by Mike Kent
‘I ‘ad one a little while ago,’ said Badger. The class turned to listen, knowing that another gruesome morsel was about to be delivered. ‘Me brother took it out of the bowl to see ‘ow long it ‘ud live. It only lasted a few minutes. I…’
‘You cruel sod!’ shouted Susan Davis. ‘Ow’d you like it if someone took you out of your bowl to see ‘ow long you’d last?’
‘I don’t live in a bowl, do I!’
‘Well you ought to, mate. Then you’d see what it’s like. Shame you don’t live in a bowl, in my opinion.’
‘I ain’t int’rested in your opinion.’
‘Well tough luck, mate, ‘cos you’re gettin it.’
‘Sir,’ asked Susan Brennan, taking no notice of Badger. ‘’Ave you got any fish at home?’
‘No, but I had several when I was your age.’
‘Ow old are yer, then, Sir?’ asked Rouse with interest, gazing at my face as if he was seeing it for the first time. ‘Pretty young, I’d say. Alan reckons about forty, but I don’t reckon much over thirty five. Are yer, Sir?’
‘Well John,’ I replied, wondering how Dorothy ever managed to teach the class anything at all, ‘since it is obviously causing you both some concern, you’re both wrong. I’m nearly eighty, but keep it to yourselves. People often ask me how I manage to look so young.’
‘If you was eighty, you wouldn’t be teachin’ ‘ere’, grinned Rouse.
‘E ain’t teachin’ ‘ere, ‘e’s a stoodent,’ Adams reminded him.
A child at the back of the class yawned loudly. Julie looked up at the clock, and Dudmish opened a book.
‘Please Sir,’ he pleaded, ‘can’t we just get on?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Susan Davis, springing into the attack again. ‘Sir’s trying to teach us a lesson. ‘Ow’s ‘e goin’ to be a real teacher if you don’t let ‘im do any teachin’?’
‘E’d ‘ave an ‘ard job teachin’ you anythin’’, grinned Fred, putting a hand underneath his shirt and scratching his chest earnestly.
‘You watch it,’ she retorted. ‘I know more’n you, anyway. You can’t even spell ‘Europe’, mate!’
Fred conceded the point sheepishly, and I started to fasten my pictures to the wall with masking tape.
‘Right, that’s enough now’, I said. ‘It’s time for you to do something.’
‘We ‘ave bin doin’ somethin’, Adams objected. ‘We’ve bin answerin’ your questions.’
‘Well you haven’t answered many,’ I retorted. ‘Anyway, I don’t mean that sort of work. I mean doing something to prove to Mrs Bridgewood you haven’t been wasting time this afternoon.’
‘Can I draw a picture of a goldfish?’ asked Julie.
‘Well, you can,’ I said, ‘But I’ve got a better idea. I’m going to give out some large pieces of card and you can cut the shape of an aquarium out of it, a bit like the classroom one. Then you can decorate it with strips of blue and green tissue paper to make it look like water.’
‘Cor, that’s a good idea, Sir. Ain’t that a good idea, Sue?’ said Susan Davis admiringly.
‘Thank you Susan. I’m glad you like it. When you’ve done the background, you can cut out some of the different kinds of goldfish, colour them, and then stick them on the background. I’ve got some books here which show all the different kinds of goldfish. Have a look at them. Then you could do some pieces of writing to go with them.’
‘ I thought we’d get to that bit,’ said Rouse.
‘What bit?’
‘The writin’ bit. I thought we’d get to that. I dunno if I’ll ‘ave time for that.’
‘Can we draw our own fish?’ asked Adams, putting on a small pair of spectacles and adjusting them with infinite precision. ‘Instead of copying the ones in the books, I mean?’
‘I shouldn’t let ‘im, Sir,’ Susan Davis advised. ‘‘E can’t draw.’
‘What you talkin’ about, I can’t draw?’ Adams retorted.
‘You can’t draw. What about that cow you was drawin’ for Miss the other day. You ‘ad its legs all up one end.’
‘I never.’
‘You did. All the legs was up one end, Sir.’
‘They never was. That was the angle I was drawing it at.’
‘You can’t draw, mate, that’s your trouble.’
‘I wouldn’t like to tell you what yours is, then. I wouldn’t…’
‘I think that’s quite enough!’ I shouted angrily. ‘If you want to copy the ones in the book, do so. If you don’t, draw your own. And when you do your writing, you could also mention the things a goldfish eats.’
‘You ain’t told us that,’ Adams objected.
‘It’s ant’s eggs,’ said Susan Brennan. ‘Now you know. You should’ve known that anyway.’
‘‘E don’t know nothin’,’ said Susan Davis. ‘‘E certainly can’t draw nothin’.’
‘And mention the importance of things like cleaning the tank properly,’ I said, struggling on grimly. ‘And how snails can help keep the water clean. And anything else you want to mention.’
Fred looked up at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration. ‘If you never gave the fish any food, I wonder if they’d ‘ave a go at the snails,’ he said at length.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Susan Brennan disdainfully, looking up from her work. ‘‘Course it wouldn’t. They only eat ants’ eggs.’
‘Yeah, she’s right,’ agreed Badger generously. ‘Tell you what, though. My uncle what works in the docks knew a bloke once what got bit by one o’ them trianchula spiders. ‘E was unloadin’ these bananas, and ‘e stuck ‘is ‘and in the crate, and this trianchula ran right up ‘is arm..’
‘I think you’ve gone right off the point,’ I snapped. ‘Kindly do the work first and then tell us about it afterwards. I’ll gladly give up the whole of playtime to listen to it.’
‘Okay,’ he agreed affably.
‘Can we say about some of the diseases goldfish get?’ asked Dudmish. ‘My cousin keeps fish and he knows about them. Like white fungus, Sir?’
‘That’s an important fact,’ I said. ‘Tell us what you know.’
Since most of the class were fascinated by anything to do with the abnormal, they listened attentively while Dudmish outlined the diseases that had affected his cousin’s fish. While he was talking, I gave out materials for making the background and water effect.
‘You can do the writing afterwards, on the white paper you normally use,’ I said.
‘We ain’t got none,’ said Rouse, looking inside the paper cupboard.
‘You mean we haven’t any,’ I corrected him.
‘Yeah, I know. That’s what I just said. We ain’t got none.’
‘We used it up yesterday,’ said Susan Brennan, going over to the cupboard and looking on each shelf. ‘Miss said she was going to get another lot from Mr Reed but I think she must’ve forgotten.’
‘I’ll fetch some for yer, Sir,’ Adams offered, quickly taking off his spectacles and packing them back into the case. Adams wandering round the building for half an hour asking all the teachers if they had any spare paper didn’t seem a good idea and I decided to ask Mr Reed myself. At least it would prove I was doing something.
‘I’ll just go and fetch some,’ I said to the class. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
‘Shall I write their names on the board if they muck about?’ asked Rouse.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said. ‘I’m sure everybody can behave for two minutes.’
Leaving the class working reasonably quietly, I hurried along the corridor and knocked on Mr Reed’s door. He was sitting behind his desk finishing the last of a pile of cucumber sandwiches. As he looked up, a piece of cucumber fell limply onto his lap, and he picked it up gingerly, like a child lifting an insect and trying not to crush it between his fingers. ‘I had to go out for a while duri
ng the lunch hour,’ he grunted in explanation.
‘I need some white writing paper,’ I said. ‘We seem to have run out. I’m in the middle of a lesson and I…’
‘Really? I thought you weren’t teaching them until Thursday?’
‘I wasn’t. Mrs Bridgewood is taking Miss Ridgewell’s and…’
Mr Reed thought for a moment until everything slotted into focus. ‘Oh yes, that’s right. Can’t you make do for now? As you can see, from no fault of my own I’m in the middle of a hurried lunch, and stock day is Mondays. Mrs Walton does the stock. If she keeps running to the stock cupboard every half hour she’d never get anything else done. You’re actually taking the class at this moment, are you?’
I suddenly became very weary. The children had been tiresome, and now the headmaster seemed reluctant to give me a few pieces of paper.
‘Yes, I am,’ I said irritably. ‘And unless the children write on the walls, I don’t see what else I’m supposed to use.’
‘The children write on the walls anyway, Mr Kent,’ Mr Reed said dismissively. ‘How much paper do you want, exactly?’
The telephone on the desk rang suddenly. Mr Reed lifted the receiver and began a heated conversation with somebody in the local education office. Since the likelihood of getting any paper from Mr Reed was now becoming extremely remote, I hurried down to Brian’s classroom on the next corridor instead.
‘Hello!’ Brian greeted me cheerfully, almost as if I’d been expected. ‘Paper, paint, cardboard, balsa wood, chalk, atlases, benzedrine…’
‘Writing paper. We’ve run out.’
‘Stock day, Mr Kent, is Monday, and I shall have to inform you that I can’t…’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I groaned ‘I’ve just had all that.’
‘Sorry. Well, it’s not unusual to run out of stock. You get used to it after you’ve been here for a while. Sometimes we even have to pool our stuff to help each other out. It took Dorothy ages before she could get him to dish it out once a week, let alone when you want it. It’s bloody ridiculous. Like trying to smuggle gold out of Fort Knox.’ He asked one of his girls to fetch a packet of writing paper from the cupboard, and he tossed it across to me.
‘That should keep you going for a while,’ he said. ‘I usually wait until he’s unlocked the stock cupboard and then get one of my kids to lure him away on an urgent errand. Like telling him there’s an inspector here or something. Dorothy’s got a spare key, by the way. Come to that, so has the cleaner. You can always get stock after school, when he’s gone. He’s always the first off the premises, so you don’t have to wait for very long. Got ‘em tamed, then, have you?’
‘Not really. It’s not going very well at all.’
‘Well, don’t worry about it. It’s playtime in ten minutes. You’ll be okay. We’ve all had problems at first.’
I looked round Brian’s classroom, wondering if I’d ever reach this state of expertise. The room was almost as attractive as Dorothy’s and the children were working carefully and enthusiastically on a bewildering range of topics. I wondered how long it had taken Brian to get the room looking so attractive.
‘Don’t worry, it comes after a while,’ Brian said, noticing my expression. ‘It’s just like anything else. It takes a while to know what it’s all about. You’ll get there.’
‘From the way you talk in the staffroom, I expected it to be all chalk and talk in here,’ I said.
Brian laughed. ‘I enjoy that,’ he said. ‘It get’s ‘em all going, doesn’t it! Anyway, you’d better get going too. The kids won’t sit quietly if there’s nobody around.’
I hurried back to my classroom with the paper. Many of the children had finished pasting the tissue paper onto their backgrounds, and were cutting out fish ready to decorate, talking in very loud voices. Three children were arguing in the corner and Susan Davis ran to me as soon as I entered the room.
‘Sir,’ she said angrily, ‘Rouse ‘as got me pen, Sir.’
‘E’s bin tryin’ to kiss ‘er, Sir,’ explained Adams mildly.
‘No I weren’t.’
‘Yes you was! You was tryin’ ter kiss ‘er. We all saw yer.’
‘No you never!’
‘Where’s your work?’ I snapped at Rouse, suddenly tired of his behaviour and depressed with my ruined lesson. Rouse had done nothing since I’d left the room, and most of his paper had fallen to the floor underneath his table. A large footprint covered the drawing he had attempted and then abandoned.
‘I ain’t no good at drawin’,’ he muttered darkly.
‘That doesn’t mean you can’t at least try, does it? Where’s Susan’s pen?’
‘I dunno. I never took it. I ain’t even seen ‘er pen.’
‘‘E ‘as, Sir,’ shouted Susan. ‘Look in ‘is tray. It was a handwritin’ pen what my Nan gave me. I bet it’s in ‘is tray.’
‘No it ain’t. I never touched it. Oo’d want your pen, anyway.’
‘Let’s ‘ave a look then. You was over ‘ere.’
‘‘E was tryin ter kiss ‘er’ Adams persisted.
‘John Rouse, take your tray from under your desk and let me have a look. Right now,’ I demanded as calmly as possible. If I were a betting man, I thought, I’d lay a month’s wages on Mr Reed walking into the room right at this moment.
‘Why should I get me tray out?’ Rouse demanded aggressively. ‘I wasn’t the only one over ‘ere.’
‘You was over ‘ere most of the time,’ shouted Susan Davis angrily, ‘so let’s ‘ave a look!’
‘All right,’ I said wearily, ‘Everybody take their trays out and put them on top of the tables.’
There was a groan of annoyance as the children fetched their belongings from under the tables. Pencils and rulers clattered to the floor. There was no sign of a handwriting pen in any of the trays and I felt embarrassed and unhappy rummaging through the children’s personal property. I couldn’t prove that Rouse had taken the pen and I had no wish to accuse him wrongly. What would Mrs Bridgewater do in this situation? Should I search their pockets? Or even their shoes and socks? The possible hiding places were endless. The bell suddenly sounded for playtime.
‘Leave your work,’ I said bluntly. ‘You can finish it after play. Susan Davis and Susan Brennan, please look for the pen. Rouse, you stay here. The rest of you go outside.’
‘He took some money the other day,’ said Badger.
‘It doesn’t concern you,’ I snapped. ‘Go outside.’
‘I always get the blame for takin’ stuff,’ Rouse mumbled. ‘I was only goin’ over to see ‘ow much she’d done. I only wanted to borrow ‘er felt tips.’
‘Well, you can see what happens when you leave your own table, can’t you. Did you see Susan’s pen while you were over there?’
‘No. I dunno ‘oo’s got it. I never took it. I ain’t taken nobody’s stuff.’
Susan Brennan suddenly gave a shout and climbed from underneath her table. ‘Sir, it’s alright! I’ve found the pen. It was under here. It rolled into the corner. I’ve got it, Sir.’
Susan Davis, silenced now, went very red and turned her head in embarrassment. I rounded on her angrily.
‘I think you’d better say you’re sorry. Right this instant, young lady.’ Susan muttered an apology. Rouse stood still, hands clenched and his face white and sullen.
‘Can I go now?’ he asked gruffly. I nodded, and he walked out of the room moodily. Feeling guilty and miserable, Susan Davis followed at a discreet distance behind him. I watched them go, wondering whether I should abandon the idea of being a teacher and look for an easier option instead. Thoroughly depressed, I closed the door and climbed the narrow stairs to the staffroom.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Dorothy tactfully. ‘Anything I can do?’
I sat down heavily on a chair by the window. ‘It’s Rouse,’ I said. ‘He’s been
on top form today. But none of them have exactly been easy going. I’ve made a right balls of the lesson.’ I described the lesson, and my visit to Mr Reed.
‘And then Susan Davis accused Rouse of taking her handwriting pen.’
‘And had he taken it?’
‘No. Susan Brennan found it on the floor. The trouble is, I was angry anyway, and I was quite ready to believe he’d taken it.’
‘Well, at least you found out where it was,’ said Brian. ‘That’s pretty good, for a start.’
‘His brother was working a fiddle last month,’ said Janice. ‘Helping to sell biscuits at playtime and then stealing some of the money from our school fund tin. I trusted him. I suppose it was just too much of an opportunity. It was my own fault, and he got a good telling off. They really get to you sometimes, but you have to keep on. Then at the end of the year you realise you’ve changed them a little bit, and it feels good.’
‘Yes, come on Mike, it’s only your first lesson,’ said Brian kindly, handing me a cup of tea. ‘It gets easier all the time. They like you to prove yourself a little bit. It keeps you on your toes.’
‘Most people’s first lesson is the same,’ added Dorothy. ‘We all felt that way when we started. You’ll find John’s forgotten all about it by tomorrow. I’ll have a word with him, if you like.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I said. ‘We’re not very good friends at the moment. It was a lousy lesson anyway.’
‘Noble sentiments,’ smiled Janice. ‘Don’t let it get to you, though.’
I finished my lukewarm tea in gloomy silence.
I called to her across Cambridge Circus. She smiled in recognition and I hurried across the road, dodging a fast moving taxi determined to get its passengers to the theatre on time.
‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘Unforgiveable sin!’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ve had a really dreadful afternoon.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘I had Dorothy’s class. One of the other teachers went home ill. I thought I’d be able to teach them just like she does. I should have known.’
‘Oh dear. Were they very difficult, then?’