perkins, the 4R form captain, did not come back after the Easter Holiday. A boy with loads of energy and good cheer, he had been longing to escape to a job. For some time now, he had viewed school as a place where he could entertain, a field for his cool talents. He would mosey into class, greet me with a “Hello Man,” snap his fingers, and break into a dance, winkle-pickers and all, You could usually bet one of the spikeytoothed Perkins clan was around (an older had already gone, a younger was in the second-year—the family was slowly becoming a legend) if a fist fight was in progress, or if low rumblings and curses were to be heard at the mention of the Queen—the thought of all that wasted money enraged the Perkins boys.

Johnowski, slow, large, blonde—an Olaf of a boy—took over as form captain when school resumed. He was a boy I trusted instinctively to speak for the form, to run errands. He was usually aided, more often vocally, by a selfappointed lieutenant, Stevenson, who in fact was the form gossip. Miles ahead of the rest of the boys in reading ability, he was used to being bored by either a slow pace or dull matter. He loved to come up to the teacher’s desk, lean his squat, stocky frame against it, grin from ear to ear, and strike up a chummy conversation. “Jogafee” was his favourite subject. His mate was Wright, an intelligent, good-natured boy who on occasion had spent whole periods helping slower readers. Lean, dark and nervous, he spoke with his whole body, was said to be the abandoned offspring of a broken Hollywood marriage. A more relaxed, joyful soul was Woodrow, the small West Indian boy with rich, brown skin and deep, melodious voice. Pleasantly industrious, he was content if permitted to read quietly aloud in a corner of the room. Reluctantly known as “Chocolate Drop” (Stevenson’s work), he prided himself on being a TV fan, averaged about thirty hours viewing a week. Goutas, the Cypriot boy, had little English and spent most of his time fashioning paper aircraft, pinching his neighbours, dreaming. There was still the hint of baby fat about him and he was never very far from sullenness. He represented a personal failure for me; my knowledge of Greek had somehow worked to create an even bigger abyss between teacher and student. In being able to communicate with him, to explain what work I wanted, Goutas had felt I had an unfair advantage and had come to resent me. Smith was a boy I saw little of. Lesley was a big, quiet boy with a quizzical smile, the kind of boy that melts into the middle of a form, never to be noticed again. West and Proctor were silent, indrawn shadows that sat side by side and stared vacantly at their books.