Nine Till Three and Summers Free

by Mike Kent

  ‘It’s no use getting annoyed with me, young man,’ she scolded, ‘no use at all. And I don’t believe I’ve had your work on the Cotswolds yet, have I?’

  Gerry’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘No, but I don’t see what that’s got… anyway, I’ve done it. I’ll bring it up in the morning.’

  Miss Pratt’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes. Well, that’s not really good enough. I realise you weren’t looking very well at my last lecture, but you’ve had plenty of time since then. Everyone else in the group has not only completed the work but also, I might add, handed it in. I really cannot see how you expect me to have your work marked in time for the next lecture if it is not handed in. Can you?’

  She raised her eyebrows and the tip of her nose went bright pink, a sure sign that she was annoyed and on the defensive. Gerry remained speechless at this outburst and sat looking at her with a disbelieving grin on his face.

  ‘And another thing,’ she continued, getting into her stride and ignoring my presence altogether, ‘your essay on the source of the Medway was below the standard I expect. I don’t know which reference books you used, but they certainly weren’t current.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Gerry objected, ‘but all the best reference books…’

  ‘I really haven’t time to listen to excuses. To put it in a nutshell, Gerald, we are doing British and European geography, supposedly in some depth. You started this course extremely well, but I cannot say the same for your most recent work. You seem to have muddled the French coal producing areas with the mines of Alsace-Lorraine and your essay on the industrial towns was far too sketchily written. If you are going to mention the Lyons region, I cannot see why you have left out Saint-Etienne and Le Creusot.’

  ‘But the essay was basically about the Marseilles region,’ Gerry interrupted. ‘I wrote about three pages on that alone.’

  Miss Pratt crossed her legs and folded her arms in a stubborn and determined pose.

  ‘In an examination, you would be required to answer the questions you were asked. If you were asked to write about the slate quarries of Wales, there would be little point in writing about the agriculture of Scotland just because you happen to know more about it.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very fair…’

  ‘Fairness doesn’t really come into it. You know as well as I do that to pass this course you have to satisfy the examiners that you have reached a certain standard.’

  She looked at me suddenly and raised her eyebrows, as if wondering what on earth I was doing in the room.

  ‘Oh, and this projector business,’ she concluded, suddenly snapping into focus, ‘I’m afraid I really can’t place one of my machines in your care unless I have specific instructions to do so from the Principal, and I am quite sure he would agree with me that I cannot let all and sundry use just what they want unless Mr Dunn is going to preside while the equipment is being used. If anything should be broken, my classes would be greatly inconvenienced.’

  She turned to her desk and took out a pile of papers for marking, obviously considering the whole distasteful matter closed.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Gerry sarcastically as he opened the door.

  ‘That’s quite enough, thank you,’ she replied sharply. ‘And please make sure you hand in your piece of work by tomorrow morning at the very latest. If you have no other lectures today I would suggest you could be gainfully employed in finishing it, rather than planning to show… er… whatever it is.’

  ‘The Glenn Miller Story’.

  ‘Really. Well, I don’t think I’ve heard of that. What’s that all about?’

  ‘Glenn Miller,’ said Gerry. ‘It’s his story.’

  She ignored the irony and returned to her papers. We wandered back to our corridor, hardly believing that such a simple request could have proved so unsuccessful and disappointing.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ Gerry said miserably, sitting heavily on the chair in the corner of his room. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘Two things. First, go and see the Doc. Then, if that doesn’t work, we’ll just have to settle for the steam driven equipment in the education department.’

  ‘I still think it’s pretty hopeless.’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m supposed to be meeting Samantha for a coffee in a minute. Go and have a talk to him.’

  ‘That’s hardly practical. If you don’t catch him first thing in the morning you have to make an appointment three weeks ahead.’

  ‘It’s worth a try. Do you want this society to get off the ground or not? He’s always reasonable and he might actually be in his office. Just try and persuade him to talk to Miss Pratt.’

  ‘All right, I’ll give it one try. Then I suppose I’d better get this Cotswolds thing finished. Perhaps if I do that brilliantly she’ll change her mind anyway.’

  He strode off down the corridor, his long legs taking determined strides and his hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets. I wandered back to my own room and half-heartedly began to tidy it. Because the room was relatively small, and because books, pieces of equipment, clothes, mugs, coffee jars, magazines and the classical guitar I’d bought for a pittance in a local junk shop were demanding a place to be kept, I abandoned my efforts very quickly. The room was beginning to resemble a council tip under pressure. I made a mental note to get it tidied that evening, put on my only remaining clean pullover, and walked down the road to the Wimpy bar near the library. It was already very crowded, and Samantha was sitting inside near the window. She looked up, smiled and moved to give me room. I ordered some coffee, two slices of strawberry gateaux and sat down.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked, seeing the frown on my face. ‘You haven’t been studying too hard, have you?’

  I smiled at her and wondered how she always managed to look so attractive.

  ‘I always study hard,’ I said. ‘I’m a naturally hard-working student.’

  ‘Really? Well, that’s a first, then. So what are you looking so miserable for?’

  ‘I’m not really miserable. Just a bit annoyed. We’ve been trying to borrow projectors from the geography department.’

  ‘Oh, for your film society?’

  ‘Yes. We might just as well have been trying to break into Fort Knox.’ I told her all about the meeting with Miss Pratt.

  ‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘I know that the people who ran a film society before you managed all right. They must have been able to borrow projectors from one of the departments. And they certainly had two of them. Perhaps Miss Pratt wasn’t lecturing at the college then.’

  The waitress put two plates with slices of strawberry gateaux on the table, and slipped a bill underneath my cup and saucer.

  ‘This’ll make you fat, you know,’ said Samantha.

  ‘I doubt it. Look at all the exercise I get running up and down the college stairs. And chasing you. Go on, have a piece.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can afford these luxuries on a student grant. I’ll just have a half a slice. You eat the rest. It’ll cheer you up. And you never know, you might get back and find Dr Bradley has said you can use whatever you like.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘My, we are happy today!’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s a shame, that’s all.’

  ‘It’ll be alright. I bet it all turns out to be a great success.’

  She blew on her coffee and took a cautious sip. Then she looked up at me quickly.

  ‘Look, I’ve got a great idea. If you want the Doc to agree, then you’ve got to make it appear you’re doing something really worthwhile.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Wait a minute. I’m just about to explain. Why don’t you write to St Bernard’s and put on a special show for some of their boys?’

  ‘St Bernard’s?’

  ‘St Bernard’s D
ay School for boys with behavioural difficulties, emotional problems and so on. I see one of their teachers, Alan Green, quite often. He comes to the library and borrows records and things. He’s a smashing bloke, and I bet he’d love to bring a group along. Especially if you’re showing The Glenn Miller Story.’

  I realised her idea had definite possibilities. Dr Bradley would certainly be enthusiastic, and we could even hire a few cartoons for the special show as well.

  ‘You’re a genius,’ I said, and squeezed her hand. ‘Can you have a word with their teacher when he comes in the library next?’

  ‘Of course. He’ll probably come in on Tuesday. I’ll ask him then.’

  ‘It really is a good idea, Sam. What a shame Gerry’s already gone to see the Doc. Perhaps he won’t be in. In which case, I’ll go and see him first thing in the morning. Got any more good suggestions?’

  She looked at her empty coffee cup.

  ‘Mmm. You can buy me another coffee. I’ve just got time. And you could take me to the proper movies tonight. ‘Seven Brides For Seven Brothers’ is on again at the Cameo. I like Howard Keel.’

  ‘My God, Dai Thomas will probably be in the front row, joining in with the songs. Are you sure you want that?’

  ‘Sounds absolutely delightful. I love the film anyway. Can you afford it?’

  ‘Just about. Provided you buy me another slice of gateaux.’

  (iii)

  Back at college, I hurried to Gerry’s room to discuss Samantha’s suggestion and to see what had happened at his meeting with Dr Bradley. I found Duggan and Gerry thumbing through film catalogues.

  ‘Hey Mike, guess what,’ Duggan grinned, ‘Gerry not only consulted the good Doctor. He actually managed to persuade him. What a clever sod, eh?’

  ‘The man’s a bit of a film buff,’ Gerry explained. ‘The theatre is really his thing, but he knows a bit about film as well. Loves Westerns. We sat and discussed the films of John Ford, and then he said of course we could use the projectors, and he’d see Miss Pratt about it this afternoon. So that’s that. He even promised to buy a ticket for the first show.’

  ‘Doesn’t want to go in the balcony, does he?’ asked Duggan cautiously.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. I think we reserve the balcony for Barton and his entourage.’

  ‘That why I’m afraid he might want to go up there.’

  ‘I might even have a go at selling a ticket to Miss Pratt,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Dear God, don’t let’s get carried away. Anyway, if we spend the next couple of days catching up on the essays we were supposed to have handed in months ago, we can get cracking on the advertising. We need a lot of people at the first show.’

  Publicity was important to every thriving college society. If nobody knew what you were doing, nobody bothered to come, and even if people did know what you were doing, they still might not come if it was raining. New ways of announcing forthcoming attractions were continually being invented by tiny but determined committees. It was especially important if more than one event was going to be held on the same night and societies had to compete with one another for an audience. A fair amount of forward planning had to be done, together with a generally unspoken agreement that co-operation was necessary to achieve a result acceptable to both parties. A lively hop was never held when the drama club was presenting a show, and the operatic society never practised next to the chess club.

  The best places for advertising were the large notice boards screwed to the wall in the ground floor corridor and outside the dining hall. Practically everybody attended the evening meal, and those who were at a loss for something to do that evening always read the ‘What’s On In College’ guide. Sometimes, a bold club secretary would bang a spoon on the table and announce an evening activity while everybody was eating, but this took some nerve as he was likely to be mercilessly heckled unless the message was wittily delivered.

  Two days after Doctor Bradley had agreed that the projectors could be used, our newly-formed film society began working on the publicity side of its first performance. Duggan had decided it would be best to paint as many film posters as we could manage between us, and then display them in prominent positions around the college building. Gerry spent a morning sorting through catalogues to find three suitable short films to make up the programme length, and I filled in an order form for soft drinks, wrapped biscuits, crisps and packets of nuts for Samantha to sell during the interval.

  ‘We need to think carefully about our refreshment tactics,’ Duggan said, ‘We’ve got to make sure we go about it in the right way. If we’re going to sell all this stuff we really ought to have Samantha standing out the front in a bikini. Then we show a short documentary about the Sahara desert. By the time we get to the interval they’ll be absolutely dying for a drink.’

  ‘It’s not a bad idea at that,’ said Gerry. ‘Suppose I took a few slides of her posing with some bottles? Then we could show them on the filmstrip projector to entice the audience to buy. We could do some stills of our future programmes as well.’

  ‘What about it Mike?’ Duggan smiled. ‘Do you think Samantha would agree to all that?’

  ‘I’m sure she would. You’d have to borrow the strip projector from Miss Pratt, though.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Gerry immediately.

  ‘Wait, wait!’ Duggan exclaimed, pacing up and down the room, ‘it needs a few other brilliant publicity ideas. We need a few stunts. Like the day we’re showing ‘High Noon’, I could ride into the dining room on a horse. They’d like that. Or even better, Samantha could ride in on a horse. Scantily dressed. They’d like that even better. Or perhaps Miss Pratt would do it. What about it?’

  ‘Got any more ideas like that?’ Gerry asked coldly.

  ‘Stacks. Like when we show the Polish war thing, you blokes could dress up as Germans, run into the dining room and kidnap somebody.’

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Gerry. ‘I notice you don’t tend to include yourself in these brilliant suggestions.’

  ‘Of course not. Someone’s got to organise it all. I’d be the man on the outside.’

  ‘To return to the matter in hand,’ said Gerry, taking a roll of paper from behind his wardrobe, ‘I suggest we move into Duggan’s room. Or Mike’s. Milly has just tidied up in here.’

  We gathered together the paper, brushes and paint that Gerry had managed to smuggle out of the art room, and carried it into Duggan’s bedroom, only to find that Milly was now busy in there. Since my room was still in a very untidy state we decided to do what we could in there, and then spread out along the corridor. I shifted my books and equipment from the table and floor, Gerry rolled back the carpet and Duggan went off in search of old cups to mix powder paint in. He returned with eight plastic beakers borrowed from the kitchen and a selection of spoons for stirring the paint. The roll of cartridge paper was divided up into a dozen sheets of reasonable size and we set to work, sketching first and then painting. The small room very quickly became a publicity production factory.

  After an hour of feverish activity, there were several puddles of paint on the floor because Duggan had kicked over the same beaker three times while working in a very confined space. Scribbled ideas littered the desk, used tea cups piled up on the window sills, and the air was thick with smoke from Gerry’s pipe, which he always puffed copiously when his mind was switched to active mode. The smell was particularly strong because he’d burnt a hole in my bedspread after absent-mindedly putting his pipe down on it for a moment.

  Even though I’d removed all my books from the shelves to protect them from the mess, the edges of several had become smeared with green and I’d packed them tightly into the top of the wardrobe out of the way. Meanwhile, Duggan had attempted to give the edges of his poster an attractive mottled effect by dipping a toothbrush in paint and then pulling a piece of card across it. Unfortuna
tely, on a practice run, he had pulled the card the wrong way across the bristles and the brush had distributed its load across everything except the piece of paper.

  Even so, by late afternoon we had produced enough posters to advertise Glenn Miller in each of the corridors, the staircase, and the main hall. Gerry applied a match to the bowl of his pipe, attempted to brush some dried powder paint from his trousers without the slightest success, and stood surveying the results of his work so far.

  ‘They’re not bad, you know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know I could paint. I should have taken art as a main subject.’

  ‘Shame we’re not still on teaching practice,’ said Duggan, washing out some of the brushes. ‘The kids could have turned out hundreds of these posters. I bet they’d have loved it, too.’

  ‘I might pin one on Miss Pratt’s bum,’ said Gerry thoughtfully.

  ‘You’ve got quite a thing about her,’ said Duggan, picking flecks of paint from his trousers. ‘I’m getting quite worried. Anyway, we need about a dozen more posters.’

  ‘The roll of paper’s finished,’ said Gerry. ‘I’ll go up to the art room and see if I can get a bit more.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll wander down the road and get a packet of tea.’

  When they had gone, I gathered some of the posters together and laid them end to end in the corridor outside my room to clear some space before we began again. I decided there wasn’t much point in tidying up if we were going to carry on for a while, so I sat down on my bed, picked up my guitar, and thumbed a few chords I’d learned at guitar club the night before.

  A few minutes later there was a sturdy knock at the door. Expecting to see Gerry loaded down with paper, I threw it open, to find Miss Bottle standing outside with a very tall woman in her late fifties. I had never seen her before. She was immaculately dressed in a light blue two piece suit, and she obviously took great care and pride in her appearance. Miss Bottle took a step back and looked quizzically at the splashes of purple and yellow paint on my face. Then, recovering from her initial surprise, she smiled doubtfully and peered round the door, as if a booby trap might be lying in wait for her the moment she took a step inside.