Nine Till Three and Summers Free

by Mike Kent

  ‘What I’ve got on, I suppose. I mean, it’s not exactly a formal thing, is it? They only have those at Christmas. It’s one of these come as you are things. I think I’m going as I am. Do you think it’ll be cold down there?’

  ‘Not if there are plenty of people in the hall and the heating is working properly.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it was.’ He pushed the window open and peered outside. A trickle of music seeped in on the night air.

  ‘Well, it’s all pretty feeble at present,’ he said. ‘Shall we go for a quick jar first? If we spend half an hour or so in the pub there should be a reasonable crowd down there by the time we get back. And it’s bound to be warmer in the pub.’

  The saloon bar of the Barley Mow was crowded with students and public when we arrived, and the air was thick with chatter and tobacco smoke. A group of women in their fifties were celebrating Saturday night with a jubilant chorus of ‘The Lambeth Walk’, accompanied by a short, bearded pianist whose legs seemed to have difficulty in reaching the pedals. The darts board, not often in use during the week, was now the centre of a fierce argument between students and locals, each staking claim to use of the board. Eventually, one of the men, smaller than the others, threw a dart forcibly into the floor and sat down with the women in the corner, glowering fiercely. They took no notice of him at all.

  ‘Mine’s a scotch,’ said Duggan, looking around in vain for empty seats. ‘A double, if you can afford it. And a ham roll with lime pickle if they’ve got it, and French mustard if they haven’t. Bloody hell, the tables are full again. We’d better park ourselves by the window sill.’ I elbowed my way to the bar, and patiently waited until the barmaid was able to serve me.

  ‘Two halves of bitter and two packets of cheese and onion crisps, please love.’

  ‘Only plain crisps, dear. The firm’s on strike.’

  ‘Not even cheese and onion?’

  ‘No love. Plain, plain or plain.’

  ‘I’ll have plain, then.’

  ‘Bitter again?’ Duggan grumbled as I put the glasses in front of him. ‘Really, it’s time our grants were doubled. How are we supposed to maintain our social standing on the money we get? The woman in the post office thinks I’m drawing my old age pension each week. And look at this. Not even cheese and onion crisps. Oh well, at least I won’t be breathing onion all over whichever lucky young female is destined to receive my attentions this very evening.’

  ‘Providing any women actually attend the dance. It’s February. And it’s bloody cold.’

  ‘Oh come on Mike, they’ll be arriving in coachloads. They always do. Don’t spoil my Saturday evening before it’s started.’

  He broke open a packet of crisps and carefully selected a large one. A group of students from a Chelsea college came noisily into the bar and fed money into the cigarette machine.

  ‘Now then,’ said Duggan, ‘I shall raise this glass to my lips and pretend it’s Chivas Regal. We drink a lot of that in Solihull. At least, our fathers do. And we try to pinch a bit of it now and then. Cheers.’

  ‘Well, pretending’s good for you. In educational circles they call it creative role play.’

  ‘Do they indeed? Obviously I still haven’t read the right books. I tell you what though. When I was a kid I had a really miserable teacher in my final year at primary school. At Christmas, she told the class to bring stuff for the end of term party. Cakes, and so on. Anyway, some of the boys, including me, forgot to bring anything to drink…’

  ‘So she got out a bottle of Chivas Regal and shared it with them?’

  Duggan grinned. ‘Surprisingly, no. She asked the ones who’d brought some lemonade to share it with their friends. This meant that some of us still didn’t get any lemonade, so she poured some water into the empty glasses and told the poor sods who hadn’t got any lemonade to sip it and pretend it was fizzy.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, amazing, isn’t it? I mean, there are a few dotty teachers about, but I reckon that takes an award. I wouldn’t mind betting there are still a few like her knocking around, too. And probably, some of them are actually in charge of the schools.’

  ‘Well, we’ll soon know. It’s not that long before we go out on teaching practice.’

  An elderly couple on a table very close to us stood up and left. Several people standing made a move forward, but Duggan swiftly commandeered their chairs and motioned me to join him.

  ‘Going out on teaching practice is all very well,’ he continued, clearing a space for his glass, ‘But we haven’t actually learned much about practical teaching so far, have we? I mean, it’s all very well ­filling us up with subjects we’ve already done at school, but I can’t see that helping us much when we stand in front of a class wondering how the hell to get them down from the top of the cupboards. Having lectures about the educational welfare service and what happens at detention centres doesn’t exactly help us much, does it?’

  ‘But you can’t really teach someone how to teach, can you?’

  ‘No, but you can give ‘em a few tips on how not to. I don’t think some of our lecturers have been inside a school since they left school themselves. Look, we’re on the primary course, for heaven’s sake, and we’ve got lecturers like Dr Frost who virtually denies that small children exist. When do you think he last stepped inside a primary school classroom?’

  ‘When he last supervised students on a teaching practice, I suppose.’

  ‘If he ever did. I wouldn’t mind betting he leaves that bit to Doris Bottle. Mind you, imagine getting Dr Frost as your tutor on teaching practice. He’d be interrupting every bloody second. And the college has to rely on what the tutors say. I mean, it’s no good me saying, ‘Well Dr Frost, I know the lesson you’ve just seen was a piece of rubbish, but I did a really good one yesterday when you weren’t here to see it’, is it?’

  ‘Perhaps he’d be different in a classroom,’ I said, rather unconvincingly.

  ‘I bet he wouldn’t. He’d end up taking the class himself. You’d think he’d make at least some attempt to keep us up to date with modern teaching techniques. But hardly any of the tutors seem to, do they? I bet they churn out the same old lectures year after year. Seems a nice easy number to me. If you can’t teach, lecture about teaching instead.’

  ‘That’s probably a bit unfair. It’s their job to raise our academic standards as well. Presumably we’ll learn the practical aspects of the job when we actually go out and do it.’

  ‘Then let’s hope we get landed in good schools with good classes and capable teachers. Even that’s a gamble, though. Some of the schools round here must be terrible.’

  ‘Probably so, but the college is bound to be a bit selective. I don’t imagine we’ll have to do that much at our first schools anyway. It’s only a four week teaching practice. It’ll just about give us time to find out what works and what doesn’t.’

  ‘Oh God, let’s have another drink.’

  The bar was warm and comfortable, and another hour passed before we walked back up the road to the college. The dance had been in progress for some time and a few people were coming out already, their arms wrapped tightly round the waists of girls they were hoping to entice back to their rooms for a nightcap. At the door, Dai Early took our tickets and looked at us in surprise.

  ‘You’re late, aren’t you boyos? Missed much of it, you ‘ave.’

  ‘We hope we’ve missed the boring bit,’ said Duggan. ‘We like to give these things a bit of time to warm up before gracing them with our presence.’

  ‘Do you now. Well, I couldn’t exactly say things were jivin’ an’ jumpin’ just yet, boy. But give it time. Just give it time.’

  ‘Who’s playing, then?’

  ‘Aw, lovely band, boy. Tony and his Tijuana Six. Bloody magic, man. You’ll love it.’

  ‘Tony and his Tijuana Six, eh?’ asked
Duggan seriously. ‘Haven’t heard of them before. With a name like that, they must be good.’

  ‘Bloody magic, boy.’

  Duggan leant forward, put his arm round Dai’s shoulder, and spoke softly in his ear.

  ‘Now come on Dai. Couldn’t you get another band?’

  ‘Okay, boyo, they’re crap,’ Dai admitted. ‘But they’re cheap crap. The only alternative we could afford is me singin’. Now, unless you want a chorus of ‘Men Of Harlech’ you might as well go in.’

  Inside the gym, all the lights had been dimmed and for a moment it was difficult to see the handful of shadowy figures moving around in the centre of the hall. It didn’t look very encouraging. Winter bitten students and their girl friends were hugging the radiators, their faces waxen and distorted in the dull coloured glow from the painted lightbulbs.

  Groups of people sat round the tables at the sides of the hall, trying desperately to pretend they were enjoying themselves. Each table had been provided with a tablecloth and two candles in painted saucers. Though it was all intended to be purely decorative, the candles were being used as a welcome source of warmth. Seven couples had summoned up the energy to dance, but their movements were half-hearted, as if they were going through the motions simply to keep warm. On the stage, red-shirted Tony and his Tijuana Six were playing with their usual gusto, attempting like failed Pied Pipers to lure couples out of their shadowy corners and onto the floor to dance. As the sound bounced off the walls, the group’s lack of musical finesse was counterbalanced by the sheer volume of their delivery. Duggan grimaced, and covered his ears. We headed towards the bar in the small adjoining room, but it was almost as noisy in there.

  ‘Two pints of bitter, mate,’ Duggan shouted at the student serving behind the bar.

  ‘Ten pints of bitter?’ the student shouted back. ‘Got a lot of friends, have you?’

  ‘I said two pints. Mind you, at this rate we’ll need ten pints to take our minds off the music. Where is everybody? There’s usually loads more than this.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Where is everybody?’ Duggan yelled.

  The barman put his mouth nearer to Duggan’s ears. ‘A lot have gone to a barn dance at St Matthew’s, but it’s been cancelled and they’re on their way back. The hockey club hasn’t arrived yet. They usually liven it up. Don’t worry mate. Give it time.’

  ‘That’s what Dai Early said. I’m just wondering how much time I’ve got to give it.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.’

  Disappointed, we carried our pints to the nearest unoccupied table in the hall. Even the beer seemed determined to freeze as quickly as possible. Duggan ran his finger slowly round the rim of the glass, tracing an icy pattern in the mist that had formed.

  ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘There’s not much action here. I should have brought Stephanie down after all. She may not be Ginger Rogers but she could certainly show that lot a few moves. If things go on like this, you could end up being my dancing partner, Mike.’

  ‘Well I tell you one thing. You won’t get me back to your room afterwards.’

  For several minutes, we sat and watched as a few more couples trickled into the hall, their faces startled by the sound level. The band suddenly stopped abruptly in the middle of the piece they were playing and lowered their instruments, making the unexpected silence seem strangely unnatural. Tony wandered among his group, and in a very loud voice demanded to know who had nicked page three of his music. All around the hall, people lowered their voices, suddenly aware of just how loud they had been shouting.

  ‘God, I’ve been to better sixth form dances,’ Duggan said. ‘We had one just like this. Nobody went near anybody until the last ten minutes. The beer was better too. I think they’ve brewed this stuff themselves.’

  The social events secretary suddenly appeared at our table and filled his tray with empty glasses and bottles.

  ‘So when does the truckload of nubiles arrive, mate?’ asked Duggan eagerly.

  ‘What’s the matter with the ones we’ve got?’ he objected. ‘There must be at least a dozen unattached females sitting out there in the darkness.’

  ‘Well why are they still unattached, then? This thing’s been on for nearly two hours.’

  ‘We’ve been saving the best ones just for you,’ he replied generously. ‘So why don’t you get out there and dance?’

  ‘Because we’ve only just got here,’ I said.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Get up and show a bit of willing. We spend hours planning these things, booking top class bands…’

  ‘Like Tony and his Tijuana Six?’

  ‘They’re great, aren’t they.’

  ‘They’re crap.’

  ‘Okay, they’re crap. But they’re cheap. And you won’t notice how bad they are if you get up and shuffle around a bit. I’d dance with you myself but I don’t think I’ve got your name on my card.’

  He wiped the plastic tablecloth with a damp rag, emptied the ashtray and left some fresh beer mats on the table.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ said Duggan. ‘We might as well get up and have a go. If we don’t get up now I shall end up being too inebriated to move my legs. And if we’re going to spend the rest of the night drinking we’d be better off doing it down the road. It’s warmer in there.’

  The band had started again after a shaky three chord introduction from the guitarist, and was now attempting what seemed to be a Tijuana waltz. Though more people continually came through the door, they still seemed reluctant to dance. And then suddenly, there seemed to be a disturbance around the entrance.

  ‘Well now,’ breathed Duggan. ‘What’s this then? Either the hockey club has returned, or a fight’s broken out. Or both.’

  We peered through the darkness trying to identify the group by the door. There was a sudden crash, as the figure at the front of the group fell over one of the smaller stage blocks, followed by a cackle of unsympathetic laughter. A shadowy figure pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, and looked cautiously around for other stray obstacles. He was dressed in a long purple football jersey, muddy shorts that hung down over his knees, a jacket that didn’t fit, and a pair of football boots. He carried a banjo in one hand, and a bottle of ale in the other.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Duggan. ‘It’s that bloke who lives next to you. The one we never see in the daytime.’

  ‘It can’t be. He’s…’

  ‘It bloody is. What’s his name?’

  ‘Dudley.’

  ‘That’s it. Dudley. It’s definitely him. I recognise the banjo.’

  The figure began to wave the bottle of ale at the band, and for a moment it wasn’t clear whether he intended to conduct the next number, offer them musical support, or just provide them with refreshment. Tony, not understanding either, drew the musicians to a slurred halt and looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. The figure hauled himself onto the stage, and lifted the banjo after him with loving care. Through the balaclava helmet he wore, it was just possible to identify Dudley’s beard and spectacles. Fascinated, everybody in the hall stopped to listen as Dudley held up his hands for silence.

  ‘Now look here, you sods. We, that is the social committee and myself, have gone to quite extraordinary lengths to organise this function, and I am sure… er… what?’

  He stopped, swayed slightly, and stooped forward, hanging dangerously near the edge of the tiny stage while somebody whispered something to him. He nodded and lurched back into an upright position. ‘Right. Now, as I was saying, they, that is, the social committee and myself, have requested that I should.’

  ‘Nobly spoken!’ shouted a voice from the middle of the hall, and three people applauded enthusiastically.

  ‘There’s more,’ Dudley thundered, shaking a finger in the air and trying to focus more accurately on the micropho
ne. ‘They, that is, the social committee, have suggested I should get up here and… er… get up here and sort of…’

  ‘Get things moving,’ hissed his friend from the side of the stage.

  ‘Exactly. Get things moving.’ said Dudley. ‘So… er… get moving and dance, you sods. And if you can’t dance, drink. The beer profits are down.’ He turned to the drummer and carefully handed him the bottle of Coke. The drummer handled it suspiciously, as if it might suddenly turn into a Molotov cocktail.

  ‘Furthermore, hereunto and thereafter,’ Dudley continued, ‘We are obliged to shut this hall at the stroke of midnight, after which anyone remaining here will turn into a glass slipper. If a few more of you could.. er…shake about a bit with the admirable talent sitting around the edges of the hall, then the social committee and I would see our way clear to taking it as a great personal favour. Indeed. I thank you. I thank the social committee too, who have… er… generously laced this bottle with rum to assist me with this speech. I should inform you that I am now as pissed as a pirate.’

  He staggered slightly and clutched at the microphone. Unfortunately, the stand had not been screwed to the floor, and Dudley, complete with microphone, keeled over in harmony. There was a round of rapturous applause, as he climbed to his feet and was supported in the small of the back by one of the drummer’s sticks.

  ‘One more thing,’ he said, tapping the microphone to check its condition after the fall and setting up a howl of feedback, ‘the least you can do is celerate… er… celebrate our glorious win this afternoon against… um…’

  ‘St Agnes!’ roared an appreciative hockey team.

  ‘Indeed. St Agnes, bless her heart.’ agreed Dudley, picking up his banjo and playing a loud chord on it. ‘They played brilliantly, but we were more brilliantly… um… than they are. Or were. Thank you. It gives me great pleasure. And talking of great pleasure, any ladies who fancy a quick fiddle with my instrument, please form an orderly line in front of the stage. Thank you again.’

  The band, feeling that this might be an opportunity to seize, quickly burst into a twelve bar blues. Instead of leaving the stage, Dudley began to remove his clothes, hurling his shirt, braces, boots and trousers into the middle of the dance floor, gyrating and gesticulating like a fading stripper. Then, having removed all but his shorts, he lumbered from the platform to thunderous applause and walked in a fairly straight line across the hall to where somebody was holding a change of clothing.