by Mike Kent
‘Ah, dear, it’s Mr Kent, isn’t it?’ she asked brightly. ‘I’m so glad you’re in. Nobody else seems to be in along this corridor.’
I wasn’t surprised. The college was usually fairly deserted on Wednesday afternoons when there were very few set lectures.
‘This is Miss Trent, dear,’ Miss Bottle announced, taking a bold step inside the room and searching for a relatively uncluttered piece of floor before she edged her companion in as well. ‘She’s a lecturer, too.’
‘I’m from Fenchurch Road Teacher Training College. For female students, of course,’ Miss Trent explained briefly, recovering her composure after the initial shock, and holding out her hand. I held mine out too, and then withdrew it quickly as I noticed the purple paint on my fingers, and Miss Trent’s spotlessly white gloves. I smiled happily instead, and Miss Trent looked at me carefully, as if unsure whether it really was purple paint on my face, or a recently contracted disease.
‘My, you certainly seem to be busy,’ Miss Bottle commented diplomatically, feeling that something ought to be said about the condition of the room before moving on to discuss higher things. ‘I didn’t know you were studying art, Mr Kent. I thought science was your subject?’
‘It is. We’ve started a film appreciation society and we’re painting posters to advertise the first show.’
‘Is that what the pictures in the corridor were? How exciting. And what are you showing? I’m afraid I didn’t read the posters.’
‘The Glenn Miller Story.’
‘Oh, I don’t know that one. What’s it about?’
‘Glenn Miller. It’s his story. We’re not advertising very successfully then.’
‘Don’t worry, young man. I read them,’ said Miss Trent briskly, revealing large, perfectly white teeth behind her liberally applied lipstick. ‘I noticed because somebody hasn’t spelt Glenn correctly. There should be two ‘n’s.’
I looked out of the door at the posters. Duggan’s last four had indeed been spelt incorrectly. ‘You’re absolutely right. My friend must have been so keen to finish them he didn’t notice.’
‘Probably got caught up in a creative flow,’ said Miss Trent enthusiastically. ‘It happens with children all the time, of course. They become so involved with their writing they want to get all their ideas on paper as quickly as possible and ignore their spelling.’
‘Yes, I noticed that on teaching practice,’ I said. ‘It’s quite annoying. They forget to put in full stops, capital letters, speech marks…’
‘I hope you didn’t interfere and place too much emphasis on grammar and punctuation?’ Miss Trent interrupted. ‘That just becomes a quick way of stunting the river of creativity. We have to be jolly careful about marking children’s work too. The quickest way to put children off writing is to point out their mistakes.’
‘But surely,’ I objected, ‘children need to learn…’
Aware that a tricky dialogue might be developing, Miss Bottle quickly steered the conversation in a different direction.
‘Mr Kent did jolly well on his first teaching practice,’ she interrupted. ‘I supervised him. He brought a lot of science into the work he did.’
‘So you’re studying the sciences, are you?’ asked Miss Trent.
‘That’s right. Science and English literature were my best subjects at school.’
‘Really? That’s rather a strange combination, isn’t it?’
‘Judging from what I saw on his teaching practice, he seems to have a jolly good knowledge about all sorts of things,’ said Miss Bottle. ‘Don’t you, dear?’
Miss Trent took a decisive step into the middle of the room and leaned against the study bench near the window. It shuddered and then moved forward as she disturbed the book that was supporting one of its legs. Her hand slid from the edge of the bench and she momentarily lost her balance.
‘Dear me,’ Miss Bottle gasped, leaping to the assistance of her visitor and leaving a large footprint in the middle of one of our posters. ‘They really ought to fix your workdesk, Mr Kent. Has it been in that state for long?’
‘Quite a while,’ I said. ‘I’ve mentioned it, but nothing has been done so far.’ My face coloured slightly as I remembered Duggan accidentally banging the table against the wall when he was setting it up for table tennis during our corridor sports week. Miss Bottle put a hand gently on my shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Kent. I’ll speak to the caretaker about it and have it repaired. You must find it most frustrating.’ She jotted a few words in the tiny notebook she always carried around in her handbag, and then turned back towards her visitor.
‘Miss Trent is extremely interested in our education syllabus, dear,’ she continued. ‘We’ve had a fascinating chat about it. She wanted to have a look at our study-bedrooms to compare them with the sort of facilities they have at Fenchurch Road. I’m sure you don’t mind. We didn’t want to go barging into somebody’s room if they weren’t in.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ I said. ‘It’s just that we weren’t expecting anyone. Otherwise I’d have cleared up a bit.’
Miss Trent screwed her eyes up and stared at the floor, as if unable to believe that a room could be quite so untidy, even for a male college.
‘It’s quite all right,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘After all, we have called without an appointment. I quite understand you being busy. Never time to waste. My room was always like this… well, not quite like this… when I was at college. Always untidy when I was researching one thing or another.’
‘It is rather a mess, dear,’ Miss Bottle added. ‘I always thought you were such a tidy person. Your displays of work on teaching practice were so precisely arranged.’
Miss Trent gingerly took one pace nearer the window, removed a glove, and wiped a streak of dust from one of the panes with her finger.
‘What a splendid view from here,’ she murmured. ‘You can see Big Ben and.. oh…’ She stopped in mid-sentence, realising that her left foot had trodden heavily on a chocolate eclair and the cream had shot neatly inside her shoe.
‘That’s not a very sensible place to leave a cake, dear,’ Miss Bottle said, tutting sympathetically. She picked up a paintbrush and handed it to her companion, who scraped some of the eclair from her shoe, wrapped the remains in a paper handkerchief, and then deposited the distasteful little package in the overflowing waste bin. Unable to find anywhere to put the paintbrush, she replaced it carefully on the floor near the radiator, which was currently being used to dry four pairs of my underpants.
‘Really, dear,’ said Miss Bottle, ‘there are plates in the college you know.’
‘I would imagine they are probably used for mixing paint,’ Miss Trent commented grimly. ‘Just as the bookshelves seem to be used for storing it. You don’t seem to have many books, Mr Kent. Where do you keep them? Under the bed?’
‘I’ve moved them into the cupboard while we paint,’ I replied quickly, beginning to feel a little irritated.
‘And do you find two bookshelves enough? Our girls at Fenchurch Road have two, but we’re considering making it three per room.’
‘It’s probably a good idea to keep your books in the cupboard anyway,’ said Miss Bottle brightly, her loyalty to me undiminished. ‘What with all the new buildings going up outside you must find everything gets very grubby.’
‘And of course they do tend to make excellent wedges for table legs, eh, Mr Kent?’ Miss Trent added. ‘I am sure it was one use of her work on the psychology of teaching that Eleanor Snellings never considered.’
‘Frankly, I think it’s a very good use for it,’ I said irritably. ‘It’s a thoroughly annoying book.’
Miss Trent’s moved her spectacles down her nose and stared over them at me. ‘Really? I’d beg to differ. It is a very highly regarded work.’
‘Well, so it may be, but I don’t think the author has had much
experience of what teaching is really like. I mean, my classroom experience may be limited, but it seems to me you’ve got to teach children to read before they can do much else…’
‘The book doesn’t argue with that…’
‘Yes it does. It’s full of crackpot ideas, like letting children choose their own books to read and throwing reading schemes in the dustbin. Presumably they are supposed to learn to read by osmosis.’
‘Reading schemes are very limiting, Mr Kent. You have to build on the natural sense of wonder in young people. They must acquire skills, of course, but they must acquire them naturally as part of what they are doing, and not just in isolation.’
I had a vivid mental picture of my last class, and John Rouse in particular. A sense of wonder wasn’t, I thought, a phrase that one could readily apply to John Rouse.
‘Excuse me, dear,’ said Miss Bottle, ‘I think I just ought to mention…’
‘Look,’ I interrupted, ‘Children need a sense of stability and progression. They’ve got to value school, and they’ve got to value their classroom. And it seems to me they’ve got to be taught. In a lot of schools children wander round the classroom on the pretence of doing something and not really achieving anything at all. The classroom I was in on teaching practice was extremely successful because the teacher was outstanding. The children wanted to learn, and she moved them gently forward all the time…’
‘I don’t doubt it for a moment,’ Miss Trent replied, her face becoming flushed. ‘Equally, there are many teachers who are pushing small children much too hard. Do you know much about reading readiness, Mr Kent?’
‘Judging from what other students have said about their teaching practice schools, there are lots of inner city children who get half way through their junior schools without being able to read at all. And some of the teachers themselves are bewildered by half-baked theories they get from books like that one.’
‘I would suggest you keep an open mind, Mr Kent,’ Miss Trent persisted, reddening more. ‘I would have thought it essential that students at least make some attempt to embrace current thinking.’
‘I do. I’m also anxious that we don’t fail children. I think we should proceed cautiously, and make sure things work before we adopt a practice just because it happens to be fashionable. And that book, in my view, could do a great deal of damage.’
I felt suddenly amused by the absurdity of the situation. I was trying to reason with an irritating woman while standing in a tiny room amongst a clutter of paint-filled plates and colourful posters. My hair was sprayed yellow, there were streaks of purple on my face, and a chocolate éclair was leaking its contents across the floor. Miss Trent stood her ground, looking very annoyed but afraid to move unless she accidentally soiled some other part of her clothing. I assumed she was rarely challenged by her female students.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way about the book,’ she said firmly. ‘Personally I feel it has some very worthwhile thinking.’
‘Really? What makes you think that?’
‘Probably the fact that she wrote it, dear,’ Miss Bottle interrupted quickly. My mouth dropped open.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I gasped.
‘She wrote the book, dear,’ Miss Bottle repeated.
‘But the author’s name…’
‘It’s a pseudonym, dear.’
I blushed quickly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, wanting to roll myself up in one of the posters and drift gently away down the corridor. ‘Obviously I wouldn’t have been quite so…’
‘Mr Kent is actually going to be a very good teacher,’ said Miss Bottle quickly and diplomatically, feeling it essential to pour just a little oil on very troubled water. ‘As I mentioned, I supervised his last practice.’
‘And where was that, Mr Kent?’ Miss Trent asked curtly. ‘A Victorian establishment still coming to terms with the monitorial system?’
I could feel my cheeks reddening. ‘Briar Road. In Islington.’
‘Oh yes, I know it well. We use it ourselves. Mr Reed is the headteacher. Extremely good fellow. He’s developed some very interesting classrooms there. You were very lucky.’
I frowned, annoyed to hear Mr Reed being given credit for the dedicated work of the teachers I had been involved with at the school.
‘It’s all down to the staff, actually,’ I said. ‘I can’t say I was particularly impressed with Mr Reed.’
Miss Trent looked quite shocked.
‘Really? Personally I have always found him most obliging. I hardly think a few weeks in a school is enough to make a measured judgement of a headteacher’s qualities, Mr Kent.’
‘Why not? Students are assessed after a few weeks on teaching practice.’
‘The two things are totally dissimilar. A headteacher must have the skill to recognise ability in his teachers and develop them to the full. In my view, Mr Reed…’
‘We did have some trouble with the photocopier, as I recall,’ Miss Bottle interrupted gently, grasping at any available straw.
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘There’s a case in point. All I wanted to do…’
There was a crash outside the door, followed by an agonised yell. ‘Open the bloody door, Mike!’ Gerry’s voice shouted. ‘I’ve dropped the lot all over the place.’ I swung round and put my head out of the door to warn him, but it was too late.
‘Got stacks of the stuff,’ Gerry said loudly. ‘So long as no-one misses it. Look, I’ve got these tins of…’
His expression changed abruptly as he caught sight of Miss Bottle, who made an effort to talk in a very loud voice to Miss Trent about the lovely study-bedrooms the students had. Gerry made an ineffectual attempt to conceal the tins of powder paint and then his face went a violent red.
‘And this is one of your companions, is it, Mr Kent?’ asked Miss Trent.
Gerry hovered for a moment, took the pipe from between his teeth, and opened his mouth to say something. His eyes moved cautiously from one woman to the other, and then, after a brief but intense silence, he decided there wasn’t really much point in saying anything at all. He replaced his pipe and grinned with embarrassment instead.
‘Come in dear,’ said Miss Bottle cheerfully, ‘Miss Trent and I were just leaving.’
She stepped over the rubble in the corridor, helped Miss Trent to do likewise and stared straight in front of her down the corridor. ‘We’ll… er… leave you to it so that you can carry on with your… um… posters,’ she smiled. ‘Jolly good luck with your film thing. What was it you’re showing?’
‘Well, a mixture really,’ Gerry said, obviously wanting the meeting to end as pleasantly as possible. ‘We’re starting with a film about Glenn Miller, then there’ll be some Hitchcock, a couple of musicals.. and some foreign films by people like Ingmar Bergman.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve seen her in several films,’ said Miss Bottle enthusiastically. ‘Now what was that lovely one some time back, about the life of Gladys Aylward?’
‘I think you mean Ingrid Bergman,’ said Gerry politely.
‘That’s right dear. Who did you think I meant?’
‘I was talking about Ingmar Bergman. The director. The film you were talking about was ‘The Inn Of The Sixth Happiness’.’
‘Oh dear, was it?’ she said, looking puzzled and staring closely at one of the posters on the floor. ‘Anyway, jolly good luck with it.’
‘Oh God!’ Gerry groaned as soon as they had gone down the stairs. ‘Do you think she heard what I said? Miss Bottle, I mean?’
‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised,’ I said. ‘Unless they’re both extremely deaf.’
‘Oh my God. Miss Bottle is bound to tell someone I’ve taken that stuff without asking.’
‘Not necessarily. She didn’t really know what was going on. Anyway, she might think you asked for it.’
‘I’ve asked for it all right. Who w
as she anyway? The other one, I mean?’
‘It was his mother,’ said Duggan, appearing in the doorway with a freshly made pot of tea. ‘Have you got any cups there without paint in?
‘No,’ Gerry muttered. ‘Who was she?’
‘I told you. It was his mother. She came up to bring him some clean underwear. Here you are, it’s a bit weak, I’m afraid. They only had cheap teabags.’
I passed the cup to Gerry. He piled sugar in it and sat nestling the cup dejectedly in his hands.
‘It was a lecturer from another college,’ I said. ‘She was wondering if you had enough bookshelves to hold all your books.’
‘Was she? That was sweet of her. She didn’t bring any teabags, I suppose? Hey, look what she’s done to my bloody eclair!’ He inspected the remains sadly and tossed them into the bucket.
‘I couldn’t help that,’ I said. ‘You left it there.’
‘You might have told her we eat off the floor. Real cream, too. Almost cost my entire grant. I suppose you’ve eaten all yours?’ he added hopefully.
I nodded.
‘I thought so. A shame I wasn’t here, I’d have taken her along to my room and sold her a ticket. Never mind, I suppose it’s time the world knew the truth about your laundry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. Here, drink this quickly, and then let’s get on, or we’ll never be ready for premiere night.’
(iv)
Amazingly, the first meeting of the newly formed St James’s Film Society exceeded even the committee’s expectations.
As the first night approached, events and ideas quickly gathered momentum. Friends from the art department offered to paint additional publicity material, and three days before the show it was impossible to walk more than twenty yards without coming across a visual reminder that Glenn Miller, supported by Tom and Jerry, would shortly be making a celluloid visit. An older student, who had worked for a while as an electrician before deciding to become a teacher, offered his services in rigging up a set of coloured lights around the screen that would dim effectively and help create a cinema atmosphere. Gerry bought some cassettes of movie themes to pipe through the screen loudspeakers before the show and during the interval, feeling that money spent on minor details would help counter the discomfort of the hard wooden lecture seats, especially the long benches in the balcony that had survived since the last brick of the building had been cemented into place.