School Reunion, part 1

Andrew Davies was my favourite teacher at my Comprehensive. A Welshman in his mid-40s, broad, muscular, with thinning black hair and a big, bushy beard, plus terrifying eyebrows above a nearly permanent scowl. Six-foot-two tall, and probably something close to 20 stone, most of it muscle. He taught Maths and PE, and ran the Rugby Club; by the time I got to my 3rd year, he had become Deputy Headmaster. Every child has that one teacher whom they recall with a frisson of dread, the one whom they would never dare play up in front of, and Mr Davies was that teacher for many, many children – including me, for the first few years of my school career. I was never all that sporty – middle of the pack, generally – and I was terrified of his disapproval when I did poorly in PE; but I did have a head for Maths, and in that he was a very good teacher. I achieved A* grades at both GCSE and A Level under his tutelage, and with his personal help I managed to get accepted into Cambridge for my Maths degree.

I remember my very last day of 6th form, aged 18, making the rounds of all the teachers I’d known, shaking hands and thanking them while they wished me well. I’d left Mr Davies until last, and knocked on his office door with a familiar thrill of trepidation. I heard his deep, rumbling, Welsh-accented voice say “come”, and I stepped inside to see him sitting at his desk, scowling furiously as he wrote some document or other. I waited patiently until he looked up, seven years of training telling me to never interrupt a teacher, especially this one. When he finally did look up, his broad face broke into a wide, toothy smile.

“Young Mister Greene! I’m glad to see you. I was hoping you’d not leave without saying goodbye.”

“I’d never be so rude, sir,” I replied. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’d never have got such good grades without your teaching, and I’d certainly never have made it to Cambridge without your help.”

“Oh, pish and tush.” Mr Davies rose slowly from his seat, towering above me. For a moment I felt as if I were a first-year pupil again on my very first day, meeting and looking up at this giant of a man. “It was your hard work that got you to this stage, my boy; I just kept your hand firm on the tiller.” He strode heavily round to my side of the desk – Mr Davies did everything heavily – and stood in front of me. I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes, as he had a good six inches on my 5’8” height. From this distance, I could smell his distinctive scent – spicy aftershave mixed with mid-afternoon body odour, a whiff of cigar smoke and the smell of the peppermints he sucked to disguise it. I’d miss that aroma. Mr Davies placed his meaty, rugby-player’s hand gently on my shoulder, and I felt its heft. “I’m ridiculously proud of you, Tommy; I can count the number of my students who’ve made it to the Oxbridge Universities on the fingers of one paw.”

“I’ll do my best to continue to make you proud, Mr Davies.”

“I know you will, lad, I know you will.”

He squeezed my shoulder once – I felt his careful strength in that pressure – and his hand dropped away. There was a moment’s silence, as we just looked at each other; before it could become uncomfortable, I stuck out my right hand to shake his. “Goodbye, Mr Davies. I won’t forget you.”

Mr Davies grasped my hand, then to my surprise he threw his other arm around me and pulled me in to a powerful, manly hug.  After a moment’s shock, I hugged him back. His body felt like warm rock against mine. A second later, he released me, and I noticed a suspicious moistness in his eyes.

“See that you don’t. Goodbye, Mr Greene, and good luck to you.”

With that obvious dismissal, I smiled at him and turned to go. As I closed his door for the last time, I glanced back to see him retake his seat, dabbing at his eyes with an enormous white handkerchief.

After leaving Cambridge with a 2:1 in Mathematics (I missed out on a First by just a couple of points), I joined a firm of accountants in Birmingham who paid for me to train for and take my ACA exams, becoming a Chartered Accountant. I completed the qualification in three years, at which point I was transferred to the main office in London.

By the time I reached my early thirties, I had come to the decision that working in a large firm with all its internal politics and backbiting was not for me. I'd made a lot of money in the last decade, but I felt I would have a better work-life balance working for myself in a private practice. I was tired of the noise and the people in big cities, too, so shortly after my thirty-third birthday I packed up my life - lock, stock and calculator - and bought a nice little two-bedroom house in the lovely small West Sussex Market town of Arundel, big enough to be comfortable and to hold my home office. Fortunately for me, a decent percentage of my client base liked me enough to move accounts to my new practice, so I wouldn't have to struggle too much to build the business.

I completed moving - and the decorators had finally moved out - by the end of March. I decided to spend a couple of weeks exploring my new home, taking careful note of any firms or shops who might wish to switch accounts to an up-and-coming accountant. Like many small towns and villages in the South of England, Arundel had a somewhat disproportionate number of antique shops; I enjoyed peering in the windows to see what the proprietor considered "antique", and the sort of prices they were charging.

On my second Thursday, I was mooching down a side-street and came across a small antique shop called "Cymru Collectables". (Somebody obviously likes Wales), I thought to myself. (Probably just went on a holiday to Barry Island once). I peered through the window, as was my wont, looking at a fascinating array of old - but clearly well-cared-for - items. At the back of the shop I spied what could only be the proprietor standing behind the counter, his back to me. From what I could see he was a large, bald man, very broad across the beam, wearing a baggy old cardigan and brown corduroys. (Very nice), I thought, as he slowly turned, revealing a sizeable paunch - I'd always been attracted to older, bigger men. Probably since schooldays, when I'd had quite the crush on -

(Mr Davies!)

I couldn't believe my eyes. There, standing not fifteen feet away from me, was my favourite teacher and first crush. His enormous beard was shot through with grey, and he had clearly eaten well in the past fifteen years...but it was unmistakably him. For a moment I considered going in, reintroducing myself....but I got cold feet, suddenly. I turned and quickly walked away. As I strolled home, I found myself wondering what Mr Davies was doing here, running an antique shop of all things.

(Is he retired? No, no, he can't be more than mid-fifties, surely - maybe late fifties? He's certainly not sixty yet), I thought to myself, doing the calculations in my head. (I wonder what he's doing here? Well, selling antiques, obviously - but why here?).

The following Sunday, after doing some cleaning and a bit of outstanding work, I decided I deserved to treat myself to a pint. I had located all of the pubs within a few miles of my home - I liked a beer now and again - and picked one at random. It was a proper little country pub, not one of these Mock Tudor gastro-pubs you get in big cities; low beams, lots of little nooks containing small tables, and a good selection of craft beers on tap. I read the menu while I waited for the barman to pour my pint - they did a good range of food, too. I'd have to try it out sometime. I took a sip of my drink - very nice indeed! - and glanced around the pub at the customers. I almost choked when I realised that Mr Davies was here, sitting alone in a far corner across from me with a pint before him, frowning down at a newspaper. (What are the chances?) Once again, I debated going over to him, and once again I bottled it. (He probably wouldn't remember me), I told myself. (Anyway, what would we talk about? It's been fifteen years, after all). I took my pint and sat on the other side of the bar with the paperback book I'd brought with me.

An hour later, I strolled up to the bar to get a refill. As I collected my drink I heard a familiar rumbling voice behind me.

"And can it be Tommy Greene, then?"

I turned around quickly, narrowly avoiding sloshing my pint down my jeans…or worse, over the sizeable paunch mere inches away from me. I looked up at the smiling face of my favourite teacher, and my eyes drank in the changes - the improvements! - in his appearance. Mr. Davies’ thinning head of hair was now little more than a thin grey horseshoe at ear-height, and his enormous, bushy beard was, as I'd noted before, shot thickly through with grey. There was a web of lines around his eyes - laughter lines, it looked like - and permanent creases across his forehead, which were more likely frown lines. His eyebrows were still as thick and lowering as ever, but the piercing blue eyes were bright, and somehow gentler than I remembered, just now dancing with a delighted spark in them. His shoulders were still broad, his arms still meaty – but his general appearance had softened considerably with good living, and his whole body was clearly much fleshier than it once was. His once-muscular chest appeared to have sagged and softened under his tight-fitting checked shirt, and his waistline was notably broader; a large and very visible paunch rounded out over his belt. If I were forced to, I would guess that he was now probably a good four or five stone heavier than the last time I'd seen him – somewhere in the mid-20s, anyway. In my admittedly-biased opinion, the extra weight suited him very well indeed.

Mr Davies extended his meaty hand, smiling, and I shook it. His grip was as firm as I remembered.

"Where are you sitting, lad? Anybody with you? No? Bring your tipple over to my spot, then!" Without waiting for a response, he placed a hand on the small of my back and guided me towards his seat. I sat across from him, quietly marvelling at the way his belly rounded out further when he seated himself.

"It's a lovely surprise to see you here, Tommy." No-one called me 'Tommy' anymore, but I had no intention of correcting him. "So what have you been doing with yourself all these years?"

I told him about my University days ("Ah, bad luck on not getting the First, lad, but I'm sure it hasn't held you back any"), my accountancy career, and how I'd decided to go it alone in Arundel. He seemed extraordinarily pleased when he found out I was living here. He took a large gulp of his pint.

"And is there a Mrs Greene, then?" I told him no, no Mrs Greene, I was still a bachelor. I could have said that there never would be, as I'd discovered - and accepted - that I was gay when I was nineteen, but I hesitated to reveal that to my so-manly, extremely butch ex-teacher. I decided to change the subject.

“So tell me about you, Mr. Davies; what are you doing in a little town like Arundel? Are you still teaching?” Mr Davies chuckled and shook his head.

"Not me, no. I retired early from teaching, five years ago – on full pension, mind! - and moved here to open my little shop. It's an antique shop, by the way - old things have always been a bit of a passion of mine. As to why I came here - I grew up in the Welsh Valleys, so I always loved the little towns."

“You didn’t want to go back to Wales, then?”

He leant back in his seat, his big belly hoving into view like a mountain rising above the horizon, as seen from an approaching ship. My eyes flickered towards it briefly, taking in the beauty of it, before returning to his face. I hoped he hadn't noticed. “No-one to go back to, my lad. Parents are long gone, no siblings, and I’ve lived in England since I was a skinny young University student.” He grinned and slapped his paunch. My eyes followed the movement. “Not so skinny now, of course, not by a long chalk. No, the Wales of my memories is long past; I’m little more than an Englishman with a funny accent, now.”

I took a sip of my pint to steady myself. Mr Davies obviously felt no embarrassment about his weight, and his easy acceptance was pushing quite a few of my buttons.

"Does Mrs. Davies like it here, too?" I asked - and immediately wished I hadn't, as Mr. Davies' genial expression immediately dropped away.

“No Mrs Davies any more, Tommy. Marjory and me, we divorced six years ago. That’s part of why I relocated here.” He swallowed the last dregs of his pint in a gulp, and said “Drink up, bach, I’ll get us another”, heading off to the bar before I could say another word. I sipped at my pint, embarrassed. This was obviously a sore point, and I resolved not to mention the divorce again unless Mr Davies brought it up himself. I didn't want to ruin what was turning into a very nice encounter.

Mr Davies returned minutes later, carrying a tray bearing not two but four pints, and plonked two of them in from of me. I raised an eyebrow, in a move reminiscent of Mr. Davies himself. "Are you trying to get me tipsy, sir?"

Mr. Davies laughed in response, and the mood was immediately restored. “Don't worry your head about it, Tommy lad. I thought we could have a good old blow-out to celebrate meeting each other again after all this time. Cheers!” With that, he took a large gulp of his next pint as I hurried to finish my previous one. Thereafter, the conversation proceeded to take a lighter and much more enjoyable turn. Mr Davies, it seemed, was quite the raconteur, and much merriment could be heard spilling out from our cosy (and boozy) little corner for the next couple of hours.

Eventually, inevitably, the publican called “Time!”, and gave us a stern glare which seemed to say 'If you don't leave, I'm going turn a fire hose on you'. Glancing around, I realised that Mr. Davies and I were very nearly the last ones in the pub, and the clock on the wall said it was 11:45.

We rose from our seats a bit unsteadily - or perhaps a lot unsteadily; I'd managed to down five pints, and Mr. Davies had sunk at least eight to my knowledge. We stepped out of the door into the cool night air, and I prepared to bid my old teacher goodnight. It had been a wonderful evening, one I would very much like to repeat if he were willing. Before I could speak, however, he blurted out “You hungry, Tommy? I could do with a bite to eat right now", and slapped his beer-filled belly, making it ripple.

Of course, this display stole the words from my mouth, and I simply nodded enthusiastically. A chance to spend more time in Mr. Davies' company? Yes please! In response, Mr. Davies threw his arm across my shoulders (dear God, the weight of him!), and steered me towards the high street.

Our destination, it turned out, was no more than about 500 yards away, but it took us nearly 10 minutes to reach it; Mr. Davies was leaning more and more of his considerable tonnage on my shoulders, and kept forcing me to stagger off-path. Finally, we reached a tiny Indian restaurant. The lights were on, but I could see no customers inside. Mr. Davies lifted his arm from my shoulder (somewhat to my relief) and pushed the door open. Well, at least they weren't closed!

He was greeted almost immediately by a tubby little man whom I assumed to be the Manager; he and Mr. Davies obviously knew each other, as he greeted the larger man with a firm hug. The Manager seated us in a table by the window, and a moment later cold pints of Cobra beer were plunked in front of us. I groaned inwardly; I already felt extremely drunk, and really didn't want any more. Mr. Davies and I picked up the conversation where we left off. I was vaguely conscious that no waiter had approached us to provide menus, let alone take our order, but nevertheless within 15 minutes a plethora of different dishes started to fill our table.

“Hope you don’t object, Tommo, but they know me in here, and they’re bringing my usual.” Mr. Davies had obviously seen my confusion. As more and still more dishes arrived, it appeared that Mr. Davies' “usual” was enough food for four normal people – I had to assume that they had just doubled the portion, since he had a guest, and wondered how in Heaven I was going to eat it all.

Mr. Davies must have seen the panic on my face, and hurried to reassure me, “Just do your best, son, I’ll make sure there’s no leftovers, don’t you worry!” and proceeded to scrape pilau rice and Chicken Bhuna onto his plate with enthusiasm. Rather than get left behind, I grabbed a Lamb Tikka for myself, and dug in with a will.

An hour later, I was regretting my enthusiasm. I was totally, utterly stuffed; my belly was ridiculously distended from all the beer and food. My belt hung open, an early casualty of my folly. Mr. Davies, however, was still going strong, demolishing the rest of the food on the table, and on his 3rd pint of Cobra. I did notice, however, that his face was getting redder by the minute, and beads of sweat were forming atop his bald head and trickling down his face. He had to be reaching his limit.

Eventually he finished the very last mouthful on the table, and collapsed back into his seat. I stared openly. His gut looked huge, and the buttons on his shirt were clearly strained across its widest expanse. He was very red, and breathing heavily. I sincerely hoped he wouldn't need medical help. The Manager brought us both hot towels, and Mr. Davies wiped his sweaty face and head gratefully. He reached for the half-pint of beer left in my glass. “Can I have that, son? Clear my throat?” He downed it in one, and sank back in his seat again with a satisfied sigh. I got up, with some difficulty, and went to the till to pay, but the Manager waved me off, saying the whole meal had been charged to Mr. Davies' account. I turned to thank him, only to find him fast asleep and snoring gently, his chin resting on his chest. I wondered if I should wake him, but the Manager, seeing my indecision, reassured me.

"Not to worry, sir, this is not an unusual thing, not with Mr. Davies. He has left standing orders; I have called for a taxi to take him home. Amir and I" - he pointed to a tall, beefy young waiter -"will help him into it, and the driver will see him home. Would you like me to call you a taxi, too, sir?" I politely declined; I wanted to walk off some of the fullness and intoxication before I went home. The Manager helped me into my coat and shook my hand. I took a last, lingering look at Mr. Davies, sleeping like Father Christmas after a hectic December 25th, and tottered off towards home. I forced myself to drink two pints of water before I went upstairs - I had no desire to focus on pages of numbers with a pounding head tomorrow - changed into my pyjamas, and crawled under the covers. The clock said 2am and I sighed, rubbing my full gut, grateful that my business didn't require me to work nine to five. I drifted off to sleep mentally rehashing my unexpectedly lovely evening, and dreamt about Mr. Davies, lovely dreams about feeding him and pouring beer down his throat as his belly ballooned…