Jimmy Williams
A "Young Jimmy Bakewell" story
The summer of ’69 seemed endless. It started early for young Jim Bakewell, as it did for the rest of the fifth form at Caulfield High School. It was their year to take the GCE examination. The usual regime had been implemented, which was to stop regular lessons weeks before the exam, and allow pupils to study on their own. Only attendance at the morning registration was required, and occasional special revision sessions. Otherwise, the burden of developing a study pattern and sticking with it was left entirely to the individual.
A burden indeed. For Jim, it was too much. He had survived so far with doing the bare minimum in homework assignments and had even skipped the occasional class. And when it was time for a test, he breezed through, always close to top marks.
Johnny Williams, on the other hand had to work hard at most subjects. But even so, he was a brilliant mathematician. Jimmy and Johnny always sat together at the front of Mr. Quick’s maths lessons, John, because he was keen, Jim because he could not see the blackboard from any other vantage point. They vied for top position with every test, alternating first and second.
And then John disappeared. He literally disappeared.
For a couple of lessons Jim sat on his own at the front, Quick staring at him as if he had kidnapped the poor kid. A week went by, and Jim became distraught. There was no longer any point to this game. Sure, the mental leaps kept coming, awareness rose with every chalk mark, but there was no longer any point to answering those dumb questions. John was the only one in the class who understood the rules.
Despite the recent council decision to allow massive development of the area, in the summer of ’69 Shoebury was still a relatively small lazy town. It had the air of the wild west. It was very much on the frontier. The town center, if one could call it that, was made up of two high streets parallel to each other - West Road and Ness Road. Same length, same hotchpotch of small two-story buildings. The greengrocer, the grocery store, the newsagent, the electrical shop, the clothes shop, the camping shop. Each with a small flat above it for the owner.
The streets surrounding the center were populated with a strange combination of council and private housing. In many cases one could not tell them apart. And for most people of the town it did not matter. Everyone had migrated up from 'The Smoke', and everyone was desperately trying to scratch out a living, one penny at a time. The Anatevka of Essex.
It was Sunday. Jim had managed to crawl out of bed early and had read a chapter of his mathematics text book, and had started another Asimov sci-fi mystery. It was hot outside his window, but dry, which was very unusual for England in the sixties. Somehow the bright sunshine had reminded him of John. The shock of ginger hair, and his George Harrison features, and his broad smile and crooked front teeth were vivid in Jim’s mind, even though he had not seen John for more than a week.
And then, as so often happened when he day-dreamed, he woke several minutes later somewhere else. This time he was on his bicycle peddling hard along Ness Road heading out of town towards Little Wakering. He couldn’t even remember where John lived. But he had an image of a two semi-detached cottages out in the sticks, somewhere in the Wakering area, somewhere beyond the brick fields.
And there they were. Two small white cottages in the middle of nowhere. Standing quietly. Defiant. Daring anyone to disturb them. Jim stood his bike up against the telegraph pole across the road, walked across without looking and then slowly up the path of the left hand cottage. The house was in a good state of repair, recently painted, and with a mass of honeysuckle around the door. He knocked - no answer. He tried again, still no answer.
There was a cornfield opposite the house. Jim walked back down the path, back across the road and out to the edge of the field to get a better view of the windows upstairs. He looked up at one of them and saw a face peering through the heavy blood-red curtains. It was dark inside, but he thought he could see John’s face.
Jim cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up at his friend. ‘John, what’s wrong? Are you coming back to school?’
There was no answer.
‘John, you can’t just drop school like that. You’re so close. The exam's only in a few weeks time.’
John’s arm appeared and stretched out to open the window. But it opened just a few inches. ‘I can’t come back...I just can’t. Leave me alone.’ And then it shut again, and the curtains were drawn. Jim never did find out why John had disappeared so suddenly. It was the first time he had ever had to deal with a loss and not know why.
Jim walked back to the front door and stood for a few minutes facing its deep green exterior. He thought about knocking again, and then noticed another face in the room to his left. It was probably his mother, although Jim had never met her. She was far enough back in the room to appear as if she were a ghost. She never moved, but she kept her stare fixed.
Jim lowered his head and felt his shoulders sink as he walked back down the cobbled path. He hadn’t noticed the daisies crowding him before, and the weed covered lawn. He had to lift the gate to get it to open again. It felt like he was caught in a spiders web.
He walked slowly back to his bike, and stood for a while, still not sure what to do next. He hadn’t known John well, but Jim had identified in him a kindred spirit. He felt cheated and hurt. No-one else he knew saw things in the way he did. No-one else looked forward so much to Quick's maths lessons, just so to feel the excitement of recognition. New concepts, never before learnt or experienced, were realized before the chalk had finished a sentence. Those leaps of intuition frightened and exhilarated both of them. Not knowing where they came from, not knowing what they meant.
He peddled a few circles on the dry, hard patch of clay by the corn field, stopped one last time to look up at that window, and then slowly made his way back to Shoebury.
He never saw John again.
A few weeks later a letter, addressed to Jim, dropped through the letter-box of No. 79 Bunters Avenue. He opened it. He had passed his Maths GCE with distinction. But he had no joy in his heart.
A burden indeed. For Jim, it was too much. He had survived so far with doing the bare minimum in homework assignments and had even skipped the occasional class. And when it was time for a test, he breezed through, always close to top marks.
Johnny Williams, on the other hand had to work hard at most subjects. But even so, he was a brilliant mathematician. Jimmy and Johnny always sat together at the front of Mr. Quick’s maths lessons, John, because he was keen, Jim because he could not see the blackboard from any other vantage point. They vied for top position with every test, alternating first and second.
And then John disappeared. He literally disappeared.
For a couple of lessons Jim sat on his own at the front, Quick staring at him as if he had kidnapped the poor kid. A week went by, and Jim became distraught. There was no longer any point to this game. Sure, the mental leaps kept coming, awareness rose with every chalk mark, but there was no longer any point to answering those dumb questions. John was the only one in the class who understood the rules.
Despite the recent council decision to allow massive development of the area, in the summer of ’69 Shoebury was still a relatively small lazy town. It had the air of the wild west. It was very much on the frontier. The town center, if one could call it that, was made up of two high streets parallel to each other - West Road and Ness Road. Same length, same hotchpotch of small two-story buildings. The greengrocer, the grocery store, the newsagent, the electrical shop, the clothes shop, the camping shop. Each with a small flat above it for the owner.
The streets surrounding the center were populated with a strange combination of council and private housing. In many cases one could not tell them apart. And for most people of the town it did not matter. Everyone had migrated up from 'The Smoke', and everyone was desperately trying to scratch out a living, one penny at a time. The Anatevka of Essex.
It was Sunday. Jim had managed to crawl out of bed early and had read a chapter of his mathematics text book, and had started another Asimov sci-fi mystery. It was hot outside his window, but dry, which was very unusual for England in the sixties. Somehow the bright sunshine had reminded him of John. The shock of ginger hair, and his George Harrison features, and his broad smile and crooked front teeth were vivid in Jim’s mind, even though he had not seen John for more than a week.
And then, as so often happened when he day-dreamed, he woke several minutes later somewhere else. This time he was on his bicycle peddling hard along Ness Road heading out of town towards Little Wakering. He couldn’t even remember where John lived. But he had an image of a two semi-detached cottages out in the sticks, somewhere in the Wakering area, somewhere beyond the brick fields.
And there they were. Two small white cottages in the middle of nowhere. Standing quietly. Defiant. Daring anyone to disturb them. Jim stood his bike up against the telegraph pole across the road, walked across without looking and then slowly up the path of the left hand cottage. The house was in a good state of repair, recently painted, and with a mass of honeysuckle around the door. He knocked - no answer. He tried again, still no answer.
There was a cornfield opposite the house. Jim walked back down the path, back across the road and out to the edge of the field to get a better view of the windows upstairs. He looked up at one of them and saw a face peering through the heavy blood-red curtains. It was dark inside, but he thought he could see John’s face.
Jim cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up at his friend. ‘John, what’s wrong? Are you coming back to school?’
There was no answer.
‘John, you can’t just drop school like that. You’re so close. The exam's only in a few weeks time.’
John’s arm appeared and stretched out to open the window. But it opened just a few inches. ‘I can’t come back...I just can’t. Leave me alone.’ And then it shut again, and the curtains were drawn. Jim never did find out why John had disappeared so suddenly. It was the first time he had ever had to deal with a loss and not know why.
Jim walked back to the front door and stood for a few minutes facing its deep green exterior. He thought about knocking again, and then noticed another face in the room to his left. It was probably his mother, although Jim had never met her. She was far enough back in the room to appear as if she were a ghost. She never moved, but she kept her stare fixed.
Jim lowered his head and felt his shoulders sink as he walked back down the cobbled path. He hadn’t noticed the daisies crowding him before, and the weed covered lawn. He had to lift the gate to get it to open again. It felt like he was caught in a spiders web.
He walked slowly back to his bike, and stood for a while, still not sure what to do next. He hadn’t known John well, but Jim had identified in him a kindred spirit. He felt cheated and hurt. No-one else he knew saw things in the way he did. No-one else looked forward so much to Quick's maths lessons, just so to feel the excitement of recognition. New concepts, never before learnt or experienced, were realized before the chalk had finished a sentence. Those leaps of intuition frightened and exhilarated both of them. Not knowing where they came from, not knowing what they meant.
He peddled a few circles on the dry, hard patch of clay by the corn field, stopped one last time to look up at that window, and then slowly made his way back to Shoebury.
He never saw John again.
A few weeks later a letter, addressed to Jim, dropped through the letter-box of No. 79 Bunters Avenue. He opened it. He had passed his Maths GCE with distinction. But he had no joy in his heart.