by John Metcalf
A man in a blue tracksuit came out of the side door and stood in the middle of the playground blowing a whistle. The football game slowed, stopped; the boys gathered up their satchels. The children drifted into lines. The boys on the bicycles rushed to put them into the concrete slots. A small man came out with sheets of paper. All movement stopped.
Gradually, Peter became aware of someone standing beside him. He turned and looked at an old man with grizzly eyebrows who was glaring at him.
“That’s my mug,” said the old man.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I’m new here and someone gave it to me.”
“I want my mug,” said the old man.
The bell burst into its deafening clangour. Peter followed the others out of the door and down the stairs. The big man in the maroon tie was saying, Vine Street’ll often save you two or three minutes.
Outside the assembly hall, the classes were waiting, boys in one line, girls in another. Teachers were patrolling the length of the lines, which stretched all the way along the bottom corridor and out into the playground. At the head of them a small, fierce man, the man who had been in the playground with the papers, was trotting up and down, shouting.
“Keep against the wall. DON’T talk. Are you chewing, boy? Yes. You know who I mean. You. The boy in the red sweater. Go and stand outside the headmaster’s office.”
The children stared at him with blank faces. On the wall above their heads hung a reproduction of a Dufy painting, brilliant white sails cavorting on the blue water of a bay.
“What did I say? Didn’t I say NO talking?”
Upon command, the lines began to shuffle forward. Peter followed the other teachers to the back of the hall. The fifth and fourth forms sat on chairs at the back. The few sixth-formers sat on chairs along the sides of the hall. The rest of the school, the third, the second, and the new first-formers, filed in endlessly, class by class, and sat on the floor in rows. The fierce little man mounted the steps to the stage and stood behind the lectern.
There was a grand piano on the stage at the right and a table and lectern in the centre at the front. The music master appeared from the wings and propped open the lid of the piano. There was an immediate buzz of conversation. The little man started forward and stood gripping the edges of the lectern, darting fierce glances.
The music master began to play. The air was becoming stuffy. The shuffling, the whispering, the coughing, and the hollow plap of dropped hymn books was growing louder. Some of the teachers got up and joined the prefects in the aisles. They glared, snapped their fingers, threatened. The piano played on and on.
The gym teacher who had been blowing the whistle in the playground started to open windows. All eyes watched the wavering end of the long pole as it tried to hook onto the window catches. “Face the front!” shouted the little man.
Suddenly the piano stopped playing. Mr. Stine appeared through the curtains at the back of the stage. Those sitting on chairs scraped them back and stood up. The rest scrambled to their feet. Mr. Stine advanced towards the lectern. He moved stiffly, head back and to one side. He waited until there was absolute silence and then surveyed the ranks down the length of his nose. Into the silence, he made his creaking noise.
“Good morning, boys and girls.”
There was a vast answering roar.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Ah . . .”
“Ah . . .” and the noise died away.
“Open your hymn books at page seventy-one. Hymn number one hundred and thirty-four. This is a Joyous hymn and we are singing it to celebrate the beginning of a new school year. It was written by Josiah Wentworth, born 1737 died 1803.
“We have all had an enjoyable . . . ah . . . holiday but now we must Buckle Down. And so, I want the fifth and sixth forms to sing verse one, and the third and fourth forms verse two. Now the third verse. . . .”
There was a long silence.
“The third verse will be sung by the second forms. Girls will sing the last two lines, and the boys will sing the first three.”
Mr. Stine stopped and stared down into the first few rows. They sat very still.
“A special word to the new boys and girls in the first form. I like to Hear when people sing. You must remember that this is a Secondary School.”
He looked down at the lectern.
“We will omit verse four and the whole school will sing the last verse.”
The music master gave an introductory pound on the piano and the hymn got under way. In the middle of the thin singing of verse three Mr. Stine shouted, “Louder! Louder!”
When the hymn was finished, he nodded and everyone sat down. Chairs scraped and there was a start of whispering. Shuffling. He gripped the lectern and stared.
“Some boys and girls,” he said quietly, as if amazed, “don’t seem to remember how to Behave.”
The assembly hall grew still. A breath of air was stirring one of the long curtains. The brass knob on the end of the curtain cord was clicking against the glass.
“STAND UP.”
Peter jerked in his chair.
The children got silently to their feet, silently stood and waited.
“Now!” said Mr. Stine. “We will sit down again. We will sit down like little Ladies and Gentlemen.”
The children eased themselves into their places. They looked straight ahead. Someone coughed. Head bent back, Mr. Stine stared. After what seemed minutes, he opened the Bible on the lectern. With no introduction, he started to read.
Then Solomon assembled the elders of Israel, and all the heads of the tribes, the chief of the fathers of Israel, unto King Solomon in Jerusalem, that they might bring up the ark of the covenant of the Lord out of the city of David, which is Zion. And all the men of Israel. . . .
Peter soon heard only the steady drone of Mr. Stine’s voice. The air was hot, heavy with the smell of polish, sweat, dust. He remembered mornings like this, the same smell, a voice reading, the rows of boys in their blazers with the white flower badges, the tall prefects lining the sides of the hall; mornings when he had sat with Tony and Dell Latter playing noughts and crosses over the pages of hymn books, telling jokes, trying to make them laugh out loud during prayers .
. . . There was nothing in the ark save the two tables of stone, which Moses put there at Horeb, when the Lord made a covenant with the children of Israel, when they came out of the land of Egypt.
The voice stopped. Mr. Stine was closing the Bible.
“May God add His . . . ah . . . to this reading of His Holy Word.”
Stepping forward to the very edge of the stage, he lowered his head and raised his arms so that his gown hung like giant wings.
“All heads bowed. Eyes closed. The Lord’s Prayer.”
Mr. Stine delivered the prayer with strange pauses and inflections. After Lead us not into temptation, he stopped for so long that heads popped up here and there in the hall and looked round. He finished the prayer at a gallop and there was a rustle and murmur as the school sat up.
He clasped the bands of his gown and surveyed the silent rows.
“Apparently,” he said, “there are Some among you . . . they know who they are. There are Some. . . .”
His words trailed away. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at his shoes. He began to sway slightly.
“The majority of you are Decent boys and girls. You behave Decently.”
He moved the Bible into the centre of the lectern.
“I have no wish to start this term in an atmosphere of unpleasantness but the condition of the . . . ah . . . Boys’ Lavatories this morning was deplorable.”
He looked slowly round the hall. He turned to stare at the music master.
“Quite deplorable.”
From where Peter was sitting, he could see heads bending together, whispering.
“Disgusting would not be too strong a word.”
The children sat rigid and stared straight ahead.
“There was paper.”
Silence.
“Paper everywhere. And Filth. Deliberate dirty Filth!”
Somewhere in the middle of the hall, someone with a runny cold sniffed.
“Would you do this in your Own Homes?” shouted Mr. Stine.
He glared around the hall. His face was mottled.
“No! You would not! Your parents would not allow it! Nor will I allow it. Filth! Deliberate, Nasty, Filthy Dirtiness. If I catch any children being Filthy. . . .”
He stopped. Holding to the lectern, he lowered his head. In a quiet voice he said, “I cannot express. . . . It is beyond words . . . even on the walls. . . .”
His silence seemed endless. Finally, raising his head, he said, “During the holidays, the, and we must congratulate them, the . . . ah . . . First Eleven won through to the finals of the County Championship.
Dismiss.”
* * *
The room was heavy with breathing, creaks, the rustling and flick of turned pages as the class worked on the comprehension exercise. Peter drifted further down the side aisle and stopped to study the Centurion. The Centurion, Living History Number Seven, was exhorting his men, pointing his sword towards a lot of hairy ancient Britons who were jumping up and down on the opposite side of the stream. His face was a nasty salmon colour.
Peter turned away and surveyed the whispering heads and scribbling pens and then turned back again to the display board. Beside the Centurion picture was a National Geographic map of the world. In the middle of England someone had drawn a black dot. From the dot, a line shot out into the Atlantic. At the end of the line were the words: My House.
He wandered down to the back of the room and leaned against the wall behind the pretty girl, Jennifer, Jennifer Something, and gazed at the auburn down on the nape of her neck. The low bookshelves, which stretched the length of the back wall, were pressing against his thighs. Copies of the blue book, the title stamped in gold, marched all the way along every shelf. He used the book for all his literature classes, first, second, and third forms. An administrative mistake, Curtis had explained, but the money had been spent. Yet another set of the books was stacked on top of the shelves under Living History Number Eight—a Viking standing in the prow of his ship pointing his sword towards the beach.
He picked up a copy of the book. The Realm of Gold. Essays by Addison, Steele, Lamb, Hazlitt, Arnold, Belloc, and Chesterton. Milton’s Lycidas. Odd chunks of Shakespeare. The author, in his introduction, hoped that his selections would open magic casements.
Peter walked back up the aisle, glancing at exercise books as he went. Most of them would be finished in about five minutes. He sat down at his desk. He glanced at the clock.
On the desk in front of him was a stack of exercise books belonging to 2E. They had been lying there for nine days. My Atobagifry. Autobiogriphy. Attobagioph. The Story of My Autobiography. He took his red pencil out of the centre drawer.
I will learn JUDO and KRATE and beat them all and then nobody will beat me up but will look up to me and my statue in the park and they will all love me and I will be great great great and great.
He opened another book. The brief paragraph stared up at him. The first sentence read:
Last night I went to the flims with a gril.
He dropped the books back on the pile. The red second hand was sweeping round the face of the clock. Thirteen minutes to go before the end of the lesson. Thirteen minutes before dinner time. Today it was Irish Stew. He had smelled it all morning. With the Irish Stew there would be Boiled Potatoes. The vegetable would be either Diced Carrots or Diced Turnips. Irish Stew was always followed by Steamed Pudding and Custard.
Eleven minutes to dinner time; to the roar and clatter of the assembly hall and the sticky, lino-topped tables, the green plastic beakers, the aluminum cutlery.
Mr. Hottle would chew with his mouth open and say that for two shillings and sixpence a week, the food was really much better than one could expect, and then he would say: I happened to be watching TV last night and there was a most interesting program—not that I watch just anything, mind you. I suppose I’m what my wife calls a selective viewer. I was going to switch it off but it really was quite informative. About Patagonia. And while he talked about Patagonia, about juvenile gangs in Glasgow, about skin diving, about neo-Nazi movements in the New Germany, about faith healing, Mr. Carlton, the metal work teacher, would say: It’s not what I’d call fair—the present scale. What about experience? The School of Hard Knocks was where I got my degree. And then, between the stew and the pudding, he would clean his nails with a scriber. Mr. Owen Thomas would sit staring across at the next table, his eyes fixed on the two or three inches of thigh exposed by Miss C. Jones. Mr. Hottle would say: Well, if you’re quite sure you really don’t want it . . . it does seem a pity to waste. . . .
There was a knock on the door and the office monitor came in.
“Please sir, Miss Brice says you’re to go to the office urgent.”
“Thank you,” said Peter. “Just carry on with your work and get the exercise finished. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
He walked along the top corridor, past the art room where a fourth form was drawing a Chianti bottle, a plaster-of-Paris foot, and a bunch of leeks, past Mr. Hughes chanting French conjugations in a strong Welsh accent, Miss Jones, Mrs. Chetwynd, past two refugees from Owen Thomas’ backward class who ducked back into the girls’ lavatory, past the caretaker who was covering a splatter of vomit with sawdust, and down the stairs by the staff room. In the bottom corridor, the smell of Irish Stew was much stronger. He saw Miss Brice standing in her office doorway. She hurried towards him.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hendricks. It’s your mother.”
“What? What’s wrong? She isn’t. . . ?”
“Oh, no! She’s not. . . .”
“What is it?”
“It’s her arm. She caught her arm in a machine.”
They turned into the office and she pointed at the phone lying on the desk.
“Long distance,” she said.” A neighbour.”
She went over to the window and stood looking out.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Hendricks?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“Sweetie pie!” said Jeanne. “Can you talk?”
“No.”
“Well, listen. I’m in town now at a new place—I just went a few miles out to make this long distance and get the operator into the act. Call me at about three this afternoon at 337914. Got that?”
“Wait a minute.”
Peter gestured at Miss Brice and made a scribbling motion. She came over to the desk and gave him a pad and pencil. She stood watching him as he wrote down the number. She raised her eyebrows when he looked up and Peter shook his head.
“And you’re at the hospital now, are you?” he said.
“I’ve missed you,” said Jeanne. “I’m feeling very randy.”
“Good,” said Peter.
“Shall I tell you what I feel like doing?”
A desk diary. Calendar. Half-empty pot of glue.
“No. That won’t be necessary.”
“Who’s there with you?”
“How long do you think it will be?”
“It’s hot in this box,” said Jeanne, “and I feel extremely—what’s the word you always use? You know.”
“Horny,” said Peter. “Dr. Leopold Horny.”
He crushed his ear with the phone to contain her laughter.
“I’m going to have a massive party,” said Jeanne. “Probably this coming Friday—I think they’ll be away—but I’ll tell you all about that this afternoon.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Oh, Peter!”
“Yes?”
“When you call. It’s Mrs. Abercrombie.”
“Who is?”
“I am.”
“Oh, right.”
“About three, then.”
“Yes.”
“Well, keep a stiff upper thingy,” said Jeanne, and rang off.
“And they’re still giving transfusions?”
“Yes, I see.”
“The artery.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“Oh, look, there’s no need to meet me.”
“Well, it’s very kind of you. Yes. Yes. Thank you. About six o’clock then. Goodbye.”
Peter put the receiver down and stood resting his hand on the phone. He stared at the Glue pot. Slowly he raised his head and looked at Miss Brice.
“They’re still operating,” he said.
* * *
He sat at a window table in the Old Gartree so that he could see when the bus came into Gartree Square. The bar was empty except for two old men who were sitting in silence one table away. Two glasses stood in front of him, a double Scotch and a pint of bitter. He raised the Scotch to the fake hunting prints, the fake post horn, the rows of fake Dutch pewter mugs, and swallowed it in one, shuddering gulp .
. . . our sympathy. It is a most distressing and . . . ah . . . melancholy . . . ah. . . . And so. . . . He smiled into the frothy, golden beer. He had only just avoided a lift to the railway station.
The rest of the week was free; he counted. The rest of the afternoon and then all day Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Five and a half days. He traced his name in spilled beer on the Formica tabletop. Today was his day for School Dinner Supervision. He’d have to phone Stine on Friday—and he’d have to make it long distance—to say he was travelling back on Sunday. He tried to recall the form he’d filled in for the Education Authority, tried to remember whether they had his home address and telephone number. But there really wasn’t much danger. Their hopes for a speedy recovery had gone with him. He finished the beer and went up to the bar for another pint.
The landlord was stacking side plates by the cash register and sprinkling sprigs of parsley over the ham sandwiches in preparation for the lunch-time trade. A green silk ascot, sporty shirt.