A Moving Story by James Wrethman
When I reached the summer of my eleventh year I was hit by a bombshell: we were moving out of Govan. The new apartment would be in Penilee, a housing scheme originally built to accommodate the workers of the nearby Hillington Industrial Estate.
My parents saw this move as a great opportunity, for although it was still a council property, we would have a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms and wonder of wonders, a bathroom and toilet to ourselves- inside the apartment.
However, at that time no amount of salesmanship by my parents could convince me that this was a desirable move. Likewise, no amount of tears and tantrums could convince them that I would be better staying in the back courts of Rathlin Street where I could climb the dykes, catch giant beetles and throw slates at the rats which populated the ‘middens’.
The trauma I was going through lasted until the removal men invited me to travel inside the van with them as they made their way to our new home. The novelty and excitement of the "flittin" ( house-moving in Glaswegian) overcame my sadness at leaving, and fear of the unknown.
The first school I attended, after our move from Govan to Penilee, was Linburn Primary, a one-story construction which formed a quadrangle on a large open field in the centre of the housing scheme. One event in particular was to mark the start of my educational experience at Linburn. I call it my ‘hubris’ moment - a rapid descent from a momentary high.
The school perimeter was marked by a six foot high iron fence. In those days, it was probably there to keep pupils in; today, such a barrier’s main purpose might well be to keep maniacs out. The height was no doubt deemed sufficient to deter 10 year-old or younger pupils from absconding during playtime. It was unfortunately not high enough, to stop my left-foot (meant only for standing on) shot. Instead of the ball rebounding gloriously from between the two jackets hanging there to mark the goal, it infuriatingly and agonisingly ballooned over the barrier and into the waste ground beyond.
Missing a golden opportunity in front of goal is enough to make you unpopular with your own side. Losing the only ball, over the fence attracted unanimous displeasure. There was only one way to retrieve the situation and here my earlier Govan dyke-climbing experiences could be put to good advantage. I hauled myself up on to the perpendicular bar which joined the rails about one foot from the top and perched there with my feet lodged between the spiked-tops. I paused to select a place on which a short-trousered schoolboy could safely land, on waste ground almost entirely covered by tall nettles. I also lingered for effect. I was sure not many of the guys and certainly none of the girls, who I hoped were now watching, would have been able to perform such a feat. Satisfied, that I was now the centre of attention I sprang forward and downwards from my perch. There seemed to be a momentary resistance but the gravitational pull carried me through it and I landed safely, if a little clumsily. But the momentary resistance I had overcome, drooped on the fence like a flag at half-mast: my shorts.
Much later I would reflect that the situation could have been worse. The trouser leg which had snared on the spike could have held, instead of giving way at the seams. In which case, I would have been left dangling ridiculously from the fence and would have required assistance to get down. But, at that moment, amid the laughter emanating from the other side of the fence, I could find no immediate consolation. Neither would I quickly retrieve the situation. Boys being boys, my trousers were gleefully seized and were now being paraded around the playground to maximise my embarrassment.
I was now obliged to re-scale the fence as the only other alternative was to walk round to the street entrance, in my underpants, and ask for admittance from the Janitor. This option I did not find immediately appealing. Apart from the fact that, once again, I would look ridiculous, I’d have to admit to breaking the rules on leaving the school grounds and that would put me in deep trouble with the Head.
Before starting the ascent I did try unsuccessfully to barter the ball for my trousers, in the vain hope that when I did get over I could somehow salvage some pride by wrapping them around me. But now the sound of the assembly bell, to mark the end of playtime, made my return to the other side all the more urgent. Unfortunately, a dip in the ground on the waste-land side, and clumps of barbed weeds and nettles, made the climb from the outside a much more formidable task. Haste does not aid precision. Several shin bruises and nettle-stings later I was finally able to land on the other side. Just in time to arrive trouser-less and red-faced to the centre of the playground, where the now massed ranks of sniggering and guffawing pupils were only just being kept under control by several teachers who awaited my explanation with interest.
I was punished, sent home with borrowed pants and a note describing my disgraceful conduct. My parents said the event only served to reinforce the points they had been making for some time.
Dad: that I should practice more with my left foot.
Mum: that I must always wear spotlessly clean underwear.
