“The way you overcome shyness is to be so wrapped up in something that you forget to be afraid”
Claudia
‘Lady Bird’ Johnson
A WARNING FROM THE PETTY SMALL MINDERS!
Book sales of shy ARE being monitored, individual buyers like you ARE being watched and being a secret society means just that; so that any repercussions on you and yours will be carried out in secret and because IT IS a secret, you won’t !nd out about it until it’s done and way too late for you to return the book and ask for a refund. And remember, this includes all of you who just hover around the bookshelves, surreptitiously sneaking a peek and reading away for ages; before brazenly leaving the bookshop, like a thief in broad daylight, with a sly smile and a fast walk, thinking you’re home free. We ARE everywhere!
FREE
7:10 am Monday, August 1st 1966 and two days after the World Cup Final; Bus Stop - College Road, Dulwich Village, south-east London suburbs:
Pinch, punch-first day of the month, white rabbits and no return and a typically hottish summer’s half-day if you get really lucky, a patch of hot sun in the bright blue sky, white-grey clouds around, blacker ones on the horizon bringing the distant threat of thunder. If not pennies from heaven, at the very least sunshine and showers. After England’s victory in the World Cup, a self-confident, swinging London, celebratory and still woozy after many a hungover breakfast through the Saturday night and Sunday morning, now looked forward to a week toasting that once-in-a-lifetime sunny afternoon.
A solitary, anxious and uneasy fourteen-year-old schoolboy stands a little away from the bus stop, waiting for his red double decker bus to arrive and take him to St. Swindles private school; a routine fifteen-minute, three-mile journey that he has taken regularly as clockwork over the last three years. That’s a hundred and twenty weeks and one thousand two hundred times back and forth between school and the bus stop, with his parents’ big house in leafy-laned, affluent Dulwich another very long walk away. He has never ever been late for a school he has hated from day one.
Usually, he arrives ten minutes early at 8:20 am for the 8:30 am bus, so it’s odd that he’s here at 7:10 am, twenty minutes early for the 7:30 am bus, even odder given that the summer holidays began two weeks ago and all over England, school’s out for summer.
The boy has a name, of course. Obviously. But our Archibald Brown detests his name. Hates it. He’d prefer you never knew his name so he could be left to live his life anonymously. We will respect his wishes and refer to him as anything and everything but his real name.
Average height for his age and slim built, the boy wears a typical private school uniform consisting of dark blue blazer, long grey trousers, grey socks and heavy black polished walking shoes. On his head, the obligatory school cap and on his back, a very heavy satchel. Although it’s early he appears to be very hot under the collar, scowling and muttering away as he tugs and pulls at the starched white shirt and dark blue tie concealing his second-skin red football top. We can’t check out his face at all, because he’s staring at his shoes all the time, or is it the pavement?
Oh, hang on, he’s looking up now. Such a serious sad face lost in a world of its own and very upset about something. His bottom lip’s trembling and his face crumples as he drops his head again to stare at the ground. What’s he doing with his lips? Is he talking to himself?
‘Stop it calm down no one’s watching only you know what’s happened. Are you up for facing him this morning? No I won’t do that been waiting for the right
moment to escape. Dropped right into your lap … no going back … hurt myself before. Didn’t work Nearly got found out all that fuss and attention (his right index finger nervously rubs away at the two-inch chest scar hiding beneath his school shirt) … I just can’t … I won’t face another year of it, at home or at school … rather do away with myself than carry on living like this.
Involuntarily, the boy gasps, hands on knees, gulping down air as he tries but fails to stem the tears, but after a minute or two, he has calmed down enough to start worrying about practicalities. He starts talking to himself again
‘Do you have the letter? Check again Yes, blazer inside pocket, feel it Yes, it’s safe. No don’t need to read it again, if it’s wrong, too bad, got to get away to London on the tube, just find a safe place to hole up and plan your next move. Not as if you didn’t know what to say, drafted it out months ago, then yesterday used Dad’s letterhead and typewriter’
Dear Sir,
We have to take our son out of school for a family funeral in France. Only found out about it this weekend.
We will bring him back soon so he can start revising for his re-sit exam with Mr. Banks before the mock O-levels in December.
Then the perfect forged signatures, signed, sealed and soon to be delivered.
‘I still love my parents but when Dad said last Thursday, “We have to go away again but whatever you do son, when you grow up, don’t live a life of quiet desperation like me” just knew I had to get away. We were always going on summer holidays as a family, but Dad’s so busy all the time and when he’s home …’. The boy shakes his head, rubbing his eyes and giving a deep sigh before continuing,
‘Since starting at St Swindles things have just gone from bad to worse. Oh, God. Please don’t let me run into Basher Bloody Banks at school can’t even say his name without feeling sick, can you. Gone all cold and sweaty, you pathetic little shit. It’s why, even when you woke up in a cold wet bed again, you just threw everything in the laundry bin, showered, changed, got going early to drop the letter off before he arrives …
Summer School for Examination Failures what a waste of time, just going to fail again. I hate school. Failed my 11 Plus exams so why did they pay for me to go to a posh, private school? It’s all my fault and then Banks picks on me from day one. It’s as if he’s on a mission to make me break down and cry just because I can’t answer his questions, can’t say anything I’m so scared, just stay quiet all the time. He says I’m the strong, silent type, but I’m not!’
“If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you …”
‘Get a hold of yourself; stop sniveling, I will not be a cry-baby anymore. Ok, do you have the money? Did you leave it on the desk? Ok stop calm down think again, take a deep breath … no need to panic, the money should be in the inside zip pocket of the satchel … so … calmly take it off to check … why is it so difficult to do? Now my cap’s fallen off! Pick it up oh great, now the wind. Don’t draw attention to yourself whatever you do. Ok, it’s all there … stop counting the money you idiot or you’ll end up dropping it all on the pavement. Put it back. Do up the zip. Not going back now, are you? No No No
Started planning it all out two years ago, after they broke their promise. Asked for a savings account rather than presents for my birthday and Christmas. They fell for it didn’t they. Took it all out last week, 15 pounds, 6 shillings and pocket money for the bus and tube
Remember, this was supposed to be a great adventure and you’re a strong, brave explorer. That’s it, look up, no tears for goodness sake, stupid little cry-baby look at the pavement again why don’t you, just don’t let anyone see you. What’s the time? Ok, still another ten minutes before Harry’s red bus is due …’
His mind drifts back to Saturday morning and the World Cup Final
‘Mum and Dad left a note telling me …
Help yourself to food, telly, drinks (as per normal)
You’ve got your house keys
Any friends over for the Cup Final make sure nothing’s damaged
Clear up any mess!
Dad has business meetings in France
Back in two weeks
Go to school every day from Monday morning
What a load of rubbish. What friends? Tried that lie before on the school, they didn’t buy it, neither do I, taking me for a fool when I know exactly why they left in a rush. If only they knew what I know, but they don’t. Never have, never will. At least you didn’t get down on yourself and switch on the Gogglebox. Took Harry‘s early morning bus to soak up the atmosphere before kick-off and before anyone was around.’
The schoolboy didn’t really know anything about the Bus Conductor, other than the fact that everyone knew his first name was Harry, because he was always telling people who he was and asking questions like; ‘Ow yer doin’ mate?’ A happily married forty-three-yearold cockney father of five with a fit as a fiddle physique, Harry Green actually looked a little bit like an upside-down cello with those broad shoulders on a lean muscular body under that dark blue uniform, hips swaying rhythmically as he moved through his crowded bus, silver and black ticket machine whirring away.
There was more to Harry than met the public eye. Modest and caring, he kept his many accomplishments firmly hidden under his impressive peaked black hat with polished London Transport deep red enamel, chromium-plated badge. Who would have known he followed in the footsteps of his father, an accomplished middleweight boxer or that he flew Spitfires in the Battle of Britain?
Loyal and honest as the day was long, Harry treated people as he would his own family and looked out for his regulars, always cheering them up with an appropriate comment or joke as needed. He’d been keeping an eye out for the young shy schoolboy ever since he
started at St. Swindles three years ago. The boy always seemed so pre-occupied with some dark problem or other. Never sat with any school mates, always alone, looking out from that top deck front seat with all the world on his shoulders and a grim expression on his face. Now at last, on an early World Cup Final Saturday morning, the bus was almost empty and Harry wasn’t about to miss out on the chance to cheer this young man up.
Actually, for a change the schoolboy felt in a very cheerful mood, free from the shackles of his school uniform. He wore a white England T-shirt under his favourite red jumper, blue jeans and comfy, well-worn football trainers. He looked out and saw how magical it all was. Streets ablaze with colour and excitement as the bus travelled through the heart of London bearing northwest. Regents Park on his right before the long run up into Wembley Way and there it was! The National Stadium with its famous twin towers, cafés and stands selling shirts, mascots, rattles, programmes, fans getting together for an early breakfast, waving German an d English banners and singing away like crazy.
‘Everything’s just perfect,’ thought the schoolboy. And it was to start with. The bus was empty; the boy skipped upstairs as per normal, taking a front row throne seat. Then Harry came up. No place to go because there wasn’t a crowd of people to hide behind.
That’s when he said it,
‘Mornin’ young Sir. Well naa, this makes a change, goin’ all the way ter Wembley on a Saterday! Yer may not remember me but ev’ry year I intraduse meself ter all the kids in their first week ov the new jah rule term. Yer bin comin’ on me bus regular as clockwork fer wot, free years naa but yer ain’t said a dicky bird. Always the same journey ter St Swindles, always the same whistle an’ flute. Nice ter see yer in civvies anyway, then yer legs it up me apples an’ pears tryin’ ter ‘ide away. Can see yer a creature ov ‘abit but can’t yer cheer up me old china? Maybe it’s ‘coz yer always on yer Jack Jones innit
… Anyways, let me try agin ter intradus meself. It’s ‘Arry. Don’t call me ‘Orace, I ‘ates it. Even when me MAD calls me ‘Orry fer short, I ‘ates it. Welcome on board me old china, not givin’ up, got ter see yer smile one day, so fer naa, if yer don’t mind that is …
I’ll call yer Master Smiley, coz yer don’t.’
‘How embarrassing. Face all hot and tingly, started sweating, felt weird, a bit sick but couldn’t do anything about it. Stop worrying, it’s over now and no one else was there to hear it. That would have been even worse.’
Master Smiley came out of his daydreamy state to hear talking from a bus stop queue, lengthening by the second. Standing next to him, an exceptionally tall two metres plus, heavy set, not so gentlemanly gentleman, wearing a disdainful, superior air of conceit on his otherwise unremarkable face; as if the world should bow and scrape beneath his magnificent aura of greatness. Power hung about him like a robe. He dressed as befits royalty, although he was nothing of the sort. Dark grey bespoke flannel suit, dark blue tie made from the finest silk (finer than caster sugar), trousers pressed with the perfect crease. His Homburg hat was purchased in Bond Street and his Gucci leather shoes shined out as if to say, ‘Scusi, cancellare un percorso che stiamo attraversando!’ [Clear the way we’re coming through!]
He bought his deluxe designer sheepskin overcoat on sale from Harrods, yet his bank account never had enough to pay for all these very expensive tastes. He survived beautifully of course by cheating and putting it all down to business expenses which were approved by? That’s right, himself. On his lapel, he wore a white orchid and a small expensive badge with the inscription Head of the Amateur Athletics Association of Great Britain. Horn-rimmed spectacles, black hair full and slicked back in the popular, greasy Brylcream-style completed the picture; such a hit with the ladies.
His name was Sir Pellanor Snidely MacFearsome Named after his ancestor, a sixteenth century Scottish knight, it was the only reason Sir Pellanor received his knighthood and certainly not because of his actions in life, but rather as a result of being posh, privileged and bestowed on him, by the Queen, for no good reason at all. There was a quiet menace in his every move, plus he fancied himself something rotten, an apt expression because he was, rotten to the core.
He then spoke, or rather made a pronouncement to whomsoever was listening down there on the pavement, in a very posh, upper-class public school accent,
‘This is the first and last time I will ever transport myself on public transport.’ He said the word public as if it were a smelly slice of dog’s do-do.
‘This bus is,’ he checked his gold Rolex watch, ‘five minutes late, I will give it one more minute and then I will, if necessary, walk. Everyone will want to know that I now own Alleyn’s School, one of the largest and most prestigious private schools in all of England and all set in this quaint little Dulwich Village of yours. Originally established as the College of God’s Gift, so of course I had to own it. I only use my mansion at weekends, it boasts sixteen bedrooms and is set in acres of prime real estate. I am here purely because one of my many servants, Chauffeur Parker, has called in sick but if, when I arrive at my HQ, I find out he’s made an excuse and is just hung over from some tiresome World Cup Football Final, which apparently happened over the weekend, well he will be fired with immediate effect!’
Out of nowhere Harry’s red double decker bus appeared on the horizon, pulled up, took on board all passengers and left in a hurry. Only not with Master Smiley. The schoolboy deep down into his own dark thoughts again, suddenly came to his senses as Harry’s bus sped away into the distance.
This is when it happened. Something that would change his life forever. Something inside had had enough. Said ‘do it.’ Said ‘break all the rules and to hell with it.’ Said, ‘whatever you do don’t be late for school or your escape plan won’t work!’
As he started to run after Harry’s bus, holding his school cap on with one hand and the other trying to stop his very heavy school satchel from swinging in the head wind that had suddenly gusted up, his eyes glazed over and he went into a really weird kind of trance It was as if his body was talking to him and taking him back to his primary schooldays when, after yet more bullying at school, he would dash home and change into a footballing superhero rushing around in a big garden now transformed into a Theatre of Dreams or the hallowed turf of Wembley Stadium.
He was eleven Busby Babes stag leaping over endless flowerbed tackles, the famed red or white shirt a whizzing blur as he skimmed over the grass in weightless abandon. The wind at his back and bent to his will as he chased his football, running free, on a supplicant earth that bowed to him and he was; young and easy under the apple boughs and happy as the grass was green. These were his thoughts as he ran after the bus.
Out of the blue, storm clouds, a lightning bolt and thunderclap, followed by a cloudburst of angry rain. It was at this exact moment that Master Smiley really, really smiled. As he did so, the sky changed into the blue again as, with a shaft of sunlight surprise he was there, running alongside a bus which had crested the top of a very long hill, and finding itself in danger of being overtaken by a mere schoolboy; now hurtled downhill both to make up the time and to avoid embarrassing conversations back at the bus depot.
He slowed, casually looking in at a baby held by a Mum pointing and trying to touch Master Smiley through the window. ‘Bubber bubber boo’ burbled transfixed baby, just like Smiley, smiling too. Mum jolted forward eyeballs on stalks, grabbed her baby way too tightly, causing a jet stream of yellowy orange, fishy-veggie mess to spew forth over the passenger seated directly behind her. A perfect hit straight between the eyes, or should I say horn-rimmed spectacles, of a certain Sir P.
Master Smiley, still lost in a world of his own and in a happy adrenalin-filled rush, decided to fly even faster, past Harry’s red double decker bus into the red zone and on and on and on, just because he could. In literally no time at all, he was at his bus stop outside the school gates, burst the tape in his head, collapsing in the middle of the pavement. Head in the clouds, body heaving in the land’s embrace.
He remembered that black and white news reel, recently repeated on the telly, of Sir Roger Bannister, the famous runner and first man to run under four minutes for the mile in 1954, doing the same thing at the end of his race.
Master Smiley lay on the pavement looking up at the sky, before taking one last deep breath, as his really weird feeling ended and he came down to earth and stopped smiling. He had come to his senses from somewhere else, so he had no idea what he had done or what had happened. He got up, checked his watch, adjusted the satchel on his back, reset his school cap and then started the strange but very funny habit of talking out loud to himself, just like he always did, rushing around in his garden playing football;
‘I’m early and ahead of schedule, so no need to pan ic.’
Just then, Harry’s bus arrived with a screech of brakes at the bus stop. He watched in a daze as his shy, unhappy schoolboy brushed himself off, checked to see if anyone was looking, then feeling self-conscious and embarrassed turned and headed for the school gates to drop off a certain letter at reception.
The poor uncomfortable baby, now held at arm’s length by a mum focused on keeping herself clean at all costs, was building up to something horrid. Mum’s maternal instinct took over; soothing her baby on her shoulder in time-honoured fashion, as the baby’s farty burp spewed out the remains of a very smelly stomach directly into the lap of a helpless, enraged Sir P.
‘Who or what was that? Who or what is responsible?’ he spluttered and seethed between gritted teeth, standing up, black beady shark eyes staring at the passengers as if it was all their fault. He couldn’t glare because he couldn’t see at all, so thick was the sick encasing his horn-rimmed spectacles as it; drip, drip, dripped from the brim of his Homburg hat. It’s good he couldn’t see just then how much yellow and orange, stinky-fishy vomit had destroyed his sheepskin coat, Italian suit, silk tie, even his Gucci shoes, as he would have had a fatal heart attack and our story would be finished before it got going. As it was Sir P really
got mad as he turned, a whiter shade of pale, leaving in a furious rage determined to seek out the culprit and exact a fitting revenge.
As for Harry, he was gobsmacked. ‘That poor basin ov gravy, wot a load ov wallace an’ gromit an’ all over that posh bloke. As fer Master Smiley ‘e must be cream crackered.’
Master Smiley was not cream crackered at all. Everything had worked out perfectly, no sign of Basher Banks, so easy enough to drop off the letter. As carefully planned, he took a bus to the Elephant & Castle, before a ten -minute underground journey on the Northern Line; taking the tubular tube through its rounded tunnels via the Bank, to his final destination, Mile End in the East End, linked directly into the Central Line. Cocooned in the warm tube, just another face in a crowd of tightly packed commuters, he felt hopeful that things would only get better from now on.
His father’s words came back to him, ‘but w hatever you do son, don’t live a life of quiet desperation like me.’
Just like his Dad on a Monday morning, he was going up to town. Unlike Dad’s daily commute, eight days a week, he wouldn’t be coming back. He just hoped that his father, always wearing any one of four hats; (sportsman, inventor, engineer or company director) would understand why he had to run away. Leaving the tube at the Mile End stop, Master Smiley took the steps up two at a time, then on the escalator stood in line staring at the bottom of a pinstriped suit jacket, keeping his wits about him and focusing everything on moving with the relentless pace of the crowd.
Finally, he was catapulted out of the dark and onto a street level pavement bathed in bright summer sunshine. He found himself in a strange new exciting world but alone on the pavement, his body suddenly felt drained of energy as he stood rooted to the spot worrying about … ‘What next ?’
