by David Storey
The bus appeared: it ran rattling down the hill, its windows glinting in the sun. It paused at the corner; the miners crouching against the wall stood up.
He waited for Connors. He and the other boy, still talking, leant against the wall.
Colin got on. He sat downstairs.
One or two other people appeared, a man in a raincoat, a woman with a basket. Their feet shuffled on the roof above his head; then, but for the murmur of the miners and the occasional slur of a match, the bus was silent.
Connors had taken out a book and was turning the pages; the other boy took the book from him and pushed back against the wall. The conductor came round. The driver got in. The engine started. Only when the conductor pressed the bell did Connors make a move: he closed the book in the other boy’s hand, put it in his satchel, made some remark to the boy, then, waving, stepped up on the platform. As the bus gathered speed he glanced over at Colin, nodded, and without making any remark went quickly up the stairs.
There were only two other people sitting downstairs, both miners, both black-faced and laughing as the conductor called out to them in recognition. He saw the redness of their lips, the white eyes and teeth, and smelled the dust from their clothes as the draught came back from the door.
He waited; there was no sound of Connors coming down again.
The conductor took his fare. He sat with his satchel across his knees, his raincoat laid on top.
They passed the end of the lane leading to the pit; he could see the roof of the school across the yard and nearer the plume of smoke and steam from the colliery engine. A miner was running down the lane; he waved his arm, but the bus passed on.
From where he was sitting, leaning backwards, he could see the last houses of the village as they disappeared. Soon all that was visible behind were the hedged fields, the top of the pit chimney, and the outline of the colliery stack.
Another boy, wearing a new uniform like himself, got on; he was accompanied by his mother.
They passed a large stone mansion, set back beyond a line of trees; the bus swept over a hump-backed bridge; he glimpsed a lily-padded lake. Beyond, the road rose steeply to a row of houses; a group of girls got on. They wore light-blue dresses and yellow straw hats: he could hear Connors’s voice as they climbed upstairs. The bus was full: at the crest of a rise he caught a distant glimpse of the town, a silhouette of towers and the single steeple.
They emerged finally beside the river: barges were moored above a concrete weir. The single spire and the towers of the town were visible once more above stone-slabbed roofs. A hill appeared: the bus shuddered slowly to its summit.
‘All off. All change,’ the conductor called.
The walls of the cathedral were visible across the road.
Colin caught a glimpse of Connors as he came off the bus – talking to the girls in the yellow straw hats, he set off in the direction of the city centre.
There were other groups descending from the crowded buses at the top of the slope. He followed the largest group, which made its way through the narrow, cobbled alley into the thoroughfare of shops beyond.
It was half-past eight. Other groups joined those emerging from the alley: a mass of dark-blue figures moved slowly along each pavement.
The doors to the school itself were closed. A flight of stone steps led down to a field. Blazered figures walked to and fro. Immediately behind the building itself a wooden fence divided the field from a pebbled yard.
A bell was rung: the mass of uniformed figures divided into two and moved off towards either end of the dark stone building.
He went back up the steps. Boys with tasselled caps were standing at the door. They called out to the boys as they rushed inside.
Connors was standing immediately inside.
‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking in the field.’
He took his arm.
‘Have you got your health certificate?’ he added.
He took out the piece of paper he’d been given before he left. It had been signed at the bottom, first by his mother and then, after an argument, by his father.
‘Three A. You’ll have old Hodges,’ Connors said.
‘When do they do the ducking?’ he said.
‘Haven’t they collared you already?’
He shook his head. He wondered if he’d been abandoned because of his build, or overlooked.
‘They’ll probably have you in at break, then,’ Connors said. He released his arm. ‘If you have any trouble I’ll see you around.’
The corridor itself was full of figures; the walls were lined by framed photographs of football teams. Stone steps went up to the floor above.
Connors had left him at a panelled door. The room inside was tall: so high, in fact that the ceiling went up into the roof of the building. The windows, mullioned, with diamond panes, took up the greater part of the outside wall. The other three walls were completely bare. The desks themselves were large and stood in four rows the length of the room. The spaces between the rows were full of boys – mostly like himself, in new blazers, some still wearing caps, they stood gazing up at the ceiling, at the height of the windows, at the massive, square-shaped desks and the empty walls.
A man came in. He wore the white collar of a clergyman. His clothes were dark, his face red, a line of white hair receding across his scalp and growing out in two broad tufts at the back of his head.
‘Caps off! Caps off! Do you wear caps inside a building? What manners have you been taught? Caps off, caps off inside a building.’
The few caps still on were taken off.
‘Sit down. Don’t stand around,’ the man had said.
He went to a large desk at the end of the room.
‘What are you doing, boy?’ he shouted.
Several of the boys, following his command, were already sitting.
‘Do you sit down before a master?’
‘No, sir,’ one of the boys had said.
‘Wait till I’m seated.’ He raised his head. ‘Then you sit down, when I’m sat down.’
The boys got up. The master sat down. He wore a long black gown over his dark-blue suit.
‘Now please be seated, gentlemen,’ he said.
Colin found a chair at the back of the room. Most of the desks were already taken.
‘First things first,’ the master said. ‘I’ll call your names. Have you got that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ some of the boys had said.
‘When I call your name you come up here, hand me your certificate, your health certificate, and go back to your place.’
He waited for an answer.
‘Yes, sir,’ most of the boys had said.
‘Sit up straight. I want no loafers in 3A.’
The names were called. The master ticked them off inside a register.
‘Not here. Not here,’ he began to shout at one point. ‘You’re in 3 Upper, boy, not here. In with the brainy lot, not these first-year duffers.’
The boy went out.
Colin went up when his name was called. He gave in the certificate: it was opened out, straightened, put on the pile, and he went back to his chair.
‘All present. All correct,’ the master said. He screwed back the top of his pen, took off the pair of glasses he’d put on to mark the register, and glanced slowly round the room. The murmur of voices faded.
‘My name is Hodges,’ he said. ‘Not Bodges. Or Codges. Or even Dodges. Mister Hodges.’ He gazed round at them again for several seconds. ‘I’ll be your form-master for the whole of the year. And woe betide’, he added, ‘any boy who gets himself into any trouble. I don’t like trouble. I have an aversion to trouble. Trouble and I have never got on well together. You’ll see that now by the colour of my face. You’ll see it going slightly red. It gets even redder when trouble actually appears. It becomes positively scarlet, and woe betide anyone who comes in front of me when my face is scarlet. I do all sorts of unimaginable and horrible things wh
en my face is scarlet. I do pretty terrible things when it’s even red; but when it’s scarlet I can’t tell you the things I’m capable of. So trouble is something I don’t wish to hear even mentioned in this room: not in my own classes, that is, or anyone else’s.’
He waited for the colour to subside.
‘Now there’s a lot to do today. At times, to some of you, it may seem extremely tedious. Whenever it does I want you to gaze, not at me, nor at your neighbour, nor at the floor, nor at your desk, but at the ceiling. If you gaze at the ceiling it’s my opinion you won’t come to any harm. I want you, whenever you feel boredom coming on, to gaze in a vertical direction and silently, so no one anywhere can possibly hear, recite to yourself your multiplication tables. I want you to recite the two times, the three times, right through to your twelve times. I shall test you on those tables at the end of the morning and woe betide anyone who gets one wrong. I have a strong aversion to boys who get things wrong, particularly to boys who’ve had all morning to get things right.’ He waited. ‘You, boy: what’s twelve times seven?’
A boy near the front put up his hand.
One or two other hands went up.
The boy who had been asked had gone bright red.
‘Twelve times seven.’ He waited. ‘You’ll be one of the boys whose head I’ll expect to see gazing for quite lengthy intervals in a vertical direction. What is it? What is it? What is it, boy?’
‘Seventy-two, sir,’ one of the boys had said.
‘Seventy what?’
‘Eighty-four!’ several boys called out.
‘My goodness. The procedure for admitting boys to this school deteriorates visibly every year. I expect a seven-year-old boy to tell me that. How old are you?’
The boy with the red face had murmured his age.
‘What? What? What’s that?’
‘Twelve, sir.’
‘Twelve? Twelve what? Weeks? Months? Hours? Rabbits?’
‘Years, sir.’
‘Years.’
He waited, nodding.
‘I can see we’ve got a great deal of work before us here. A great deal.’
He waited once again, still looking round.
‘I was going to add, if there are any clever-dicks here who think they know their tables backwards I would like them by a similar process – namely, the head inclined in a respectful manner towards the ceiling – to memorize and familiarize themselves with a favourite hymn. It may be a Jewish hymn, a Catholic hymn, a Methodist hymn, or an Anglican hymn, or, indeed, a Buddhist hymn if they so desire. But whatever its source, a paean of praise directed to the Divine Presence who overlooks us all. Has that been understood?’
He waited.
‘I shall, after the multiplication tables have been thoroughly tested, turn to the hymns and call forth from amongst you, ad hoc … what does ad hoc mean, boy?’
Another boy’s face turned red.
He waited.
No one, however, had raised their hands.
‘Ad hoc. Ad hoc. What language can it be, I wonder? German? Dutch? Double-Dutch?’
He waited.
‘Anybody heard of Latin?’
Several hands went up.
‘I wonder: can ad hoc be Latin?’
‘Yes, sir,’ someone said.
‘There’s a bright boy. Latin. Latin.’ He waited once again. ‘Ad hoc is Latin for “specifically for this purpose”. In other words, I shall ask certain individuals specifically to give evidence of their silent – and I repeat emphatically silent – memorizing of their favourite paean of praise to God Almighty. And may God Almighty come to your rescue if you haven’t got one ready.’ He paused. He examined each of their faces in turn. ‘What a miserable looking lot. What a clump of sour-faced duffers. Here I am, sitting in front of forty white-faced puddings, while you have the privilege of sitting in front of me.’ He paused. He looked up, speculatively, towards the ceiling. Arched supports ran across it from the walls on either side. He contemplated these for several seconds. ‘I shall expect’, he said, ‘to see not only forty studious faces memorizing their tables as well as their favourite hymnal text, but forty cheerful faces, forty smiling faces – not grinning, smiling – not laughing, not baring teeth and fangs, but joyful faces, not dismal faces, but faces which will be a welcome distraction whenever I happen to raise my head.’
He examined his watch. He removed it from his waistcoat beneath his gown, placed it on the desk in front of him, then opened the register once again. He replaced his glasses.
‘Now, then, boys,’ he said. ‘Begin.’
Several additional desks were brought in later. Piles of books were carried in. Paper parcels were opened and exercise books, brightly coloured, revealed inside. Several of the boys were moved around: ‘You, that big lump, I think I’ll have you sitting here by me. I can keep an eye on you if we both move closer, the mountain cometh to Mahomet.’ Finally they had all been given desks.
Colin sat near the back. A hot-water pipe ran along the wall immediately below his elbow; through a hole in the floor came a smell of cooking. He was too low down to see out of the window.
Books were given out. Most of them were old and battered. At one point a bell rang and they lined up by the desks and were marched out to the corridor; columns of boys were moving down the tunnel-like interior towards a pair of glass-panelled doors at the opposite end. Older boys directed them to follow.
They came out in a hall. It was taller than the classroom, its ceiling vaulted. A large mullioned window almost as broad as the room occupied the wall at one end. Immediately beneath it stood a wooden stage, with a lectern, a tall, narrow desk, and several chairs. The body of the hall was full of benches; at the rear a spiral staircase ran up to a narrow gallery in the centre of which stood an organ, its pipes set up on the wall on either side. Benches too had been arranged here and were already full of boys.
Hodges appeared on the platform; several other gowned figures filtered through the hall. Their own class had been set at the front: rows of boys were sitting on the floor. The chairs on the stage were slowly filled. Finally, the hall itself grew quiet, an odd voice called out, intoning a name. Then, to Colin’s right, a figure appeared in a mortar-board and gown: the face beneath was sharp and thin, the mouth broad, thin-lipped, the eyes narrow. Without any expression it moved down the hall and mounted the platform. After a quick look round, the mortar-board was taken off and slotted in a shelf beneath the desk.
‘Morning, school,’ the figure said.
A murmur of acknowledgment came from the hall behind. The room was packed. The heat rose with the dust through the beams of light which came in diagonally through the mullioned window.
‘That’s Trudger.’ He heard the whisper to one side, saw other heads turn, then immediately above him a hymn was announced. From the platform, beyond the headmaster’s figure, Hodges gazed down in their direction.
The hymn was sung: the boys sat down. A tall boy wearing a blazer stepped up to the platform, mounted the lectern, and read the Bible. His legs trembled as he read, his voice faltering finally when he closed the book.
‘Let us pray,’ the headmaster said.
Hodges continued to gaze round even while the prayers were said; his face, if anything, had begun to darken, glowing red against the whiteness of his clerical collar.
The other masters were of a similar age; there were three women, also wearing gowns, their handbags set on the floor beside their feet.
Finally, when the prayers were over, the boys sat down.
‘I’d like to welcome all the new boys at the beginning of our school year,’ the figure at the desk had said. ‘I’m sure they’ll grow familiar with the routine of the school by the end of the day. If they have any inquiries they can ask the master in charge of their form. And, of course, I welcome back the rest of the school.’ He took out his mortar-board from the desk and with a slight acknowledgment of the figures behind stepped down from the platform.
The masters an
d the mistresses on the platform, having stood up for the headmaster leaving, slowly filtered out of the door on the opposite side.
They went back to the classroom.
Hodges came in. He strode to the desk, sat down and waited until the last shuffle in the room had died.
‘Someone in this class’, he said, ‘prays to the Almighty with his eyes wide open.’
He waited.
‘They also pray with their hands stuck in their pockets.’
He put on his glasses, and set his watch in front of him again.
‘On future occasions, at morning assembly, I shall keep a watchful eye on the praying habits of this evidently dissolute class and woe betide anyone who doesn’t show the respect appropriate to such occasions. Eyes closed, hands together, and mind fixed resolutely on the true essentials: heaven, redemption, and the alternative prospect of a long sojourn in hell.’
He waited. He looked around.
‘Now, then. I’ll give you your time-table for the week.’
A small, rectangular notebook was given out to each of the class; it was like a diary. ‘Record Book’ was printed in black on the cover and inside were pages divided into columns for the days of the week.
‘This is the most important document you’re likely to possess,’ the master said. ‘Keep it with you at all times. On suitable occasions, in addition to your time-table, certain masters will inscribe commendations or, conversely – though in this class I’m sure it won’t apply – reprimands in the spaces given over to their respective lessons. At the end of each term the total of good records – or, conversely, bad records – will be added up. Those with a certain number of the former will be invited to visit Mr Walker in his study, those with a certain number of the latter will also be invited to visit Mr Walker in his study – but with quite a different purpose in mind, quite a different purpose. Those in the latter category will be invited to make the acquaintance of, if I may use the phrase, a certain piece of vegetation – known affectionately in these environs, though not by those with whom it comes into the closest contact, as “Whacker”. “Whacker”, I might add, takes a very stern view of boys who mount up records of a reprehensible nature, a very stern view, I might add, indeed.’ He paused, adjusted his glasses, glanced round, then, getting up from the desk, turned to the blackboard and began to write down the time-table for the boys to copy.