“Well McGrotty,” he said striding briskly to his desk, “this is the end of the week and no doubt you’re as keen to leave as I am. Let’s get rid of the painful business fast. Put out your hand.”
He took from the desk a leather belt which forked at the end like a snake’s tongue. Raising it till the thongs fell behind his right shoulder he approached a small poorly dressed boy who stood with shoulders hunched close to ears, hands thrust deep in pockets of shorts.
“Hand out!” said the teacher again.
“Naw sir,” muttered McGrotty, thrusting his hands in deeper.
“Why not?”
“I was just picknup a pencil.”
The teacher sighed and said, “All right, McGrotty, since you seem in no hurry to leave we’ll review your case once more. Did you hear me tell the class — the whole class — that nobody must leave their seat without first putting up their hand and asking my permission?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did I also say that whoever left their seat without permission would get three of the belt?”
“Yes sir.”
“And then you left your seat without permission. Yes or no?”
“Yes sir.”
“So put out your hand.”
“Naw sir.”
“Why not?”
“Cos I was just picknup a pencil.”
The teacher sighed again, sat at his desk and spoke with the belt draped over his knee.
“McGrotty, I realize as well as you do that there is nothing wicked — nothing antisocial — nothing criminal in leaving a seat to pick up a dropped pencil. But we had anarchy in the classroom today. Anarchy! Pellets were fired, someone threw a book while I was getting rulers from the cupboard, whenever I turned my back somebody did something horrible to someone else. I heard you squeal loud enough. Who kicked you? You didn’t have that when you came to my classroom this afternoon.”
The teacher pointed to a livid bruise below McGrotty’s dirty left knee cap. McGrotty glowered silently at the floor.
“Did Sludden do that?”
McGrotty said nothing.
“Did McPake?”
“I didnae do anything.”
“I am perfectly aware, McGrotty, that you are neither a troublemaker nor a bully. But I cannot protect you from troublemakers and bullies in a class where nobody sits still and nobody does what I say. That is why I announced that I would give three of the belt to the first boy who left his seat without permission. Sludden and McPake knew I meant it. Why, McGrotty, why in the name of goodness didn’t you?”
“I was just picknup a …”
The teacher struck a crashing blow on the desklid with the belt, sprang up and roared, “Hand out McGrotty! We’ve no witnesses here! If you don’t take this belt on your hand you’ll feel it where it lands on you!”
He advanced wielding the belt over his head. McGrotty backed into a corner, shut his eyes tight and stuck a hand supported by the other hand as far out as possible. His face, screwed into agonized expectation of worse agony, upset the teacher who paused and pleaded, “Be a man, McGrotty!”
McGrotty stood still with outstretched hands and tears sliding down his cheeks. The teacher flung the belt onto his desk and sat down holding his head as if it ached. He said wearily, “Go away. Leave me alone. For God’s sake leave me alone McGrotty.”
Though not looking straight at the boy the teacher knew what happened next. McGrotty lowered hands, wiped cheeks with jacket sleeve, walked to the door. McGrotty opened it, stepped out, hesitated, yelled, “Ye big fat stupit wet plaster ye!” slammed the door and ran away. The teacher had no wish to run after him. His depression was not much deepened by McGrotty’s parting words. He thought, “I could have belted him if I’d wanted to. He knows it and that’s why he’s mad at me.” A minute later the teacher got up, locked the classroom cupboards, locked the classroom door behind him, followed McGrotty downstairs and gave the keys to the headmaster’s secretary.
2
He was not the last teacher to leave school that Friday. At the playground gate a small three-wheeled vehicle propelled by a rear engine overtook him. This braked and the driver asked if he wanted a lift into town. He did and climbed in beside a grey-haired woman with a leg in a metal brace. She said, “You’re usually away a lot earlier.”
“Yes, I had someone to sort out. One-B-nine got out of hand and I had to keep the ringleader behind for extra discipline — three of the best — wham wham wham. I think he got the message.”
“Was it Sludden?”
“No.”
“McPake?”
“No.”
“Who was it?”
“McGrotty.”
“I’ve always found McGrotty a poor spiritless creature. It’s Sludden and McPake I keep my eye on in one-B-nine.”
“They never bother me.”
“Which shows you can’t generalize about children from one class to the next. You live in town?”
“No, out Carntyne way.”
“Meeting your wife in town?”
“No, Friday is my night off.”
“Your night off what?”
He frowned because her terse questions made him feel uncomfortably childish. At last he said, “Have you noticed how almost everything we do becomes a habit?”
“It’s inevitable at our age.”
“It may be inevitable but it worries me. I can stand it at work — teaching would be impossible without routines — but surely private life should be different? Yet on Sunday we have the usual long lie, late breakfast and afternoon stroll in the park. On Monday or Tuesday I change my library book, on Wednesday or Thursday a babysitter comes and we go out to a film or visit friends. And when we visit friends our conversations are much the same as last time. Never any new ideas. Never any new … behaviour. So on Fridays I have a night off. I go into town and let the unexpected happen.”
“Does your wife take nights off?”
“She doesn’t want them. Our son isn’t quite two yet. But she doesn’t mind me enjoying some freedom. She knows I won’t get drunk, or waste money, or do anything stupid. My wife,” said the teacher as if making a puzzling discovery, “is a very intelligent woman.”
“It would seem so. Where will I drop you?”
“Anywhere near Sauchiehall Street. I’m going to the Delta tearoom.”
“I can easily drop you there. Several of our staff usually meet there after school don’t they? Don’t Jean and Tom Forbes?”
“Yes,” said the teacher defensively, “but others go there too — art students, and people who work in television and … journalists and … unconventional people like that. Interesting people.”
“Then it’s very wise of you to go there too.”
He looked at her suspiciously. She said, “On your night off, I mean. I was an art student once. I felt wonderfully interesting in those days.”
3
In the Delta tearoom three of his colleagues sat round a table in silence punctuated by occasional remarks. They had talked hard to children all day so were partly resting their voices, partly easing them back into adult conversation. As the teacher approached he heard a bearded man called Plenderleith say, “and he never starts anything.”
“Mhm,” said Jean, a young woman who was pleasantly vivacious most of the day but not at quarter to five on Friday afternoons. Nearby her husband Tom swiftly, steadily corrected a stack of exercise books, underlining words, scribbling marginal comments and marks out of twenty. The teacher ordered a coffee, brooded for a while then asked Plenderleith, “Who were you talking about when I came in?”
“Jack Golspie.”
“Why did you say he never starts anything?”
“It’s true. He waits until someone else suggests something then hangs about looking pathetic until he’s included.”