They wanted me to tell them what they ought to do to help in the achievement of better inter-racial unity in their own neighborhood. I reminded them of the History and Geography we had read, of people, places and things. I tried to show them that people were not confined to any geographical location because of their color, but that there could be found people of every racial strain in all parts of the world. Once there, wherever it was, they could get along with each other if they really wanted to.
It is not necessary for them to do anything special for a Negro or Indian, or any other person, but simply to behave to them as to a stranger Briton, without favor or malevolence, but with the courtesy and gentleness which every human being should give to and expect from every other.
I made it clear that it was also true that colored people in England were gradually working for their own salvation, realizing that it was not enough for them to complain about injustices done them, or rely on other interested parties to agitate on their behalf. They were working to show their worth, integrity and dignity in spite of the forces opposed to them.
On Wednesday morning during recess Clinty breezed into my classroom, smiling as archly as the cat who ate the canary. “How goes, Rick?” she greeted me.
I wondered what was up and murmured some greeting in reply; what on earth was cooking in that pretty Cockney head?
“I just heard that Miss Blanchard might be leaving at the end of next term,” she announced quite gaily. I looked up, startled by this information; Gillian had said nothing to me about leaving. “Oh, when did you hear that?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“The Old Man was making the usual check-up for next term’s staffing, and it seems that she told him she would be here next term but could not commit herself to any time after that.” She perched herself in her favorite place on the edge of my desk.
“Did she give any special reason?” I wanted to play this along, taking my lead from anything Gillian might have said; we had agreed to keep our business as much as possible to ourselves, away from staffroom gossip.
“Just got fed up with slumming, I suppose,” she chirped. I smiled in relief. Good old Gillian.
“You don’t like her, do you, Clinty?”
“Oh, I don’t mind her at all, but I’ve met her superior type before. I can’t say I would exactly miss her.” She was really quite pleased with herself.
“I find her a very charming, intelligent person, Clinty.”
“So I’ve noticed,” she countered. “Well, when she’s gone I suppose you’ll have to be content with the rest of us ordinary types.”
“Don’t fish, Clinty. You’re all nice people here, or nearly all.”
She smiled at that and I switched the subject. “By the way, what’s the gen on arrangements for tomorrow?”
“Big do,” she replied, “Christmas dinner in the dining hall. The Old Man likes everybody to be there, so you’ll have to miss your little lunch tête-à-tête, I’m afraid.”
I laughed at this; if only she knew. We talked on about the program for the next two days and she left as the bell rang. She had come about something else I felt sure, but it didn’t come out. Maybe just as well.
Thursday morning I saw very little of my class. The girls were in the Domestic Science Department preparing the spread for the Christmas party that afternoon; the boys were pressed into service by Grace, and were busy cleaning pots and pans, and generally helping with the heavier chores. I peeped in there for a while and was very pleased to see them all working in an atmosphere of lively cooperation. They trooped down to the classroom about twelve-twenty and crowded around me, chattering gaily, until the bell rang for dinner.
The dining hall looked festive with paper chains and balloons strung from the windows, and along the walls. The kitchen staff had prepared an excellent meal—roast pork, baked potatoes and all the trimmings; for dessert there was trifle, which the children loved. After the Head had said a short prayer, he made a signal and from the door at the far end of the hall two small girls entered, bearing between them a large cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers. Down the long aisle they walked, through the question-laden quiet, towards Mrs. Drew; they handed her the bouquet, dropped two very pretty curtsies and quickly hurried away to their places.
Mrs. Drew blushed deeply. I rather suspected that it had been carefully planned by the Head as a token of the high regard in which this gracious person was held. Someone shouted “Speech, speech” and soon there was a general clamor. She rose with that graceful dignity which never deserted her and seemed prepared to address them, but, as if her courage had suddenly failed, she merely said, “Thank you,” and sat down to a burst of cheering.
The junior part was at three o’clock, in the auditorium. I did not enjoy it. The room, like the dining hall, had been festooned with paper chains and balloons and looked very gay, but it was all spoilt for me by the behavior of most of the smaller children. They wolfed the food down greedily, snatching at anything which caught their fancy, shouting across at each other. The seniors were busy serving them and were somewhat disgruntled at their rudeness and bad manners; I was thoroughly disgusted, especially with those who would bite into a bit of cake or pastry and then discard it for something else. Mr. Florian seemed quite unperturbed by the noisy, unpleasant exhibition, but moved easily among them helping here and there, as if he rather expected such conduct. I was quite relieved when the last morsels had disappeared and the children were dismissed.
We all helped to clear up the mess, and mess it really was. The big boys brought brooms, mops and pails from the kitchen, and soon the tables were cleared away, and the floor was tidy and shining once more. They were happy to do it, because at six o’clock the senior party would begin. A few tables were set together in one corner of the room and on these were piled the buffet of refreshments; the record-player was ready and there was a pile of dance records which would be supplemented by personal choice from the children’s own collections. Some of the Old Boys and Old Girls had been invited and we expected quite a gathering.
At about four o’clock the seniors went home to pretty themselves up. Pamela met me in the corridor.
“Please, Sir,” she said, “will you have a dance with me tonight?”
“Of course, Miss Dare,” I replied, “but not jiving—I’m getting too old for that sort of thing.”
She laughed gaily at that. “Okay, Sir, I’ll bring a special record for you. Promise?”
“Yes, Miss Dare, I promise.”
“And, Sir.”
“Yes?”
“Will you call me Pamela, just for this evening?”
“Of course, Pamela … ”
All the staff were on hand to meet the children when they arrived. Denham and Potter were the earliest, looking freshly groomed and smart in their best suits and brightly polished shoes; then came Tich Jackson with his brother, a tall good-looking youth who had left Greenslade the year before and was now “going steady” with Janie Lithgow’s sister; then a small group of boys, Seales, Fernman, Buckley, Sapiano and Wells, smiling self-consciously and remaining together. The approach of the girls was heralded by much chatter and giggling on the stairs, then they burst in upon us, fresh, clean and gay as wild flowers in a mountain valley. They had been planning and saving for this occasion, and the results were very gratifying. With their lipstick and high heels they were as attractive a bunch of youngsters as anyone could hope to find anywhere.
Moira Joseph wore a plain, form-fitting black dress with long, tight, wrist-length sleeves, unrelieved by ornament of any kind. With her close-cropped hair, thick eyebrows and very bright lipstick, she looked like a sophisticated young woman, slim, elegant and poised. Barbara Pegg’s tight lacy blouse and dirndl skirt were freshly, appealingly youthful and set off her freckles delightfully.
But the belle of the ball was Pamela, a new, beautiful, grown-up Pamela. Her
hair was caught high on the back of her head but slightly to one side with a glistening ribbon of dark green silk, from which it fell away in a cascade of soft tendrilly curls to her right shoulder. Her full lips were vividly red against the clear face and the long, lovely neck. She wore a simple dress of dark green jersey wool, softly clinging at shoulder, bosom and waist, and flaring to a wide skirt which did wonderful things for her as she walked. Her shoes were of green satin. She presented a picture of sheer beauty and I gazed at her in wonder, seeing quite clearly her mother’s skillful hand in its preparation.
“Good Lord,” Gillian exclaimed as Pamela walked into the auditorium, “that girl’s beautiful!” There was something very like awe in her voice. Pamela walked across to us.
“Hello, Sir. Hello, Miss,” she greeted us.
“Hello, Pamela,” we echoed.
“You haven’t forgotten, have you, Sir?” Pamela inquired, her eyes on me.
“No, I haven’t forgotten, Pamela,” I replied.
“See you, Sir,” and she moved over to join some of her colleagues.
“She never even saw me,” Gillian whispered.
“Of course she did, she said ‘Hello’ to both of us,” I reminded her.
“Oh, I know, but she didn’t really see me, she just didn’t see me.” Her voice was quietly intense, and I turned to look at her, wondering at her tone. She looked up at me and grinned, then reached for my hand.
“Thank Heaven I got to you first, Rick,” she whispered, seeming not to care who noticed us now.
Soon the room was nearly full of laughing, joyous young people. I was introduced to several of the Old Students who had been invited. Jackie Fischer, Junie Thorpe, Ada Phillips, Petey Blore and Maureen Blore the twins, whose sister Ann introduced us. Maureen invited me to attend the reception of her wedding on Boxing Day.
It was a very happy occasion. We danced and played silly enjoyable games, the staff all as joyously boisterous as the youngsters. Even Weston so far forgot himself as to laugh and chatter quite naturally with them. He could not dance but elected to be responsible for the music, and he seemed to enjoy being Master of Ceremonies, announcing each record before it began. Later in the evening he offered me a cigarette and we exchanged a few pleasantries. The spirit of goodwill was in operation with a vengeance. I hoped it would survive well into the next term.
Whenever I could I danced with Gillian. Just being near her was peace and pleasure beyond words; I felt sure that our love for each other must be quite apparent to anyone with eyes to see. Later, while I was dancing a Strauss waltz with Clinty, she said: “You’re really gone on her, aren’t you, Rick?”
“Who?”
“Ah, come off it. I’m talking about Miss Blanchard.”
Neither Clinty nor any of the others ever called her anything but Miss Blanchard; something about her seemed to prohibit too-easy intimacy.
“Well, what about her?”
“Okay, Rick. I can take a hint, but if it is what I think it is between you two, you’re a damned lucky tyke.”
I laughed, just for the hell of it.
Soon after, Pamela went up to Weston with her record; they whispered together, then he announced:
“The next dance is a ‘Ladies’ Excuse-me Foxtrot’.”
She waited until the first few opening bars of the beautiful evergreen “In the Still of the Night” floated over the room then turned and walked towards me, invitation large in her clear eyes and secretly smiling lips. I moved to meet her and she walked into my arms, easily, confidently, as if she belonged there. There was no hesitation, no pause to synchronize our steps; the music and the magic of the moment took us and wove us together in smooth movement. I was aware of her, of her soft breathing, her firm roundness, and the rhythmic moving of her thighs. She was a woman, there was no doubt about it, and she invaded my mind and my body. The music ended, all too soon. We were locked together for a moment, then released.
“Thank you, Pamela.”
“After I leave school may I come and see you sometimes?”
“Of course, I’d be very pleased to see you any time.”
“Thank you. ’Bye, Sir.
“’Bye, Pamela.”
She collected her record from Weston and left soon afterwards.
Next morning, Friday, they were very quiet. As I called the register, going through the list of now familiar names I thought of how very quickly the time had passed since the first day I had sat there, uncertain and a little afraid. In about eight months I had come to know them all so well: now I could nearly anticipate the things they would say and do in any given circumstance. Yet after today most of them would be going their different ways and as remote from me as if we had never met.
Some of them had grown strong from within—Fernman, Babs Pegg, Wells, Seales, these would make the grade because they were intelligent, resourceful, and ever willing to learn. Some would always have difficulties, because they wanted the easy way out, quick money with the least possible effort, Sapiano and Janie Purcell for instance. But the rest of them would just be decent folk, living decently without too much ambition or aggressiveness or anything. Denham and Potter. In a few years they’d both be dependable hardworking men with families, or maybe serving somewhere overseas in H.M. Forces. Who could know?
Registration over, they began talking excitedly about the evening before, the clothes, the food, the records, the dancing, the staff—everything. They had enjoyed it, particularly the company of adults whom they had met on equal terms; it had been important, “posh,” different from the usual “bops” at the local youth clubs. I came in for a bit of ribbing because they had noticed how often I danced with Gillian.
“Is she your girl, Sir?” Tich Jackson inquired.
“I noticed you dancing with Miss Blanchard too, Jackson,” I parried. “I was beginning to wonder if she was your girl.”
“Gosh, wouldn’t mind if she was,” Jackson replied, to a burst of laughter from the others. And so the morning passed, in a sluggish friendliness, a disinclination to let the moments go.
In the afternoon after registration I sat looking at them, uncertain what to say to them. Just then Moira Joseph stood up.
“Sir,” she began, “I, that is, we want to tell you how very grateful we are for all you have done for us, all of us.” She looked slowly round the room. “We know it could not have been too easy for you, what with one thing or another,” here she smiled at Denham, who blushed and hung his head, “but you kept going. We think we are much better children for having had you as a teacher. We liked best the way you always talked to us, you know, not like silly kids, but like grown-ups and that. You’ve been good to us, Sir, and we’d like you to accept a little gift to remember us by.” Here she signalled to Pamela and sat down amid a burst of cheering.
Pamela stood up, with a large beautifully wrapped parcel in her hand, and walked towards me. I rose at her approach. She was a striking figure as she came proudly up with the parcel, but no sooner had I received it from her hand than she suddenly turned and ran back to her seat to hide her face behind the lid of her desk. At a moment when she so wanted to be at her grown-up best, childhood had claimed her again. I thanked them and sat down quickly, as the door opened and Mr. Florian walked quietly in; he had been attracted by the noise of cheering. Together we looked at the large label pasted on the parcel and inscribed:
TO SIR,
WITH LOVE
and underneath, the signatures of all of them.
He looked at me and smiled. And I looked over his shoulder at them—my children.
About the Author
E. R. Braithwaite was born in British Guiana (now Guyana) in 1912. Educated at the City College of New York and the University of Cambridge, he served in the Royal Air Force during World War II. Braithwaite spent 1950 to 1960 in London, first as a schoolteacher and then as a welfare worker—ex
periences he describes in To Sir, With Love and Paid Servant, respectively. In 1966 he was appointed Guyana’s ambassador and permanent representative to the United Nations. He has also held positions at the World Veterans Federation and UNESCO, was a professor of English at New York University’s Institute for Afro-American Affairs, and taught creative writing at Howard University. The author of five nonfiction books and two novels, he currently lives in Washington, DC.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express
written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1959 by E. R. Braithwaite
Copyright renewed 1987
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN 978-1-4804-5737-9
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY E. R. BRAITHWAITE
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
To Sir With Love Page 19
