Never Let the Saucepan Boil Dry Chapter 4: October, Part 2

On my return to school in January, I still worried on how to relate to J. It took up a lot of my nervous energy. I was no mathematician, and despite being in the lowest Credit class to take Standard Grade Maths, was always going to take General and Foundation papers in the real exam in April 1990. I had had to take Credit mock exams I found rather difficult. Mr Brand was not the best teacher, either for maths or discipline, and I deeply appreciated the private tutorials in maths I received from Ruth Green, a former maths teacher, in Dad’s church. I am sure they made all the difference. I had a holiday on the Isle of Arran, another SU camp, before the exams. My hayfever allergies were just waking up that time of year, and the facilities were little-used at some times of year. There was much dust on the inside, including the dormitories, and I once sneezed seven times during a leader’s prayer. The grass was fresh-cut outside, and this was no better. Again the atmosphere was very jolly, with debates and comments on everything from popular music to the poll tax. I was already tired of explaining some of my church history to those from other churches by this stage, it being necessary to explain the secession from the FPs the previous year, and to deplore their strictness as a rationale for doing so. I would usually refer to it vaguely as ‘Presbyterian’, and hope not to have any further questions.

    Then the exams came, my first real experience of taking serious qualifications. I enjoyed them perhaps more than I had expected, writing an unfinished story as part of my Standard Grade English exam. My timekeeping was spectacularly bad in my O Grade Modern Studies, so that I only took three-quarters of it, but still passed and was allowed to take the Higher. Maths I enjoyed because I knew I would never study it again. History I had prepared well for, and found it quite interesting. I took General Science as a substitute for my real ambitions to be a doctor, and my heart was never greatly in it. It was a slow, laid-back class. I took French and German O Grades and hoped for the best. I sometimes thought of using them to become a missionary, possibly an interpreter of the Bible.

     One thing I specially enjoyed in my Maths exam was a lengthy lunch break of up to three hours, with the chance to watch a Doctor Who video in between the morning and afternoon papers. This was Tom Baker’s ‘Pyramids of Mars’, a true classic of his era. I was familiar with the book, but it was another thing to see it. In all the years since Tom had resigned the part, I had never seen him as the Doctor again, apart from his brief cameo in ‘The Five Doctors’, the centrepiece of the 20th anniversary celebration of the show in November 1983. I borrowed it from Gregor, a friend in Dad’s church I had made in the past year.

     When the exams were over, preparations were underway for fifth year, with the new academic year effectively starting in June, for those who were staying on. I attended a school SU camp in Edzell, near Dundee. It was time for David Wraight, a natural leader, to say farewell. He and others I had known best left at the same time. There had been Friday meetings at Shorts’ stables and Monday evening Bible studies at the Wraights’ as well as the regular Wednesday SU meetings, but on David’s departure, access to these properties, which belonged to his relatives, ceased. I still attended the SU, but it now seemed rather uncertain. I was expected to take up his mantle of leadership, with little if anything in the way of support. I was described as ‘the new David Wraight’, but apart from our names, we had little in common. I felt intimidated by the expectations, and finally left in October.

     One girl named Lisa in my year was also in the SU. She was kind, and I liked relating to her. She was also in my fourth year History class, still with Mr Milne. The future seemed reasonably hopeful. My connection with J never really recovered. Late in spring 1990, not long before the exam, she announced to the history class, ‘The trouble with David Tallach is-‘ I never heard the end of it, with a brief mouth-twitch in my direction. The boys at the desk next to her exhaled in amazement.

     The summer holidays came, always welcome for their sheer length if not for the allergies and endurance of heat of the time of year. We went to Yorkshire in July, visiting the hometown of the real James Herriot. Dad’s back took a bad turn during the second week, and he spent much of it flat on the floor. We consumed giant Yorkshire puddings, learned about Erik the Viking, and visited Mother Shipton’s Cave.

     August brought a significant development. Uncle Cameron visited from western Canada, with his American wife Margaret and their one-and-a-half-year-old baby James. They had also recently adopted Matt at the age of six, a boy with a very troubled background. He had his eighth birthday while with us.  He was very energetic and enthusiastic. He threw himself into everything with a lot of gusto. He related well to me, and I to him, in spite of the difference in temperaments. I read him stories and he enjoyed a trip out to Castle Fraser, bouncing on a restricted horsehair chair from the eighteenth century. ‘You know, I’m so proud to be related to the people who made this,’ he said, his eyes lighting up at his newly found historical associations. It was quite a memorable day out. Cameron was the youngest of my parents’ generation, and I had always got on well with him. We went swimming, talked church, past friendships and watched part of U2’s film ‘Rattle and Hum’. He came to the APC Youth Conference and preached there. My exam results came, and were perhaps better than expected.

     The return to school for my fifth year brought both continuity and change. I had the same teachers and much of the same classes for Highers in History and Modern Studies. I was also to take English, French and German. I later dropped Mod Studs, finding it the most intense of these and deferring it to sixth year. Higher History had almost exactly the same class as the O Grade had had, but now held in the Rosemount Annexe rather than in Gilcomston Primary School, situated near the Grammar. We had moved out of the latter in June shortly after our O Grades. I admired J, a well-built hockey girl, carrying boxes in her strong arms. I still admired her, and found it hard to be in the class socially. I did not know the boys at my table well, and they talked too much of football.

     I started a process of drifting. I attended school, was told from the start that Highers were a lot more demanding, required more work than our previous exams, and took plenty of notes and did reading while in school, yet did not maintain this consistently at home. I was very worried about the decline of my friendship with J, and in leaving the SU that October quit my only consistent source of good friendships. I was too pressured by trying to be someone I was not at SU, and with more support might have considered a leadership position, but it was too much too soon. I came to miss it very much. Those at Dad’s church went to other schools.

     The situation with J iced over, and remained frosty. I was relieved at the October holiday, with its promise of the break and my birthday. I went back to Auchengillan, and enjoyed it very much. My present from Mum and Dad was a double video of ‘Doctor Who and The War Games’. The communion pattern in the church had changed after May 1989, with these events now quarterly, with those involving visiting ministers held in June and December. I lived more and more in a fantasy world in school. I liked the idea of taking exams and doing well in them, and of going to university, but struggled to find the discipline to make any of that a reality. The well-established routines of family and church remained stable and comforting.

     I felt lonely without the help I had had from the SU. I was very sorry when Doctor Who did not come back after 1989. My cousin Ian’s friendship mattered a lot. He took me to the cinema several times. I failed some if not all of my mock exams in December 1990, but this warning sign did not bother me. I had my head in the clouds. Some other pupils were already applying to university, but I knew I was staying for sixth year, regardless. By that stage, it was not from any great love of the place, academically or socially. I think I knew I found routines comforting. I went on in this way, more and more nervous at the presence of J in History while feeling more and more distant from her and some others.

     Easter holidays 1991 was spent in the Borders. Come May 1991, I must have known I was ill-prepared for my Highers, yet just hoped to muddle through. It was an ill-founded hope. Further proving I was daydreaming, I anticipated success in my Highers and prepared to take Sixth Year Studies in History and English. I quite enjoyed both over June 1991. Mr Milne gave me a funny look when I joined his SYS class. I was to take my deferred Higher Modern Studies as well. The rest of Ian’s family came over from Hong Kong in June, and remained based in or around Aberdeen for the next two years. Dad also graduated from his MLitt in Philosophy at Aberdeen University. I heard I was a winner in the prestigious WH Smith Young Writers’ competition that June, judged by Ted Hughes, for a hastily-written piece about my self-consciousness and stress in relation to J, which I had entered at the last minute that February. It was very encouraging School then broke up for the summer.

     We went to Glenisla in Perthshire for a week, which was very relaxing. We went down from there to London for a night, to the National Theatre on the South Bank for my award presentation ceremony as a WH Smith’s winner, which was very enjoyable. We visited the Museum of the Moving Image, then host to an extensive collection of Doctor Who memorabilia. I remained genuinely hopeful of having passed my exams throughout July, until the axe fell in August. The large brown envelope arrived in the post, and two owls either side of the SQA badge stared down at me as the list below informed me I had three ‘D’s, i.e. between 40-49% in three of my four exams; the fourth would have registered below 40% and so did not appear on the certificate. It was not something to be proud of. My daydreaming and pretence were shown up, to myself above all. I was quite upset. My parents were very kind, if also disappointed. I went on holiday to Kinlochbervie, to see Uncle Fraser and Great Aunt Helen. He marched on as an APC minister. It was still a very beautiful place.

     I did paper rounds. I listened to Peter Gabriel’s ‘So’ on tape and enjoyed the stimulation of early August mornings. The tall ships visited. My sister acquired a golden spaniel who came to be called Kira in August. I got a lot of joy from music. Runrig had a new tape called ‘The Big Wheel’ out in June. I returned to school with a deep feeling of humiliation. I had to drop my prestigious SYS classes, meant for those who had passed their Highers, and undertook to resit English, History and German. I took on the deferred Modern Studies as well. This was to prove the only class where I felt any social connections. Part of me went numb. I knew from the start that my sixth year would be a waste of time. I just wanted it all to go away. I had in some senses come full circle, to the start in first year, where I trusted no-one. I finally declared my feelings for J in August, sending her a red rose and sweets. She phoned me. ‘It really made my day,’ she said, ‘but you shouldn’t have spent your money on me. I’m in a relationship with someone, a boy I met last summer.’

     ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Thanks for telling me.’ I put the phone down.

     I do not want to dwell on my last year in school. It was marked by all kinds of failure. One ingrowing toenail operation followed on another. I enjoyed the October SU camp at Auchengillan one last time, my birthday marked by a wonderful Doctor Who video: ‘City of Death’. I drew up plans for study at home I could not stick to. I felt hopeless in a way I had not in my first and second years at the Grammar. I had realised some of my potential in third and fourth year: it seemed that the social and the academic went together. I went through the motions of applying to university, having to disclose my fifth year Higher results and receiving the response REJECT from every one of the institutions applied to. I felt sorry I was not living up to my family’s expectations, or my own. School had become an ordeal, and I endured it passively till the end. I had my third ingrowing toenail op in November, listening to U2’s new tape ‘Achtung Baby’ in hospital. Largely because of my cousin Ian, I started attending the church Youth Fellowship, but did not feel a part of it. I planned to attend Aberdeen’s Further Education College, to resit my Highers. This was a former school down by Deeside.

     Summer 1992 brought the development of a few things. I got to know a couple named Donald and Cathy in the church, and was sometimes asked to theirs for Sunday lunch. The book in which my winning story for the WH Smith’s competition was published came out in May 1992, and I was invited to do a book signing in Waterstone’s, Union Street. It was well supported by members of the church, a moment of pride among a great deal of shame. Rebuilding of the school just completed just when we left. I had my third and final operation on my left big toe, designed to straighten it, less than a week after leaving school. Once again, a bone was removed and the leg set in plaster. As before, it was acutely painful. I spent eight weeks in this plaster, though still managed out to church. I also got into enjoying watching Wimbledon for the first time. Come August, I had my results. The two owls informed me I had two ‘D’s this time: I had, in fact, managed to downgrade one of my results from the previous year. The other two were clearly below 40%. My feeling of numbness extended to this too. I had left school a social and academic failure.

     Always at the back of my heart and head was the fact that my abuse in Primary 6 had never been discussed or dealt with. I was unable to talk about my time in her class properly until I had left school altogether. I wrote my first essay on this subject then, which my parents showed to an indifferent School Board. Apparently, too much time had gone by. The following year, I saw the minister of Miss Rae’s church about that difficult time in my life: he was kind to me. He said, ‘I am sorry if anyone in my church caused you pain.’ He gave me the Bible verse, Joel 2:25: ‘I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.’

     Yet I still had my good results from the fourth year, and some friends from that time, too. I need not have thought myself the comprehensive failure I thought myself then. I arranged to retake my Highers again at Aberdeen College, doing English and History full-time as day-release classes and Higher German as an evening class. On one occasion there, I met Mrs Thomaneck, my German teacher from the Grammar. ‘Do you think you’re going to get it this year?’ she said, rather doubtfully. ‘You see, I know you.’ This was shown to be doubtful when I did in fact pass Higher German the following summer.