It was almost a pity, he suggested, that Griff had backed down. It would have been fun to have seen him try to explain why most of last year's sixth form hadn't been available to go up and receive their prizes.

We spent a few hours with the rest of the gang in the Dog and Partridge. I drank a little too much again. Not enough to get really drunk, but certainly enough to loosen my tongue and amuse my comrades with tales about my time in Sheffield. Peter still couldn't get served any alcohol, but I did manage to buy him one pint, which he managed to drink in secret without being spotted by the landlord. We consoled him with the fact that he would be eighteen in a few months' time, and that, as long as he brought his birth certificate out with him on the night, we'd make it a night to remember.

Myself and Peter headed home around ten o'clock. I said goodnight to him at my gate with a promise to try and get home for at least a weekend before Christmas. Otherwise I'd be home then for four weeks, when we would certainly catch up on old times.

So I headed into the house and, after a few minutes dutifully talking to my mother and siblings about the day's events, I went straight to bed. I would have to be up early the next morning to catch the first train back to Sheffield.