Time After Time

“Pee-ot-er Die-brovski! Pee-ot-er Die-brovski!”

Pete would never forget his first day at school in England four years earlier. He had only been in the country a few weeks. His English was good, better than most of the class, but his Polish accent was strong.

Their English teacher, Mr. O’Malley, was a small middle-aged man in a formal suit. He had an upper lip that looked as though it was missing a toothbrush moustache. He made Pete stand in front of the room full of hostile twelve years old kids and introduce himself. This would have been a painful experience even with a sympathetic audience, which this was not. Singsong voices repeated his mumbled misheard surname. The sadistic teacher smirked and asked Pete to return to his seat. As he did, a foot swung out and Pete flew sprawling onto the floor. His classmates erupted in laughter.

From the dusty floor, Pete noticed two members of the class did not join in the taunting. One, a skinny girl with dark hair, walked across the classroom and picked up a large ruler. She marched to the boy who had tripped Pete, and smacked him over the head with her weapon. The teacher whisked her out of the class.

The other non-participant was a tall lanky boy with wild curly hair. He stared out of the window throughout the whole incident.

“Good result for the Latics on Saturday,” said Darren Woods, sitting next to Pete. The only thing Darren ever talked about was football. His enthusiasm was relentless. Impervious to the lack of response from Pete, who had never been to a football match. He had ever watched sport of any kind.

“Tony Kelly has to be the best free-kick taker in the third division. With Newell, Jewell and Lowe fighting for places in attack we have to be there or thereabout this season. Don’t you reckon?”

“They could go all the way,” said Pete. This was a phrase he had overheard someone use in relation to sport.

“Do you think so? You could be right. I’m going to the reserve match tomorrow. The reserves are on fire at the moment.”

“Settle down,” shouted O’Malley, marching into the classroom.

Pete had now been at the school four years and O’Malley had never missed an opportunity to humiliate him. Pete had a sneaking suspicion his teacher was a National Front sympathiser. With the blonder, whiter kids, he adopted a relaxed friendly attitude. This evaporated whenever Pete tried to join in. O’Malley spoke in a droning nasal monotone. When reading, he lingered on words most people considered offensive in the enlightened 1980s.

Pete gazed through the window. Long blades of grass waved in the breeze.

“Mr. Diabrowski, please stand and read from the top of page 23.”

Pete sighed, climbed to his feet and read. “To see a world in a grain of sand. And a Heaven in a wild flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand and Eternity in an hour.”

Something hit Pete on the back of his head. He touched his hair. Something was stuck there. He pulled and some it came away, sticking to his fingers.

“What do you have there Comrade Diabrowski?” O’Malley asked, striding over to Pete

The Gough twins laughed. O’Malley looked pleased with this latest example of his wit.

“Chewing gum in class. Disgraceful. I take it you are the one who has been sticking this disgusting material to the bottom of all the tables.”

“All the tables? How would I manage that?”

“I won’t stand for insolence. You’re not in Warsaw now; this is the free world. Report for detention tomorrow evening.”

At lunch, Pete sat with his closest friends, those allies from his first day, Kate Melling and Tom Swift. On Kate’s advice, Pete rubbed salad cream into his hair. He was extra careful to ensure his quiff remained intact. Kate said mayonnaise was the best thing to get rid of chewing gum but as the canteen did not stock it, salad cream might work. No matter how many sachets Pete rubbed into his hair the hard dried pink gum remained and now he stank.

“I wish O’Malley would pay more attention to Sam Gough. He kicks the back of my chair throughout the lesson. He’s jealous because I’m an intellectual, like Morrissey.”

Kate rummaged around her bag. “Happy birthday,” she said, passing a small parcel to Tom.

“It was three months ago but thanks anyway,” said Tom pulling the wrapping off. It was a cassette. “The original cast recording of Cabaret? Err... Thanks.” He glanced at Pete, who shrugged.

“I saw it in the bargain bin at Rumbelows and thought of you.” Kate was still busy pulling things out of her bag. She flattened a newspaper cutting on the table between them. It was from the Wigan Evening Post. “Someone pushed an envelope through our letterbox last night. It had my name on it. All it contained was this newspaper cutting, no note or anything.”

“So you’ve no idea who sent it?” Pete asked.

“I can’t even tell from the handwriting. There was only my name on the envelope in block capitals.”

Tom and Pete leaned across and read it.

Local Woman in Spooky Encounter.

Ms. Evelyn Fairclough of Swinley Lane got more than she bargained for on Tuesday night, as she walked her dog Bouncer, age 12, a West Highland Terrier. Ms. Fairclough, 67, spotted a faint light in the trees as she passed through the Plantation gates. She thought it was a dog walker until a bare footed woman in ragged clothes ran across the path. According to Ms. Fairclough, the figure was a woman in clothes from another century. She had a genteel bearing and was in some distress. Ms. Fairclough called out to the apparition but it passed into the trees on the opposite side of the path.

Local legend tells of Mabel Bradshaw, wife of Sir William Bradshaw. She remarried after her husband died in the Crusades. But Sir William was not dead. He returned and murdered his wife’s new husband. As penance, Mabel walked barefoot every night for the rest of her life from Haigh Hall to Wigan. People still say they see her to this day. Passing through the area where Ms. Fairclough had her visitation.

“Why would someone send this to you?” Pete asked. “You’re not Nancy bloody Drew.”

“I don’t know; that’s what makes me curious. If I saw this in the paper, I would have ignored it. It’s the kind of stuff they fill their pages with on a slow news day.”

“It’s always a slow news day around here,” said Tom.

The bell rang for the end of lunch.

The first lesson of the afternoon was history with Mr. Hermes. He was a giant Greek with a long grey beard, long flowing grey hair and a booming voice. He rode to school on an Italian scooter, wearing flying goggles and an aviator cap. He attracted a great deal of disapproving attention from some of the parents. His lessons often veered off topic into examinations of unusual philosophies. This lesson, Hermes had begun with the Wall Street Crash and moved on to something called Zenarchic principles. Kate interrupted him.

“Sir?” Kate asked. “Do you know anything about the legend of Mabel Bradshaw?”

“I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” said Hermes. “The Bradshaw’s were a prominent local family. Edward II was on the throne at the time. He was an unpopular King to most of the population, except for a few favourites. Always men, no females. Sir William Bradshaw, Mabel’s husband, was a supporter of the Earl of Lancaster. He tried to put an end to this favouritism. Lancaster and his allies hunted and executed Piers Gaveston. Gaveston had a close relationship with the King. Some say they were like brothers but some say they were lovers.”

“Queers!” Shouted someone and most of the class broke into laughter.

“Lancaster’s power grew until he became one of the most powerful men in England. But, he had favourites of his own. Some of Lancaster’s former supporters went unrewarded. They felt cheated and mounted a rebellion against him. Sir William was one of the leading figures of the uprising. It did not go well, and Mabel herself played a significant role.”

“What about the ghost?” Kate asked. “The story about Mabel remarrying. About William returning from the Crusades? Her penance?”

“There’s always a grain of truth in such legends,” said Hermes. “But only a grain, most of it is nonsense. The reality is far more intriguing than the myth. There has been plenty of peculiar goings on around Haigh Hall and the Plantations. So-called serious historians are not interested in this area. Take the origins of this town’s name for example. Few are aware these days of Wyggan, one of the most significant figures in British history. Most believe it was Boudicca of the Iceni who almost drove out the Romans. But it was Wyggan, leader of the Brigantes and a local lass.”

“Is this on the syllabus?” Andrew Andrews asked, flicking through his notes.

The bell rang. Before any of the students had even begun to pack, Hermes disappeared. Once the bell rang he never hung around. Even mid-sentence he would walk out of the door. His commitment to the tea break was legendary in the staffroom.

Kate waited for Tom and Pete at the classroom door.

“Who’s up for a ghost hunt tonight?”

The final lesson of the day was PE. The boys’ teacher was Mr. Molloy, a middle-aged shaven headed former rugby league player. Mr. Molloy had the build of one of those World’s Strongest Man competitors who pull trucks with their teeth. His idea of a light breakfast was a dozen raw eggs and a loaf of bread. His neck was thicker than his head, which was wide, though lacking in a forehead. During his professional career, Mr. Molloy ran with his head lowered, using it as a kind of battering ram.

Today, as every other day with Mr. Molloy, was rugby practice. Pete and a couple of others had suggested a couple of times they might try other sports. Football or even cricket. Mr. Molloy had looked at them with contempt and continued to hand out the rugby balls.

Tom loved sports and always took part with enthusiasm, though he was useless at all varieties. Pete hated sport. He tried to give the impression of activity, making quick darting runs, away from the action. If the ball found its way to him, he looked for someone to hand it off to as quickly as possible. In the scrum, his strategy was to stay away from the Gough twins and squeeze his eyes closed. During a pause he would jump up and down, jog on the spot and blow quick puffs. Suggesting he could not stand all this waiting around and was keen get on with the game. He was successful; Mr. Murphy did not register Pete’s existence on the planet.

Pete got through the lesson touching the ball only twice and with a single kick in the shins from Eddie Gough. He walked over to Tom.

“Good game Swifty,” he said.

“We lost,” said Tom shaking his head.

“Did we?” asked Pete. “I always lose count. It’s the taking part matters, isn’t it?”

“Kate!” Tom shouted. She had stepped out of the library block clutching a book. She had already changed out of uniform into her own clothes, including a black woolly jumper several sizes too large. Tom guessed she had used another excuse to get out of P.E. and spend the time reading. She ignored them and rushed away.

“Strange girl,” said Pete, not taking his eyes off her until she disappeared around the corner.