charlie's commeuppance
My first appearance on stage with RADA – Riviera Association of Dramatic Arts – was in
Cannes, in November of 2023. I told an autobiographical story about my school days and the
comeuppance my class-mate Charlie received at the hands of the fearsome Mr. Ewan.
Some things mark us forever, don’t they? Especially if they happen in childhood, when we’re young, and impressionable. Let me tell you about one such thing. It is my first day at my new school, Hillcrest Preparatory in Nairobi, where I’ve been sent because according to my parents ‘I’m not learning anything’ at my old school. It soon becomes apparent they’re right.
I’m sitting alone at a table for 2 pupils - I have no friends obviously, it’s day one – and we’ve just concluded a Maths test. Bear in mind that I’ve come half way into Year Two so the others have been here for a year and a half already. Mrs. McKinney, the Maths teacher, twirls her long blonde hair around her fingers and informs us that today, as usual, we’ll be self-marking our tests. Self-marking isn’t a concept I’m familiar with but I’m not stupid, just ignorant, and I soon figure out that Mrs. McKinney reads out the answers, we put a cross or a tick next to our own, then read our marks out to her.
‘Catherine?’ she says.
‘7 Miss,’ Catherine beams.
‘David?’
‘5 Miss,’ he says.
‘5?’ Mrs. McKinney scowls. ‘Do better next time.’
‘Yes Miss.’
Down the register she goes until she gets to Robert.
‘10 Miss!’ Roberts shouts.
‘10 out of 10,' the Mrs. McKinney says. 'Well done, Robert. Keep it up. Silvia…’
‘Th…’ I stammer.
‘Silvia!’ she repeats, louder.
‘Th…. thh…’
But it just doesn’t come out.
‘Oh for Goodness sake!’ she says, ‘Charlie, please will you help Silvia read out her mark, seeing as she's having so much trouble doing so herself.’
At the table next to me Charlie Gathermole pushes his chair back and romps across, a grin on his face,
his belly-button visible between his shirt and his school shorts. He peers over my shoulder.
‘She got 3 Miss!’ he laughs.
The class erupts into cackles, ruining forever my chances of making a single friend at this school. I hate Charlie Gathermole.
Fast forward two weeks. The class – girls and boys – is standing in a perfect line out on the hockey pitch, the hot African sun blazing down on us. The dreaded Mr. Ewan is carrying out an inspection of out sports uniform. It must be white. White, white, white! All of it, from top to bottom, including our shoes that we whiten every morning before sports with a product we keep in our lockers called - what else – Supawhite. Mr. Ewan has been known to send anyone who dares to pollute the perfect whiteness of their uniform on a gruelling five rounds of the 400 metre sports track – you can work out for yourself how far that is. That’s before the poor soul’s even begun to swing a hockey stick. He walks along the front of the line, and he walks along the back of the line, looking for the tiniest speck of dirt. He stops dead behind Charlie Gathermole.
‘Mr. Gathermole.’ he says. ‘Are we wearing white today?’
‘Yessss Sss-ir,’ Charlie mumbles.
‘Are we wearing all white today?’
‘Yes, Sss-ir.’
‘Really? Because I see brown.’
‘Yes, Sss-ir.’
‘What is that Mr. Gathermole?’
‘It’s my sss-chool sss-horts Sss-ir’
‘Why Mr, Gathermole?’
‘Because my ssss-ports ssss-horts are sssss-plit Sss-ir.’
‘And you’re afraid we’ll see your bum?’
‘No Sss-ir.’
‘You’re not afraid we’ll see your bum?’
‘I’m wearing under- under- under-wear Sss-ir.’
‘That’s a relief! What colour underwear Mr. Gathermole?’
‘White Sss-ir.’
‘Where’s the problem then Mr. Gathermole?’
‘I don’t know Sss-ir.’
‘Do this Mr. Gathermole. Get behind that tree, take off your sss-ports sss-horts, take off your sss-chool sss-horts, put your sss-ports sss-horts back on, and get back out here.’
‘Yes Sss-ir,’ Charlie stammers, and scarpers off.
You can literally hear his knees knocking.
This is my best day at school so far and it only gets better when Mr. Ewan turns to us and says, ‘Right, the rest of you, five times around that tree!’