The Way We Were: Another Brick in the Wall, December 1979

Mr Evans hated me. 

Mr Evans was the Deputy Headmaster, but also our Maths teacher, and much to his dismay I was the best at maths in my year, possibly in the entire school. 

Mr Evans didn’t like me because I didn’t laugh at his jokes, and, in addition to the crime of not laughing at his jokes, I was well behaved, didn’t fool around in class, and gave him no excuse to punish me.  

I hated Mr Evans, because although Maths was my best subject, he made Maths lessons a grind, ignoring my eternally elevated arm, eager to answer, he instead chose his favourites, the idiot boys, the one who couldn’t count their own fingers, let alone solve quadratic equations.   

“Is it seven?” Tommy always said, it was the only number Tommy knew. 

Keen for his prized idiot boy to be right, Mr Evans would start fixing the equations set, so that the answer was always seven, hence Tommy would always be right. He would then turn to me for the workings out.  

At break time a group of us would play one-touch football on the tennis courts, a game egalitarian in nature, as the need to pass meant that no player could dominate, meaning that even I got to kick the ball occasionally. 

As we were playing, a burly fifth year boy, Charlton Harris, leapt out on an unsuspecting group of hopscotch-playing first years; holding them still with one hand, like rabbits on the chopping block, and spraying their hair bright shock pink with the other, with a can of spray-on hair-dye.   

He managed to thus decorate three kids before the rest could flee and, ignoring the mawing, weeping and wailing in his wake, moved on to the next victims: some second years so grossly engaged in banter that they were unaware of his presence, until he'd squirted their hair orange through the fence.   

Altogether Charlton managed to decorate a dozen little brats before he ran out of spray.  The playground had never looked so colourful, little orange and pink-toppeds ran around screaming and wailing in misery, while the unpainted scampered around in blind fear like a pack of deer who’d wandered into a lion’s picnic area.   

As Charlton was throwing the empty cans into the bin, he was accosted by a limp hand on his shoulder.  It was Mr Evans, the teacher responsible for patrolling the playground that particular lunchtime, who had, up to that point somehow failed to notice the exotic plumages that followed in Charlton's wake.   

Charlton turned round and looked down at him.  Mr Evans rose himself to full height, still six inches shorter than Charlton, but with the added stature that comes with the authority of the school behind him. 

“What are you doing boy?” he asked pathetically. 

“Putting my rubbish away, stupid. Why, is it against the rules to use the bin?” 

“Erm, no, I mean,” Mr Evans looked into the bin cautiously, and triumphantly fished out the recently disposed of can. “I mean it’s against the rules to spray people’s hair pink.  Or orange. Just look at the playground, it’s covered in queerly coloured children.” 

“ 

Ha, I know, it’s great isn’t it?” 

At this point Mr Evans started shaking his finger at Charlton.  “What you’ve done is disgraceful.  It’s abusing young children, you’ll bring shame to the school name. I’m going to take you to Miss Herdidge to be properly punished.” 

This threat did no go down well.  Charlton lifted Mr Evans up by his collar, until he was way above the boy’s head. 

“A simple rule”, I heard Charlton said, “Never, ever threaten me, all right?  I don’t want to see Miss Herdidge and I don’t want to be punished, so if I find myself in her office I will find out where you live and you won’t live there much longer.  Do I make myself clear?” 

Mr Evans nodded. 

“Right, I’m gonna put you down now, and I want you to walk away and forget this conversation ever happened.  And put that can back in the bin where it belongs.” 

Charlton slowly lowered the quaking teacher to the ground, snatched the can out of his hand and threw it with a crash into the trash.  He then swung his arm back, slammed an enormous punch into the pit of the teacher’s stomach and, while he was still doubled up with pain, lifted his head up by the hair until he was peering directly into his eyes and spat these words into his face. 

“Don’t you ever, ever, try picking on someone bigger than you, ‘cause it just don’t work out.” 

Charlton released his grip and Mr Evans slumped crying to the floor.  Charlton slouched off to more interesting climes, and Mr Evans slowly regained his composure, dusted himself down and grabbed at a passing pink-topped first year.  

“Hey you.  What are you doing with pink hair?  The school has rules you know.  You’re in a week’s detention and if you don’t wash that out of your hair tonight you’ll be expelled." 

“But sir”, the first year quivered “I didn’t do it, it was a big fifth year and I don’t think it washes out.” 

Mr Evans wasn’t listening, he was on a quest, and before lunch was over he’d tracked down every single one of Charlton's victims and given them all detention. 

That week, Mr Evan’s victims were suffering, because the dye didn’t wash out, and spent fearful nights with their heads in sinks.  The darker haired victims managed to get the worst out with three or four washes, but for the blonder boys, drastic action was needed.  One kid wore one of his mother’s wigs for the rest of the week, which attracted a certain amount of stick; and two kids got crew cuts, which resulted in extra detentions, but at least avoided expulsion.   

They faired better than another boy, Steve, who was expelled because the tinge of orange remained in his brilliant white hair for weeks afterwards and Steve refused to shave off his hair, as “it wasn’t fair”. 

Steve’s story angered Charlton, so one lunchtime Charlton and a couple of his friends lifted Mr Evan’s car, a pathetic little Morris Minor, and dumped it into the school skip .