To Sir With Love

by E. R. Braithwaite

  Buckley was no good at P.T. or games; he just was not built for such pursuits. Yet, such is the perversity of human nature, he strenuously resisted any efforts to leave him out or overlook him when games were being arranged. His attempts at accomplishing such simple gymnastic performances as the “forward roll” and “star jump” reduced the rest of the P.T. class to helpless hilarity, but he persisted with a singleness of purpose, which though unproductive, was nothing short of heroic.

  Buckley was Bell’s special whipping boy. Fully aware of the lad’s physical limitations, he would encourage him to try other and more difficult exercises, with apparently the sole purpose of obtaining some amusement from the pitiably ridiculous results. Sometimes the rest of the class would protest; and then Bell would turn on them the full flood of his invective. The boys mentioned this in their “Weekly Review,” and Mr. Florian decided to discuss it at a Staff Meeting.

  “The boys seem to be a bit bothered by remarks you make to them during P.T., Mr. Bell.”

  “To which remarks do you refer, Mr. Florian?” Bell never used the term “Sir,” seeming to think it “infra dig.” Even when he granted him the “Mr. Florian,” he gave to this form of address the suggestion of a sneer.

  “From their review it would seem that you are unnecessarily critical of their persons.”

  “Do you mean their smell?”

  “Well, yes, that and the state of their clothing.”

  “I’ve advised them to wash.”

  “These are the words which appear in one review.” The Headmaster produced a notebook, Fernman’s, and read: “‘Some of you stink like old garbage.’”

  His tone was cool, detached, judicial.

  “I was referring to their feet. Many of them never seem to wash their feet, and when they take their shoes off the stink is dreadful.”

  “Many of them live in homes where there are very few faculties for washing, Mr. Bell.”

  “Surely enough water is available for washing their feet if they really wanted to.”

  “Then they’d put on the same smelly socks and shoes to which you also object.”

  “I’ve got to be in contact with them and it isn’t very pleasant.”

  “Have you ever lived in this area, Mr. Bell?”

  “No fear.”

  “Then you know nothing about the conditions prevailing. The water you so casually speak of is more often to be found in the walls and on the floors than in the convenient wash basin or bath to which you are accustomed. I’ve visited homes of some of these children where water for a family in an upstairs flat had to be fetched by bucket or pail from the single backyard tap which served five or six families. You may see, therefore, that so elementary a function as washing the feet might present many difficulties.”

  Bell was silent at this.

  “I’ve no wish to interfere, or tell you how to do your work; you’re an experienced teacher and know more about P.T. than I ever will,”—the Old Man was again patient, encouraging—“but try to be a little more understanding about their difficulties.” He then turned to other matters, but it was clear that Bell was considerably put out by the rebuke.

  Matters came to a head that Monday afternoon. I was not present in the gym, but was able to reconstruct the sequence of events with reasonable accuracy from the boys’ reports and Bell’s subsequent admissions.

  During the P.T. session he had been putting them through their paces in the “astride vault” over the buck, all except Buckley, who was somewhat under the weather and wisely stood down from attempting the rather difficult jump, but without reference to or permission from Bell, who was not long in discovering the absence of his favorite diversion.

  “Buckley,” he roared.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Come on, boy, I’m waiting.” He was standing in his usual position beside the buck in readiness to arrest the fall of any lad who might be thrown off balance by an awkward approach or incorrect execution of the movement. But the boy did not move, and the master stared at him amazed and angry at this unexpected show of defiance by the one generally considered to be the most timid and tractable in the whole class.

  “Fatty can’t do it, Sir, it’s too high for him,” Denham interposed.

  “Shut up, Denham,” Bell roared. “If I want your opinion I will ask for it.” He left his station by the buck and walked to where Buckley was standing. The boy watched his threatening approach, fear apparent in his eyes.

  “Well, Buckley,” Bell towered over the unhappy youth, “are you going to do as you’re told?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Buckley’s capitulation was as sudden as his refusal.

  The others stopped to watch as he stood looking at the buck, licking his lips nervously while waiting for the instructor to resume his position. It may have been fear or determination or a combination of both, but Buckley launched himself at the buck in furious assault, and in spite of Bell’s restraining arms, boy and buck crashed on the floor with a sickening sound as one leg of the buck snapped off with the sound of a pistol shot. The class stood in shocked silence watching Buckley, who remained as he fell, inert and pale; then they rushed to his assistance. All except Potter; big, good-natured Potter seemed to have lost his reason. He snatched up the broken metal-bound leg and advanced on Bell, screaming:

  “You bloody bastard, you bloody, bloody bastard.”

  “Put that thing down, Potter, don’t be a fool,” Bell spluttered, backing away from the hysterical boy.

  “You made him do it; he didn’t want to and you made him,” Potter yelled.

  “Don’t be a fool, Potter, put it down,” Bell appealed.

  “I’ll do you in, you bloody murderer.” Bell was big, but in his anger Potter seemed bigger, his improvised club a fearsome extension of his thick forearm.

  That was where I rushed in. Tich Jackson, frightened by the sight of Buckley, limp and white on the floor, and the enraged Potter, slobbering at the instructor in murderous fury, had dashed upstairs to my classroom shouting: “Sir, quick they’re fighting in the gym.” I followed his disappearing figure in time to see Bell backed against a wall, with Potter advancing on him.

  “Hold it, Potter,” I called. He turned at the sound of my voice and I quickly placed myself between them. “Let’s have that, Potter.” I held out my hand towards the boy, but he stared past me at Bell, whimpering in his emotion. Anger had completely taken hold of him, and he looked very dangerous.

  “Come on, Potter,” I repeated, “hand it over and go lend a hand with Buckley.”

  He turned to look toward his prostrate friend and I quickly moved up to him and seized the improvised club; he released it to me without any resistance and went back to join the group around Buckley. Bell then walked away and out of the room, and I went up to the boys. Denham rose and faced me, his face white with rage.

  “Potts should have done the bastard like he did Fatty, just ’cos he wouldn’t do the bloody jump.”

  I let that pass; they were angry and at such times quickly reverted to the old things, the words, the discourtesies. I stooped down beside Buckley, who was now sitting weakly on the floor, supported by Sapiano and Seales, and smiling up at them as if ashamed of himself for having been the cause of so much fuss.

  “How do you feel, old man?” I inquired.

  “Cor, Sir,” he cried, smiling, “me tum does hurt.”

  “He fell on the buck. You should have seen ’im, Sir.”

  “Gosh, you should’ve heard the noise when the leg smashed.”

  “Mr. Bell couldn’t catch Fatty, Sir, you should’ve seen him.”

  Most of them were trying to talk all at once, eager to give me all the details.

  “Bleeding bully, always picking on Fats.” This from Sapiano, whose volatile Maltese temperament was inclined to flare up very easily.

  “If I’d had the wood I’d
have done the bully in and no bleeding body would have stopped me.” Denham was aching for trouble and didn’t care who knew it. Bell had slipped away unharmed after hurting his friend, and Denham wanted a substitute. But I would not look at him, or even hear the things he said. Besides, I liked Denham; in spite of his rough manner and speech he was an honest, dependable person with a strong sense of independence.

  “Can you stand up, Buckley?”

  With some assistance from Seales and Sapiano the boy got to his feet; he looked very pale and unsteady. I turned to Denham: “Will you help the others take Buckley up to Mrs. Dale-Evans and ask her to give him some sweet tea; leave him there and I’ll meet you all in the classroom in a few minutes.”

  Without waiting for his reply I hurried off to the staffroom in search of Bell.

  I was in something of a quandary. I knew that it was quite possible Buckley was all right, but there was no knowing whether he had sustained any internal injury not yet apparent. The Council’s rules required that all accidents be reported and logged; the Headmaster should be informed forthwith, and in the light of what he had said to Bell so very recently, there would most certainly be a row.

  I went up to the staffroom and found Bell washing his face at the sink.

  “I’ve sent Buckley upstairs for a cup of tea,” I said. “I suppose he’ll be all right, anyway he was walking under his own steam.”

  “What happens now?” His voice was querulous.

  “You should know as well as I do,” I replied. “Shouldn’t you see the Old Man and make some kind of report?”

  “Yes, I suppose I’d better get over to his office right away. I should have attended to the Buckley boy, but the other one rushed me. Thanks for helping out.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” I replied. “But why did you insist on the boy doing the vault?”

  “I had to, don’t you see; he just stood there refusing to obey and the others were watching me; I just had to do something.” His whole attitude now was defensive.

  “I’m not criticizing you, Mr. Bell, just asking. Buckley’s a bit of a mascot with the others, you know, and I suppose that is why Potter got out of hand.”

  “I guess it was the way he jumped or something, but I couldn’t grab him. He hit the bunk too low and sent it flying.”

  “He’s a bit awkward, isn’t he; anyway I’m sure the Old Man will understand how it happened.”

  “He might be a bit difficult, especially after what he said that other day.”

  “Not necessarily. After all, it was an accident and thank Heaven it’s not very serious.”

  He dried his hands and moved towards the door. “I suppose they’ll really go to town in their weekly reviews,” he remarked.

  “I’ll ask the boys to say nothing about it. I don’t suppose Potter is now feeling any too pleased with himself at his conduct.”

  As he left Clinty came into the staffroom.

  “What’s happening. Rick?” she asked. “I just saw some of your boys taking Fatty Buckley upstairs. What’s happened to him?”

  I told her about the incident and added: “Bell has just gone to the Old Man’s office to report the matter.”

  “Well, what do you know?” she chuckled. “Fancy Potter going for Bell like that. I always thought that boy a bit of a softie, but you never know with those quiet ones, do you?”

  “He was not the only one. Sapiano and Denham were just as wild, I think, but they were too busy fussing over Buckley to bother with Bell.”

  “He is a bit of a tyro, isn’t he. This might make him take it a bit easier.”

  “I don’t think the boys mind his being strict during P.T. It’s just that Buckley’s a bit of a fool and they resented his being hurt. If it had been Denham or someone like that, I’m sure they would have done nothing.”

  “Yes, I guess you’re right. Bell is a good teacher. I wonder how long the Divisional Office will let him stay here. I hope he hasn’t had too much of a fright.”

  “Oh, he’ll get over that. Now I must go and have a word with my boys.”

  I left her. For some inexplicable reason I felt nervous about being alone with Clinty; I felt that there was something she wanted to say to me, and for my part I did not want to hear it.

  In the classroom the boys were sitting closely grouped together, looking rather sheepish. I knew they were feeling aggrieved and, according to their lights, justifiably so; but nevertheless the matter of Potter’s behavior had to be dealt with.

  “How’s Buckley?” I asked.

  “We left him upstairs with Mrs. Dale-Evans, Sir. He didn’t want to stay, he kept saying he was all right. But she told him if he wasn’t quiet she’d give him some castor-oil, Sir. Ugh!” They all managed a smile at Seales’ remark.

  “Good,” I replied, “I expect he’ll be quite all right. But there is something I want to say to you about this unfortunate incident.” I sat down on the edge of Fernman’s desk.

  “Potter, there is nothing I can think of which can excuse your shocking conduct in the gym.”

  Potter’s mouth fell open; he looked at me in surprise, gulped a few times and stammered:

  “But it was him, Sir, Mr. Bell, making Fatty fall and that.” His voice was shrill with outrage at my remark.

  “Mr. Bell was the master there, Potter, and anything that happened in the gym was his responsibility. Buckley’s mishap was no excuse for you to make such an attack on your teacher.”

  “But Fatty told him he couldn’t do it, Sir, and he made him, he made him. Sir.”

  Potter was very near tears. His distress was greater because of what he believed was the further injustice of my censure. The others, too, were looking at me with the same expression.

  “That may be, Potter. I am not now concerned with Mr. Bell’s conduct, but with yours. You came very near to getting yourself into very serious trouble because you were unable to control your temper. Not only was your language foul and disgusting, but you armed yourself with a weapon big enough and heavy enough to cause very serious harm. What do you think would have happened if everyone had behaved like you and had all turned on Mr. Bell like a pack of mad wolves?” I waited for this to sink in a bit, but Potter interjected:

  “I thought he had done Fatty in, Sir, he looked all huddled up like, Sir.”

  “I see. So you didn’t wait to find out but rushed in with your club like a hoodlum to smash and kill, is that it? Your friend was hurt and you wanted to hurt back; suppose instead of a piece of wood it had been a knife, or a gun, what then?” Potter was pale, and he was not the only one.

  “Potts didn’t think. He was narked, we was all narked, seeing Fatty on the deck. I wasn’t half bleeding wild myself.”

  “You’re missing the point, Denham. I think you’re all missing the point. We sit in this classroom day after day and talk of things and you all know what’s expected of you; but at the first sign of bother you forget it all. In two weeks you’ll all be at work and lots of things will happen which will annoy you, make you wild. Are you going to resort to clubs and knives every time you’re upset or angered?” I stood up. “You’ll meet foremen or supervisors or workmates who’ll do things to upset you, sometimes deliberately. What then, Denham? What about that, Potter? Your Headmaster is under fire from many quarters because he believes in you—because he really believes that by the time you leave here you will have learned to exercise a little self-control at the times when it is most needed. His success or failure will be reflected in the way you conduct themselves after you leave him. If today’s effort is an example of your future behavior I hold out very little hope for you.”

  At this moment Buckley walked in, smiling broadly and seemingly none the worse for wear. I waited until he was seated then went on:

  “I’ve no wish to belabor this matter, but it cannot be left like this. Potter, you were very discourteous to your P.T. i
nstructor, and it is my opinion that you owe him an apology.” Potter stared at me, his mouth open in amazement at my remark; but before he could speak Denham leapt to his feet.

  “Apologize?” His voice was loud in anger. “Why should Potts apologize? He didn’t do him any harm. Why should he apologize to him just because he’s a bleeding teacher?” He stood there, legs slightly apart, heavy-shouldered and truculent, glaring at me. The others were watching us, but agreeing with him; I could feel their resentment hardening.

  “Please sit down, Denham, and remember that in this class we are always able to discuss things, no matter how difficult or unpleasant, without shouting at each other.”

  I waited, fearful of this unexpected threat to our pleasant relationship; he looked around at his colleagues indecisively, then abruptly sat down. I continued, in a very friendly tone:

  “That was a fair question, Denham, although you will agree it was put a little, shall we say, indelicately?”

  I smiled as I said this, and, in spite of his anger, Denham smiled briefly too. I went on:

  “Potter, are you quite pleased and satisfied with the way you behaved to your P.T. teacher?”

  Potter looked at me for a moment, then murmured, “No, Sir.”

  “But he couldn’t help it,” Denham interjected.

  “That may be so, Denham, but Potter agrees that his own actions were unsatisfactory; upon reflection he himself is not pleased with what he did.”

  “How’s about Mr. Bell then; how’s about him apologizing to Buckley?” Denham was not to be dissuaded from his attitude.

  “Yes, how about him?” echoed Sapiano.

  “My business is with you, not with Mr. Bell,” I replied.

  This was not going to be easy, I thought. Denham was getting a bit nasty; the usual “Sir” had disappeared from his remarks, and Sapiano was following suit.

  “It’s easy for you to talk, Sir, nobody tries to push you around.” Seales’ voice was clear and calm, and the others turned to look at him, to support him. His question touched something deep inside of me, something which had been dormant for months, but now awoke to quick, painful remembering. Without realizing what I was doing I got up and walked to where he sat and stood beside his desk.