Chapter 72: Scholarship Boy

Michael was all mixed up. His teachers, his mother, father and grandma all praised his progress at school. His friends' parents, including Jack Matthews, gave him every encouragement to do well. He enjoyed working hard at his lessons. But Wilf's, Rob's and Paul's opinions mattered too. They were scathing about his reading habits, his bookishness, his being top of the class. He hated the label 'Teacher's Pet'. It wasn't his fault if he got all of his sums right, wrote interesting stories and was good at doing intelligence tests.

It didn't put him off trying to do his best at school. He tried hard to please his Dad. He tried even harder to shine at things other than school work. He wanted to be acceptable in the eyes of his friends. Their praise, not easily given, was highly valued. It came from them only occasionally. "You may be a swot but you're one of the gang all right, I have to admit that," said Paul.

"I'm glad you're good at something worthwhile, for a change," said Rob, after they had a race to the end of the road and back and Michael came first.

"Don't keep getting at him, he may be brainy but he's still a mate," said Wilf to Rob. Rob was in one of his sneering moods and had been taking it out on Michael.

The candidates, who were striving to win scholarships to the Lancaster Royal Grammar School, sat the exams at Dallas Road School, one Saturday morning. Rob and Paul were being give a chance but were not expected to pass. Paul felt ill and had a bad stomachache.

Miss Carter met them outside the school building and wished them luck. Teachers from other local schools were also there with their pupils. All of the boys and girls carried a ruler, two pencils and a rubber. There was a hushed silence in the room as the papers were given out face downwards. Stomachs turned over.

One boy ran out to be sick in the playground. Many of them looked white about the gills. The stern-looking schoolmaster sat behind a high desk, at the front. He read out, loudly, the printed instructions, telling how they should proceed with the exam papers.

Then he said , "Turn over your papers and begin!"

Once he started working, the butterflies in his stomach stopped fluttering and Michael concentrated on the task in hand.

Rob was one of the first to finish and sat there with a frown on his face. Michael completed the test just before the teacher said, "Stop writing now! Put down your pencils!" Paul was only half way through the sums, when he had to stop working.

After a playtime, they tried to complete an intelligence test.

The following Saturday they returned, for the writing of a composition.
Then they forgot all about the Scholarship, until the results came through the post. That was weeks later.

"Where's he going to go, if he doesn't pass?" Sheila asked Jack. "I don't think he should go to Skerton with you. The way you two are with each other these days, I think it would be bad for him."

"He can go to the Boys' National up Leonardgate," Jack responded indifferently.
"That's a rough school. I don't want him to go there."
"He's rough enough himself. He'll survive. It's a good idea. He'll find out how the other half live."

"But I don't want him to," protested Sheila. "I want him to go to the Grammar School with Michael. You can afford to pay for him."

"You've never liked him, have you?" Sheila sounded bitter and told Jack he was always being hard on Rob. "Because he's not yours!"

"Oh shut up, woman! Stop being ridiculous!" With that, he put his warm clothing on and said he'd be off.

"Fire-watching again?" Sheila asked sarcastically." You'll be out every night, if it goes on like this."

Once a week, Jack shared fire-watching duties, with two others. They slept on makeshift beds and did duties in turns: two hours on and four off. They had been trained how to use stirrup pumps and buckets of sand, to douse incendiary bombs.

The other nights when he was out, he cycled to Halton and slept with Beth. Leslie had gone away. She was in the ATS Jack and Beth had the house all to themselves. Jack was enjoying his war. He was managing to have the best of two worlds: Sheila's and Beth's.

Brian Howson wasn't bothered which school Paul went to. "He'll find his own level. He'll be all right!" His wife and Margaret disagreed about it being a bad thing their two boys going to be parted. Easy-going May Howson was quite upse at the prospect. "I think it's a shame. Their dads went to the same school together and I know the boys would like to do the same. I think that they should do away with these stupid scholarships."

Margaret didn't agree. She was smugly complacent about the matter andwhere the boys would go in September. So long as her Michael went to the Grammar School, she would be happy. If she thought about the system at all, it seemed to her it was only fair that the brightest should be given the chance to better themselves.

The weeks passed quickly by. Rob's gang now had girl members. Girls had become acceptable to the Top Juniors. There was no denying some of them were the equal of the boys at many things as well as school work.

Phylis Comber could kick a ball, climb trees and run as fast as any of the boys. She was the best swimmer of the lot of them. And she let you mess about with her a bit! Not too much mind you! Her mother had warned her about boys! You could look but mustn't touch!

In the holidays, a mixed group of boys and girls roller-skated all the way to Sambo's grave, at Sunderland Point. It was the last resting place of a young slave. He'd died in 1736, allegedly of a broken heart, after he thought that his kind master had deserted him. It was an unlikely story but the kids believed it. Paul's dad knew all of the local legends. It was his telling of the Sambo tale that inspired the group to go and find the grave.

Sambo had lived and died during the years of Sunderland's prosperity. The good times had been based on trade, including slaving, with the West Indies, trade only bettered by London, Bristol and Liverpool.

Curiously, Robert Lawson and other rich Lancaster Quakers, were prominent amongst the slavers. These men of God spent hours in their Meeting House, waiting for the spirit to move them, to good deeds. It must have been a bad spirit which moved them. They went out and indulged in evil trafficking in human souls.

The grave was difficult to find. You had to go from the old quayside up a long, narrow lane until you reached the deserted sea shore. It's a lonely place. It's on the very tip of a finger of land, pointing out to sea.

The pathway there was rough going: they had to take their skates off. Alongside the path, were nettles. Pretty blue harebells shone brightly amongst the rough grass. They climbed a fence. There was a wooden sign pointing to the grave. It was set back and on a sort of small grassy plateau. There was a brass plaque on the grave. The kids knelt around there. Michael read some of the verse engraved on it.

“Full sixty years the angry winter's wave
Has thundering dash'd this bleak and barren shore,
Since Sambo's head laid in this lonely grave
Lies still and ne'er will hear their turmoil more.”

By the time they arrived back on the quay, the tide was coming in. They really did have to get their skates on, in order to beat the rising waters. The first ripples of water were over the road, outside the Golden Ball, as they roller-skated past.

They were carefree eleven-year-olds and it was exciting having such a race against a natural hazard. In fact, it was highly dangerous. Over the years, several children had been drowned on Snatchems. On this occasion they all arrived home safely.

None of them told about their narrow escape!

The first time Michael tried to kiss one of the girls from his class was by an old stone horse trough, situated just inside the school-field gate, off Sefton Drive. Authority had deemed the gate could be left open during the dry months of the year. Its main purpose was to give access for the occasional lorry and for the school's groundsmen and their equipment. They had a brick shed just inside the entrance The children who lived nearby used the entrance to make a short cut to school. It was only half the distance walking diagonally over the field, compared with going round the estate.

It happened on his way home. They were both dawdling, behind the others. Michael showed blonde, freckle-faced Julie, his favourite glass marble. While she bent forward, and was admiring the lovely colours trapped in the glass, he tried to kiss her on the cheek.

"Get off!" she said, wiping her cheek. She ran off home, leaving an abashed Michael standing there. Several of the boys had girl-friends. Michael had hoped that Julie would be his. Obviously, he was not to her taste!

Anna Leper was a kind girl. She sat in the desk just behind Michael. She had long brown hair, tied back with bits of ribbon either side of her face. When Michael was unable to spell a word during a spelling test, she leaned forward and whispered the answer in Michael's ear.

When Miss Carter decided to conduct a survey of her pupils' home life, her questions included, "Who listens to the wireless? Who has a wireless at home?"

The Watsons had one but it had not been working for three years. It probably needed a new valve which they could not afford. Margaret was not all that bothered about it and Gordon was away most of the time. It still rested on its shelf, and Margaret dusted it every week but it was useless.

A forest of hands went up but Michael's and Anna's stayed down. Michael knew that Anna's parents were quite well-off and that they would certainly have a wireless in their house. She was just being kind, not wanting Michael to be the only one who had not put up his hand.

"She wants to go with you. She wants to be your girl friend. She's got sparrow legs!" Rob sneered.
"No, she doesn't," Michael protested.

He liked Anna but he didn't want her as his girl-friend. The irrationality of one-sided, or mutual attraction, the pain imparted by indifference!

One day, a terrible thing happened to Paul Howson. It was indirectly Margaret's fault, or so Paul said. Margaret had managed to purchase some bright, navy-blue, corduroy material from the market.

"Off coupons!" the seller told her, conspiratorily. That decided it. Margaret bought enough to make two lumber-jackets and two pairs of short trousers, an outfit each for Michael and Paul. She was busy for nights on end at her sewing machine. May was delighted with the outfit for Paul

Michael could not believe his bad luck. "I'm not wearing those,” he said. Dark coloured clothing was what boys wore! Not bright blue! Never in a month of Sundays! She could not, surely would not, make him! He'd never live it down if he went to school clothed like that. He shuddered to think what Rob would say.

"You ungrateful little so-and-so!" his mother fumed. "After all the work I've put in. That's good material that is. Keep you warm all winter!"

She had a struggle but, in the end, she won. He went off to school dreading his reception there. "Paul will be dressed the same!" were her parting words.
His fears were ill-founded. Nobody remarked on his appearance. Paul didn't look discomfited. Rob didn't say anything.

Margaret had made a quite a good job with her sewing but the fly buttons on Paul's trousers were too far apart. When Barbara Robinson dropped her rubber and went looking for it under the desks, she popped back into her seat and stuck her hand up.

"Yes Barbara?" asked their teacher.
"Please Miss, Paul Howson has his willie out."
Gasps and giggles went round the class.

Poor Paul was as surprised as the rest when she said this. He looked down, saw she was right and hastily adjusted his dress.

Miss Carter's reaction was brilliant. She blushed, shushed the class and hesitated for a moment. There was a poignant silence, an air of expectancy. The teacher pronounced, "Barbara Robinson, don't be stupid! Put your hand down and go on with your work."

Disappointed, the little trouble-maker frowned, stuck her tongue out at Paul but did as she'd been ordered.

It took months for poor Paul to live it down. He was teased mercilessly at playtimes. The whole school knew about it. Barbara Robinson was pleased!

In June, there was D-day; the Allies had invaded France. Soon, Paris would be liberated. Michael was down at Morecambe when he heard, at his Aunty Belle's.

One of the men billeted on her came into the house shouting, "It's happened! We've landed in Normandy."

All of the grown-ups cheered and one shouted, "Maybe we won't get killed after all!"

One Sunday, there was a National Day of Prayer. The churches were packed. Michael and the rest of the choir's singing was drowned by the fervour of the congregation.

"Onward Christian Soldiers"

"O God, Our Help In Ages Past"

In Germany, they were also praying for victory. Same God, different language!
At the Matthews' house, they were forever arguing about the rights and wrongs of the Black Market. Sheila had managed to buy some extra sugar, at a price.

"Take it back! Ask for your money back!" Jack demanded.
"I can't do that. Everybody has a little extra from somewhere," Sheila argued.
"We don't!" insisted the man of principle.
"Why not?"
"Because we want to win the war!"

For the life of her, Sheila could not see how the war would be lost because they had sugar in their tea, for a change.

The Scholarship results were pretty much as expected.

When Paul's mother saw Margaret she said, "Not one of those who passed said they were sorry to the ones who failed! It was the least they could have done!"
She really meant that she resented the fact that Michael had shown no consideration for his friends, Paul and Rob. At playtime, that day he had run joyfully all over the field with the boys and girls who had passed, doing forward-rolls and whooping with delight.

Margaret didn't care. What she'd wanted ever since Michael had been born was for him to get on in life. The gates of opportunity were now flung wide! One of her major ambitions had been achieved. Who knew what he might go on to do? The laser beam of mother-love was focused on her lovable prodigy. "Oh Michael you are a clever boy!" She said , hugging him to her, when she first heard the good news.

"Clever Dick!" smirked Rob. "You'll have to go to that stupid school on Saturday mornings. Hope you enjoy it!"

"I'll get longer holidays than you. Six weeks in the summer and you'll only have four!" Michael retaliated.

"Not what my dad says!" Rob responded. "There's a new law coming in soon and we'll all be the same! Sucks to you!"

Michael didn't want that to be true but he guessed that it probably was. After all, Rob's dad was a teacher and he would know about things like that.

So, Authority had decided that the three close friends would be parted. Things would never be quite the same between them. Going to different schools did make a difference. Rob, the optimist, thought that he had obtained the best deal.

Paul wasn't all that bothered where he went. Michael was apprehensive, mainly because of some of the things John Martin had warned him about, nasties waiting for him at his new school, in September.

At the end of August, Paul went to Skerton Council School. It was 'a dump for cissies!' according to Rob. Rob went to The Boys' National School, " 'The Nashy' for real lads!" chortled Rob. Michael went to the Lancaster Royal Grammar School, "a dump for snooty swots," jeered Rob.

'Take off your cap!
Hide your tie!
Sneers and taunts,
Spit in your eye.

Grammar School snob!
Grammar School snob!
You're just a Grammar,
Grammar School snob!

School on Saturday,
Think that's posh?
Rather play out ,
Wouldn't you Tosh?

(Chorus)

Think you're clever,
Think you're bright,
They don't play soccer;
Want a fight,
Kid?

(Chorus)'
Lancaster Royal Grammar School was a particularly intimidating and frightening institution for an eleven-year-old boy to be thrust into after the calm, friendly and progressive Ryelands Council School.

On the first morning, all of the new boys were ushered into the assemby hall, where 700 boys and their teachers sang hymns, recited prayers, listened to a prefect reading a passage from the Bible and heard the headteacher's notices and other pronouncements.

The headmaster looked like an oversized gnome and wore fancy dress. Michael had never seen anything quite like the black be-gowned and mortar-boarded grotesque, he of the large head, swarthy complexion and long hairs protruding from both ears. In his autobiography, he describes himself as having been nicknamed affectionately 'Tim' but all of Michael's contemporaries knew him as 'Joss'.

After the other boys had left the hall, 'Joss'explained the school's rules and the institution's aims to the new boys. It took a long time. Michael was impressed sufficiently, by the outlining of these detailed regulations, to wish that he'd failed the scholarship. It was the start of a seven years long attempt to wean him from his working-class culture into a middle-class one.

From the very first day, Michael realised that he had been punished, rather than rewarded, for all of his hard work. The buildings on one side of the road were awful, so old, dark, cold and forbidding. They lacked any decent furniture, adequate lighting or modern teaching apparatus or aids. One could easily imagine oneself to be back in the darkest of ages for education.

New School, on the opposite side of the road and built in the twenties was better, with individual desks for pupils It was well-lit and had a decent art room, science laboratory and an assembly hall. Unfortunately, the space in the corridors was narrowed considerably, by high glass cases, which contained hundreds of examples of wildlife from all over the world - an environmentalist's nightmare and a taxidermist's dream.

The heating in the classrooms was woefully inadequate - hot pipes at shin-level, all the way round each room. The unwary would touch these and burn himself; those more than four feet away from them received no noticeable benefit. Feet were always freezing cold in winter.

It was even worse within two ramshackle huts. These were in a cramped position, near the only tiny, inadequate playground. You tried, with difficulty, to concentrate on your work in these dingy shacks, the only heating coming from an octopus stove, which emitted choking fumes. Despite the cold, the teacher sometimes opened the windows, to prevent them all from suffocating. The teacher stood and lectured with his bum close to the stove. He was the only one warm during lessons in there.

Before the beginning of lessons, after a bell had rung, the corridors were patrolled by live wild animals called prefects. Any boy pushing, shoving or talking in the lines, outside any classroom, would be pounced upon by these beasts, his name taken and he would be required to appear at a prefect's court.

The head, R.R.Timberlake, regarded himself as being liberal-minded because the number of strokes inflicted by the monsters on their prey had been restricted by him to a maximum of six!

Offences, like slackness at school work, being cheeky to teachers, or wilful disobedience of any one of a number of school rules would be judged by the headmaster. Sentence would be carried out by one 'Sudge', the nickname for the Physical Training master. He was a man with peculiarly sadistic habits. His enjoyment and twisted intensity of facial expression when wielding the cane was legendary.

Michael was in the top stream of first year boys, having passed fifth in the area exam, high enough to have won some money towards buying his books; help with purchasing his school uniform from the Co-op. This achievement relieved some of the financial pressure on his mother.

They were due to have PT, on the third day and had been warned to behave perfectly or 'Sudge' would do horrible things to them.

John Martin was now in his third year at the school. Before Michael started there, he'd warned him what to look out for. "I hope you know how to tie your tie. That's one of the first things 'Sudge' looks for when you're dressing, at the end of his first lesson. If he sees you can't, you'll be one of his victims for evermore. He'll pinch your bum, when you bend over putting your shorts on. He'll belt you with his stick at every opportunity and tell you to hurry up. In the gym, he'll put you up on the wallbars in the crucifixion position and hit your shins while you are hanging there. If you straddle the buck, or chicken-out of going over the horse in the gym, he'll thwack you until you succeed. If you can't swim, he'll throw you in the deep end of the swimming pool and leave you for a few seconds before he'll let you grab hold of a long pole, the one he uses to open the top windows with. He's weird. They say he went mad during the First World War, when he was a sergeant in the trenches."

The evening before the first PT lesson, Michael and his mother spent ages, giving him practice in tying his new blue-and- black striped tie properly.

Luckily, he did not stand out from his classmates. Nobody did; but 'Sudge' lied and said he'd heard somebody talking in the queue when he came down from the staffroom, to let them into the boarded-over swimming pool, where they changed.

He told them all to pull down their shorts and bend over. Standing there, with his stick in his hand , surveying the bare bottoms of the kids, he made a short speech.

"One of you was talking. One of you is guilty. One of you has got everybody else into trouble. I don't want him to confess. I don't want anyone to tell on him. That would be bad for team spirit. I believe in team spirit. One day, when you are helping to win the war, if it lasts long enough, you will thank me. I'm going to make you into a good team. Good teams win games. And wars!"

With that, he went into action: every boy received a hard thwack as he went along the line.

Now, stand! Pull your shorts up! Start running!"

For ten minutes, the boys ran round in a circle over the boards. Needless to say, nobody dropped out or complained of having a stitch!

It was an offence not to wear the school cap to-and-from school. Michael risked not wearing it when he was on the estate. He didn't want the ridicule of his old mates poured upon him if he met any of them.

It wasn't for that, or anything that he did wrong intentionally, that Michael fell foul of one of the bullying prefects. It was something that he and two other boys did on the number-four Corporation bus that took them as far as St Peter's Cathedral, half way up the hill to school. It was a rainy morning, in October, and all of the windows in the bus were steamed up.The bus left Damside Street, went up Cheapside, Market Street and along King Street. The boys were drawing pictures on the bus windows with their fingers. Michael also pressed his nose hard against the pane of glass and pulled a face, knowing that anyone outside would see his face grotesquely distorted by his action. He didn't put his tongue out or anything rude like that.

Later that morning, he was going from his first lesson to the next. He had to change buildings. He crossed East Road and when he reached the other side, one of the prefects: a tall, thin youth of eighteen, the one with the reputation of caning you for practically nothing grabbed him by the neck.

"I've been looking for you!" he snarled.
"Who me? What have I done?" Michael hadn't a clue what he had done wrong but it must be something.
"Thought you'd get away with it didn't you? Prefects Court this playtime!"
"Yes Wilson!"

What could it possibly be?

At playtime, he opened the door of the assembly hall and walked down the side aisle. The Prefects' Room was at the far end, to the left of the stage, where 'Joss' presided and pontificated every morning during assembly.

There were already two boys ahead of him in the queue and one inside the room being judged. It didn't take long for the Court to reach a verdict, punish and eject those three offenders from the Prefects Room. Michael heard shouts of pain from the miscreants. It was soon his turn to be called in.

"Name?"
"Watson."
"Confess!
"I don't know what I've done."
"What's he done?"

It was the Head Boy who asked. He was presiding, with an assumed world weary expression on his face. He was the judge. Other figures of Authority sat around the room, talking to each other, showing no interest in what was going on.
Michael was frightened and angry at the same time. He was sure that he had not done anything. It wasn't fair!

"Anybody know what offence this object has committed?" asked the The Judge.
Wilson spoke up, "He was pulling faces at me, when he was on the bus coming to school this morning. The bus passed me in King Street. It was definitely him."

"Well?" The Judge asked Michael.
"The windows were all steamed up. I couldn't see out. I wasn't pulling a face at you Wilson. I couldn't even see you."
"Well?" the head boy asked Wilson.
"Oh, he seems to be telling the truth. Let him go!"

Michael could not believe his good luck. Justice had been done. He left the room, feeling like the famous escapologist, Houdini. It must have been his innocent face and his frightened manner that had saved him. He couldn't help seeing the tearful faces of the three lads who had been in there before him and who had all received three of the best for trivial misdemeanours.

"Cunts!" one of them had said, as he passed Michael. "They're all a lot of cunts!"

'Joss' took Michael for divinity. He oozed Authority and everyone in the big establishment seemed to think he was the fount of all wisdom. He was just the person to ask about something that had been troubling him, or so Michael thought.

"Any questions?" asked 'Joss' at the end of one of his lessons. Michael's question had nothing to do with what Joss had been teaching, but he thought it was very important, so he asked it.

"Yes Watson?"
Michael stood up.
"Please sir, where does the sky end?"

Michael looked at 'Joss'. 'Joss' looked at Michael. There was a long pause.
Michael waited for revelation. At last, 'Joss' responded with, "Sit down boy! And don't ask foolish questions!"

So much for the fount of all wisdom!

Gwyn was sublimely happy at school. It was her year in Beth Farrell's class. "She's the best teacher in the whole wide world," she enthused to Michael.

"Yes, she was all right to me," agreed Michael, fed-up, because there was no one at his school about whom he could be enthusiastic. Even Harold Douthwaite, whom everyone regarded as a local hero, was a disappointment to Michael. His Dad had told him how Lancaster lad, 'Dally' had beaten the old boy system, gone to Cambridge and got a degree; how he'd played amateur soccer for England and had a game of cricket for Lancashire.

All Michael knew was that he was a boring teacher. Like most of the others, all he did was read out a chapter from a textbook during class, tell you to learn the appropriate words for homework and then test you on its contents the next lesson. He had a short stick on his desk which he brandished at them during their first geography lesson.

"This is my tickler," he said. "Don't make me use it!" His bright eyes sparkled when he said it, but he oozed Authority. Nobody ever provoked him into using his tickler. He was quite a good sort but he never really let his guard down to have a laugh with the class. It was hard to believe that the local hero had not enough courage to risk losing control of a bunch of eleven year old boys! Perhaps he simply lacked a sense of humour.

He was supposed to take them for games but it hardly ever happened. Perhaps being a natural games player himself made him impatient of the lesser gifted. The school's playing fields were quite inadequate for such a large number of pupils. There were not nearly enough pitches or spaces for all. Priority was given to a minority, the boarders, during their after-school activities. There was nearly always a snag when it came to Michael's form's games lessons. The fields were either too wet, or frozen. It rained or they had to go for a practice cross-country run. The winter of 1944-45 was severe.

'Dally' Douthwaite's solution, his substitute for teaching how to play rugger, was to sit at his desk and dictate the rule book to them. Michael had never seen a game of rugger and had never played it. He didn't even know what the ball looked like. He found the notes which 'Dally' dictated quite incomprehensible, with references to mysterious 'scrums', 'hookers', 'dropped-goals', 'tries' etc. The list of unrecognisable terms was endless. 'Dally' might have been a local hero and a popular man but he was so boring!

Of course, Rob made out that his school was marvellous and that he was enjoying every minute of it. Michael did not believe him but he did not tell him so.
Paul said he quite liked Skerton. That was typical of him. He never told you much about what was really going on. He never got stirred up. Michael said to him, "If your house fell down round you in the middle of the night you'd sleep through it."
Paul smiled and said, "Probably! Like my dad always says, "What's the use of worrying, if you can't do anything about it?""

"The trouble with you is," Rob said, "if your dad told you to put your hand in the fire, you'd do it."
"Paul grinned and said, "Probably!" again. Michael thought, "He's not that daft, he's got a good sense of humour. He's taking a rise out of Rob and he doesn't even realise it!"
"If I told you to jump off the end of the Central Pier would you do that?" asked Rob.
"Probably!" said Paul.
"Oh shut up!" Rob snarled.

Michael was doing all right at school in most subjects. He hated Latin, French, algebra, geometry, and P.T. He enjoyed English, arithmetic, general science, running, history and divinity.

He was hopeless at woodwork and terrified of the art master. All he ordered them to do was draw freehand circles and squares. His favourite trick was to come up behind you and press a signet ring into the back of your neck.

"Rub it out!" he'd snarl. "Try again! You little Philistine!"

Michael's report at Christmas said that his work was generally satisfactory but that he should try harder. About five-hundred of the seven hundred reports sent home at the end of term said pretty much the same. They contained non-committal, well-tried comments which might have the effect of putting parental pressure onto the pupils without upsetting them too much!