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Gervase Phinn: The bullied never forget
Last week I met two people I had not seen for 50 years. I was at school with both of them. The first, Peter Davies, was my best friend; the other, to save his embarrassment, I shall not name – that is, until I write my memoirs.
Peter, now a successful graphic artist and university lecturer living in London, contacted me having read my last book and we met up to talk about old times. It was he who introduced me to my first girlfriend. Peter was "walking out" with a strikingly pretty, dark-haired girl called Lynne and she had this friend, a small, round-faced strawberry blonde, called Elaine. So we made up a foursome. I had a sneaking feeling from the very first that Elaine only went out with me because she liked Peter and in this way could see a lot of him. I noticed the way she looked at him when he was talking and it was pretty obvious after a few weeks that she had a crush on him. Well, which girl wouldn't? He had curly, straw-coloured hair, the looks of a male model and the physique to match and he was clever, confident and good company. More importantly for me is that he was a generous and loyal friend. It was so good to see him after such a long a time and to reminisce together.
It is a pity I can't say the same about the other person I was at school with. He approached me after I had spoken at a formal business dinner in Sheffield. I had spotted him earlier with a group of other men sitting directly in front of the top table. It was the laugh I recognised first and it brought back unpleasant memories. As a lad I remember this tall, fat, moon-faced boy with lank black hair and a permanent scowl, who developed an obsessive dislike of me. In primary school I was a biddable, easy-going child. I enjoyed lessons, readily volunteered answers and did as I was told. Had I gone home and told my father I had been in trouble, I would have been in twice as much bother with him. Would that all parents these days supported teachers in the way my parents did.
I little thought that my behaviour would antagonise the large moon-faced boy who was frequently outside the headteacher's room for misbehaving. He would delight in mispronouncing my name, much to the amusement of his two sidekicks. "Gervarse! Gervarse!" he would shout and mince down the corridor. He and his two fellow bullies would stop me going to the toilet and tip everything out of my satchel and spit at me when my back was turned. I had a dreadful two months until I moved to secondary school and thankfully never saw him again – until, that is, I attended the dinner. He hadn't changed much except that he was now almost entirely bald.
"I was just telling those at my table we were at school together," he told me, smiling inanely.
"Yes, I know," I replied.
"Really?" said the president of the association who was sitting on my right at the top table. "An old school friend." "Hardly," I said. "He bullied me."
"I … I…. don't remember that," blustered the bully.
"Well, of course you wouldn't," I said, getting to my feet. "Bullies forget, but the bullied never do." With that, I made my excuses to the somewhat embarrassed president of the association and left.
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Friday 25 May 2012
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