The news reported the death of John Sessions recently. It was a bit of a shock because he was only two years older than I am. I know this because he was two years ahead of me in school. We attended the same secondary school in the Home Counties and I became aware of him fairly soon after arriving there. That in itself was unusual because, although it was far more likely that the only reason boys two years ahead made contact with the "new halos" - our navy school caps had a bright yellow ring around the head - would be to beat them up, John was not like that. Such a "welcome" had been my experience in the past. I rather hoped that a mass influx of boys into the new institution would provide some herd immunity.
John Marshall, as I came to recognise him, was not interested in establishing his place in the pecking order by physical interaction. He had no need. He had something of a penchant for climbing on to a table and putting on a show, usually imitating perfectly any teacher in the school. I thought he was brilliant and I was often one of a crowd of younger boys egging him on in these performances. He did not need a lot of persuasion. Occasionally, though, he scared the life out of me.
I wasn't specially happy at school and some places were very dark indeed. The p.e. department was staffed by psychopaths, one of whom had no place being allowed anywhere near children. I avoided him at all costs, but one day he dragged me out of a rugby scrum by my hair screaming abuse at me and shaking me so hard I couldn't stand up. I must have done something to displease this lunatic, but I never did find out what. His verbal correction was a torrent of noise that carried no meaning. I lost clumps of hair for days after that incident and experienced the trauma of it for weeks.
The sunlit back corridor that led to the gymnasium had another dark space, the infamous Room 11. The classroom had windows facing north and, with its half-drawn blinds, was a very gloomy room indeed. Had it been situated in the basement it would have been the school's equivalent of Room 101 from George Orwell's 1984. Room 11 was the demesne of Bullet. No teacher in the school would ever earn legendary status if he had not been awarded a nickname known and used throughout the school that was passed on to successive cohorts of innocent pupils. Some teachers had nicknames used by one class or year group, but they were clearly of a lower order in the school pantheon. Consequently, alongside Bullet, I was taught by Prang, Soupie, Solo, Peanuts, Bo, Dum (not Dum as in Dumb - this was Latin pronunciation for the Latin teacher), Jerry and others whose names I shall probably edit in if they come back to me from more than fifty years ago. Second division (usually less a reflection of their professional skills than a notoriety associated with particular quirks of character) teachers were known by contractions or extensions of their surnames or by their given names if we thought we knew them. Among these I can remember Alf, Chris, George, Josh, Wee Ado, Don, Jack, Jack, Gus. Ma and Pa were the affectionate names we used for a married couple who taught different subjects. Ma taught R.E and English and I liked her a lot. I'm not sure she liked me when, in my innocence, I regurgitated racist and exclusionist Mormon theology. One day an off-the-cuff remark from her sowed a seed that challenged me to examine the nature of conscience. That seed bore fruit many years later. I believe Pa went on to become the head of the school for a few years. However, whoever the teacher, John could mimic them all. I'm sure many were flattered by his attentions although it would not have been appropriate to show it.
There was no sign over the door to Room 11, but had there been it would probably have read, "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter". In contrast to the gloom of the room itself the corridor had windows at head height looking out south over a courtyard and in my memory the sun shone as perpetually into the corridor as Room 11 saw its natural light sucked out. The corridor mocked the impending forty minutes. Bullet demanded we sat in alphabetical order of our surnames in class. So conditioned were we it took me nearly a year to become the first boy in our year group to challenge the custom of referring to or addressing other boys only by their surnames. It took some boys much longer. In order to facilitate the most orderly entrance into his dungeon Bullet demanded we line up in the corridor in alphabetical order too. Once in the room the command would be issued, "Bags and baggage on the floor". It's funny how memories reappear if one gives the reminiscences a bit of a stir. I can hear Bullet intoning the command now. No one else spoke in that very measured way. There was a rumour he had a metal plate in his head from the war and his whole demeanour was of menace in its purist form. I could not imagine him having any friends on the staff or even that he knew any of the names of his colleagues. He was alone, fierce and sometimes single-handedly filled after-school detentions with boys who had contravened his rules for order in the classroom by dropping a pen, not having the right books, entering the room out of alphabetical order, coming in late or, worst of all, failing to cover their exercise books with brown paper or hand homework in on time. No excuse was acceptable. Absence on a day homework was set required the absentee to borrow someone's book and copy up the notes and complete the homework just the same. Notes were dictated verbatim or copied from the board. I had always found maps and atlases fascinating. Whenever I went anywhere I bought a map. I had boxes of maps at home. Considering Bullet's subject was geography and teaching me should have been like barging through an open door Bullet did a fine job of nearly ruining that for me. Map outlines came from a rolling ink stamp that he printed into our geography books, one at a time, during the lesson, starting with the 'A's on the front bench all the way through to the 'W's and 'Y's at the back. In other classes such unproductive use of the time would have found boys whispering or chatting. No one whispered or chatted in Bullet's lesson. A smack on the side of the head from behind was just as likely as he loomed over each boy with ink pad and roller if he encountered anything of which he disapproved. It was the only lesson where no one spoke unless asked a question directly. In all my years in education on both sides of the desk I never encountered anyone else like Bullet. I learned how to plot contour lines to show the profile of an elevation (ask me about George's Island or Woofmonk Island sometime). I learned that the English pronunciation for Lyons, and Marseilles had to be Li-ons and Mar-sails unless we were prepared to pronounce Paris "Paree" and no one dared do that outside of Bo or Gus's French lessons.
One day, having Geog as the first lesson after morning break I headed to my place in the line outside Room 11. I was eating a Walnut Whip I'd bought in the break time tuck shop when I heard the nasal drawl of Bullet issuing a command. I hadn't seen him arrive and, as George Orwell colourfully described in a phrase that I came to understand could be a real thing, my bowels turned to water. In my panic I nearly choked attempting to swallow the marshmallow confection whole. I didn't fancy being put in the detention book for eating in the corridor. Then I realised it wasn't Bullet at all, but John bloody Marshall. My relief was a tangible thing that day.
The subject I probably enjoyed more than any other at school was English. I wanted to enjoy art too, which in the main I did, but I just wasn't very good at it. I achieved the difficult task of actually failing my art O'level, but English I managed to enjoy and had a bit of a crush on a couple of my English teachers. Since I first learned how, I have always loved to read and also to write. The only thing I had difficulty with in English was thinking. I really wanted to do well, but I found it difficult to remember things and I found the analysis difficult too. I think the teachers who made a good impression on me and for whom I actually wanted to do my best were some of my teachers of English. Chris was one of those and Don was another. Hearing Chaucer read aloud for the first time ever by Don was a revelation. I fell in love with the sound of the language.
I addition to teaching Eng. and Eng. Lit. Don also produced the annual school play. One year he decided to mount a production of The Tempest. Several of my friends were keen actors, some of them auditioning successfully for parts in National Youth Theatre productions with a couple going on to act professionally. I'd done a bit, but I wasn't really comfortable on stage. I had grown up listening to my mother telling me stories of how she had been on stage in Liverpool and London as a child, before her illnesses and the war intervened though I've never really got to the bottom of how those gigs came about - although I think school productions played a part. I suppose I should have asked more questions, but she was always very keen to support if I ever showed an interest in any vaguely theatrical activity. I joined my friends in auditioning for The Tempest and was given the part of Sebastian, not a particularly nice character, but I don't think I really understood that at the time. During my adolescence I was prone to chest infections, bronchitis and asthma and, after spending several months learning and rehearsing the part I came down with bronchitis about ten days before the curtain was due to go up on the first of a three night run. School productions being often run on hope, understudies were in short supply. However, I was not overly concerned. By that time I knew the way these bouts of illness played out and I was sure I would be well enough and back at school for the show, probably even for the dress and technical rehearsals. However, Don was not so sure. He showed his concern by actually coming to our house to see me and talk to my mother a few days before the play opened. A teacher coming to the house in those days was very unusual. He wasn't prepared to take a chance on me so he said he would see if he could find an understudy. He found a volunteer who stayed up all Wednesday night before the show opened the following day and who learned the part in one sitting. His Sebastian went well enough so Don told him he could play the final night on Saturday too. All my months of work amounted to a single, probably lacklustre, rendition on the Friday. It felt so unfair and when I tried to argue my case Don said that it was perfectly fair because this understudy had taken the trouble to learn the part at very short notice. I wondered how learning a part overnight and avoiding going through the gruelling months of rehearsal made it fair. Don said I could watch the show without having to buy a ticket - big deal. To be fair John Marshall (yeah, him again - the future John Sessions) was pretty good. There's a part in the play where Sebastian is called upon to laugh and John's laugh was definitely better than mine. He brought me new insight. I'd never have thought of rolling on my back to deliver that laugh. John was inspired and I hated him for it for a very long time. I never attempted to audition for a school play after that.
John disappeared from school shortly after. That may have been the time he moved to go to school in another town. I saw him - or thought it was him - once more under very unexpected circumstances in 1977. That was the year of my final teaching practice. The junior school in which I had been working was finishing the year by taking the class I'd been teaching to York for a week on the annual school trip for the children about to move on to secondary school. I had to get special permission from college to be one of the adults on the trip. The class teacher knew my interest in Early Music and dance and asked me if I would like to take four children to a performance of the York Mystery Plays which coincided with the visit that year. We talked about which children would be likely to get the most from the experience. I certainly was enjoying the experience and the responsibility, but was less entranced when I thought I recognised Lucifer ... or was it Satan. The voice was familiar and the laugh was unmistakable. I didn't get the chance to renew our acquaintance because I had to get the children back to the hostel and that was the last time I saw John in real life. It was also the first time I was aware he used a different name. It certainly wasn’t Marshall. but I don’t think it had yet become Sessions. It was only several years later that he emerged as the rightfully lauded writer and performer he became. I read recently some mention of his years of illness and problems with stage anxiety. I never saw that John Marshall. My condolences to his family and friends, of which I assume there are many.
