Forever Is Over (10 page)

3.25 p.m. The bell rang. The weekend had arrived! One thousand
one hundred excited pupils made a dash for the exits and spilt out onto
Mill Street and Ruff Lane. One thousand and ninety nine did anyway.
The solitary other one trudged up the stairs in
“
A
”
block and once again
knocked on CC
’
s office door.

“
Enter!
”
D
é
j
à
vu.

CC
’
s office was bleak. It had a very high ceiling and the windows
were high up too, so you couldn
’
t see anything when you looked out of
them other than sky. I noticed it was raining. Apt.

CC sat me down, lectured me about irresponsible behaviour, told
me it had no place in modern society and then gave me a line that she
wanted me to write out five hundred times. It was,
“
Chewing The Cud
Is An Activity Best Left to Cows In The Field.
”

I looked at her, confused.

“
Miss, why do I have to write this, miss? I wasn
’
t chewing gum!
”

             
“
No, you weren
’
t, were you! That was Julie Loughlin, wasn
’
t it?

That was lunchtime detention. You were carving your name on to a
desk, weren
’
t you?
”

“
Off, miss. Carving my name off, miss!
”

Small point but it needed re-iterating.

“
OK, Watkinson, you can write this
…
Acts of wanton vandalism are

unacceptable at Ormskirk Grammar School and all methods should be

used to prevent their escalation
”
. CC said it slow enough for me to write

it down, but she looked very proud of
herself after she dictated it.

             
“
How many times, miss?
”

“
I beg your pardon?
”

She obviously misunderstood me. Perhaps she thought I was asking
her how many times she
’
d had sex. I didn
’
t need to ask that, the answer
was obvious.

“
How many times do I need to write that line, miss?
”

“
Five hundred.
”

“
That
’
s not fair, miss!
“
Chewing the cud is an activity best left to
cows in the field
”
only has, (I counted them on my fingers), thirteen words, miss and they
’
re short words.

“
Acts of wanton vandalism are 
unacceptable at Ormskirk Grammar School and all methods should be used to prevent their escalation has (again I counted) twenty
words and they
’
re long words, most of them.
”

CC was not one for turning. No doubt Mrs. Thatcher was her hero.
She gave a political answer.

“
Miss Watkinson, punishments must fit the crime. Chewers get
thirteen words, those who vandalise desks get twenty words. That seems
fine to me, does it not seem fine to you?
”

I should have shut up and just got on with it, but I couldn
’
t help
myself.

“
I think chewers are worse, miss. You can get chewing gum all over
your skirt when they stick it under the desk, miss. If someone carves something on the desk, miss, it can
’
t ruin your skirt.
”

“
Watkinson, do you think we live in a democracy?
”

“
Yes, miss.
”

“
And in a democracy can people give their opinions without fear of
repercussions?
”

“
Yes, miss.
”

“
Well you
’
re wrong, Watkinson! You only live in a democracy
outside of school hours! Society may well
be democratic, but this school
is not! Pupils should not be spouting their views off to teachers in this
school, they should just accept whatever punishment comes their way
.
To prove to you that this isn
’
t a democracy, you can now do six hundred
lines. Only once you have completed this task, can you go home and I
don
’
t care if that means we are here until midnight!
”

I kept my mouth shut after that. Half of me knew CC was right.
I was a gobby little know-all who had got what was coming to her. I
needed to knuckle down, do my lines, then get out of there.

It took me three hours, my hand ached, but by half past six, I was
done.

“
Finished miss!
”

“
All six hundred, Watkinson?
”

I don
’
t think she wanted to be left on her own. A spinster
’
s life is, I
would imagine, a lonely one.

“
Yes, miss
”
.

“
Off you go then. Enjoy your party, but be careful, boys these days
cannot be trusted
”
.

Never a truer word spoken.

“
Ok miss. Have a nice weekend, miss!
”

Off I ran. Why I was exchanging pleasantries with CC, I have no
idea. She had just given me the longest detention in history. As I was
going down the stairs, I was half-expecting Roy Castle and Norris
McWhirter to spring out on me and tell me I was a
“
Record Breaker
”
!

When I got to the exit by
“
B
”
block, it was absolutely pouring down.
Amy lived in Calder Avenue, which was at least a mile from school, it
was dark and I had no coat and no umbrella. I knew I was going to get
soaked but I ran like Mary Decker (except I didn
’
t fall over a barefooted
South African), all the way to her house.
I reckon it took me less than
four minutes, I had visions of Roger Bannister, in his prime, trying but
failing to keep up with me and shouting as he toiled behind me,

“
Hey Jemma, slow down!
”

Roger Bannister didn
’
t have to carry a schoolbag either!

As I gasped for breath outside the Perkins house, Amy opened her
front door.

“
Quick, come in, you look like a drowned rat! Mum can you get
some towels for Jemma, she
’
s absolutely soaking!
”

Ten minutes later, after a good rub down from Mrs Perkins, a cup
of tea and a Chocolate digestive, I was ready to get myself dressed up
for the party. Amy and Kelly had already sorted out my clothes and
make-up earlier. Kelly had given Amy m
y pink leather mini with black
leggings, my cropped white lace blouse and my white lace fingerless
gloves. Amy crimped my hair and she must have put a bottle of mousse
and a bottle of hairspray on it. I remember thinking that it looked
“
mega
”
!

“
How come you
’
re here so early? I was so shocked when I saw you
running up the road! I wasn
’
t expecting you until eight
!
”

             
“
CC gave me lines and said I could go as soon as they were done!
”

             
“
Well, I
’
m not complaining! I can tell
Martin we can go a little bit
earlier now
! Do you want some Thunderbird?
”

“
Be rude not to!
”

So, Amy rolled out a bottle of blue Thunderbird from under her bed
and the pair of us took turns to swig it out the bottle! Not very ladylike!
By the time we told Martin we were ready to go, in drinking terms, we
were already well on our way!

Amy gave her Mum a hug goodbye and promised her she would
be back by one. Mrs P even gave her the money for a taxi home. Vomit
Breath would never have offered me money for a taxi and if I had dared
to ask her, she would have given me a clip round the ear for insolence.
Mrs P was great, Vomit Breath was a complete nightmare.

Martin took his
“
X
”
reg blue Ford Escort out the garage and Amy
and I clambered in. We both got in the back. Amy wouldn
’
t have been
one of the prettier girls in our year, she was only tiny with red hair and
freckles that gathered together in clusters below her eyes and over the
top of her nose, but she looked really stunning, she had a navy blue floral
dress on with a loose black tie and white and black striped trousers. Her
outfit really suited her. Martin was a pre
tty fast driver and as he sped
along the back lanes of Ormskirk, Amy and I squeezed each other
’
s
hands in drunken excitement. We were going to a party and it was going
to be absolutely awesome!

We passed St Bede
’
s school and took the second left at the roundabout
at the bottom of Holborn Hill, by the fire station, into Asmall Lane.
Ten minutes and we
’
d be there and the real fun would begin! It was still
a wild old night, the wind blew, the rain continued to fall and Martin
’
s
wipers squealed out in exhaustion.

All of a sudden, I had a sense of unease. It
’
s difficult to describe the
feeling that came over me, but something, a sense of foreboding, made
me look out of Amy
’
s side of the car. A split second later, I was yelling
out in a drunken, high-pitched scream that temporarily lifted Martin
out of his seat,

“
SSSTTOOOPPPP!
”

Martin hadn
’
t long passed his driving test so he was used to doing
emergency stops but given the conditions, it was impressive how quickly
we came to a standstill. I suppose his
car had been trying to fool us
that it was shifting along, but we wer
e probably not doing more than
thirty.

“
What
’
s the matter
”
, Amy asked concerned,
“
have you forgotten
something?
”

I pointed. Within a second, the colour drained out of Amy
’
s face.
Our evening was about to take a dramatic shift in direction and we both knew it.

Five years after the date that wasn
’
t at Park Pool swimming baths,
my success rate with girls remained zer
o since the glory days of 1977!
This was more to do with lack of confidence than ugliness. Despite a
daily battle with acne, that involved TCP, Clearasil, Acnidazil, dry
skin cream, tablets from the GP and two carefully positioned fingers
around any protruding yellow heads, I had matured into a tall, reasonable
looking, blond haired teenager, with a gold stud earring (left ear only)
and a flick in my hair that Tony Hadley and Simon Le Bon would
have been proud of. The blond hair was thanks to my sister, Caroline -
otherwise it would have been greasy brown hair. In 1986, my other sister,
Helen, had done something none of the Billingham clan, to my father
’
s
knowledge, had ever done before. She had gone to University. Helen had
always been mature beyond her years. She was a female version of Jim,
without the smugness and had, therefore, not been dazzled by the bright
lights of Southport and Liverpool, once she had hit alcohol consuming
age. She would sometimes head out drinking with friends, but she
liked the quiet, local pub, finish at eleven, environment of Ormskirk,
rather than the busy, nightclub, finish at two with a kiss or a kebab,
environment of Southport. To put it bluntly, Helen was very pleasant
but a little unadventurous. A bookworm. The studious type. She passed
nine
“
O
”
levels with
“
A
”
s and
“
B
”
s and then four
“
A
”
Levels with B
’
s and
C
’
s. She was accepted at Lancaster University to read Economics.