The two of them were sitting in Octavia’s parlour on a mild March afternoon, pretending to drink tea, but Emmeline was too cross to do more than sip. Her dear Dora had found herself a nice young man and just when her family ought to have been praising her and petting her, Ernest was raising objections. ‘She’s so unhappy, poor girl,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do about it. He just keeps on and on. She’s too young. Where would they live? What would they live on? It’s out of the question. And I have to watch her drooping and getting more and more miserable.’
‘You were twenty-one when you married him,’ Octavia said. ‘I should point that out if I were you.’
‘Oh, I have,’ Emmeline said. ‘Don’t you worry. It was the first thing I did. But he says that’s different, because he had enough money to live on. He was a provider.’
‘What does he do, this young man?’
‘He’s a carpenter,’ Emmeline said. ‘So I suppose he’s right. He won’t be a very good provider. There’s precious little work for carpenters these days. But he’s such a dear and so fond of my Dora.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘John. John Erskine.’
‘What if I were to invite them to dinner?’
‘He’s terribly shy,’ Emmeline said. ‘And very much in awe of you, being a headmistress.’
‘Tell him I don’t bite,’ Octavia said, ‘except on Wednesdays.’
But he was embarrassingly shy. He stood on the doorstep clutching his best hat in front of him like a shield and dithered for such a long time that in the end Dora put her hand into the small of his back and pushed him into the house. He was tall and skinny, with lank brown hair and uneven teeth, and he seemed to be all awkward angles, his wrists protruding from the sleeves of his jacket, his feet splayed, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his neck. But he had a handsome pair of brown eyes and gazed at Dora with such obvious affection that Octavia took to him despite his gaucherie.
Even so the dinner was hard work, for although she questioned him extremely gently, his answers were monosyllabic and gruff with embarrassment. In the end she gave up trying to find out anything about him and asked Dora how her brother and sister were instead.
‘Oh, poor Johnnie,’ Dora said. ‘Pa’s after him too.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He wants to be an architect and Pa says he’s got to work in the bank.’
‘Time enough for him to talk your father round perhaps,’ J-J said. ‘After all, he’s only fourteen. He doesn’t have to make up his mind to anything yet awhile.’
‘He’s made it up, Uncle J-J,’ Dora said. ‘He wants to be an architect and Pa won’t let him. He says it’s nonsense.’
‘He says everything’s nonsense,’ John put in, and then blushed.
‘Quite right,’ Dora encouraged him. ‘It’s either nonsense or it’s sinful.’
‘Come and see us again,’ Octavia said as she said goodbye to them on the doorstep, ‘and don’t give up. We’ll win him round between us. Even a paterfamilias doesn’t hold all the trump cards these days. Just think, Dora, if this new bill is passed, you’ll be given the vote. He won’t be able to say you’re too young then.’
It was passed a few days later. When Dolly brought the newspaper in to set it beside Octavia’s breakfast plate, the headline blazed, ‘Votes for women’ and the article beneath it explained, ‘Last night the House of Commons voted overwhelmingly for the popular Equal Franchise Bill which will give the vote to all women over the age of 21.’
‘Isn’t that splendid?’ Octavia said, passing the paper to her father. ‘I shall have a special suffrage assembly this morning to celebrate. I must look out some of my old posters and put them up round the hall. And wear my brooch, of course. It’s just the time for it. Just think, my sixth form will be among the first of the new voters.’
‘It’s taken long enough, in all conscience,’ J-J said, reading the article. ‘When you think what a long time ago the campaign began.’
‘Twenty-five years,’ Octavia said. ‘I was fifteen when the WSPU was formed and now I’m nearly forty. And yes I know they gave the vote to married thirty-year-olds at the end of the war but that was just a stopgap. Think how grudgingly it was given. I’m sure they only did it because they wanted more women in the workforce. No, this is the real victory. This is the one to celebrate. This is the red-letter day.’
‘I’m sure it will be,’ J-J said.
Octavia took a passionate assembly, speaking of the long fight the suffragettes had had and how cruelly the early pioneers had been treated. At break the hall was thronged with girls all eager to see the posters she’d told them about. There were still small groups reading and exclaiming when the afternoon’s visitors arrived. Visitors came to the school so frequently that the girls took very little notice of them even when it was quite a large contingent, as it was that afternoon, being sixteen members of staff from a men’s teacher training college lead by their principal. He noticed the posters at once.
‘I see you keep them up to date with the news,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Octavia said. ‘That is part of a school’s function, as I’m sure you agree.’
He was thrown as much by her assumption that he would share her opinion as for the political nature of her exhibits. But the tour was already under way and, given her reputation at county hall, he was prepared to reserve judgement.
They visited the study rooms, the gym, the garden which was bright with daffodils, the Art room, where the girls were putting up a display of their latest work and the Music room, where the chairs were being set out for a choir practice. But it was the atmosphere in the school hall that amazed them most and when their tour of the school was over and they were gathered for a final meeting with the staff, it was the subject they returned to, as visitors always did.
‘How do you manage to keep them so quiet in the hall,’ they asked, ‘without a teacher to look after them? Surely there ought to be a member of staff up on the platform to maintain discipline.’
Octavia explained, as she’d explained to group after group over the years, always in the same words and with the same patience. ‘Our pupils are self-regulating. They discipline themselves. That is one of the basic principles of our method.’
‘But can you trust them?’ they asked.
‘Indeed we can. It’s essential that we do. And I will tell you before you ask, we have never had cause to regret our trust. They make their own rules, as you saw when you visited our school parliament, and they adapt them if and when they need to, so naturally the rules are obeyed. It was their idea to set up a silent study area in the first place and that is what it has always been.’
‘But what if they want to discuss something or to ask somebody a question?’ they asked.
‘If they want to discuss something,’ she told them, ‘they will go to a study room. If they want to gossip they will go out for a stroll around the playing fields. In the hall it is quiet because that is the way they want it to be. I could ask one of my teachers to supervise but she would have nothing to do.’
‘Aren’t you afraid,’ a young man asked anxiously, ‘that they might get out of hand?’
‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ she told him, ‘and we’ve been running the system for more than a decade.’
‘It would if they were boys,’ the young man said. ‘They get out of hand at the least little thing. You have to keep a very tight rein on boys.’
‘Perhaps with a different system,’ she said, giving him a sly smile, ‘you wouldn’t need reins at all.’
But he couldn’t believe that and his expression showed it.
‘You’re so patient,’ Alice Genevra said, when the visitors had finally asked their last question and gone. She and Morag had stayed behind to gather up the tea things and set the staff room to rights and now they were all standing in front of the mirror in the staff cloakroom, adjusting their hats and getting ready for the journey home. She looked at Octavia’s reflection in t
he long mirror. ‘I don’t know how you keep your temper with them sometimes.’ And she mimicked the worst question that had been asked that afternoon. ‘‘‘Under what circumstances would you cane these girls?” For heaven’s sake! What sort of people do they think we are?’
‘They assume that we are the same as they are,’ Octavia explained. ‘They advocate caning, so they assume that we would too.’
‘It’s barbaric,’ Alice said.
‘It is,’ Octavia agreed. ‘And one day everybody will agree with us. For the time being, it’s part of our job to try and wean them away from their barbarity.’
‘Will we do it?’ Morag asked, smiling at her. ‘I can’t imagine it with that lot.’
‘We shall eventually,’ Octavia said. ‘We’re introducing them to a very new idea, don’t forget, and new ideas are tender plants. They need careful propagation and years to take root. It’s not something we can rush.’
‘Do you really think it will take years?’ Morag said.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘How many?’
‘Twenty-five at least,’ Octavia said, ‘if the progress of the suffrage movement is anything to go by.’ She grinned at them. ‘So we have a long way to go.’
‘I’d have been more comfortable with this lot if they hadn’t had such a poor opinion of their own sex,’ Morag said, pulling on her gloves. ‘Boys have to be caned, otherwise they’d run riot. Did you notice that?’
‘Well, if it’s any comfort to you,’ Octavia said, ‘I don’t think we shall see them again.’
But she was wrong. The next morning a letter arrived from the principal, thanking her for her ‘unfailing courtesy’ and for sparing so much of her valuable time to show them round and answer their questions. It was more or less what she expected him to say but the letter went on to ask her if she would do them the very great honour of speaking at their annual founder’s day in July. ‘We pride ourselves on being a progressive institution’, he wrote, ‘and would welcome the chance to hear your views again in more detail.’
‘That just serves me right for saying I could do anything,’ she said to her father when she’d shown him the letter.
‘I cannot imagine you would need to worry about it,’ he said. ‘You are used to taking assembly and this will be very similar, will it not?’
‘This,’ she told him rather grimly, ‘will be entirely different. At assemblies I’m speaking to the converted. These young men will certainly be sceptical and probably hostile. If I can convert even one of them it will be a miracle. They believe boys are a wild breed who can’t learn and have to be beaten to keep them in order.’
‘Ah!’ her father said. ‘Then you expect a rough ride.’
‘Yes. I do.’
He considered for a moment, wearing his serious face. ‘You could refuse the invitation,’ he suggested.
‘No, Pa,’ she said. ‘That’s the one thing I can’t do. I won’t sink to cowardice. Not again. It would be too shaming. Once is enough.’
J-J found it hard to imagine a single occasion on which his daughter could ever have been accused of cowardice, but he sensed that there was more to her determination than he knew and that it would be indelicate to enquire any further.
‘I can’t say it takes me by surprise,’ Octavia said. ‘I’ve shown so many visitors round the school, I knew I would have to speak in public sooner or later. I just wish it wasn’t to this particular audience.’ She lifted her head and took herself in hand, smiling at her father rather shamefacedly. ‘But listen to me. Such a fuss to be making! You’d think I was being sent to Holloway or the trenches. They’re not machine guns. They’re only lads. The worst they can do is to mock me. I ought to have enough strength of character to cope with that.’
‘You must make careful preparations, notwithstanding the strength of your character,’ J-J advised. ‘If I were you, my dear, I would follow Bernard Shaw’s advice.’
‘Which advice would that be?’ Octavia asked, laughing. ‘I can think of a great deal of advice being given from that quarter and on a great many occasions.’
Her father explained. ‘That you must win your audience over with your opening words.’
‘Actually,’ Octavia said, grinning at him, ‘I’ve already thought of that. I’m going to call my offering “Punishment and the Dalton System”. If they think I’m going to talk about how necessary it is to cane, and what other punishments are available to them, I should have their undivided attention at the start of my talk even if I’ve lost it by the end. What do you think?’
‘You are downright naughty sometimes,’ her father said, enjoying the idea. ‘I shall be interested to read the final script.’
‘I’ll show it to you in July,’ she said.
The college of St Gregory and All Souls was an august brick-built edifice designed to impress and overawe and even on that July day with summer flowers in all the borders, it reminded Octavia of Holloway prison and was exactly what she’d steeled herself to expect. She sniffed the scent of the flowers to give herself a little more courage and then marched briskly through its imposing portal refusing to be cowed, announcing her arrival to the waiting porter in a clear firm voice.
After a short wait, she was escorted to the principal’s palatial study, where she sipped sherry and made small talk until her audience was ready for her. Then she and the principal progressed to the main hall, which was a huge, oak-panelled, gloomy space, hung about with shields. A place for warriors, she thought, and wondered whether they had crossed canes above the platform, which was high, wide and imposing and contained a long oak table and a row of stern high-backed chairs. The principal’s chair was like a bishop’s throne.
Her audience was exactly what she expected in such a place too. They sat uncomfortably in regulated rows and were careful not to turn their heads as she walked between the lines. Most of them were wearing tweed jackets, some with the regulatory leather patches already covering their elbows, and every head of hair had been neatly and severely cut. They were conformists to the last controlled expression. Octavia’s heart sank despite her preparation.
She was introduced as ‘A pioneer of progressive education’. There was polite applause. She stood to speak. They didn’t look at her. She took a breath, fortified herself with determination and bade them ‘Good afternoon.’ They didn’t look at her.
‘I have called my talk “Punishment and the Dalton System”,’ she told them, ‘because I believe you are somewhat concerned with punishments and how and why they should be given. However before I begin, perhaps you will allow me to tell you a story.’
A flicker of surprise. Possibly interest. One or two even raised their eyes and looked at her.
‘I remember the first time I was punished,’ she began, ‘and – which is probably what will interest you rather more – the nature and effect of the punishment.’
They were stirring. More were looking up.
‘I was six years old,’ she said, ‘and playing with my cousins, rather too boisterously, on the day my father was giving a dinner party for William Morris, Beatrice and Sydney Webb, Edith Nesbit and Bernard Shaw. A bad time to misbehave, as I’m sure you appreciate. But misbehave I did. I ran into the legs of the parlour maid when she was carrying a tray full of tea things and the tea was spilt all over the carpet and up the wall, which, incidentally, was covered by one of William Morris’s beautiful papers.’
A ripple of laughter.
‘My father, naturally, said I was to be punished and that the punishment was to fit the crime. I was to take a bucket of water and a mop and clean everything up. It was jolly hard work.’ She waited for smiles and one or two were ventured. ‘But the point I want to make with my cautionary tale,’ she said, ‘is this. I accepted his punishment as proper. Not pleasant. Not easy. But deserved. Had he hit me I should have thought about the pain and hated him for inflicting it. Because he was reasonable and kindly – inexorable but reasonable and kindly – I accepted his decision and even, i
n my six-year-old way, respected it. In short his behaviour was an object lesson.’
The young men were sending eye messages to one another. Have I made them think? she wondered. Oh, I do hope so. ‘So what lessons do we teach or hope to learn at Roehampton Secondary School, apart from the ones you would expect on a grammar school curriculum? Well, first and foremost we hope that any teacher who spends more than a term with us will discover that learning is a natural process and will adapt their teaching methods in the light of what they have learnt. Naturally, as up-to-date student teachers you will know all about this and will have studied the pioneering work done by people like Maria Montessori, Homer Lane and AS Neill.’ Those who had raised their heads to watch her were either looking bewildered or totally blank. ‘However,’ she said, smiling at them, ‘I’m sure you will forgive me if I examine the process briefly since it is germane to everything we do or try to do at Roehampton.’
She sipped a little water to give them time to adapt to being puzzled. ‘Well then,’ she said. ‘To begin at the beginning. We know that learning is a natural process, like breathing, feeding, sleeping and all the other natural processes that are necessary to us if we are to live and thrive. In fact, in many ways it is almost exactly similar to the digestive process. Both begin with an appetite, for food in the one case, for knowledge and new experiences in the other. That is the first phase. Both are followed by activities which satisfy the appetite – eating and drinking on the one hand, questioning and dogged experimentation on the other. That is the second phase. It will go on apparently indefatigably and sometimes for a very long time. Both are followed by a period of digestion, when the child is satisfied and happy. That is the third stage. After that there is a fourth stage – and this may surprise you if your study of the learning process has not so far been much extended – a fourth phase when what is learnt seems to have been forgotten. Haven’t we all heard teachers who say “I tell them over and over again and they still don’t know it”?’ There was a murmur of recognition. Yes, they have heard that. And believe it to be true. ‘Take heart,’ she told them. ‘There is a fifth phase and this one will encourage you. The fifth phase is a return to the knowledge or skill that has been learnt in phase two. And, lo and behold, when the child has learnt according to the natural process she has not forgotten, any more than you forget when you haven’t ridden a bicycle for a few days. You simply get into the saddle and pedal away. It is all beautifully modulated and beautifully simple. You wait for the appetite, you provide the child with the information and material it needs and the child learns.’
Octavia Page 37
