Nine Till Three and Summers Free

by Mike Kent

  ‘He won’t believe it.’

  Duggan thought about it carefully.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he will. And if I just don’t go, he’ll be up to find out why I wasn’t there. Why can’t he just talk to us instead of making us all become seven year olds for an hour?’

  ‘The other day you were grumbling that half the lecturers don’t tell us how to teach,’ I said. ‘At least he’s doing that.’

  ‘I know. I realise that. I suppose I’ll realise it even more when we get on teaching practice, but it’s just the thought of leaping up and down like that on a Monday morning. Nobody civilised does that sort of thing on a Monday morning.’

  Duggan was wearing the top half of a bright blue college tracksuit while I wore the trousers. By purchasing just one suit at the beginning of term, and wearing alternate halves each week, we had managed to convince Mr Trainer that we both had the full kit. Also, and more important as far as we were concerned, it had saved us several precious pounds.

  We entered the hall by the back door, already a few minutes late. The hall was in constant use as a gymnasium, play rehearsal studio, indoor games area and scenery painting workshop, and it was usually in a disorderly state on Monday mornings. Some of the students were shifting props and artefacts to make enough room on the floor, and those intent on wasting a little time had discovered they could craftily shift artefacts and scenery to and fro several times. Mr Trainer beamed as we entered.

  ‘Ah, Mr Kent and Mr Phillips. Come in quickly, gentlemen. We’ve only just started. Perhaps you would be kind enough to help Mr Whiting move that… um… railway thing.’

  He pointed to a large piece of hardboard nailed to a framework leaning against the wallbars. Students from the drama group had painted part of a railway station buffet on it for their forthcoming Noel Coward production, and it wasn’t until I gripped the top half that I realised it was thick with wet paint.

  ‘I should… um… be a little careful with it, gentlemen,’ Mr Trainer advised, watching as I searched for a piece of cloth. ‘I’m not sure if it is…um… finished or whether it has only just been started.’

  We pushed the board into a corner and joined the rest of our group. Only Dudley was missing, but this wasn’t surprising as there had been an altercation with Mr Trainer earlier on in the term about the necessity of buying a tracksuit just to run about in for one period a week. To reinforce his view, Dudley had arrived the following week in pyjamas and a dressing gown, saying he thought they would serve just as well. He had also complained about being placed in a group for primary school trainees, and Mr Trainer had patiently explained that a number of secondary students had to be allocated to primary groups simply to even out the numbers.

  All this had come to the attention of Dr Bradley, who said that if Dudley wasn’t prepared to attend the mandatory lectures, he could hardly be recommended as having completed the course. Dudley had pointed out that since he intended to specialise in teaching mathematics and botany to secondary school children, there didn’t seem much point in learning how to shin up a rope. We presumed, from Dudley’s continued absence, that no truce had yet been reached.

  The students in our group were clearly defined personalities. In one corner, around the basket ball post, the secondary students were hurling a ball to each other in a manner that would have maimed anyone unfortunate enough to get in the way of it. All were impatient to begin the morning’s work. In the centre of the hall stood Ian Billings, a brilliant history student who smoked five pipefuls of tobacco a day and was already a considerable authority on Tudor furniture. His interests were varied and wide, but PE wasn’t among them. He was talking earnestly to David Barton, who occupied the room next to his and was beginning to annoy him with his fondness for leaving bits of motor cycle all over the corridor. Desperate for a second hand fuel tank he couldn’t afford, Barton had spent the weekend asking the occupants of his corridor if they’d each lend him a small amount of money until next term’s grant came through. Everybody had agreed not to ask for any money back, provided Barton agreed to have all his hair shaved off. He’d bought his fuel tank, and was now completely bald.

  Another group of students sat patiently against the wallbars, waiting for the lecture to start. Two of them were frantically copying up lecture notes that should have been handed in several days previously. On top of the vaulting box, Ahmed Rashid sat scribbling musical notation on a tiny notepad. He was a talented guitarist, and in the process of forming a college group. Unfortunately, he was also short sighted, and had become disillusioned with Mr Trainer’s lessons after breaking his spectacles twice. The second occasion had been particularly poignant, as he’d put them underneath a bench for safety and trodden on them two minutes later. Somebody had cruelly suggested he write a song about it.

  The rest of the group stood or sat around the hall, tossing bean bags to each other, performing handstands against the wall, or just looking at the clock. They, too, were anxious for the lesson to begin, if only because time would pass more quickly that way. Mr Trainer finished marking the attendance register he meticulously kept, and turned to face the group.

  ‘Now then, gentlemen,’ he said softly, placing his hands on his hips and flexing his muscles, ‘If you would be good enough to gather round, I’ll outline the work for this morning.’ Everybody moved forward and squatted around him on the floor. As usual, he was thoroughly prepared. One or two students picked up their notepads, but he smiled them away and said that notes could be written up afterwards.

  ‘In the past few weeks, I have dealt mainly with the simple agilities that can be taught practically anywhere. By that, I mean in schools which have limited amounts of apparatus or space. Most of the primary schools we use for teaching practice purposes aren’t lucky enough to have their own gymnasiums, and it’s important you make good use of whatever facilities you do find.’ He spoke lightly, but precisely, choosing his words carefully. His crystal-sharp eyes darted across the row of faces in front of him.

  ‘In most local schools, you’ll find the Southampton Cave apparatus fitted, though often in the school hall where the children have their lunch. The Southampton Cave apparatus is excellent if it is used properly, but not if you are the sort of teacher who tells the children just to get it out and get on it.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Barton.

  ‘What is what, Mr Barton?’

  ‘The Southampton Cave Apparatus?’

  ‘Ah. Well, I feel I have mentioned it several times before. Perhaps you were not with us on those occasions. The apparatus is permanently fixed to the wall, but it can be swung out and set up when you’ve completed the warm-up phase. Does that answer your question, Mr Barton?’

  ‘But what is it?’ Barton asked again.

  ‘Do you mean what does it actually consist of?’

  ‘Yes. What is it?’

  ‘Well, ah, it actually consists of a two-section set of wallbars, across which you can fix benches, balance beams and… um… hasn’t your hair been removed since the last time we met, Mr Barton?’

  Barton grinned. ‘I’ve had it shortened, Sir.’

  ‘I see. I should.. um.. consider changing your hairdresser if I were you, Mr Barton.’

  ‘It makes it easier to wash, though. And I shouldn’t think I’ll catch head lice on teaching practice.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway gentlemen, as I was saying, daily physical education is vitally important for all young children. It gives them independence, agility, fitness, and an awareness of their own bodies.’

  He pushed his hands into his tracksuit pockets, thought for a moment, and leaned forward almost confidentially.

  ‘I trust, gentlemen, you will not follow the example of a teacher I saw last year while I was supervising a student on TP. This teacher stood inside the classroom on cold mornings, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and sent the children out to run around the playground while he shouted i
nstructions from the open window.’ Several students laughed heartily.

  ‘Oh, it’s quite true, gentlemen, I assure you,’ Mr Trainer said, freezing the laughter instantly. ‘Many teachers still avoid doing this subject in primary schools. At secondary level, of course, you don’t do it unless you are a specialist.’

  He took his hands from his pockets and walked to the wallbars on the other side of the hall, gripping them for a moment as if testing either their strength, or his own. The group shuffled through ninety degrees to face him again. In order to be sure of undivided attention he frequently changed position, ensuring that the group turned as well. Mr Trainer was a man who rarely stood still, and it seemed to worry him when others did. He picked up his notes again.

  ‘Very well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘Let’s waste no more time.’ Several students looked distinctly disappointed.

  ‘This morning we shall begin in the usual manner. I’ll demonstrate some warming-up activities that use parts of the body to some… ahm… purpose, and then we’ll go on to some work with hoops and balls. Practically every primary school has a good stock of hoops and balls, so you might find this lesson very helpful in three week’s time.’

  The group stood up, ready for what promised to be another withering test of fitness and endurance.

  ‘Splendid!’ Mr Trainer exclaimed, almost as if he was praising our ability to stand upright. ‘Start by running round the gym, and each time you pass the basket ball ring, leap up and try to touch it. Like this.’

  He gave an Olympian leap that suggested he could not only touch the ring, but also pass right through it if he felt like it.

  ‘Run at your own speed,’ he emphasised. ‘And in your own time. I think that should warm us up a little.’ Though he included himself in his remarks, he showed little need for warming up. As far as we could tell, he never strayed very far from boiling point.

  For five minutes, the hall hummed with strenuous activity. Although instructed to go at their own pace, the students knew from bitter experience that this wasn’t a viable proposition. Slowing down meant that the person behind, usually a towering six footer, hammered into you with the speed and weight of a rugby tackle, often leaving casualties groaning on the floor. After three minutes, two circles had formed; the outer reserved for the long distance runners who showed no signs of flagging, and the inner for those who’d quickly slowed to a less demanding jog. Barton, meanwhile, entered joyously into the spirit of things and pretended he was a motor bike, changing lanes recklessly. Rashid endured two fairly savage collisions before running off into a corner, holding his spectacles gingerly and inspecting his ribs for damage. Duggan, for a change, opted to stay with the outer circle but stopped after a failed attempt to touch the basket ball ring.

  ‘How the hell does he do it?’ he muttered hopelessly.

  ‘Springs, man,’ shouted Rashid above the pad of plimsolled feet, ‘He’s got springs on every foot.’

  Mr Trainer, feeling it was time to change the activity, stepped lightly into the centre of the hall and blew a whistle.

  ‘Stop now,’ he called, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as if harnessing the desire to give one fabulously agile leap to the top of the wallbars. ‘Sit down for a moment’. There was a group murmur of extreme gratitude.

  ‘Fine, gentlemen,’ he said, apparently unaware that many of his group were already on the verge of collapse. ‘Now I want to continue with some simple movements that… um… stress the need for the child to think for himself. Or herself, of course. The idea is to give out a general instruction and then let the children work out how their bodies can best tackle the task. Remember, children vary greatly in ability. Your job is to bring out the best in each. Very well then, on your feet, gentlemen, please.’

  The group stood up again, more slowly than before.

  ‘I want you to curl up into a small bundle, tuck your elbows and feet in, and travel over the floor softly, but quickly… and as lightly as you can. My theme here is movement of the body’s weight to different points…ahm… like this…’

  He sprang into a crouching position and scuttled forward at lightning speed, like a crab roughly disturbed by an inquisitive child with a stick, shifting his body weight with precision and skill. We also scuttled forward like agitated crabs, rushing around frantically and groaning with the effort of it all. Billings scuttled and muttered, vowing never to smoke again; Duggan scuttled in cautious circles, and Barton managed to scuttle into a hiding position behind the vaulting box. Mr Trainer scuttled alongside everybody else, encouraging, goading, urging. After what seemed an eternity, he stood up and blew his whistle again.

  ‘Excellent, gentlemen. Stop now, if you would.’ No second invitation was needed, and everybody sat down.

  ‘Good. Ahm, fine. Now remember, I emphasised that PE should be closely linked with other aspects of the curriculum. Especially drama, music, and movement. You could, for example, choose a theme such as… ahm… animals for your entire lesson. Or machinery, perhaps. Each child could explore the sounds and movement of machinery. There are hundreds of ideas, gentlemen. For this morning, I’ll leave it to you. Choose an animate object and use your body to demonstrate it as accurately as you can.’

  There was a pause as the group deliberated, and then bodies slowly moved into action. Duggan lay on his back pumping his arms one way, legs another. Billings stood quite still, stretched out his arms and fluttered his fingers. Rashid ran lightly round the hall, making a gurgling noise at the back of his throat.

  ‘Move gentlemen, move,’ urged Mr Trainer, ‘Explore every position, concentrate on every action. Think, gentlemen. Move, Mr Billings. You don’t seem to be moving very much. What are you?’

  ‘I’m a tree.’

  ‘A tree. Mmm. Then move those branches, Mr Billings, stretch them out towards the sun. A tree has roots. Stretch those roots, Mr Billings. Can you feel them stretching?’

  ‘I can, Sir, definitely,’ Billings replied, looking at him in pain.

  ‘Splendid. Keep it up, gentlemen, keep it up. Now change to a different object.’

  Billings suddenly hovered very close to Rashid, who was wobbling his legs and arms with spasmodic jerks.

  ‘Watch it, Rashid,’ cried Billings. ‘I’m a big swooping eagle about to land, mate.’

  Rashid turned round as swiftly as his sight would allow, and caught Billings neatly in the back of the neck with an outstretched hand, felling him instantly.

  ‘I’m a lightning flash, man,’ he replied triumphantly. ‘And you’ve just been struck.’

  ‘Well be more careful then. That hurt.’

  ‘It would do, man. I’m a million volts!’

  Mr Trainer clapped his hands sharply, motioning the group around him again.

  ‘I realise,’ be began almost apologetically, ‘That you may feel our work this morning to be a little beneath you, especially the secondary trainees amongst us. But remember, you are learning by experience, gentlemen, and after all, that is what you are asking the children to do. I am sure we all feel a little… um… fitter as well?’

  A few heads nodded. Mr Trainer glanced at his watch.

  ‘Good. We haven’t much time left, so we’ll go straight into the ball and hoop work. If you would all be kind enough to take a hoop and ball from the corner, I’ll give you an idea of the possibilities.’ Everybody walked slowly to the pile, and selected a hoop and ball. Mr Trainer also chose a hoop and stood bouncing it lightly in front of his body while he waited for his students to find an appropriate space on the floor.

  ‘It is most important, gentlemen,’ he emphasised, ‘to let the children discover for themselves what can be accomplished with a particular piece of apparatus. In this way, we encourage individual thought, self-expression and physical agility all at the same time. With the less able child you will need to offer more encouragement as he will tend to imitate his friends
, but I think you will be rather surprised at the average child’s ingenuity with a hoop.’ He proceeded to spin one round his body in a spectacular feat of gyration, using his neck, arms, trunk, and finally his ankles.

  ‘Try these first of all,’ he suggested, neatly flipping himself free. For a moment, nobody moved. There was a stunned pause, like the moment before the final triumphant chord of a mighty symphony orchestra. Duggan turned to me and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well?’ he breathed, breaking the spell, ‘what are you waiting for? Let’s see you do a variation on that little lot.’

  ‘I thought you might like to go first.’

  ‘No fear, mate. I’m a less-able child. I’ll copy you.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to do that.’

  ‘I’m telling my dad, then.’

  It seemed as if everybody was waiting for somebody else to take the lead. Mr Trainer’s eyes flashed quickly round the hall.

  ‘Do carry on, gentlemen,’ he said, not understanding the reason for the delay.

  Self-consciously and slowly the hoops were raised into action, but any variation on such a performance seemed out of the question. I gave my hoop a lame little spin around my leg, and it clattered to the floor after two half-hearted turns. Billings contented himself with bowling the hoop across the floor, and Rashid, with a whoop of childish delight, leapt in the air and let it roll between his legs. Duggan seemed to be having more success than most. Having gyrated the hoop round his neck and waist, he became more adventurous, spun the hoop in the air, and then kept it moving with his body as it came down again.

  ‘Good, good, Mr Phillips, an interesting development,’ Mr Trainer said encouragingly. ‘Now try to extend it.’

  ‘Extend what, Sir?’

  ‘The movement, Mr Phillips. Try to extend the movement even further.’ Duggan looked at him briefly and then gave the hoop a flick with his wrist that sent it spinning. Pausing before he committed an action that might land him in hospital, he dived headlong through the centre of the hoop and landed in a neat crouch position. There was a ripple of applause. Mr Trainer picked the hoop up.