by Mike Kent
‘Of course we’ve got a boiler room, Bristow. What are you talking about?’
I interrupted quickly. ‘It’s all right. I was just asking Bristow how to find you.’
‘Then why is the boy babbling about boiler rooms and secret agents?’
‘It was a joke. I told him I was a secret agent. It was just a joke.’
‘Was it? I see.’
Mr Reed quite obviously didn’t see at all. Bristow cowered and sped off to his classroom. I hastily explained who I was and Mr Reed eyed me suspiciously, as if wondering whether he ought to send for assistance. Eventually, deciding that I didn’t actually represent a threat to the school, he ushered me along a short corridor lined with brightly painted bookcases and through some swing doors, now latched open to reveal the school hall at right angles to the corridor. Some of the classrooms were spaced between the hall and the staircase, and a constant drone of children’s voices came from inside them, like bees in a thriving hive.
‘Come in here, please,’ Mr Reed gestured, throwing open the door of his study and waving me to a seat. The room was small and desperately neat. A comfortable chair had been placed, exactly, in front of the polished oak desk, on which stood IN and OUT trays, both tidily full. A tray with a steaming tea pot and a bone-china cup stood on the window sill. Opposite the desk were two smaller upright wooden chairs, and behind them new red curtains, drawn neatly back from the window. I sat down in the comfortable chair and tried to look reasonably cheerful. Mr Reed sat down precisely behind his desk, slamming the drawer of his filing cabinet shut as he did so. Through the wall, I could hear the sound of a typewriter.
‘Yes, now then, Mr Kent,’ Mr Reed began briskly. ‘We’ll overlook your unfortunate introduction to the school, but it would have been helpful if you could have been here on time.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I apologised. ‘The train broke down in the tunnel.’
‘That’s almost as weak an excuse as Bristow’s. Never mind. There is just time for me to tell you a little bit about the school before we go into assembly. The rest you’ll have to glean from studying the school handbook. You’ll be having second year Juniors while you are here. It is four weeks, isn’t it?’
I nodded.
‘Then that gives you a reasonable period of time to get something worthwhile done. You’ll be with Mrs Bridgewood. She is my Deputy Head, and an outstanding teacher. You will learn a lot from her. I understand your main subject is science. Growing mustard and cress and that sort of thing?’
‘Well, a bit more than that, actually. I was hoping to do quite a lot of chemistry, and…’
‘Were you? Well, we’ll have to see about that. I can’t take the risk of children burning or poisoning themselves.’
There was a knock on the door, and a neatly dressed secretary came in with a pile of letters.
‘Oh I’m sorry, Mr Reed,’ she said, ‘I didn’t realise you had someone with you. Would this be Mr Kent from St James’s?’
‘I think so, Mrs Jones,’ Mr Reed replied. ‘Though apparently there is a possibility of him belonging to the Secret Service.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a joke, Mrs Jones.’
The secretary looked completely bewildered.
‘Oh, is it? I see. Do you want a school dinner, Mr Kent? There’s pilchard salad or cauliflower cheese. You can pay me at the end of the week.’ I humbly accepted a salad, and she closed the door softly. Mr Reed spoke again.
‘As I was saying, the classes are quite large, but Briar Road is a very good school. I don’t say that just because I am here, though you will come to realise that administration plays a very important role in school life. I administrate very well, Mr Kent.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ I said, feeling that some response, however slight, was called for.
‘I also have a capable staff, of course. Efficient administration and a capable staff add up to a well run school. There are two hundred and eighteen children. The Infants occupy the ground floor, and the Juniors the other floors. If you turn out to be even one tenth as good as Mrs Bridgewood, I shall be more than satisfied.’
I smiled politely and moved my leg away from the small electric fire near his chair. It seemed to be threatening to initiate my first day at Briar Road by burning my ankle.
‘Most of the children come from the flats surrounding the school,’ Mr Reed continued, pouring a cup of tea for himself and sipping it delicately. ‘This school, as you have probably noticed, is in an area of great social deprivation. Many of the children have difficult home lives and are not easy to cope with. You’ll have no discipline problems if you keep them very busy. Be firm, Mr Kent, and don’t give them an inch. When I started at a new school I always gave my new class half a dozen hymns to write out on a piece of paper. Then I’d make them cut out the words and put them together again. It kept them very busy, and they learned the hymns at the same time.’
He smiled briefly for the first time, but there was no humour in his eyes. I resisted the urge to tell him what I thought of his ridiculous idea, and I began to wonder if the college had sent me to the right school.
‘I assume you have prepared topic work for the children, Mr Kent, and I should like to look at your file before you start teaching. You should find the school has all the equipment you need. Games equipment, tape recorders, slides, filmstrips. We have to make some concessions to modern thinking, whether we approve of it or not. I’d suggest you don’t use that kind of thing at first, though. Discipline first, or you’ll get nowhere.’
He paused to take a sheet of paper from his drawer, and as he bent down, I saw a child just outside the window behind him, apparently standing on thin air. Noticing my puzzled expression, Mr Reed swung round.
‘Get off that scaffolding, boy!’ he roared, making the window rattle. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing? Get down and come here!’
The boy moved swiftly and was gone.
‘We have painters and plumbers on site, Mr Kent, and they are a nuisance. The children climb on the scaffolding. If one of them falls off there’ll be the devil to pay. Now, where was I?’
‘You were telling me about the equipment.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve told you about that. Watch ‘em if they try to get on the scaffolding while you’re on playground duty with Mrs Bridgewood, will you?’
I nodded wearily.
‘Now, I’ve made out a timetable of the length of time I suggest you give to each subject, and I would recommend that you stick to it. I’ll be coming in to see you several times while you are teaching.’
He wouldn’t find me telling the children to cut up pieces of paper with hymns on, I thought. Mr Reed looked at his watch as a bell rang outside, and I could hear children coming out of their classrooms.
‘I’ll introduce you to Mrs Bridgewood after assembly,’ he said. ‘There isn’t time now. Is there anything you want to ask me before we go into the hall? If so, say so quickly.’
There seemed a thousand things. I selected one quickly. ‘Will there be any chance of taking the class on a visit? I was thinking of the Science Museum perhaps, to tie in with my topic on…’
‘I doubt it,’ Mr Reed interrupted. ‘Remember, you’re only here for a month, and you’ll only have the class for parts of the day. There are also the risks. A fellow from your college once left two children going round and round on the Circle line until half past six. Neither of them could speak English, either. Another one fell in the Serpentine. I’m not having anything like that again.’
‘What about books and paper?’
‘There are plenty of text books, but Mrs Bridgewood does not use them a great deal. However, she is experienced enough to know what she is doing. I suggest you watch her carefully first’. He picked up a book from his desk, put his head outside the door and motioned to me.
‘Right, we’ll go in now
. I’ve had a chair put at the back of the hall for you. There’s a key on my desk. You’d better fetch it after assembly.’
I followed as Mr Reed strode outside, pushing his way through the last class now entering the hall. A number of children looked at me curiously, and I wondered if the secret agent story had spread that far already. All the children were eventually assembled in the hall, sitting on the floor and grouped in classes according to age. The class teachers, most of whom seemed quite young, sat alongside their children. Two fourth year boys were struggling to push the piano into a suitable position, while two others were putting out an overhead projector on a trolley, and a record player. I noticed that only the Junior classes seemed to be attending this assembly.
Mr Reed strode to the front and as I sat on the chair provided for me several teachers smiled a greeting, making me feel a little more comfortable. The noise level began to increase and Mr Reed stood watching the children for a moment, obviously expecting them to quieten and becoming increasingly angry when they did not. Suddenly, he held up his right hand and shouted.
‘Right! That’s quite enough! I realise it is Monday morning, but that doesn’t mean you have to sit there squirming like a tin of maggots!’
I was startled by his abrupt manner and rudeness, and I looked across at the faces of the other teachers. They were expressionless. I wondered if they had just become used to this form of greeting.
‘Perhaps I might be allowed to begin now,’ Mr Reed continued. ‘Good morning, school.’
‘Good morning Mr Reed,’ they chorused back.
‘Because I happen to be a few minutes late for assembly I see no reason why you should make that kind of noise. I shall expect you to keep absolutely quiet for the rest of assembly. We have a new teacher with us this morning, and I hardly think he has been impressed by your behaviour. You will treat him just as you treat the rest of the staff.’
As I had no idea how the other teachers were treated, I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or not. All the children turned to look at me, and the chattering began again.
‘That’s quite enough. And that’s the third time I’ve said it,’ Mr Reed shouted. ‘We shall now sing ‘I Love God’s Tiny Creatures.’ He switched on an overhead projector and the words flashed onto a wallscreen. Then he strode to the piano, sat down, and played an introduction. The children stood up and began to sing, falteringly at first, and then heartily when they reached the last verse.
‘Right, sit down,’ he said, closing the lid of the piano afterwards and, strangely, locking it with a small key.
‘Now then, the hymn we have just been singing told us how we should care for all God’s tiny creatures, no matter how large or small they are. I am going to read about somebody who cared a great deal for God’s creatures. Sit up, keep still, and listen quietly.’
Picking up his book from the table, he began to read the story of St Francis. It wasn’t a version particularly suited to children, and they soon became restless and bored. Mr Reed had to look up sharply several times and wait for the murmuring to stop. At the end of the story, he clapped his hands again for silence, asked the children to stand, bow their heads and put their hands together, and then led them in the Lord’s Prayer before ushering them to sit down again.
‘It’s a shame some of you can’t be bothered to listen properly,’ he said. ‘There are several things I wish to say, so sit up and pay attention. I am sorry to hear that some children haven’t been behaving properly at the swimming baths. It seems that some of you have been pushing others into the pool. Not all of you, of course. Just the few fools who think that sort of thing is funny. I understand the instructor was nearly pushed into the pool herself. If this sort of behaviour continues, I shall have all swimming cancelled for a month.’
There was absolute silence now.
‘Right. I think I’ve made myself clear. I don’t have to remind you…’ The sound of hammers pounding on the wall outside threatened to blot out his words as he began to speak again. He raised his voice another octave.
‘…I don’t have to remind you that the builders are still here. I do not want to see stupid fools climbing the scaffolding. One fool was on the scaffolding outside my room this morning when he should have been in his classroom. If this nonsense continues I shall stop all playtimes as well. Are you listening to me, Bradley?’
A boy in the middle of the hall looked up and nodded seriously.
‘Well it doesn’t look like it to me, boy. You’re wriggling like a maggot. And I don’t want to see anyone touching tools belonging to the workman. You are neither plumbers nor carpenters and I don’t intend allowing you to dismember each other. Right, sit up straight and get ready to go out.’
He walked to the table beside the piano, put on a record of brass band music, and stood with his arms folded while the children filed out with their teachers. I could hardly believe what I’d seen and heard. When the hall was practically empty, Mr Reed removed the record from the turntable and again motioned me to follow him back to his study, where he handed me a large iron key.
‘Keep this until the day you leave,’ he said. ‘And please try not to lose it. I’ve had three cut in the last few months.’
‘Surely I don’t need a classroom key?’ I asked. ‘Doesn’t Mrs Bridgewood have one?’
‘It’s not a classroom key, Mr Kent. It’s a key to the gentlemen’s lavatory. The plumbers are renewing the indoor ones and you’ll have to use the original staff toilet in the playground, I’m afraid. Follow me now, please.’
In a state of mild shock I followed him once again through the hall and down the corridor along the other side. He opened a door near the staircase and ushered me inside.
‘This is Mrs Bridgewood’s classroom,’ he announced. ‘Now, where is she…’
The classroom was very large and surprisingly airy. Separated into groups and already occupied with various tasks were about twenty five children, busily comparing books and chattering softly to each other. A tall, attractive woman in her early forties wearing a neat blue overall was moving from group to group, marking work, offering spellings, discussing how best to tackle something new and giving help or advice to several children at once. She was crouching down with the children and their urgent discussions as they pored over their tasks showed they were completely absorbed in what they were doing.
On the wall at the back of the room was a huge map of the world, painted by the children. Numbers and pointers were dotted all over the map, each number corresponding to a country, and two girls were testing each other’s knowledge of them. Above this was a display of masks, beautifully decorated and constructed with loving care. Five children in one corner wore headphones connected to a tape recorder and sat listening to a story, following the words in their books. Two girls were sketching some of the fish drifting peacefully in the fishtank near the window.
On a table at the side of the room were large models of Tudor houses, constructed from cardboard boxes and balsa wood. Above them, high on the wall, was an enormous painting of a Tudor street scene. The fourth wall was devoted entirely to mathematics, showing the wide range of practical topics the children had attempted. A boy at the front table looked up and saw us.
‘Miss, Miss,’ he called. ‘Mr Reed’s in ‘ere…’
Mrs Bridgewood turned and stood up, pushing her apron back into place and wiping chalk dust from her hands. She beamed at me and shook my hand warmly.
‘Hello, welcome, I’m Dorothy Bridgewood,’ she smiled, after Mr Reed had left the room. ‘Well, what did you think of our assembly?’
‘A bit severe for a Monday morning,’ I said cautiously.
She laughed out loud, and several children looked up and grinned, even though they couldn’t hear the conversation.
‘Wasn’t it awful?’ she said. ‘I’m afraid our headmaster is a bit of an ogre. The children are quite frightened of him, but
we don’t see him much and he never bothers us, so we don’t worry about it. Thank God he doesn’t actually teach a class. Has he told you about his school at Tower Bridge?’
‘He did mention something about cutting up hymn sheets.’
‘Oh, he’s got lots of stories like that. He’s been here for sixteen years. How he got the headship we’ll never know. Perhaps they were relieved to get him out of the classroom.’
‘Doesn’t it affect the children?’ I asked. ‘His attitude, I mean?’
‘Most of the staff don’t think so. I’m not so sure. Still, we do what we can to compensate. I’m afraid you came in at the wrong end of the day. His assemblies are the worst part. They don’t involve the children at all and that’s why they chatter. They’re simply not interested. Who would be, if you’re moaned at all the time?’
She stopped and spoke to a child who couldn’t work out why the graph she was drawing didn’t emerge as a straight line. I waited until it had been explained.
‘They’re doing maths now,’ she said. ‘Most of them, anyway, but I don’t do it at the same time every day. In fact, you can use your time as you like. How long are you here for?’
‘A month.’
‘Mmm, I thought it would be. Well, that’s fine. I’ll give you a couple of days to get used to the children while we talk about what you want to do. You can wander round and have a chat to them in a minute. They’d like that.’
I gazed round the classroom in admiration. It was bright, colourful and extremely child-centred. The children seemed completely in control of their own learning.
‘I’ve got them in groups at the moment, to finish off work they started a few days ago,’ she continued. ‘The lot over there are measuring themselves and then they’ll go on to workcards using the measurements. I’ve got a couple out by the main gate doing a graph survey of the traffic. Very sensible ones, mind! Some of the others, like Julie over there, are doing some practical fraction work based on a story we had yesterday. And I think Jamie Dudmish is making a pair of calipers. He’s a very clever boy. Another four are at the police station.’
