A story

Warning, it has some fruity, unBolshevik language, included for verisimilitude. It's simply called:

Duelists

To begin with Little Tom was a marginal figure, he'd been that way for thirteen years. His parents, Big Tom and Esme, were travelling folk who worked on fairgrounds.

His early years were spent in and out of school. Winters he'd usually stay with his Grandma, spring and summer he'd usually be out on the road, helping his Dad on the rides.

Life for Tom only settled down after his father died. Big Tom bled to death in hospital, internal haemorrhage, after an argument with a drunken customer turned to violence. The police never caught his killer.

Esme dropped out of the carnival life. She took Little Tom to live with her mother until she found work (as a cleaner) and a flat to live in the city. Not quite a teenager, Tom had his first full year of schooling.

He found it difficult settling into full-time education. Teachers found it very difficult to sort him into any kind of stream. His written English was very basic, although he was quick-witted, verbose and hard to handle. Years of haggling and handling cash meant he was a natural mathematician. His general knowledge was sketchy but occasionally brilliant. For example, Tom knew almost every constellation in the sky but had never heard of the Norman invasion in 1066.

Most teachers saw him as simply a problem. All they could do was bury him in the bottom stream. It was too late for him. There was too little time to help him get up to speed.

But one teacher in particular too exception to him, the Deputy Head Mr Thorpe. Mr Thorpe was a PE teacher,an imposing figure with a heartless, grinding Liverpudlian accent. He was a big man, over six feet with broad shoulders and arms. He had sharply receding red hair, diamond green eyes and huge flared nostrils above a pugnacious moustache and lantern jaw. Though only the Deputy, he was truly master of all he surveyed. The Headmaster was Mr Stanley, a kindly, beloved old science teacher; due to retire in eighteen months, he'd already checked out, deferring most of the day to day running to Mr Thorpe.

Thorpe was ambitious, a devout follower of the government, a friend of Ofsted. He knew he had targets to meet and he'd be dammed if he'd have the children let him down. If there was one thing he wouldn't stand for, apart from slackness, was weakness. He could spot weakness, even a hidden weakness buried deep down and use it to humiliate and intimidate. Thorpe was a bully, feared and loathed but, as far as he was concerned, he got the job done.

So he was surprised (and infuriated) one day to be called a “scouse twat”.

It happened one Monday, toward the end of lunch break. Five minutes to go, Thorpe saw three lads hanging about like they were trying to waste time. He walked up to them, sizing them up in his mind. Then he saw Tom.

“All right there, isn't it about time you were moving on, you little pikey?”

“No, I'm fine here” said Tom. “Something wrong with you, you scouse twat?”

Tom's two friends, Ricky and Harry, suffered a ripple of horror, and not just for the anger flashing across Mr Thorpe's face. In his first few weeks at school Tom had to fight his corner. Wise asses in his year, sizing him up, tried to get at him for being a gypsy, but Tom fought his corner. A typical example:

“I heard you're Mum's a gypo...”

“Yeah” said Tom, “and I heard your Mum uses a Kit Kat wrapper as a diaphragm”.

Kids found out quickly that Tom took no shit and would give as good as he got. People respected him from then on. They still didn't like him, but they respected him. The friends he made were generally low-rank, they gathered round him for safety. He became the leader of the tail-enders, their champion, almost. Tom's friends knew he wouldn't back down in front of Thorpe.

“You cheeky little shits! Get out of here, NOW! I want to see all three of you in detention, tonight!” Thorpe loomed over the trio. Tom's friends both thought he'd get violent, but Tom was calm.

“It's all right. I've got nothing doing tonight. I bet you have though, Sir”.

Mr Thorpe did as well, he and his wife were supposed to be dining with two of the Board of Directors at Imperial College, although Tom couldn't have known. Mr Thorpe hesitated before gritting his teeth:

“Make that, tomorrow night as well”.

Tom's friend's quailed. Undeterred, Tom suggested “How about the whole week?”

“It's a deal” said Mr Thorpe, who then grabbed Tom roughly by the coat and shoved him toward where he thought Tom was supposed to be going. Tom gathered his balance and, cool as he could, started walking in the opposite direction. Thorpe, wide eyed, blocked his path. “Where'd you think you're going”.

“Uh, Sir, my class is that way”.

Tom walked on. He called back to his friends without looking, “c'mon guys”.

That evening, after school, Tom and co turned up for their detention. Thorpe didn't keep his promise, instead it was Ms Fry, who just handed out some back copies of National Geographic:

“Here, just copy these articles, keep quiet and we can all go home in an hour”.

…

Later that week Tom was coming out of another boring French lesson, facing another half-mile trek to IT. Tom's school was built over a wide area, several square miles. The science and IT block was being rebuilt and meanwhile students had to trudge down the road to the former playground of the local primary school, were they received tuition in a group of temporary cabins.

This worried Mr Thorpe. There were already enough problems getting classes started on time. This would be very difficult to manage. But every problem can also be an opportunity. Thorpe first put a memo round to staff, then made announcements in several assemblies. He started a campaign against “down time”. Pupils were not to dawdle, they were forbidden from taking “scenic routes” between classes. Signs were put up round school, arrows painted on the floor. He drafted in selected prefects and support staff to supervise his children, make sure they took the direct route (but not run) between lessons. Anyone caught carousing, lolly-gagging or swinging the lead would be given detention on the spot. Thorpe was cracking down on down time.

Tom knew this. He thought to console himself he'd have a bit of his packed lunch now. Tom searched through his bag. There it was. What had Mum packed? Sandwiches, crisps, a nice chocolate bar... Panda Pop? Ugh! Tom hated cheap pop, but his Mum insisted she didn't have enough money to buy him cola every day.

Tom unfastened the top and poured the cola out onto a patch of grass.

“Pikey!”

Tom knew that voice. It was Thorpe, leaning out a window from the teachers lounge. He looked angry.

“My office, now!”

Tom rolled his eyes.

“NOW!”

“All right, all right”.

Outside Thorpe's office, next door to the lounge.

“So, Tom, you think it's OK, defacing my workspace?” Thorpe, seemingly calm now, folded his arms.

“Your workspace?”

“My workspace...”

“You work on the grass?”

“It's our working environment and you are disrespecting it”.

“I was just pouring...”

Mr Thorpe snapped; “detention...”

“But I...”

“But what?” asked Thorpe.

“But I already have detention” said Tom. “You gave it to me, remember?”

Thorpe uncrossed. “One week's detention”.

“I'm already doing a week's detention”.

Thorpe paused for thought. He leant over Tom.

“OK then...”he spoke slowly. “You are going to stand here until you come up with a good reason why you defaced my workspace”.

Thorpe turned and without looking went back into the teachers lounge, shutting the door firmly. Tom stood for a moment. He heard chatty adult voices, a ripple of muffled laughter.

“Nuts to this” said Tom, under his breath. He shrugged, turned and strolled off to class.

Fifteen minutes into the lesson, everyone was sitting at a computer, trying to type out the same basic programme. A firm click and the swoosh of the room door.

“Mr Allard, a moment”.

It was Thorpe, standing in the doorway:

“Mr Marsh, stand up”. Thorpe beckoned to Tom. Tom stood up. Thorpe remained in the doorway. “Come here”said Thorpe. Tom came. “I told you to stay there until you could think of a reason...” Thorpe let his voice fall. He seemed to want a response from Tom. “Why did you walk off?”

Tom sighed. He could feel behind him, and all around him a prickly tension, like something was about to break. “Well... Sir... I was thinking about what you said but, on the other hand I didn't want to waste any valuable down time”.

Mr Thorpe, still outwardly calm said:

“I'll see you tonight... That'll be all Mr Allard”.

As Tom returned to his seat he glanced toward Mr Allard, who seemed to be smiling.

…

That evening there were nearly two-dozen students waiting in the library. They sat at various tables, all talking. Everyone was excited about Tom's growing feud with Mr Thorpe. They couldn't believe it. Tom was holding court when Ricky spotted Mr Thorpe at the front door. Everyone hushed.

“Good evening, cretins” Mr Thorpe hollered as he pushed through the front door. Thorpe was carrying a mug of coffee and a small briefcase. He plonked the coffee and case down on a desk in front of the detainees. He opened the briefcase. Inside was a large wad of paper.

“Welcome to the worst night of your lives so far”. Thorpe started handing out A4 sheets with special typed headings. “You are all time wasters, oxygen thieves and future jailbirds. Education is wasted on you. If I had my way you'd all be packed off to the workhouse or the military to get a dose of reality, but, until that happy day, you're my problem to deal with and I'm going to deal with you the best I can. I have personalised each of your tasks. You will copy out your own personal sentences”.

“How many times, Sir?” asked one of the Detainees, a second year girl.

“Until I can see you've got the message”.

“But how many...?”

“You'll do it until I tell you to go”. Thorpe circled before sitting back at the desk.

“But Sir...”

“I have informed your parents. They've all agreed to this” said Mr Thorpe.

Tom knew this wasn't true. For one thing his Mum didn't have a phone. Tom looked at his sheets of paper. They were headed with:

“I will not be a cheeky, thieving little rat-boy”.

Thieving?

“Well, don't wait for me” said Thorpe. “I'm not doing any lines”. Thorpe's Secretary appeared, she whispered into his ear. “Well folkies, I've just got to deal with something in my office. If you've not started by the time I'm back I'm keeping you in overnight”. He looked at the horrified faces. “Get going”. Most of the kids did. Tom, sitting at the back watched and listened.

“What did the Chancellor say? Is he still...?” Thorpe and his Secretary left through the front door.

Once he was sure they were out of sight Tom stood up. He walked over to the front desk, where Thorpe had left his open briefcase and steaming mug of coffee. He walked slowly and quietly. No one really noticed him until he started rummaging through the briefcase contents.

“What are you doing, Tom?”

“Just looking” said Tom. There was nothing inside that really interested him.

“You can't do that” said the Second Year.

“Oh yeah?” said Tom. “Just like he can't keep us in after five thirty”. Tom put the various sheets, notebooks and pens back in their place.

“You're mental, Tommy” said one of the other Detainees.

Tom picked up the cup of coffee. “I suppose I am” said Tom. He spat in the cup. The whole group gasped.

“You can't do that”.

“Well I just have” said Tom, a little testy. “What's your name?”

“Jacinda” said the girl.

“Haven't you always wanted to do that?” asked Tom. “Well, something like that. What's he go you in here for, Jacinda?”

“Chewing gum”.

“Is that a detainable offence? I don't think it is. What's he got as your lines”.

“Only fat cows chew all day” said Jacinda, who was a little overweight.

“It's not on” said Tom. “Ricky, Harry, he's got both of you in here for something I did”.

“Yeah, my Mum's pissed off” said Harry. “She said I shouldn't have nothing to do with you”.

“We've all got our problems, Harry. Tyler, what are you in detention for?”

“Being late”.

“What's he got you writing?”

“The French for moron is...”

“Mr Thorpe's taking the piss” said Tom. “It's time we started getting back at him. Everyone gob in coffee. Let's have him drinking our flob”.

“But we'll get caught” said Jacinda.

“No we won't” said Tom. “He's taking a phone call. I heard him. He won't be back for ages. He loves the sound of his own voice. Besides, if he does what's he gonna do? Harry, c'mon, you first”.

Harry, persuaded, got up and spat in the Thorpe's mug. Before long the whole room had got up and done the same. It was nearly ten minutes before Thorpe returned. Everyone appeared to be busy, head down writing, even Tom. Mr Thorpe was satisfied. He sat down without speaking to anyone. He saw the steaming mug, picked it up to take a sip but noticed, for some reason, everyone was now looking at him.

“Get back to work” said Thorpe, before taking a nice long sip.

…

Friday's saw all-school assembly after registration. The head staff usually rotated who gave the assembly. This week it was Thorpe's turn. This week he wanted to talk about achievement. Recent test results showed a growing gap between boys and girls results. It was great that girls were seeking empowerment through achievement but that was no excuse for the boys falling behind.

“Your school days are the most important days of your life. Fail your GCSEs and you will fail life” said Mr Thorpe.

Why was this happening?

“There are a number of theories, reasons why boys are getting less out of school than girls. I won't bore you with them” said Thorpe before listing a number: macho culture, footballers, the Gallagher brothers, computer games, TV sketch shows, alcopops...

“But above all it's just considered uncool. It's not cool to learn. I want to change this. It is cool to learn. That's why...” Mr Thorpe's Secretary handed him a piece of white cloth. “That is why I am starting a new campaign to say...” Thorpe unfolded the cloth, holding it out in front of him It was a t-shirt. “It's cool to learn”. In case anyone doubted him the shirt had six-inch bold font saying “It's Cool to Learn”.

“I want each of the...” Thorpe stopped. There seemed to be laughter, suppressed laughter. I want, I want each of the...” The children, they were definitely sniggering. “The prefects to...”

“Ha, ha, ha!”

It was that Tom, that rat boy, openly mocking him; pointing and laughing. He set off a number of others. The spell had been broken.

…

That evening Tom went straight home.