At least you can look the part, even if you are useless at the game was the admonition given by a games master to a motley bunch of lads, of which I was one, making up our house team when I had been at school. I determined to put that advice into action now.
‘Captains, place your teams,’ I said firmly. Then to one, ‘You give out bands to your team.’ This was the normal method of distinguishing players. One side wore braids slung over one shoulder and became colours, the other side were whites, albeit incongruously in this instance for neither faces nor clothes would have done much for any soap advertisement.
With a certain amount of argument two sets of forwards, half backs and backs were directed to their positions by the captains who, of course, were the centre forwards. Much more reluctantly went two goalkeepers. Because no one in this group possessed adequate skill, the role of goalie was to be avoided at all costs because it was the one position in which mistakes couldn’t pass unnoticed.
I placed the ball on the centre spot, told one captain to call, flipped a coin and settled the kick off. I conveniently ignored choice of ends; to have allowed a change-over would have finished the first half of the lesson. I gave what I hoped was a professional look around the field, and blew the whistle.
One boy kicked the ball sideways, the boy on his left tapped it forward and all hell broke loose. Twenty dervishes surrounded the ball determined to kick it to death. The ball, having little choice in the matter, remained trapped. I blew the whistle again and everyone stopped momentarily. Before I could speak, one boy picked up the ball, placed it in front of his foot, said ‘Our free kick, warn’t it, Sir?’ and kicked it hard towards goal before I could contradict him. Nineteen boys hared after it. I decided to let that one pass.
As misfortune would have it, the fat boy had been ordered to defend the goal towards which the ball was flying. He stood transfixed between the posts, arms held sideways in a supplicating gesture.
‘Come out to it, Fatso,’ yelled his entire team.
He did, mistiming his move as the ball bounced in front of him. His robot arms closed on thin air and the ball sailed unimpeded over his head between the posts. Nets were non-existent, so it was a chore forced upon the luckless goalkeeper missing an accurate shot that he had to run into the far distance to retrieve the ball. At least this allowed him to keep his red face away from the glares of his disgruntled team mates. The fat boy set off on his errand at a fast amble. By the time he returned with the ball the teams were in position for the second kick off. I seized the opportunity.
‘Boys,’ I announced, ‘you must try to keep thinking about your positions. If you crowd round the ball, all trying to kick it at the same time, you’ll never learn the skills of the game. Backs, for instance,’ I said pointing, ‘on the whole you should stay within reach of your goal area. If you two had done that a few minutes ago you might have stopped that goal being scored. It was your job to try to stop it. As it was you left it all to your goalie. Now, come on, let’s see some passing this time.’
I detected the merest glance exchanged between the two captains who faced each other across the centre circle. There was a hint they thought I might know my stuff. I began to feel a little more confident. I blew the whistle and this time the ball moved between six or seven players before the melée developed again. I ran over to it, pleased to see that five players had declined to join this time and were hovering, torn between a longing to plunge in and the positions they were supposed to be guarding.
The captains were in the crush, though even I could see they were trying to use their skill to clear the ball. One tapped it neatly to his right, very near to the touchline. Two of the pack, oblivious to everything but the magnetic fascination of the football, pounced after it. They stumbled, blocking my view momentarily. Colours captain sidestepped one of them, made an obvious kick at the ball, which went over the line.
I blew sharply. ‘White’s ball,’ I called.
Shocked faces turned towards me. Their owners all wore bands. Had I looked more carefully I might have noticed whites were surprised as well.
‘Come on, don’t waste time,’ I called authoritatively. ‘Whites’ ball.’
‘Sir,’ ventured a voice, Cooper din’t kick it out.’ Cooper was captain of the colours. But before I could open my mouth, Cooper swung round on the boy who had spoken, who was one of his team.
‘Play to the ref,’ he said, through gritted teeth, staring hard at the boy. Immediately colours dropped back; one of the whites picked up the ball and took the throw-in. There was no semblance of an argument, nor rancour. I released my clenched fingers. Obviously I’d gaffed and the ball had bounced off one of the other two boys when Cooper tried to kick it clear, but I hadn’t seen this. I resolved to take more care. Nevertheless I felt pleased the boys were such good sports.
Play continued in much the same way for about five minutes with the ball usually caught amongst a crowd of players. Occasionally one with some pretensions to skill managed to break clear and either kicked it or dribbled it towards the opposition’s goal area. On one such foray towards colour’s goal Cooper resorted to desperate measures to stop a shot. He raced back into defence, slid along the ground and took away the player’s legs and the ball in spectacular fashion. I blew immediately.
‘Free kick.’ I shouted.
Three of the colours players turned amazed faces towards me. ‘But he got the ball first, Sir,’ one expostulated. Cooper got to his feet.
‘I told you, play to the ref,’ he said in heavy, explosive tones. In complete silence someone placed the ball. But I had missed something else as well.
‘I reckon that oughta be a penalty,’ said a quiet voice behind me. Everyone looked, including me. Heck,I didn’t look at the lines, I thought. I was standing just inside the penalty area. Again there was silence. But before I could decide whether ignominiously to change my mind, Cooper said, ‘Get on with it.’ He picked up the ball and placed it just outside the area. One of the whites looked around, prepared to run, then looked at me.. I took a cue from Cooper.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ I -said, sharply.
‘You ain’t blown the whistle, Sir.’
I began to feel very fragile and blew hurriedly. He kicked towards the goal; another player shot but not accurately and I blew again for a goal kick. As play swung back to the middle of the field I knew I was letting these lads down. Their game, such as it was, was being marred by my errors.
Watch it, you fool, I admonished myself.
Somehow I got by without further problems until well into the second half. Then suddenly there was a confused rumpus on one touchline which, when I reached it, degenerated into a tug of war between two boys, each yelling, ‘Our throw’, ably and vociferously supported by team members, colours and white. From where I’d been, completely out of position, I hadn’t seen. I decided I couldn’t brazen this one out.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t see that closely enough, lads. I’ll settle it with a dropped ball just inside the touchline.’
I had no idea whether this was correct procedure, but felt no one would report me to the FA. I held the ball and the two contenders waited. I dropped it; they lunged. One caught it with his shin, knocked it up and it bounced off the other’s midriff, decked with a bright red band, and went out.
I blew sharply on the whistle, pointed firmly in the wrong direction indicating the throw-in.
This time all the players gasped and turned towards me in questioning but silent horror. What is he thinking about? was the mute cry of every expression. What I was thinking about was the previous half when they had been playing in the opposite direction.
‘Oh, my mis...’ I began, but before I could finish a voice rasped behind me.
‘Play to the bloody ref. or I’ll thump the lot on yer.’ It was Cooper, of course.
The bloody ref. shudders at t
he reaction there would be to-day in the face of such incompetence. I am thankful I made my mistakes at a time when the old values of authority in sport were strong amongst twelve year olds.
Chapter 17
Finals and farewells followed in quick succession. In fact the whole of our second year at College seemed to pass very swiftly, due in no small measure to the enjoyment we gained from the new social life permitted us. Certainly when we came to leave we took with us a glow of satisfaction and nostalgia which has lasted throughout the ensuing years.
Loyalty is one of the most endearing human qualities, whether to an individual or an organisation. It is to his eternal credit that the VP served the new Principal as loyally as the old, even though they were so diverse. When we parted from Major Darnley we were genuinely sorry, for despite his minor eccentricities he was a great teacher of practitioners; I venture to suggest his skills would be just as outstanding in teacher training today.
He retired a few years after we left and everyone felt he richly deserved his Devonshire cottage. But his reward was tarnished by tragedy, for his quiet, understanding and so loyal wife died within twelve months.
‘Were we adequately prepared to launch into our role as teachers? On the whole I believe we were - for schools of those days. The great majority of us expected to teach the junior age, 7 to 11, or the secondary, 11 to 15. No man expected to teach infants; such schools were staffed entirely by women as is still largely the case. Very few expected to teach in grammar schools, although Gordon Mersely did so - at the one Malcolm Ashterleigh and I formerly attended.
The curriculum was laid down by each Head. In practice this was in no sense a free choice because all schools taught the three Rs and were expected to do so successfully. Physical Training was also expected, as was some Art and Music. Secondary schools taught Science and practical subjects; Cooking for girls and Woodwork for boys sometimes involved a walk to a nearby school that had adequately equipped rooms. Beyond these Heads could be flexible and might introduce other experiences if they had the staff; hence Drama Festivals.
The only examination was the 11+, then usually referred to as the Grammar School Entrance Exam, previously known generally as the Scholarship Exam. Very few expected to sit it. A large proportion didn’t want to do so and certainly their parents wouldn’t allow them. Attitudes varied across the Country, however. Areas that had suffered in the depression of the thirties were far more likely to have parents who wanted their children to get out of the slough of unemployment and saw education as the means to do so. But during the War employment was full - either in the Forces or due to directed labour at home, when the government took powers to send anyone anywhere to work. In the midlands we had a woman placed with us because we had three bedrooms for only four people, my brother and I being children could share. The woman, in her forties, who had been brought up in a Dr Barnardo’s Home and had subsequently entered domestic service, came from London and was directed to a local munitions factory where she inspected percussion caps for bullets eight hours a day on shifts throughout the twenty-four.
Having experienced the war years, followed by the drive to produce at home and not import from abroad because the Country couldn’t afford to do so, the majority of parents wanted their children out at work as soon as possible. Many did not rate the raising of the school leaving age to 15 a good idea.
There was a chasm between education of the masses and the middle and upper classes. The class system was very evident, providing a ready source of material for authors of both fiction and sociological studies. Some of the latter showed that a great many working class people did not want their children to be educated out of their class. Some children who were felt themselves misfits. Strong personalities overcame the magnetic drawback but they were a minority.
It was unnecessary, therefore, for most schools to have academic achievement as an important goal. Skills for work were required - literacy and numeracy, some dexterity, acceptance of control, acceptance of routine. So college courses did not need to be highly academic. The professional subjects were compulsory: Principles and Practice of Teaching, English Language, Physical Training and Hygiene, beyond which four optional subjects were required, though any one taken to main level counted as two and one had to be Art, Music or Craft. We were advised that a main level subject equated with ordinary degree level. That, of course, was way beyond the level required for teaching the subject even to the new fourth year of secondary schooling catering for the 15 year olds, dwindling term by term as they passed their release birthdays. So academically our training was perfectly adequate
Practical teaching experience was excellent in the modes we undertook at St Andrew’s. That it was so was also due to the dedication of Heads and teachers across the city who guided us in their schools.. As we left, Reverend Pringley said to me, ‘You’ll take a degree, of course?’ I believe many of us intended to do so. All my particular colleagues did and two obtained Ph.Ds. Judged from our personal viewpoints we felt teacher training needed more academic extension allied to the good practical experience. It took many years before an attempt was made to achieve that by the introduction of the Bachelor of Education degree (B.Ed.)
But in 1948 our qualifications were sufficient unto the day.
Upon leaving, most of my Year faced a strange situation. Wartime regulations concerning conscription were still in force, so after leaving we had followed the required practice of applying for deferment in order to undertake teacher training. When this was completed we had to await call-up which came to us all within six months.
Most of us took jobs even though we knew they would be short lived. The shortage of teachers was so acute that the authorities took us on even though they knew our service would be for a matter of weeks. In my case it was five. Shortly afterwards the conscription laws were reorganised into National Service and this anomaly was removed.
Between leaving College and my call up in early October I decided to earn some much needed cash, largely because I wanted to spend it on a week’s holiday rock climbing in North Wales. Inland Revenue had no more short term jobs, I found, so I took myself off to the local labour exchange and joined a motley queue in which I stood out because I wore a jacket and tie. On making my enquiry at the counter I received an immediate offer - right here, please! Such offices were in need of the skills of ex-students with backgrounds in inserting forms into envelopes and sticking them. I was certainly their man.
Their urgent need had its origins in the Beveridge Report, commissioned during the War, much of which was accepted and put into effect soon afterwards as the National Insurance Scheme. This produced the National Health Service amongst other benefits. Everyone had to be provided with a National Insurance Number and issued with a National Insurance Card. So I assisted in the birth of this highly important social development by sending out the cards....well, some hundreds out of many millions. That year the autumn term began in the city’s schools on August 30th, so on Friday 27th I bade farewell to the Labour Exchange. Not all the cards had been dispatched in time because the Scheme began on 5th July and there were still more to go when I left. I hoped the waiting recipients would understand that I wanted to start teaching.
My first five weeks teaching were uneventful. The first two passed without my knowing my call-up date, but the remaining three were spent in the knowledge that life for me was about to change dramatically. But I can remember well the moment I first walked into a classroom as a qualified teacher.
I was sent to a Boys’ School in a not very pleasant area of the city. Some of the streets nearby had been flattened during the War by a landmine dropped by parachute. I knew this to be so because I heard it detonate, as did the rest of my School. The thing had inconsiderately stuck in telegraph wires but had considerately failed to explode on contact as it was designed to do after landing softly. That way damage was more widespread. It was in far too precarious a position to be def
used so the immediate area was evacuated. People in a wider area were ordered into shelters for 11.00 am when the device was to be detonated. Lacking shelters we went to corridors deemed sufficiently strengthened for such occasional events, because daylight raids so far inland were rare. The explosion was spectacular but all we heard was the noise. It was achieved without loss of life but many houses were totally wrecked as I saw a day or two later when I ghoulishly cycled the streets.
The Head welcomed me at 8.50 am on my first morning. Ten minutes later he took me to a classroom containing forty-eight twelve year olds. He ushered me in and they fell silent.
‘Boys, you will remember we had three classes last year in the first year, 1A, 1B, and 1C. Well, as you know, the area sending boys to this School has been enlarged, so some of you have had to join us from another one. This means that now we need four classes in the Second Year. You’ve been sent to this room because I have made a new class, 2D. All I need to do now is introduce to you your class teacher, Mr Flaxton here. None of you has seen him before, because he’s a new teacher. So you are all starting something new today, a new School for some, a new class for others, and a new job for Mr Flaxton. So it will be interesting to see what you all make of it.’ He smiled thinly at the rows of silent faces. ‘I’ll leave you now. Bring them into assembly in five minutes, please, Mr Flaxton.’
He marched out of the room, leaving the boys eyeing me carefully. Certainly he had contrived to unite them. But one point in his explanation had been rather vague and immediately after I had delivered a couple of completely forgettable remarks to the class, I saw two cheeky-faced characters look at one another. A decision was made, then one put up his hand.
‘Yes, my lad?’ I said briskly.
‘Mr Littleton just said yow was a new teacher, din’t ‘e Sir?’
Greetings Noble Sir Page 19
