Channeling the past

Remembering the boys who shaped my childhood

This short post is inspired by an email I received from a person I have never met…

I have great affection for my childhood, particularly my school days, although I only fared averagely. Forever on the fringes of the school team and not managing a single grade A in any public exam.

I went to an all-boys London comprehensive, chock full of London Irish Catholics like me.

I have forgotten most of my fellow pupils, and it is interesting which kids I can recall and why.

One boy in my year was known as the clever kid. We sat next to each other for Ancient History A-level, and this was as close as I ever got to him academically. He was the son of an Irish builder, went on to Oxford, became a Chartered Accountant, and sent his son to Eton. From Irish labourer to old Etonian in three generations. How about that for social progression and the power of education?

Another classmate was the tough kid, equally admired and feared. I liked him very much, and I still bear the scars of our friendship. He chipped my front tooth while playing a game of British Bulldog. I forgave him, obviously, but really, what choice did I have? After school, he headed off to prison for seven years. A further education in some respects, but unlikely to feature on any of the boards of honour in our school reception.

And then there was Joe in the year below me. An avid Liverpool fan, he had a ticket for the ill-fated 1989 FA semi-final against Nottingham Forest at Hillsborough. A game that never took place. Fans who arrived without tickets and police errors caused a crush inside the stadium, and 97 Liverpool fans died, including Joe. He was big and strong, and I reasoned that if he couldn’t free himself from the crush, then no one could. I sat next to his coffin in Ealing Abbey on the eve of his funeral. Such an unnecessary death, and I wondered what might have been ahead for him. He was only 21.

And so, to this email I flagged at the beginning, from someone called Annie, the sister of a boy in my year, but whom I hardly knew. We had a few cursory exchanges, and I liked him without really knowing why. He was quiet, had a kindly face and a sort of vulnerability which I might have responded to. I didn’t understand why; it was just something I discerned.

After our first summer break – 1980 – we all returned to school except for this boy, who had died on holiday in America. We learned that he had a disease called haemophilia and had been hit on the head playing softball. An ironic name for a ball that killed him.

The email from Annie was very moving. It was simply stating that it had been 40 years since her brother’s death, and she wanted people who had known him to remember him.

How poignant and kind. That a sister would want to do this for her late brother.

I receive a lot of correspondence from yesteryear and the present day, and my apologies to anyone still waiting for a reply. In truth, I cannot mentor people (which is the most common request) nor read people’s novels or writing because I don’t have enough time, and what do I know, anyway?

But Annie’s email stopped me, and of course I replied.

A pause for thought, it burst my woe-is-me bubble that afflicts us all and we must be mindful of.

The email coincided with the inaugural comedians’ golf day – now long defunct. You might think this day would be a great laugh, but it wasn’t. It poured with rain all day, my golf was pathetic, and my spirits were rock bottom, until I thought of Annie’s email, and I snapped to.

Here I am, playing golf with a bunch of comedians. Annie’s brother never got a chance to play golf, become a comedian, get married, or become a dad…

His name was David Leslie. He was a nice young man, and I remember him fondly.

Thank you, Annie. You’re a great sister. What you did for David is very kind.

I hope that, with the power of the internet, this Substack post might cross your path and serve as a tribute to David’s tragically short life.