2 Meeting David

THE SANDS OF TIME Part 2

Gavin Pottle watched the figure of Desmond Boniface as he walked slowly away from him, down the water-line on the beach where the sand was firm, whistling to himself. 

The tune was familiar. Gavin recognised it. Hail to My Masters had been the song the boys had to sing every Monday morning in the main hall of Beandelbury High School way back when he’d been a master there. And that was a long time ago.

In his mind he’d already long ago drawn a veil over the wretched place. He had his own rules, kept the best discipline of any of the other staff (with the exception of the beautiful French mistress, Madame Lillita. who only had to blink and her room was silent.) The boys worshipped her all right, and she cheated when it came to discipline because of the way she dressed. Tiny outfits that barely covered anything. He’d complained to the headmaster once, said it wasn’t fair competition, a young woman almost naked in front of a class of testosterone-charged teenage boys, no wonder she got such good results, but the Headmaster leered at him and had said she did a first rate job.

“Do you get as many good passes in history as she does in French?” he’d asked in his headmastery oily voice.

And that had to be that. So he’d gone back to his history room which was just about in silence even though he hadn’t been there, and caned the awful snitch of a boy, what was his name, something Boniface, because he was there … that name rang a bell, what had the offensive old man said he was called before he did that offensive whistling?

Then his heart genuinely froze for a second time.

The Headmaster, what had his name been? He wafted around the school taking his belly with him and the scent of some cheap aftershave whilst dressed in a black gown which he trailed behind him like a satanic badge of learning, Mr Jeffries, yes, that was it, Mr Jeffries. Lincoln Jeffries, a pretentious name if ever there was one…

But that was all a long time ago. He himself had been a successful History teacher back then. No University degree, so no black gown, no mortar board that Bachelors or Masters wore when they had to move from the main school to a temporary outbuilding, but he’d been successful, just one text book for himself and an armoury of bamboo sticks.

If you beat a boy hard enough he’ll do anything for you, even pass exams. That had been his motto, and it had worked. And what was wrong with it?

Mind you, he never liked raising his stick to David even though he was begged to… David Hobson, that beautiful, beautiful boy, and yet he’d been forced to marry the bitch Glenda.

He’d met Glenda in a pub after a tiring day in school. There’d been some trouble over a parent complaining about his treatment of their son, and the father was something to do with the local court so he had to be careful what he said. But Mr Jeffries had frowned a lot and not been at all helpful, and using every bit of skill he had it had taken him a good half hour to convince those parents that their son might be an angel at home but he wasn’t at school. He was the worst of hooligans in the classroom. And a bully. He bullied other boys unmercifully, mostly the weaker ones.

All of which was pure fiction, but Mr Jeffries seemed happy enough to support him and in the end the grumbling parents had told him it had better no happen again or else, and left, not quite placated.

So he’d gone to the pub down the road from school, into the lounge bar because he often got treated to silent criticism in the tap room where the beer was a penny cheaper but the customers had sons at school where he worked. And in the lounge bar Glenda had been the barmaid.

Glenda… how the name twisted itself into a knife in his head when he thought of it.

But somehow they’d got talking even though he hated talking to women, knowing nothing about such things as fashion and nylons, but there had being nobody else in the lounge bar and she happy to give him a few moments of her time because it meant she wasn’t in the tap room where there was a darts match on and bursts of cheering that gave her a headache if someone threw a good dart.

Somehow he’d found himself accompanying her towards her home and even allowed himself to be kissed on the cheek when she reached it.

To him, that kiss meant nothing but to her it was a promise of things to come, and for no reason he could fathom she became an institution, turning up when she was least expected and even knocking his door one Sunday morning.

“I’m on my way to church and thought you’d like to come with me,” she smiled.

And it was a lovely smile, there was no doubt about that, only it was plastered on a girl’s face and not David’s. And the very worst part was that David himself would be in that church.

“I don’t go to church,” he had replied, “I don’t believe all the rubbish they try to get you to believe.”

“But I do,” she smiled, “it’s in the Bible. Don’t you read the Bible?”

“I tear pages out and use them as spills,” he had replied, which should have put her off, but hadn’t.

And had she really been intent on going to church? Dressed like that? Mini skirts were all the rage in the world of fashion, and her skirt was the most mini that he had ever seen.

When she sat down he could see her knickers, and there wasn’t much of them, either.

He found himself ending up marrying her six months later. He didn’t know how it had happened or how he had agreed and when he finally came to terms with his own stupidity he knew he had to do something, or he’d go mad.

So around that time a large number of innocent boys had their fingers rapped, including the one whose parents, by complaining about him, had set this awful ball rolling to start with.

“You’ve done it again, Mr Pottle,” Lincoln Jeffries had said.

“Done what, headmaster?” he had asked.

“Thrashed one boy too many,” came the reply, “and no entry in the punishment book about it. Even Madame Lillita punishes more boys that you do if we’re to believe the punishment book!”

“But they like it from her! Of course they let her take a stick to them” he’d snarled.

“I’m putting you on a warning, Pottle,” sighed Mr Jeffries, “we can’t have the good name of this school dragged through the courts. If I were you I’d forget I’ve got a cane in my desk drawer. Just you put a stop to all that beating and you might keep your job!”

That evening he avoided the pub and sought David out in his church.

He was in the vestry, disrobing after a funeral service and a very sombre expression on his face.

“You’re a disappointment to me, Gavin, the young clergyman had said, “getting married. I thought you and me…”

“You know we can’t be public about it,” he had protested. It was a conversation they’d had times many by then, and he knew the script by heart. “If I marry Glenda it’ll seem all right. That’s all.”

David stood there, naked, folding his clerical costume very slowly, and Gavin knew the signal.

“Thrash me, then,” whispered David, “there’s a cane in the cupboard… be a good, firm teacher and give me my punishment.”

“Not this time.” There had been a lump in Gavin’s throat when he heard his lover begging. Caning was for school, not for here, so he pulled David gently towards him.

“She’ll get what’s coming to her, you just wait and see…” he had said, his voice husky with desire, “just you come here, lover boy!”

© Peter Rogerson 08.03.22

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