There are some people in life who make a lasting impression on you, no matter how briefly you are acquainted with them.
One of my earliest such encounters occurred when I was four years old and had just started primary. At that age, enduring impact usually would come from an adult rather than a fellow child, but not in this case. Even more unusual is that this particular character wasn’t part of my childhood very long, leaving, I presume, to continue his education somewhere further afield from Leven, a place fortunate, or unfortunate, enough – depending on your stance – to have a spare desk.
To share space with him, either alongside in class, or as a teacher in front of him, was to suddenly discover an entirely new colour in your paintbox.
I have no recollection of us sharing Primary Two together and, apart from the following incident, few enduring, detailed memories of him, other than him being perpetually in the centre of chaos.
Let me introduce ‘Tattie Traynor’. This was not his real surname and I have no idea what his Christian name was. It may well have been Tattie, but I consider than unlikely, but I wouldn’t completely rule it out.
Given he would have been four or just turned five, there was nothing remarkable about his height. He was average. His clothes were worn, with a couple of holes in his bright blue jersey. I recall he always wore grey shorts. Again, he was average. Facially though, he was different. He had blonde tousled hair, a mop that would make Boris Johnson look carefully groomed. There was a permanent stream from his nose channelling on to his top lip from a mysterious nasal reservoir. And he had the brightest, sparkling blue eyes, you can imagine.
There’s that old saying about “the eyes being a window to the soul”. Tattie was probably living proof of that. He was a fully-charged Triple A battery of mischief. It would seem when it came to fellow lifeforms on the planet Tattie could happily co-exist with one and all. There was no apparent meanness, cruelty or ill-will.
Permanent fixtures in life were not so secure. Anything that could crash, break, collapse, ignite, explode, implode, crumble, tumble, disintegrate or disappear would. And after all the dust settled there, standing among the debris, would be Tattie. His eyes twinkling at his mastery in restructuring the universe around him.
More enticing for him though, seemed to be rules. He was anarchy personified, a cheeky, funny, force of nature, and it was his ability to inspire others to follow that ideology that seemed to bring him the greatest pleasure.
And that was never more evident than in the mass indecent exposure incident of 1960.
Coming from a family of teachers, unless there is a secret code of silence, I have no other knowledge of any spontaneous flashing frenzy overcoming a class. Of course, officially, this particular incident never happened. I don’t believe any of those involved ever confessed to being party to this behavioural aberration. Its place in history can only be attributed, if deemed credible, to a single testimony. That delivered by an admitted plea-bargaining, cowardly informant.
Me.
We couldn’t have been in Primary One at Parkhill Primary in Leven, for more than a few days. There were still red eyes from the weeping caused by being abandoned by our parents. There was confusion at our new ‘carer’, the incredibly patient, wonderful teacher Miss Horne who would find herself quickly addressed by some as ‘Mummy’ in their bewilderment on the starting line of the supposed “best years of their lives”.
This was in the time before nursery classes were attached to the school, so we were in the main complete strangers to one another. As time passed we would learn more, much more, about each other, sharing tears, tantrums, and laughter. But, on this day, we were just a flock of unhappy, isolated children. Our shepherd, Miss Horne, said she had to leave the class for a little while and we had to sit quietly, probably being instructed to unleash our creativity with some crayons; the silence broken only by the occasional sob of abandonment.
A couple of rows to my right, Tattie was surveying the scene. Here we were, 40 or so sorry-looking children, obediently following the rules of authority. What was needed was some bonding, something to lighten the mood; some laughter, some outrage. He knew exactly what that moment needed…
He dropped his trousers.
Now, if Tattie had simply stood up at his desk and done this it would have been act of almost covert weirdness. An exhibitionist’s cry for attention from his peers. The reaction would have been uncertain, possibly disturbing.
But Tattie wanted, and saw, a bigger canvas for his tableau of P1 unification.
He calmly walked to the front of the class and took the place of Miss Horne until all eyes were fixed on him. Then he dropped his trousers to his knees, then raced around the classroom before settling back behind his desk.
Now, at that age, for most of us the difference between a boy and girl was as simple as one species had short hair and wore trousers, the other had long hair and wore a frock. That was it. Life is much more complicated now, and that perception much more dangerous. But for a child in 1960, that pretty much summed it up. However, baring all was nevertheless regarded as inappropriate, though in our innocence we were too young to really know why.
So when Tattie tore down his trousers and that taboo, I knew what was coming. It would be a row. A big row. It would come from mummy and daddy. It would come from teacher. It would come from the headmaster. It could come from Jesus. It could come from Jesus’ dad, God. It could maybe come from all of them.
The few seconds’ silence that immediately followed Tattie’s surprise display did not result in retribution of any kind, divine or otherwise. But it did evoke a response, spontaneous howls of laughter. Now that might well have been the act itself but probably more likely the ridiculous waddle-sprint, caused by his grey shorts binding his knees and limiting his bare-bottomed athleticism as he weaved around the classroom.
Spurred on and inspired by the hilarity he had caused, Tattie then began to conduct the class, encouraging, urging the lad in front of him to follow suit, and to demi de-suit. The anatomical baton was duly passed, the lad obliged and the laughter intensified.
And so it continued like some sort of surreal relay with boy after boy taking to the front of the class, dropping his trousers then waddling as fast as he could around the room and back to his seat. Tattie, now appropriately attired with everything tucked back into place, looked on, not just at the continuing participants but at the scene of merriment and mayhem he had caused. The class was in an uproar, everyone was in hysterics. The girls were crying tears of laughter, there was clapping… and now it was my turn.
All thoughts, nay, beliefs, that this was somehow ‘wrong’ had been dispelled as I proudly took my place at the front of my class and pulled down my Marks and Spencer stretch trousers with the elastic stirrups.
The clapping stopped, as did the laughter, and everyone except me turned their heads towards the door. I followed their gaze and before I could even haul my trousers back up I was lifted by Miss Horne and whisked out into the gym hall, past the disbelieving headmaster who was standing in the doorway.
Intrigued by the new Primary One seemingly bursting into unrestrained hilarity, teacher and headmaster had raced to the classroom only to find one lone pupil standing in front of the blackboard exposing himself.
It was not a good look, nor a good impression to make.
At that age, being a ‘grass’ or a ‘squealer’ doesn’t really carry the same social weight as it does in later life. So I sang like a canary, through the tears, willingly and rapidly incriminating all my male classmates, especially singling out Tattie as the ring leader in this mass indecent exposure incident.
I don’t remember if there was a class-wide inquiry and while I was more than willing to inform on my co-participants in this flashing fiasco, there was certainly no “I am Spartacus” moment from my fellow pupils, now sitting smugly with well-fastened flies looking like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.
More than 60 years on, I still recall that incident with a degree of horror and have often wondered if the first ever entry on my educational record has me marked down as a suspect deviant. Did every teacher from Primary One right through secondary, and even lecturers at university, always wonder what might happen if he or she left the room?
But I suppose the strongest image that has remained with me is from the height of the hilarity during that incident when I looked at Tattie. He was scanning the entire room, taking in all the faces and soaking up all that laughter, and I swear he was glowing with pride.
Illustration: Timisu (Pixabay)
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