Two people come to mind when I recall my teenage anxieties about being blown to kingdom come in a nuclear war. One is an ancient American farmer; the other is my chemistry teacher, Mr Fenwick.
I was in the upper sixth and we were both in the school production of Cabaret. I was hopeless as the leading man; Mr Fenwick was brilliant as the MC, a role for which he wore tights. Honestly, the 80s – what were we like? I digress. After rehearsals I’d give him a lift to Stourbridge Junction train station, and we’d have a pint in the pub across the road. One time we somehow got on to his childhood memories of the Cuban missile crisis. “I remember thinking, ‘Fucking hell, we’re all going to die,’” he said with feeling. This was the first and only time in my school years I heard a teacher use the F-word. He conveyed brilliantly the visceral fear he’d felt more than 20 years earlier; for a fleeting moment he was back there and he’d taken me with him.
