The whistle had just been blown and the students were trooping in.  Ray Anderson, the Deputy Head, was standing at the doors as they filed past him, uniformly attired in their regulation blazer, matching trousers, sensible shoes and red tie.  The tie and the blazer were adorned with the establishment’s crest, with something in Latin written underneath.  Hair was neatly parted and not too long, or short.  Mr Anderson smiled at the uniformity of his flock.

The keener students were through the door.  Only the stragglers remained, the outlying workshy wasters whose thirst for knowledge didn’t extend to starting the day of studious endeavour. 

I was one of the stragglers.  So was Ritchie.

We were almost at the gate.

“Don’t want any of this,” said Ritchie.

“Me neither.”

“Tell you what.  Let’s turn and go home.  Or into town.”

“Think it’s a bit late for that.”

I glanced at him.  His hands were in his pockets, the thumb inside, and he was walking at ten to two.  His bleached blonde hair was as impeccable as ever, cut into a perfect feather cut that he had sported for as long as I could remember.  He was wearing a buttoned-up Fred Perry, a tonic jacket, skinny jeans with regulation turn up and loafers.  You couldn’t imagine a more different look from the one that Anderson had so proudly watched walk through.

We walked through the gate.  Anderson had turned his back and had walked inside.  We followed the stragglers in front of us into the corridor.  One of the newer members of staff, who had only joined the September before, looked at Ritchie up and down.  He had a military-style moustache and a short back and sides.  I’d been in one of his classes and he believed in discipline.

On the other side of the corridor stood Miss Price, another new teaching intake but an infinitely more promising one.  She stood there, with her long brown hair hanging over her shoulders, as we walked in.

“Morning Miss,” said Ritchie, grinning across his cheeky face.

“Morning Richard,” said Miss Price.  “How are you this morning.”  She looked down and her hair fell forward.  Was there a stray blush on her cheeks?  I don’t know.  But if I noticed it, Ritchie certainly did as well.

“Oh, I’m all right”, he said, laughing.  “Looking forward to a day’s devoted study.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” she said, a smirk on her face.

Ritchie winked at me and we walked down the corridor.  We went to the classroom and Ritchie sat down at his desk.  I followed and sat down next to him, putting my bag of books on the floor.

“What do you bring those with you for?” he asked.

“I need them for the lessons,” I said.

“Do you?” said Ritchie.  “I never bother.”

I laughed as we sat down briefly.  Our form tutor, the inelegantly attired Mr Jenkins, complete with flaky complexion and shaving rash, came in and sat down at his desk at the front.   He proceeded to take the register.  He called my name.  I promptly said “yes” to get it over with.  Then he said “Black.”  There was no answer.

The rest of the class looked around.  Ritchie sat there, a smirk on his face.

“I said Black,” repeated Jenkins.

Nothing.  He looked at Ritchie.

“Richard Black.  Are you with us today?”

“No more than I am any day,” said Ritchie.

Jenkins looked at him forlornly.  “I’ll take that as a yes then.”

Everyone laughed.  Ritchie had done it, yet again.  How did he get away with it?

A few minutes later, at Mr Jenkins’ advice, the whole class got up and headed down the corridor.  It was the twice-weekly ordeal.  Assembly.

The rest of our year of the school approached the main hall.  There were jokes from a few towards their colleagues in other houses, sneers at those where there had previously been rivalry or altercations, blank stares from the majority.  Mr Anderson sat at the top table, on the stage, flanked by one of the younger teachers on his right and the poor unfortunate who had been selected – in much the same way as those drafted into the bleakness of the army – to read that morning’s lesson.  It was a girl I didn’t know, from another house, who looked decidedly uneasy about being there.  Miss Price was at the side of the hall, sitting down, watching the year’s high achievers, low achievers, and all in between, walk in and sit down.

Everyone filed in, one after another.  Naturally, being at the back of the queue, we took our seats last.  Ritchie allowed me to go in first, presumably so that, when it was over, he could get out as fast as possible.  In the end, we were two rows from the back, me second in, him on the end.  We sat back for the next half hour of boredom.  I looked around at Miss Price.  She looked bored as well, it was all over her face,

The hall was full of the low murmuring of student voices.  Then Anderson put a stop to it.  He got up. He announced the star turn, the girl who had by now blushed with embarrassment. She stood and started to read in a monotone.  It was the bit in the bible where Jesus turns water into wine.  I listened with interest.  It was one of my favourite passages.  It had always seemed to me to be a good endorsement of the hedonism to which I aspired.

It was over quickly enough.  The girl sat down, looking relieved it was over.  Then we went into song.  Anderson introduced the hymn, He Who Would Valiant Be, that hoary old chestnut of many a school assembly right across the world.  I pretended to sing.  But I couldn’t get any impetus.  I wasn’t valiant.  I never would be.   It had always seemed the noblest thing to run a mile at an advancing bayonet.  I’ve never seen any reason for self-sacrifice.

I stood there and pretended to sing.  So did Ritchie.  I looked at him, his blonde hair carved into his sculpted head, his fringe falling forward to the bridge of his nose as he looked down.   He was going through the motions, hymn book in one hand perched between his forefinger and palm of his hand.  His other hand was slipped in his other pocket, this time with his thumb outside.  He was standing at ten to two, as he always did.  He wasn’t singing.  He was just mouthing, so it looked like he was.  Miss Price had seen him, she was looking over and half smiling.  He hadn’t noticed.  He was wrapped up in himself.

The hymn came to an end and everyone sat down, among much coughing and clearing of throats.  The seat was sore and I wondered how long I’d be able to stand it. I shuffled around a bit and tried to get comfortable.  I glanced at Ritchie.  He wasn’t having any such trouble.  He had just relaxed into his seat and was sitting, arms on his knees, waiting for the next stage in the entertainment.

It wasn’t long before Ray Anderson got up on his feet, to try and motivate his flock.  He walked over to the stand and leaned on it.

“Good morning everyone,” he said.

“Good morning Mr Anderson,” came the response, in just the way he liked it.

“Now,” he continued.  “I want to talk to you about…”

I couldn’t tell you, to this day, what he talked about.  It was a lifeless, sonorous discourse.  It was devoid of anything which gave it interest.  What was most surprising about it was the fact that you were expected to listen, take it all in, be uplifted.  I wasn’t.  I’ve never been uplifted by anything like that.  I wasn’t.  It was hard to keep awake.  I nearly didn’t manage it. I wasn’t the only one.

As Mr Anderson stood and delivered his lecture, slowly, imperceptibly, the sound of sleep emanated around the hall.  It came from one corner, from too many late nights and unwanted early mornings.  Its perpetrator was known to drop off at the back of classes for a few minutes, which was usually ignored.  This time, the one delivering the sermon wasn’t going to be one to ignore.

As the sound became louder, I looked around.  Ritchie was snoring.  I gave him a nudge in the side, which jolted him.  He sat upright and looked shocked, for a moment.  Then he realised what had happened and he sat back again.  But it was too late.  Mr Anderson stopped speaking and looked around.

“You boy, there,” he said, when he had seen where the noise was coming from.  “Wake up.” 

People looked around.  Ritchie was oblivious to the fact that the attention was directed at him.

“You boy,” carried on Mr Anderson.  “Stand up.”

People were sniggering now.  They were looking around at Ritchie.  Miss Price was looking over, shocked.

Ritchie was still unaware that he was the subject of the attention.  Mr Anderson was in no mood to let it lie down.  He was up from the stage and walking down towards the audience.  He strode up to Ritchie and looked down at him.  Ritchie was by now clear what was happening.  He looked to have got over the moment of drowsiness after a daytime sleep and was wide awake.

“Morning Sir,” he said, grinning.

“I’ll give you morning,” said Mr Anderson.  “From the way you’ve been, you’d think it was the middle of the night.”

“Isn’t it, Sir,” said Ritchie.  “I thought it was.”

Everyone laughed.  Mr Anderson wasn’t amused.

“No it isn’t,” he said.  “It’s the start of a new day. Of opportunity.  To be grasped.  But you. You just fall asleep.  Didn’t you go to bed last night?”

“A little, Sir.”

Mr Anderson stood over him.

“And the state of you,” he said.  “Just look at you.”  Ritchie looked up at him and grinned.  “Stand up.”

“All right.”

Ritchie stood up and stared at Mr Anderson.

“And what state do you call this,” said the latter.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ritchie.

“I’ll give you that.”

“Whatever, Sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Richard Black.”

“Richard Black, eh.  I’ve heard about you.”

“That must have been fun.”  Everyone laughed again.

“I’ll give you fun.”

“I bet you will.”

“Now young man.”

“Yes?”

“What do you think this is?”

“I don’t know, Sir.  You tell me.”

“What do you think you’re wearing Black?”.

“Clobber, Sir.”  Everyone laughed again. 

“What’s this?”  He pointed at his polo shirt.

“A Fred Perry.”

“And this?”

“A tonic jacket.”

“And these?”

“Skinny jeans.”

“And your hair?”

“It’s a feather cut, Sir.  Cost a packet.”

Everyone laughed and then when Mr Anderson had given them his disapproving look, they calmed down.  He glared at Ritchie.

“You look like a clown.”

“I don’t know what you mean Sir.”

“In your fancy dress.  Are you joining the circus?”

“I don’t know if they’d have me, Sir.  I’ll have to ask.”

“I bet you will.  Well, Black, I’ve had enough of your attitude and insolence.  I’m going to be reporting this to Mr Carmichael.  Do you understand that?”

Mr Carmichael was the headmaster.  The hairless, humourless, charisma-less headmaster. 

“I thought you would, Sir.”

“And we’ll see what he has to say about it.  I dare say he’ll want to see your parents about it.”

“My Mum, Sir.  There’s just my Mum and me.”

“Whatever you say, Black.  But, for now, you’d better leave.  This instance.  I’m not putting up with having an inappropriately dressed layabout in the school.  This is a place of learning.  Do you understand?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“So get off with you.  This absence will be a black mark against you.  And when you come back later, report to me.  Dressed for learning.”

Ritchie turned, a big grin on his face.  He wasn’t coming back this afternoon.  He had a day ahead, in the record shop on the high street searching for ska records, at lunchtime in The Queens and then in The Lite Bite.  After that, a couple of hours sleep before going out tonight.  That was if he’d not met up with one of his girlfriends.  There were bound to be a few around town.

As for the rest of us, we sat back to listen to another lecture. I envied Ritchie. He had it sussed.