Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

  Rocky had seen it one day and asked what the trouble was. I told her its history and my passion for it. She seemed to accept it as a sort of challenge and said she was sure she could fix it. Her interest in the tie and her success with it brought a gleam to the Lakeland mists. The weather cleared almost immediately and the last few days of the holiday were spent amongst wonderful views in glorious sunshine. I walked hard trying to make up for lost time. As a result I gave myself tenosynovitis in the ankle and came home limping. But it cleared up in time for school.

  Few children will admit to longing to go back to school at the beginning of a new term and over the years I have heard my colleagues also complain about it very frequently. It seems it simply isn’t done to admit one likes one’s job and so is happy to go back. However, in that September I knew nothing of protocol in such matters. I cycled to Dayton Road on the first day as though I was training for a sprint race.

  ‘Allo, Mr Flaxton.’

  The greeting was shouted at me from all quarters as I rode the last couple of hundred yards. The children’s obvious welcome gave me an inward contented glow of pride. In those days teachers had to sign in and sign out when they arrived and left each day, recording the time of day alongside their signatures The book was placed on the staffroom table and usually Miss Rees hovered over it impatiently.

  ‘I hope you’ve had an enjoyable holiday, Mr Flaxton,’ she said as I signed.

  ‘Thank you, I have. It was extremely wet in the Lake District, I’m afraid, though the weather improved considerably just before I left.’

  ‘Oh dear, that’s so often the way. Still, I hope you managed to get plenty of relaxation, despite the weather. You’ll need it this term with a class of your own.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, standing up, ‘I couldn’t wait to get back. This is what I’ve been looking forward to for two years since I left College. At last I’m going to have my own class. I’ve had all the relaxation I need - I just want to get on with the work.’

  She looked at me. ‘A very noble sentiment, I’m sure.’ There was a pause. ‘Mr Brand will give you your register.’

  ‘Right, I’m on my way.’

  I bounded down the stairs, no doubt looking extremely boyish in her eyes. But at that moment nothing could have dampened my spirits. The reason was that all junior teaching, and much senior teaching as well, was done in class units. Being a teacher and having a class were virtually synonymous. Conversely, not having a class had made me, as a young teacher, feel incomplete. I was qualified but not yet truly in the job.

  ‘Here you are, Mr Flaxton,’ said Mr Brand after I had ascended to his sanctum. ‘Your very own class register. At least I shan’t have to tell you how to fill it in, or how to do your dinner register. You had some practice last term. You also know most of the children, which will be quite useful.’

  I looked at the large, blue, stiff covered register and opened it. Written neatly in Mr Brand’s impeccable handwriting were forty-eight names. My class. As if to confirm matters finally I closed it and looked again at the front.

  Class Four I read - and then beneath, Class Teacher - Mr N. Flaxton.

  I walked out of Mr Brand’s study to the top of the stairs. I was about to run down them when a head appeared round the door at the bottom. I didn’t recognise the face.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice with a strong Welsh accent, ‘I was told I would find the Headmaster here - is that right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Brand’s room is up here. Come on up and I’ll show you.’

  A stocky, broad shouldered figure plodded up the long flight of stairs.

  Hm,, good for exercise, these,’ he said with a grin as he reached the top.

  ‘That’s very true. Here’s Mr Brand’s room.’ I walked the few paces along the landing, knocked and opened the door again as Mr Brand called, ‘Come in.’

  ‘There’s someone enquiring for you, Mr Brand.’

  ‘Ah, you must be Mr Brown,’ he said to the newcomer.

  ‘That’s right, Sir.

  ‘Well, I can introduce you to one of the staff straight away - Mr Flaxton, this is Mr Brown, the new teacher who is joining us today.’

  ‘Of course, I’d quite forgotten. I’m very pleased to meet you. Is this your first appointment?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m a new boy. Just finished my National Service in the Army.’

  A further gleam of satisfaction was born inside me. I was no longer the newest member of staff. I was fully six weeks this man’s senior. ‘

  ‘I hope you won’t mind my saying so, but you’re obviously Welsh, yet Brown is such an English name.’

  ‘I know,’ he laughed, ‘and my Christian name’s Wilfred. My mother said she wanted to be different and married someone with an English surname though my father is as Welsh as she is. His family has been in the Valleys for generations.’

  ‘That divides the staff evenly,’ said Mr Brand. ‘Not quite a take-over by the Welsh but not far off it, eh, Mr Flaxton?’ He chuckled loudly.

  ‘Well, I must get away to my class,’ I said importantly. ‘I’ll see you later in the staffroom.’

  Minutes later I walked through the playground to where I could see two lines of chattering children facing a door which led into Class Four’s room. As I neared them I caught the insufficiently quiet warnings that were being flashed to the heads of the queues, which were out of my sight at that moment.

  ‘Shurrup, you lot - ‘ere ‘e is. It’s Mr Flaxton.’

  They fell silent as I walked between the rows. At the door I turned, and looked at their faces. They were quiet, respectful, and expectant. It looked as though they were pleased to have me as their teacher. What they couldn’t possibly know was how delighted I was to have them. My own class at last. What would we make of each other?

  In loco parentis the law said. Since that first day with my own class I have remained aware that what is fundamental in education is the relationship between pupil and teacher. It always was and always will be. To be an effective teacher the relationship has to be right and that relationship has to be an extension of the parental role.

  I used to find it amazing to hear some teachers complaining about children in school. Of course they are mischievous, unpredictable, lovable, naughty, angry, jealous, hardworking, lazy, good humoured bundles of energy just like the vast majority of parents’ children because they are the same beings. That’s obvious. So if you choose to teach that’s what you’re going to spend your working life with - and if you’re going to be a parent, as the great majority of us are, that’s what you’re going to spend eighteen years or so with. Teachers, parents, many of us are both. That day, as I faced Class Four for the first time, I knew what had attracted me to teaching. In loco parentis to forty-eight of them.

  Since then I have taught them, organised them, helped them at sport and in their work; I have cycled with them, climbed mountains with them, camped with them and lived with them. I have seen them succeed, I have seen them fail, I have seen them in tragedy and I have attended their funerals. I have acted with them, I have swum with them, been abroad with them, appeared in court for them. I have grown older with them and they have brought their children to me. Some could easily have brought their grandchildren to me but by moving around the country I’ve dodged that eventuality. Above all, I have been happy with them.

  I called the register, collected the dinner money and took them into assembly. There Mr Brand welcomed everyone back and introduced Mr Brown. Then the lines of children trooped out with their teachers and Class Four and I took our turn to do the same. We entered the room, they sat down and I closed the door. I, picked up the time table, though I knew what it said for this period. Arithmetic. I put it down.

  ‘Let’s forget Arithmetic...’ I said. Every eye in the room looked at me. ‘Well, for a few minutes, at least,’ I continued with a twi
nkle. The eyes twinkled back. ‘You all know me from last term, when I used to teach you occasionally when you were in Miss Rockliffe’s and Miss Browning’s classes. Well, now you’re in my class - Class Four.’ I looked around. ‘Now, you were good in your last classes, of course, but I want Class Four to be the best in the School. It’s going to be - ISN’T IT?’ I socked it to them.

  ‘Yesmizzaflaxon,’ they mumbled, just audibly.

  I threw my head to the ceiling and spun round on the spot in a show of mock annoyance.

  ‘I’ll try again - THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST CLASS IN THE SCHOOL, ISN’T IT?;

  This time they roared, ‘YES, MR FLAXTON.’

  ‘Great, that’s better. That’s the spirit I want. I want us to do the best work, have the best teams, the best classroom room display work...yes, Jean, what do you want?’

  ‘Please Sir, Miss Rockliffe had the best classroom displays last year. Mr Brand often said how lovely the room looked.’ Jean wasn’t going to switch her loyalty from Rocky to me that easily.

  ‘Yes,’ piped up another voice, ‘and she can draw ever so well. Her pictures are super.’

  ‘Well, we shall just have to do better,’ I continued, though inwardly worried because I was only too well aware of my complete inadequacy in artistic matters.

  ‘I know,’ I said brightly, ‘we can make models. Did you do that last year?’

  ‘No Sir,’ came the chorus with much shaking of heads.

  ‘There we are then, we can do that.’ I thought back to my efforts in Handwork for Men and where they had landed me at St Athan. I felt I might dredge up something from the experiences for a junior classroom to counter Rocky’s artistic ability.

  ‘Please Sir, Miss Rockliffe made our room look marvlous last Chrissmas.’

  ‘Oo yes, she ‘ad a super frieze all round the room, an’ we all painted Farver Chrissmassis an’ snowflakes.’

  The children struck a warning note even though it was early September.

  ‘Very well, we shall just have to think of something different,’ I said simply. ‘At least we’ve got plenty of time to prepare.’

  ‘Sir, what if Miss Rockliffe’s class does the same sort of thing as us?’ This was Lorraine B, who was quick to spot problems. I realised that she had a point. If I was encouraging an inter-class competitive spirit, it was my duty to make sure that we started well ahead.

  ‘I know - I’ll appoint you ‘Spy-in-Chief’, Lorraine. Just listen quietly and I expect you’ll find out during the term what Miss Rockliffe’s class are doing for their Christmas display.’

  There were beams all round. Obviously I had hit upon a novel idea which would produce a group spirit in the class. I soon realised that Lorraine was to be guaranteed the service of forty-seven ordinary spies. So began a lively rivalry between Rocky and me which I think was to the advantage of both our classes.

  I appointed one or two more children to various jobs - pencil sharpener, blackboard rubber cleaner. But I kept back the most important and most coveted position, that of Class Monitor.

  ‘I shall wait a few days and then make up my mind as to who is the best person for this job. I want someone who works hard and behaves very well. So if you want the job, you must just show me that you’re the best.’

  For a week all forty-eight tried hard at their varied levels to show me just how good they were. It was not long before some of them showed me other aspects of behaviour which taught me much. One boy was subject to epileptic fits and on occasions would suddenly slide sideways from his desk and sprawl in convulsions in the gangway. I soon learnt to look for his tongue and to flip it forward if he seemed in danger of swallowing it. However, the children allayed my fears.

  ‘There’s nuffin to worry about, Sir, ‘e often does it. Jus’ grab ‘is tung an’ shove a pencil between ‘is teef.’

  Vague memories of lectures with the Doc. at St. Andrew’s confirmed this procedure and it was reinforced by the other members of staff. Gradually dealing with his fits became routine. But what a difference between then and now! I didn’t even have a conversation about the boy with Mr Brand, nor his parents. He had fits, he got over them, life went on. No medical reports, no monitoring, no health visitors. Certainly no forms to complete!

  There was also a girl who frequently asked permission to wash her hands. At first I thought this was a euphemism for going to the lavatory but soon found she went to the cloakroom to do exactly what she said. I asked Miss Browning about her, since she had had the girl the previous year. But there had been nothing untoward in her behaviour in that class. The girl just smiled rather vacuously when I asked her about it and said she didn’t like handling dirty books, and that her desk was dusty. But obviously there was more to it than that.

  I asked to speak to her mother, who immediately solved the problem. I was the fly in the ointment, or rather the dirt in the classroom. I had an unwitting habit of putting my hand to my face and, apparently, to my mouth when thinking. Then, when going round the class marking books, I sometimes touched this girl or her exercise book. Immediately she felt contaminated and had to wash her hands to be cleansed.

  ‘Good lord,’ I said, genuinely amazed, ‘Does she do this with everyone?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s only you that bothers her,’ said her mother smugly. I felt like crawling away under the nearest stone.

  Then there was Penelope L. She was an active, pleasant girl with coal black hair. She also had a temper which she displayed loudly whenever annoyed or frustrated. If she felt I had admonished her unfairly she would suddenly yell, ‘I’m gonna tell me Mom,’ and race through the classroom door. From there it was two yards to a door leading into Dayton Road and she was away. I soon learned that when parents came the last person they could find was Mr Brand. He was well and truly hidden in his room on the landing at the top of the stairs through the cloakroom, but the classrooms were very conveniently placed for visitors. Shortly after Penelope’s first disappearance, she was back, with Mother.

  ‘What have you been doin’ to our Penny?’ she snapped at me across the front of the classroom. She had a full audience.

  ‘Nothing much, I assure you, Penny was talking and I told her to be quiet. Then shortly afterwards I saw her talking again, so I told her she would stay in at playtime.. She jumped up and....’

  ‘Did you tell that lad Bobby sittin’ next to her to stay in as well, eh?’

  ‘No, because....’

  ‘Well, ‘e was talking as well, wasn’t you, Bobby?’ She called directly to him across the class. Everyone turned to look at Bobby, who turned red.

  ‘Bobby, were you talking as well?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr Flaxton.’

  ‘There y’ar, see. You wanner open them eyes o’ yorn before you jump, Mr Schoolteacher.’

  With a toss of her head she was gone, banging the door to emphasize her point. Penelope walked back to her seat, looking pleased, whilst I felt acutely embarrassed. However, I did learn to open my eyes and try not to punish children, however lightly, unless I was absolutely sure I was being fair. This is extremely important to young children. But after Penelope had performed the trick a couple of times, I learned to beat her to the classroom door. Then I found she calmed down as quickly as she exploded. When I saw her mother on Parent’s Day, later in the year, I felt she was relieved at not having to rush to her daughter’s defence any more.

  One way and another the members of Class Four taught me a great deal during my probationary year. In fact, by the end of it, our interchange of teaching left me heavily in their debt.

  Chapter 28

  Within a few days Wilfred Brown was firm member of the younger branch of Mr Brand’s staff. Rocky, Taff, Wilf and I thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. We were keen to organise activities beyond the classroom for the youngsters and these they enjoyed considerably because there wasn�
�t much else to put sparkle into their lives. During that autumn term the activities centred largely around football.

  Dayton Road had an obvious connection with the game because the School was literally a stone’s throw from the Rovers’ Football Ground. The Rovers were in the First Division, now the Premiership. Even in those far off days, before the world of football had mushroomed into big business with its carefully fostered hero adulation, the youngsters in the school had their idols who played every Saturday. I well remember the newspaper headlines when one player became the first in the Country to be paid the exceptional wage of £20 per week!

  Occasionally the Rovers also played on Wednesday afternoons. On one of them I called the afternoon register in blissful ignorance.

  ‘Girls....’ I said. ‘One, two, three, four, five....’ The voices chirped away and there were only two gaps as there had been in the morning. I pushed the girls’ register to one side and flipped open the boys’. ‘Carry on, boys,’ I said. There was silence. I looked up.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘what’s the matter? Where’s...?’

  I broke off suddenly. I looked round the class to find very obviously an unusual number of boys missing. I counted quickly. There were ten empty places when there had been only one that morning.

  ‘Can anyone tell me why so many boys are late this afternoon?’ I enquired of no one in particular - and no one answered. The class seemed unusually attentive to their library books which they were supposed to read as an aid to silence whilst the register was being called. Avoid putting a question to a group - you will be answered either by silence or a babble. The VP’s voice echoed faintly from his lectures on classroom method. I selected an individual.