Dumb Chorus.

No one spoke.

Faces, kodachrome faded, once recognisable, had become nameless.

 






I scrutinise the rows of uniform.

Who was the boy on the left?

Who was the boy on the right?

They do not speak.

They stare.

Dumb Chorus.

Sitting and thinking, I furrow my brow.

I make a list.

Of the few faces that I retain:

• an inspiring English teacher
• the art teacher, 
• the violently abusive headmaster, 
• the housemaster, 
• a chain-smoking French teacher.
• a paedophile science teacher
• a sadistic German teacher
• a history teacher or two
• a geography teacher.  

I can remember three or four names.

Hour upon hour of study... how many moments remain?

Hour upon hour of study... how many marks did I receive?

Two vivid bruises.

A dumb chorus.

Two or three people marked me for life.

Others left no apparent mark.

Image credit:

The Chorus (1876) by Edgar Degas, oil on canvas, Musée d'Orsay