by Jack Higgins
He introduced me to my two colleagues. Mr Johnson was a tall, cadaverous man in a shabby brown suit, the cuffs of which had been bound with leather. Slater was a younger man who, rather incongruously for the surroundings, wore a kind of purple blazer and striped tie, relics of his college days, to which he hung on desperately, as a drowning man clutches at a lifejacket.
‘You’ve met the deputy, have you?’ Carter asked me.
‘The deputy?’ I asked, bewildered.
The deputy headmaster. Our Mr Oldroyd.’
I nodded, gaining further insight into the redoubtable Willy’s character, for most teachers I ever met would have brandished their status like a headsman’s axe above my head at the earliest opportunity.
Someone broke wind inside the cubicle, there was a certain amount of movement, the purpose of which one could only guess at, and then the chain was pulled. The unpleasant aroma which became apparent after that was all-pervading. The door opened outwards, which meant that because of the confined space we had to perform a certain amount of jockeying for position.
‘Hurry up, Schwarz, for goodness sake!’ Mr Carter said impatiently.
Poor Schwarz, who had been bullied by someone or other for most of his life. First the Nazis, now Carter. He was small and rather plump, his shoulders permanently hunched, the dark eyes peering anxiously from behind an ancient pair of gold-rimmed spectacles as he emerged from the cubicle.
He wore a neat dark coat, grey waistcoat with watch chain and striped trousers. I wondered wildly whether he was perhaps attending a wedding later in the day, but discovered that these were the only clothes in which he had ever been seen.
This, then, was the staff. Six of us, including the headmaster, to control two hundred and forty-one boys. As Mr Carter never taught it gave us a ratio of forty-eight boys to each teacher, but luckily the incredibly high absenteeism kept this down to more manageable figures.
I was to pass the first week gaining experience by spending my time with the other members of the staff in rotation, which seemed a sensible enough idea for it was reasonable to assume that I could actually learn from them, although time was to prove otherwise.
Morning assembly was an interesting experience. The boys were marched in, class by class, and occupied one side of the hall. Only when they were in position were the girls allowed in from the other side, shepherded by five assorted ladies who, even at that distance, seemed no more prepossessing than my own colleagues.
There was noise and laughter to an extent which astonished me, and I got the distinct impression that the older boys were actually calling out to the older girls, many of whom seemed disconcertingly mature for their age.
Mr Carter walked in briskly, got up on a wooden box behind the lectern and hammered on it with a ruler. ‘I will not tolerate this disgusting noise!’ he screamed.
There was immediate silence and they all waited, presumably as fascinated by his performance as I. ‘Hymn two hundred and thirty-three,’ he went on.
Mr Schwarz, who had been waiting at the piano, struck out boldly and everyone launched into All Things Bright and Beautiful.
There was nothing beautiful about it and when it was finished, there was considerable shuffling. Mr Carter waited grimly, and gradually all heads were bowed. He kept his own eyes open, hands clasped before him and began to pray loudly, punctuating every few lines with that awful graveyard cough of his.
‘Oh, God,’ he intoned. ‘Make us like Thee in every way. Teach us how to go forth into the world in the image of Thine only begotten Son, Christ Jesus, our only burden love and Christian charity, all men our brothers…’
At this point he descended from the box with incredible speed, scattering boys like ninepins. Presumably they were used to these forays for there was not the instant panic I would have imagined.
I saw his hands rising and falling. Finally the crowd parted and a boy stumbled forth, arms raised to protect his head. A smallish boy, I noted. In fact, in all the time I was on his staff I never knew Carter to assault any of the older boys in a similar manner, although on occasion, he would simulate such an attack with much shouting and dramatic posturing. He cuffed the boy all the way to the door and tossed him out into the corridor, then returned to the lectern and glared at the entire assembly.
‘That lout.’ He ground his teeth together. That filthy beast out there,’ here he pointed, hand shaking, ‘is not fit for decent company.’
Everyone there seemed as mystified as I was. I never did find out what the wretched boy was supposed to have done. My own theory, after seeing several such incidents over a period of time, was that it was all a ploy on Carter’s part. He liked to imagine himself a holy terror. Such actions were deliberately calculated to enhance his image.
The rest of the staff seemed unconcerned, except Wally Oldroyd, and there was a kind of contempt on his face as Carter brushed past him on the way out.
It seems to me that one of the deficiencies of the teaching profession is its insistence that all its members are dedicated intellectuals who have voluntarily turned their backs on the world of industry and commerce, where they would undoubtedly have made their fortunes, to devote themselves to the service of youth.
I never met anyone like that at Khyber Street. Perhaps Wally Oldroyd, who did a solid professional job. The rest were shabby little men who would have been inadequate at anything they put their hands to. Khyber Street was their final resting place, the end of the line. There was simply nowhere else to go, which didn’t help their charges, most of whom were the product of the kind of home with which Charles Dickens would have been perfectly familiar. It was all very sad.
I felt sorry most of all for Mr Schwarz, who was just grateful for the chance to have a job, a job of any kind. He had been a teacher of music in a Munich Conservatoire for many years, but that was before the concentration camps. At Khyber Street he took each class for singing once a week, which meant that for most of the time he was expected to teach English and general subjects.
Considering that he spoke a kind of pidgin English, the effect can be imagined. He survived only because he had Class One, the youngest boys in the school. Anyone older and he would have been trampled into the floorboards. I spent a full day with him and learned nothing except how to fill in the register, enter up milk returns, school dinners and the like.
My visit with Johnson must have lasted for a similar period, but lives in my memory by reason of one incident only. When I accompanied him into Class Three, pandemonium reigned. Two or three boys struggled on the floor, there was a card school going on in the corner, everyone else seemed to be reading comics.
Johnson, who I learned later had only a year to go to retirement, showed not the slightest concern. He opened the register, glanced briefly about the room, then filled it in as prescribed, in an exquisite scarlet and blue copperplate, which must have endeared him to the headmaster’s heart for Mr Carter was keen on registers.
When this task was accomplished, he opened his briefcase, produced a sheet of sums, turned his back on the class and, completely disregarding the din, proceeded to copy them onto the blackboard in the same neat copperplate. When he had finished, he dusted his hands, sat down behind the desk and took out a newspaper.
No one appeared to take any notice. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’ I asked loudly because of the din.
He made no reply. I touched him on the arm. He glanced around enquiringly, then took a hearing aid on its wire from his breast pocket and shoved it into his ear. ‘Anything I can do for you, old man?’ he asked.
But there was nothing. Nothing anyone could do, or so I was beginning to imagine.
Varley was in the top class and was supposed to be leaving school the following Easter. The class teacher was Slater, the young man of the purple blazer and striped tie.
The morning I joined him he put on an impressive display of shouting that would not have disgraced Mr Carter at his worst. On no less than three occasions before break, he can
ed boys soundly, two strokes on each hand. I was puzzled, for in each case the punishment followed general insolence from Varley and his cronies, yet the individuals chosen seemed to me to be the smallest or least offensive in the class.
He did a considerable amount of reading to them, mostly cheap thrillers or adventure stories, and allowed them at least an hour’s private study each day, during which they could read what they wanted and usually did.
All this time was noted on his syllabus as being devoted to ‘A general introduction to English literature, in which the child is enabled to enlarge his world by exploring for himself interesting themes in contemporary fiction.’
This, and similar twaddle concerning other lessons, was neatly typed out and ready for inspection at any time. I never once saw him actually teach anybody anything or even try to.
During the time I was with him, he left me on my own for considerable periods. At first this wasn’t too bad. I was treated with a sort of gruff respect that was vaguely flattering. Varley and Hatch had seen me in uniform on the first day. It was known I had been in the Army and I was asked to recount my experiences. I was surprised at what an interesting time I’d had when I went over my two years of serving King and Country.
The only trouble was that whenever I actually tried to teach, I was in immediate trouble. I had prepared several lessons. Some English and History particularly, trying to link them together. No one took the slightest notice, and one day, I discovered a card school in one corner and dominoes in the other. A humiliating echo of Johnson’s situation.
When I spoke to Slater about this he shrugged. ‘They’re leaving at Easter, old man. Couldn’t care less and you can’t really blame ’em.’
All right, so I had already discovered beyond any shadow of a doubt that I didn’t have any vocation, but at least I did have some sort of compulsion to earn my money.
I raised the problem with Wally next time we had tea together, for I had taken him up on his original offer, his workshop being infinitely preferable to the staffroom with its cubicle toilet. I put the matter as delicately as possible, for Wally was, after all, deputy headmaster. He let me talk, filling his pipe as he listened.
‘Am I expecting too much?’ I asked him finally.
‘You are as far as this place is concerned,’ he said. ‘Forget all that fancy talk, lad. In a school like this we’re keeping them off the streets and out of everybody’s way, and in large numbers. That’s what society pays us for. We’re a custodial institution.’
‘But surely we can do better than that?’
‘You have to do the best with what you’ve got, Oliver. Carter doesn’t want any trouble, so don’t start any because he won’t back you up. That’s the main reason discipline stinks here. Trying to teach the way you want is a waste of time. Too many in the class anyway. Keep their heads down with plenty of written work. “Turn to page seventy-three and do the next twenty sums” are probably the finest words in the English language from the teacher’s point of view.
‘And Oliver,’ he called as I moved to the door. ‘Remember one thing. The welfare of the teacher is of paramount importance at all times.’
Slater fractured his right leg in a rugby game the following Saturday. On Monday morning, Mr Carter announced that I would take over the top class until he was fit to return.
It was a ridiculous decision in view of my lack of experience, but I took up the challenge bravely. Remembering Wally’s advice, I sorted through the stock cupboard and made certain that everyone had a copy of the relevant textbook in each subject and had signed for it. I was now able to tell them to turn to any page on any subject at the drop of a hat, and start writing.
They didn’t like it and a kind of desperate resistance movement broke out. I managed to stem the flow of disappearing books by informing them, quite untruthfully, that any missing the following day would have to be paid for. I added darkly that, as they were city property, the police would call in person at their homes for the money. Which took care of that problem.
Things took a nastier turn after that. Dog dirt in a neatly wrapped parcel which I found on my desk one day. Even worse, human excrement in a piece of newspaper was thrown at the blackboard when I had my back turned, narrowly missing me.
I had no means of knowing the culprit, although Varley and Hatch seemed the obvious choices. There didn’t seem much I could do, for any kind of physical violence was out. As a probationer, I was not entitled to use corporal punishment during my first year.
I made Varley and Hatch clean up the mess then announced that the entire class would have to stay in after four o’clock. This didn’t go down at all well for most of them had paper rounds or other jobs in the early evening.
At afternoon break, Mr Carter sought me out and drew me into the privacy of his office. ‘I understand you intend to keep your class in after school?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Who told you?’
He didn’t like that. ‘I make it my business to know what’s going on in my own school, Mr Shaw. Frankly, I think you’re quite mistaken in this matter. I don’t think we’ve any right to their time after four o’clock.’
‘Good God, man,’ I said. ‘Have you any idea what they did?’
‘To impose a penalty on the whole class because of something which arises out of your own lax discipline is something I will not tolerate, Mr Shaw.’
He was seized by a paroxysm of coughing and I simply turned and walked out. Why I didn’t get my coat and keep on going I’ll never know. I was seeing Helen that night, which was something to look forward to, but I think it was more fundamental. I just couldn’t stand the thought of being beaten by a crew like that, and I was including Carter and his band of merry men as well as the boys.
I had been humiliated and the class knew it. For the rest of the week discipline was terrible, and there were times when I gave up and let it all wash over me, emulating Johnson by sitting at the desk with my hands over my ears, reading a newspaper, while they did exactly as they pleased.
Things in a sense came to a head on the following Monday morning, when I arrived at the class a few minutes late owing to a message, which proved to have no foundation in fact, that Carter wanted me. I should have been warned by the unnatural stillness as I approached the room. When I opened the door it fell down.
There was a chorus of shocked gasps as I stepped across the door, mock horror on every face. ‘What have you done, sir?’ Varley enquired piously.
I was as close to committing murder as I have ever been, but did not descend on him at once for the simple reason that rage rooted me to the spot. As it happened, matters were taken out of my hands.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ someone demanded sharply, and I turned and set eyes on Imogene for the first time.
I had heard of her, of course, in the men’s staffroom. The glamorous Imogene, who took girls for Games, P.T. and Cookery, a mixture not quite as bizarre as it sounded. She had been on some course or other at the local teaching college for a couple of weeks, which explained why I’d never met her.
But no description could possibly have done justice to the reality of her. She was every man’s fantasy, a creature out of the pages of some film magazine. Masses of red-gold hair, slanting green eyes, a mouth half-a-smile wide and her body. What could one possibly say about it except that the lesser gods had been more than generous with her?
She wore tennis shoes and short White socks, green shorts and an aertex sports shirt. A whistle, suspended from a ribbon around her neck, nestled between the most magnificent breasts I’ve ever seen in my life.
What on earth’s going on?’ she demanded.
Every boy in the room gazed at her, the expressions varying from frank admiration to naked lust.
‘Mr Shaw knocked down the door, Miss,’ Varley said. ‘Didn’t he, lads?’
Here he appealed to the class, who responded dutifully. He turned, grinning, his fingers hooked into his belt of badges.
‘
Don’t play the fool with me,’ Imogene said cheerfully, and held out her hand. ‘Where are they?’
‘Where’s what, Miss?’
‘The screws. The screwdriver.’
Varley looked around the room in apparent bewilderment, then shrugged helplessly. ‘It were ’im, Miss. Mr Shaw…’
He got no further, for she slapped him across the face, a solid, open-handed punch with all her weight behind it, that sent him staggering back against a cupboard. As he rebounded, she gave him a dose of the same across the left cheek.
The silence in the room was absolute. Varley glared wildly about him. ‘Don’t try my patience,’ she said in a bored voice and hit him again. ‘Now, where are they?’
He lurched to one of the book cupboards, rumbled about in the bottom and produced a handful of screws and a screwdriver. He put them down on the desk with shaking hands.
‘That’s a good boy,’ she said in the same cool, bored voice. ‘Now you and your little friends can get that door back where it was, can’t you?’
Varley stared at the floor sullenly. She took a short step towards him and he jumped out of the way. ‘All right, Miss.’
She turned to me. ‘I see your hand is bleeding, Mr Shaw. There’s a first aid kit in the hall. If you’d like to come through I’ll fix it for you. I’m taking a class in there.’
She walked out, poetry in motion. I turned to the class and saw that every lad there was gazing after her in a kind of blissful adoration. But then if ever a woman was the great earth mother of all men, it was Imogene.
‘Right, get on with it,’ I said gruffly and followed her out.
A class of twelve-year-old girls played netball in vests and knickers as they waited for her. She turned from the first aid box as I joined her, a bandage in one hand.
‘This will have to do for the time being,’ she said. ‘If you come down to my room at break I’ll put a plaster on it for you.’
