by Paul Jackson
It must have been fifteen years since Ryan Ferris had been anywhere near his old school. In fact, forty-three years had passed since he had finished sixth form. Life had been good. Having studied mechanical engineering at university, he had set up his own company some thirty years ago, worked hard, and had reaped the rewards. Not bad for the diminutive, unassuming shy kid they called 'Carrot Top' during his schooldays.
Today he was due to see a prospective client that had a site very near to Holly Grove School, the place where, despite his inhibited demeanour, such wonderful memories came flooding back. He stopped his silver Mercedes directly outside the school gates. The place had changed somewhat, and had recently been granted academy status. But still, the old memories flowed, and so did his tears at the passing of time.
Happy school memories they were, but his biggest regret was his chronic failure to be popular with the girls. Two particular girls came to mind. He shut his eyes and could picture them both at the school gates: one vivacious, charismatic and often rebellious, giggling and cavorting with the boys, the other reserved, engaging, quietly appealing and academically brilliant. However, they both shared one thing: they were two equally beautiful girls. He had loved both dearly, but agonizingly, neither had reciprocated. He pictured them again and sighed. Never had he forgotten Chelsea Sanderson or Jasmine Cooper.
Two unforgettable days played on Ryan's mind that involved both Chelsea Sanderson and Jasmine Cooper. One was just simply exceptional, the other nothing short of astonishing, and both were intrinsically linked. The first memory that sprung to mind was the last day of term when he was in the Lower Sixth. He shut his eyes and pictured the events. The year was 1970: long hair, platform shoes, flared trousers, mini skirts and crombies. It saw the break-up of the Beatles, the World Cup in Mexico, and at that time, Mungo Jerry were battling in the pop music charts for the No. 1 spot with Christie's Yellow River, before the latter-day birth of T. Rex.
It had been swelteringly hot and he had hated it. It tortured his pale, freckle-covered skin to the point of ridicule. Bright sun had the effect of illuminating him, and the calls of 'Carrot Top' had been quite widespread that week. His emotions had been fraught on the day because of Chelsea and Jasmine.
He recalled how the calamity of approximately one hundred sixth form pupils leaving the Stuart Close entrance of the Holly Grove School had momentarily abated his irritation towards the afternoon's intense heat. Boys chanted, yelled and wrestled, while others stole last minute kisses with the girls. Boys that were considered good-looking enough indulged in passionate, lingering kisses with any one of the array of pretty girls that were happy to reciprocate. In turn, girls squealed, cuddled each other, and danced raunchily, while other girls simply cried. It was an emotional day. For most, it was the end of their schooldays. For others, it meant an agonising wait of three more weeks for their Lower Sixth mock results to come through, and those results would ultimately determine whether an Upper Sixth Form place was given or not.
Ryan was in that very position. That day he looked at the entrance, wondering whether he would pass through it again. At that precise moment, amidst the din of dozens of transistor radios blaring out Radio One, yet another egg hit him, running down a green blazer he could be wearing for the last time. He laughed, because the boy who threw it was not only himself covered in egg and tomato, but white with flour, too. It was a school tradition that on the last day of school, senior pupils were given a party and allowed to let off a bit of steam, so long as it didn't go too far. Eggs and tomatoes were thrown, and flour bombs were pelted. The line was drawn at teachers, of course, and the eggs and other goodies had to be one's own. Purportedly this was the case, but sticking to the rules was never the norm. Therefore, as the pupils walked towards the Stuart Close gates across a playground littered with flour and powder paint, which was a commodity not wholly agreed upon, there was not one who was not white with egg yolk and flour. Every girl must have had their white blouses covered in goodbye signatures and love hearts, amidst the tomato pips and flour, while most of the boys had shirts covered in various shades of powder paint that had mixed with the flour.
The headmaster was seen leaving the school. Jokingly, he ducked, cowering behind his car. He afforded himself a hearty smile. "Three cheers for Mr Grant!" called a lad, and three loud, appreciative cheers followed. Ryan anticipated that the head would have felt a lump in his throat, for he would never see many of these teenage kids again. One pupil he would never see again was the cheeky girl who had spotted Mr Sprake, their English tutor that year, getting into the car with the headmaster. Suddenly, she turned her back on him, raised her school skirt and flashed her skin-tight white panties towards him, bending over and wiggling her delightful bottom provocatively in the process. 'Knickers to Sprake!' in red marker pen blazed across her shapely panty-covered bottom. Mr Sprake had not been in school since March due to a four month suspension given by the Local Education Authority. Furthermore, he would not be returning to Holly Grove.
The girl in question was none other than Chelsea Sanderson. It was something Ryan never forgot, smiling through his reverie, looking now at the very spot where the 'Knickers to Sprake' display had taken place. He doubted if Mr Sprake ever forgot it, for her knickers display reiterated her feelings towards him, and that of every other pupil in the school.
And what a bottom! There was little doubting Chelsea Sanderson had the best bottom in the entire school. Her cheeks were perfect and rounded out tantalisingly revealed beneath her skimpy school skirt. Chelsea, blonde and beautiful, unabashed and seditious, who couldn't give a hoot about authority, adored being the centre of attention that day. Her school blouse was awash with eggs, paint and goodbye messages, while her long blonde hair was covered in flour. Ryan had begged Chelsea to let him see her again or at least stay in touch, but the only response he had received had been, "Look, Carrots, I said no! I mean, you know, we're different. And I just don't fancy you!" she added with a degree of cruelty. At the school disco that day she had made Ryan look foolish to the point of ridicule, ignoring his every advance.
'Knickers to Sprake' summed up her attitude. She was leaving, there would be no Upper Sixth Form, and Ryan was heartbroken that the girl who had often built up his hopes, then teased him until he was drained, would be out of his life forever. He never saw her again after she walked out of the very school gates he was gazing dreamily at now.
He recalled how he had turned his attentions to Jasmine Cooper. She too was lovely, but so different from Chelsea. Jasmine was the one who was a real swat, and so academically gifted. She was quiet, well-behaved and reserved, and was looking forward to being in the Upper Sixth. She played cello in the school orchestra, and Ryan recalled how serene and innocent she looked upon the stage during concerts. There was always something fresh about her, like her beautiful, long, light brown hair, which was meticulously kept. In vain he had tried to win her affections that day, also to no avail, but she had never hurt his pride or called him 'Carrot Top'. She had changed the subject quickly, having witnessed the knickers display by Chelsea towards Mr. Sprake. "Thank God he's leaving and I haven't got him at 'A' level English Lit!"
Ryan recalled asking to see her during the holidays, but she had declined politely. At least Ryan was comforted at the time by the knowledge that she was likely to be in the Upper Sixth Form with him next term. Forlornly, he watched her climb into her mother's waiting car, having one last lingering look at her gorgeous legs and the short, swaying plaid skirt that was covered in egg and flour.
That memory led Ryan to think about the eventful second day when something unprecedented had occurred, something quite extraordinary that was talked about for the rest of that term, and probably spoken about for years after. If Ryan cared to look up, the classroom where it had taken place could be seen from his car. He afforded himself a satisfactory wry smile. For after all the cruel teasing and the pitiless rejection bestowed upon him by Chelsea, and the polite refusals of Jasmine that had hurt so much, what had occurred on a Monday morning in March of 1970, more than made up for all the heart-felt pain. So when both girls had left school on that last day of term, he still had a vivid memory to cling to. Opening his eyes again, he took one glance up at the classroom, before sinking back into his leather car seat, and recounting that unforgettable, most cherished day:
It was during English with Mr Sprake, and nobody dared mess with him. He tolerated little, and woe betide anybody who dared to be inattentive during his lessons. He hated negligence, sloppiness, poor punctuality or written work he considered not up to standard. He had a love of his subject: the classics, poetry and the beauty of the spoken word, and he expected his pupils to not only methodically study the subject, but to similarly love English and its great literature, just like he did.
Ryan queued outside Mr. Sprake's classroom with the rest of Class 6c, including Jasmine Cooper, who looked so lovely that day. You did not dare walk into Mr. Sprake's classroom until he gave permission to do so. Neither did you do it without his presence. A few moments later, Mr Sprake came pacing up the corridor, his academic gown fluttering behind him.
"SSHHH! Son of Dracula is approaching!" said a hushed voice. With his jet black hair groomed back and held in place by the entire contents of a Brylcreem jar, a similarity to the renowned vampire was not an exaggeration. A pile of books was positioned under his arm and a neat, brown brief case was held in his hand. He went inside and sat at his desk. Still the pupils queued outside until he gave permission to enter. "Come!" he called. The class filed in quietly; even the faintest of titters would be met with a sound reprimand. Each pupil would then stand behind his or her desk until told otherwise. On this day he chalked a quote from Thomas Hardy upon the board and someone tittered. He swung round at pace, with his customary one eyebrow up and the other down, but was too slow to catch the culprit.
"Be seated," he would say. On this particular day, Chelsea Sanderson came in late. Not only was she late, she was singing loudly, in tune with a small transistor radio pinned to her ear. She blared out the song lyrics, clicking her fingers and wiggling her hips as she entered the doorway. It was Canned Heat's 1970 hit, Let's Work Together. She stopped abruptly when she saw Mr Sprake. Clearly her effervescence had caused her to forget the routine. She couldn't resist a little smirk, however. This was not the first time she had been in trouble for bringing her radio to school.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.