On Thursday morning a Gunnersbury Old Boys Class Reunion 1957-1965 at the Gtange pub next to Ealing Common. There we all were, desperately trying to recognize each other after a near 60 year gap. Some were stouter than before, some thinner. Some who had been unsuccesful and resentful at school ended up content and prosperous. I think the ones who failed in life, also failed to turn up. Len Kaczmarek was now a Professor of some obscure Physics discipline at a University in California and had especially come down to the UK with his wife to join such a reunion for the first time. We only knew each other by our surnames at school and here we were, reverting to the more modern contact by first name, which was strange in itself. You saw faces and remembered the occasional highlight, the joke or the shared reminiscence of a particular teacher, whose failings now seem obvious to us, but with which we had to contend, as the occasional nugget of understanding would lodge somewhere in our minds. It was a Catholic grammar school, as envisaged in the Butler Act of 1944, intended to serve brighter kids, mostly, but not exclusively, middle class, who had passed the 11 plus exam, and my memories and assessment of the school were possibly more positive than some of my colleagues. Many were obsessed now with the physical punishments most of us received, but which would now be considered a criminal act of assault, but such were the times. Live with it.
Certainly my views were more positive than the experience of Paul McLoughlin from our year, who ended his fifth year feeling he had got nothing out of the school, to the great disappointment of his Irish working class parents. Yet he ended up as a teacher of English, a poet and a writer, but died sadly last year. The main organizers of the meeting, John Axtell and Richard Kennedy, had come across a text full of bitterness and occasional flashes of admiration of the school and of some of the teachers, which Paul had written. They asked me to read it as they remebered that I had one the Speech Competition each year. What a memory. They sent me the text a few days before, and I was delighted to read it out loud with all the understanding and emphasis required to give this spirited lament proper justice. It took 15 minutes to read out and I was listened to in total silence, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter at his jokes and surreal comparisons. They even applauded at the end, but surely more for Paul, than for me.
In the middle of all this jollity I got one of those inernal nose bleeds in my right nostril. Though I take ointment for it I cannot shake of this irritating trait that always affects when I am happy and totally relaxed, and often when I am in a public event, such as an Embassy reception, a conference, or a happy get together, as on this occasion. I had to absent myself to the pub garden for about 10 minutes, but even then a bit of blood dropped on my trousers and on my shirt, and I have to wear that for the rest of the day.
After barely an hour I had to leave this jolly throng as I had to depart to Vilnius for a conference that same day. I dragged my 17 kilo suitcase, full of copies of my book, to Ealing Broadway station a quarter of a mile away, got the District Line to Cannon Street, walked over to Bank Station, which was a killer in terms of small narrow staircases, as I still had to carry that damned suitcase. Finally, I caught a direct DLR link to City Airport and a flight with LOT to Vilnius. It was frustrating as I waited two hours before I had to check in, and could have spent that time in the pleasant company of my former classmates still drinking at The Grange.
No comments:
Post a Comment