28 July 2012
Punch a few noses Silly Smee
And the bully boys will let you be
Those lines are part of a poem I always meant to write but never did, a ghost from my East End schooldays that I always intended to exorcise by verse, but felt I never quite deserved to. It has been in my head and perhaps my heart for 45 years. As memories go, that of Jimmy Smee is unique; far from being clouded by the years it becomes more graphic with the onset of time. Clearer even today than it was yesterday.
Jimmy Smee was a huge, deep voiced, thick featured boy who at the age of fourteen towered above all the other kids and most of the teachers too. He had, it seemed, narrowly missed being downs syndrome and was inevitably dubbed 'Silly Smee'. I had known him since infants school; he possessed an incredible strength out of keeping with his years, but often consistent with those who were not all the ticket as we used to say. This strength however was nullified by a rare gentleness and complete absence of aggression. I think Silly Smee was in terms of thought and deed the most non-violent person I have ever encountered.
Mrs Smee was a tiny grey haired woman who looked old enough to be Silly's grandmother. She would bring him to school every morning and meet him every afternoon. They were a familiar sight through the thick green railings behind the Plane trees, Silly holding his mums hand right up to the school gate and hugging her with the kind of embrace normally reserved for an airport departure lounge. It would meet with regular howls of derision from us normal kids already inside. I remember the sad little lady always walked with a stoop as if battling against some unseen force and would often stop at the spiked gate watching her son disappear among the howling, hostile throng. Sometimes, especially on the first day of a new term she would see him right across the playground to the concrete steps of the school building. We decided Silly's mum must have been as daft as he was.
Mr Smee worked on the tug-boats, a broad, bullnecked man; he had been a bit of a boxer in his time, not too successful, but good enough to allow his exaggerated swagger to go unchallenged in the local pubs. The story was that Tug Smee, as he was known, had wanted his son to be heavyweight champion or at least an accomplished street fighter. In disappointment and disgust he had disowned both Silly and his doting mother. It was certainly true that he was never seen in the company of either of them. Silly rarely mentioned his father, but occasionally on a still morning when one of the many tug boats would wail from down river like a distant, mournful whale, he would stand with that silly grin on his face and say Thats my dad that is. He said it with what almost amounted to pride.
In the asphalt arena of the playground where the absence of compassion and understanding gave the denim clad gladiators a kind of barbed innocence, the remark was greeted with hilarity.
I can never recall anyone feeling sorry for Silly Smee, even the overworked staff whose time was mostly spent struggling for some semblance of order among the unruly throng, seemed to accept his inability to learn with a weary resignation. The fact that we almost always laughed at him and never with him didnt matter to Silly; any attention, however cruel, made him feel like one of the gang, which of course he never was. Even when the bullies would punch and kick the hulking boy as a safe proof of their prowess, he would simply laugh until they grew tired of the exercise. He never appeared to feel pain, mental or physical, never cried, argued or became angry. Silly lived his life on a different plane to the rest of us; it was as if he was from another planet.
One moist, misty morning with the promise of penny bangers in the air and the gold and brown collage of Plane leaves freshly under boot from the mob, Silly Smee was to help fashion the rest of my life. Break time began much the same as usual, the giant figure in a ridiculously small anorak that in the first year had been ridiculously large, could be seen across the playground dwarfing a ring of laughing tormentors. This sight didnt warrant much interest, it was nothing unusual, but I sauntered over anyway to watch or perhaps join in if the mood took me. As I drew nearer I was aware of something different, very different. Silly wasnt laughing, he wasnt even grinning, in fact there was a look of panic on his face. The group were throwing and kicking something to each other and the frantic boy was desperately trying to retrieve it.
Now this really was interesting, Silly was upset, the great soft lump was actually upset. Well aware that he was capable of throwing his antagonists in the air as one would a rag doll, I watched in excited anticipation. Although relishing the likely outcome of this disturbance I could not for the life of me fathom the cause. Then it dawned on me, the soggy dripping bundle that had just been rugby kicked with a resounding squelch in the direction of the toilets, was in fact a small teddy bear. I never dreamt Silly still had that Teddy, it was his constant companion at infants school and I saw it once in his desk at juniors, but to bring it here to this Spartan field was, even for him, an act of extreme folly.
The now mutilated brown teddy who unlike its owner, had retained its grin if not its left arm, landed with a loud plop against the toilet wall. Unfortunately it was also at the feet of the obese and obnoxious Fatty White arch bully and scourge of pupils and teachers alike. A twisted smile spread over his malevolent fat face as he began to grind an excessively hob nailed boot onto the toy. Almost instantly Silly was on the fat boy, he didnt attack him, but simply without malice, removed him. Fatty White sailed through the air and landed some feet away in a large puddle where he floundered like some stricken Humpty Dumpty. The mob in contrast to the bully, who was now screaming, was stunned into silence.
Silly was crouching by the concrete steps arms encircling his knees. Clutching his prize tightly to his chest, he began to gently rock to and fro. I walked over and looked closely at him; to my amazement he was crying.
It was like seeing Jimmy Smee for the first time; it was like seeing myself for the first time. A floodgate of new feeling opened for me, I felt pity, compassion, remorse, regret and more. It had gone too far, I could have stopped it, I should have stopped it. not Harry Boy or Sharpy or Ginger or even the doddering Mr Grant who was supposed to be on play-ground duty, but me, it was all down to me. I should have stopped it a long time ago.
I put my arm around Silly, unwittingly calling him his name for the first time. Look Jimmy, lets take him and dry him off, he will be alright once he's dry again. I can soon find his arm. Jimmy said nothing, he just carried on rocking.
Two teachers came and took him home, one on each arm, across the playground, across the Plane leaves and out through the spiked gate for the last time. An ambulance came and took Fatty White away. He'd broken his arm, bloody good job too. Jimmy never came back to our school any more; they said he went to a special school. Fatty White did and was as obnoxious as ever.
That memory has coloured my thinking ever since. It was my beginning in the coloured world. I often wonder how many others in that crowded playground still see the spectre of Silly Smee and are changed because of it. When the strong oppress the weak, the violent menace the gentle and the unfeeling decry the sensitive and its is easier to walk away, I know, I remember him. That memory fills my eye and that poem I always meant to write fills my head and I cannot let it be. I feel after all that it is still down to me.
Autobiography by:
TOM MAY
PUNCH A FEW NOSES SILLY SMEE • Opuss № I