“Okay, let’s go.”
I took a pair of gloves from the horse. Potter stepped over and expertly secured the laces for me while Sapiano, strangely unhampered by his mysterious injury, did the same for Denham. The others meanwhile ranged themselves along the wall, silent and expectant.
As we began to box it became clear that Denham’s reputation as a boxer was thoroughly justified; he was fast and scored easily, though his blows were not delivered with his full weight. I tried to dodge and parry as best I could, being only concerned with riding this out for a little while until I could reasonably stop it. I had stupidly allowed myself to be lured into this one, and it was up to me to extricate myself with as little damage to either dignity or person as I could.
“Come on, Sir, go after him.” I recognized Patrick Fernman’s voice. Disappointment was poignant in it; they must all be somewhat surprised at my lame efforts.
Suddenly Denham moved in and hit me in the face; the blow stung me and I could feel my eyes filling up with tears; the salt blood in my mouth signalled other damage. I was angry now, this was no longer a pleasant little affair—the fellow meant business. It may have been the sight of blood on my face, or the insistent urging of his cronies to “Go after ’im;” whatever it was, it spelled Denham’s undoing. Guard open, he rushed in and I hit him; my gloved fist sank deep into his solar-plexus, and the air sighed out of him as he doubled up and collapsed on the floor.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Potter and some others rushed to help him.
“Hold it. Leave him where he is and line up quickly for vaulting. Clarke, collect the gloves and stack them by the door.”
To my amazement they obeyed without demur, while I hurried to Denham and helped him over to a low form against the wall; he was only winded and would soon be right as rain. When he was comfortable I continued with the P.T. lesson, which went without a hitch; the boys were eager to do their best, and went through the various movements without recourse to my prompting or direction; they now looked at me as if I had suddenly and satisfactorily grown up before their very eyes.
At the end of the lesson I dismissed the class and went over to Denham; he still looked a bit green.
“That was just a lucky punch, old man; no harm meant. Why don’t you pop up to the washroom and soak your head in some cold water? You’ll feel a lot better.”
“Yes, Sir.” His voice was shaky, but there was no hesitation or mimicry about the “Sir.” I helped him to his feet and he signalled to Potter, who went off with him towards the washroom.
That incident marked a turning point in my relationship with the class. Gradually Denham’s attitude changed, and like it that of his cronies. He could still be depended on to make a wisecrack or comment whenever the opening presented itself, but now these were more acceptable to all of us, for they were no longer made in a spirit of rebellion and viciousness. He appeared clean and more and more helpful and courteous, and with this important area of resistance dispelled the class began to move into high gear. Moreover, I suddenly became aware of an important change in my own relationship to them. I was experiencing more than a mere satisfaction in receiving their attention, obedience and respect with their acceptance of my position as their teacher. I found myself liking them, really liking them, collectively and singly. At first I had approached each school day a little worried, a little frightened, but mostly determined to make good for the job’s sake; now there had occurred in me a new attitude, a concern to teach them for their own sakes, and a deep pleasure at every sign that I had succeeded. It was a delight to be with them, and more and more I had occasion to wonder at their general adult viewpoint. I was learning a little more of them each day. Some of them would remain in the classroom during recess and we’d talk about many things.
They were mostly from large families and understood the need and importance of money; they even felt that they should already be at work to help ease the financial strain on their parents, and to meet their own increasing demands for clothing, cosmetics, entertainment, etc. They spoke of overcrowding, marriage and children with casual familiarity; one girl had helped with the unexpected birth of her baby brother and spoke of it with matronly concern.
The lessons were taking hold. I tried to relate everything academic to familiar things in their daily lives. Weights were related to foodstuffs and fuel, measurements to dress-lengths, linoleum and carpets; in this way they could see the point of it all, and were more prepared to pursue the more abstract concepts. In Geography and History we talked and read, and here I was in the very fortunate position of being able to illustrate from personal experiences. They eagerly participated, asking me questions with a keenness I had not suspected in them, and often the bell for recess, lunch or the end of the day would find us in the heat of some discussion, disinclined to leave off.
The Headmaster would occasionally drop in unexpectedly, and would sometimes find himself drawn into discussions on some point or other; he was pleased, and expressed his satisfaction with my efforts. On one such occasion I mentioned the idea of the visit to the Victoria and Albert Museum.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” he replied. “You have settled in very nicely with them here, but taking them across London would be another matter entirely.”
“I think they’ll be okay, Sir.”
“There’s always a tendency for the best of children to show off when out of the closed supervision of the school confines, and these are no exception, they’re probably worse than most. After all, you cannot hope to supervise forty-six children by yourself.”
“I’d like to try, Sir.”
“Out of the question, Braithwaite, but I’ll say this. If you can persuade another teacher to go with you, you may. It’s entirely against the Council’s rules for one teacher to have charge of so many children outside the school.”
“I’ll see if I can get someone to go with me.”
“Fine, if she’s agreeable let me know and I’ll arrange for a travel warrant.”
He was smiling slyly and I wondered who it was he had in mind.
“But what about that teacher’s own class, Sir?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll supervise it for the occasion.”
At lunch I mentioned the plan to Miss Blanchard.
“Would you like to help me with them, Miss Blanchard?”
“Gillian.”
“Ricky.” She smiled. “Well, will you?”
“I’d love to. When do you plan to go?”
“As soon as the Head can arrange for the travel warrant.”
This was fine.
“Why didn’t you ask Miss Clintridge?”
“Just didn’t think of it, I suppose.”
“Oh.” There was playful mockery in those eyes.
When the rest of the staff returned from the dining hall I mentioned the idea of the trip, and that Miss Blanchard had agreed to accompany me. They were, to say the least, very dubious about it. While I sat there listening to them there was a knock on the door. Weston opened it to Patrick Fernman, who asked:
“Please, Sir, Miss Dare would like to know if anyone has fixed the girls’ netball.”
“Miss Who?” Weston’s voice was shrill with astonishment.
“Miss Dare, Sir.” Fernman looked at the puzzled face and supplied: “Pamela Dare, Sir.”
Without replying Weston walked away from the door to lean against the fireplace, his face a study in exaggerated amazement. I meanwhile took a netball from the sports cupboard and gave it to Fernman, who quickly disappeared, noisily slamming the door in his haste.
“Well I’ll be damned.” Weston was smiling, but there was a sneer near the surface of his smile. “Fancy that ‘Miss Dare would like the netball.’” He pointed his pipe at me with a theatrical gesture. “I say, whatever’s going on in that classroom of yours, old man? I mean this suburban formality and all. Bit forei
gn in this neck of the woods, don’t you think?”
“Is it realty?” I inquired. It had not occurred to me that I would need to defend any improvement in the children’s conduct or deportment, and I was not quite sure what Weston was getting at.
“What’s it all in aid of, old man?” he continued; his hairy arm stuck out from the seedy, leather trimmed sleeves like that of a scarecrow; the Wurzel Gummidge of the staffroom. “Some sort of experiment in culture for the millions?”
“Not quite that,” I replied. “Just an exercise in elementary courtesy. Does it bother you?” I was becoming a bit irritated by the smile and the unnatural patronizing good humor.
“Bother me? Not at all, old man. But tell me, do you also address them as ‘Miss’, or are you exempt because of your, ah, privileged position?”
The rest of the staff were watching us and I felt very uncomfortable.
“I too address the girls as ‘Miss’.”
“Thoroughly democratic and commendable,” he replied, the forced smile becoming even sweeter. “But tell me, are the rest of us uncouth critters expected to follow suit?”
“Not necessarily; it’s merely that my class and I have reached an agreement on certain courtesies.”
“Thank God for that! I don’t somehow see myself addressing those snotty little tarts as ‘Miss’ along with Denham and Co.”
“Is it that you object to being taught a lesson in courtesy by those boys, Mr. Weston?”
I could hardly believe my ears. That was Miss Dawes; I would never have thought of her as coming to anybody’s defense, unless it was Miss Phillips’.
“I do not need lessons in manners from those morons—nor from professional virgins either, for that matter.”
Miss Dawes blushed, but continued bravely:
“As long as you learn, it doesn’t matter who teaches, does it?”
“Good for you Josy,” Clinty interjected.
“Ah, well,” Weston resumed, “I suppose it comes natural to some people to say: ‘Yes, Ma’am; yes, Boss’.”
His caricature of a subservient Negro was so grotesque that I could almost smile. But the intention behind the words was not funny, and I was rather relieved when Grace, with her usual tact, broke into the conversation.
“By the way, Ricky,” she called to me, “what have you been saying to Droopy?”
“Droopy? Who or what is Droopy?”
“Oh, come off it. I’m talking about Jane Purcell in your class. You know … ” and she quoted; “Uncorseted, her friendly bust gives promise, etc., etc.”
“Oh, I see. I haven’t been saying anything to her specially. Why?”
“All of a sudden she’s become very conscious of her, er, mammary glands.” Grace’s laughter ran round the room until it found reflection in each face there.
“Now she wants advice on the right type of brassiere—I never liked that word, it always sounds like a receptacle for hot coals.”
“Could be.” Clinty would never be outdone.
“Looks like she chose the right person to advise her.” Weston’s owl eyes were on Grace’s attractive bust; I was sure the untidy fringe around his mouth hid the leer which his voice so clearly revealed.
“A little good advice wouldn’t be wasted on you either, my lad.”
Grace’s voice was very frosty now, and Weston shut up.
I felt slightly disturbed by the tensions generated within the staffroom. I had thought that my presence was the red rag to Weston’s bull, but now I discovered that his attitude to me was only part of a general situation which had existed for some time before my arrival. Most of the women teachers were obviously fed up at being saddled with a male colleague who never joined in any conversation except to be sarcastic or critical. Gillian, I noticed, remained cool and untroubled by it. She seemed to be able to play the part of observer, letting any discord pass over her, confident in the assurance of her own poise and breeding to keep her inviolate. Miss Phillips seemed unaffected by it for different reasons; she spent her staffroom leisure in some strange world of fancy which was irrevocably closed to all except Miss Dawes, who also, until today’s brave gesture, had never allowed anything which transpired to invade their tight, secret conclave.
But the clash of personalities in the staffroom was, after all, of no great importance, so long as its repercussions did not enter the classrooms. It was the children, not the teachers, who mattered.
Chapter
Twelve
AFTER LUNCH THE CLASS received the news of the trip to the Victoria and Albert Museum with delight. I told them it was planned for the following Thursday and that Miss Blanchard would be coming along to help keep order. At this there was some good-natured twittering, and Pamela Dare asked:
“Does she have to come, Sir?”
“Oh yes, Miss Dare. The Council wouldn’t allow forty-odd children to go on an expedition in the care of only one teacher.”
“I like Miss Blanchard, she’s smashing.” Tich Jackson’s puckish face creased in a smile of delight
“Oh, shut up, Tich, who asked you?” Tich looked at Pamela Dare in surprise; her tone was unnecessarily hostile.
“Jackson,” he said softly, “the name’s Jackson.”
The girl made a face at him and tossed her red hair defiantly.
On Thursday morning when I arrived I went to the Headmaster’s office to collect the travel voucher for our trip and reached my classroom some time after they were all seated and waiting. I was quite unprepared for what I saw—the children were scrubbed, combed and brushed and shining. The girls were beautifully turned out and there was more than a suggestion of lipstick in evidence; the boys were smartly dressed, and everyone was beaming happily at my delighted surprise.
One seat was empty. Tich Jackson’s. I called the register merely as a formality, for by now I could quickly spot an absence, so much a part of me had the class become.
I collected their dinner money and was waiting for Miss Blanchard when there was a slight commotion outside the door: I went across and pulled it open. On the threshold was a huge laundry bundle; and from somewhere underneath it a voice was crying:
“It’s me, Sir, Jackson. Gotta take the bagwash for me Mum. Don’t go without me, Sir, I’ll be back in a jiff.” Without pausing for any reply the bundle was withdrawn and disappeared down the passage to a chorus of laughter from the class in which I joined helplessly.
Gillian soon arrived and we divided the class into two groups for easier control; and when Jackson returned we set off for the Underground Station.
At Whitechapel we changed to a District Line for South Kensington. At that time of morning there were not many seats available, and the children were strung out among two carriages in groups of three or four. I was sandwiched near a door with Moira Joseph, Barbara Pegg and Pamela Dare, who were chattering excitedly to me about the things we were likely to see. They were especially anxious to look at some very fine complicated hand-stitching about which Gillian had told them, and it pleased me to be so closely identified with their lively enthusiasm. At Cannon Street two elderly, well-dressed women joined the train, and stood in the crowd close to us. The stare of disapproval they cast in our direction was made very obvious; and soon they were muttering darkly something about “shameless young girls and these black men.”
I felt annoyed and embarrassed, and hoped the girls were too absorbed in discussion to notice the remarks, which were meant to be overheard.
Barbara Pegg who was closer to them than the others, was the first to hear them. She bent forward and whispered to Pamela, who moved around until she had changed places with Barbara and was next to the women. Suddenly she turned to face them, her eyes blazing with anger.
“He is our teacher. Do you mind?”
She had intended her voice to carry, and it did. The women looked away, shocked and utterly discomfited,
as other people on the train turned to stare at the defiantly regal girl and the blushing busybodies who probably wished that they could sink through the floor.
At the museum the children were collected together for a final briefing. Equipped with paper and pencils they would work in groups of six or seven, each group concerning itself with some particular aspect of Mid-Victorian dress—design, material, stitchcraft, accessories, hair culture, wigs, etc. We would all meet in the museum canteen at eleven o’clock for a cup of tea, and again at twelve preparatory to returning to school. They were reminded to be very quiet and to refrain from touching any of the exhibits.
Gillian and I moved about among the little groups, giving advice and assistance. She was graceful and charming and made quite a hit with the boys who vied with each other for her attention.
It was for me a pleasant and revealing experience; I had not supposed that the children would have shown so much interest in historical events. Weston had even hinted that their enthusiasm for this outing was just one more excuse to get away from anything concerned with education; yet here they were, keenly interested, asking the sort of questions which clearly showed that they had done some preparatory work. They took the whole thing quite seriously, sketching, making notes, discussing it in undertones.
Later, I sat down to a cup of tea with Gillian, Patrick Fernman, Pamela and Barbara. It would have been difficult for a stranger to have guessed which of the three girls was the teacher, for Gillian was much smaller than the other two, who also looked more grown up than usual with the extra touch of red on their lips. Pamela especially was very striking, in a pleated red skirt set off by high-heeled red shoes and a saucy red ribbon worn high on her auburn hair. Looking at her I could see that in a few years she would really blossom out into something rather splendid.
“ … it must have been very uncomfortable.”
I only caught the tail-end of Gillian’s remark and looked at her guiltily.
“All the same they must have looked smashing. Think of all that material for only one dress!” Barbara’s large face was alive with enthusiasm.
To Sir With Love Page 9
