Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

  ‘It’s quite .simple,’ she said. ‘You make a master copy on a sheet like this - drawing whatever you want with any coloured sheet of carbon underneath. Then you put the copy on to the drum here like this .... then turn the handle, and, oh dear....’

  She inserted a blank piece of paper into the machine but it emerged equally blank instead of reproducing the squiggles she had put on the master copy by way of demonstration.

  ‘I think our expert put the master copy on the wrong way round,’ laughed Mr Brand.

  ‘So I have - there you are, I told you I wasn’t all that good with this thing.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Brand, ‘you were just put off by having a nice young man watching you.’ He patted her on the shoulder, bent at the waist and laughed heartily again in what seemed to me a most unheadmasterlike fashion. Miss Rockliffe turned a lovely pink colour.

  ‘Poor kid,’ I thought. ‘I’ll bet she’ll hate me after this. What an introduction!’

  Hurriedly she reversed the master sheet and pushed another blank sheet into the machine. The result was the same.

  ‘Oh no - now what have I done?’ The pink colour deepened.

  ‘I seem to have introduced a gremlin,’ I said. ‘Never mind, I get the idea. I can see what it does from these sheets you’ve already finished.’ I picked one up. It showed a number of examples of dress from the Tudor period. They were beautifully drawn and I stared at them in astonishment.

  ‘Did you draw these?

  ‘Yes, but they were copied from a book.’

  ‘They’re super. I hope you won’t expect me to draw like this for my class, Mr Brand. I couldn’t do this to save my life.’

  ‘Ah well,’ he said happily, ‘you’ll just have to get round Miss Rockliffe to draw things for you. I’m sure she’d be most willing.’ He turned to her.

  ‘You’ll give Mr Flaxton all the help he needs, won’t you, Miss Rockliffe?’

  For a brief moment I had the idea that Mr Brand was mindreading and giving substance to my thoughts. Suddenly it was my turn to blush.

  Chapter 24

  I enjoyed my first day at Dayton Road Junior School but I didn’t teach any lessons. Mr Brand assigned me to Miss Rees.

  ‘You’ll probably need to adjust yourself to the classroom again after being in the Services. So watch a few lessons, then I’ll give you a temporary time table which will enable Miss Rees to have some spare time for administrative work. You can take a few lessons in each of the classes and in that way you’ll soon get to know all the children.’

  When he left the classroom, Miss Rees set me up with a chair and a low table beside her desk, which was the usual high pattern. When she sat there she was able to look down at me sitting at my small table. I guessed she considered the arrangement relegated me to my proper station on the staff, that of the lowliest newcomer.

  ‘You can spend a couple of days getting to know the names of the children and looking at some of their work,’ she said. ‘Then you can take some lessons. I’ll watch you at first and you’d better write up some lesson notes. I expect you’ll be rusty after being away from schools for so long, and, of course, you’re only just starting your probationary year, so you’ll need some help to begin with.’

  Miss Rees had a brisk, forceful voice with a distinct Welsh accent. I guessed that she was rather formidable in her role as Chief Assistant. In those days most junior schools had Arithmetic on their time tables until morning break, and Dayton Road was no exception. By the time I had been deposited in Miss Rees’s room her class were hard at work with a list of sums which she had written on the blackboard. They watched with interest the spectacle of my being settled beside their teacher, but whilst she was talking to me the one or two who dared to continue watching caught her eye and their heads shot downwards to their desk work. When she turned her attention to her own desk, I was able to sit back and survey the room and its occupants.

  There were the usual forty-eight in the class. They sat at the familiar double desks with iron frames and tip-up seats. The room had a very high ceiling and the usual large windows divided into small panes in two opposite walls. One faced the playground way above the heads of the children. The other was also lofty and wide, but its lowest level enabled people to see into and out of the room from the hall.

  The children in the room were ten and eleven year olds and they looked very much the same as those I had faced at Spenser Street three years previously. One or two started to look up at me surreptitiously, no doubt wondering who I was and what on earth I was doing in their classroom, sitting like that beside Miss Rees. But when any of them caught my eye the look was rapidly changed into an I’m looking - up - because - I’m - thinking - about - my - Arithmetic look. I wasn’t fooled.

  ‘Robinson, the bell.’

  Miss Rees’s command broke in upon my thoughts. A tall boy stood up at his desk and walked over to the wide window ledge on the hall side of the room, picked up a large bronze handbell and disappeared into the hall where he clanged it vigorously, then set off to perform the same service for the classrooms at the other end of the buildingl.

  ‘Everyone, stand,’ said Miss Rees; the class obeyed with alacrity.

  ‘First row - out you go. Second - third - fourth - last.’ She watched with sharp eyes for the slightest suggestion of misbehaviour, which I realised was entirely for my benefit. But the children wanted their playtime and they knew when to toe: the line. In seconds the room was empty.

  ‘Come and have a cup of coffee,’ Miss Rees invited. I followed her to the end classroom nearest to the staff room stairs. She opened the door busily.

  ‘Oh good, it’s here. Now, have you all met Mr Flaxton? She swept a glance at the assembled staff. Everyone was there except Mr Brand and Mr Pardoe. There were nods all round.

  ‘Do you take sugar?’ The question came from Miss Shenton who seemed to be officiating with a large white jug. We were in her classroom.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said.

  Mr Hughes took the cup, and passed it to me.

  ‘Make youself at home, Mr Flaxton,’ Miss Browning said. ‘You’ll have to stand or sit on a desk, I’m afraid. We don’t have time to go to the staffroom during break.’

  ‘Do you know where Mr Brand is, Miss Rees? asked Miss Shenton.

  ‘No - unless he’s on the phone. Miss Rockliffe, would you look, please?

  Miss Rockliffe was standing near to one of the doors. She opened it, looked across a short corridor to the stockroom, which contained one of the School’s two telephones. Though the other was in his room Mr Brand used whichever he was nearer.

  ‘Yes, he’s there.’

  ‘Well, I hope he’ll not be too long, or his coffee will be cold,’ said Miss Shenton. As general conversation developed, I sat down on the front edge of a desk near the door. After a minute or two Mr Hughes came over to me and sat down on the same desk.

  ‘Well, think you’ll like it?’ His voice carried the unmistakable accent of a south Welsh valley.

  ‘Oh, yes”, I said, “I’m sure I will.’ I glanced briefly at Miss Rockliffe,

  ‘Look, I don’t want to load you up on your first day, but if you meant what you said about cricket, Rocky and I could do with some help.’

  ‘Rocky? You mean....

  ‘Sure, Miss Rockliffe is Rocky to all her pals. Her name’s Megan, but no one uses it. And I only answer to Taff.’

  ‘Megan - that’s a Welsh name. But she hasn’t got an accent - I mean, she’s not Welsh as well, is she?’

  ‘Oh, yes - comes from Newport.’

  ‘There are a lot of you around, aren’t there?’

  ‘Sure - the city’s schools would grind to a halt if it wasn’t for the Welsh,’ he grinned.

  ‘I hadn’t realised it was that bad,’ I grinned back. ‘Anyway, what were you saying abou
t cricket?’

  ‘Rocky and I are the only two who really do anything for the kids in sport. You can see the others aren’t really the type. Bob Pardoe does a bit - he’s outside on playground duty at the moment but he’s leaving soon, as you know. We were both hoping for someone our age to give us a hand.’

  ‘Fine - I’m game. What does it involve?’

  Our conversation was interrupted by the noisy ringing of the bell in the hall. Everyone stood up.

  ‘See you at lunchtime. Get upstairs as soon as you can. We have our meal, then usually Rocky and I have a games practice in the playground with any kids who stay for lunch, or who go home but get back in time.’

  ‘Right, I’ll join you.’

  I walked back to Miss Rees’s room with a comfortable twinge of satisfaction. It was good to feel wanted - and on my first day, too. I also felt I might get a chance to talk to Miss Rockliffe without any of the older members of staff present. I wanted to apologise to her for our introduction earlier. She had avoided me during break, which was hardly surprising.

  The remainder of the morning passed quickly. I compiled a seating plan, quietly walking round the class whilst they were working and asking each child’s name,. That enabled me to speak to each one separately and acted as a kind of brief personal introduction. It broke the ice for us all. Then I wrote each name in the appropriate box on my plan which served as a simple aide memoire.

  All the city children called the midday break dinner time and when it came most went home. It began at 12.00 noon at Dayton Road and afternoon school began at 1.50pm. It was, therefore, a relaxing break in the day enabling teachers to eat a meal at leisure as well as to prepare work for the afternoon or to organise activities with children who were available. Dayton Road was typical of most schools of the period. Of the three hundred youngsters it contained at the time I joined only about fifty stayed for a school meal.

  The Schools’ Meals Service had begun as a wartime necessity and now, a few years later, it was still being used by a comparatively small number of children. Dinner duty for teachers had also been accepted during the War and also had remained. Like playground duty, one teacher supervised the eating of meals each day. The dinners arrived in containers and were dispensed by women servers who came in for the purpose. The pupils sat on long forms at trestle tables in the hall, which were put up and taken down each day.

  In the staffroom I discovered seating for lunch was arranged to demonstrate staff hierarchy. Miss Rees, as Chief Assistant, presided by sitting at the head of the small table with her back to the window. Mr Brand, I soon learned, ate his meals in the solitary confinement of his own room at the other end of the building. Miss Browning sat to the immediate right of Miss Rees and beside her, Miss Shenton, both with their backs to the fireplace. Their relative positions reflected their respective periods of service at Dayton Road. The room had a radiator so the fire was normally unnecessary. But their possession of that side of the table closest to it had long been established and emphasized their seniority. On the left of Miss Rees sat Mr Pardoe, followed by Mr Hughes. At the opposite end to Miss Rees sat Miss Rockliffe, senior to Mr Hughes by a few months.

  ‘I think we can manage to squeeze Mr Flaxton in on the corner by Miss Rockliffe,’ announced Miss Rees. It wasn’t an observation - it was an order. In fact, on this first day, Miss Shenton’s place was vacant because she was on dinner duty with the children, but I quickly got the message that her place was not available for me and she would be present shortly. The corner underlined my status as mid-term intruder most successfully. But it suited me fine.

  The staff’s dinner containers were deposited in the kitchen from whence the contents were carried in by Mr Pardoe and placed in front of Miss Rees. She dispensed the meat and later the sweet. Conversation during that first meal was entirely related to the School and consequently was lost upon me. But as soon as we had drunk a cup of tea, Mr Hughes turned to Miss Rockliffe.

  ‘Are you taking a sports practice, Rocky?’

  ‘Yes, Taff, I’m going now.’

  ‘Excuse us, everyone, we’re taking cricket. Come on Mr Flaxton.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Flaxton doesn’t want to go straight back to the children,’ interrupted Miss Rees sharply.

  ‘Oh no, I’m keen to help’. I said.

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  I felt I’d inadvertently caused offence, but Taff nodded to me. ‘Come on, then.’ As we went down the stairs the other two seemed to relax.

  ‘Should I have stayed?’ I asked.

  ‘No - but our dear Chief Ass will try to own you for the next week or two. You’ll have to watch your step’.

  ‘Are you going to the top end, Taff?’ Rocky had reached the door.

  ‘Yes - you’ll want this end for rounders, won’t you?’

  ‘Right. Now, where are the kids?’

  We walked into an empty playground, but within seconds were surrounded by twenty or so excited children who materialised from nowhere.

  ‘Can I bat first, Sir?

  ‘I want to bowl.’

  ‘Yow ‘ad fust gow yesterday, ‘smy turn, ain’t it, Sir?’

  ‘Can I put the bases out, Miss?’

  ‘Can I be captain today, Miss, please let me?’

  As the two teachers walked to their respective ends of the playground the youngsters bounced happily alongside them, trying to stake their respective claims. They ignored me. I walked behind the bunch surrounding Taff, and noticed he made no attempt to answer the questions being flung at him. He turned, then took two ancient sets of stumps set in blocks from a boy who was carrying them. He set up one set, turned and strode down the playground. Then he planted the other. His audience stood expectantly between the wickets. ‘Who’s got the bat?’

  ‘Me, Sir,’ said a small, round faced lad with curly brown hair, dressed in an old shirt and brown short trousers. It was obvious he thought possession would secure him first knock.

  ‘Let me have it,’ ordered Taff.

  ‘Oh, Sir,’ came the chorus, ‘only Martin can get you out an’ ‘e ain’t back yet.’

  ‘I’m not batting first, Mr Flaxton is.’ He turned and held out the bat to me. There was sudden and complete silence. I was an unknown quantity at cricket, and a newcomer as well. They were all too polite to object to a stranger.

  ‘I don’t want to take a turn away from anyone,’ I said. ‘Is there some kind of rota?

  ‘Yes, I give everyone a number as they arrive. You’re one today, and the rest are two, three, four, five, six...’ He counted as he pointed at the boys, one or two of whom tried to dodge into his view to get a lower number. They were unsuccessful.

  I decided to conform. I looked at the bat which was very small indeed and also very old. I wondered what the ball would be like. As if in answer, Taff extracted a worn tennis ball from his pocket. He handed it to a short, thick set looking boy.

  ‘You bowl first, Barry.’

  The boy walked to the opposite end, strode about six paces beyond, turned and waited. I stood gaping from the other end, feeling quite ridiculous holding the miniature bat. The fact that I was now quite tall made matters worse. I never was a good cricketer. At school cricket suffered in the same way as football, more so because the required space simply was not available between the barrage balloon and the summer crop. However, airfields made interesting wickets; if you managed to connect bat with ball after unpredictable bounces and dispatched the latter with some force you could amass a respectable score quickly because there was no boundary. But I could hardly try that kind of thing with these little children and their tennis ball.

  Be gentle - tap it I told myself as I bent over the bat like a croquet hoop. Barry put his head on one side.

  ‘Play,’ he said in a flat voice. His set expression didn’t alter as he slowly covered the few paces to the wicket
, flipped his arm over end bowled. I looped down the wicket as I played forward, nearly overbalancing. The ball shot upwards past my right ear at considerable speed. The bat missed it by miles.

  ‘Pitch them up - you know what you’ve been told,’ shouted Taff.

  Another small boy acting as wicket keeper caught the ball neatly above his head. I turned to see him hesitating with an eager expression as he looked at my back foot. Only politeness to a new teacher stopped him stumping me. He looked at me as he threw the ball back to Barry.

  ‘You ‘ave to imagine the crease,’ he said. I got the message there would be no second chance. I also missed the second ball, which also cleared the stumps, but not by much. The speed seemed incredible. It had nothing to do with his run; the power was entirely in his arm.

  ‘Play,’ said Barry. I could see that he had a good over rate. I only had time to lift the bat which somehow stopped the ball and dropped it in front of me. Two figures pounced on it and one flicked it back hard at Barry.

  ‘Play.’

  I wasn’t at all sure how I should deal with matters. Obviously these children were much more earnest about the game than I’d realised, despite their primitive equipment. Nevertheless, I thought, I must be careful not to hit it hard because, tennis ball or no, I might easily injure someone.

  He who hesitates....my stumps went flying backwards with an almighty crash, not being fixed to the ground in any way. They were knocked clean out of the block and one cartwheeled and rolled almost to the playground wall with third man racing to retrieve it.

  ‘Please Sir, can I ‘ave the bat?’

  Before I had time to feel particularly embarrassed number two was at my elbow. I handed it over.

  ‘Play,’ said Barry.

  I scarcely had time to move away from the wicket before he bowled again. There was a solid thump and batsman number two shot off to the opposite set of stumps and back again. The ball sailed high over the rounders players and bounced off a shelter wall. It was caught neatly on the rebound by a lad who twisted his way amongst the rounders fielders, who totally ignored him. He hurled it back at Barry but the batsman had run four. I caught Taff’s eye.