appeal of things that were dead, which couldn’t bite or sting or hurt you. I was sorry when Rod went away again, as suddenly as he’d come; my mother thought his dad must have got a job somewhere. I was sadder still because we’d had an argument, down by the canal, the last time I saw him: I’d asked to borrow his penknife overnight but he wouldn’t let me and we started fighting. After Rod’s disappearance I went back to books, jigsaw puzzles and Airfix kits. Later I was given a Rubik’s cube, a Christmas present from Uncle Jimmy, which I keep on my desk to this day.
At primary school the other kids didn’t seem to care when I came top in maths and spelling tests: the worst they called me was ‘swot’ and ‘teacher’s pet'. But at secondary school being a clever clogs became a major liability and I sometimes got things wrong deliberately. Sport might have been a way to gain some kudos. But the games teachers didn’t give me a chance. And when the bald little gym instructor, Mr MacPresley (MacPress-Up as we called him) sneered at my lack of coordination, I was happy to join the ranks of the obese, skeletal, myopic, couldn’t-be-bothered and last-to-be-picked – a ‘spaz’ and ‘malco'. My mother wrote notes to get me out of swimming lessons, claiming I was allergic to chlorine. But that still left football and cricket, and the torments they brought with them: a wet towel slap-flicked against my buttocks in a wintry changing room, or the slow descent of a hard red ball towards my hiding place out on the boundary. When you’ve been told you’re rubbish at games, you believe it. Not until Ollie’s golflessons, and those summer evenings after work at the jam factory, did I realise that sport could be enjoyable.
The sense of well-being didn’t last. When Ollie returned to uni in late September, Achilles heel mended, he had no time for me. Rugby took up his weekends and evenings, and our choice of second-year law courses failed to overlap, so I barely saw him, despite sharing the same house. We did occasionally manage nine holes (my earnings from the jam factory had gone into buying a set of clubs) and even the odd game of squash. But the companionship of the previous term was gone. His bedroom was next to mine but he left early and returned late, without a knock or hello. It was as if he’d thought better of our friendship.
The low point came one Saturday night. Ollie’s team (the firsts, of course) had won at rugby that day, down in London, and he got back in a good mood around eight thirty. I was on my own at the house as usual. Taking pity, he asked me to join him for a drink. There was a pub right across from our house, but he insisted on driving us to the university, on the grounds we’d have more chance of meeting girls there. To my knowledge he’d never brought a girl home, but I’d seen how they looked at him and didn’t doubt he’d had a few. As he drove he talked about playing the field. ‘Play your cards right and we’ll both score tonight,’ he grinned. I told myself I’d been paranoid about his recent aloofness: here we were, in his Mini, on a lads’ night out.
I doubt he knew that the rest of the rugby team would be in the union bar. What I did object to was his behaviour when they called across from their loud and beery table: after a futile attempt to introduce everyone (as if I could possibly recall fourteen names, let alone ones like Slammer, Rancid, Chucky, Stewpole, Oggy and Bean), he sat down to join them, and left me to my own devices. Although there was a seat forme, and one of the team (Oggy, I think) tried to make conversation, it wasn’t the evening I’d anticipated, excluding as it did the chance to be alone with Ollie while also meeting girls. It became even less of the evening I’d anticipated at closing time, when the entire team took itself off for a curry. Ollie invited me to join them but I could tell it wasn’t a genuine invitation. ‘Fine, suit yourself,’
At primary school the other kids didn’t seem to care when I came top in maths and spelling tests: the worst they called me was ‘swot’ and ‘teacher’s pet'. But at secondary school being a clever clogs became a major liability and I sometimes got things wrong deliberately. Sport might have been a way to gain some kudos. But the games teachers didn’t give me a chance. And when the bald little gym instructor, Mr MacPresley (MacPress-Up as we called him) sneered at my lack of coordination, I was happy to join the ranks of the obese, skeletal, myopic, couldn’t-be-bothered and last-to-be-picked – a ‘spaz’ and ‘malco'. My mother wrote notes to get me out of swimming lessons, claiming I was allergic to chlorine. But that still left football and cricket, and the torments they brought with them: a wet towel slap-flicked against my buttocks in a wintry changing room, or the slow descent of a hard red ball towards my hiding place out on the boundary. When you’ve been told you’re rubbish at games, you believe it. Not until Ollie’s golflessons, and those summer evenings after work at the jam factory, did I realise that sport could be enjoyable.
The sense of well-being didn’t last. When Ollie returned to uni in late September, Achilles heel mended, he had no time for me. Rugby took up his weekends and evenings, and our choice of second-year law courses failed to overlap, so I barely saw him, despite sharing the same house. We did occasionally manage nine holes (my earnings from the jam factory had gone into buying a set of clubs) and even the odd game of squash. But the companionship of the previous term was gone. His bedroom was next to mine but he left early and returned late, without a knock or hello. It was as if he’d thought better of our friendship.
The low point came one Saturday night. Ollie’s team (the firsts, of course) had won at rugby that day, down in London, and he got back in a good mood around eight thirty. I was on my own at the house as usual. Taking pity, he asked me to join him for a drink. There was a pub right across from our house, but he insisted on driving us to the university, on the grounds we’d have more chance of meeting girls there. To my knowledge he’d never brought a girl home, but I’d seen how they looked at him and didn’t doubt he’d had a few. As he drove he talked about playing the field. ‘Play your cards right and we’ll both score tonight,’ he grinned. I told myself I’d been paranoid about his recent aloofness: here we were, in his Mini, on a lads’ night out.
I doubt he knew that the rest of the rugby team would be in the union bar. What I did object to was his behaviour when they called across from their loud and beery table: after a futile attempt to introduce everyone (as if I could possibly recall fourteen names, let alone ones like Slammer, Rancid, Chucky, Stewpole, Oggy and Bean), he sat down to join them, and left me to my own devices. Although there was a seat forme, and one of the team (Oggy, I think) tried to make conversation, it wasn’t the evening I’d anticipated, excluding as it did the chance to be alone with Ollie while also meeting girls. It became even less of the evening I’d anticipated at closing time, when the entire team took itself off for a curry. Ollie invited me to join them but I could tell it wasn’t a genuine invitation. ‘Fine, suit yourself,’
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