The Diary I Didn't Keep

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Hi Everyone,  and a big welcome to new readers.

You are in time to catch the opening pages of my new novel, The Diary I Didn't Keep. This book is not yet written and I will be writing it with you all in mind. Your eagerness to read each instalment will be my inspiration and encouragement, as well as terrifying me. The reader is the writer's collaborator. It needs both of us to make a novel really come alive. Please help me by clicking on the 'like' icon (if you feel so moved) and by making suggestions – the Comments box is all yours. Thank you.

Warmest greetings from cold and wet Edinburgh, Ron

Now please read on...

THE DIARY I DIDN'T KEEP

I'm only16, he tells me – and so what? I want to give this 600-year-old, him and his black MA gown, a quick Fuck you! Then straight out the door. Christ, even when he’s alone the man’s wearing his mortarboard! Clearing his throat now, waiting for my answer.

That Fuck you is right on the tip of my tongue. I can taste it, soon be spitting it out.

'You do have a job to go to?'

Give the man a beard and he could be Moses leading the tribes to the Promised Land: three Highers gets you to the uni; two Highers, the tech college; none, nowhere except shops and building sites.

11 years’ school, then toiling ever after till I drop? I take aim. Give it him right between the eyes: 'No.'

There’s a pause.

If he’s waiting for the ‘sir’, he’s going to be waiting a long time.

Finally: 'No job, boy, and you want to leave? Who's been –?'

Moses needs someone to blame for what’s about to happen – him seeing the back of my neck going out the door, never to return.

Like the Rev told us, say that I listened to my inner voice? Say it was yelling at me to get the fuck out of here while I still can, and tack on a ‘sir’ at the end? That way Moses can blame the Rev, and the Rev can blame God. They're both off the hook and everyone’s happy.

He’s picked up his pen and smoothes out a sheet of paper I can see has my name on it in block caps.

‘Your school record needs to be complete. How about the Hudson Bay Company? I have a pamphlet here. Came just today. They're looking for...' He drones on, I tune in and then out.

Me, in the Canadian wilderness, the natives bringing me animal pelts to trade with? It sounds interesting for a moment, almost. But turns out I’d just be a clerk in the middle of nowhere – nothing but snow for five hundred miles in every direction.

'It'll be an adventure! Exciting! If I was your age, I'd –'

Moses has never been my age and never will be. If him, his gown and his mortarboard have ever known a moment's excitement, or adventure, it doesn't show.

He glances down at my sheet, my life story to date. 'I see you have higher maths, English and physics, an A, a B, and a C. How about I put you down as a submarine technician? A trainee?' He points to another glossy pamphlet on his desk. 'They're crying out for them.'

Fucking submarine? I just stop myself from saying, See the world, will I? Instead, I toss him a nod. Anything to get out of here.

And a moment later, in his pen-and-paper world, my future stretches before the two of us: me fifty fathoms down and him never needing to see me again. Nice one. I give him a grin.

'That attitude of yours, boy, leaves a lot to be –'

Attitude? He doesn't know the half of it, or any of it. Nobody does. Not even me, and I'm the one that’s boiling it all up inside of me.

Glossy pamphlets left untouched, I am out the door.

And I would've been down the corridor, past the boys’ cloakroom, into the playground, the street and out into the world I can’t wait to feel spinning under my feet. Like I said, I would have been, but I'm not. Instead, here I am in Russian. One last dasvidaniya to my fellow-tovariches before I vanish? A last moment’s cringing lust at a few of the girls I've never had the courage to speak to?

Russian is Walleyes' domain, his fiefdom. He has belted me on and off like he's belted every moujik here, except for the girls. Must be a teaching method he learnt at Moray House College back in the Middle Ages. Thanks to my farewell chat with Moses, the period's not got long to go. I start to explain my absence but, hardly missing a beat, he waves me to my desk. He’s already built up a head of steam. His desk behind him, he’s out in the open where his glittering eyes and predatory pacing up and down in front of the first row tell me my last memory of this seat of learning will star either Wee Woodie or, in the next desk, Fred who lives in one of the schemes.

Suddenly the audition’s over.

And Wee Woodie it is. Small matchstick of a boy, with red hair.

Walleyes takes up position directly in front of Woodie's desk. 'To recap, ladies and gentlemen, the present tense in Russian comes in two forms.' He picks up Wee Woodie's Russian grammar, a hardback. 'Firstly, we have the actual present.' He clouts Woodie on the head, once only, while announcing, 'I hit the boy.' Wee Woodie gives a yowl.

I feel my fist clench under my desk. Now's the time to march down to the front, Listen, Walleyes. Prodding his waistcoat till he’s backed up against his desk and I’m right in his face: Russian might be the coming language, but you’re still a fucking arse and always will be. Then stroll out. Good exit line that everyone will remember.

But before I can get to my feet, the lesson has moved on. ‘The continuous present.’

We can all guess what's coming and feel sorry for Wee Woodie. At the same time, we’re glad it's not us.

Walleyes now sets the Russian grammar swinging like a pendulum to the left, to the right, left, right, every swing connecting as he calls out, 'I am hitting the boy.’ Woodie's four separate yells become one, neatly illustrating the continuity motif. Shit! I start getting to my feet. I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell that fucker what a –

Bell's ringing. Ringing for the next class, next belting, next exam. For me, the bell is ringing out FREEDOM! FREEDOM! FREEDOM!

The corridor's standing room only and everywhere I look there's folk staring back at me like I'm another life form, no longer one of them. Word’s got out somehow. There are questions, congratulations, backslaps coming at me from all sides. I’m Mr. Popular for the first time in my life. Even with the girls.

The crowd starts thinning out. The main door's only a few steps ahead. I can hardly believe it: everyone’s going on to their next class, everyone but me. Then I'm through the door, and out.

I’m taking my first breath of freedom, sucking it in deep when –

'Rumour is yer going tae London?'

It is?

I turn to see my friend Andy.

Next thing, I hear myself saying, 'London's far out, man. It’s all happening down there.'

'Going there in style, on the BSA?' he asks. We both have motorbikes. Mine is a twin and spray-painted gold. Looks great. Looks fast too, with dropped bars, but both tyres are so thin you can almost see the inner tubes, and the carburettor's worked by a length of string.  Hardly get me to Annan.

'I'll be hitching. Easy-peasy. Gretna, Carlisle, across to Scotch Corner, then straight down the A1. Done it afore. 10 hours max. Plenty lorries, vans, commercials.'

'An yer leavin the morn?'

I am?

Tomorrow?

'That's the plan,' I answer. Which it is now.

'Mind if I come along?'

From the odd remarks we’ve shared over a stripped-down gearbox, piston rod and the like, I know he has his troubles, too.

At the school main gates we say goodbye. 'Till the morn then.'

I watch Andy go back into school to see the headie and his mortarboard. Moses is having a busy day.