A Death at School

Idon’t remember much about the funeral. I do remember thinking how small the white-lacquered coffin was as it passed in front of us at the entrance of the old church. It seemed impossible that it could contain our classmate. The whole class had turned up to line the procession. I remember his mother walking behind the coffin, with a handkerchief, crying. The next day at school our class teacher praised us for having been so quiet and dignified on the occasion. Given the frequent pandemonium in the classroom, she had sternly admonished us beforehand, fearing that we would be incapable of being sufficiently respectful. She need not have worried: we were fully aware of the gravity of what had happened — we knew perfectly well to distinguish between the frivolous and the serious.

It was still the Seventies; it was either our first or our second year at secondary school. We had been friendly but not close friends. Although he came from the same small town a couple of miles from the school, we had not been together before: we lived in different parts of town, and so at primary school, they had put us in different classes. But now, at secondary school, they had put us all together. He was the best swimmer of us, better even than the all-round sportiest one, who was a year older anyway. He was one of those boys in whom you could already make out the shape of individual muscles.

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