by Mike Kent
‘It is. I just remember doing something about it at school.’
‘My God, you must have been bloody keen, then. I hadn’t heard of it until ten minutes ago. You wouldn’t like to do the exam for me, would you?’
‘Not unless you want to try and cover the economic viability of the land north of the Nerbudda, livestock in the Ukraine or the various industries of Buenos Aires this afternoon?’
‘I’ll stick to Fehling’s solution. You wouldn’t know how to purify solid organic compounds by recrystalisation, I suppose?’
‘No, you’ve got me there. I’ll leave that to you. You’re the scientist.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought until I started revising. And we’ve got all Dr Frost’s stuff yet. And Elderberry Hall…’
‘That shouldn’t take you long. You’ve only just been down there. You can’t have forgotten the entire experience.’
‘We remember the experience all right. We just don’t remember much of the work we did. Perhaps we’ll be asked about torture by hunger.’
‘You could always fall ill on the day of the exams,’ Gerry suggested brightly. ‘I hear that one of last year’s finals students swallowed a glassful of petrol and collapsed in the sickbay on the morning he was due to present himself in front of the oral examiners. You could always give that a try.’
‘Only as a last resort,’ said Duggan grimly. He stood up and put his jacket on. ‘We’ll wait and see how much we’ve remembered by the end of the week first. Anyway, let’s go and get some lunch and worry about it afterwards.’
(iii)
‘Come on then, tell me all about the history of education. In a nutshell.’
‘What, everything? Are you staying the night, then?’
‘All right, you don’t have to tell me absolutely everything. Just the essentials. But I warn you. If you make more than one mistake, you fail, and you have to pay for the pictures on Saturday.’ Samantha curled herself attractively into the rather uncomfortable chair beside my bed.
I looked at her and smiled. ‘The entire history of education. It’s going to be the easy ones first, then?’
‘That’s right. And you have to imagine I’m a very severe, spinsterly examiner who hates male students and intends to prove they don’t have any knowledge of anything important in their minds at all.’
‘Right, Miss. How far back do you want me to go? The sixteenth century? Independent grammar schools?’ I flicked through my education file. ‘Tell you what. I bet you didn’t know a couple of grammar schools even claimed descendency from Alfred the Great?’
She raised her eyebrows and looked up, not sure whether to believe me.
‘I didn’t know, actually. Fancy that. He didn’t just go around burning cakes, then?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘So come on, Mike. Where do you really want me to start from?’ She placed the file delicately on her lap and opened it at the first page.
‘Right there. The beginning of my file. Ask me about the 1944 Act.’
‘All right then. Tell me about that.’
She scanned through my notes and then looked up at me expectantly. I put my knowledge of the act into careful mental order and counted off the main components on my fingers as I named them.
‘It created a Minister of Education. It created local education authorities. It created the three stages of education. It made religious education compulsory. It gave local authorities welfare functions. It made local authorities educate handicapped children. Oh, and it made local authorities pay their teachers according to an agreed scale. There. How about that?’
Samantha looked up in admiration. ‘Well, that’s a very good start, you clever boy. Nine out of ten. You only missed out a couple of things. You’ve got a note here about arrangements for leisure time occupation. And something about fee paying schools, too.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot those.’
‘That’s amazing. I thought the 1944 Education Act was just about free secondary education for all children. Or something like that, anyway.’
‘So do most people. But it was pretty far sighted, really. And just think, you’d never have known all that if you hadn’t been here on your afternoon off.’
Samantha smiled, pushing her shoes off and trying to find a more comfortable position on the chair. ‘I consider myself to be very lucky, then. I bet there aren’t many girls learning about the 1944 Education Act on a gorgeous afternoon like this.’
‘No, I bet there aren’t. I tell you what…’
‘What?’
‘I love that dress you’re wearing.’
Samantha smiled and tucked her legs further into the chair.
‘What’s that got to do with the 1944 Education Act?’
‘Not a great deal. I just think you look great in it.’
‘Really? You don’t think it makes me look too fat, do you?’
‘Well yes, it does make you look too fat. It’s nice though.’
She stared at me for a moment in disbelief, and then threw the chair cushion at me.
‘You are a sod!’
‘Well of course you’re not fat. You’ve got a gorgeous figure and you wonder if you look fat? Anyway, I love the dress. Red really suits you. Ask me another question. Or do you want me to go into detail about the parts of the 1944 Act?’
‘No, you sound too confident about that. I’ll look for something else.’ She shuffled through the pages of my file. ‘Right, I’ll ask you about the educationalists. Which one would you like? Rousseau, Montessori, Frobel, Dalton, Pestalozzi… sounds like a village in Switzerland. Who on earth was Pestalozzi?’
‘Somebody who was very influenced by Rousseau. You’d better see how much I can remember about Rousseau first.’
I’d enjoyed the lectures on the educationalists, and I had little difficulty in recalling how their philosophies had changed and shaped educational attitudes. Almost without faltering, I managed to tell Samantha how modern teaching techniques had stemmed from Rousseau’s ideas, his revolutionary thinking, and his profound effect on European education. She listened with interest, caught on the wave of my enthusiasm. Occasionally, she stopped me and asked for a deeper explanation of a detail in my notes, but she was obviously impressed with my knowledge of the subject. After an hour and a half of concentrated revision, she suddenly stretched in the chair and put the folder down.
‘It’s so hot in here,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve earned a cup of tea at least.’
‘I think so too.’
I leaned across the chair and kissed her gently. ‘Let’s have a break for an hour and walk down to the park. I’ll buy you an ice cream instead.’
‘Okay. That would be nice.’
The late afternoon air was hot and still, and the grass in St James’s Park was crowded with people making the most of the hot summer sunshine. I recognised many students from the college too, some asleep, some stripped to the waist and others propped up on their elbows with a small pile of books in front of them. I led Samantha to the small bridge over the lake, and we stood and watched two drakes diving repeatedly into the water beside the weeping willows.
‘Beats revising, doesn’t it?’ I said, putting my arm around Samantha’s shoulder and pulling her closer. ‘What a lovely afternoon. Now if I was a duck, I wouldn’t have to worry about educational theory at all. I could just dive headfirst into the water.’
‘You’d get bored with it.’
‘Ducks don’t get bored.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Look at them. Do they look like bored ducks to you?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t really know how to recognise a bored duck. I wonder if they know anything about the 1944 Education Act?’
‘Probably not. They know a lot about bits of bread, though.’
‘Do you think you’ll ever get bored w
ith teaching, Mike?’ Samantha asked seriously.
‘I don’t know, love. At the moment, I don’t think so. That’s a strange question. I haven’t even started teaching yet. Why do you ask?’
‘Because you’re so interested in it, that’s all. I just wonder if you’ll ever tire of it.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. But I honestly can’t think of anything else I’d rather do. I might have changed my mind if I hadn’t liked my teaching practices. But I enjoyed them so much, Sam. Especially the first one. I really loved being with the children.’
‘They were lucky, too. Having you to teach them, I mean.’
‘That’s a lovely thing to say, but I don’t think I made that much difference. Anyway, I might not pass my exams. We’ve only just started to revise.’
‘You’ll pass. You’re too interested in it not to pass. Why don’t you stay on for a fourth year and do a degree?’
‘I’ve thought about it. Really I have. I want to start teaching now, though. I don’t want to study for another year. I’ve been studying all my life so far. With varying degrees of success. I can do a degree later on.’
‘At least you’d still be near me if you stayed at college.’
I held her waist tightly and hugged her. ‘I’ll be near you anyway. I’m not going back home when I finish college. I want to stay and teach in London for a time. Duggan suggested we should rent a flat together. He’s not going home either. We’ll probably try to get jobs in one of the poorer parts of the city.’
‘Don’t tell me. You want to bring enlightenment to the underprivileged.’
‘Oh God, I didn’t mean to sound patronising.’
‘I know. I’m only teasing.’
‘Seems crazy, really. Out of three years at college we get fifteen weeks in actual schools. I mean, that’s where you really learn to do the job. I learned more from Dorothy Bridgewood in a day than I did in an entire year of college lectures.’
‘Well, you know what they say. People who can’t teach go and lecture about it instead.’
‘There’s probably a lot of truth in that. My first teaching practice was so enjoyable. Those few weeks made me certain that teaching primary children was for me. And I saw both sides of the job. Genuine commitment from most of the staff.’
‘And no commitment at all from the headteacher.’
‘That was certainly true. Still, there may have been all sorts of reasons for that. The kids were marvellous, though. I got very attached to them. They’re the sort of children I want to teach.’
‘It’s good that you feel like that. I envy you.’
We crossed the bridge and walked slowly round the lake towards the small wooden refreshment hut, where there was a queue for ice cream.
‘Come on then, I’ll treat you,’ I said. ‘Provided you come back and help me revise for at least another hour afterwards. What flavour would you like?’
‘Pestalozzi.’
‘I think they’re right out of that. You can have Rousseau, Dewey, or tutti frutti.’
‘Was tutti frutti a famous education philosopher?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘I’ll have one of those, then. A double cornet.’
‘You’ll get fat.’
‘I’m fat already.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot.’
I bought two cornets and we walked down a pathway shaded by cedar trees to a wooden bench beside a bed of yellow and purple tulips. For a moment, we both sat in silence, licking the melting ice cream.
‘You’re very lucky, Mike,’ Samantha said. ‘Knowing exactly what you want to do, I mean. I wish I did. I enjoy working in the library, but I don’t suppose I’ll stay there much longer. The trouble is, I’m not really sure what I want to do yet. I’ll probably end up trying several things, but I do want to work with people. I couldn’t stand being in an office. Maybe I could do something with Nursery children. I’d love that.’
‘Sounds a good idea. Just don’t go too far away, that’s all.’
‘You mean you’d miss me?’
‘You know I would. I think about you all the time.’
‘What, even more than Rousseau, Dewey and Pesta… whatever his name was?
‘Pestalozzi. And yes, much more than them. You know exactly how I feel about you.’
She moved very close to me and looked at me steadily. Her hazel eyes were suddenly serious. ‘Yes, I know. I do know. I just want you to be really sure, that’s all.’
‘I’ve never been more sure of anything.’
‘Let’s go back to your room,’ she said quietly.
(iii)
As the examinations drew relentlessly closer, corridor three became enveloped in hushed and concentrated study.
Regardless of whether they had worked diligently throughout the course, the third year students moved about with drawn and vacant faces, their eyes glazed from the intensity of concentrated reading. As the days passed, the corridor gradually became silent at most hours of the day, but especially early in the morning and after the evening meal, when each student would retire quietly into his room to murmur facts, dates, names and theories to himself and then to his friends, who would check for inaccuracies before trying out their own knowledge in turn.
Kettles constantly boiled water for endless mugs of coffee. Figures with haggard faces hurried into the kitchen area at regular intervals, whispered greetings to whoever else might be in there, and then disappeared again. Students wandered the corridor, unable to sleep, muttering formulae and method, fact and hypothesis, before hurrying back to the solitude of their rooms, where pages of notes were pencilled on, amended, hastily consumed and mentally resurrected.
Faces of students I only vaguely knew suddenly appeared at breakfast tables, stocking up until lunchtime, their ashen cheeks and unshaven stubble hinting at the pages that had been ploughed through until the early hours of the morning. Society meetings were abandoned by the finals students and the television room was left virtually unattended.
At the start of the third week, we began work on the education subjects that formed an important section of the written examinations. We re-read Dewey’s ideas of motivation, the theories of Robert Owen, the doctrines of Plato, the influence of Plowden. We discussed our periods of practical teaching and the techniques of classroom organisation we had tried. We tackled the psychology of the classroom, the merits of assessment and testing, the learning difficulties of children with special needs. Finally, at ten thirty on the final Friday of the three week period we had set ourselves, we emerged from our notebooks desperately tired but elated. At the very least, we considered ourselves capable of attempting a pass mark.
‘That’s it, then, Mike,’ said Duggan triumphantly, tossing a text book back onto his bookshelf. ‘If we don’t know it all now we never will, so I’m going for a long beer and then I’m going to sleep it out until the first one on Tuesday morning. You are welcome to join me. In a beer, that is. I don’t necessarily want you climbing in bed with me.’
For both of us, the next few days were the hardest of all. Rather than touch our books again, we were determined to let everything sift, settle and sort itself out into coherent order in our minds. Sleep was difficult; the small hours were punctuated by dreams in which ancient examiners leaned across huge mahogany desks to fire meaningless questions at me, until I woke in a sweat of anxiety convinced I knew absolutely nothing at all. Only Gerry seemed unaffected by the thought of airing his accumulated knowledge of the last three years in public. Or perhaps he was merely showing the unflappable exterior I had come to admire during our film society shows when a projector broke down.
I was woken in the early hours of Tuesday morning by an ominous roll of thunder and a storm that had been threatening to arrive for days. I screwed up my eyes to look at the clock beside my bed. Six thirty. The first day of reckoning had arriv
ed.
I sighed, stared at the rain for a few moments and then turned over in bed, but it was impossible to get back to sleep and I tried to take my mind off the day by reading a chapter from a detective novel I’d picked up on a station bookstall. It was impossible to concentrate, and after fifteen minutes I decided that I might just as well get out of bed.
Breakfast was out of the question; the thought of sausages and bacon dished up on a greasy plate made me feel nauseous. I dressed slowly, as if it would help put off the final moment, and then sat on the edge of the bed trying to gather information into tidy mental compartments before venturing out for a wash. Nobody was about in the corridor. I wondered if everybody was still sleeping, or whether they simply hadn’t bothered to go to bed. I made two mugs of tea, and carried one of them into Duggan’s room, half wondering whether I should wake him or leave him lost in blissful oblivion. Duggan grunted, turned over as I touched his shoulder, and then sat up in panic.
‘Christ, what’s the time?’
‘Ten past seven.’
‘Ten past seven? Bloody hell Mike, what are you up already for?’
‘I thought you might appreciate a cup of tea.’
‘That’s very sweet of you. I would. Any sugar in it?’
‘Two spoonfuls.’
‘Great. You’re a treasure.’
‘I know.’
He sat up in bed and shivered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
‘I could do with another ten hours sleep. Have a look in the desk drawer. I think there’s a packet of custard creams in there somewhere.’
I found the packet and tossed it onto the bed.
‘Look at that,’ Duggan said in disgust, ‘only three left. You don’t get much for your money these days.’
‘Are you going to revise any more?’
‘No fear. My brain couldn’t cope with it. Chuck the newspaper over. I think I’ll finish the crossword puzzle and then go back to sleep for a while. My call isn’t till eleven o’clock. Is Gerry about?’
‘I haven’t looked. I’ll go and take him some tea.’