Dixon fell off his chair at primary school in front of his jittery classmates and Mrs Jenkins on whom he had an enormous crush. Mrs. Jenkins had puddingy bosoms and because she wore tight sweaters of a wool/manmade fibre mix, she ever so slightly smelt. Dixon, only 6 years old and still missing his mother’s milk, loved her zesty aroma and longed to rest his damp forehead on her chest.

Having watched a Red Arrows flyby, he had decided on being a pilot and, in the hope it would make him feel airborne, he balanced, his arms raised delta fashion, on the two back legs of his chair. His chair jerked violently and Dixon fell backwards, his head narrowly missing the Nature Table.

Papers fluttered, pencils rumbled across desks and the children shrieked gleefully at the thought of seeing someone really hurt themselves. They surrounded Dixon as he lay there, winded, like an airman still strapped in his ejector seat sinking slowly into the desert. Omnipotent Mrs. Jenkins looked down on him, ‘Get up you stupid boy, you could’ve cracked your head open.’

Dixon wondered then as he has done since, what does ‘cracking your head open’ mean?

At senior school, Lesley, erratic since her father’s death, used to sit behind Dixon and on occasion, she’d pull his chair away just as he was about to sit down and Dixon would land with a flump that suggested there was no suspension in his body. When Mr. Tearney shouted at him, Dixon would protest ‘It wasn’t me!’ and he’d say ‘me’ with such fervent incredulity as though at the epicentre of existence it had been decreed that Dixon could do no wrong. Dixon uncoordinated and short sighted was not pilot material. He had decided instead on the priesthood and depended on his virtue to ensure that if he himself could not take to the skies then at least his spirit could.

Mr. Tearney said ‘you could’ve cracked your head open, you silly boy.’

+

to read more click here

if you would like to leave feedback, please use the form below