courage

19th century English classroom, artist unknown

I In 1959, I attend Prince Henry’s Grammar School in Otley, Yorkshire. It is only twelve years after the war. Rationing has ended, but the economy has not recovered. Things are tight. I am in Frankie Vaughan’s first-year art class. Frankie is not his real name. The real Frankie Vaughan was a pop singer at the time. My teacher is handsome with fierce, piercing eyes and heavy eyebrows, a heartthrob for the girls. Frankie was a renowned disciplinarian, frequently sending students to the headmaster for caning.

Anyway, the class is painting, messing around with brushes and watercolours. Suddenly, Frankie stands by the wastebasket and glowers at it, then lifts out a folded sheet of art paper.  He holds it up and faces the class with a grim expression, as though he is holding up the severed head of a baby.

‘Class, who is responsible for this?’ he yells. He shows us both sides of the paper covered in meaningless squiggles of paint. ‘Who has wasted this sheet of valuable art paper?’ he stomps up and down in front of the class flailing the paper. ‘Who is the culprit squandering the school’s precious resources? Own up,’ he bellows, ‘or the whole class is in detention. Two hours.’

He strides back to his desk.

The classroom is tense, silent. We all abhor detention, trudging home in the cold, wintry rain. My classmates scowl, speculating as to who is the evil culprit.

‘I hate detention,’ says Barnaby Hughes through gritted teeth.

‘We’ll scrag him when we find out,’ hisses William Frobisher.

‘I disdain him already,’ says Lucy Jones, almost crying.

So who is the guilty offender? You can guess. It’s me. I sit at my desk, affecting innocence, pretending to paint, doodling with my paintbrush.  

I sense the class fuming. They don’t care about the paper, only the hated detention.

I sit there struggling with my conscience. If I confess, I face the cane. If I don’t confess and Frankie detains the class, and they subsequently find out it was me, in their eyes, I’ll be shunned as a contemptible worm. Sheila Smith, whom I have a crush on, will despise me.

I struggle with my dilemma. But I can’t just sit there. I have to confess. I get up, head for Frankie’s desk, and mumble so no one except the teacher can hear. ‘It was me.’

He stares right at me, convinced I have dishonoured the school, as though Hitler were a benign corporal of no account in comparison to my dreadful misconduct.

Then he begins lecturing me about school funding and his art budget. I don’t register what he says; I am focused on the cane. I look around the class. Sheila is sitting there motioning to me as if to say, ‘Was it you?’ I nod, confessing to my misdeed. Surprisingly, she seemed sympathetic.

‘You’re a dreadful boy. A waster,’ Frankie continues. ‘But I will be lenient. Your punishment was to come forward, stand up here and confess in front of the whole class. To do that took honesty and courage.’