A Memory of a Lie

A Memory of a Lie


I was eleven or twelve. About thirty boys of similar age were sitting with me in a neat array of wooden desks, wooden chairs with metal legs. There was a little shelf under each desk to put your exercise books into. There was a chalk board and a man with white hair and a face made of the same sinew as his hands. His eyes were pale blue and staring. He and I were the only ones standing. I had not done my homework and he wanted to know why.I don’t remember all the details. I don’t know what happened before or after the exchange. I just remember a rambling story;
‘I had band practice. I was really tired and it was late. It’s a long way home and I fell asleep on the train. The train had taken me way past Granville. I woke up and it was really dark. I had to get home and it took ages, then it was too late to do my homework.’
This is the abridged version. The one without his interjected queries and requests for embellishments, which I gave without pause. I thought if I just kept worming I could get out of it…
I remember something else. I remember that, as my completely fabricated story progressed, all the fidgeting in the classroom slowed and stopped. Everyone was listening to me as I threaded bullshit to the man with the plastic strip of black and white on his collar. (I know that plastic strip was made from the wall of a two-litre ice cream bucket. The black was a piece of electrical tape.)I suspect my peers thought I was about to be killed.‘Brother Smith’ merely stared at me for an inordinate time. It was enough.
"Brother Smith" [Pen and Paper - again]