As Sam Bennett walked home, he thought about what had just happened. Had that been a bad day or a good day? He felt exhilarated and humiliated; fulfilled and angry; hopeful and depressed. Yet, Mr Lingford had told him that he was brilliant. Nobody had ever given him hope for his future before. Being adopted wasn’t easy and he felt that being rejected by his birth parents after three months set the parameters for all his relationships. His Mum and Dad were kind but didn’t understand him. It was O.K. for Julie to say that no parents ever understand a fourteen year old. It was easy for her to be so reckless with her parents’ affections. He wasn’t understood, he wasn’t appreciated and everyone hated him. And yet Mr Lingford had told him that he was brilliant. He needed to get his thoughts in order.
The day hadn’t started well. His Mum and Dad had both been sitting at the breakfast table when he emerged from the bathroom at 7:00. Not his real mother and father; he had no idea who they were, what they looked like or where they lived. He didn’t want to know anything about them. If he hadn’t been good enough for them when he was a baby, then they weren’t good enough for him now. That was quite simple. No, the people who he had learned to call Mum and Dad were sitting at the breakfast table. They were nice, kind to him but very very boring. He had nothing in common with them. They weren’t blood relations so why should they like the same music, TV programmes, video games, music or books as he did? They also had very little money, his Dad having been laid off six months ago and his Mum just clinging on to her three cleaning jobs. Yet every morning, before school, there they were, eating Corn Flakes and two slices of bread and marmalade. Every morning the same. God, how tedious!
“Morning Sam”
“Hi”
“How are you this morning?”
How the fuck do you think I am? I’m the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow, the same as every fucking day thank you very much for asking.
“O.K.”
“What would you like for breakfast?”
Eggs, bacon, sausages, hash brown, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread. Please.
“Corn Flakes and toast please”
“That’s lucky, ‘cos that’s all we’ve got.”
This was meant to be funny but making the same joke every day for a million years didn’t really seem funny to Sam. The morning ritual. Same kindly faces staring at him while he eats these disgusting yellow crispy corn things and gobs down two pathetically limp slices of overcooked grilled bread. And marmalade. Who ate marmalade these days?
“Gotta go. See you.”
Upturned smiling expectant faces greeted him. God! At what point could he refuse to kiss these strangers? Isn’t a fourteen year old kissing a man of forty more than a bit perverted? Following the path of least resistance, he dutifully grazed their faces with his cheek and marched out of the house. The same old same old every day of his life.
Hang on! Where was his lunch? Every day, as he left the house, it would be
“Sam, don’t forget your lunch”
“Huhhhhh” (teen code for “Thanks”)
But today there was nothing. Surely not possible. A break with routine? Sam’s bag without two cheese and tomato sandwiches and a chocolate biscuit would be like a Wimbledon tournament without a gallant British loser, or a reality TV show without a bloke boasting about his sex life or a break at school without David Bartholomew. Sam was so surprised that he nearly turned round and went home but he didn’t want to be late for school and the forty minute walk to Marchworth Community College was stretching out ahead of him so he thought he would just deal with David Bartholomew later. Or just hide from him. A bit peculiar though. Was something up? Maybe today wouldn’t be just like every other day after all. And don’t forget Andy Murray.
“Morning Sam”
“Hi”
“How are you this morning?”
How the fuck do you…. Hang on! I’ve done this bit already. Oh!
“Hi Julie”
“What have you got for lunch today”
“Two cheese and tomato sandwiches”
“And a chocolate biscuit?”
“Yeah”
This was also meant to be funny. A ritual. A custom. A ceremony. A procedure. A process. Comfort in the repetition?
“Actually…”
“You’ll never guess what I found out this morning?”
“You’re a mermaid?”
“No. I…”
“You’ve got a rich Aunt who died and left you 3 million quid”
“No, I…”
“The sun is dying out and we’re all going to die next Tuesday”
“Saaaaam!”
He waited.
“I’m going to New York next week.”
“Wow”
“My parents are taking me on holiday during school time! It’s their seventeenth wedding anniversary and they’re taking my sister and me to New York for a whole week.”
“Wow”
“Blah blah blah blah blah awesome fantastic crazy wicked tight celebrities rad cool amazing sweet………”
Sam liked Julie insofar as he liked anyone. He probably fancied her but he didn’t really know if that was just something he wanted to be true or whether he had a genuine sexual attraction towards her. He certainly thought about her a lot, especially at night. But he didn’t know how she felt about him and he certainly had no idea how to take control of their friendship. She always seemed to bump into him on his walk to school which wasn’t that hard for her as he always left home at 7:30 exactly so he always passed by the end of her road at exactly 7:48 or something like that. He’d never really thought about it – she was just always there. Yes he liked her but, boy, could she talk? After a bit he just zoned out and thought about all the other important stuff that was going on in his mind. Today he had to finalise his option choices to decide what GCSEs he would study. English, Maths, Science and four others. He had chosen Technology, P.E. Art and History. These were the subjects he liked. Nobody had really advised him – no one ever really paid him much attention at all. He was one of the invisible children. His parents supported him as they always did – “As long as you’re happy, Sam”; his tutor at school nodded, said that looked sensible and then spent half an hour talking to the dickheads in his class. Julie said “Cool” and then told him, at length, all about her choices: Drama, Music, Textiles and History.
“…and New York. How about you? Sam? Earth to Sam. Are you there? Come in Sam?”
“Sorry. Yes of course.”
“What?”
“No?”
“Sam. I just asked if you agreed with my sister that the last place she would want to go to was New York! And you agreed! Wake up!”
Yes. Wake up Sam.
Another ritual. David Bartholomew. A custom. David Bartholomew. Every day. David Bartholomew. Humiliation at the hands of David Bartholomew.
“Oi! Benny! C’m here!”
Sam thought that the name ‘Benny’ was supposed to be funny. He imagined that David Bartholomew had spent several years making the connection from Bennett to Benny and leaving it for others to carry on the sequence to Bender and subsequently Gay Boy. For three years now, Sam had ignored the taunting but it hadn’t been a tactic that had worked so far.
David Bartholomew marched over to Sam followed by his three acolytes.
“Gimme your lunch”
This was part of the ritual although Sam never got any comfort from it.
“I don’t have any”
“Funny man. Gimme your lunch. Now.”
“I don’t have any.”
David Bartholomew nodded to Acolyte One who held Sam’s arms whilst Acolyte Two took Sam’s bag and emptied the contents onto the ground.
A crowd gathered but kept mainly silent fearing that any sympathy shown to Sam may transfer David Bartholomew’s attention towards one of them.
“Where’s your fucking lunch?”
“You can eat whatever you find in my bag”
“Funny man. Benny. You’re funny. Why don’t YOU eat what’s in your bag.”
David Bartholomew picked up Sam’s option form and screwed it up. He nodded to Acolyte Three who grabbed Sam round the neck from behind and held his nose. David Bartholomew started to stuff the paper into Sam’s mouth.
“Leave him alone”
The crowd parted slightly isolating the one oasis of warmth and humanity to stand by herself. Julie.
“Leave him alone. What’s he ever done to you?”
“Fuck off. Tart”
“No I won’t. You’re nothing but a bully David Bartholomew. You always have been. Leave him alone.”
David Bartholomew nodded to Acolyte Two who grabbed hold of Julie. David Bartholomew left Sam alone and started walking towards her, a salacious smirk spreading across his face.
“Right you little bitch. You’re going to find out what a real man can do.”
Twenty years later, Sam Bennett recalled the events of the day to me with amazing detail.
“At that point, it’s the old cliché of something snapping inside my head. It was that moment which was a real turning point, a tipping point, A Road to Damascus, call it what you will. I think I’d been asleep for my whole life until the point, deadened to the events of the world, trying hard just to get through each and every day without taking control. Suddenly and for the first time, I acted, I did something, I saw a desired outcome and I did what I could to achieve it. I went mad. Absolutely fucking crazy. I screamed, I roared, I smashed my elbow into the nose of the kid who was holding me and broke it; I used my right leg to smash the knee of the kid who was holding Julie and I used my left leg to kick David Bartholomew in the bollocks. He screamed and fell to the ground, whimpering. I picked up my stuff, took hold of Julie’s hand and walked through the crowd who started clapping and cheering. It sounds like a hero’s exit but just as I was bursting with pride, I barged into Mr Lingford, the Headteacher, who had come to break up the fight. Did I find myself in a big shitstorm or what? Secretly, I think the Head admired what I had done but he had to punish me. I was suspended from school for a week, my parents heaped disappointment onto me and Julie never spoke to me again: she was scared at the aggressive nature she saw within, I suppose.”
“But you wouldn’t have got to where you are today without David Bartholomew?” I asked.
Sam chuckled.
“No, I suppose I owe it all to him. One of the two most significant moments of my life: smashing David Bartholomew. Thanks Dave.”
He leaned back in his chair and took in all the luxury of his office. The framed Thank You letters from celebrities, the certificates, the awards; all the artefacts of a successful career.
“Yes, old Lingford picked up my option form which I had spat onto the ground and before he suspended me from school, he looked at the subjects I had chosen. He laughed at my choices. He told me that my Maths teacher thought I was brilliant. Well, I knew that I was all right at Maths, I was in the top set but I never came top of the class or anything like that. Apparently, my teacher, I forget his name, had noticed that I used a very ‘creative’ approach to problem solving and had mentioned it to Lingford the previous week. He hadn’t seen fit to talk to me about it. Kept it to himself. What a terribly irresponsible thing for a teacher to do! Lingford told me I was brilliant and more or less forced me to take Further Maths, Statistics and Additional Science. Oh yes, and History. We all loved Miss Jackson. This was the first time I had any inkling that I could be good at something. With that encouragement, I worked hard and did well at Maths. Trained to be a teacher.”
“The other significant moment?” I asked. But I knew the answer.
“The interview. Of course. But you know that. Everything changed after the interview.”
“And the mystery of the missing packed lunch?”
Sam’s eyes darkened and he looked down, swivelled in his chair to look out the window and take in the breath-taking view.
“That was the day my Mum found out she had cancer. She died two months later.”
The day hadn’t started well. His Mum and Dad had both been sitting at the breakfast table when he emerged from the bathroom at 7:00. Not his real mother and father; he had no idea who they were, what they looked like or where they lived. He didn’t want to know anything about them. If he hadn’t been good enough for them when he was a baby, then they weren’t good enough for him now. That was quite simple. No, the people who he had learned to call Mum and Dad were sitting at the breakfast table. They were nice, kind to him but very very boring. He had nothing in common with them. They weren’t blood relations so why should they like the same music, TV programmes, video games, music or books as he did? They also had very little money, his Dad having been laid off six months ago and his Mum just clinging on to her three cleaning jobs. Yet every morning, before school, there they were, eating Corn Flakes and two slices of bread and marmalade. Every morning the same. God, how tedious!
“Morning Sam”
“Hi”
“How are you this morning?”
How the fuck do you think I am? I’m the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow, the same as every fucking day thank you very much for asking.
“O.K.”
“What would you like for breakfast?”
Eggs, bacon, sausages, hash brown, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread. Please.
“Corn Flakes and toast please”
“That’s lucky, ‘cos that’s all we’ve got.”
This was meant to be funny but making the same joke every day for a million years didn’t really seem funny to Sam. The morning ritual. Same kindly faces staring at him while he eats these disgusting yellow crispy corn things and gobs down two pathetically limp slices of overcooked grilled bread. And marmalade. Who ate marmalade these days?
“Gotta go. See you.”
Upturned smiling expectant faces greeted him. God! At what point could he refuse to kiss these strangers? Isn’t a fourteen year old kissing a man of forty more than a bit perverted? Following the path of least resistance, he dutifully grazed their faces with his cheek and marched out of the house. The same old same old every day of his life.
Hang on! Where was his lunch? Every day, as he left the house, it would be
“Sam, don’t forget your lunch”
“Huhhhhh” (teen code for “Thanks”)
But today there was nothing. Surely not possible. A break with routine? Sam’s bag without two cheese and tomato sandwiches and a chocolate biscuit would be like a Wimbledon tournament without a gallant British loser, or a reality TV show without a bloke boasting about his sex life or a break at school without David Bartholomew. Sam was so surprised that he nearly turned round and went home but he didn’t want to be late for school and the forty minute walk to Marchworth Community College was stretching out ahead of him so he thought he would just deal with David Bartholomew later. Or just hide from him. A bit peculiar though. Was something up? Maybe today wouldn’t be just like every other day after all. And don’t forget Andy Murray.
“Morning Sam”
“Hi”
“How are you this morning?”
How the fuck do you…. Hang on! I’ve done this bit already. Oh!
“Hi Julie”
“What have you got for lunch today”
“Two cheese and tomato sandwiches”
“And a chocolate biscuit?”
“Yeah”
This was also meant to be funny. A ritual. A custom. A ceremony. A procedure. A process. Comfort in the repetition?
“Actually…”
“You’ll never guess what I found out this morning?”
“You’re a mermaid?”
“No. I…”
“You’ve got a rich Aunt who died and left you 3 million quid”
“No, I…”
“The sun is dying out and we’re all going to die next Tuesday”
“Saaaaam!”
He waited.
“I’m going to New York next week.”
“Wow”
“My parents are taking me on holiday during school time! It’s their seventeenth wedding anniversary and they’re taking my sister and me to New York for a whole week.”
“Wow”
“Blah blah blah blah blah awesome fantastic crazy wicked tight celebrities rad cool amazing sweet………”
Sam liked Julie insofar as he liked anyone. He probably fancied her but he didn’t really know if that was just something he wanted to be true or whether he had a genuine sexual attraction towards her. He certainly thought about her a lot, especially at night. But he didn’t know how she felt about him and he certainly had no idea how to take control of their friendship. She always seemed to bump into him on his walk to school which wasn’t that hard for her as he always left home at 7:30 exactly so he always passed by the end of her road at exactly 7:48 or something like that. He’d never really thought about it – she was just always there. Yes he liked her but, boy, could she talk? After a bit he just zoned out and thought about all the other important stuff that was going on in his mind. Today he had to finalise his option choices to decide what GCSEs he would study. English, Maths, Science and four others. He had chosen Technology, P.E. Art and History. These were the subjects he liked. Nobody had really advised him – no one ever really paid him much attention at all. He was one of the invisible children. His parents supported him as they always did – “As long as you’re happy, Sam”; his tutor at school nodded, said that looked sensible and then spent half an hour talking to the dickheads in his class. Julie said “Cool” and then told him, at length, all about her choices: Drama, Music, Textiles and History.
“…and New York. How about you? Sam? Earth to Sam. Are you there? Come in Sam?”
“Sorry. Yes of course.”
“What?”
“No?”
“Sam. I just asked if you agreed with my sister that the last place she would want to go to was New York! And you agreed! Wake up!”
Yes. Wake up Sam.
Another ritual. David Bartholomew. A custom. David Bartholomew. Every day. David Bartholomew. Humiliation at the hands of David Bartholomew.
“Oi! Benny! C’m here!”
Sam thought that the name ‘Benny’ was supposed to be funny. He imagined that David Bartholomew had spent several years making the connection from Bennett to Benny and leaving it for others to carry on the sequence to Bender and subsequently Gay Boy. For three years now, Sam had ignored the taunting but it hadn’t been a tactic that had worked so far.
David Bartholomew marched over to Sam followed by his three acolytes.
“Gimme your lunch”
This was part of the ritual although Sam never got any comfort from it.
“I don’t have any”
“Funny man. Gimme your lunch. Now.”
“I don’t have any.”
David Bartholomew nodded to Acolyte One who held Sam’s arms whilst Acolyte Two took Sam’s bag and emptied the contents onto the ground.
A crowd gathered but kept mainly silent fearing that any sympathy shown to Sam may transfer David Bartholomew’s attention towards one of them.
“Where’s your fucking lunch?”
“You can eat whatever you find in my bag”
“Funny man. Benny. You’re funny. Why don’t YOU eat what’s in your bag.”
David Bartholomew picked up Sam’s option form and screwed it up. He nodded to Acolyte Three who grabbed Sam round the neck from behind and held his nose. David Bartholomew started to stuff the paper into Sam’s mouth.
“Leave him alone”
The crowd parted slightly isolating the one oasis of warmth and humanity to stand by herself. Julie.
“Leave him alone. What’s he ever done to you?”
“Fuck off. Tart”
“No I won’t. You’re nothing but a bully David Bartholomew. You always have been. Leave him alone.”
David Bartholomew nodded to Acolyte Two who grabbed hold of Julie. David Bartholomew left Sam alone and started walking towards her, a salacious smirk spreading across his face.
“Right you little bitch. You’re going to find out what a real man can do.”
Twenty years later, Sam Bennett recalled the events of the day to me with amazing detail.
“At that point, it’s the old cliché of something snapping inside my head. It was that moment which was a real turning point, a tipping point, A Road to Damascus, call it what you will. I think I’d been asleep for my whole life until the point, deadened to the events of the world, trying hard just to get through each and every day without taking control. Suddenly and for the first time, I acted, I did something, I saw a desired outcome and I did what I could to achieve it. I went mad. Absolutely fucking crazy. I screamed, I roared, I smashed my elbow into the nose of the kid who was holding me and broke it; I used my right leg to smash the knee of the kid who was holding Julie and I used my left leg to kick David Bartholomew in the bollocks. He screamed and fell to the ground, whimpering. I picked up my stuff, took hold of Julie’s hand and walked through the crowd who started clapping and cheering. It sounds like a hero’s exit but just as I was bursting with pride, I barged into Mr Lingford, the Headteacher, who had come to break up the fight. Did I find myself in a big shitstorm or what? Secretly, I think the Head admired what I had done but he had to punish me. I was suspended from school for a week, my parents heaped disappointment onto me and Julie never spoke to me again: she was scared at the aggressive nature she saw within, I suppose.”
“But you wouldn’t have got to where you are today without David Bartholomew?” I asked.
Sam chuckled.
“No, I suppose I owe it all to him. One of the two most significant moments of my life: smashing David Bartholomew. Thanks Dave.”
He leaned back in his chair and took in all the luxury of his office. The framed Thank You letters from celebrities, the certificates, the awards; all the artefacts of a successful career.
“Yes, old Lingford picked up my option form which I had spat onto the ground and before he suspended me from school, he looked at the subjects I had chosen. He laughed at my choices. He told me that my Maths teacher thought I was brilliant. Well, I knew that I was all right at Maths, I was in the top set but I never came top of the class or anything like that. Apparently, my teacher, I forget his name, had noticed that I used a very ‘creative’ approach to problem solving and had mentioned it to Lingford the previous week. He hadn’t seen fit to talk to me about it. Kept it to himself. What a terribly irresponsible thing for a teacher to do! Lingford told me I was brilliant and more or less forced me to take Further Maths, Statistics and Additional Science. Oh yes, and History. We all loved Miss Jackson. This was the first time I had any inkling that I could be good at something. With that encouragement, I worked hard and did well at Maths. Trained to be a teacher.”
“The other significant moment?” I asked. But I knew the answer.
“The interview. Of course. But you know that. Everything changed after the interview.”
“And the mystery of the missing packed lunch?”
Sam’s eyes darkened and he looked down, swivelled in his chair to look out the window and take in the breath-taking view.
“That was the day my Mum found out she had cancer. She died two months later.”