The grey and austere walls of the Mercer’s School for Boys seemed better suited to crushing the spirit rather than building it. Well, that was the humble opinion of one of the humblest members of its fraternity. Mornington, like the London underground station, nicknamed ‘Moon’ as a consequence of his mind’s tendency to disappear into outer space during lessons, had just turned thirteen, that early Autumn of 1961.
The bell chimed for the end of the mid-morning break, however Moon was never quite sure whether the sound was to be welcomed or dreaded. The pealing signified the end of the period of organised bullying by his peers, but the commencement of the period of more subtle but equally sadistic bullying by his teachers. It seemed as if there was never any reprieve.
Along with his classmates, he scurried down the dark, oppressive corridors with their broken tiled floors that must have carried countless thousands of other wretched individuals during the school’s five centuries of existence. His father had attended Mercer’s (and hence his own enrolment) but his father had been a member of the first fifteen ‘rugger’ team, a corporal in the military training that the school proudly practised, and had excelled at just about everything.
In fact his father’s old military uniform still fitted the old man’s ramrod-straight back superbly, and no matter how physical an activity he engaged in while wearing it, no crease ever dared to appear.
