Receiving my clock for ten years service as a porter at the Manchester Business
School, sent my mind back 50 years, when I was nearly “Ha hacademic”
(See I can talk posh when I want)
The results of my 11-plus examination verified that I had
come nearly top of the school in the exam. Precipitating another exam at Xavarian
College!
Mam immediately rushed me to Stewart’s Outfitters, Ardwick Green, where
there was more ‘tick’ than in an H. Samuel’s watch. I’m
not denigrating my parents, just that they were never blessed with the Bank
of England product.
The suit mother selected was like gossamer, you daren’t
let go or it would float to the ceiling. “Genuine Harris Tweed Modom”
intoned the assistant. The only Harris Tweed was in the stitching. Suspended
from the ceiling were half a dozen suits, escaped from hapless parents. In the
fullness of time lead buttons were fitted, stopping the levitation.
The big interview day arrived, Rosary-Beads suspended from
my top pocket, Sacred Heart badge in lapel, statue of St. Jude in my jacket
pocket. (Priests made up the panel) The final touch, sugar and water to my quiff;
Ready for anything.
Seven cowled figures faced me at a long table, all wearing
brown robes and Jesus sandals. I approached the first figure, questions emanated
from a long dark cowl, (Ever been interviewed by a tunnel?) To every question
I answered “Dominus Vobiscum” which I thought sounded very ecumenical.
With years of practice, his hand flashed to the rosary round his waist, flicked
a rosary noose round my neck and with a spin passed me on to the next judge.
This was repeated all along the line ‘til I got to the last one, with a
voice wrapped in sackcloth he asked what I wanted to be on leaving school. “An
Artist Father”. Was my succinct reply. Even at eleven, as yet only normally
sensitive to “a thick ear” and” you’ll cop it when your
dad gets home”. I knew I’d blown it! His eyes glazed over, and he
took such an intake of breath that his teeth disappeared down his throat. I
don’t know which orifice they emerged from, but his top set appeared on
his right sandal, the bottom on the left. While he was still comatose, trying
to be revived by altar wine labeled “Glenfiddich”, I made my escape.
As you’ve surmised I never got to Xavarian College.
I was sent to St. Gregory’s Ardwick Green. Which ironically was directly
opposite Stewart’s Outfitters. Serves me right for criticizing them.
Peter Berry
