An Old Face in a Good Place

A couple weeks ago I found myself ankle-deep in a rabbit hole, which wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t dived down it headfirst. I ignored several nudges from the algorithm to come back up for air, until a particular thumbnail grabbed my attention. The title was forgettable, but the face, though I hadn’t seen it for years, I recognised instantly.

I clicked on the video and was treated to an episode of the I’m All Ears Podcast, hosted by Dane Watkins, a psychologist specialising in men’s mental health, which ended with Dane taking call-ins. I watched three more episodes over the next week and a half, all perfect for the kind of turnabout in mindset I needed. I found myself equally uplifted by Dane’s brilliant insights and kindness as by knowing he was doing well in life.

Dane and I were in the same house at an all-boys school in the mid to late nineties. He was a year below me. A skinny, scruffy lad with a distinct bounce in his step, Dane had a pale face, lively eyes, massive ears, and blonde hair always darkened with a slathering of gel. He seemed to schedule growth spirts for summer holiday, always starting the year off as one of the tallest in his class. His defining feature for most of his school days though, was that he had, and frequently displayed, the smile of an aimless rascal.

We didn’t have a whole lot of interaction, but he was always friendly when we spoke and something about him just made a lasting impression.

There are two things about Dane that I can still recall clearly.

When I was in year ten, a style of fountain pen became fashionable. They were about seven pounds each, a lot of money to a teenager for stationery. Not many people had them to begin with. I remember buying one and being overly pleased with myself when using it. Before long though, the pens started showing up on the desks of lots of students and clipped to the shirt pockets of a few teachers.

'Alright, mate?' I heard one lunchtime, accompanied by a pat on the shoulder from Dane. When I turned around, he opened out a side of his blazer. His inside pockets were lined with the metal arrows of the popular pens. 'WH Smiths are giving them out free to good-looking people with quick hands,' he said in response to my raised eyebrows. 'I’m sure they won't mind me selling them on for two quid each,' he followed, pulling out a couple of his favourites to show me. I told him I didn’t have two quid on me, then showed him my pen and jokingly complained he’d devalued it.

A week later, Dane approached me again. 'Only one in school, as far as I know. Give us a fiver for it. If you see anyone else using one, it won't have come from me,' he said, pulling out an exquisite, silver-plated pen.

I told him it would be a few days before I could get the money. ‘I know you’re good for it,’ he answered, handing the pen over. Two days after, Dane was caught stealing more pens. As he was wearing school uniform at the time, he got suspended. I paid him the five pounds when he came back.

The next school year, every house got a soft drink vending machine. Some boys in my year soon discovered that leaning the machine backward then pushing it back again to standing usually dropped a free can or two. Having seen the trick performed a few times, Dane and some of his friends tried for themselves one morning when no teachers were about.

Our house and the career's office were in the same building, separated by thin partitioning screens. On this morning, I was in the Career’s Office, sat at a computer beside Mr. Marsden.

A short, spectacled, flabby man with a big bald crown, usually sporting puddles of sweat about the armpits of his pin-striped shirts, Mr. Marsden liked incorporating anti-natalist propaganda into his career advice. I’d just been told about all the money he saved by never having kids, followed by a list of all the expensive hotels he’d been able to afford to stay in. I was then shown photos of himself in picturesque locations around Europe, smugly smiling next to his beautiful car and miserable wife. I just wanted to get on with putting answers in a computer for it to print out a list of jobs I should do. Before I could assure him that I was in no danger of becoming a father anytime soon, we were interrupted by a big thud.

We turned to see a growing stress fracture in the partitioning screen. Panicky voices briefly argued on the other side, then stopped abruptly. A shout of, 'Don't run off, you scumbags,’ was followed in the same voice by, 'Look out in Career's Office!'

Twenty seconds later, after sounds of intense struggle, a vending machine crashed through the partition, then a desk, which it destroyed, along with the computer stationed on it. Stood behind the hole in the partition, his initial look of relief on seeing no casualties quickly replaced by a blend of contrition and amusement, was Dane Watkins.

Mr. Marsden, a man whose obvious wishes to be known as a light-hearted guy were frequently undermined by anger, didn’t believe the contrition, or share the amusement. Red in his pudgy face, he began unloading a stream of abuse on Dane, who stepped through the partition and tried interrupting with an apology.

‘You’ll apologise when I’m ready to ask you to,’ Mr. Marsden barked, then got back to his tirade.

Initially looking down with sympathy for the ridiculous effects Mr. Marsden’s anger had on himself, Dane’s eyes soon glimmered, and a twitch in his cheeks coincided with a biting of his top lip to stop himself from laughing at a thought. The sympathy soon gave way. ‘You really have to do something about this short temper of yours,’ he said, unable to stifle the laugh he felt he owed himself.

Near trembling with rage, Mr. Marsden took to pointing, shouted something about bringing Dane down to size, then got back to his rant. Dane surveyed the mess he’d made. When Mr. Marsden paused for a breather, Dane offered to help tidy up.

‘I don’t need your help. I’ll make sure you get expelled for this!’ Mr. Marsden answered, wiping the anger-generated condensation from his glasses before getting back to ranting, the topic now being the potential of killing someone.

'Behave,’ Dane eventually answered, rolling his eyes. ‘I gave plenty of warning. The only person was going to get crushed, was me.’

Ignoring Mr. Marsden’s rebuttal, Dane turned to me. ‘How goes it, mate?’ he asked, then checked the machine tray. ‘All that for one Diet Coke,’ he sighed with disappointment, then picked up the can and turned to leave.

‘Where are you going! Aren't you going to help clean up this mess?’ Mr. Marsden shouted, a vein on his temple looking close to bursting.

‘You just told me you don’t need my help,’ Dane answered with a confused laugh.

‘Now I’m telling you, I do!’

‘Are you still going to get me expelled?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then. All the best, mate. Ignore this muppet if he tells you to be an accountant,’ Dane said to me, before jumping back through the partition. And that was the last I thought I’d see of him.

My careers appointment ended prematurely. I returned to my maths class. Five minutes from the end, a student knocked on the classroom door. He was beckoned in by the teacher, who he handed a note to.

‘Jones,’ the teacher then called out.

‘Yes, sir?’ I answered.

‘Mr. Dalton’s office.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I answered again.

A few minutes later I was on the landing outside the Headmaster’s Office, where Dane was sat looking absent-mindedly over portraits of all the school’s headmasters. Knowing I wouldn’t have either the ingenuity to tell a convincing lie, or the resilience to uphold one anyway under the interrogation of Mr. Dalton, I bowed my head guiltily after my friendly nod to him.

‘Don’t worry, mate. I’ve already told him what happened,’ Dane told me. ‘Dalton thinks it was just me though. Marsden was too pissed off to think about asking who helped me tilt it,’ he added.

I knocked on the office door.

Mr. Dalton called me in. He was sat in a tall-backed swivel chair behind his oakwood desk, which he leaned both forearms on and planted his clasped hands.

Mr. Dalton’s presence always filled a room but never dominated it. He was widely agreed on by students to look like an older Sean Bean, then most known to the boys from the TV series Sharpe. Any of those who remembered Mr. Dalton’s image well enough, would have found that when Sean reached a similar age - around the time of his role in Game of Thrones - the comparison was spot on.

Mr. Marsden was sat on one of two stackable plastic chairs in front of the desk. His rage clearly having worn him out, but his indignation still prevalent, he was a little twitchy and had the air of a nervous student.

I took my seat next to him as instructed by Mr. Dalton.

‘You’ll give an honest account of what happened, even if that hooligan won’t, right?’ Mr. Marsden blurted out once I’d taken my seat.

‘I’ll ask the questions, thank you, Jim,’ Mr. Dalton interrupted.

Mr. Marsden fell silent.

I learned that Mr. Marsden’s version of events had Dane purposely shoving the vending machine through the partition. As I gave mine, his fidgeting increased. When I’d finished speaking, he turned to me in exasperation and said, ‘Why would you lie for him? He interrupted your careers appointment.’

He looked at me in such an accusatory way, as though we both knew I was lying. ‘We heard him struggling to keep it from falling though,’ I answered.

‘We didn’t hear anything of the sort,’ he countered, turning back to Mr. Dalton.

‘I did. Plus….well….no offense, sir. But we hadn’t got around to any career’s advice. You were telling me not to have kids and showing me photos of your holidays,’ I responded, pretending to be oblivious of the implications of sharing such detail, which raised the eyebrows of Mr. Dalton and the blood pressure of Mr. Marsden.

‘That’s not true,’ Mr. Marsden replied emphatically, a nervous hand instinctively reaching to push the photos in his inside pocket further down. ‘I told that miscreant he would be expelled, and so you’re trying to make me a liar,’ he then snapped.

‘This isn’t an appropriate way to go about things, Jim,’ Mr. Dalton interjected.

‘You taking his side is inappropriate,’ Mr. Marsden replied, a second wind of rage suddenly ripping through him. I don’t have to put up with this, you know. I can afford to leave this job,’ he carried on with a puffed chest and raised chin.

I lowered my head and looked at the floor.

‘Why don’t you take an early lunch, Jim? Have a think and come and see me afterwards,’ Mr. Dalton responded, unmoved.

Mr. Marsden huffed, then got up and left.

‘Well. That wasn’t how I saw things going,’ Mr. Dalton soon told me with a smile full of understanding. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Fine, thanks. Was a bit unexpected,’ I answered.

‘It certainly was. Thank you for your time. Now, back to your lessons. And send Dane in for me, please.’

I nodded, then left.

I’ve no idea of, or interest in what happened when Mr. Marsden returned to Mr. Dalton’s office. I don’t even know if he did. All I know is, two weeks later I had an appointment with the new Career’s Officer, who I got far more valuable advice from than how not to go about quitting a job.

Dane wasn’t expelled. He was suspended for a week. On his return, though the smile was still frequently displayed, the mischievous glint in the eye that usually complimented it was replaced with an incremental intensity of focus. He was much less scruffy too.

Yesterday’s episode, prompted by numerous comments asking for examples of pivotal moments in Dane’s life, explained the turnaround.

Dane described the incidents I’ve mentioned, and vividly detailed more extracurricular mischief he had got up to, including he and a friend messing around with fireworks, resulting in a rocket whizzing straight past that friend’s face and through the window of a parked car.

‘Didn’t have you down as a young tearaway,’ his co-host, who had been listening intently, full of surprise, replied once Dane had finished.

‘I was such a careless little shit,’ Dane answered with a cringe at his younger self. ‘Always bored and restless. The only skill I really cultivated was getting a rise out of teachers. To be fair, a good few of them were perfect whetstones for a young boy’s wits. You could tell some of the older ones really missed the days of the cane. Their fists would partially clench and twitch as though they had one in hand whenever they were riled up.

Mr. Dalton though. I could just never picture him needing to use a cane. He had that kind of natural authority that rarely needs to exert itself. I honestly don’t think I ever heard the man raise his voice. If he walked through the school during lesson changeover, when hundreds of students were moving between department blocks, a smile here and inquisitive look there was enough for every slouched frame to posture up and every hurried, overly anxious student to calm their stride. It was like the flapping of his long tailcoat in the wind wafted conscientiousness everywhere.

I was sure I was getting expelled after the vending machine incident. I’d kept up the breezy attitude around that nice posh lad, Brian,’ (that’s not my name, and I’m not posh) ‘who I hope didn’t end up an accountant, and Mr. Marsden, who I do apologise to if you ever hear this. But I was bricking it. I knew I was in for a hiding when I got home. I was more bothered though about having to sit in a room alone with Mr. Dalton and have my absolute foolishness laid bare before him. I would have gladly taken a caning instead if the option was there.

I asked if I was getting expelled before I’d even taken my seat.

‘Let’s not jump the gun,’ he said, then subjected me to a calm, thorough categorising of my accrued errors. Things said by Mr. Marsden that I’d laughed off due to his temper, were now reiterated in perfect clarity and branded my conscience. When he got to the potential for causing serious harm, I felt as much guilt as though I’d flattened someone with that machine. I apologised profusely and pleaded with him not to expel me.

‘You’re not getting expelled, Dane,’ he answered, then got up and took a book from his shelf. ‘I am going to suspend you for a week though. I want you to read this book during that time. You can come back and talk to me about it,’ he told me, handing the book over.

With obvious relief, I thanked him several times, took the book, and left.

When I got home, I received the hiding I’d anticipated, then went to my room to recuperate and read.’

Seemingly sensing he’d become engrossed in his own recollections, Dane paused a moment. ‘The book changed my life!’ he eventually said, followed with another pause to let the magnitude of the claim sink in. ‘I’m not sure if I’d even heard about psychology before,’ he soon went on. 'I read the book three times through the week. Like any great book, it explained things to me about myself that I knew but couldn’t articulate. It was the perfect antidote to my youthful recklessness. Discussing it with Mr. Dalton when I came back was even more enjoyable than the reading.

After the discussion, Mr. Dalton reminded me how important my next couple of years were and made me promise I would start applying myself. He said he would send for me occasionally to check on my progress. If I was sent to him though, and the teacher’s justification was valid, I would be getting expelled, he warned. He then told me to keep the book.

I thanked him and rose to leave.

‘Your future starts from today, Watkins. Make it a good one,’ he said before I left.

He did multiple checks on my progress and was pleased with it. My G.C.S.E. results were good enough to stay on for A’ Levels. One of my choices was Psychology. Loved it. Mr Dalton helped with my uni application, too. Obviously, things weren’t always plain sailing from then on, but that interaction in his office was pivotal,’ Dane said in closing.

‘Mr. Dalton sounds like a stand-up bloke,’ his co-host followed on. ‘Obvious question that needs asking. What was the book?’

‘You’ll find out next week. I managed to get in touch with the happily retired Mr. Dalton – he told me to call him George but I’m not sure I can - who’s going to pay us a visit,’ Dane answered.

‘Look forward to meeting him,’ his co-host declared.

‘It will be well worth tuning in for. Anyway. I’ve talked enough about myself. I don’t want to change the name of this channel to I’m All Mouth. So, let’s get to the calls. I want to hear from your good selves,’ Dane then said, addressing the camera.

I did consider calling in, but didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of correcting him on my name, or letting him know I ended up being an accountant. All up, it was another stellar episode. I’m looking forward to hearing from Mr. Dalton next week.