by Mike Kent
‘Yes, very good indeed, Mr Phillips. Gentlemen, if you will stop for a moment, Mr Phillips will demonstrate this development.’
Duggan looked aghast. ‘You mean you want me to do it again?’ he asked.
‘Of course. It is important to stop the class when somebody does a good action, so that everybody can enjoy it, and possibly learn from it. At the same time it is important not to make others feel inferior, of course.’
‘But that was strictly a one-off, Sir,’ Duggan pleaded. ‘I don’t really do encores.’
‘Nonsense, Mr Phillips.’
‘Honestly, Sir, I don’t think I…’
‘Just once more, please Mr Phillips.’
Realising objection was pointless, Duggan sent the hoop spinning again. With a carefully judged leap, he skimmed sideways through it and crashed into Rashid’s legs. Rashid’s spectacles, unable to cope with this sudden impetus, shot from his nose and flew high into the air. Two students rushed forward to catch them, collided with each other, and the spectacles dropped onto the end of a bench, splitting neatly into two parts. Rashid gave a strangulated cry, and for a moment Mr Trainer was lost for words.
‘I… um… can only apologise, Mr Rashid,’ he said at length.
‘That doesn’t help me, man,’ moaned Rashid. ‘I can’t see without them.’
‘Do you not… um… have a spare pair?’
‘Can’t afford it, man. I’m livin’ on peanuts.’
Mr Trainer picked up the two halves and looked suitably sympathetic. ‘I’ll see what can be done, Mr Rashid. I’m sure we can find some money to pay for them to be mended. Meantime, I have… ahm… a roll of masking tape in my cupboard. Perhaps I can affect a temporary repair.’
Rashid groped his way to the side of the hall and sat down unhappily. Mr Trainer looked at his watch.
‘Well gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I think this might be a suitable point to stop.’ Feeling it was the least he could do, he picked up Rashid’s hoop and bowled it expertly onto the pile in the corner.
‘There’s a lesson to be learned from every situation, of course,’ he added. ‘If children wear spectacles, they should be put in a safe place. Now then, anyone wishing to stay for some trampoline work may do so, of course. I… ahm…’
He stopped and listened. From the corner, behind the vaulting box, came a deep rumbling sound. Mr Trainer strode to the box and peered over the top.
‘Incidentally, gentlemen,’ he added, with just a trace of sarcasm in his voice, ‘you will not benefit the children, or the school, if like Mr Barton, you fall asleep behind the apparatus…’
(ii)
The library was warm and inviting as I pushed the door open and took my books to the counter. Library facilities at the college were excellent, but the preparation of work for teaching practice had meant that the books most needed were constantly in demand, and the local public library was very useful during this period of intensive planning. As usual, my books were slightly overdue, and I counted out the fine to the woman at the counter. She glanced at me frostily.
‘Other people want to use these books as well, you know,’ she said severely. ‘We have a waiting list for this one in particular.’
She pushed my coins into the fine box and they clattered to the bottom. I tried to think of a plausible excuse for keeping the books so long, but nothing remotely acceptable came to mind. The librarian squinted at me through her neat, tortoise shell spectacles.
‘Are you from the college?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘I see. Well kindly return books on time, will you? Your people do this a little too often.’
She pushed my books into the returned pile, and I walked over to the first shelves of fiction. Samantha was stacking novels into an empty section and she looked up and smiled as I approached. Once again I was struck by how attractive she was.
‘Hello. You look miserable. Been told off by Miss Ellis, have you?’
‘Afraid so. I can’t seem to get my books back on time.’
‘Nor can half the college. That’s why she gets so upset. I thought you might be in this week. The usual rush seems to be on. Where’s Duggan? Not working, surely?’
I smiled. ‘Hardly. The real panic hasn’t hit him yet. He’s gone to see some new French film that Gerry’s raving about.’
‘Oh, I thought he might still be laid up after that dreadful dance. Did he actually enjoy it?’
‘I don’t think he remembers that much about it.’
‘I’m not surprised. It was pretty grim, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be an event I’d have chosen to take a girl to. Now of course, if you really wanted a nice evening out…’
‘Is this going to be a proposition?’
‘No, I was just saying that… well, yes, it is actually. I’m asking you out. In fact, it is essential that you come out with me.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘Because.’
‘Well, I’ll have to accept, then.’
Miss Ellis glanced up from the desk and walked over to us.
‘Is this person bothering you, Samantha?’ she asked.
Samantha shook her head. ‘No, it’s all right. He was just trying to decide whether to choose a book on the theatre or a guide to local restaurants.’
‘Really. We don’t keep guides on local restaurants.’
‘No, we ought to. I was saying it would be a good idea.’
‘Well don’t keep her long, young man. She’s busy. She hasn’t got time to waste.’ Miss Ellis strode back to the counter and began checking through the reserved books.
‘So it’s a meal then?’ I said quietly.
‘Mmm. That would be lovely.’
‘Saturday?’
‘No, but Friday’s okay.’
‘Is Saturday David’s day?’
‘No. We’re visiting relations. Actually, David didn’t work out.’ I felt a surge of excitement. I could hardly believe my good fortune.
‘Any particular food?’
‘Something spicy. Do you like Indian food?’
‘Love it.’
‘That’s settled then. Now I’d better finish checking these books.’
‘Well before you do, can you find me a good western for Duggan?’
‘Going to read it to the class on teaching practice, is he? He ought to try a book of horror stories. I’m sure they’d enjoy that!’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him. Actually, I’ve decided to do a topic on the river Thames, so anything you’ve got on that would be helpful. I need some good art ideas too. And a book of short stories to read to them. Where do I look?’
‘Go upstairs to the Children’s Section. Somebody in there will help you. You should find lots of suitable books for your topic. I’ll have a look later on, too. So whereabouts is your teaching practice school?’
‘North London. Islington.’
‘Really? That should be fun! Remember to confiscate their weapons first.’
‘It’s only a primary school. The lists went up on Tuesday and one of the second years who’d been to the school last year told me he’d got on quite well. Well, fairly well, anyway.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ she said warmly. ‘I don’t suppose they’d send you anywhere awful the first time anyway. Are you going on your own?’
‘Yes. It’s only a small school. Duggan’s going with two others to a school in Greenwich. He sat up half the night trying to work out how he could maximise his travel expenses!’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Oh well, I’d better get on, or Cynthia will be over here again and she’ll ban you from the library! I’ll leave you to look around. The westerns are over there with the crime novels.’
‘Thanks. See you Saturday. I’ll pick you up about eight. Oh..
I’ll need your address. And jot your phone number down for me. Just in case.’
‘What, just in case you meet someone else by Saturday?’
I laughed. ‘No, in case I want to propose to you over the phone.’
She fetched a piece of paper from the desk and quickly scribbled a number on it. Then she smiled and turned to help an elderly lady who had forgotten her reading glasses while I went upstairs to hunt through the children’s shelves. Eventually, I found several books on the Thames, another on the story of rivers, and two books on art technique for young people. I also took a book of short stories, and a book of comic poetry written especially for children. Duggan, I decided, would have to come and fetch his own western. As I came back to the entrance, Miss Ellis looked at me in astonishment.
‘You can’t possibly have all those books,’ she said sharply. ‘Who let you have all those?’
‘They’re for my teaching practice.’
‘I don’t care what they’re for, young man. You simply can’t have them. How many have you got?’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven? Good heavens, you can take three but you certainly can’t take seven. Choose three and take the rest back straight away.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Samantha as I explained the problem. ‘Put them in your bag. Just as long as you bring them back. Anyway, I shall keep a close check on you myself.’
I smiled pleasantly at Miss Ellis and placed three books in front of her for stamping.
‘That’s better. And I’d appreciate it if you brought them back on time.’
I carefully edged my way through the revolving door and out into the sunlight. I suddenly felt a great sense of elation. The planning for my teaching practice was going well. I was up to date with all my college work. Spring was on its way.
And on Saturday I was taking Samantha out.
APRIL
THE SECRET AGENT ARRIVES FOR TEACHING PRACTICE
The bus lurched to a halt at the traffic lights and I took stock of the situation. Ten to nine. Although I’d risen at seven and left myself plenty of time, I would never reach the school by nine. I prayed the school day didn’t actually start until nine fifteen.
Most of the first year students had been up earlier than usual that morning, scratching round in drawers for extra file paper, hurriedly making last minute notes, borrowing books from each other and gulping down a hurried breakfast in the dining room. Few words were exchanged. Each person was too busy wondering if anything of vital importance had been forgotten. I had left Duggan hunting for a book of poetry he had put down somewhere in his room. Gerry had gone out almost as dawn broke, his pipe thrust between his teeth and a determined look on his face. Dudley had still been snoring next door as I’d left the corridor.
By the time I’d reached the underground, the trains were packed to capacity. Although there were only seven stops to the station I wanted, the train had broken down in the tunnel and after a delay of forty minutes, it had eventually crawled to the next platform. Tempers, already frayed by the pressure of tightly packed bodies, had begun to unravel in earnest, and I had left the stifling atmosphere of the tube and caught a bus instead. This, too, slowed to a crawl, and I now sat wondering whether if it would be better to walk the last part of the journey. After a moment’s deliberation, I jumped off just before the lights changed.
Dodging between the people on the crowded pavements slowed me down again. Market stalls were being erected at the sides of the road and traders with tough, weather-beaten features were laying out vegetables, clothes, fruit, cheap crockery and jewellery. They exchanged few words; they had organised their stalls in the same manner for many years and there wasn’t much to say. Men and women who had a little time to spare stopped by the stalls to pick up and examine items that had caught their eye. A number of children walked along the road to school, hurrying to keep up with their mothers who were pushing prams or clutching very young children in their arms.
The buildings in the main road seemed to span many decades. A tiny shoe-mender’s shop, a watch maker and a few small newsagents appeared to be surviving alongside the encroaching, cut-price superstores. Outside almost every store, cardboard boxes filled with rubbish were piled high, awaiting the dustcart that would crush and dispose of them. From a tiny, gaudily painted transport cafe came the sound of a radio playing loudly. A dozen people sat inside, scanning newspaper headlines, sipping mugs of scalding tea, or chewing on thick wedges of breakfast bread and butter. A lollipop lady halted the traffic at the zebra crossing and I followed the growing stream of children across the road, gently easing my way through the crowd of mothers and prams waiting outside the entrance to the school. At the top of the high brick wall encircling the school, an orange board clung grimly to the wire netting over the gate, its fading white letters announcing that this was Briar Road Primary School, under the care of the Inner London Education Authority, Headteacher A.J.Reed, MA. BSc. The building behind the metal fencing looked just like a prison.
I watched as a mother finished a packet of crisps and tossed the empty bag on the ground near the gate, where it joined sweet papers and lolly sticks. A morning breeze occasionally attempted to rid the school entrance of its rubbish, but only succeeded in rearranging it and moving it a little further on. The sound of whirring lathes and metal being hammered drifted over the surrounding high wall, and a woman with her hair in curlers shouted at her child from a window in a block of flats, telling him to get out of the road right this minute. She shouted again, fighting a losing battle against the rumbling lorries on their journey north. The air was thick and heavy with disturbed dust and although there was a lollypop lady on the zebra crossing, I wondered how the children managed to cross such a busy road safely each day.
The school was extremely large, ugly, and built in three storeys. Probably, I thought, not long after Queen Victoria died. It made no pretence of being welcoming, nor presumably had the architect intended it to be. It had been designed merely to contain children of various ages for a good part of the day. So this was it, I thought. The beginning of my first day as an apprentice teacher. Looking at the screaming, fighting children who rushed frantically round the playground pushing and shoving each other, I certainly didn’t feel like one. My only consolation was that I hadn’t arrived late.
A fat drop of rain splashed into my face as a small boy dashed into the playground and hurried to the steps. Pulling up the collar of my raincoat and gripping my briefcase tightly, I went forward and stopped him.
‘Yer?’ said the child, panting heavily.
‘Can you show me where the headmaster’s office is?’
‘If you want. We’ll ‘ave to ‘urry up, though, ‘cos I’m late.’
‘No you’re not,’ I said. ‘These other children are still in the playground.’
‘They’re infants,’ he grunted, surprised at my lack of knowledge. ‘You a noo teacher or somethin’?’
I bent down and spoke in a confidential whisper. ‘No. Actually, I’m a secret agent. I have reason to believe our enemies may be using your school as a hide-out.’
The boy’s mouth dropped open, the lateness temporarily forgotten. Then he grinned broadly.
‘Get ‘orf! You ain’t no secret agent. Where’s yer ID?’
‘It’s in my wallet.’
‘Show us, then.’
‘I don’t know if I should. How do I know I can trust you?
‘Course you can. Anyway, you ain’t no secret agent. You’re a noo teacher.’
‘That’s what I’m supposed to look like. It’s a disguise.’
‘That ain’t no disguise. Where are they s’posed to be ‘idin’, then?’
‘In the boiler room. That’s where they hid their plans.’
‘What plans?’
‘The plans to kidnap your headteacher.’
‘Well good luck to ‘em then. We ain
’t got no boiler room, anyway. You’re a noo teacher. You ain’t no secret agent.’
The boy hurried ahead, and I followed him up the three flights of stone stairs that led to the top corridor. To my surprise, the inside of the building bore no relation to its dull exterior. The walls on each side of the staircase, painted in white above brown glazed tiles, had been filled with children’s drawing and paintings. A beautifully made frieze of the Crimean War filled the entire space above the top flight of stairs, and a large painted portrait of Florence Nightingale had been pasted beside it, together with pieces of writing about her life. On the opposite wall, an Australian scene filled with animals and birds had been mounted. Further down the staircase, three dimensional prehistoric creatures made from corrugated card had been carefully positioned to create the maximum effect.
Reaching the top at last, the child, almost out of breath, narrowly avoided colliding with an extremely tall man whose head was thickly covered by a mass of closely cropped silver hair. He stood motionless on the last stair, his sunken grey eyes heightening the sour look on his face.
‘Late again, Bristow!’ he boomed, with a ferocity that made me jump. ‘The third time in the last fortnight, isn’t it? Kindly tell your mother to wake you up an hour earlier.’
The child looked up nervously.
‘She can’t, Sir’, he faltered. ‘She ‘as to go ter work early.’
‘So do lots of other mothers. So do I. That’s no excuse.’ The cold grey eyes turned to me.
‘Excuse me,’ I said cautiously, taken aback by this disagreeable start to the morning for Bristow. ‘I’m looking for Mr Reed.’
‘I am Mr Reed. Did you wish to see me?’
‘I showed ‘im up the stairs, Sir,’ said Bristow brightly, as if this might compensate for being late. ‘‘E reckons ‘e’s a secret agent, Sir.’
‘I beg your pardon, Bristow?’
‘This bloke, Sir. ‘E reckons ‘e’s a secret agent. ‘E’s looking for the boiler room, Sir. I told ‘im we ain’t got one.’