by Mike Kent
‘You never said that. You said…’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said quickly. ‘Anyway, you’d better follow me now.’
They walked meekly beside me, proudly carrying a bunch of flowers each. I silently prayed we didn’t meet anybody who was familiar with the college flower beds.
‘Well, how lovely,’ Samantha smiled as we entered the lecture theatre again. ‘Mike’s bought me some flowers.’
Gerry looked horrified. ‘If I recognise those,’ he said slowly, ‘we’re in for it. They haven’t come from where I think they’ve come from, have they?’
‘Possibly.’
Duggan’s mouth fell open. ‘You’re bloody joking! Dear God, that’s the last straw!’
‘What could I do? I couldn’t very well put them back, could I?’
‘Well it would be a good idea if you did. Go and stick ‘em upright in the earth. The Doc will think there’s been a frost in the night. You know what he’s like about that lawn and the beds.’
‘Look at the size of their bunches,’ groaned Gerry, hiding his head in his hands. ‘Oh God, are there any left at all?’
‘Of course there are. Some, anyway. They’re taking them back for their favourite teacher.’
‘Not Mr North, I assume?’ said Samantha. ‘Oh, what does it matter? They’re only flowers. It’s a lovely thought.’
Mr North herded the children into rough lines and looked at his watch. ‘I think I’d better try to get them back to school while they’re reasonably calm. We’ve caused you enough bother for one afternoon.’
‘You can say that again,’ Gerry muttered. ‘We’ll help you get them to the gate.’
We moved the boys towards the door. Students from the dance group were beginning to enter the lecture theatre, and I motioned to Samantha, standing in a sea of empty crisp packets, drink containers and biscuit wrappers, to explain as best she could. Carefully spacing ourselves along the column of children, we marched them at a forced pace to the main entrance, where Mr North turned and held out his hand.
‘Thanks very much,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry they were so… don’t forget to send a bill for the broken vase.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gerry, ‘we won’t.’
‘Thanks Mister,’ said one of the boys carrying the largest bunch of flowers, ‘it’s been great.’
‘That’s alright,’ I said. ‘We’ll send you a bill for the flowers. Don’t forget to put them in water.’
With an ineffectual shout to the children that they must keep on the pavement and in twos, Mr North led the group around the bend in the road and out of sight.
‘Next time we want to do a bit of social work, let’s invite a group of pensioners,’ said Duggan. ‘At least they move slowly. Anyway, we’d better help Samantha clear up, and then buy a bag of bulbs for the flower beds. All things considered, I think I’ve had enough for today.’
Later that evening, I was stopped in the corridor by Dr Bradley.
‘Ah, Mr Kent,’ he called, removing his spectacles with a flourish and polishing them briskly on his gown, ‘a word, if you please.’
I stepped inside the Principal’s room like a condemned man. Dr Bradley smiled suddenly. ‘Well, it appears you did a very good job this afternoon,’ he said brightly. ‘Miss Cavell has just been on the phone to me and she was most enthusiastic about it all. Says the boys arrived back safely and she sends you her thanks for entertaining so many this afternoon. They’re not easy children. I gather they all behaved properly?’
‘They were… um… an interesting group of boys. Yes, certainly.’
‘Good. Well, it’s all valuable experience, isn’t it? Perhaps we ought to invite them up to watch one of our drama productions sometime. Do you think they’d like that? A bit of Brecht perhaps? A smidgeon of Webster? Some Richard the Third? What do you think?’
I gulped. ‘I’m not really sure. I think they might…’
‘Might what, Mr Kent?’ Dr Bradley raised his bushy eyebrows and stared quizzically over his spectacles.
‘Actually,’ I admitted, ‘they were dreadful. It was an awful afternoon. Nothing went right. And we’ve broken a sprocket in one of Miss Pratt’s projectors. It was quite dreadful. It was one of the worst afternoons of my life.’
‘I know, Mr Kent. I know.’
I stared at him, not understanding. Dr Bradley stood up, walked across to the window, and stared out at the lawn.
‘You see, Mr Kent, I got off the bus as they happened to be getting on it. I say getting on it, but commandeering it might be a more accurate description. I recognised Colin North. I’ve seen him in action before. I also recognised some of my daffodils.’
I felt weak at the knees, and my hand gripped the back of the antique chair a foot away from me.
‘You don’t know Edith Clinton, of course,’ Dr Bradley continued. ‘She teaches at St Bernard’s and she never has the slightest problem with any of the children. Strange, isn’t it, that some people should be so able with practically any kind of child, and others be so ineffectual. Why do you think that should be, Mr Kent?’
‘I’m not sure. At least, I wasn’t sure, but I think I’m beginning to realise. I imagine Mrs Clinton is like the class teacher I worked with on teaching practice. She was very talented.’
‘It’s more than talent, though, isn’t it? I understand from Miss Bottle that you did particularly well on your own first teaching practice?’
‘I had an outstanding class teacher to work with.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. But what is it that makes a class teacher outstanding? Lots of teachers are very good, Mr Kent, but some have an indefinable quality that makes children respond to them instantly. Children are funny creatures, aren’t they? They understand adults more than we think. And they manipulate brilliantly. Now, where do you think I should put this daffodil? One of the boys handed it to me as he was getting on the bus.’
Dr Bradley smiled and picked up a slim white porcelain vase from the window sill. It contained a single flower, and my eyes stared intently at the floor in embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Kent,’ Dr Bradley said, looking at me steadily. ‘You see, I can grow plenty more daffodils. A bulb will grow again and again, producing a perfect flower each year with a little love and attention. Perhaps somebody ought to explain that to Colin North, eh? Anyway, I mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you have lots to do.’
He opened the heavy oak door gently, and patted me on the shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ I said softly.
‘My pleasure. And incidentally, don’t worry about Miss Pratt’s projector. I’ll see her myself. It will be repaired in time for your next show.’
I nodded in gratitude. Then he walked slowly and thoughtfully back into his room.
MAY
MEETING THE MAJOR AND STARVING IN DORSET
One deliciously warm morning in early May, Miss Bottle was late for her lecture.
This was a rare occurrence, for both Miss Bottle and Dr Frost were meticulously fussy about student punctuality and set an example they expected everybody else to follow. Although they often disagreed with each other about the way their particular sciences should be presented to the students, and Miss Bottle was far more aware of current trends in educational practice, their intense devotion to their subjects couldn’t be faulted. Although the failure rate in physics was a continual source of disappointment to Dr Frost, the blame certainly didn’t lie with his stringent attempts at instilling knowledge into lesser minds than his own. Miss Bottle had a similar outlook. During my first college year, I had learned that she had once taken it upon herself to visit a student intent on abandoning chemistry and opting for the arts instead. After a solid hour of earnest persuasion, Miss Bottle had managed to make him change his mind.
Both lecturers prepared their sessions down to the last detail and nothing ever seemed
to be overlooked. Their approach could have been profitably imitated by several other departments, though since they had both been lecturing for a long time, I assumed it was a skill that became honed with enough practice.
Only illness ever prevented Miss Bottle from appearing in the laboratory a good half hour before her students, and our group had assumed she was ill this particular morning. The last time this had happened, when she had caught an unusually heavy cold and gone to bed for two days, she had scribbled detailed messages on the blackboard listing alternative arrangements in order that no time should be wasted. When she had recovered enough to get back on her feet, she had returned to lecturing too quickly and promptly lost her voice. Even that hadn’t deterred her. Armed with a pad and a pencil, she had simply wandered around the laboratory issuing written instructions.
For a while, the group sat in the laboratory, looking through previous notes. After fifteen minutes had passed, David Barton suggested we might just as well return to our rooms and revise there. Then, at twenty to ten, she suddenly breezed into the room and hurried anxiously to the front bench.
‘Good morning everyone,’ she said brightly, looking round for a stool to sit on. ‘I do apologise for being so late. I’m afraid I simply overlooked the time for once. Dear me, it’s a quarter to ten.’ She pushed the stool behind the bench and cleared a space in front of her.
‘I’ve been on the phone making the final arrangements for your study week at Elderberry Hall. I think I might as well tell you something about it now, though I believe Dr Frost mentioned it briefly some time ago?’
Several heads nodded. Dr Frost had talked about the practical study course much earlier that year. Elderberry Hall had once been a minor stately home and was situated four hours away, on the border between Somerset and Dorset. It had been leased for educational purposes, and although the exterior and grounds retained their original 18th century character, the interior had been carefully converted into a specialist field study centre for biology, botany and geography. It was also quite difficult to book, since it was used throughout the year by training colleges and secondary schools from all over South England. Since practical work was an essential part of the science courses, Elderberry Hall offered a unique opportunity for supplementing theoretical work done at college.
‘Well now, let’s see,’ Miss Bottle continued, taking a neat pile of typed papers from a drawer. ‘Ah, here we are. As you probably know, you will stay at the hall for five days to study the botanical and biological life around the Dorset countryside. It’s a very beautiful place, and you’ll thoroughly enjoy this part of your studies. I’m afraid you’ll have to cram an awful lot of work into a very short period, but I don’t suppose you’ll mind that. And if the weather continues like today, you should all lose that dreadful London pallor you’ve got in your faces.’
She smiled kindly, and then went to the window, pushing it open with great effort, as if she wanted to start introducing her students to fresh air right from that moment.
‘When are we going, exactly?’ Barton asked.
‘Well, the only time they could take this group was in three week’s time. And I did want you to have as much of Major Beddington’s time as possible. He doesn’t do all the groups himself now, of course, but he has such a detailed knowledge of Dorset wildlife. Some of you have probably come across one or two of his books? ‘Dorset Habitats and Environments’? ‘Exploring Freshwater Streams and Springs’?’
She raised her eyebrows in expectation, but nobody had.
‘Well, never mind. They’re in our library of course. Now then, I’m going to give each of you a new folder for your work at Elderberry Hall. You will have to submit this work at your oral examination in the finals. And as you know, they aren’t that far away I’m afraid.’
She passed round loose-leafed folders and a plentiful supply of paper. ‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘I shan’t be coming with you myself, and nor will Dr Frost this time. Not that you’ll need us to supervise what you all do. I know you’ll co-operate with Major Beddington and his team and take full advantage of his very detailed knowledge.’
Photocopied lists of clothing and equipment that would be required for the stay were handed round. Though all college visits to Elderberry Hall were generously subsidised, students were expected to contribute towards any special equipment that couldn’t be supplied from the department itself.
‘This really doesn’t sound at all bad,’ I said, reading through the description of the facilities. ‘A free week in the country soaking up the sun.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Duggan. ‘I seem to remember Gerry talking about the place after one of his geography groups had been there. Wasn’t it where they spent a day on the moors digging lumps of mud out of the ground in the pouring rain? Wasn’t it where somebody had to be rushed to the hospital with chronic bronchitis. Didn’t he die, or something?’
‘Rubbish. Anyway, it sounds quite good to me. Do you think they’d let me take Samantha?’
‘Of course they would. They positively encourage that sort of thing. I’m sure she’ll have a great time, sitting around when it’s raining reading copies of the Coppiced Woodland Gazette.’
‘Well, just think of the country pubs you keep on about.’
Barton overheard and laughed humourlessly. ‘You won’t be allowed near those, mate. You won’t even be allowed out. They’ve got an electrified fence and Alsatian dogs. From what I’ve heard, you sit around looking up beetles’ backsides with a microscope when it rains, and you wander about gathering specimens of cowshit when it doesn’t.’
‘Sounds pretty entertaining to me,’ said Duggan lightly.
‘Does it? Enjoy examining cowshit, do you? I mean, when you come to apply for a teaching job at one of these tough inner city schools we keep hearing about, you’ll be able to say you’ve had a lot of experience examining cowshit.’
‘How do you know so much about it?’
‘Deidre’s been there.’
‘Who’s Deidre?’
‘The little raver I usually bring to your film society things. She’s a geography student. She says Major Beddington’s a barrel of fun, too. Knows the name of every plant and insect in the British Isles and treats you like a five year old.’
He shuffled a dozen sheets of paper and snapped them into his file gloomily. Duggan shrugged.
‘Oh well, it’s only for a few days. I knew I should have just done physics. I don’t know a thing about plants and insects. Not a thing.’
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ Simon Daines said kindly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to fill in any gaps on this course.’
‘They aren’t gaps. They’re more like wide open spaces. I wouldn’t mind betting that we get an examiner in the finals who specialises in biology. And it won’t be a matter of just trotting out the latin name for a daisy, either.’
He suddenly rummaged in his bag, took out a diary, and flicked through the pages.
‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Do you realise, we’re going down on a Thursday? That means we’ll probably have to work right through the weekend as well. I haven’t worked on a Saturday since I did a paper round. That’ll be a novel experience, anyway.’
Miss Bottle began speaking again, running her eyes over one of the sheets and ticking off some of the items her department would be able to provide.
‘Not everything you’ll need is listed,’ she said, ‘and a lot of it applies to the geography students, of course. There didn’t seem much point in making separate lists. I would advise a net of some sort for butterflies, gathering stream life and so on. Mr Dunn should be able to sort out all that kind of thing for you. I’ll mention it to him. And some soil testing kits are essential, of course.’
She pencilled a few notes on the sheet, and then thought intently for a moment.
‘You must take a good British Flora with you. That really is a priorit
y. There are bound to be a few in the library at Elderberry Hall, but you’ll need at least one between two. You can have a look in the college library but if you do borrow books, please return them as soon as you get back. I imagine quite a few of you already have your own Floras anyway?’
She looked over her spectacles at the group, and seemed mildly disappointed when only Daines and Charlton raised their hands. Duggan fidgeted and stared out of the window.
‘Look at that gorgeous sun,’ he murmured. ‘And we’re sitting in here. What a dreadful waste.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Phillips,’ Miss Bottle called, ‘did you have something you wanted to add to the list?’
‘Lots of sunshine,’ Duggan replied.
Miss Bottle smiled. ‘I’m sure dear, I’m sure. However, I understand the long range forecast is a very good one, so you could well be lucky.’
She put her sheet of notes back down on the bench and walked over to the cupboard, taking out a microscope and a set of prepared slides. ‘I think that’s all for the moment,’ she said, putting a slide under the microscope and adjusting the focus. ‘Before we carry on with this morning’s work, are there any other questions?’
Simon Daines raised his hand.
‘How full are our notes expected to be?’
Miss Bottle raised her eye from the microscope. ‘As full as you can make them, dear, especially as your file will eventually be looked at by external examiners. I imagine you’ll end up with a fairly large section on water life, a study of animals and insects, the local flora of course… I would suggest you put in as many photographs as you can, line drawings, maps and so on. Possibly a few pressed flowers with full descriptions. There should also be time for a little individual experimentation, though I believe Major Beddington runs a very busy course.’
There was a low groan from most of the group at the weight of this information.
‘Of course,’ she added, ignoring the noise, ‘some of you are already more knowledgeable than others about certain aspects of this subject. There is a lot of expertise in this group which can be shared amongst you. For example, we know Mr Daines already has ‘A’ levels in botany, biology and chemistry.’