The Day My Nan Confronted the Grammar School
The bullying at Dynevor Grammar School in the mid-1960s was bad, but the real shock was that the teachers were the worst offenders. One morning, Mr. Davies, my geography teacher, otherwise known as Flash, intercepted me at the classroom door.
“You reek of smoke, Murphy. Do you smoke?”
I told him no, though I wasn't entirely sure what reek meant at the time. He wasn't having it.
"You're lying," he declared. "You stink. Disgusting."
By the time I reached my desk, I was fighting back tears, embarrassed, humiliated, and burning with shame.
The Smell of Home
He wasn't wrong about the smell. Practically everyone in my house smoked: my parents, my brothers, visiting relatives. I rode into town on the top deck of buses where smoking was still permitted, breathing in clouds of other people's cigarettes. Given my daily exposure to secondhand smoke, it's a miracle I didn't cough up a Rothmans logo.
But I didn't smoke—not then—and that was what stung. Being punished for something I hadn't done, humiliated for the simple crime of living in a smoking household.
Sanctuary
When the bell rang, I didn't linger. I walked straight out of school and headed 300 yards up the road to the café where my Nan worked alongside my aunties Enda and Pat. It was quite posh by Swansea standards—white tablecloths, waitresses in starched aprons, and an air of respectability that felt worlds away from Flash's classroom.
The moment I walked through the door, the tears came flooding out. Between sobs, I explained what had happened. Without fuss, they sat me down with a cup of tea, the British solution to any crisis, and a custard slice (a thing of wonder which would put me in a hyperglycemic coma if I ate one today).
My Nan listened in silence. Then, without a word, she put on her coat over her apron and marched out of the café. Four foot nine inches of concentrated Welsh fury. Never underestimate the wrath of a grandmother armed with righteous indignation and nothing left to lose.
My Aunties Edna and Pat
The Reckoning
She returned half an hour later, lips pressed tight, saying very little except that I had the rest of the day off. Then she took me back to Mayhill, where she spent the afternoon airing out my school jacket. God only knows what she said to the headmaster, but I suspect the conversation would have made a docker blush.
The next morning, I returned to school with fresh dread. Flash shot me a look of pure venom and growled, "Report to the headmaster's office."
To any Dynevor boy, Mr. Norris was a mythological figure—rarely glimpsed but universally feared. A summons to his office typically meant only one thing: the cane. School folklore was rich with terrifying details about that instrument of torture. It was supposedly springy, flexible, scientifically calibrated for maximum agony. Rumour had it that Norris could deliver soul-crushing pain with just the slightest flick of his wrist.
I sat outside his office, trembling like a leaf in a gale.
"Come!" he bellowed from within.
Justice
I entered expecting the worst. Instead, Mr. Norris gestured for me to sit and spoke in measured, calm tones. If I encountered any future problems, he explained, I should come directly to him rather than involving my grandmother. Then he added, almost as an afterthought: "Mr. Davies won't be bothering you again. Perhaps you could relay that to your grandmother."
I nodded, still uncertain whether I'd been punished or promoted to some higher status.
The Aftermath
Flash largely left me alone after that, at least regarding the verbal humiliation and public shaming. The physical violence continued much the same, but I'd grown accustomed to that by then.
It's remarkable what you learn to accept as normal. A teacher's fists were just part of the educational landscape, but questioning a boy's honesty without evidence? Apparently, that crossed a line, at least when the boy had a grandmother willing to march up that hill and fight for him.
Looking back, I realise my Nan didn't just rescue me from Flash's cruelty that day. She taught me something more valuable: that not all authority deserves respect, and sometimes the smallest person in the room can be the most powerful.