by Paul Daniels
Our Art Master had been ‘hung’ at the National Gallery and the legend surrounded him of having painted his daughter in the nude. Our little boys’ minds thought that he must have kept his socks on, or where else could he have kept his brushes!
Little Billy Pearson was the most loved of our Masters. It made a great impression on me, that despite the fact that he was so tiny, whenever he came into the room, all the boys immediately stood up. We also shut up. Upon entering the room he would walk over to his high stool, put his feet on the desk and speak slowly. We all thought he was in danger of falling off, but leaning on our wooden desks, we listened to every word he uttered.
‘I am William, known popularly amongst you as little Billy.’ He then turned in my direction and snapped, ‘You! Tell me the square root of 64.’
I soon realised that the maths Master was loved because there was no malice in his abruptness and chose this technique to keep his lessons interesting. And he was deadly accurate with both the chalk and the blackboard cleaner when he spotted you talking in class.
Maths was a difficult lesson to keep lively and the homework was even worse. Once more I fell back on my dad’s ability to overcome hurdles. Even though Hughie had left school early in order to work and help support his family, he was able to help me with the most difficult of homework problems. The oddity about him was that he would solve the puzzles by using logic. Even algebraic equations were answered in this way, without him having to follow the correct mathematical formula.
‘Shiny’ Williams sat for an entire term building a strange unidentified object, which turned out to be a television set. As he sat there fiddling with the intricate mechanism, he would expound all types of wondrous and outrageous concepts.
‘Today I will tell you how to get electricity for free,’ announced the Nutty Professor. ‘First of all, you must rent a flat in a high-rise building. Buying a generator, you connect it to a battery, which will give you all your lighting for free. Attach a four-bladed paddle wheel to the generator and place this outside your high-rise building, just underneath your lounge window.
‘Next, you write away to all the brick companies for samples. When they send you their bricks, the postman will carry them all the way up to your door. As soon as he delivers them you throw them out of the window one by one.’
We sat staring at him in stunned silence.
‘Make notes, boy! Make notes, or you will not be able to take advantage of my intelligence,’ he suddenly announced glancing up from his mass of wires and knobs.
‘The bricks will hit the paddle, which will generate the electricity and recharge the battery. When the postman arrives at the bottom of the building, he will think that another lot of parcels have been delivered for you and he will pick them up and carry them back upstairs when you simply repeat the process.’
This strange, round-faced, mad scientist would give a repeat performance each week. ‘Today I will tell you how to get gas for free.’
We all sat in wonderment, notebooks at the ready.
‘First of all you have to buy a gas fridge and some plasticine,’ he began. ‘Now what you do is this: locate your gas meter, probably found in your understairs cupboard. An oddity of these meters is that they all “dimple” down at the bottom of the coin-collecting box. Find the lowest point and drill a very fine, pinpoint hole, in the bottom of this metal box.
‘Take your plasticine and, after warming it up, place your shilling coin into the surface, press it down to make the shape of the coin. After carefully removing the shilling from the plasticine, fill the mould you have made with water and place it in the freezer part of your gas fridge. Let it freeze for several hours before easing the ice shilling out of the mould and quickly place it in the coin slot of your gas meter. Once inside, the ice will melt, leaving no trace as to how you got your free gas.’
We all sat with eyes wide open.
‘Finally, I will give you some additional advice. Put the shilling mould underneath the hole you drilled in the meter, so that when the ice melts it will drip into the mould and you won’t run up your water bill!’
We left the lesson in stunned silence and how many boys actually went home and tried to put his ideas into practice I shall never know.
I think our woodwork Master had the right idea, when he showed us how to turn, carve and create wooden items, which he then used to furnish his own home. As I lathed knobs for his dressers, other boys would be working on another part of the project and it all reminded me of a construction factory. It was a good way to teach, simply because we were all involved in creating something that was going to be put to good use. I hated the thought of spending time making something just for the sake of it, only for your item to be thrown away or sat in a cupboard. Construction lessons were such fun, that I began to consider training as a woodwork teacher. It would certainly be following somewhat in the footsteps of my greatest hero, my dad. But then he was good at everything!
English Literature was my favourite subject and essays were my favourite homework. I just rattled them off, almost without thinking, and somehow managed to balance them into correctly sized paragraphs. Reading this book you may disagree, but remember, the young are always cleverer. Just ask them.
We got a new headmaster at the school – Mr Barker – who came from the military education system, or so the rumour had it. He gave the appearance of being a big, strong man, although in retrospect I think he was just one of those wide men. Not fat, just wide.
After a few weeks of his lessons and his giving me full marks on every essay, he was giving a lesson on Shakespeare and was discoursing on how Shakespeare rewrote his works and honed them down to make them perfect in metre and tone and balance and so on. To my amazement, I heard my voice saying, ‘I don’t think so.’ The world around me faded away into total silence as Mr Barker, interrupted in full flow, slowly turned to look at the minuscule, newly professed genius on Shakespeare. I did my best to become even more minuscule under his gaze but I didn’t manage the disappearing act I longed for.
‘And how, Daniels, have you arrived at this observation?’
My mouth went to work again. ‘Well, that’s more or less what you said I had done in an essay a few weeks ago, and I didn’t. I just wrote it that way first time because it felt right. I think that sometimes academics try to discover too many hidden meanings in what people like Shakespeare just felt like saying at the time and just felt it was right to write that way.’
Total silence and then, ‘Interesting. You may well be right.’
What a teacher. No put-down in front of the class. He let me think and later I admitted he might be right as well.
My love of English led to early appearances in front of an ‘audience’. One of the competitions between the school’s houses was for selected members of the house to sight-read from books chosen by the Masters. You were assessed on your ability to understand instantly the words on the page at the exact moment you opened the book. You had to speak clearly and with meaning in such a way that the entire school, sitting out front, would be able to appreciate what you were reading about. Despite being timid, I somehow enjoyed the opportunity to stand in front of the school and communicate the written word. There was even applause at the end, and somehow these few moments gave me a sense of achievement.
Some lads, of course, decided to start smoking, hiding around corners and in the toilets and pretending to be grown up. I tried it. For the life of me I couldn’t see any sense in setting fire to money to get a taste of old smoke in your mouth and on your clothes. It didn’t seem very grown up to me and, now that science has shown us the odds against you living a full and active life as you get to old age, it seems the silliest of things for young people to do.
Notwithstanding my admiration for the teachers and the system at Coatham, I generally disliked school and yearned to escape into a world that seemed to offer much more fun and usefulness. One of the main problems was that most of the teaching was performed by rote. Mecha
nical repetition of a subject in no way interested me. If I had been given the reason why I should learn logarithms, trigonometry and geometry, I might have learnt them, but I failed to see what use any of these skills would be in my life. I wish their usefulness had been outlined, as I would have grasped their importance and perhaps would have become something better than I am today.
Equally, I am astonished at the incredible amount of ‘man-hours’ that are wasted in school teaching children things that are never used again. By all means acquaint them to just above the basic level, but if their chosen occupation requires them to use these ‘fringe’ skills, then let their employer teach them and in so doing save the nation money. Even back then I used to think, about many things, ‘I’ll never use this; why am I learning it?’
It’s rubbish when parents suggest that our schooldays are the best years our lives. Life is much fuller and far more interesting in later years.
Even in early teens nothing got under my skin faster than a demand that was morally unfair. When I came across a situation that I felt was unjust, I simply dug my heels in. One such occasion happened on one of the few days when Mam was unwell and I had to join the other boys for lunch in the large boarding house hall attached to the school. The following story is like a mirror of a scene from the film Oliver.
‘Red Barns’ had long wooden dining tables at which 20 or so pupils sat waiting with a Master at the head of each table. We sat in silence as waitresses arrived with stacks of plates, which we passed down the line from one boy to the next and back up the opposite side. I wondered how long everything would stay hot if this long process was repeated with the arrival of the food. My fears were to be proved even worse when a huge dollop of fatty stew suddenly arrived on my cold plate. My stomach started to retch as I stared down at the globules of fat that were bobbing around in the thin liquid. I knew that if I tried to eat any of it, I would vomit. I hate fat more than I hate cheese sauce.
Trying to work around the mess on my plate, I ate the vegetables and even the occasional piece of meat, but I was acutely aware that the Master’s eyes were viewing my struggle. He who shall be obeyed was sat on my immediate right and was the most unpopular teacher in the school. Now, out of the corner of my eye I could clearly see him frowning at my attempts to avoid further embarrassment and hoped his fiery attention would not be awakened.
I continued to navigate my fork around the six-inch cubes of solid fat which looked up at me from the bottom of my plate when two words were abruptly shot into my ear: ‘Eat them.’
Looking up at his harsh face, I was acutely aware for the first time of what happens to me when I’m in danger. I felt icy cold and everything seemed to slow down.
‘No, Sir. I am not able to, Sir.’
‘Eat it,’ came the cold reply.
‘No, Sir. If I eat that I will be sick,’ I reasoned. ‘You will eat everything on your plate!’ came the demand, now raising his voice a little.
‘No, Sir, I won’t eat it.’ During the unfolding drama, the table had been cleared in readiness for dessert, but I was left staring at my plate with the lumps of fat floating like white boats on a brown pond.
‘Your parents have paid for you to eat it.’
To which I calmly replied, ‘therefore I am responsible to my parents and not to you.’ The whole table was instantly enveloped in a deathly hush as the Master mentally reviewed his options.
‘You will eat it!’ came the increasingly agitated response.
‘No, Sir, I cannot.’
Just at that moment, a large tureen of rice pudding arrived in front of him, ready for him to serve it down the lines of nervous-looking boys. ‘If you do not eat it, you will not have dessert,’ he announced.
My response was quick, sharp and justified. ‘My parents have paid for me to eat the dessert.’ With the words now out of my mouth, I resigned myself to the fact that I was about to die.
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that! Eat your dinner this instant! If you don’t you will have no rice pudding!’ he screamed.
‘In that case,’ I retorted, moving incredibly slowly, ‘neither will anyone else.’ With that, I stood up, grabbed hold of the edge of the bowl and tipped it into his lap.
The Master screamed. The rice pudding was hot. So was my backside when I immediately received six of the best cane strokes he had probably ever delivered in his entire career. It stung severely and made my eyes water, but I didn’t care. For a while, I was a hero amongst my mates.
* * *
I spent most of my time at school minding my own business and getting on with my work, but there was another occasion when I felt I was being treated unfairly. It happened when a tall prefect walked down the morning assembly line and falsely accused me.
‘You were talking, Daniels. Six of the best in the break!’
‘But, Sir, I wasn’t …’ I spluttered.
‘Shut up! Six of the best,’ he threatened angrily.
Having already experienced ‘six of the best’ for a ‘crime’, there was no way that I was going to bend over a chair and allow this big kid to strike me on my bottom for being innocent. I had honestly not talked in the line and felt it quite reasonable not to go to his room at the break. So I didn’t. At lunchtime the prefect came looking for me and, by the look on his face, was obviously not a happy bunny.
‘Straight after school, you will come to the Prefects’ room, Daniels!’
‘But, Sir, I wasn’t…’
‘Be quiet and do as I say, Daniels!’
The same scenario was repeated without giving me an opportunity to speak and, instead of visiting his room after school, I went straight home. Upon arriving back at school the next morning, a very hot, red-faced prefect pulled me out of the line and shouted for me to go straight to his room. I was aware of 100 eyes following me as I walked down the corridor to the sound of my own footsteps. Instead of turning left into his room, I turned right, made a short cut through the cloisters, picked up my satchel from the form room locker and strolled straight out of the gates. I boarded the next bus home and arrived while Mam was in the middle of the washing.
Extremely hesitant to tell Mam at first, she eventually persuaded me to give her the full details and I held back the tears as I made my way through the story.
‘Do you mean to tell me that other boys are allowed to smack you?’ was her first comment. I had assumed that this was normal and acceptable.
‘Yes, Mam.’
Despite being 4ft 10in when her socks are wet, my red-haired matriarch could have an extremely fiery temper. ‘What?!’ she shouted. With eyes widening, she immediately ran to get her coat with my appeals to calm down completely drowned by angry mutterings. We travelled the six miles back on the bus together, with steam coming out of Mam’s ears. Every inch of the way I tried in earnest to dissuade her from taking up the gauntlet, but it was pretty obvious that nothing would stop her now. My pleas fell on deaf ears.
Once through the school gates, she dragged me in her wake as she burst into the school via the door that was out of bounds to me. Storming straight past the astonished male receptionist, she stomped her way down the echoing corridor until arriving outside the headmaster’s office, whereupon she did a wonderful impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger (who hadn’t been heard of yet) by kicking the door open. The headmaster, who had been quietly studying some papers, stood up as if a bomb had been placed under his backside. Barker had never seen such a small woman make such a big entrance!
By this time, I was in a state of nervous shock, but Mam proceeded with her mission which I was convinced would end with even more retribution being meted out upon me. All I could think of was that this man Barker was ten times as big as the prefect and probably had a strong right hand to match. Now, as his tiny visitor, trailing an even tinier boy, moved up to his desk, he calmly and politely greeted her with, ‘Yes, Madam, how may I help you?’
‘Are you aware of the fact that my son is allowed to be publicly beaten by another boy?
’ she bellowed.
‘Well, Madam, you see, I have only recently joined the school. There are certain traditions here and although they have been here for over 100 years, I don’t entirely agree with them either, but they take time to change.’ I was flabbergasted at his apparent acceptance of Mam’s position and listened as he continued. ‘However, I’m sorry but your son has to be punished.’
My heart sank again as vastly exaggerated pictures of his ability with a cane flashed through my terrified mind. I stood incredulous, as Mam not only proceeded to agree, but suggested the worst thing my small boy’s mind could have imagined. ‘You can punish him, but the other boys must not touch him.’
The words didn’t reach my lips, but my face must have read like a book. ‘Mother! This is a stupid decision; he’s bigger than the prefect! This guy has just come out of the Army, just look at his muscles!’
As I started to shake, Barker turned to me and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Daniels, you must be punished. You will write me an essay on what is wrong with this school.’
Shock, astonishment and relief must have been written across my forehead in the beads of sweat that had begun to drip on to my collar. I wrote my essay and over the next two years everything that I had suggested was changed. Discipline and respect, including touching your hat as a Master walked past, I felt should remain, but many of the other ‘traditions’ should not. I had discovered that standing firm for fairness eventually brought its just rewards.
CHAPTER 3