From Shoreline to Mainstream

By Frank McGillion

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 15, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462826728

Frank McGillion

Frank McGillion is the author of over a dozen books. They include On the Edge of a Lifetime, The Opening Eye, Blinded by starlight, The Leaf: a Novel of Alchemy and, his most recent novel, A Walk in the Park. A graduate of the University of Glasgow he carried out postgraduate work at Oxford University and City University, London. He has also worked internationally in the corporate sector and as Tutor in English Literature in higher education. A recent guest of the CBS broadcast, People of Distinction he has wide media experience.

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Copyright © 2003 by Frank McGillion.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PREFACE

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EPILOGUE

For David Charles U’Prichard

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks are due to Mars (UK) Ltd for advice on, and permission to cite, the Chappie trademark.

Also to: Glasgow Celtic FC; Glasgow Rangers FC; Eve McGillion; Ian Nicholas; Ilse U’Prichard; Carrie Pringle, and Peter Searle (back cover portrait).

PREFACE

I had a dream last night. I was in the run-down council estate, in the west of Scotland, where I’d been raised. It was a filthy night—cold, dark and raining. My car had broken down and I was about to call one of the motoring organisations to come and assist. For dreams allow you the indulgence of belonging to anything that’s there to protect you. As if you’re well protected in your dreams. As if you have to be. As if they’re dangerous.

In my dream state I realised if I called such a service and the problem was a minor one, I’d feel embarrassed. Anyway, if it were simple—really simple, I might be able to fix it myself.

I noticed some youths standing in the shadows trying to enliven the tedium of duration. To the side a girl stood alone. It wasn’t raining where she stood. It was sunny. I wondered at that, then I realised I was seeing her reflection in a mirror. Things were different in there. And she was wearing a white dress and holding a straw hat with a blue ribbon round its top. And there was a flower in the ribbon and it was white too. She was so beautiful it hurt just to look at her. So I turned my attention back to the others and I waved. They nodded. I shook my head in mock frustration and shrugged. There are worse things in life than a car breaking down in a dream.

The rain darkened and the youths began to walk towards me. I knew they’d be practical and know about cars even though they might never own one. I gave them a smile as they approached. Then I saw their faces.

I ran. I ran faster than I’ve ever run. In a dream anyway. Faster than the wind I imagine, though I’ve never felt as much as a breeze in dreamland and perhaps nothing quite as tangible exists there.

And I was weeping as I ran, weeping with a grief so profound it started to wake me. And, as I woke, I looked back. I was horrified! They were right behind me. Chasing me, pursuing me, hunting me down as if I were prey worthy of killing and devouring.

And I could tell by the flatness in their eyes and the blankness of their faces that they were prepared to dismember me in a frenzy of retribution. For I used to be one of them, you see. But I wasn’t any longer, I didn’t belong—I’d moved on to something they’d almost no hope of moving on to. Yet there I was, back again, seeking their help.

And the girl in the white dress turned away—gave up on me. And that hurt me so deeply that, still in a state of total terror, and as grief-stricken as I can ever remember being, I woke. My fists were clenched, my body curled up, my eyes closed. I heard heartbeats and felt myself floating. There was a pause—a break in the flow of things. There was a moment of change, the sound of water trickling, and the descent of forgetfulness.

Time shifted. I went back to sleep for a while.

Or did it come to me?

‘Hello. My name’s Hugh Bryce,’ said the boy in the smart school uniform that, like his bottom-end-of-the-market briefcase, was identical to mine. We were standing a few yards from the perimeter fence of The Academy as if we didn’t belong there. And in a way I suppose we didn’t. He made eye contact through his glasses. His pupils were wide and made him look defensive. ‘I’m looking for Three C,’ he said, ‘I’m going there to improve myself. What about you?’

I stared at him and felt a headache come on. A man passed us walking away from the school. He bumped into Hugh and apologised. He was in his late forties or early fifties. Hugh turned to see who’d jostled him while I studied him carefully, reflected on life, reminded myself that self-disclosure was for the naïve and foolish, not for sophisticates like me.

‘I’m Frank and I’m unique,’ I said, as he stepped back and took a good hard look at me. ‘Being unique sounds good, but it isn’t,’ I continued. ‘I bet you didn’t know that, and I bet you didn’t know Chubby Checker nicked his name from Fats Domino.’ Hugh looked startled, so I explained. ‘»Chubby’s» a politer form of «Fats,» you see, and «Checker’s» a squarer form of «Domino.» Think about it. Chubby did. But don’t worry if it’s news to you. You can’t know everything. Can you?’

He shook his head.

‘I certainly don’t know everything,’ he said. ‘But I’m willing to learn what this life has to offer,’ he added, and I laughed.

‘Well I don’t know everything either. In fact I don’t know lots of things you probably know. But I’m about to make up for that. I’m about to make up for it by attending a normal school after spending god-knows how long in a special school: a school only fit for cripples; a school where the pre-requisite for entry was a hole in the heart the size of a manhole cover, or a hump on your back a narcissistic dromedary would kill for. I have a heart condition you see—have had since babyhood. And though it’s perfectly stable at present, those in the know tell me if I develop headaches, disturbances of vision—anything of that sort, then I’d better watch out.’ I sighed. ‘There are so many things to watch out for when you’re a young man with an elderly heart condition. No wonder my eyes get confused at times and sometimes see things flipping all over the place when they probably haven’t. There’s too much to watch out for. They simply can’t cope with it all.’

I paused. Hugh spoke.

‘You were discussing your former school,’ he said. ‘Your primary school, I suppose you’d call it.’

I nodded.

‘I was. Yes. It was a school where you had to try and convince folk you were one of God’s run-of-the-mill creatures and not hand-picked for sudden and premature destruction,’ I explained, as he tilted to one side and I shifted my eyes to follow him. ‘I went there for years,’ I told him. ‘I was ashamed to talk about it, go to or from it; attend, leave, by-pass, pass by, avoid, pay attention to, or be seen going anywhere near it.

‘It was a special school, you see. Not one for gifted children I hasten to add. No. It was one for the relatively handicapped—the fairly sick, the near infirm and the ever so slightly crazy. For if you were wholly handicapped, utterly infirm, or completely crazy, they wouldn’t take you there. No room at the inn as it were. None! That sort were sent somewhere else; somewhere they could be hidden away like dark and solemn secrets; restrained ad lib, held down or back, by as many as it took, and locked up like a social conscience sleeping off a binge of collective guilt.

‘So here I am about to enter a normal school,’ I explained. ‘A school where the kids are as normal and untroubled as I am. As you are too, I imagine, assuming you went to normal primary and secondary schools, and can lay claim to a history of schooldays that, while possibly tough at times, were nonetheless normal and included extracurricular lessons in the trials and tribulations of standard social integration.’

Hugh looked downwards, took off and wiped his glasses. They were misty. He looked misty too for a moment: like a steamed up mirror image. He cleared. Faced me. Smiled. I knew he was going to try and calm me down, but I felt strongly about this issue. Angry!

‘Sod you!’ I barked, and he jumped in place unevenly. ‘I haven’t even had a chance at a normal education and I’m pushing sixteen. So it’s going to be a struggle. For I have ambitions, old friend, unrealistic ambitions unsoundly based on my early education, and, as I’m just about to discover, on my social background too: that non academic type of class I was born into, belonged to, and fitted into with consummate ease.’ Hugh moved closer. He limped. I didn’t like that. ‘That said, I have a certificate in chemistry: the result of twice weekly sessions at this self same Academy. And I’m the only Special School Old Boy to have done that. So I’m unique as I said. Elite! But my type of elitism isn’t of the true elite. It’s the sort that lifts you up an inch or so when you’re at the bottom of the pile and those just a tiny bit above are close enough to be caught.

‘And while they’re elite enough to start with, when you catch the scent of their betters—the more elite, but not the elitist elite, if you get my meaning; then you want to move that bit higher. But you can’t. Not really. Not if you’re handicapped in any way, and that includes being a tributary to mainstream religious views, as I’m about to discover too.

‘Being handicapped in any way compromises your educational status. And it doesn’t get you far in social circles either. For they go round and round relentlessly carrying their own, and it’s hard to jump off one and onto another. And you soon think another’s worth jumping onto, believe me. Even if it’s way beyond your reach.’ I smiled. ‘Better then to alter my identity. Fake my self-biography and background before I even start The Academy. Better to forget my former life as a social and educational outsider and change my name. Just like Ernest Evans did. He changed his to Chubby Checker by a well-considered evaluation of the magnificently named Fats Domino.

‘But I can’t do that. You can’t get away with that sort of thing when you’re known around town the way people like me are. But

I can change my social status. That I can do, and hope to get away with it. For you can jump classes of all sorts if you’re fit and well enough, though some might call it ill-advised or naïve enough.’

Hugh took my hand and squeezed it.

‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

I could hear the sounds of the outside world. The world we were aiming for. I could feel his touch and—at that point in time anyway—I welcomed it.

I asked him something as my headache deepened.

‘Are you up for it Hugh? Are you?’ He looked at me, nodded, took a very deep breath and spoke.

1

‘Hello. My name’s Hugh Bryce. I’m looking for Three C. I’m going there to improve myself. What about you?’ asked the boy in the smart school uniform that, like his bottom-end-of-the-market briefcase, was identical to mine. I looked at him, sized him up and assessed his features and benefits the way a salesman would. I noted his unique selling points, the price you might pay at auction for him, and decided I’d raise as much as he would. It’s amazing what appearances can tell you when you think you know what you’re looking at.

‘Good to meet you,’ I lied. ‘My name’s Frank Mack. My situation’s the same. I was with a chemistry class last year on a couple of hours a week sabbatical. But I’m being assigned to Three C properly today.’

He moved to get a better look at me and I noticed his calliper. A hole opened up between us and I almost fell into it.

‘Which class did you say?’ he asked, as I took a very deep breath and eased away from the edge of the hole.

‘Three C,’ I repeated. ‘It’s not top stream,’ I added, as I shot a glance at the hole. ‘But it’s not downstream by all that much either.’

He considered this.

‘So we’re going to the same class. Have you come from another school too?’ he asked, and I could feel a tugging sensation from the hole. A man who seemed vaguely familiar walked past us. He jostled me, apologised and kept on walking. He was carrying a broadsheet newspaper and I wished my family read papers like that instead of tabloids. I wondered if the man was a teacher and a thought came to mind—something shameful. I wished my father were more like him.

I turned to warn the man about the hole, though, if I’m completely honest about it, it was just a ruse to speak to him—to gain his recognition. But he was already at the entrance to The Academy and in he went. So I returned my attention to Hugh, who spoke.

‘What school did you say you went to?’ he persisted.

I shrugged.

‘I’ve moved about a bit to be perfectly honest. This school, that school, the other,’ I said, glancing at the hole again. ‘You know what it’s like,’ I said, hoping he didn’t. ‘But I’ll be here for the duration,’ I went on. ‘Better late than never I suppose. Though sometimes late can mean the same as never if you really think about it.’

He moved. His calliper scraped like a knife being sharpened. He straightened up and his bad leg rose a few inches. It swung loose over the hole and I wondered if the weight would pull him in.

‘Yes, better late than never,’ he said. ‘I’ve come from Saint Dullards. It’s for pupils who failed The Eleven Plus: the exam that decides if you’re an academic or artisan at eleven. But I’ve improved enough to have a go at The Academy. So I’m here to get some qualifications and to assist anyone in need of my assistance.’

I realised he couldn’t see the hole. It had only opened up for me when I’d seen his calliper. For I didn’t think I’d find anything like a calliper here, though there it was, large as life, and shifting about like a metallic déjà vu with an ominous edge to it. I negotiated the hole and wondered if he would too, or if his calliper would sink him. I also wondered what he was doing here. After all, cripple or not, he’d messed up his life by failing his Eleven Plus. So why give him the chance to reverse that process now?

‘I’m delighted you’ve got the opportunity to turn things round,’ I lied, wondering what a boy with a calliper had been doing at a normal school in the first place, even one like Saint Dullards.

He moved closer. Limped across the hole. I doubt he even sensed it. He was far too busy trying to ask me things.

‘Did you pass yours?’

‘My what?’

‘Your Eleven Plus. Did you pass it?’

Ever since I’d been a poorly infant with a precocious talent for remembering the lyrics of pop songs, they’d said I had a way with words—that I could make them say one thing while I meant quite another. These days my tastes in music were more eclectic: rock ‘n’ roll accompanied by Baroque ‘n’ roll, as it were. But my facility to confuse people with words was as enduring as ever.

I looked at Hugh and smiled.

‘Not truly so,’ I said, trying to confuse him. ‘However it goes, and I’m not certain how it does go, I didn’t fail my Eleven Plus. No. Now tell me, why do you want some qualifications?’

He stared at me. Blinked.

‘I want to be a navigator.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I want to work on one of those yachts that go to Cannes or Monte Carlo.’

‘Excellent,’ I said. Though I’d no idea where Cannes or Monte Carlo were, what a navigator was, or what he did to get a yacht there in the first place.

He spoke.

‘I might not make it however. I wear a calliper you see, and my family think I might be getting just a bit too ambitious.’

I bent forwards and stared at his callipered leg.

‘Good God! So you do!’ I said, straightening up. ‘You’d never notice it. Really.’ I added, trying to sound reflective. ‘That said, I don’t suppose it’s all that easy running around a yacht with a calliper on. So I reckon they have a point.’

He laughed.

‘They don’t mean that. They mean in terms of my getting to The Academy. We live in Far Estate—miles from here, and they reckon all the travelling involved could present a problem for me. Anyway, navigators don’t run round yachts. They sit at a desk with slide rules, log tables and those sorts of things, and work out precisely where the yacht is.’ He opened his briefcase and whipped out two of «those sorts of things,» neither of which I’d even seen before. ‘A slide rule,’ he explained, waving a fancy ruler about, ‘and logarithmic tables, better known as, «log tables,»’ he added, flicking open a booklet crammed with serious looking numbers.

‘Sorry. My mistake,’ I said. ‘I knew someone with a calliper once. They got around just fine too,’ I added, as I wondered what the slide rule and log tables were for. Crippled as he was, he knew more than I did about a number of things. He had the technological backing too. But I’d address that as and when I had to, and I didn’t have to just yet, not for the moment. For now I simply had to address the fact that, for the first time in my life, my status as schoolboy was normal, and consider how to keep it that way.

Hugh spoke.

‘No, a calliper isn’t a problem on a yacht. My brother says it could actually be an advantage. He says they could always use me as a back-up anchor,’ he grinned, and I thought about that very seriously and grinned straight back.

‘Brothers can be hard going,’ I said, knowing what I was talking about. For I had three of them—almost four as I’d had a stillborn twin—plus a sister, and you don’t have three of anything without getting to know it pretty well. My eldest brother was a mid range pop star; my elder one a former student priest, and the youngest—a bright and gifted Brotherboy aged three—another aspiring musician and precocious with it. Music was a family tradition I suppose. My mother was keen on more formal stuff: concertos, operas—that sort of thing. She’d inherited lots of opera records recently when my grandmother had died. She played them during the day, sometimes, but I reckon she preferred them at night, when she’d sit in the living room, door closed, listening on her own. I knew she’d gone to opera a lot as a girl and this was her way of trying to remember what being a girl had felt like.

She didn’t go to opera now, however, she hadn’t since her family had dumped her, aged sixteen, when she’d met and married my father. They didn’t approve of him. They said he was a number of social classes beneath her and best left there.

My mother was playing a record that morning. The music had started with a deep bass tone that Brotherboy identified as a hanging E flat. It vibrated in place until a sustained bass slowly rose in volume and what sounded like a hunting horn dominated. It was magnificent. Even Brotherboy seemed impressed:

‘I reckon Strauss adapted that intro for «Also Sprach

Zarathustra,»’ he said, after removing his dummy-tit—a term he preferred to the American, «comforter»—so he could speak clearly. ‘And just in case you didn’t know it,’ he added, ‘»also» means «thus» in German.’ The little smart ass!

I looked at my mother who placed a magazine on the coffee table. It had a picture of a lovely young woman on its front cover. And she was wearing a white dress and holding a straw hat with a blue ribbon round its top. And there was a flower in the ribbon and it was white too.

My mother spoke.

‘It’s the overture from Richard Wagner’s opera, «Das Rheingold.»’

‘What’s it about?’ I asked her.

She looked at me, then at Brotherboy, who frowned, as she answered.

‘It’s about a dwarf called, Alberich. He curses love, steals gold from the Rhinemaidens and has a magic ring forged from it.’

‘He curses love?’

‘Yes. He sacrifices whatever love he was destined for, to attain something he considered more important.’

‘And what was that?’ I asked. ‘What did he consider more important?’

‘The power to control his own destiny, I imagine,’ said my mother. ‘A knowledge and comprehension of things most of us steer well clear of.’

That was clear enough. I moved into the hallway and looked into the mirror. For a moment my image seemed to shimmer—an illusion. I was impressed with the figure I cut. My mother said I looked «individualistic,» and I thanked her, said goodbye to her and Brotherboy, and left for school.

Hugh continued.

‘Yes, brothers can be a nuisance but it’s good to have them,’ he said, as the school bell rang and we worked up the courage between us to wander over to where queues of uniformed boys stood like infantry. I walked behind him staring at the ground. He limped quite badly. I didn’t want anyone to think I was with him.

He spoke.

‘You haven’t said what school you went to yet.’

‘Oh, one along there,’ I said, waving my arm in the general direction of the two schools adjacent to The Academy: The Special School I’d attended for a decade, and a junior secondary school for Protestants. They wouldn’t have let me into that latter one if it were the last on earth and the pope and Martin Luther had linked arms and begged them. Crossing the social divide in the west of Scotland was child’s play, compared with crossing the religious one.

‘Was it one of those?’ asked Hugh, looking at both.

I nodded.

‘Yes. Indeed. They’re both good in their own way, but mixed,’ I said, as I tried to head him off. ‘I suppose Saint Dullards was mixed too. Generally healthy, but marginally anaemic. My mother’s anaemic too,’ I added, tossing him some artificial bait to close his mouth on so he’d shut up about schools. ‘What about yours? Is your mother anaemic?’

He looked confused; didn’t answer. I felt relieved. He started to walk again. He clicked.

‘That’s another school over there,’ he said, pointing to the other side of the road, as a bus stopped near us and some schoolgirls our own age got off and walked past us. one in particular caught my attention. She had raven dark hair and was carrying her school scarf and hat. But what really attracted my attention was the fact she was also carrying a copy of the magazine my mother had placed on the coffee table that morning. I recognised the picture on the front.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a convent school for girls—The Convent. My sister went there before my mother contracted anaemia.’ Hugh didn’t respond this time either. He just looked more confused, which was fine by me. If he thought hard enough about it, and was as bright as he thought he was, he could work it out for himself. There was only one school I could have gone to, and it wasn’t the Protestant junior secondary, or the convent school for girls.

He stopped again and pointed.

‘That’s the Protestant junior secondary, and that’s the Special School. Right?’

‘Spot on first time!’ I said, as I took advantage of the winddrag produced by his calliper to rush towards the appropriate looking line of schoolboys, while he hobbled after me.

I approached a boy I recognised from the chemistry class I’d attended the year before.

‘Hello Pat. I’m back,’ I said, and he seemed pleased to see me. Some of the others had a quick look and considered whatever it was they were considering.

Pat smiled.

‘Good to see you again Frank. Is your friend from the Special School too?’

Hugh was advancing like a kangaroo with foot rot.

‘oh he’s not with me,’ I said emphatically. ‘I only met him a moment ago.’

‘Hi,’ said Hugh, as he zoomed in on Pat. ‘I’m Hugh. I’m new here. Just like my buddy Frank,’ he said, as I waited for him to pull out his slide rule and log tables and talk about yachts.

Pat was cooler. More formal. Less welcoming to an obvious oddity.

‘Good for you,’ he said.

A teacher was watching. He gave an order and we moved into the school and walked along its tunnelly corridors with him following. The first classroom I saw had a sign made from wrought iron outside it: WORKING CLASS, it said.

I turned to Pat.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a class used to prepare pupils for real work,’ he told me, as I glanced through the window on the door. There were boys inside wearing overalls and I could hear the sounds of tools. But I couldn’t see what was happening.

The teacher behind us spoke.

‘You’re the boy from the school for the less able? Right?’

I spun round. He was talking to Hugh.

‘YES SIR!’ he yelled, saluting.

‘You don’t have to salute. Did you do that in your former school?’

‘NO! SIR! We bowed from the waist. SIR!’

‘Well it’s not like that here,’ said the teacher. ‘Our discipline tends to be more intellectual than physical, and when addressing a member of staff a softly spoken «sir» or «Mister» does. Do you understand?’

‘YES SIR!’ repeated Hugh, clicking his heels. A few of the boys sniggered and I wondered if I should too—to fit in.

‘You’re not on military parade either,’ continued the teacher. ‘You’re in a senior secondary school where we treat young men like adults when they behave as such.’

‘Yes sir,’ said Hugh more quietly.

I glanced at him. He looked deflated and I realised, not for the first time either, that the already downtrodden in life were the easiest to step on.

2

We reached a flight of stairs and climbed them in relative silence. I could hear Hugh clicking behind me and puffing in tempo. We reached the upper corridor where there were more classrooms. one in particular attracted my attention. It had a sign too: MIDDLE CLASS, it said, written in plain black lettering on a white background. Some of the boys genuflected as they passed it. I glanced inside. There were half a dozen boys in immaculate uniforms. one looked angry at my intrusion, and he came over and pulled down a blind.

Pat eased me away.

‘I wouldn’t go near them, Frank. They won’t make you welcome.’

‘Who are they? What is it?’

‘Have you heard of forms?’

‘Forms? Of course I have!’

He knew what I was thinking.

‘I don’t mean the sort you fill in, or the Forms philosophers and the like go on about,’ he said. ‘I mean grades of education: Lower Form. Middle Form. Top Form. That sort of thing.’

‘Ah!’ I’d read about those in books about boys who attended boarding schools that had tuck shops, matrons, masters and prep.

‘So that’s the Middle Form?’

Pat smiled.

‘You’re not as dumb as you look. Are you?’

I smiled back.

‘No. I’m not,’ I said with confidence.

But I was.

3

We entered our classroom and I took a seat second from the back next to the wall. It was beside a window from which I could look out at the school I used to attend; only a few hundred yards separated me from a school filled with children who were objects of curiosity simply because they looked or acted differently from the rest of us. There was nothing obviously wrong with me, of course, despite Medical Opinion having it there was a serious chance of my falling down dead the moment someone stuck a school jotter in front of my face. I eased back. I didn’t want to be invisible, just as far away from Hugh as I could manage. A boy to my right gave me a familiar look as if we’d already met, though I was pretty certain we hadn’t. He gave me a smile—tried to be familiar. I sort of nodded back. My head ached. Pat, who was sitting