I sat down, opened the Attendance register and called one name at random. “Palmer, will you read for us, please.”
I followed the gaze of the class and discovered that Palmer was a red-faced, bull-necked boy, with pale eyes and a very large close-cropped head. “Will you stand up, please?” He looked around the class indecisively, then rose to his feet and began to read slowly, haltingly.
“That will do, Palmer. Now, Benjamin, will you carry on?”
Palmer sat down, looking at me questioningly. His reading was shockingly bad. Benjamin’s effort was not much better, nor was that of Sapiano, Wells or Drake. “Jane Purcell, will you read, please.” The girl who rose to comply was fair-haired and slim, with a pair of heavy breasts which swung loosely under a thin jumper, evidently innocent of any support I wondered at the kind of parent who would allow a girl to go out so sloppily attired. She read better than the others, that is to say she recognized more words, but they were disconnected from each other in a way which robbed them of much of their meaning.
While the Purcell girl read I noticed that there was some laughter and inattention among some of the children at the back of the class. Without interrupting the reader, I rose quietly and went to investigate. One of the boys, the same big fellow who had been annoying the girls earlier that morning, was playing with or demonstrating something behind the raised flap of his desk, and his immediate neighbors were helpless with suppressed laughter.
Unobserved I reached him and felt a wave of disgust as I saw what he held in his hand. It was a female figure in flesh colored rubber, poised straddle-legged on a small globe; as he pressed the globe between finger and thumb the flaccidly concave breasts and abdomen leaped into exaggeratedly inflated relief and presented a picture of lewdly advanced pregnancy.
“Will you put that away, please?”
He casually put the figure in his pocket, favoring me the while with a cool, insolent stare; then he pulled his hand away from the desk and let the lid fall back into place with a loud bang. The girl stopped reading, and I knew they were all watching me, tense and anxious. Anger was rising in me, filling my throat; but somehow I managed to hold myself in check. I walked back to my desk. Keep calm, I said to myself, you’ve got to keep calm.
“Potter, will you read, please?”
Potter was tall and very fat, easily the largest boy in the class. He read reasonably well, and when I raised my hand for him to stop, he beamed happily.
“Sit down, Potter.” My voice was sharp. “I take it you would all agree that this book is written in English, your language and that of your ancestors. After listening to you, I am not sure whether you are reading badly deliberately, or are unable to understand or express your own language. However, it may be that I have done you the injustice of selecting the worst readers. Would anyone else like to read for me?”
There was a pause, then a hand shot up at the farthest end of the back row. It belonged to the red-head whom I had encountered the day before. I noticed that unlike most of the class she was clean and neat.
“Your name, please?”
“Dare, Pamela Dare.”
“Begin, please.”
It was a passage from Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island …
“‘In I got bodily into the apple barrel and found there scarce an apple left … ’”
Her voice was clear, warm and well-modulated; she read easily, flowing the words into a clear picture of the boy’s terrifying experience. The passage ended, she stopped and looked at me defiantly, as n satisfied with this vindication of her colleagues, then abruptly sat down. “Thank you, Pamela Dare. Anyone else like to try?”
No one offered, so I spoke to them at some length about reading, emphasizing that it was the most important of the basic skills they were expected to master. Occasionally I walked over to a desk at random, picked up a book, and read from it to illustrate some point I was making. They sat watching me, quietly, ominously, but they were listening, and I warmed to my subject, primarily concerned with keeping them that way. The bell for recess was a very welcome sound, and they trooped out to their mid-morning milk while I sat down at my desk to give some further thought to the next lesson.
There was a knock on the door and Miss Clintridge came in carrying two cups of tea, one of which she placed on my desk. I stood up, but she airily waved the courtesy aside and perched herself on one side of my desk.
“Thought you’d like a cuppa. How did it go, ducks?”
“Oh, not too badly, I think; one of the boys was a bit of a nuisance.” I told her of the incident.
“What did you do with it?”
“Oh, I didn’t take it from him, I told him to put it away.”
She gave me a long searching look over the rim of her teacup, then she said:
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Braithwaite.”
“Not that, silly, your other name.”
“Ricky; you know, short for Ricardo.”
“Mine’s Vivienne, but everyone calls me Clinty.”
“Suits you. Sharp.”
“So I’ve been told. Now look here, Ricky, there are one or two things I think you ought to understand. We all know the Old Man’s views and ideas about teaching these kids, and we agree with them. But there’s another side to it; the Old Man’s views are wonderful when considered from the safety of his office, but in the classrooms we have to try to put these views into effect, and that’s a different kettle of fish. Now look at it from the children’s point of view, they come from homes where an order is invariably accompanied by a blow, and they do what they’re told or else. They might use bad language to their friends, but if they try it on their parents or older brothers or sisters they get a clip on the ear. Well, they come here and soon discover that no blows are flying about and that they can say and do as they please. So what happens? Little Alfie or Mary takes that as license to say anything he or she likes, and the poor teacher has to stand there and take it; and the more you take from them, the worse it gets. Right?”
“Right.”
“Well, we’ve got ourselves to consider as well as the kids. It’s up to us to make our work bearable, so take a tip from me. Don’t touch them, especially the girls, don’t lay a finger on them or the next thing you know they’ll be screaming high and low that you were interfering with them—but at the same time find some way of making them know who’s boss. We’ve all had to. They’re scared of Grace, and they’ve a great respect for Selma Drew’s tongue—she may look as if she wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose, but when she’s roused she’s a real bitch.
“Me, I was born around hereabouts and they know it, so I can give as good as I get. Don’t take any guff from them, Ricky, or they’ll give you hell. Sit heavily on them at first; then, if they play ball, you can always ease up. That ass Hackman tried to be popular with this lot; he gave them too much rope and they used it to hang him; served the cranky bastard right.” She paused long enough to finish her tea. “Your tea’s getting cold, Rick.”
She hopped down from the desk. “Remember, don’t take any crap from them, any of them.” She picked up the two cups and was gone, as bright and gusty as a May breeze.
“Thank you, Clinty, I’ll remember.”
Before the class returned I set up the blackboard on its easel and waited for them somewhat impatiently. As soon as they were settled once more I began.
“Our arithmetic lesson will be on weights and measures. As with our reading lesson, I am again trying to find out how much you know about it and you can help by answering my questions as fully as you are able. Does anyone know the table of weights, Avoirdupois?”
“Aver at what?”
“Avoirdupois,” I repeated, hoping my pronunciation of the word was correct. “It refers to those weights commonly used in grocers’ shops and the like.”
“Yeah, I know.” The thickset
fellow was slumped low in his chair. “Like heavyweight, light-heavy, cruiserweight, middle, light bantam, fly-weight, featherweight.”
He held up both hands like a toddler in kindergarten and was playfully counting off on his fingers. When he stopped they laughed and at that he stood up and bowed to them with mock gravity. It was really very funny, and in another place, at another time, I, too, would have laughed as uproariously as the rest. But, for good or ill, this was my classroom, and Clinty’s words were still echoing in my ear. I let the laughter run its course. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against my desk until every last one of them had laughed his fill and subsided. Then:
“What’s your name, please?” I was angry and my voice was brittle.
“Denham.”
“Well, Denham, that’s one way of applying the table of weights. Are you interested in boxing, Denham?”
“Yeah.” He flexed his shoulders and gazed lazily around the room.
“I see. Well, if you have at least learned to apply the table in that limited respect, it cannot be said that you are altogether stupid, can it, Denham?”
The smile left his face.
“Is there anyone else who would like to say something about the table of weights?”
“Tons, hundredweights, quarters, pounds, ounces.” The voice came suddenly from just in front of me. I looked into the upturned face of the little fellow of yesterday’s cigarette incident.
“Yes, that’s correct. What’s your name, please?”
“Tich, Tich Jackson.”
I felt rather pleased at this gesture of cooperation.
“In some places, like the U.S.A. and the West Indies, although they use the same table of weights, they refer to pounds or tons, but never to stones or hundredweights. So a man would speak of his weight as 170 pounds, while here in England it would be 12 stone, 2 pounds, which would put him in the cruiserweight class, I suppose.”
“Welterweight,” Denham’s tone was casual but authoritative.
“Thank you, Denham, welterweight. There are other weights in use. Troy weight is used by jewellers in weighing precious metals like gold, silver or platinum.”
“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
A loud roar of laughter followed this remark. I was not sure who was responsible, but I knew it came from the back row. I looked at Denham but he returned my gaze levelly, even insolently.
“Don’t care for them much meself.”
A stout, sallow-skinned girl removed the necklace of colored glass beads from her rather grimy neck with an elaborate gesture and held them up for general inspection.
“Pearls is more in my line.”
Her mimicry and exaggerated gestures held the class helpless with laughter.
I knew that I had to do something, anything, and quickly. They were challenging my authority, probably with no feeling of antipathy to myself, but merely to maintain a kind of established convention of resistance to a new teacher, watching closely for any sign of weakness or indecision. Maybe this was what Clinty was really hinting at. Okay, if a fight was what they wanted … “That’s enough!” My voice was sharp and loud, cutting off their laughter. “I find it both interesting and encouraging to discover that you have a sense of humor, especially about something as simple and elementary as weights. As a matter of fact, you seem to find everything rather amusing. You were amused at your inability to read simple passages in your own language, and now you are amused at your ignorance of weights. Many folk I have met have been disturbed, even distressed at their lack of knowledge; in your case you find such a lack amusing.” I was being sarcastic, deliberately, incisively sarcastic. “It is therefore very clear to me that we shall have a most delightful time together; you seem to know so very little, and you are so easily amused, that I can look forward to a very happy time.”
There were murmurs of “bleeding cheek” from some of them. They were not smiling now, but glaring angrily at me. This was much better.
“Now we’ll turn our attention to measurements, beginning with linear measurement. Do you know the table of linear measurement, Denham?”
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, before I explain I’ll wait until you’ve all had the usual laugh.”
They remained grave, angry, watchful.
“Does anyone else know the table I’m referring to?”
“Inches, feet, yards, furlongs, miles.” It was the fat, freckled girl who spoke.
“Yes, that’s quite correct. It’s called linear because it is concerned with lines.”
I then began to give them some background history on measurement and the way in which it affected the daily lives of all of us. They listened and I kept them listening until the dinner bell rang.
Chapter
Seven
I DID NOT GO TO THE DINING HALL for lunch. I had not enjoyed my meal there the previous day, as I found the bang and clatter a source of irritation. So Mom had fixed me up a lunch pack with sandwiches and an apple, and I went up to the staffroom to lunch in peace. I felt surprisingly spent, and realized with something of a shock that teaching imposed a great deal more strain than I had imagined.
Soon after I had settled down Miss Blanchard came in.
“Oh, hello, don’t you like the food either?” She sat down and began to unwrap a packet of sandwiches.
“I suppose the food is okay, but I don’t care for the noise.”
“The food’s too stodgy for me, so I either bring along some of these, or if I’m in the mood I go across to a Kosher restaurant nearby. It looks rather dingy on the outside, but it’s very clean and the food’s good.”
We soon fell into easy, pleasant conversation, and discovered a common interest in books, music, the theater and films.
“You seemed surprised this morning.”
“Me, surprised, why?”
“In assembly. I never would have believed either that they’d even listen, let alone enjoy classical music.”
“Don’t you think it might have been those records, especially the Concerto for two trumpets? It was rather dominating, you know.”
“Perhaps, but in the few days I’ve been here it’s been the same each time and the records have always been different.”
“Amazing, truly amazing.”
“How did it go today?”
I gave her a résumé of the morning’s events.
“Good Lord. Maybe Weston was right, after all.”
“Too early to say. Anyway I think I’ll do as Clinty, Miss Clintridge, suggests.”
“Oh, has she taken you under her wing?”
I looked at her but could read nothing in her smiling face.
“Not really, but if that’s the way to cope with them, I’ll try it.”
One by one the others returned from their lunch, and I was asked about the morning’s progress.
“Don’t be too hard on them,” Mrs. Drew cautioned. “They mean no harm, really; they’re not bad when you get to know them.”
I remembered what Clinty had told me about her and smiled to myself.
“The trick is getting to know them.” Weston’s hollow squeaky voice filtered its way through the untidy growth which nearly hid his mouth. It occurred to me that a quick pull on one whisker would cause the whole beard to unravel like an old jumper, leaving his face as naked as the backside of a plucked chicken.
“Do you know them?” Clinty’s voice was sugary; she seemed to like baiting him.
“They do what I tell them in class and that’s all I ask.”
“And that’s about all you’ll get, Big Boy.”
“They’re not as black as they’re painted.” Miss Dawes’ prim mouth formed each word carefully. She was sitting in a corner beside Miss Phillips; they were always together, always whispering their unending secrets. Miss Dawes surprised me,
every time I looked at her. Those large, round breasts seemed completely out of character with the brogue shoes, the ankle socks and the severe, naked lips; it was as though they were on the wrong person.
“Nobody’s been painting them, Ducky, that’s dirt.”
Grace passed the teacups around.
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Sure I know what you mean, but you don’t know what I mean. You should listen in to some of their conversations when they’re sitting together at needlework; make your hair curl, it would. You couldn’t paint those little darlings if you tried.”
“Maybe Braithwaite will try a little black magic on them?” Weston just had to have his two cents worth.
No sale, no bid. I couldn’t make up my mind about Weston, just how much was meant by the things he said. He seemed to delight in being irritating, yet always with a smile on his face. Certain recent experiences had left some very raw areas on my spirit and I suspected I might be unnecessarily sensitive. I also had the feeling that the day he really got under my skin I’d flatten him; so to be on the safe side I decided I’d just not hear the things he said. For all I knew the fellow was really trying to be friendly in an involved sort of way. I’d been a long while getting a job, and I was not prepared to throw it over for someone like him.
“What kind of magic do you try, Weston?” Mrs. Drew’s voice was cold. Clinty was right; she could be a bitch, a real bitch. Weston looked at her, apparently decided against replying, and fell into a broody silence.
I looked at Miss Blanchard and she grinned conspiratorially. This much was clear, most of my colleagues wanted me to make good; they had accepted me unconditionally as one of them. And that was the most important thing of all.
To Sir With Love Page 6
