you!' She interpreted my body language as a
sign of someone being considerate. 'I'm never going to
make the netball team at this rate.' The vibrations of her
laughter ran down her arm and passed through me like
an electric shock, and I woke from my stupor.
'Race you to the end of the road.'
'No! I can't run any more! You'd beat me.'
'Do you think I'd ask you otherwise?'
'You're a rotter, Pete Churcher, that's what you are. A
rotter.'
'What is a rotter? Is it like a Rottweiler?'
'Depends what a Rottweiler is.'
'A dog the size of a pony with even bigger teeth.'
'You're making that up. Never heard of it. It's like that
time you told me that they're going to send a man to the
moon. No, you're a rotter, as in rotten, mean, nasty.
Look it up in that dictionary of yours.' Coming from the
mouth of Laura, any adjective sounded like a compliment
to my ears.
There is no doubt that knowing the prettiest girl in
the school does wonders for your reputation, both with
the boys and the girls. Because of her, I was finally
someone.
'Was that Laura Albury I saw you walking to school
with?'
'Yes.'
'How do you know her?'
'You're Pete, aren't you? I'm one of Laura's friends,
Cathy.'
'Hello, Cathy.'
'She says you're probably the nicest boy she knows.'
If life at home was dreary, I was happy at school. Our
family life was largely unaffected by what went on in the
outside world. My father's life ran to a routine
timetable, punctuated by small rituals. A daily paper
with his breakfast of porridge and tea. A pipe in his
favourite armchair on return from work. Dinner on the
table at six sharp. The rented television set was switched
on once a day to warm up five minutes before the start
of the Nine O'Clock News on BBC1. (We were always a
BBC household – my father never converted to ITV.)
'Where's my shirt for tomorrow?' my father would
demand as soon as the News was over.
'All ready for you, starched and ironed just the way
you like it.' My mother would run to fetch it for him as
willingly as a trainee trying to impress a new boss at
work, but she was rarely rewarded with praise or even a
mere thank you.
He would inspect it and only when he had assured
himself that it was satisfactory would he carry it upstairs
and arrange it on a wooden hanger, adjusting the
collar and shoulders as carefully as if he was actually
dressing himself for work. He was a man of the if-a-job's-
worth-doing-it's-worth-doing-properly school of
thought. My mother lived in fear of accidentally forgetting
something that she should have done, and her fear
was so great that it actually stopped her from doing anything
other than wait on him hand and foot. The four
walls of the house marked the confines of her world.
The more tragedies she heard about on the Nine O'Clock News – the Great Train Robbery, the assassination of
President Kennedy – the more nervous she became and
the happier she was to keep it that way.
School was my one distraction. And then the eleven-plus
changed everything. I almost considered
deliberately failing in the hope that I would be kept
back a year, but I dreaded the thought of letting my
parents down. Having put their single egg in one basket,
expectations were high and I was constantly reminded
of the sacrifices they had made for me. Besides, I had a
certain acceptance of the inevitable. Even if it wasn't this
year, I couldn't stall for ever.
When I left St Winifred's for grammar school in 1963,
it was in the knowledge that there would be no more
waves, no more walks, no more exchange of confidences
and, quite possibly, no more Laura Albury. She
still had a year to go and I doubted that there would be
any shortage of boys queuing up to carry her bags for
her. I was right. Whenever I saw her again, she was never
alone. Always friendly to a fault, but never alone.
'Hello, Peter Churcher,' she would say with that same
bright smile, but that had been our way of talking when
it was just the two of us.
'Hello, Laura.' I couldn't bring
sign of someone being considerate. 'I'm never going to
make the netball team at this rate.' The vibrations of her
laughter ran down her arm and passed through me like
an electric shock, and I woke from my stupor.
'Race you to the end of the road.'
'No! I can't run any more! You'd beat me.'
'Do you think I'd ask you otherwise?'
'You're a rotter, Pete Churcher, that's what you are. A
rotter.'
'What is a rotter? Is it like a Rottweiler?'
'Depends what a Rottweiler is.'
'A dog the size of a pony with even bigger teeth.'
'You're making that up. Never heard of it. It's like that
time you told me that they're going to send a man to the
moon. No, you're a rotter, as in rotten, mean, nasty.
Look it up in that dictionary of yours.' Coming from the
mouth of Laura, any adjective sounded like a compliment
to my ears.
There is no doubt that knowing the prettiest girl in
the school does wonders for your reputation, both with
the boys and the girls. Because of her, I was finally
someone.
'Was that Laura Albury I saw you walking to school
with?'
'Yes.'
'How do you know her?'
'You're Pete, aren't you? I'm one of Laura's friends,
Cathy.'
'Hello, Cathy.'
'She says you're probably the nicest boy she knows.'
If life at home was dreary, I was happy at school. Our
family life was largely unaffected by what went on in the
outside world. My father's life ran to a routine
timetable, punctuated by small rituals. A daily paper
with his breakfast of porridge and tea. A pipe in his
favourite armchair on return from work. Dinner on the
table at six sharp. The rented television set was switched
on once a day to warm up five minutes before the start
of the Nine O'Clock News on BBC1. (We were always a
BBC household – my father never converted to ITV.)
'Where's my shirt for tomorrow?' my father would
demand as soon as the News was over.
'All ready for you, starched and ironed just the way
you like it.' My mother would run to fetch it for him as
willingly as a trainee trying to impress a new boss at
work, but she was rarely rewarded with praise or even a
mere thank you.
He would inspect it and only when he had assured
himself that it was satisfactory would he carry it upstairs
and arrange it on a wooden hanger, adjusting the
collar and shoulders as carefully as if he was actually
dressing himself for work. He was a man of the if-a-job's-
worth-doing-it's-worth-doing-properly school of
thought. My mother lived in fear of accidentally forgetting
something that she should have done, and her fear
was so great that it actually stopped her from doing anything
other than wait on him hand and foot. The four
walls of the house marked the confines of her world.
The more tragedies she heard about on the Nine O'Clock News – the Great Train Robbery, the assassination of
President Kennedy – the more nervous she became and
the happier she was to keep it that way.
School was my one distraction. And then the eleven-plus
changed everything. I almost considered
deliberately failing in the hope that I would be kept
back a year, but I dreaded the thought of letting my
parents down. Having put their single egg in one basket,
expectations were high and I was constantly reminded
of the sacrifices they had made for me. Besides, I had a
certain acceptance of the inevitable. Even if it wasn't this
year, I couldn't stall for ever.
When I left St Winifred's for grammar school in 1963,
it was in the knowledge that there would be no more
waves, no more walks, no more exchange of confidences
and, quite possibly, no more Laura Albury. She
still had a year to go and I doubted that there would be
any shortage of boys queuing up to carry her bags for
her. I was right. Whenever I saw her again, she was never
alone. Always friendly to a fault, but never alone.
'Hello, Peter Churcher,' she would say with that same
bright smile, but that had been our way of talking when
it was just the two of us.
'Hello, Laura.' I couldn't bring
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