‘The moon?’ I replied.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sir Alex Clegg, former Chief Education Officer of the West Riding of Yorkshire, once said that “the good teacher expects the moon”.’
Mr Swan smiled cynically and there was a long, deep in-drawing of breath. ‘Did he indeed?’
‘And do you set homework?’ I asked.
‘Homework? No, I do not set homework. What is the point? These boys would never do homework.’
‘Well, I would disagree!’
‘Mr Phinn, have you ever taught pupils like this?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Well, I’ve taught them for rather longer, I think. They’re not your grammar school high-fliers, you know. These lads will end up in manual jobs, that’s if they’re lucky, and not become university professors and brain surgeons. You can’t make silk purses out of sows’ ears. It’s all very well school inspectors coming in telling teachers what they should and shouldn’t do, they don’t have to do it. Anyway, I’m only here to help the school out.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘I took early retirement a few years ago but was asked to come in to take the classes of Mrs Simkins who is on maternity leave. You just can’t get teachers to come in to take this sort of pupil. I’m doing the school a favour, if you must know, and precious little thanks I appear to be getting for it.’
‘Really.’ Some favour I thought. ‘And what is the development of this lesson?’
‘How do you mean?’ His face was white, his mouth tight with displeasure.
‘Having got the pupils to learn the various collective nouns, what do you do next?’
‘I teach them that the collective noun always takes the singular form of the verb.’ He then launched into a diatribe. ‘You hear so much misuse of the English language on the television and radio. People seem incapable of speaking correctly. Newspapers are full of spelling errors. Teachers come out of college these days with no training in grammar. I blame all those trendy methods teachers have been forced to use. I never took any notice of the hare-brained ideas churned out by lecturers and inspectors.’ I could see by his expression that he felt I was part and parcel of this trendy movement.
I sighed. ‘But you are dealing with a group of boys, Mr Swan, who have very limited language skills. They need to develop their command of basic reading and writing through clear, structured and appropriate work.’
He seemed undaunted by my comments. ‘Well, that’s what I’ve just been saying, isn’t it? They are incapable. These boys are very weak academically. In fact, this class are the weakest in the year.’
‘Is,’ I corrected.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Is,’ I repeated. ‘This class is the weakest in the year, “class” being a collective noun and taking the singular form of the verb.’
‘If you will excuse me,’ he said, as if he hadn’t heard me, ‘it is lunch-time.’ With that he walked out of the classroom.
12
Towards the end of the lunch break I returned to the Headteacher’s room feeling most depressed and wondering how Mr Fenton would react to the damning report I would, no doubt, be presenting to him at the end of the day.
There was a broad, tweed-suited individual with Mr Fenton. I recognised, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, the thick neck, florid face and shiny mop of hair of Councillor George Peterson.
The visitor grinned like a frog on seeing me enter the room. ‘Ah, so it’s Mester Phinn, is it!’ he exclaimed. ‘We meet again.’
‘Good afternoon, Councillor Peterson,’ I said, holding out a hand.
‘I see you know each other,’ said Mr Fenton, indicating a chair. ‘Do sit down, Mr Phinn. I wondered where you had got to. I got you a sandwich. I hope you like ham. Councillor Peterson is one of our governors and also an old boy of the school.’
‘He went to see the wife’s school last term,’ Councillor Peterson told Mr Fenton, ‘and then we were interviewing for t’classics job ovver t’town at t’grammar. That were a rum do, and no mistake.’ He paused to scratch his mop of hair. ‘So what you doing in Sunny Grove today, then?’
‘Observing lessons and assessing the quality of the teaching and learning,’ I explained before taking a bite of the sandwich.
‘My wife were abaat as ’appy as a legless donkey when she got ’ome after your inspection visit to ’er school. I ’ad to get mi own tea, she was in such a state. I don’t know what yer said, because she wouldn’t tell me, but it dint gu down too well, I can tell thee that.’
‘I’m sorry about that, Councillor.’
‘Nay, don’t thee go apologisin’, Mester Phinn. Tha’s got nowt to be sorry abaat. Thy ’as a job o’ work to do. I said to my wife, I said, that’s what inspectors do – pick spots, see what’s goin’ on, check that everythin’s as it should be and find out what’s up. That’s what they do – go round schools inspectin’. I said to ’er, it’s like blamin’ traffic wardens for clampin’ yer car on a double yella line or a dentist sayin’ you need a tooth out. That’s what they’re paid for, not to tell thee that everythink in t’garden’s rosy. That dint gu down too well, neither.’
‘I’m sorry that Mrs Peterson took my report so badly,’ I told him. ‘It really was pretty positive.’
‘That’s human nature, I’m afraid,’ said the Headteacher. ‘However much praise is given, it’s the niggling little negatives which we tend to remember.’
Again, I wondered how he would respond to my report. There would be no ‘niggling little negatives’.
‘She soon changed ’er mind after you’d gone in and spent a bit o’ time with the children,’ continued the councillor. ‘Teachin’ ’em poetry, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Aye, she come home well pleased after that.’
‘I’m very relieved,’ I said, and indeed I was.
‘Don’t see t’point of poetry myself, Mester Phinn. Like Latin and Greek. I don’t see the relevance. Never could. Poetry’s not going to get these lads a job, is it? They need to be able to write decent letters of application and add up.’ I did not respond but saw in Mr Fenton’s eyes a weary look of resignation. I prayed that Councillor Peterson would not be remaining in the school to hear my report. ‘So, how’s this morning gone?’
‘It’s been very interesting,’ I said diplomatically.
‘Aye, well it’s a good school, this. Course, the lads aren’t going to break any records when it comes to exams but they come out of this school a grand set of young men. Don’t they, Alfred?’
‘I would like to think so, George,’ said the Headteacher. ‘I’m very proud of them.’
‘I’ve been most impressed with the pupils,’ I said.
‘So, what teachers ’ave you seen so far?’ Councillor Peterson asked, sticking out a formidable bottom jaw and fixing me with his large pale eyes.
‘I observed Mr Armstrong and Mr Swan this morning,’ I told him.
‘He used to teach me, did Mester Swan when I was ’ere, back in t’dim and distant past. By God, is ’e still going?’
‘He’s filling in for the time being,’ explained the Head-teacher, ‘doing some supply work during Mrs Simkins’ absence. I must say, Mr Swan is finding it rather different from when you were at the school.’
‘’e must be gettin’ a bit long in t’tooth by now,’ continued Councillor Peterson. ‘I reckon ’e were a fair old age when I was at school because ’is ’air were grey then. He were a good teacher was Mester Swan. One of t’old school.’
‘But times have changed, Councillor,’ I said and, taking a deep breath, continued, ‘and a lot of the old school methods and ideas are inappropriate in this day and age. I’m afraid I did not find Mr Swan a good teacher and shall be describing his very poor lesson in some detail in my report.’
‘Oh dear,’ I heard Mr Fenton murmur.
Councillor Peterson’s jaw dropped. ‘By the ’eck, Mester Phinn,’ he chuckled, �
�tha’ dun’t mince words. Thar a regular Yorkshireman and no mistake. I can see what mi wife means.’
*
The first lesson of the afternoon was a great improvement on the morning’s. The teacher, a bubbly, enthusiastic young woman called Miss Mullane, had prepared a lesson based on a novel set at the time of the Second World War which the second-year pupils were reading. She used well-chosen illustrations and probing questions to develop understanding of ideas and motives. ‘What do you think it was like for the evacuee children?’ ‘How would you react to leaving home to stay in a stranger’s house in the country?’ ‘What would you miss most?’ ‘How would the parents feel?’ ‘Can you predict what might happen next?’ She encouraged the boys to explore character in greater depth, whilst sensitively supporting the less able, helping them to stay interested and involved by the use of questions matched to their abilities and interests. She required them to justify a point of view, refer to the text, relate to their own experiences and examine the use of language.
The atmosphere in the classroom was warm and supportive, and the boys responded well to the teacher, clearly enjoying her touches of humour. Miss Mullane had a real empathy with, and respect for, the pupils and, unlike Mr Swan, had high expectations of their success. She encouraged, directed, suggested, questioned, challenged and developed the pupils’ understanding in an atmosphere of good humour and enjoyment.
The classroom environment was wonderfully bright and attractive with appropriate displays of posters, photographs and artefacts which gave the pupils a feel for the period in which the novel was set. Children had talked to their grandmothers and grandfathers about their war memories and there were poems, stories, commentaries, descriptions, letters, diary entries and anecdotes – a whole range of writing related to the Second World War.
As usual, I spent part of the lesson examining the pupils’ exercise books. The work was varied and well presented and carefully marked in pencil. One pupil, imagining he had just arrived at his new home, had written his piece in the form of a diary entry. Another was composing a letter home describing his experiences. A third boy was busy with a playscript based on a conversation between the billeting officer and a villager who refused to take an evacuee.
‘What are you writing?’ I asked a cheerful-looking boy scribbling away at the front desk.
‘It’s an account based on the novel we’re reading. I’m this evacuee, you see, sent from the city into the country to stay with this old couple who are not used to children. I’m writing my story of the journey and my fears and hopes and feelings.’
I looked at the neat, clear writing and nodded. ‘This is very good,’ I said. ‘You really describe things well. Some good details in here. You seem to know a lot about the war.’
‘Thank you,’ said the boy smiling. He stared at me for a moment before asking, ‘Were you an evacuee, sir?’
‘No, I was born just after the war. My brother was, though, and we have a photograph of him on the station platform at Sheffield in his uniform, with his gas mask in a cardboard box and his little leather suitcase. He looked really sad to be going.’
‘Why was he in uniform, sir? Was he a soldier?’
‘No, no, but all the children had to wear their uniform. They looked very smart.’
‘Was he in the Hitler Youth, then?’
‘School uniform,’ I said laughing.
Things are looking up, I thought to myself, as I headed for the final lesson of the day. I entered the school hall to find two groups of large, aggressive-looking boys facing each other like street gangs ready for a fight. There was no sign of a teacher. I stood frozen to the spot.
The leader of one group thrust his face forward, curled his lip and spat out the words, ‘So, are ya looking for a fight then? Because if ya are…’ Those behind him shouted encouragement, gestured and pulled faces. The leader of the other group moved forward slowly and threateningly, maintaining a carefully blank expression on his face.
‘No, I’m not looking for a fight,’ he mouthed deliberately, stressing each word, ‘but, if I was, I could sort you out. I could spit on ya and drown ya. So, if you fancy your chances…’
His supporters jumped up and down, jeering and roaring with laughter, taunting the other group with gestures and silly faces. One small boy, with large glasses and wielding a ruler like a sword, tried to intervene.
‘Look!’ he shouted. ‘Stop! You shouldn’t be doing this! There’s bound to be trouble. We’ve been told not to fight again. You’ve got to stop!’
A lad as large as a bear, with close-cropped hair and hands like spades, grabbed him by his coat and pushed him away. He mimicked his voice. ‘Oh stop, you’ll get into trouble.’ He then pulled what looked like a knife from his jacket and waved it in the air, his face ballooning with anger. ‘Why waste time with words?’ he roared. ‘Let’s kill ’em!’
That’s when I entered the fray. ‘Stop!’ I yelled. ‘Stop immediately! Whatever’s going on? What are you boys doing?’ I could feel myself trembling. Remarkably, the whole class froze and stared uncomprehendingly in my direction. ‘Where’s your teacher?’ I demanded.
‘I’m here,’ came a soft, calm voice from behind me. At the back of the hall and out of my view stood a small, prim-looking woman with spectacles on the end of her nose. She observed me over her glasses as if looking at some poor unfortunate sitting on the corner of the street begging for change – a face full of distant pity.
‘Whatever’s going on?’ I asked again. I could feel my heart thudding away in my chest.
‘Shakespeare,’ she replied smiling and clearly enjoying my discomfort. ‘Act 1, Scene 1. The boys are trying to get to grips with the meaning of the text in Romeo and Juliet by acting it out in everyday language. It’s the part where the servants of the Montagues meet the Capulets in the city square and start facing up to each other for the fight. I’m sure you know it well. All right, boys, relax a moment.’ She walked slowly in my direction and extended a small hand. A faint waft of sandalwood soap floated up to me. ‘I’m Jan Darlington, the drama teacher, and you must be Mr Phinn.’
‘That’s right,’ I said, attempting a smile. ‘I’m most awfully sorry about the interruption. I feel so embarrassed but I really thought –’
‘Please don’t worry about it.’ She turned to her class, laughing. ‘Don’t just stand there with your mouths open. Sit down for a moment.’ The class obeyed instantly. ‘If you convinced Mr Phinn that this was the real thing, I think you’ll convince your audience next week. There was some real aggression and tension in that scene, your words fair crackled with energy. There was plenty of convincing body language and facial expressions as well. Now, we want that sort of acting when we get back to the text. Remember to keep that deadpan face, Wayne, it really makes you look far more intimidating, and Paul, even more of a dramatic pause before you say that last line. Really space it out to get maximum effect. It’s all to do with timing, you see.’ The teacher turned to me. ‘Do take a seat, Mr Phinn, and we’ll try the scene out on you, as Shakespeare wrote it. We would all really appreciate an objective view.’
I sat for half an hour and watched the most gripping opening of Romeo and Juliet I had ever seen. Two boys ambled down the side of the hall’s stage, chewing and looking bored. Two more boys walked slowly down the opposite side. They eyed each other like fighting dogs.
‘My naked weapon is out,’ whispered one, standing discreetly behind his companion and drawing a wooden dagger from his belt. ‘Quarrel, I will back thee.’
‘How – turn and run?’ enquired the other, with a cynical curl of the lip.
‘Fear me not.’
‘No, marry,’ sneered the other. ‘I fear thee!’ The other two boys swaggered forward with their hands in their pockets. Their eyes were like slits and there were cold expressions on their faces.
‘I will bite my thumb at them, which is a disgrace to them if they bear it,’ whispered one.
‘Do you bite your thumb at us, sir
?’ asked the other, articulating every word.
The verbal confrontation was electric, full of curses and threats, bravado and threatening gestures. And then the fight began. This was mimed and every action was slow and accentuated. When both sides were locked together, their arms and legs knotted in a violent embrace, the small boy playing Benvolio, with large glasses and wielding a ruler like a sword, tried to intervene.
‘Part, fools!’ he cried. ‘Put up your swords; you know not what you do!’
The large lad, Tybalt, gripped him by his coat and pushed him away. ‘What, drawn, and talk of peace!’ he roared. ‘I hate the word as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.’ He plucked a wooden knife from his jacket and stabbed the air, his face ballooning with anger. ‘Have at thee, coward!’
‘Let’s stop there for a moment,’ interrupted the teacher. ‘Make the fight scene even slower and more exaggerated. Curve your arm, Simon, in a great arc when you are throwing the punch and, Peter, make that kick slower and more deliberate and show the intense fury in your expression. Remember there should be no physical contact. This part is mimed. You also need to remember that you are thugs spoiling for a fight. It’s hot, dusty, you are feeling sticky, there is a tension in the air. Try and capture that. You kept that deadpan face really well, Wayne, well done, and, Paul, even more of a dramatic pause at the end of the line: “Do you bite your thumb at us – sir?” The word “sir” is not a sign of respect. It is said as an insult so stress it.’
Miss Darlington then turned to me. ‘Well, let’s ask our theatre critic what he thought of the scene.’
I only had one word to offer: ‘Superb.’
The bell sounded for the end of school. The pupils, without being told, packed away the props and stacked the chairs before putting on their jackets and shouting their ‘goodbyes’ to Miss Darlington. I spent ten minutes talking through the lesson with her before setting off, in much better spirits, to deliver an oral report to the Headteacher.
Mr Fenton listened to my preliminary report in silence. I concluded by saying that whilst I had observed some outstanding lessons from Miss Darlington and Miss Mullane, there were significant weaknesses in the teaching of Mr Armstrong. As for Mr Swan, I was of the strongest opinion that he should return to retirement as soon as possible. I referred to the Headteacher’s earlier comments about building up the pupils’ self-esteem and self-confidence, the need for challenge, pace and strong teacher support and encouragement. ‘These pupils are not empty vessels to be filled up with a few arid facts about collective nouns. They deserve better,’ I said. ‘Now it’s my turn to sound pompous. I don’t mean to be but, like you, I do feel strongly about pupils who think they are failures.’
Over Hill and Dale Page 16