Memories of Jamie

Fresh from academia I began work in a primary school.  A new bite at reality.  The school served a big inter-war estate, built with optimism that couldn’t be sustained 60 years on.  Every morning the playground was cleared of drug paraphernalia.  The pupils looked on with eyes that had seen more in their nine years than I had seen in my 22.

Jamie had seen trouble.  But still I did daily battle with his exuberance in order to try and teach him literacy. There were obstacles.  He liked the band Pulp, and was prone to sudden outbursts of their songs.

‘Ok, then Jamie.  Let’s read Mog.  Mog lives with Debbie.’

‘YER NAME IS DEBORAH, DEBOARAH, IT NEVER SUITED YER!’

One problem with this was that I kind of wanted to join in.  Later on he would catch me humming the tune of his latest song-burst, and laugh happily.  I could see his point.  My own infantile sense of humour matched Jamie’s.  How many of my guffaws were muffled in the stock cupboard, under cover of looking for paper.

One evening after work, I stood in the car park, head in my hands.  Jamie ambled up, flouting the rules.

‘What’s up, Miss?’

‘I think I’ve locked my keys in the car.’

‘Do you want me to break into it for you?  I know how to do it.’  He rolled up his sleeves.

I had no doubt that he could do it.  But a renewed search found the keys in the lining of my coat. He walked on, disappointed at not being my rescuer.  I think he liked me and we made progress that year.

‘Shall we do some work, Jamie?’

‘Alreet.  Being as it’s you, miss.’

All of this has come back to me after seeing his name in the paper.  I wondered if I would see his name in the court roundup – the city’s most charming TWOC-er.  So I’m pleased that it’s not in that section, but the entertainment pages.  His comedy night at The Troc is so successful that it’s going to two nights a week.  I might go along and watch.  This time I can laugh out loud without setting a bad example.