Nine Till Three and Summers Free

by Mike Kent

  (iv)

  Dr Bradley walked to the front of the hall, climbed the short flight of stairs, and strode to the centre of the stage. I was reminded of my first afternoon at St James’s College, when he’d talked to the new students in this hall. It seemed such a short time ago.

  The warm morning sunlight filtered through the high windows of the hall, and everybody sat quietly at their desks waiting for Dr Bradley to speak. He gripped the sides of the lectern, glanced at the large, loudly ticking clock on the wall and then slowly looked round at us all.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It is eight minutes to ten on the morning of reckoning. Your first written examination. Some of you may be wondering where the past three years have gone. By the end of the morning, some of you could well be wishing they hadn’t gone at all.’ Several students smiled lamely. Dr Bradley seemed amused by his joke and gave everybody time to appreciate it before he began speaking again.

  ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I don’t consider your first education paper to be a difficult one. It will give you a chance to evaluate and discuss your own experiences in the light of past developments and current thinking. It is a beautiful morning, the birds are singing, God’s in his Heaven and you have three hours to answer this paper. More than enough, I’d say. Sharpen your quills, take a deep breath and turn your papers over, gentlemen. You may now begin. And, ahm, I wish you all the very best of luck.’

  He put his hands behind his back and watched as there was a riffle of paper and every head looked downwards. I opened my paper and glanced through the questions. An icy panic gripped me for a moment, even though I was relieved that the time for the written examinations had actually arrived. The condensing of three year’s lectures, the planning and the worry about whether the right things had been revised seemed less of an ordeal than the written paper itself. I’d never coped with examination conditions particularly well. At school I’d found difficulty in coming to terms with them even when I’d known I was well prepared.

  I selected the questions I would answer, and scribbled some ideas on my roughwork pad as quickly as I could. Then, having made up my mind which question to tackle first, I picked up my pen and started to write. Answering a question always became easier after I’d written the first paragraph, and it was no different this morning. Dr Bradley had been right; the examination wasn’t difficult, and with a feeling of relief I wrote quickly and enthusiastically.

  Dr Bradley always invigilated during the first examination, and now he strode with measured steps along the lanes between the rows of desks, often pausing for a moment to read a paragraph or check a heading. At first many students found this a little distracting and looked up as he passed their desks, but as they gradually became absorbed in what they were writing, nobody really noticed his presence at all. When I next glanced up from my paper, more than an hour had passed. I glanced round the hall at my peers; Dudley Hornpipe sat awkwardly on his chair, writing with an elderly fountain pen that squeaked as he moved the nib across the paper. Gerry’s lips moved gently as he silently mouthed the words he was writing, Simon Daines had a look of intense concentration on his face and had filled at least ten sheets of paper, and Duggan was writing frantically with his head propped on the palm of his left hand. Barton sat in the desk adjacent to me, scratching his head and looking at his paper doubtfully, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether he had answered the right questions. He looked across at me and frowned.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he whispered miserably.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a right bastard, isn’t it?’

  Though I hadn’t found it so, I nodded in sympathy.

  ‘How many marks do you get for writing your name?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Is that all? Christ! There isn’t a single question about exhaust gas analysers on this sodding paper. I think I’ll have to write about ‘The Glenn Miller Story’ instead.’

  ‘Are you talking, Mr Barton?’ Dr Bradley said softly but severely, moving swiftly behind his chair.

  ‘Sorry Sir,’ Barton muttered apologetically. ‘I was just wondering if I would be allowed out to the lavatory.’

  ‘Then kindly ask me, not Mr Kent. You’ve probably destroyed his concentration.’

  ‘Sorry. Would it be alright if I went to the lavatory?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘You have an hour and ten minutes left. I suggest you use them profitably, Mr Barton. Try to pass. It’s such a waste of public money when students fail.’

  ‘Thank you, I will,’ Barton said graciously and turned back to look at his paper again. Dr Bradley glided silently away.

  I finished writing ten minutes before the three hours were up. I breathed a sigh of relief, put my pen down, and began to read through my answer paper from the beginning. It seemed quite satisfactory. I felt I knew a fair amount about the history of education, classroom practice, school organisation and curriculum issues, and I was pleased with my answers. I corrected the few mistakes I’d made, added a word or two here and there, and then carefully put my papers in order. The hands on the clock inched into the one o’clock position, and Dr Bradley checked the time on his watch.

  ‘That’s it, gentlemen,’ he called loudly. ‘Your first examination is over. Would you put your pens down now, please.’

  There was a general shuffling of papers, and sighs from many of the students. Some were disappointed that the time had run out, a few were frantically putting the finishing touches to a last question, others were just thankful that the first ordeal was finally over. Doctor Bradley raised his voice above the murmuring in the hall.

  ‘Please make sure your names are written clearly at the top of each page, gentlemen. Just as a precaution. The examiners who read your illuminating philosophies of education will no doubt wish to know who wrote them. Then put your answer papers tidily on your desks in front of you. When you have done that, you may stand up and leave the hall quietly.’

  As we wandered out into the midday sunshine, groups of students clustered outside the hall entrance to discuss the ordeal of the previous three hours.

  ‘Well, I suppose that wasn’t too bad really, was it?’ Gerry said emphatically, as Duggan and I joined him. He pulled his pipe out of his jacket pocket and began to stuff tobacco into the bowl with his finger.

  ‘You must be bloody joking!’ said David Barton, overhearing him. ‘Not a single question on motor bikes in the whole paper.’

  ‘That’s because the school curriculum doesn’t contain a great deal about motor bikes,’ said Duggan. ‘You’ll have to wait till you get the physics paper.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to that. I couldn’t do much worse than I’ve done today.’

  ‘Probably just nerves, old boy,’ said Dudley sympathetically. ‘Come and see me before the next one. I’ve got one or two pills which might help.’

  ‘Do you think you’ve passed that one, then?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. I rather doubt it. My views don’t always seem to tie in with what is recognised as current good practice. I rather think I’ve made a botch of the science oral. Wretched woman had an argument with me about the African Grey.’

  ‘The what?’ asked Barton with interest.

  ‘The African Grey.’

  ‘The African Grey what?’

  ‘The African Grey parrot.

  ‘Really? She didn’t ask me about the African Grey parrot. She asked me about magnetic fields.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have asked me about the African Grey either, old boy. I know a great deal about the voice mechanisms of birds. On balance, I think I’ll probably work in an aviary rather than a classroom.’

  ‘Just goes to show,’ Barton continued. ‘I know a great deal about sex but she didn’t have any questions on that, either. Shame, because I put in a lot of practical revision.’

  �
��Anyway, I didn’t think this exam was too difficult, did you?’ Gerry said quickly, before Barton had a chance to describe his most recent conquests.

  ‘We haven’t had the hard stuff yet,’ said Duggan. ‘I mean, we’ve got Plato, Dewey, Rousseau and that lot to come yet.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult,’ Gerry replied. ‘We’ve got another four days before that one. Has anyone got a match?’

  ‘We don’t smoke, do we,’ said Duggan severely. ‘Nor should you. I could manage a pint, though. Let’s wander down to the corner. We’ve got an hour before lunch. And we’ve got the afternoon to sleep it off.’

  We walked slowly down to the main gate and into the street. As we passed the bus stop, a bus pulled into the kerb and a young man in a smart brown suit jumped off. He looked scrubbed and fresh, as if he had just climbed out of the bath.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he called, ‘You’re not from St James’s Training College, are you?’

  Duggan smiled at him. ‘Indeed we are,’ he said. ‘You must have recognised the haggard look.’

  ‘Can you tell me where I’m supposed to go?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got an interview for starting here in September.’

  ‘You’re a bit early, then. Its only July now.’

  The young man smiled self-consciously. ‘The interview’s at two o’clock,’ he said. ‘Where can I find the college office?’

  ‘Through the main gate about a hundred yards back,’ said Gerry. ‘Go through, across the lawn, up the steps and into the bottom corridor. It’s just on the left.’

  ‘Don’t actually go across the lawn, though,’ Duggan warned. ‘My friend here did that, and look at him now. And when you come here in September, think twice before trying to borrow a projector. You haven’t seen ‘The Glenn Miller Story’, I suppose?’

  The young man looked baffled. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘Why, should I have done?’

  ‘It could be an advantage. Depends who’s interviewing you,’ said Duggan. ‘If it’s Miss Pratt…’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ said Gerry. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of our finals,’ I explained. ‘My friend is suffering from post-paper disorientation. Good luck with your interview. Tell him you were in the Scouts. That’s what I did. We had a good conversation about that.’

  The young man nodded earnestly. ‘Thanks. I will. Good luck with your exams.’

  He hurried off, and we turned the corner that led towards the Barley Mow. I felt elated. I’d been incredibly lucky with my science oral, the first written exam paper had proved far easier than I’d dared hope, I’d been very successful on my teaching practices and to top it all I was in love. A surge of confidence ran through me, and I breathed in deeply. I was going to pass my examinations, and I was going to do what I’d always wanted to do.

  I was going to be a teacher.