But not Jimmy Knight.
Jimmy didn’t worry about finishing his beer or being chased out of the bar. At least, not by any teacher. This was his personal time and this pub was one of his locals. It was between him, his father and the landlord. After he finished school for the day, he decided which bars and restaurants he wanted to visit, on which days, at what times, with his selection of friends and for however long he chose.
Jimmy Knight was a day pupil.
The teachers at Bankside hated it that he was untouchable but there was nothing they could do about it. On Saturdays, Jimmy would deliberately go straight to the bar after school, still in uniform, removing only his tie, to find himself a prominent spot at the bar, where his presence would frustrate the duty members of staff.
New teachers always provided the most entertainment as they would be unaware of his status as a day pupil and often had poor instructions as to the clearing of bars on Saturday nights.
“Drink up and get back to your house,” he was often told.
But rather than putting any new member of staff out of their misery straight away, Jimmy would lead the discussion into an argument.
“My housemaster has told me I can stay out late this evening.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Now hurry up and finish your beer.”
“Seriously, I’m allowed to stay here until close.”
“That’s unheard of. Who is your housemaster?”
“My father. He’s popping down for a pint later.”
“Why didn’t you just say you were a day pupil?”
“You didn’t ask, Sir.”
“Is this man bothering you, Jimmy?” The landlord would intervene. He and his bar staff used to enjoy eviction time, too.
Although the students spent a lot of money over the bar, they were a rude, over-privileged lot, who looked down their noses at the people serving them. There would always be someone, who had not been bar trained, shouting their order and waving Mummy’s or Daddy’s money around, without the common courtesies that should be applied. The spoilt little sods didn’t realise that the louder, more discourteous and more annoying they became, the longer they waited and the less change they got. Staff tips and drinks were always good on Saturday nights, whether donated voluntarily or otherwise.
Jimmy sometimes benefited from the freebies, as there would often be a few too many in the bar’s point of sale system for the staff, and he was always more than happy to oblige and indulge in another drink. In fact, if he hadn’t always insisted on getting completely drunk before heading home, Jimmy would have been quite well off, even by Bankside’s standards, compared with the other students. But every night ended with a forgotten walk home, reminders in the morning, in his bedroom or the kitchen, of something picked up from the chippy or the Chinese.
Since his parents’ divorce – his feeble excuse – he had gotten into the habit of getting slaughtered every day. And getting drunk on a daily basis didn’t come cheap, as he chose to do his drinking down the pub.
Jimmy had tried plenty of jobs since he was just 12-years old, working in summer vacations, alongside the regular, term-time jobs, such as newspaper rounds, dish washing, car cleaning and, eventually, waiting, as his age progressed and he was allowed to serve out front. But it was never enough. He would have taken a job working behind the bar, but he was only 16-years old.
He still received the odd ‘beer voucher’ from his father but he, too, had suffered from the divorce. He was struggling to pay the mortgage on the ‘family’ home and manage two teenagers, whilst endeavouring to conquer the pain he was feeling inside so he could return to work. He had quit his job in a failed, marriage-rescue attempt and then had to cough up a fortune to Jimmy’s mum, despite her leaving to be with a new partner. The whole thing had crippled Jimmy’s father, both emotionally and financially. So additional beer vouchers were out of the question.
Jimmy needed to find a way to make more money, whilst studying for A-levels, playing rugby three times per week, going to the gym (yes, despite drinking so much, Jimmy still kept fit), working evenings in a restaurant and, at the same time, trying to have a social life.
It needed to be something he could do part time with high rewards, but he didn’t have any cash of his own to invest. So, the answer had to lie somewhere inside the school. There had to be something that he could supply to the seriously-wealthy attendees, or something he could obtain from the school and sell locally.
Most of the students had more money than sense, handouts from rich, work-away, long-distance parents, and he wasn’t going to feel guilty about taking it from them.
Work-away?
Care-away, more like.
The students didn’t really have more money than sense. They had a heck of a lot of sense. They just loved wasting their parents’ money. It wasn’t the money they wanted. Spending the money was their way of protesting. Their way of getting noticed.
§
Jimmy recalled being with Sebastian, a guy from his class, the previous Christmas. Sebastian was waiting for his father to pick him up for the holidays. He hadn’t seen him for two years because work had meant relocating to America. Sebastian’s mother had died when he was very young and he didn’t approve of his father’s choice of new bride. For the last two years, his holidays had been spent with a guardian, an old family friend, who lived in a rural part of the country, with few local amenities and very poor public transport.
Hardly ideal for a young teenager.
But this Christmas was going to be different. No annoying stepmother. Just Sebastian and his father, staying in a hotel, in central London. He was really looking forward to it.
“Will Sebastian Smythe please report to reception,” came the announcement over the school tannoy.
Jimmy accompanied Sebastian to reception, assuming his classmate’s father had simply followed the signposts to the school office, instead of to the school gates and car park, where all the other parents, guardians and drivers were picking up. The two years in America meant Sebastian’s father had never visited the school before.
“Oh, hello Sebastian,” said Mr. Fellows, head of the fifth-year students. “Please come with me.”
“Where’s my father?” Jimmy heard Sebastian ask as he was being led into one of the meeting rooms, near the reception area, usually reserved for parent meetings.
Jimmy took a seat to read a magazine.
“Stuff his money! Stuff him! And stuff you!” The meeting room door swung open and slammed into the plaster wall inside, the handle leaving a hole from the force of its impact. Sebastian stormed out of the reception area, sending a dustbin flying with a frustrated kick, before running off.
Sebastian’s father couldn’t make it to pick him up, nor would he be joining him in London.
Work, you see.
He had, however, sent a cheque to the school, as a nice surprise, for Sebastian to collect before he set off.
Sebastian didn’t want to pick up the cheque, nor did he want to go alone to London.
Broken heart, you see.
He did, however, end up spending Christmas in the hotel as he had been left with no other choice.
Sebastian’s father thought the reason why he always complained about holidays was the location of his guardian and felt that Sebastian was old enough to spend this holiday on his own, in London, where he would be near many of his friends.
Whether or not Sebastian collected the cheque, Jimmy never found out. Not that it made any difference. His father could easily transfer money into his bank account and Jimmy imagined Sebastian’s bank account was quite healthy enough, with or without the additional beer voucher. He also had the feeling beer vouchers from Sebastian’s father accounted for a fair number of beers. But it didn’t matter. No beer voucher was big enough to cover what happened to Sebastian last Christmas.
Not even a phone call.
Jimmy pondered the idea of someone employing a similar tactic to put an end to a failing relationship.
“Will Jimmy Knight please report to reception,” the tannoy would bellow out across campus for all students and teachers to hear.
Mr. Fellows would be waiting with the bad news, delivering it matter-of-factly, as was his way: “You’ve been dumped, Knight.”
§
Jimmy wasn’t going to feel guilty about taking advantage of the fortuitous financial situation of his classmates, but he was a good kid. He was there on an academic scholarship. He wasn’t going to risk doing anything that could get him kicked out of the school. He wasn’t going to get involved with anything illegal. He just wanted to raise a bit of extra cash to cover the cost of his social life.
Jimmy soon identified that there could be an opportunity in surpluses. Items which were in greater supply than necessary or things with second-hand value that had already been discarded by wasteful, previous owners. He wasn’t going to steal from anybody to obtain these surplus items, no matter how rich they were.
What if he got it wrong one day?
What if he accidentally stole from another of the poorer, scholarship students, only attending the school because of their academic, sporting or musical prowess?
Someone who couldn’t afford a replacement.
That would never do.
No, he needed to be sure that the items which found their way into his bag were, without doubt, surplus to requirements.
The most obvious excess occurred to Jimmy to be in the provision of stationery for the teachers’ use. On almost every teacher’s desk sat at least two or three packs of unused pens or pencils, all the same Staedtler brand, obviously provided by the school and far more than any teacher needed to use at any given time. If they needed more, they could simply ask. Besides, he was only going to take ones which weren’t required.
By getting to class early or hanging around after the teacher and other students had gone, Jimmy slowly acquired a collection of the Staedtler pens. Many of the classrooms were left unlocked during breaks and, on one occasion, he even discovered an unlocked stationery cupboard, in the chemistry block, and helped himself to a whole pack of each colour. There were loads left and plenty for the department’s teachers, so it didn’t matter. And it wasn’t stealing because he wasn’t taking anything from anybody.
Jimmy’s collection had grown to nearly fifty pens by Friday and his research had told him that they sold for more than a quid each in the shops, so he was looking at fifty quid for the weekend, just by picking up a few pens that no-one was using.
All he had to do was sell them.
After school, he headed down to The Oak. It was one of the less salubrious pubs in town, but it had a couple of pool tables, there were usually a few people there after work on a Friday and, like most of the places in town, they weren’t too fussy about ID.
“Do you need any pens?” Jimmy asked Roger, the landlord, as he was getting him a pint.
“I think we’re alright for pens at the moment. Why?”
“I’ve got a load of Staedtler pens that I don’t need. They’re all brand new, I was going to sell them for a quid each.”
“Hah!” Exhaled Roger. “I thought you had some freebies. I don’t think I’ve ever paid for a pen in this place. We get a load from the suppliers, or customers just leave them behind.”
“Oh,” Jimmy said, suddenly feeling rather foolish for thinking Roger would go out shopping for high-quality pens. “Do you know anyone who might want some?”
“What’s this all about, Jimmy? How many of these fancy pens have you got? What did you say they were?”
“They’re Staedtler Fineliners. I’ve got about fifty of them.” Jimmy dug out one of the whole packs, which had the information on the front, and handed it to Roger.
“Where’d you get these from then? Did you nick them from the school or something?” Roger was examining the pack through his glasses, without actually putting his glasses on, about how the pens were ‘good for writing, drawing and technical sketching’.
“They’re surplus stock. They haven’t been nicked,” Jimmy assured the landlord, putting the pens back in his bag.
“Whatever. It doesn’t make a difference to me either way. You can have a word with Pete when he comes in, but I don’t know if he does stationery.”
“Okay, cheers. I’ll do that.”
Jimmy didn’t know if Pete ‘did stationery’ either, because he didn't have a clue what Roger meant. He ordered himself another pint and went off to see who was playing pool.
§
Pete found Jimmy by the pool tables about half an hour later. Pete was Roger’s son and spent more time on the fun side of the bar, even when he was supposed to be working a shift. In his early twenties, he knew most of the kids from the school who came in The Oak, but that wasn’t difficult as it certainly wasn’t on ‘the list’ and there weren’t that many boarders who were brave enough to bend the rules that far.
“Hey! Jimmy! Dad said that you wanted to have a chat with me about some ‘surplus stock’,” he said, laughing, and making little quotation marks in the air with his fingers.
“Yeah. Why do you say it like that?” Jimmy was confused.
“Oh, come on. We both know where you picked them up from. Anyway, let’s have a look,” Pete indicated that they should move to a slightly quieter part of the bar.
“All these pens are surplus,” said Jimmy, showing Pete the contents of the plastic bag inside his rucksack. “They are all brand new. Staedtler Fine...”
“Yes, I know, one of the other kids got me some of these once. But his were all full packs. Most of yours are singles.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s much easier to shift them if they are still in the packs, but they all look unused,” Pete observed, taking some of the lids off the individual pens. “I’ll give you a fiver for them.”
“These pens are worth a quid each,” Jimmy snapped.
“Not if they’re nicked.”
“They’re surplus stock.”
“Did you pay for them?”
“No, but...”
“Then they’re nicked. Which means they have to be moved through certain channels. Look, do you want me to take them or not?”
Jimmy’s fifty quid for the weekend had been swiftly reduced to a couple of pints. He thought about keeping some of the pens for himself. They were good pens. But he could hardly use them at school without being noticed. And what did Pete mean by “one of the other kids”?
“Fine, give me a fiver,” Jimmy accepted his lowly status as a handler of stolen goods, thinking about his hourly rate for working in the restaurant and how much time he had spent collecting the pens.
Pete took the bag and disappeared behind the bar, returning shortly afterwards with a fiver and a pint for Jimmy.
“Here, I’ve chucked in another pint for you, as a bonus,” he said, handing Jimmy the money and placing the beer on the table.
“I still can’t believe they aren’t worth more,” Jimmy complained. “And what did you mean about ‘the other kids’?”
“You should be grateful. I don’t normally mess about with pens. I’ll only make another fiver on this myself. I’ve told the other guys not to waste time with the smaller stuff.”
“Do you mean guys from Bankside bring you things from the school?”
“Sure. Mostly they bring me sports goods, branded clothes, higher-end stuff I can make money on.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know. I just came in here asking your dad if he wanted any pens.”
“It’s okay. He knows what I do to make a bit of extra. But next time, perhaps you could avoid starting a conversation about it at the bar? It’s no secret in this place, but I don’t want the whole world to know.”
“Yeah. Of course,” Jimmy stuttered. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
“And no more pens,” Pete whispered through his teeth as he was getting up to leave. “Go for the high-end stuff. They can afford it.”
Next time?
What next time?
Jimmy stayed on his own in the corner and drank his ‘bonus’ beer.
It seemed there were already a few less than scrupulous operatives at Bankside and his plan to sell surplus wasn’t such a great idea, after all.
But at least now he knew where to look if any of his own possessions ever went missing from the perhaps-not-so-prestigious school.
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