Albert E Lawrance

You came to give me a slap, your arm bent back, with the back of your hand poised to 'shut my trap.' I stood to rebuff you with anger, and schoolboy indignation. How dare you bring reproach when you were so mistaken, accusing 'scruffy' new boy of a smelly body pong - because of race? - because you thought his face did not belong? From Scotland was your reason. I was right that you were wrong. I hated you then and was removed to a lower set. Your obituary surprised me. Your father - 'a blacksmith - and you sniffed, now I remember, quite a bit -your prominent nose gave the nickname of ‘Punch.' 'A firm disciplinarian', you would brook no pupil's lip. But I saw you often quietly slip up the hill during lunch to see your girlfriend in a lay-by, sat waiting for each trip. "No talking! Line up the desks along this floorboard,” you would boom. “Do it quietly!" was your shout. “Now tidy up this room!” You taught maths well and were admired by many, when you retired - through ill health. “I am the old broom and the place needs a new broom. It's just that the old broom still knows where some of the dirt is hid." But especially this: 'He was a big man with presence, smelling badly of carbolic soap, in need of sartorial assistance,' or so it was said.