To Sir With Love

by E. R. Braithwaite

  At this moment the door was flung open and Pamela Dare rushed in, somewhat breathlessly, to take her seat. She was very late.

  “For instance,” I continued, “there are really two ways in which a person may enter a room; one is in a controlled, dignified manner, the other is as if someone had just planted a heavy foot in your backside. Miss Dare has just shown us the second way; I’m quite sure she will now give us a demonstration of the first.”

  To this day I do not know what made me say it, but there it was. I was annoyed with the way in which she had just barged her way in, insolently carelessly late.

  All eyes were on her as she had probably planned, but instead of supporting her entrance they were watching her, waiting to see the result of my challenge. She blushed.

  “Well, Miss Darer?”

  Her eyes were black with anger and humiliation, but she stood up and walked out, closing the door quietly behind her; then to my surprise, and I must confess, my relief, she opened it as quietly, and with a grace and dignity that would have befitted a queen, she walked to her seat.

  “Thank you. As from today there are certain courtesies which will be observed at all times in this classroom. Myself you will address as ‘Mr. Braithwaite’ or ‘Sir’—the choice is yours; the young ladies will be addressed as ‘Miss’ and the young men will be addressed by their surnames.”

  I hadn’t planned any of this, but it was unfolding all by itself, and I hoped, fitting into place. There was a general gasp at this, from boys and girls alike.

  Potter was the first to protest.

  “Why should we call ’em ‘miss’, we know ’em.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Potter.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Potter, Sir.” The “Sir” was somewhat delayed.

  “Thank you, Potter. Now, is there any young lady present whom you consider unworthy of your courtesies?”

  “Sir?”

  “Is there any one of these young ladies, who you think does not deserve to be addressed as Miss?”

  With one accord the girls turned to look at Potter, as if daring him; he quailed visibly before their converted eyes and said: “No, Sir.”

  “You should remember, Potter, that in a little while all of you may be expected to express these courtesies as part of your jobs; it would be helpful to you to become accustomed to giving and receiving them.”

  I walked around my desk and sat in my chair. For the time being at least they were listening, really listening to me; maybe they would not understand every word, but they’d get the general import of my remarks.

  “The next point concerns the general deportment and conduct of the class. First, the young ladies. They must understand that in future they must show themselves both worthy and appreciative of the courtesies we men will show them. As Potter said, we know you. We shall want to feel proud to know you, and just how proud we shall feel will depend entirely on you. There are certain things which need attention, and I have asked Mrs. Dale-Evans to discuss them with you in your Domestic Science period today.” This last bit was right off the cuff; I’d have to see Grace about it during recess, but I felt sure she’d help.

  “Now, the boys. I have seen stevedores and longshoremen who looked a lot cleaner and tidier. There is nothing weak and unmanly about clean hands and faces and shoes that are brushed. A man who is strong and tough never needs to show it in his dress or the way he cuts his hair. Toughness is a quality of the mind, like bravery or honesty or ambition; it has nothing whatever to do with muscles. I suppose that in about a year or so some of you will be thinking of girl-friends; believe me, they will think you much more attractive with clean teeth, hands and faces than without.”

  I gave them a moment to digest that.

  “You are the top class; the operative word is ‘top’. That means you must set the standard in all things for the rest of the school for, whether you wish it or no, the younger ones will ape everything you do or say. They will try to walk like you and use the words you use, and dress like you, and so, for as long as you’re here, much of their conduct will be your responsibility. As the top class you must be top in cleanliness, deportment, courtesy and work. I shall help you in every way I can, both by example and encouragement. I believe that you have it in you to be a fine class, the best this school has ever known, but I could be wrong; it all depends on you. Now, any questions?”

  A hand shot up.

  “Yes, Miss Joseph?”

  “What about Mr. Weston, he’s never tidy, and his shoes are never clean, Sir.”

  Things were looking up already; the “Sir” came easily.

  “Mr. Weston is a teacher, Miss Joseph, and we shall not discuss him.”

  There was a murmur of dissent at this.

  “I am your teacher, and I’m the one you should criticize if I fail to maintain the standards I demand of you.”

  There was an absence of the silent hostility of yesterday. I felt that I had somehow won for myself a breathing space at least. There were no further questions, so I told them they could spend the remaining minutes of that period considering and discussing the things I had said, providing they did so quietly. I sat back and observed them.

  At recess I went to the staffroom and told Grace how I had impulsively committed her to a talk with the girls; she was quite pleased about it and promised to “lay it on thick.”

  That day passed pleasantly enough. I felt more at ease with them and applied myself enthusiastically to each subject, blending informality with a correctness of expression which I hoped would in turn help them to improve their own speech. I never spoke down to them; if they did not quite understand every word I used, the meaning was sufficiently clear in context, and I encouraged them to ask for an explanation any time they felt unsure. Meanwhile I was careful to discover the centers of leadership among them. Denham had quite a following among the boys; Potter, big and beefy, seemed to tag along with Denham through sheer laziness in asserting himself; Fernman and Seales were somewhat solitary characters, although they worked extremely well in class and played as boisterously in the playground as anyone else. I had expected that Pamela Dare would be a leader among the girls, but this did not prove to be so; she had one or two familiars, but kept very much to herself with a certain sullenness which I found both strange and intriguing. She was easily the brightest pupil, and her written work was neat and precise, in keeping with her personal appearance. Moira Joseph was the girl around whom the others circulated. She was tall, slim and vivacious, with a certain natural inclination to and aptitude for innocent seductiveness; most of the boys were ready to eat out of her hand. If I could get these king-pins to cooperate the others would probably fall in line.

  On my way home that evening I walked to the bus with Miss Blanchard, and told her about what I had done. She was dubious about the wisdom of imposing unfamiliar social codes on the children, yet, as I had already committed myself, she hoped it would work. I was secretly pleased at the concern in her large eyes and felt more than ever determined to make a success of the class.

  Chapter

  Ten

  IT WAS FRIDAY MORNING and I sat at my desk watching the absorbed application of the class as they wrote up their Weekly Review. They were very quiet, and I wondered what sort of reviews would result from the very recent happenings in the classroom. Soon after they began writing Jackson asked: “How do you spell your name, Sir?” For his edification and that of any other I wrote my name in block capitals on the blackboard, and thereafter the only sounds were the rustle of turned pages or the occasional clatter of a dropped pencil.

  I read through some of the reviews at lunchtime. They were, as Mr. Florian had said, reasonably fair, but only just so. Without exception they commented on the new method of addressing each other, but avoided any reference to the events leading up to those measures. Some of the boys thought it
was silly to have to “call the tarts in the class ‘Miss’,” and pointed out that once outside the school “they’d get called some right names.” Some girls thought it sheer cheek on my part to have Mrs. Dale-Evans talk to them about washing themselves and their clothing; they were sure they were clean because they bathed every Friday night. Nonetheless, one thing clearly emerged: they were very pleased to be treated like grown-ups, to be talked to like equals. Fernman wrote: “He speaks to us as if we understand all the words he uses, and most of us try to look as if we do.” I smiled at this; they were already showing their stuff.

  I took the reviews home that evening. I wanted to hear the comments of Mom and Dad. After dinner we sat around and talked about it; they were very pleased with the way things were moving, but advised caution. Then Dad said:

  “Don’t fall into the habit of bringing work home, Rick. It indicates a lack of planning, and you would eventually find yourself stuck indoors every night. Teaching is like having a bank account. You can happily draw on it while it is well supplied with new funds; otherwise you’re in difficulties.

  “Every teacher should have a fund of ready information on which to draw; he should keep that fund supplied regularly by new experiences, new thoughts and discoveries, by reading and moving around among people from whom he can acquire such things.”

  “Not much chance of social movement for me, I’m afraid.”

  “Nonsense, Rick, you’re settled in a job now, so there’s no need to worry about that; but you must get out and meet more people. I’m sure you’ll find lots of nice people about who are not foolishly concerned with prejudice.”

  “That’s all right, Dad; I’m quite happy to stay at home with you and Mom.”

  “Nice to hear you say that, but we’re old and getting a bit stuffy. You need the company of younger people like yourself. It’s even time he had a girl, don’t you think, Jess?”

  Mom smiled across at me.

  “Ah, leave him alone, Bob, there’s plenty of time for that.”

  We went on to chat about other things, but I never forgot what Dad Belmont had said, and never again did I take notebooks home for marking. I would check the work in progress by moving about the class, helping here, correcting there; and I very soon discovered that in this way errors were pinpointed while they were still fresh in the child’s mind.

  As the days followed each other my relationship with the children improved. At first there was much shamefaced resistance to addressing the girls as “Miss,” but gradually they settled down to it and the results were very encouraging. They also began to take greater care with their appearance, and their conduct was generally less boisterous.

  I talked to them about everything and anything, and frequently the bell for recess, dinner or the end of the day would find us deep in interested discussion. I sought to relate each lesson to themselves, showing them that the whole purpose of their education was the development of their own thinking and reasoning. Some of them proved to be very intelligent—Pamela Dare, Potter, Tich Jackson, Larry Seales, Fernman—while others exhibited a native intelligence somewhat removed from academic pursuits, yet vitally necessary in the unrelenting struggle for survival with which they were already familiar. They asked me about myself—place of birth, education, war-service—with an interest which was forthright and friendly.

  Not all of them. Denham and a few of his intimates remained watchfully hostile, losing no opportunity to “take the Micky out of me;” they were discreetly disrespectful and persisted in their scruffy appearance as a sign of their resistance to my authority. They were few in number, and I planned to take as little notice as possible of their attitude, in the fond hope that it would disappear under pressure of the predominant cooperation.

  But it was not to be as easy as that. One morning our geography lesson dealt with clothing: we discussed the type and amount of garments worn by people in varying climatic conditions—Eskimos of the Frigid Zone and their dress of skins; the thin cotton garments worn by Caribbean folk of the semi-torrid climes.

  “Sir, I have a magazine at home, Sir, all with women with no clothes on at the top, black women, Sir, dancing and that.” Tich Jackson’s piping voice carried a hint that his interest in the magazine was not entirely academic.

  “Yes, Jackson, many people in the tropics wear very little clothing; some primitive folk are even quite content with a daub of paint here and there.”

  “Like the ancient Britons, Sir, they painted themselves.”

  “Yes, Miss Dare, but we must remember that painting was intended merely as decoration, and not as a means of protection from climatic conditions. Some people paint themselves in startling ways so as to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies. Some African and North American Indian tribes were very much inclined to do that.”

  “They must have been cold, Sir.”

  “Who, Miss Benjamin?”

  “What you said, Sir, the ancient Britons and that.”

  “Not really; they lived in caves and dressed themselves in the skins of animals.”

  “Fancy seeing a cave woman in a fur coat!”

  Denham was always in there, sharp, quick, never missing a chance. The class laughed at his sally and I joined in; the image was really funny.

  “Not cut to present day style, Denham, but utilitarian.”

  He’d shut up while he worked that one out.

  “Since the days when the ancient Britons collected their fur coats straight from the animals, clothing in Britain has passed through several important stages and changes; there is at the moment an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum which illustrates this change. If any of you are interested, I would suggest that you go and see it when you can.”

  “Why don’t you take us, Sir?”

  Barbara Pegg was the large, freckled girl whose eyes always held a smile. She was looking at me hopefully. I had never thought of doing anything like that, taking this crowd round and about London, yet I found myself replying:

  “If enough of you are interested, Miss Pegg, I’ll discuss it with Mr. Florian.”

  “Oh, yes, Sir,” many of them quickly agreed.

  There was the sound of tittering from the back row, and glancing towards it I noticed that Denham and Sapiano, one of his cronies, were amusing themselves with something which Denham had in his half-open desk. I walked over and pulled the lid of the desk fully open; inside was a copy of Weekend Mail which featured an enlarged picture of a well-favored young woman in the briefest of Bikinis; Denham was busy with his pencil in a way which defeated the already limited purpose of the scanty costume.

  I picked up the paper and closed the desk. Denham leaned back in his chair and smiled at me insolently—he had wanted me to find it. Without a word I tore the disgusting thing to shreds, walked back to my desk and dumped them into the waste-basket. As I turned away from him I distinctly heard the muttered “Bloody black bastard.” I continued with the lesson as if nothing had happened.

  Denham’s face was now a picture of vicious anger. He had wanted a row, that he might in some way upset the class, and he felt checked. The others looked at me in alarm when I tore up the paper—they were familiar with Denham’s reputation, and their surprised, anxious faces warned me that something unpleasant was in store.

  I was soon to find out what it was.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  ON THURSDAY MORNING THE class seemed to be in the grip of some excitement and expectancy. During the recess they stood about the classroom in little whispering groups which fell silent as I approached, but I could read no special significance into this. The lessons proceeded more or less normally, but heavily.

  In the afternoon, we went down to the gym for the usual P.T. period. The equipment was neatly arranged around the cleared dining nail; vaulting horse buck, jumping standards, medicine balls, boards, several pairs of boxing gloves slung by t
heir laces across the vaulting horse. The boys were, with one exception, barefoot and wearing only blue shorts. Sapiano sat on a low form, his right arm bandaged from elbow to wrist.

  “Line up in the center, will you,” I began.

  They eagerly obeyed, forming two neatly graded lines. But then Denham stepped forward.

  “Please, Sir.”

  “Yes, Denham?”

  “Can’t we have boxing first today, please, Sir?”

  “Why, Denham?”

  “Oh, nothing, Sir, just feel we’d like to have a bit of a change, Sir.”

  “Oh, very well,” I replied. “Get yourselves into pairs according to size.”

  The pairing was completed in a moment as if by prearrangement; only Denham remained unpaired.

  “My partner’s crippled, Sir.” He indicated the bandaged Sapiano. “Will you have a go with me?”

  At this the others, as if on cue, moved quietly towards us, watchful, listening.

  “You can wait and have a bout with Potter or one of the others.”

  The pieces were falling into place, the penny had finally and fatefully dropped.

  “They’ll be done in, Sir, I don’t mind having a knock with you.”

  “Go on, Sir, take him on.”

  This chorus of encouragement was definitely not in my best interest.

  “No, Denham, I think you’ll have to skip it for today.”

  Denham looked at me pityingly, slipped the gloves off his large hands and casually dropped them at my feet. He had made his point. Looking quickly at the others I could read the disappointment and disgust in their faces. They thought I was afraid, scared of the hulking, loutish fellow.