Octavia

by Beryl Kingston

  As she’d expected, half of them could add up, more or less accurately, and half couldn’t, even though they were counting their fingers and chewing their lips for all they were worth. She walked among them observing their efforts and feeling sorry for them. It didn’t take her long to see what was wrong.

  ‘Stop work,’ she said to them, and waited until they were all looking up at her. ‘Arithmetic can be difficult sometimes, can’t it?’ Much nodding. ‘Very well. What I am going to do is to teach you a trick to make it easier.’ She drew six boxes on the board. I must take this slowly, she thought, and give them time to digest it. So she began to fill in the boxes, very slowly and one figure at a time. ‘One box for one figure,’ she said. ‘Do you see? As if we’re putting them in little cages. They’ll have to behave themselves if we put them in cages, won’t they? There’ll be no slipping away from us now. One box for one figure. Remember that. It’s the golden rule for adding up. One box for one figure, tens on that side, units on this. There’s our sum and there are the empty boxes waiting for our answer. Now open your books and look at the page. Can you see the boxes?’ Some heads were shaking. ‘No? Look again. They’re there. It’s not lines in an arithmetic book, is it? What is it?’

  Several hands were raised at that and an answer attempted. ‘Squares, miss.’

  ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘Quite right. It’s squares. Lots and lots of little squares. Lots and lots of little boxes. All drawn up and ready for you to use. Can you see them now? Well done. Fill in this first sum and then we will solve it together.’

  It was a quiet success. They hadn’t all understood but many were working almost happily and there was far less lip chewing. Billy Pothook looked completely baffled but she was beginning to suspect that this was his perpetual expression.

  If this is teaching, she thought, watching their small hands at work, I believe I can do it. Even if I don’t know what drill is. The word leapt at her spitefully. It was the next thing on the timetable

  There was a disturbance at the door and a young man came in. He introduced himself as Mr Venables and said he’d come to show her the ropes. ‘Hand in your books,’ he said to the class. ‘Who’s the monitor?’

  ‘Please, sir, ain’t got one, sir.’

  ‘We’ll choose someone after drill,’ he said. ‘Whoever’s best. All stand.’

  They obeyed, standing two by two beside their desks the way they’d done at the beginning of the morning, but they were looking sullen again. Whatever this drill is going to be, Octavia thought, they don’t enjoy it.

  ‘Arms in the air!’ Mr Venables shouted. ‘On the command – Up! Down! One, two. One, two. Put some more beef into it.’ They raised and lowered their arms as well as they could and Octavia wondered if they’d ever eaten beef in their lives and decided it was unlikely.

  ‘Sideways bends,’ Mr Venables said. ‘On the command, to the right. One, two, three. Left, two three.’

  The robot bent left and right in Octavia’s imagination and she remembered the nursery rhyme, ‘Click, click, monkey on a stick,’ and wondered why they couldn’t go out into the playground if they needed exercise and simply play. Whenever suffragette marches had taken her through the East End, she’d seen riotous games going on in the street – hopscotch, tag, swinging on the lamppost. If they needed to use up some energy for – what was it the headmaster had written? – ‘the relaxation of mental strain’, what happier way to do it? Not that she could start arguing with the headmaster on her first day in his school.

  It was a long day. Longer than she expected, for after the children had been released at four o’clock there were the next day’s lessons to prepare, alone in her deserted classroom. She found the window pole and opened the high windows as far as they would go to let in some fresh air. And was annoyed to discover that she was letting in the smell of the local brewery.

  ‘Poverty is all pervasive,’ she told her father at dinner that night. Even after a long soak in a warm bath and a thorough wash with scented soap, she could still smell the awful stink of her class. It must have got into her hair. ‘When you think how they live and what shabby clothes they wear and how little they have to eat, it’s a wonder they can concentrate on anything at all and yet some of them try so hard.’

  ‘I believe you have found your cause, my dear,’ her mother said. She was very relieved to think that her daughter had joined a profession at last. Of course, she would have preferred her to teach in a nice comfortable grammar school, but any kind of teaching was preferable to that awful suffragette movement, which was altogether too dangerous.

  ‘Tavy will find causes all her life,’ J-J said happily. ‘It is dyed in the wool, is it not, Octavia? You must tell our Fabian friends about all this on Thursday. They will be deeply interested.’

  As they were. But not until they’d talked about Bernard Shaw’s latest play which was being premiered in Berlin prior to a London production in April. It was called Pygmalion and was about a professor of phonetics who trained a flower girl to speak like a duchess and then passed her off as a member of society.

  ‘And this from a man who would ban all schools,’ Mrs Bland teased, ‘and holds that education is evil incarnate.’

  ‘So it is,’ Mr Shaw agreed, beaming at her, ‘for there isn’t an iota of freedom within it either for teacher or taught. Education today is a matter of prescription and control, and that never did any good to anybody, which is what my hero discovers by the end of the play, when he has created his duchess and doesn’t know what to do with her. I might add that she doesn’t know what to do with herself either. It is all vastly entertaining.’

  ‘But does it argue the need for educational reform?’ Mr Bland wanted to know.

  ‘It argues a good many things,’ Mr Shaw said, ‘and I daresay my audiences will discover even more argument in it than I intended, as they usually do.’

  Octavia felt she could venture a question. ‘Do you really advocate the closure of all schools, Mr Shaw?’

  ‘Since most schools are instruments of social control,’ the great man told her, ‘in my opinion they are too harmful to be allowed to stay open. However few politicians would agree with me, I fear, other than the enlightened company around this table.’

  The compliment was enjoyed with smiles and nods from all eight guests and their hosts. ‘But if schools were closed, Mr Shaw,’ Amy said, ‘what would you put in their place?’

  ‘Why nothing at all,’ Mr Shaw told her. ‘I would allow our children to run free.’

  ‘Would you not be afraid that they might run wild?’

  ‘That would be my most devout hope,’ Shaw said wickedly. ‘Every child has the right to run wild, the right to its own bent, the right to find its own way and go its own way.’

  ‘But some sort of control surely…’

  ‘Let me ask you a question, my dear Mrs Smith,’ Shaw said. ‘Why should one human being impose his view of life upon another? There is no justification for it beyond greed, profit and imperialism, all of which are intolerable vices. Nobody knows the way a child should go, except the child itself. All the ways discovered so far have lead to the horrors of our existing civilisation, which no thinking man would wish to perpetuate. Very well then. If we are to change these horrors we must first make changes in the manner in which we educate our children. In my opinion we should give them autonomy and release them from the tyranny of the national schools.’

  ‘Octavia could tell you what is going on in a London national school,’ Professor Smith told his guests. ‘She started work in one this very term.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ Mrs Bland said, turning to Octavia. ‘Is it as bad as Mr Shaw makes out?’

  ‘Every bit,’ Octavia said with feeling. ‘We control them every minute of the day, poor little things.’ And she told them about drill and mechanical poetry. ‘They spend hours copying off the blackboard and hours chanting – prayers, tables, even poetry – and most of them haven’t got the faintest idea what it all means.
’

  ‘Then change it!’ Mr Shaw boomed.

  ‘I intend to,’ Octavia said

  ‘We will give you all the help we can,’ Mr Bland promised. ‘Will we not, Edith? Have you seen our latest pamphlet on education? No? Then I will send you a copy.’

  ‘I will do better than that,’ Mr Shaw said, all wickedness and bristling beard. ‘I will give you my advice. If you seriously intend to change the system – and I must warn you that you will suffer for it if you do, for the establishment is deeply suspicious of any change that might curtail its own wealth and power – but if that is what you seriously intend, you must leave the national school, no matter how noble your work there may be, and transfer to a grammar school. That is where reform is most needed, because that is where you will find the next generation of teachers.’

  It was sensible advice and very tempting. It would be wonderful to change a generation of teachers. ‘I will think about it,’ Octavia promised. ‘But not yet. I must see the year through.’ And after that I shall be married.

  The table was ringed with approving faces, bright-eyed and soft-skinned in the candlelight. The conversation turned and continued; eloquent hands emphasised witty words; there was the occasional discreet flash of jewellery, the occasional waft of expensive perfume; wine winked as the decanter was lifted, the cloth was snowy white, the epergne hospitably laden with fruit. But Octavia was thinking of stained pinafores and reach-me-down dresses, of collarless shirts, dirty waistcoats, cut-down trousers and the all-pervasive, shaming stink of poverty. What these children needed in their school lives was colour and a bit of fun. I shall draw a set of alphabet cards, she decided, and buy a lot of coloured pencils and they can colour them in and hang them on the walls. Big A, little a and a picture of an apple. That sort of thing. Then I’ll see if I can find something that will be more fun for them to do instead of that awful drill.

  The alphabet cards were a great success. ‘Cor, miss,’ her pupils said. ‘D’you mean we can colour ’em in all by ourselves?’ and reassured that this was exactly what she did mean, they set to at once, faces bright with activity. It took a very long time. In fact the timetable was saying ‘mechanical poetry’ and they were still filling in outlines and admiring results. Eventually after much pencil licking, much happy chatter and some boldly peculiar colouring, they handed the cards in. ‘Ain’t we done ’em lovely, miss,’ they said.

  Miss agreed and tried not to look askance at the purple horse. ‘It don’t matter do it, miss?’ the artist said. ‘We run out a’ brown an’ that’s ever so lovely.’

  Even the headmaster admired the display and said it was a credit to her. She didn’t tell him that she was allowing her pupils to walk about the classroom to ‘borrow’ pencils when they were colouring in, nor that she was telling them stories instead of reading from one of his dull school books, nor that they were playing skipping games in the playground instead of waving their poor little skinny arms about beside their desks. It was enough that he seemed to realise that she was teasing them into beginning to read.

  ‘That’s a C,’ she said. ‘Do you remember colouring it in? You did that one, didn’t you, Ethel? C for cat. And that’s an H. Can you tell me what H is for?’

  ‘’Orse,’ they said, happily. ‘H fer ’orse.’ Confusingly purple and non-aspirant he might be but a horse he most certainly and recognisably was.

  That night Octavia wrote a long letter to Tommy telling him what a revelation Bridge Street School had been and how much she was enjoying her new life there. He read it twice and found it rather alarming. All this talk of learning and teaching seemed a little too permanent for his liking. After all, it was only a stopgap until they could get married. He didn’t want her getting used to it. That wasn’t his idea at all, by Jove it wasn’t. He wrote back carefully, saying it all sounded quite extraordinary to him, and adding, ‘I’m glad you enjoy it. That’s the ticket.’ Then he spent the rest of the letter detailing arrangements for his Christmas leave. Not being able to see her in term time was a great disappointment and he meant to make the most of the holiday. ‘I’ve got a charlady coming in to heat the place up,’ he wrote, ‘so it won’t be cold for us. I shall book tickets for all the best shows the first thing I do when I get back. You must tell me what you fancy. Can’t wait to see you again.’ Then he added a postscript, just to make his feelings clear. ‘PS. I hope you haven’t forgotten me.’

  ‘How could I?’ she wrote back. Although privately she had to admit that there were times in her teaching day when she hardly thought of him at all because she was giving so much attention to her pupils and the progress they were making. Worse, she’d barely given a thought to the suffrage movement either, certainly not since the term began. I must visit the shop, she thought, and see how they’re all getting on. I haven’t been near them since the funeral and that’s months away. I suppose I ought to resign from the committee. She felt that she was deserting the cause and that made her feel ashamed of herself. But of course it was what she was doing. It was why she’d taken the job. I owe them an explanation, at the very least, she thought. I shall go down and see them at the next committee meeting.

  It was a delicately handled occasion, for she was being careful not to upset them by appearing to be critical of what other suffragettes were doing and they were mindful of the illness she’d suffered since she was released from that dreadful gaol and wanted to treat her gently.

  ‘We’re so proud of you, my dear,’ Mrs Emsworth said, when they were sitting round the table in the committee room. ‘To have run such a risk for our cause is admirable beyond words.’

  But there were words and Octavia had to speak them. ‘I would be less than honest if I let you think I’m of the same mind now as I was when I was arrested,’ she said. ‘The truth is that being ill for such a long time has given me pause to think and I have to say I’m not at all sure that deliberately breaking the law and facing the punishment is the most effective way to further our cause. In fact, I’m afraid we are losing the support of the public the more violent we become – and the more violent our opponents are towards us – and unfortunately public support is something we must have if we are to prevail.’

  ‘But what else can we do?’ Betty Transom said. ‘We’ve marched our feet off and they don’t take any notice, we’ve petitioned, we’ve written endless letters; what other way is there?’

  Octavia had to confess that she didn’t know. ‘It must be democratic,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of that. It must be within the rule of law even though it’s the law we want to change. I shall give it as much thought as I can, I promise, and I shall keep in touch with you all even if I’m not your secretary any more. I haven’t deserted the cause. I should hate you to think that. I shall march whenever the march is legal, and I shall write letters and sign petitions until my arm falls off. It is just that I can’t break the law again.’

  She was surprised by how sympathetically they understood. They are good women, she thought, as she walked home. They deserve the vote if anyone ever did and I shall do everything I can to make sure they get it. Then she felt she ought to correct herself, that we all get it, and was ashamed to realise that she had distanced herself from all these good women who had been her allies for so long. It was a relief to turn her attention to the next day’s lessons.

  The autumn tumbled her along in a chorus of letters learnt. Soon it was November, London was muffled and snuffling in the first fog of the winter and gangs of scruffy children stood at bus stops and alongside underground stations with their straw-stuffed effigies propped against the nearest wall, begging, ‘Penny fer the Guy!’ Octavia’s new method of education continued and expanded. She drew a huge Guy Fawkes sitting on a bonfire and a display of exploding fireworks to stick on the wall above his head and her pupils coloured all that in too and sat enthralled while she told them the story of what happened to the real Guy Fawkes. By November 5th the class and the classroom were transformed.

  ‘I think,’ she said to he
r parents one fog-clammy evening over dinner, ‘that I have found the secret of teaching.’

  ‘That you must like your pupils?’ her father smiled.

  ‘That of course,’ she agreed. ‘Although I must say most of the teachers I’ve met so far don’t seem to like them very much. They’re always saying what a poor lot they are, which isn’t true at all. They’re lovely when you get to know them and so willing. No, the other secret, the one I’m talking about, is that it’s no good just telling them things and shouting at them to understand, you have to coax them and make them laugh. You have to allow them to do things and to enjoy what they’re doing. It has to be fun.’

  Amy had been letting her mind wander as she usually did when the conversation turned academic but she caught the word ‘fun’ and latched on to it happily. ‘Just so long as you’re enjoying it, my darling,’ she said. ‘That’s the main thing. I wouldn’t want you to do anything you didn’t enjoy.’

  ‘That’s rather a sybaritic point of view, my love,’ J-J teased. ‘Would you not be better to urge her to strive for striving’s sake?’

  ‘Striving is all very admirable,’ Amy told him, ‘but I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t have fun while you strive.’

  ‘My point exactly, Mama,’ Octavia said.

  ‘Changing the subject,’ her father said. ‘I had a letter from Tommy Meriton this morning. He wants to know if he can – now what was it he said? – ‘be granted an interview with me’ when he comes home on leave. You wouldn’t happen to know what that’s about, would you, Tavy?’

  To her horror Octavia could feel herself blushing. She pretended to drop her napkin so that she could duck her head below his line of vision as she picked it up. For heaven’s sake! She was acting like some stupid heroine in a romance. ‘No,’ she said, as calmly as she could, folding the napkin across her knees so that she could keep her head down and not meet his eye. ‘Obviously something he wants to talk to you about.’ And she tried a joke. ‘Perhaps he’s taking up Mathematics.’