Under the Osakan Sun

by Hamish Beaton

  One day Mr Higo admitted that he was learning a great deal about foreign people from our classes.‘I like our classes,’ he enthused. ‘They teach me about how to work with foreign people. I enjoy that. But there is one thing that I very much want to learn.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, happy to oblige.

  ‘I must learn how to play cricket. I think that we should play cricket during next week’s English class.’

  I was delighted but a little reluctant. I had not swung a cricket bat in over a year, and missed the sport terribly, but I was worried that the students would be unable to get the hang of it. However, after the debacle of the students v. teachers running race I had learned not to underestimate them.

  Once the rules were straightened out and altered a little, the boys really got into it. The girls, though, were another matter. They appeared barely able to run, let alone quickly. The bowling action proved impossible, as did throwing, catching, underarm rolling, fielding, batting, running and other basic actions that most humans take for granted.

  In no time, the boys took control and elected themselves to both bat and bowl. One team was short a player, so I was allowed to fill in. I was eager to get off the mark.

  The first ball I faced was wide down the offside and I padded it away with my left leg. This brought loud applause from both the fielding and batting teams. Such a feat of heroics is unheard of in baseball, and I was declared manly for putting my body on the line.

  The next ball was pitched short and I was upon it in seconds. The blade of my bat flashed and I struck the ball cleanly. It whizzed through the gymnasium at great speed and struck a girl who had her back turned, clean in the calf. She crumpled into a startled heap and I made a quick single. This brought another huge cheer from the batting side, but the girls were now horrified and sheltering in the corner.

  I eventually got back on strike after my partner managed to score a run by hitting the ball with the handle of his bat. The time limit I had imposed meant this would be my last time on strike, and possibly the last time I would play cricket for another year. I decided to make the most of it. The poor bowler was still struggling to throw the ball without bending his arm. I advanced down the pitch menacingly. As I expected, he faltered and the result was a gift of a delivery. Again, I struck the ball cleanly with the meat of the bat. It soared through the air and scattered a bunch of fourteen-year-old girls, before clearing the boundary ropes for six.

  February proved to be cold, nasty and surprisingly busy, with little or no time for surfing the internet or reading trashy novels at my desk. I was suddenly required to teach lessons and endure five-day working weeks.

  I received many inquiries from family and friends who were intrigued with the misadventures of the unhinged woodwork teacher, Mr Doi. However, I was unable to supply an update as Mr Doi had been mysteriously absent from work for three weeks. During the first three days, the other teachers had assumed he was merely in his office and did not want to disturb him. The students had gone to woodwork class and sat at their desks for an entire period without raising the alarm and alerting anyone to his non-attendance.

  After a week had gone by, Mr Doi had phoned to say he was ‘injured’ – and then there was silence. After three weeks, rumours abounded as to what might have happened to him. The students believed he had been fired, while Mr Higo, who had the misfortune of occupying the desk next to him in the staffroom, was convinced he had skipped town and was having a holiday in Shikoku. I, meanwhile, speculated that he had somehow succeeded in reaching the Korean peninsula and was not intending to return any time soon.

  As to the nature and details of his supposed injury, no one had any idea. Apparently a doctor’s certificate had been produced, but no one was taking it seriously. With the end of the school year less than a month away, my hopes were high that Mr Doi would be terminated and his contract discontinued. However, I had a sinking suspicion that my arch nemesis would be back.

  With Mr Doi away, an atmosphere of normality returned to the staffroom.

  My only remaining problem with life at Kanan Junior High School was Mr Hioki and his mind-numbing classes. Fortunately, though, this was more than balanced by the two other happy and amusing English teachers.

  Mrs Takaoka and I had developed a popular teaching routine. Our early lesson in which I had drunk strawberry milk and eaten chocolate in front of the gob-smacked class was well remembered, and the students, now second-graders, enthusiastically involved themselves in lessons, and resented any fellow students who attempted to disrupt and derail the lessons and games. There was seldom any need for discipline.

  I was, therefore, horrified when, on a cold February morning, Mrs Takaoka arrived at my desk and announced that she had resigned. Mrs Takaoka had always been a good friend, and had made a special effort to involve me in the events of the school. Now, however, she had been nominated to join the Kawachi Nagano City Council and was to start her new job immediately. In fact, she said tearfully, she had only three days to say her farewells and prepare for her departure.

  The ratio of good and bad English teachers now hung precariously in the balance. Mr Matsuno, Mrs Takoka’s replacement, arrived soon after-wards. A substitute teacher, he had been unemployed for the past six months. He arrived at the school wearing a dark blue three-piece suit, black horn-rimmed glasses, and a neatly combed haircut that made him look more like an accountant than a teacher.

  I was keen to introduce myself and get our relationship off to a cordial start. ‘Good morning. Mr Matsuno, isn’t it?’ I said cheerfully. ‘My name is Hamish. We will be working together. Pleased to meet you.’

  Mr Matsuno blinked in alarm and started sweating profusely. He mopped his brow with a shaky hand, and stammered out a panicky greeting in Japanese. ‘He … he … hello…I have never spoken wi … wi … with a foreigner before. I … I … I am very shy. Pur … pur … pur … please forgive me for not speaking good English.’

  I was both surprised and concerned at Mr Matsuno’s terrified reaction to my presence. I excused myself, and allowed him to rest his nerves in a foreigner-free environment.

  I was scheduled to meet Mr Matsuno the following afternoon to discuss the lesson plan for our first class together. His frayed nerves and terror of dealing with foreigners seemed to have festered and grown overnight. When I sat down in a chair next to him, he started sweating and began to pant nervously. He tried to speak, and his words caught in his throat.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he finally gasped, steadying himself against his desk.

  I was baffled. What on earth was going on?

  Mr Matsuno’s panic attack increased. He started shaking, and his face flushed purple.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked, now very worried.

  Mr Matsuno continued to shake and pant. ‘Excuse me,’ he stammered again. He quickly stood up and walked away.

  I sat stone still, stunned by the reaction Mr Matsuno was having to me. Did I smell?

  Mr Matsuno was talking to Mr Hioki. Mr Hioki nodded slowly, and then both he and Mr Matsuno walked towards me. Mr Hioki seemed embarrassed. Mr Matsuno started shaking again.

  ‘Hello, Mr Hamish,’ Mr Hioki began slowly. ‘Um, Mr Matsuno seems to be having problems speaking to you. He has never met a foreigner before and is too shy to talk to you. He has asked if I will talk to you on his behalf.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Please don’t worry. We can speak in Japanese if Mr Matsuno would prefer.’

  Mr Hioki relayed my comment to Mr Matsuno. Mr Matsuno’s panting had stopped, and his sweating seemed more under control. He started babbling incoherently. Mr Hioki blinked in surprise; even he couldn’t understand what was going on.

  ‘Shall I talk with you in private?’ Mr Hioki asked Mr Matsuno kindly. ‘We can talk to Mr Hamish again later.’

  Mr Matsuno nodded. He seemed relieved.

  I returned to my desk very concerned about working with someone who was unable to be in the same room as me without suffering a panic attack. T
his was certainly going to impede our performance in the classroom.

  Mr Hioki approached me at my desk half an hour later. ‘Thank you for being patient with Mr Matsuno,’ he said warmly. ‘He seems very shy around you. He is very nervous about talking to foreigners.’ Mr Hioki paused. His body language suggested that he was as puzzled by Mr Matsuno as I was. ‘Yes,’ Mr Hioki continued, ‘Mr Matsuno is very worried about teaching with you. He does not know how to work with foreigners, so he asked for my suggestions.’

  I froze. I could see where this was leading.

  ‘And so,’ Mr Hioki began, ‘I gave him a copy of some of my lesson plans.’ I grimaced as Mr Hioki handed me a copy of his original ABC song and ‘How are you? I’m fine’ lesson sheets.

  ‘Mr Matsuno really likes these,’ he said happily. ‘He would like to use my lesson plans in his classes with you.’

  The balance of good and bad English teachers was suddenly swinging in a dangerous direction.

  Mr Matsuno did not come to school the following day. When I made discreet inquiries, I was told that he had ‘taken the day off’.

  He returned the day after and approached my desk boldly, head and shoulders erect, with a confident smile on his face. ‘Good morning, Mr Hamish,’ he remarked casually.

  I blinked. Who was this remarkably confident person? Where was the spluttering gasping nervous Mr Matsuno? What miraculous transformation had taken place overnight?

  ‘Ah, good morning Mr Matsuno,’ I said carefully, not wanting to frighten him away with any loud noises or sudden movements. ‘You were absent yesterday. Are you okay?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Mr Matsuno beamed happily. ‘I was drinking yesterday. I drank many, many beers. I like beer. I became very drunk. Now I am relaxed. Now I can talk to you easily. Please forgive my nervousness the other day.’

  I was concerned at the Jekyll and Hyde metamorphosis that had taken place with the aid of an overdose of alcohol. This did not bode well for the future.

  ‘Would you like to discuss our lesson plan for tomorrow morning?’ I asked.

  Mr Matsuno nodded. ‘I have already spoken with Mr Hioki. He gave me some very good ideas.’

  I commented that the second-grade students spoke a much better level of English than Mr Hioki’s small children, and perhaps I should plan the lesson myself.

  Mr Matsuno pondered this. ‘Yes,’ he announced after some time. ‘That sounds like a great idea. You make the lesson plan. That is very good. So please, you can do all the teaching. I will sit in the corner and watch you. This way I can get used to working with you.’

  The following day proved relatively successful. Mr Matsuno had been out again the night before and was in easy-going mood. ‘I went drinking last night,’ he enthused as we walked to the classroom together. ‘I had very many beers. I became very drunk, so I feel very calm today. I sang lots of karaoke too. Do you like karaoke? I sang many Frank Sinatra songs. Do you like Frank Sinatra songs?’

  I nodded. Mr Matsuno’s smile spread from ear to ear. ‘Perhaps we should go to a karaoke bar sometime?’ he suggested. I did not need to respond. We had entered the classroom, and the students were waiting for our lesson to begin.

  The second class proved a little more difficult. Mrs Takaoka and I had always had a problem with the students of 2-E class, who were prone to clowning about, and Mrs Takaoka had occasionally needed to reprimand them. Several students talked throughout the lesson and refused to quieten down when I asked them to. I was disappointed to notice that during this Mr Matsuno steadfastly stared out the window.

  Sadly, Mr Matsuno’s topsy-turvy mental state was to have a negative effect on the students’ concentration levels. As the weeks went by, I began to notice that behaviour in Mr Matsuno’s classes was slowly deteriorating. The second-grade students had always been my favourites, and had taken part in class eagerly and enthusiastically. Now, after only a few weeks with stammering Mr Matsuno, the girls were chattering and giggling noisily, and the boys were throwing objects at each other and refusing to take part in group activities.

  After a month, the second-grade classes had lost all semblance of discipline. While Mr Matsuno or I were talking, boys would walk around the classroom kicking chairs and being insolent. Girls yelled and there was non-stop talking.

  It was a Tuesday morning, and I was patiently trying to battle my way through 2-E, the final second-grade class of the day. I was tired, and trying to get the students to follow my lesson plan and complete a grammar worksheet. Before class, Mr Matsuno and I had rehearsed an English dialogue that accompanied the worksheet, and I indicated to Mr Matsuno that it was time for us to perform this.

  It was here that Mr Matsuno let me down. Halfway through the dialogue that we had performed so well together during the other four classes, he disappeared out of the room in search of the class roll. I was flabbergasted. The students started yelling and kicking chairs. Shortly afterwards Mr Matsuno returned with the roll book and proceeded to check for absent students. I thrust the dialogue sheet into his hand, and hissed that we needed to continue with the lesson plan. He shrugged: he had forgotten what we were doing.

  By this stage, the students had lost interest in the class and were refusing to fill in the grammar worksheet or take part in the game. I finally decided to take matters into my own hands. I stopped the class and instructed Mr Matsuno to come up the front and translate what I said next.

  I then rounded on the students in loud, angry English and proceeded to tell them that I was sick and tired of them playing up and being idiots. I insisted that they treat my lessons with more respect, and added that they would never have acted like this with Mrs Takaoka present.

  I went on for a while, singling out kids and scolding them in rapid-fire English. I knew they would understand nothing of what I was saying, but I figured that they had never seen me angry before and that my deep scary voice and body language would speak volumes.

  No one made a peep.

  But then Mr Matsuno tapped me on the shoulder and told me to calm down. ‘That’s enough,’ he whispered. ‘Please be quiet, Mr Hamish.’ In Japanese culture, to do this was a complete insult. It showed that, in Mr Matsuno’s eyes, what I had just said was completely meaningless and that he knew better than I did.

  ‘I’m not finished!’ I snapped, and he let go of my shoulder. A girl laughed and I gave her a thirty-second telling-off. She went white and shut up.

  I finally finished and Mr Matsuno rushed in to try and ‘fix things up’. He began translating my angry lecture into Japanese, but it wasn’t until several moments later that I calmed down sufficiently to understand what he was saying.

  ‘Poor Mr Hamish came to this country because he loves Japan and the Japanese people,’ Mr Matsuno stammered. ‘But his family is very, very far away in another country, and he is now very sad and homesick. We must help Mr Hamish not to be upset and homesick any more. Shall we all try and be kind to poor Mr Hamish?’

  I was too tired to object, and not up to conducting an argument in Japanese. The students were still dead quiet. The bell rang and I walked angrily out of the classroom.

  Once he was in the relative safety of the staffroom, Mr Matsuno raced over to my desk and apologised profusely on behalf of the students, claiming that the misbehaviour had not been overly serious and should be overlooked. ‘I think it was simply a misunderstanding and a difference of cultures,’ he declared.

  I didn’t say a word, but at lunchtime I left the school and ate my lunch in solitude beside the concrete-lined fishing pond next to the town hall. It took me some time to calm down and return. As well as feeling a mixture of anger, frustration and embarrassment at having blown my top, I was concerned that my reputation with the students as a happy, easygoing teacher would be in jeopardy.

  Mr Higo smiled as I entered the staffroom. ‘Ha ha, I hear you scolded your students.’ He laughed. ‘One of the boys in the baseball team told me at lunchtime. He said the students were very naughty and that you became angry.’
>
  I relaxed. Mr Higo’s laughter was always infectious. I explained the situation and my concerns about damaging my rapport with the students. Mr Higo pondered this for a moment and then assured me that I was worrying needlessly. ‘The students will forget all about this after a couple of days,’ he assured me. ‘It was good for you to scold them.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘I hear Mr Matsuno is not such a good teacher.’

  I thanked him for his reassurance and resumed my busy schedule of eating chocolate and drinking coffee.

  Mr Higo was right. My outburst was soon forgotten and my happy relationships with the second-grade students remained intact. If anything, 2-E now treated me with more respect, and no longer acted up during class. I was relieved that things seemed to be sorting themselves out amicably, and approached my lessons with a positive attitude.

  Sadly, though, Mr Matsuno’s self-medicating alcoholic binges were no longer calming his nerves and it was only a matter of time before he snapped. This occurred only a week after my outburst, and took everyone completely by surprise.

  Everything started calmly enough. Mr Matsuno and I were teaching 2-D, the best behaved homeroom class in the second grade. The students were the brightest and most enthusiastic English students in the school, and they were always a joy to teach. I had not encountered a single problem with 2-D all year.

  I was midway through the lesson, and had just finished explaining the rules of a word game I had already played three times with the other second-grade classes. While I was busy writing up the scoreboard on the blackboard, I strayed from the usual teaching plan by just a fraction. I asked the six teams of students to think up team names for themselves. This harmless request was intended to keep the students quiet and preoccupied while my back was turned writing on the blackboard.

  The class managed to produce several team names, most of which were Japanese words, and random and imaginative. One team had called themselves ‘???’ and another team’s name translated as ‘Sexy something or other’. On the whole there was nothing too outrageous.