starts: my peace and quiet. My opportunity to relax. My first proper holiday in years . . .
‘
Here is a small fact
. . .’
‘IMOGEN COPELAND!’
I don’t recognise the voice, but it’s very clearly British with a hint of Scouse. ‘Imogen Copeland and Nicola Harris. Well. I.
Never!
’
We gaze up at the figure addressing us, squinting as the sun streams into our eyes. Nicola scrambles to a standing position and I follow suit . . . immediately wishing I hadn’t.
‘Mr Brayfield! What a . . .
surprise
,’ Nic manages, in the same way you’d greet a severe bout of cystitis. ‘My mum mentioned she’d seen you in
Sainsbury’s the other week.’
Mr Brayfield was our geography teacher at school; our onelegged geography teacher, to be precise. He was very good at his job – I got an A in my GCSE – and was known for his
boundless energy. The precise nature of how he lost his leg was the subject of endless speculation and theories abounded, ranging from a shark attack, to getting it stuck in the lift in John Lewis.
He deliberately refused to tell us the real story, preferring to retain a sense of mystery – an approach I sincerely wish he’d extended into all other areas in his life. For, the
notable thing about Mr Brayfield right now is not his singular leg, nor his crutches – famously carved with the initials of every sixth former he’s ever taught. It’s that
he’s not wearing anything. He’s as devoid of strides as the day he was born.
Of all the views I expected on holiday, I can think of none for which I could have wished less.
‘Yes, your mum and I had a good old natter,’ he says with a grin. Nicola’s eyes are darting to the sky, then the sand, then at the rollerbladers zigzagging past on the
boardwalk. Anywhere, in fact, that isn’t Mr Brayfield’s nethers. ‘She mentioned you’d found yourself a new man, Nicola. Well done you!’
‘A new . . . man?’ I ask, to check I’ve heard right.
‘Don’t tell me she hasn’t told you about her new fellow!’ Mr Brayfield guffaws. ‘Your mum seemed to approve of him, anyway.’
I glance at Nicola, who squirms uncomfortably.
‘So, what are you two doing here?’ he continues.
‘Oh . . . erm, we won a competition. We’re only here for a few days,’ I mumble.
‘Lucky old you two. Barcelona’s got everything!’ he declares, swinging out his arms triumphantly. We take a step back. ‘Dot and I have been coming for years,
haven’t we?’
He spins round and registers his wife coming up twenty feet behind, clearly unable to keep up with his considerable pace.
Mrs Brayfield is a large, glistening woman, her pale pink flesh flushed to a violent russet from the neck up, who wheezes her way to us wearing only (and I mean, only) a large camping
rucksack.
‘Keep up, old girl,’ chuckles Mr Brayfield. ‘I was telling Nicola and Imogen here that we come to Barcelona all the time, don’t we?’
She’s puffing and panting like a steam train under threat of decommission as she joins us. ‘Hello, yes, we . . . love it. It’s a splendid place. I’m Dot.’ She holds
out a hand, which we tentatively shake while maintaining firm eye contact. ‘So!’ she hoots, as I pretend to be distracted by an enthralling game of Frisbee. ‘Are you
ex-pupils?’
We nod awkwardly and she bursts into laughter. ‘Bry-
an
! You shouldn’t be giving these two an eyeful of your ding-along! They’ll be embarrassed, won’t
you?’
Nicola and I shift from one foot to another, trying to think of an answer.
‘Not that you should be – once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,’ philosophises Mrs B, pulling the rucksack off her back with a hearty huff. ‘And
there’s nothing offensive about Bryan’s, is there?’
We stand mute as the horrifying possibility dawns on us that she’s inviting us to examine, and possibly compliment, the genitalia of the man who taught us the difference between erosional
and depositional landforms.
I
‘
Here is a small fact
. . .’
‘IMOGEN COPELAND!’
I don’t recognise the voice, but it’s very clearly British with a hint of Scouse. ‘Imogen Copeland and Nicola Harris. Well. I.
Never!
’
We gaze up at the figure addressing us, squinting as the sun streams into our eyes. Nicola scrambles to a standing position and I follow suit . . . immediately wishing I hadn’t.
‘Mr Brayfield! What a . . .
surprise
,’ Nic manages, in the same way you’d greet a severe bout of cystitis. ‘My mum mentioned she’d seen you in
Sainsbury’s the other week.’
Mr Brayfield was our geography teacher at school; our onelegged geography teacher, to be precise. He was very good at his job – I got an A in my GCSE – and was known for his
boundless energy. The precise nature of how he lost his leg was the subject of endless speculation and theories abounded, ranging from a shark attack, to getting it stuck in the lift in John Lewis.
He deliberately refused to tell us the real story, preferring to retain a sense of mystery – an approach I sincerely wish he’d extended into all other areas in his life. For, the
notable thing about Mr Brayfield right now is not his singular leg, nor his crutches – famously carved with the initials of every sixth former he’s ever taught. It’s that
he’s not wearing anything. He’s as devoid of strides as the day he was born.
Of all the views I expected on holiday, I can think of none for which I could have wished less.
‘Yes, your mum and I had a good old natter,’ he says with a grin. Nicola’s eyes are darting to the sky, then the sand, then at the rollerbladers zigzagging past on the
boardwalk. Anywhere, in fact, that isn’t Mr Brayfield’s nethers. ‘She mentioned you’d found yourself a new man, Nicola. Well done you!’
‘A new . . . man?’ I ask, to check I’ve heard right.
‘Don’t tell me she hasn’t told you about her new fellow!’ Mr Brayfield guffaws. ‘Your mum seemed to approve of him, anyway.’
I glance at Nicola, who squirms uncomfortably.
‘So, what are you two doing here?’ he continues.
‘Oh . . . erm, we won a competition. We’re only here for a few days,’ I mumble.
‘Lucky old you two. Barcelona’s got everything!’ he declares, swinging out his arms triumphantly. We take a step back. ‘Dot and I have been coming for years,
haven’t we?’
He spins round and registers his wife coming up twenty feet behind, clearly unable to keep up with his considerable pace.
Mrs Brayfield is a large, glistening woman, her pale pink flesh flushed to a violent russet from the neck up, who wheezes her way to us wearing only (and I mean, only) a large camping
rucksack.
‘Keep up, old girl,’ chuckles Mr Brayfield. ‘I was telling Nicola and Imogen here that we come to Barcelona all the time, don’t we?’
She’s puffing and panting like a steam train under threat of decommission as she joins us. ‘Hello, yes, we . . . love it. It’s a splendid place. I’m Dot.’ She holds
out a hand, which we tentatively shake while maintaining firm eye contact. ‘So!’ she hoots, as I pretend to be distracted by an enthralling game of Frisbee. ‘Are you
ex-pupils?’
We nod awkwardly and she bursts into laughter. ‘Bry-
an
! You shouldn’t be giving these two an eyeful of your ding-along! They’ll be embarrassed, won’t
you?’
Nicola and I shift from one foot to another, trying to think of an answer.
‘Not that you should be – once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,’ philosophises Mrs B, pulling the rucksack off her back with a hearty huff. ‘And
there’s nothing offensive about Bryan’s, is there?’
We stand mute as the horrifying possibility dawns on us that she’s inviting us to examine, and possibly compliment, the genitalia of the man who taught us the difference between erosional
and depositional landforms.
I
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