Page 76 of Love or Your Money Back

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(PROBABLY)

THE GREATEST LOVE STORY EVER TOLD

CHAPTER ONE

Boys from disadvantaged backgrounds are exposed to a culture of toxic masculinity. This negatively affects their relationships with females.

I’ve always hated school playgrounds. They are noisy, terrifying places where lunchbox items, such as unwanted sandwiches or empty juice cartons, can fly at you from all angles. Sometimes, even whole lunchboxes come your way.

As I crossed the Great Oakley Primary School playground this morning, my hands were already positioned to protect my face.

Everywhere was chaos. To my left, two boys engaged in an angry ballet spin, apparently trying to tear each other’s shirts off.

To my right, a group of children attempted a dangerous cheerleading pyramid, shrieking as they tumbled onto the hard tarmac.

Chaos.

Everywhere.

I hoped to make it inside the school un-assailed, and I did avoid projectiles. But as I buzzed to enter the building, a burly boy who couldn’t have been older than ten shouted: ‘Those bike clips are lame, mate. Totally lame.’

I’m an average height, middle-aged white man with greying-blond hair.

I buy my clothes from charity shops, meaning they must be the same sorts of clothes other people wear.

Otherwise, how could they be second-hand?

Yet, I seem to invite hostility and aggression from school-aged boys.

Especially the ones who play football. I have no idea why.

It was even worse when I was a schoolboy myself. I never did understand the primal rage my haircut and briefcase seemed to instil in my fellow classmates.

As peals of hyena-like laughter rang through the air, I repeatedly pressed the buzzer. Eventually, the main door clicked open and I entered the school reception area.

Once inside, I thought it wise to take off my bicycle clips.

There seemed no reason to invite more taunting.

My ex-girlfriend, Ifeoma, would have called this move ‘cowardly’.

But I don’t have an issue with being a coward.

I am, in fact, an ideological coward, as I explained to my tutor, Bethany Balls, when she insisted I do this PHD research.

‘What the bloody buggering hell is an ideological coward?’ Bethany asked, as she scribbled over my thesis plan with her purple Sharpie.

Bethany Balls does not fit the usual image of a PHD tutor. She is a loud, overweight ex-heroin addict who almost always has piles of steaming junk food on her desk during our academic meetings.

‘I believe bravery to be a masculine construct,’ I explained, ‘used to make men into better soldiers. Bravery does not exist in the animal kingdom. A mouse does not stay to fight a cat because it worries about what the other mice will think.’

‘But sometimes, you have to face your fears,’ said Bethany, whacking a BBQ sauce sachet on her desk for emphasis. ‘What if someone attacked your loved one? You’d have to stay and fight.’

I told Bethany that, in all honesty, I might run away. And I’d had this exact conversation with Ifeoma on the night she left.

‘I told Ifeoma that if I saw her getting mugged, I may well flee the scene,’ I admitted. ‘Which was an honest response. Because no one knows what they would do under stress. I don’t know why she became so angry.’

Bethany gave an outraged laugh, showing many gold fillings, and said, ‘Sometimes you can be too honest for your own good, Michael. Is this why you’re taking a qualitative research module? To understand people a bit better?’

‘Probably,’ I admitted. ‘Ifeoma often suggested I study people, instead of mathematics. Perhaps I am trying to overcome the dreadful pain I’ve felt since she left.’

Bethany gave me kind eyes and told me it was better to have loved and lost.

‘That’s not the case,’ I said. ‘Because I was reasonably happy listening to radio four and doing jigsaws before I met Ifeoma. And now I’m unhappy no matter what I do.’

‘These interviews will cheer you up,’ said Bethany.

‘Talking to someone worse off than yourself always makes you feel better. And I’ve found you a brilliant kid for your research.

A proper tearaway who gets thrown out of class on a daily basis.

He’s captain of the football team. He even lives in a pub.

You want to study masculine culture? This boy is perfect.

And he’s got a great story to tell about boy girl friendships. ’

‘Bethany,’ I said. ‘You are describing exactly the sort of child who kicked footballs at my briefcase when I was at school. I can’t see the two of us getting along. And isn’t qualitative interviewing about building rapport?’

‘That’s a pre-judgement, Michael,’ said Bethany, pointing the BBQ sauce sachet in my direction. ‘And it’s everything we’re against in qualitative research. Maybe you and this kid will end up being best friends. Who knows? Keep an open mind. That’s what open interviews are all about. Grey areas.’

I’ve never liked grey areas, but I accepted Bethany’s purple pen corrections and also her research candidate. Hence today’s visit to Great Oakley School.

Once in the school reception area, I had to wait rather a while on a low, hairy chair that smelt like disinfectant. But eventually, a smiley, dimple-cheeked lady appeared and announced herself as ‘Miss Hussain, Callum’s teaching assistant.’

Miss Hussain wore a glittery hijab that matched the sparkles on her fingernails. She was far too glamorous for her surroundings, which were many shades of beige and brown, with a few wonky pieces of children’s artwork on the walls.

‘Let me take you to the Calm Corner,’ said Miss Hussain, leading me down one long corridor that led around the school. Eventually, we reached an orange-carpeted room with tables and bookcases.

‘This is the place,’ Miss Hussain announced, with a kind smile. ‘Callum has seen a lot of this room, so it’s nice and familiar. You take a seat and I’ll get him. You don’t have any allergies, do you?’

‘To boys from disadvantaged backgrounds?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Miss Hussain laughed. ‘To digestive biscuits and cups of tea with milk.’

People often ask if I have allergies, but I reassured Miss Hussain that I had none. Then Miss Hussain left, and I felt extremely nervous. I busied myself setting up my iPad and dictation software and reading my questions, my leg jittering anxiously under the desk.

Eventually, Miss Hussain returned with a scruffy boy who hopped along on crutches. He had patterns shaved into his hair and wore bright-orange trainers. Actually, one bright orange trainer. His other leg was in a moonboot.

‘This is Callum, Mr Lamb,’ Miss Hussain announced, placing a cup of tea in front of me. ‘I’m sorry there’s no biscuit. Mr Rafferty ate them all.’

Callum looked exactly like the sort of boy I ran away from at school. The kind who skidded his BMX to expertly throw dust on my clean school uniform.

I thought of Bethany Balls’ words about pre-judgement and having an open mind, and decided that some pre-judgements existed for a reason.

Callum should have sat with me at the desk. But instead, he hobbled over to the sensory materials in the corner and started pulling the fibre optics about.

‘Is this the boy I’ll be interviewing?’ I asked, hoping there had been a mistake. Perhaps Miss Hussain was simply en route to the headmaster’s office, where this child would be expelled.

‘Yes, this is Callum,’ said Miss Hussain. ‘You wanted a boy who could talk a lot, didn’t you?’

’Those weren’t quite the words I used,’ I said. ‘I requested a child who could speak with self-awareness about boy and girl relationships.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ said Miss Hussain. ‘Callum has a wonderful friendship with a girl. He does struggle to sit still, as you can see. But he’s come a long way this year. And he’s lovely, deep down.’

I took three difficult breaths. My eyes wandered to Callum, who had picked up a fibre optic and was waving it around like a sword. I half expected him to give me racing tips for the greyhounds. Thank goodness Miss Hussain was staying with us for safe-guarding reasons.

‘Have his parents signed the consent form?’ I asked.

‘Parent,’ said Miss Hussain. ‘Callum is from a single-parent household. You wanted someone whose family … wasn’t straight forward. Didn’t you?’

‘I requested a disadvantaged child,’ I said. ‘A boy who had suffered some form of deprivation.’

‘Deprivation is in the eye of the beholder, Mr Lamb,’ said Miss Hussain. ‘If you’re measuring love, Callum is one of the richest boys I know.’

‘Love can’t be measured,’ I said. ‘Does he get free school meals?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Hussain. ‘And he always brings his tray back to the kitchen. Unlike some of the kids who pay for theirs.’ Then she called out: ‘Callum. Come and sit down with Mr Lamb. He wants to talk to you.’

Callum clumped over to the desk, fell heavily onto a chair then started kicking a table leg with his moonboot. It was a friendly sort of kicking, like a play fight. But still, it unnerved me.

‘Are you a bit worried today, Callum?’ Miss Hussain asked.

Callum nodded and stopped kicking.

‘I don’t think there will be any questions,’ said Miss Hussain. ‘This is more about telling Mr Lamb a story.’

‘No, there are a few questions to get us going,’ I said, pulling a sheet from my briefcase. ‘Callum must read these himself. To limit my influence on the research.’

‘Give Callum the sheet then,’ said Miss Hussain, with a slight smile.

I felt flustered as I passed the paper over, and it flew from my hand and spun to the floor.

‘It’s alright, Mr Lamb,’ said Callum. ‘I’ll get that for you. And don’t you worry about me reading these questions. I am an improved reader now. I’m on the blue table. And I might even be on the silver table by the end of term.’ He began to read from the sheet: ‘Tell-me-about-your-family.’