Tony Hits out(The Summer of '46)

George B Anderson

I must have been around thirteen at the time. Riverside Senior Secondary School was a ten minute walk away from where I stayed in the East End of Glasgow, situated near the River Clyde and a stone's throw from Celtic Park. Most of what went on there went clean over my head. Being able to write a reasonably good 'composition' was my only achievement. A tall, ruddy-faced sergeant major-type, complete with handlebar moustache, was my English teacher at the time. It was he who put my name forward for the annual school Burns competition. . .and who would dare argue with Mr McKenzie?

The two poems chosen by the school were Scots, Wha Hae and Is there for Honest Poverty. I was apprehensive, to say the least, something my mother seemed to pick up, for she suggested I have a word with granddad Beattie who was a bit of a scholar on burns, something I wasn't aware of. So, for some weeks he guided me through the difficult words and phrases and how to put feelings into readings.

Finally, the day came when my efforts were to be judged. I was sent along to a classroom where two female teachers were already waiting for me, sitting oddly amongst the empty wooden desks, with notepad and pencils at the ready. I performed and they took notes but said nothing other than "Thank you, George; we'll let you know in due course.". . .a bit like a job interview.

A week or so later we all crowded into McKenzie's classroom for a double period of English. I soon became aware of an undercurrent of whispered mumblings. Alone on the blackboard was my name in white chalk - GEORGE ANDERSON. McKenzie entered, his face showing no emotion, looked over the thirty-odd expectant faces, finally settled his gaze on me. This was reinforced with his blackboard pointer, then pointing to my name informed the class that I had won the Burns' competition. This brought cheers and some clapping, sounds you wouldn't often hear from a Scottish classroom in those days. . .it just wasn't allowed, old boy. McKenzie, too, was pleased. Though why I can't say, for his only contribution was to add my name to the list of competitors. It was the only thing I ever achieved during nine years of formal schooling.

The winter term ended with the school being marched up to a local church in Helenvale Street, some twenty minutes walk from the school gates. At the prize-giving my name was called out. Seated in the middle of a crowded pew I had to negotiate the knees and boots which seemed to take aged. There was a handshake from the teacher delegated to give out the prizes in the shape of parcels wrapped in brown paper. Back in the pew I noticed Bonesy was removing his wrapping as he sat nearby. It was a red and gold bound hardback of Burns poems for being runner-up.

James Bones was his real name and was regarded as a bit of a toff. He was cleverer than most of us, always well dressed, spoke well and as a consequence had few friends. Beating him into second place was a bonus. I could see he was anxious to know what my brown paper parcel contained. He was never to know as it remained wrapped until I got home.

I was alone ay home when I removed the brown paper from what looked and felt like a book. It was. It was a hardback with a loose dust cover with a picture of a boy in cricket whites, complete with cap, striking out at a ball at the crease with a title across the top - TONY HITS OUT. . .the author escapes me. Pasted inside the cover was a school inscription containing my name and year and competition title.

It took some seconds for my emotions to come to the surface. I became aware of hot tears on my face as well as a growing anger. The picture of Tony hitting a cricket ball for six - a game I knew nothing about - was incomprehensible, for I could see no connection between an English Public School boy and Robert Burns poetry. I instinctively opened the nearby wardrobe and threw the insulting piece of literature into the darkness. I never saw it again. Nor did I discuss it with anyone apart from my parents and, of course, granddad Beattie. . ..Looking back I can only deduce that some stupid bloody teacher got the prizes mixed up somehow, with Bonesy being given the Burns book whilst I got TONY HITS OUT!