Who can resist embarking upon a story as soon as we begin, ‘I remember when..?’ A story demands to be heard as soon as we open up the past and let the memories reanimate themselves once more, once upon a time. And if you employ a timer too, preferably an egg timer, so you are not distracted by your ‘phone, then off you go, remembering without censorship; resurrecting details, hearing and seeing and even smelling the past once again.
I remember when it was nearly the end of term and winter and I still didn’t like Mr Arkingstall.
The heating pipes were too hot to sit on without duffle coats and the classroom windows ran with condensation so we couldn’t even see our playing field. Rose Hill was a school composed of corrugated iron huts and when we played outside, which was most of the time, we could hear the Marple to Manchester express trains, making the metal panels vibrate.
Mr Arkingstall had replaced our beloved Mr Ottewell, who had deserted us to return to his hometown Derby, with its open-plan classrooms and design- your own- study -weeks. I missed Mr Ottewell. He had stopped my brother from getting bullied, played John Lennon’s music in assemblies and let me take the part of Captain Scott in my own play before he left. Luckily it had snowed, so I’d dragged our homemade sledge all the way to school. My best friend Joan had played Captain Titus Oates and parents watching told us afterwards that the front two rows of the lower school had sobbed for ages when Titus said he was stepping outside and might be a very, very long time.
‘A tribute to your story,’ said Mrs Cotterill, our school nurse checking for nits.
‘It’s entirely true’ I said modestly. ‘Well, almost.’
Then only a week later, the heart of Rose Hill had been ripped out. Mr Ottewell had driven away in his blue, MG sports car, forever.
And Mr Arkingstall had descended like a chill.
‘He looks like a garden weed’ said my dad smoking yet another Benson and Hedges cigarette, shovelling snow from under his Ford Capri. ‘I hate men in green suits.’
But my dad was wrong.
‘You live on Kings Drive don’t you, Janet?’ When Mr Arkingstall spoke to me he always sounded as if a swarm of wasps were escaping from his mouth.
‘Yes,’ I said. I didn’t look up.
‘Good, ‘he smirked. ‘Follow me. ‘
So I abandoned my project on Von Daniken and all those aliens landing somewhat mysteriously on Easter Island and Peru, and followed the green suit across the playground to the school hall that smelt of rubber and feet because it was also a gym.
In the hall wearing a huge red jumper and khaki desert boots was the most astounding person I had ever seen.
