There's always that
one book. In our school library, it was 'Witches and Warlocks'. Find out a bit more about that in an excerpt from
The Witch's List below. Enjoy and let me know what you remember about your school library.
As for Saint Saviour's, it was demolished - including the library - in 2010. This is all that's left of the place :
Chapter 1: Witches
and Warlocks
I
didn't use to believe in witches. Not really. Of course, growing up
in Scotland, there were always stories of witches and wizards, ghosts
and ghouls, monsters and zombies and so on, but as in most
‘civilized’ western countries, such stories were mainly regarded
as folklore; on a par with pixies and elves. You didn’t really
believe in them, they were just fairy tales. Remember
the stories?
There
was one, more ‘serious’ book on witches in our secondary school
library though. And it freaked us all out a bit. It must have been
one of the most browsed texts in there – due to its filthy pictures
of witches performing various ceremonies – black masses and the
like – naked! In most libraries there are some books with scuddy
pictures, classed under erotic literature or art; even in the
children’s section there’s always some big kid that’s got his
hands on the encyclopaedia and invites you over to show you a picture
of the topless, tribal African woman. This one, ‘Witches and
Warlocks’, was a non-fiction work, detailing very graphically, and
very sexily we all thought, a range of witchcraft and black arts
practices. It had somehow found its way into Saint Saviours’ RC
(Roman Catholic) school, despite the establishment being as staunchly
Catholic in its syllabus and overall culture as it comes. It was in
the reference section, on the religious books shelf, and I’m sure
none of the teachers knew of its existence, much less its saucy
content. The librarian was a rather dozy woman in her thirties, with
short blond hair; always had her nose in some novel. I assume it was
her that ordered a copy. She must have done it absent-mindedly, not
really checking out its profane and pornographic content. Or maybe
she was some kind of closest anarchist or rebel. Who knows?
My
best friend at the time, Martin Cardosi, always one to lead me into
mischief, showed me the book at one point; we must have been in
second year, aged thirteen, hormones beginning to rage.
“Here,
Sandy, come and check this out.” He shoved the big tome into my
hands.
I
flipped through it, speechless, mostly just looking at the shocking
pictures but taking in some of the vocabulary: black mass, pentagram,
hex, coven, sect, orgy…
“I’d
like to join one of those devilish sects, just to take part in the
orgies,” said Martin, grinning.
“Idiot!
You’d probably go to hell.”
After
we’d had our fill of the images, Martin put the book back on the
shelf and said, “Don’t forget to touch the Bible after, just to
be on the safe side.”
We
both touched the Bible before leaving.
From
then on we secretly consulted the book, at least once a week, hiding
behind one of the shelves and ogling at the pictures.
*
* *
Saint
Saviours’ was a comprehensive school, slap-bang in the middle of
some of the roughest areas of Dundee: Fintry, Whitfield, Craigie and
Douglas; so it had its fair share of psychos, hard men and general
nutters. They had three main pastimes during the lunch break: playing
a gambling game called pitchy, which involves throwing coins up
against the wall, the winner being the one who gets his coin closest;
smoking round the back of the boilers; and, of course, fighting and
bullying. Martin and I came from the Ferry, one of the better areas
of Dundee. We were bussed in to Saint Saviours’, along with about
forty to fifty other children, because it was the nearest Catholic
School. Hence we were labelled ‘snobs’, ‘toffs’ or ‘poofs’
and were considered good bullying fare for the yobs during the
breaks.
The
library was a good place to escape to, to avoid getting beaten up,
but the best place was the Chess Club, because we could eat our lunch
there; and also because we liked playing chess, I suppose (we were
both on the school chess team). It was run by Mr Fitzsimmons, a very
amusing and charismatic chemistry teacher, but with a very short
temper. He was well known for his angry fits, often reducing
strapping lads, a foot taller than him, to blubbing wrecks just by
screaming and shouting at them. He sometimes seemed as if he was
about to have a nervous breakdown; eventually he did, but years
later, once we’d all left the school. So while the Chess Club was a
great place to hang out, it was wise to be on your best behaviour,
since Fitzy – never call him that to his face – could drop in at
any time to check up on you.
In
the winter, when it was very cold, the classrooms got a bit chilly,
even with the heaters turned on full. So Mr Fitzsimmons used to light
up all the Bunsen burners on the workbenches, which were situated
along three walls of the room, as well as the one on top of his desk,
at the front. He left them on the slow, yellow flame and not the
strong, ferocious, blue flame, but it was dangerous enough leaving
unattended teenagers surrounded by flaming burners. It also created a
rather mysterious atmosphere, like sitting in some pagan temple. I’m
sure if some health and safety inspector had come along, he would
have got rapped for it. But Fitzy was ever the rebel. This was 80s
Britain, where teachers were striking and stopping all
extra-curriculum activities in protest at Thatcher’s budget cuts
and pay rise refusals, and his Chess Club was the one remaining club
in the school; all the others – sports, drama, photography, etc. –
had been stopped after the first year. I think he supported the
strikes, but he just loved chess. He had, after all, coached the
famous Paul Motwani, a previous pupil at the school and huge chess
star, who went on to become Scotland’s first Grand Master.
So
one Tuesday lunchtime, during our second year, in the heart of the
cold Scottish winter, we were sitting eating our lunch and playing
chess in the chemistry lab / Chess Club, the Bunsen burners full
ablaze and Martin said, “Watch this!” He went over to the
workbench at the side of the class and moved his hand through the
flame. “See, if you move your hand quite quickly through the flame,
it doesn’t burn.”
We
all have a fascination with fire. It must be human nature, part of
our instincts, left over from prehistoric times where fire meant
warmth, protection, hot food, story telling but perhaps also
excitement: sex by the fireside? We’ve all set something on fire
just for the fun of it: a candle, a firework, a match or a whole box
of them all at once, thrilled by the little explosion, the sudden
blaze. “Come on, guys, are you chicken?” Martin ribbed us.
We
didn’t need much persuasion, most of the boys and a few of the
girls, left their chess games and took turns putting their hands
through the flame, feeling the slight warmth, but moving fast enough
so as not to get burnt. I went to the burner on the teacher’s desk,
standing on a chair so I could reach it. Of course, just my luck, as
I was putting my hand through the flame, Fitzsimmons came in, took in
the scene – and went berserk!
“You,
Beech! I can’t believe it!” he shouted, already turning red.
Most
people had backed away from the burners when he came in, but he’d
caught me red-handed, seen me through the little window on the door
before he even came in. “Can’t I even leave you a few minutes,
without you getting up to something?” he bellowed.
“Sorry,
sir,” I said meekly, looking down at my shoes.
“And
here was me, just trying to be nice and warm the place up for you a
bit.” He looked around and caught Martin smirking. “I bet this
was your idea wasn’t it, Martin?”
“What?
No, sir,” he protested, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.
“Right
the pair of you, out! You’re banned for the rest of the week.”
There
wasn’t going to be any discussion, so we gathered up our things and
made for the door. Fitzsimmons went around the class turning off all
the burners. “Get back to your games the rest of you, and you can
freeze for all I care!” He glared at us as we headed out the door.
“Nice
one, Martin,” I said accusatorily to my friend, who’d got me into
deep water once again, or rather, thick ice in this case – it was
one of the coldest days of winter, there was deep snow and thick
sheets of ice everywhere.
The
yobs were all having snowball fights and worse – pushing people to
the ground and burying them with snow they kicked on top of them. Ron
Knight, one of the chief psychos, spotted us, came along and shoved
me to the ground and started kicking snow on me. “Sandy, you poof!
Come and play snowballs instead of that poofy chess.”
One
of his mates, Grant Bishop grabbed some sand from a big bin of the
stuff, officially used to help melt the ice, and threw some in my
face. He also stuffed a handful down the back of my neck. “Hey, the
Sandy Beech needs some more sand.”
“You’ve
just been checkmated by a Knight and a Bishop,” joked Martin. He
often used his humour in such cases, and by keeping the lowlifes
amused managed to deflect most of their violence. While the pair of
bullies guffawed, Martin grabbed me up off the ground. “Come on,
Sandy.” He led me away and once we were out of earshot he said,
“Let’s head to the library.” He didn’t want the others to
know we were going there, since they’d just call us ‘swats’ and
‘poofs’ and probably pelt us with more snow and sand. We still
had about forty-five minutes to kill before the end of the lunchtime
break, so it seemed like a good idea.
The
library was very quiet, just a few bookish types, perusing the
shelves or sitting down reading at one of the desks. We blended in,
although I was leaving a little trail of sand from the stuff Grant
had put down my clothes. After aimlessly looking at a few books in
the various sections, we found each other in the religious section,
in front of the shelf with the infamous ‘Witches and Warlocks’.
Martin
took it off the shelf. “May as well have a gander,” he said.
We
looked through it, page by page; no matter how many times you looked
at this bizarre tome, you were still spellbound, feeling a strange
mixture of curiosity, horror and titillation as you took in the
pictures – both drawings and photos. “Do you think those are
actual devil worshippers, taking part in real black masses, or just
models pretending?” asked Martin.
“Don’t
know. What, are you thinking of applying for a job as a model for the
next edition?”
He
laughed. “Who published this thing anyway?” He found the answer
on one of the pages near the front. “Six-six-six publishing,” he
read aloud. “Geeze, the devil himself! Quick we’d better touch
the Bible before we go.” Lunchtime break was almost over.
“What
do you think would happen if you touched it with the Bible?” he
asked.
“Don’t
know. Probably nothing. Try it and see,” I said flippantly.
“I’ll
hold this. You get the Bible.” He was serious.
I
rolled my eyes. “Okay, and then let’s get out of here before the
librarian wakes up and nabs us.”
He
held the volume of ‘Witches and Warlocks’, and I got the Bible, a
big leather-bound edition, further along the shelf. It had probably
been consecrated by the Bishop, the real Bishop that it, not Grant
Bishop. I touched it onto the perverse, evil tome that Martin was
holding and the pages burst into flames in his hands.
“Ahhh!”
He started screaming. We both panicked. He dropped the flaming book
to the floor, and I quickly placed the Bible – which had escaped
unscathed – on top of the shelf, no time to put it back in its
place. Then we both legged it out of the door.
Luckily,
I don’t think the librarian had seen us at all, engrossed as always
in the latest potboiler she was reading. We ran downstairs and back
into the playground, praying that we wouldn’t be found out, or that
we hadn’t set the library on fire. There were no smoke alarms in
those days, but I assumed the librarian wasn’t that dozy that she
couldn’t react to the smell of smoke and douse a book with the
nearest fire extinguisher.
*
* *
The
first class of the afternoon, Maths, went as usual, but halfway
through the second class, English, there was a note passed round to
all the teachers and everyone was convoked to the hall for an
emergency assembly. When we got there the place was packed; all the
teachers and pupils were present, as was the librarian, who for once
looked emotional and agitated. Martin and I looked at each other
uneasily. He put his index finger to his lips. Of course, I wasn’t
going to say anything. It was a golden, universal rule we’d learned
since primary school; never grass, and especially never own up to
anything if you know what’s good for you.
Miss
Gruffy, the assistant-head led the proceedings. She had a formidable
presence, despite being only about five-foot-two. Greying hair cut
short, icy-clear blue eyes which no one dared look into for more than
an instant, built like a bus – not fat just solid, matriarchal I
suppose you might say. She’d been a missionary nun in Africa in the
sixties and seventies, no doubt striking fear into the hearts of any
cannibal tribes who dared defy her. She’d been awarded an MBE no
less, before leaving the cloth and taking on a new mission: trying to
keep us lot on the straight and narrow.
She
held up the charred remains of ‘Witches and Warlocks’, holding it
at the extreme corner between her thumb and forefinger, as if it was
some filthy rag; I suppose it was in her eyes, both literally and
figuratively. “Who’s responsible for this?” she boomed, and
then looked round the assembly hall, trying to detect any sign of
someone who might know something. We all kept our eyes down and
remained mute. She let us stew in silence for a good two minutes,
before eventually saying, “Fine. No one’s going to own up. The
library’s closed for the next two weeks.”
She
dramatically dropped the scorched volume into a wastepaper bin, which
had obviously been put up on the stage beside her for this sole
purpose. She looked out at us again and finally thundered, “God is
not mocked!” Clutching the Bible – I’m sure it was the one I’d
discarded previously up in the library, she glared at as for a few
more instants, then strode furiously off the stage.
