The Loner Read online

  Mark reminisced: “Yes, a good time for some of the best films ever – the Ben Hur, Lawrence of Arabia, West Side Story, The Sound of Music, and many other musicals and excellent films.”

  “I remember the Sixties best for the music,” Carol said. “Jazz bands, Rock n’ Roll, the British bands and the Mersey Sound, Elvis Presley, Cliff Richard, Dylan, the Seekers, Manfred Man, The Animals, Herman’s Hermits, The Hollies. That was the music which changed the world. They were simple catchy tunes, and they’re still popular now.”

  “The Beatles were the best,” said Mark.

  “No – the Stones!”

  “Did you know that the Cavern Club, where the Beatles started, only sold soft drinks?”

  “I do,” she said. “I went to there myself. I can remember Cilla Black taking the coats.”

  Mark continued to reminisce: “Yes,” he said. “A concert hall was not large enough to hold their audience; at the height of their fame, outdoor stages were erected in football stadiums, and the numbers of their fans was so great that young men and girls were crushed under the weight of the crowds.

  “It was as if a new religion had been established, and the God of Mirth had surrendered to them his ivy wand and laurel crown. Do you remember how, when the Beatles appeared on the stage, the crowd uttered a piercing yell? Teenage girls shrieked shrilly in adoration of their idols. You know, if the scene could have been transferred to Ancient Greece, the Beatles like the high priests of Dionysus, would have led their captive votaries in merry dances along the mountain slopes, and the hills would have rung with the shrill voices of the Maenad host crying out: ‘All hail to the Beatles, now lead us out of our daily drudgery to a land of youth and love’.”

  “Very poetic,” she observed. “And where were you, Mark, in the Sixties?”

  “At the beginning of the Sixties, I was at school. Shall I tell you about it?”

  “Go on,” she said.

  “It was an Independent School,” he explained, frowning slightly, as if hesitant to recall an unhappy memory. “They used to be called ‘Public’ schools. It was situated up North, way out in the sticks. It was a large, dark, and solemn building, built in gently undulating countryside against a pretty background of fields, cattle, farmhouses, and barns.

  “Less than a century old, this sombre edifice lay in the middle of large grounds with rugger goal posts liberally scattered about them. The school was at least a mile from the nearest town and nearly as far from the nearest dwelling. Built in the late Victorian era, it crowned a low hill, so as to stand out for miles around like a massive folly. In winter, its small dark windows and the black dormant ivy stems which clung to the greater part of the red brick work, increased a gloomy aspect which was made more prominent by the shortening morning shadows. The school had been designed to resemble those enlightened semi-monastic establishments which, for centuries, had led the World in the education of gentlemen. But the design had failed, and the buildings captured more of the appearance of a prison than of a beacon of learning.”

  “Oh dear!” she said. “Didn’t you like it then?”

  “I hated the place – although that was perhaps my fault.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s a long story,” he replied, “but I’d rather not tell it from my point of view. If I do, I could bore you with my own feelings of gloom, despair, and misery. Bob Smith was there too. He was a year ahead of me. The best I can do is to tell the story, as he and others might have seen it through their own eyes – yes, and perhaps through the viewpoint of one of the teachers there.”

  “Bob Smith? Is he your friend who was your crew on that last race?”

  “The very same.”

  It was 7.15 am one morning in the early sixties at Mark’s school. The alarm rang in one of the dormitories. The dormitory was a long, tall room, which accommodated more than twenty boys. At one end, there were washbasins, separated from the sleeping quarters by a wooden partition. Those distinguished as prefects occupied the end which was nearest the partition.

  Bob Smith was a school prefect. He sleepily ordered the boys to get up, and they hastily found their toilet bags and their way to the washbasins. They had fifteen minutes to wash, dress, make their beds, and leave the room.

  One boy was last to rise, and last to dress and make his bed. He failed to leave the dormitory within the stipulated time.

  The boy was a tall youth with an untidy shock of short fair hair, and an athletic build. His thin lips and pointed nose seemed to sharpen and define his facial features. He would have presented the image of whatever is handsome and best in the tradition of independent education, if it had not been for his pale complexion, the timid look in his eyes, the perpetual frown on his face, the nervous twitch in his lips, and the uncertain and hesitant movements he had made, in vain, to beat the approaching deadline.

  One prefect scrutinised this boy contemptuously and remarked he was late; another inspected his bed, and told him it was not tidy and would have to be made again; and a third advised the unfortunate that his name would appear in the punishment book.

  The offender frowned unhappily, as if reflecting grudgingly on how it was in the interest of these high ranking officials to award punishments; because punishment duties included such useful tasks as making a prefect’s bed for a week, polishing his shoes, or cleaning his study.

  After this youth had left the dormitory, summarily convicted in this way, and was out of earshot, one prefect said: “Well, that’s another name in the punishment book. We need a few more to complete next week’s round of duties. We’d better keep our eyes open.”

  Bob Smith was not so sure. He said: “Mark Flitley’s been doing my bed this week already, and a right untidy mess he’s made of it. Let’s not scrape the barrel. If we have to pick on anybody to do punishment duties, I’d rather it was not him.”

  Breakfast. A large hall seated more than four hundred boys. It was served from a single and somewhat antiquated kitchen. Each table was constructed according to the principle of boards and trestles, and seated about thirteen boys. In the interests of economy and education, no home-comforts were provided, and the boys sat on wooden benches. In order to encourage team spirit and maintain morale, the school was divided into five houses; the members of each house had a portion of the dining hall allocated to them. The headmaster, from his high table, could proudly boast that, in this scholastic atmosphere, the principles of Plato and of Lycourgus had been faithfully observed.

  Each table had a school prefect at its head, and every week they moved on, in rotation, to other tables. That day, Bob Smith happened to be the prefect at the head of Flitley’s table. He was short and slim, and had a fresh complexion and cheerful manner. His hair was reddish in colour. His forehead was broad and intelligent, and his nose was straight and sharply defined. He had a firm, straight chin which jutted out at a determined angle, as he bent forward. His eyes had a kindly look, and his gestures gave the impression of a warm and welcoming friendliness. He had a mischievous grin. He had a slight but nevertheless clear northern accent, which was particularly evident from the way he shortened his vowels and sometimes dropped the definite article.

  Smith could see that there was trouble brewing between Flitley and a boy called Hurst. He didn’t like to see bullying, but they were both a long way down the table, and from past experience, he knew Flitley was so confused that, even if he were to intervene, Flitley would not know he was trying to help.

  Smith sighed as he saw Hurst raise his eyes irritably. He was a tall, well-built youth whose nose was sharp, and there was a sardonic twist to his lips. It was no great surprise that the fried egg in front of him was not of the highest quality. It was not unusual for the kitchen staff to serve eggs with their yokes hard: it was inevitably the case that, when eggs had to be served for four hundred or more individuals at the same time, the greater number would be cold before they arrived at the table. No – it was not his nearly cold fried egg that was annoying Hurst.
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  Hurst raised his eyes and looked across the table. The boys rotated their seats each day so that those at the end could do table duty. This ensured that the tasks of collecting and taking away plates, food, and cooking utensils were shared. What was irking Hurst was that, in the course of this rotation, he happened that day to be sitting opposite Mark Flitley.

  Now, if Bob Smith had asked Hurst why it was that he disliked Mark Flitley, he would have had some difficulty in obtaining a sensible answer. It was true that Flitley was not the kind of youth who indulged in scintillating conversation – when he spoke at all, he was inclined to make childish and incomprehensible remarks – but childishness in itself was not enough justifiably to incur Hurst’s wrath. Nor was Flitley admired for his physical prowess on the playing field – in fact, he had made it clear to everybody that he was not interested in sport, and would never aspire to represent his house or the school in any kind of gymnastic competition – but then he was not alone in this respect. There was even one quality which stood to the credit of Flitley, in that he was not deficient in brain power – a point that could not be made in favour of the greater number of his contemporaries. But Flitley was far from exercising his powers of intelligence to his own advantage in any way other than academically. He was shy and sensitive, and in addition to his other faults, often behaved like a spoilt child. He went around with a vacant and dreamy look in his eyes, and seemed at times quite unaware of the world around him. In short, there was something about Flitley which marked him out as different from everyone else. It was this, together with a certain fear of Hurst’s own deficiencies, thought Smith, not a few of which he found reflected in Flitley, which made Hurst react to him in an aggressive and bullying manner, characterised with an arrogance which labelled anybody he despised as a fool.

  Hurst looked at Flitley and noted with some satisfaction, as well as disdain, that Flitley was afraid of him. As Flitley tried to avoid his eyes, Hurst kicked him under the table.

  Flitley winced and said: “Y-you k-kicked me.”

  “No I didn’t, Flitley. You’re imagining it, you fool.” Hurst replied. Although it was customary for boys to call each other by their surname, unless they were very good friends, Hurst spat out Mark’s name in a particularly contemptuous manner.

  “B-but s-someone did.” Flitley raised his voice in a plaintive tone. “And I-I-I know it was you, Hurst.”

  “Prove it was me,” Hurst retorted, and to add to the entertainment, he kicked Flitley again.

  Flitley rose to the bait and kicked back, whereupon Hurst screwed up his face like a lion about to roar and pounce on his prey and said: “Did you kick me, Flitley? If you did, I shall make you suffer for this.”

  “Y-you s-started it,” Flitley said defensively. He looked terrified.

  Hurst grinned and then thundered: “Oh no I did not. But no-one gets away with kicking me.” Hurst thereupon delivered a very heavy blow.

  Smith was not blind. He could see that all was not well between Hurst and Flitley. But Hurst was a popular member of school cricket and rugger teams who had served the house well at games and in gymnastic competitions: Flitley, on the other hand, had no friends, and had never made any contribution, either for his house or for the school, in any way whatsoever. So Smith pretended not to notice the growing dispute at the other end of the table. He did not interfere, but continued to amuse himself with the conversation and flatteries of the boys sitting next to him.

  Meanwhile Hurst was enjoying himself. Kicking was becoming a rather boring exercise. And so, when Flitley was not looking, he stuck his fork into a piece of bacon on Flitley’s plate and ate it.

  “W-where’s my bacon?” Flitley stammered. “Hurst, y-you s-stole my bacon.”

  Hurst pretended he was outraged. “Are you accusing me of stealing?” he hissed. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t got your bacon. You’re a fool, Flitley. I shall thump you for calling me a thief,” and with that he delivered another heavy kick.

  Flitley rose to the bait again and responded in kind, and it was not long before Smith observed Flitley make a grab for Hurst’s plate. Smith turned away and began to discuss the chances of the first eleven beating the school’s closest rivals.

  “Oh aye? Their forwards are better than ours,” he was saying. “But ours are heavier in the scrum. If we can get ball close to touchline, and there is a scrum...” His thoughts on the tactics of the rugger field were suddenly cut short by a bang and the hiss of a missile. Smith looked up, but he was too late. Hurst’s cold fried egg burst in the prefect’s face and the sticky half-congealed yoke began to trickle down onto his shirt.

  The young gentlemen at independent schools were no different in their musical tastes from the greater number of their contemporaries. So, when Bob Smith walked into the house dayroom in the break between lessons, he expected to hear neither silence nor the melodies of Bach or Beethoven. A well known record of a famous pop group was on the gramophone, and if he had thought about it (as he did not) he would have recognised the voices of the Beatles. He was vaguely aware of the one portion of the room which was partitioned from the remainder. This was the Prefects’ Corner, a place which was out of bounds to all the other school boys. The gramophone was in the Prefects’ Corner, and a prefect who was expected to go to Oxford had just put on the record ‘I want to hold your hand’. It was the prefects’ privilege to control the use of the gramophone, and the whole room was filled with that strong rhythmic melody.

  Bob Smith, like all the other boys, enjoyed rock music. The absence of young ladies did not prevent him from feeling the urge to dance. But, as there were no girls at the school, he was reduced to snapping his fingers and tapping his feet wistfully.

  In this joyful frame of mind, he walked lightly from one side of the dayroom to the other, and there observed Mark Flitley. Flitley sat listlessly, looking vacantly in front of him with little evident interest in his surroundings, and as though he neither heard nor perceived anything that was going on around him. Smith was sorry for him.

  The song went on:

  “And if you’ve got that something – I think you’ll understand:

  “And when I feel that something, I want to hold your hand.”

  Bob Smith turned to Flitley: “Cheer up, Flitley,” he said, addressing the other by his surname in the customary manner.

  Flitley hardly acknowledged the greeting. “W-why should I?” he asked. “W-w-what have I to be g-glad about?”

  “Everything,” exclaimed Smith. “Listen to the music.” He clicked his fingers and looked into the middle distance, as if for inspiration. “Aren’t the lyrics great? What a fantastic rhythm! Doesn’t it do something for you?”

  “I-I--I-I don’t l-like the beat and I-I-I don’t u-understand the w-words,” came the reply.

  Smith looked perplexed.

  “W-what is that ‘something’?” Flitley continued. “A-and w-why, if you have it, w-will you understand? U-understand what? Who understand?”

  Smith hesitated. “Don’t you know what the song is about?”

  “N-no,” admitted the other. He resumed his vacant expression. “W-who are the s-singers anyway?”

  It was unfortunate for Flitley that Hurst had chosen that moment to come their way. He had overheard Flitley’s last remark. “You don’t know whose record that is?” He almost whispered the words in an incredulous and menacing tone. “The singers are the Beatles, you fool.”

  “W-who are the B-b-Beatles?”

  Flitley shrank back into his chair like a frightened mouse, as Hurst raised his voice in mocking derision so that everyone in the room could hear him: “You don’t know who the Beatles are?” the bully roared with a peal of laughter. “Did you hear that, everyone? Flitley doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t even know who the Beatles are! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  It is an old saying, thought Smith, that if a nation desires peace, it should prepare for war. Nowhere was this saying taken more seriously in the 1960’s than at the school, where the C
ollege Cadet Force was very prominent.

  There were many reasons: the army had traditionally regarded public schools as a suitable recruiting ground of persons endowed with that mysterious and elusive quality called ‘officer material’. So it served the interests of the Regular Army to invest in school cadet forces.

  The cadets also served the interests of the parents. Life in the army was noted as a means of building the kind of character which is supposed to be required of the nation’s leaders. A force of cadets might not be the Army, but it was a close approximation.

  If the severe Plato or more stern Lycurgus had lived in the modern era, they would have applauded this institution. In the school they would have found the realization of their theories of education: the children living apart from their parents, sharing their meals in common messes, and receiving a military training.

  The boys themselves liked the cadet force. Few intended to join the Regular Army, but most – particularly the farmers’ sons – were glad to have the chance to learn to shoot, to participate in the annual war game and camp, and to take advantage of the many outdoor adventure activities which the School organised for the cadets.

  But, most of all, the army cadet force served the interests of the school authorities. It is a mark of genius to govern men with their consent, and discipline can be a problem, even in independent schools. The inducement of a habit of obedience through training with the cadets was likely to assist discipline in the school. Moreover, boys are by nature restless and mischievous, and their propensity for mischief could be reduced, if they could be kept occupied throughout the whole of their leisure moments in preparation either for sporting events or for military training. Hours could be employed in practising drill, and still more time expended in the polishing of brasses, webbing, and boots.