‘You’re coming home, with me,’ said Wilf. Taff stopped in his tracks.
‘No, man, no. I wanna go to.... I wanna go to...’
We tried gently pushing him in the direction of the bus stop, but we might as well have tried moving a concrete pillar.
‘I know what I want,’ he yelled suddenly. Wilf and I stared at him, waiting tensely.
‘CHIPS,’ he roared.
‘Oh jump in the canal, Taff,’ I snapped. ‘You can’t get chips at this time of night.’
‘Yes, I can - there.’
He pointed and moved off meanderingly behind his outstretched arm. I gazed in disbelief, but across the road an illuminated shop suggested it was indeed still open for business. To the best of our combined abilities, Wilf and I ran after him but he made the door and was in the shop before us.
‘Chips, three times, Corporal,’ he commanded. Breathlessly, we expostulated.
‘Duw, Taff, no, not for me, not after all that beer,’ Wilf’s voice bordered on panic.
‘Nor me, old man,’ I said, my stomach’s had enough of a pasting for one night.’
‘Nonsense. Army hasn’t given up yet - chips now. Look, lovely stuff. Just what you need on a cold night.’ He slapped some money on the counter. I watched without enthusiasm as the somnambulant shop assistant dredged a mass of chips from the bath of boiling fat and poured three large helpings on to three squares of newspaper. Taff seized the large vinegar bottle from the side of the counter and shook it vigorously. We got a shower bath and some reached the chips as well.
‘Alright, if I’ve got to eat chips, I need salt.’
I seized the massive salt cellar and applied a very liberal covering to one helping, then passed it on. Dimly I had the notion that if salty things made you thirsty, then salty food might soak up liquid better even if it was already inside. I cannot pretend I remember much more after that. We progressed slowly towards the road along which the bus ran to this part of the city in an all-night service. Taff made valiant efforts to continue vocal reports of the adventures of the female mountaineer in his rich baritone, but fearing the attentions of the police we kept stuffing chips into his mouth. In his turn he made sure Wilf and I kept eating ours.
Then, suddenly, I was waving to a departing bus as it headed for the city centre. I turned away and wandered off the direction I knew my home to be. I believe innate knowledge came to my rescue for I have no recollection of walking along any of the roads between that bus stop and my home, nor indeed of getting into the house and into bed. Apparently the same instinct had come into play at the demob party which had been in the married quarters on the opposite of the airfield at St Athan. Friends told me they had guided me to the perimeter track then pushed me in the right direction. Whether I walked round it or took the direct route straight across the airfield I know not. Fortunately there was no night flying.
I realised I had made it home some hours later when I awoke abruptly. The room was dark, of course, but my mind was perfectly clear. I could feel the warm sheets enfolding me in their embrace, but a thought was being suggested to my mind almost at subconscious level. My brain grappled with the problem. There was something amiss, something I was going to have to do. Suddenly, I broke into a horrible, damp, hot and cold sweat. I leapt out of bed. I was going to be sick...and I was....horribly and shudderingly....on and on. The memory of it is quite ghastly.
Finally, when I felt I could, I staggered out of the loo, intending to clean myself up in the bathroom. On the landing I encountered my parents whom I had woken. I imagine I looked like death, warmed up a little.
‘Er, I think I’ve got a chill in my stomach, or something.’
I was quite taken aback, knowing his views on such matters, when my father responded by laughing, though without much mirth.
‘You’ll learn,’ he said. I did. I realised salt can be a powerful emetic.
Chapter 32
Every new teacher worries about keeping discipline. Yet, surprisingly perhaps, it is the one skill which cannot be taught. Students learn tricks and ploys from experienced colleagues during their practice sessions, but no one can be sure of his or her own ability to control children until the time when a class, your class for which you alone are responsible, sits staring at you for the very first time. Suddenly you are no longer a student with a teacher in the background to turn to if you find yourself in difficulties. This is your lot in front of you and they are weighing you up rapidly. How are you going to control them if they misbehave? Will you be able to quieten them if they talk too loudly, or shout at one another? What are you going to do if they start walking around, or throwing things, or wander out of the room.
I am sure every new teacher experiences a few nightmares in which he or she faces a class in uproar and screams ineffectually, whilst colleagues stand in a group looking in from the doorway. Above the din one catches disjointed comments.
No, he hasn’t got what it takes....if he’s as bad as this now, what’ll he be like in thirty years’ time....poor devil....he’ll be a nervous wreck before the term’s out....
Fortunately there is usually the honeymoon period when the class is comparatively quiet whilst contemplating the new teacher. It may be a few hours, or days, even weeks, or maybe just a couple of minutes. Its length depends upon many variables - the teacher’s age, the hint of experience or lack of it, confidence of manner, tone of voice, the look in the eye.
I remember a forthright fourteen year old talking to me on this topic with the open assurance that precocious teenagers possess and use when they are sure of their audience. She described in detail the varied abilities of members of staff at the School in the matter of pupil control.
‘....then there’s Mr Seamarks. Now he’s young, and good looking, and you’d think he’d be easy to fool around with. But there’s just something in his voice. I can’t quite describe it, but it makes you stop short of really messing about. It’s funny, really, because he doesn’t do much to keep you quiet, like giving out extra work or detentions - no, there’s just something in his voice.’
Not surprisingly Mr Seamarks gained good promotion in the profession. That indefinable something in one’s personality is what all young teachers yearn for. All hope they possess it and that in the practical situation it will grow and flourish quickly, so that soon it will be called experience. But its absence means disaster and if it doesn’t issue from the root stock, then grafting from elsewhere is not likely to succeed.
Naturally, in trying to develop this quality, new teachers make mistakes, either under or over-exerting their authority. It’s easy to be wise after the event, but much more difficult to handle every situation with precise judgment, especially when you have to decide on the spur of the moment how to react to an individual’s misbehaviour. Usually this forms a challenge to your authority, which the group watches. Under-react, and as sure as night follows day more misbehaviour and more challenge will follow. Then, if you were easy-going the first time, how can you justify being harder for the second? If you are, you’ll be thought unfair - a terrible fault in children’s minds - and if not, you’re weak and a pushover.
I remember Mrs S discussing the matter very forcefully with Taff Hughes. She was a very large woman, both in height and breadth, and had her own distinctive view about society which she advanced on every possible occasion. In a nutshell this was that the only authority that mattered in the world was her own. With her husband and a proportion of their family of ten children she ran a ‘Rag and Bone’ business, the central asset of which was the traditional cart. This plied up and down the city streets with house fronts echoing to her trumpeted commands, ‘Bring out your RA-AAGS:’ Such was the force of her personality that many householders felt it sensible to be compliant, with the result that as well as rags, all kinds of unwanted goods were given to the miniature minions who scurried to and fro between the houses and the family veh
icle. This was pushed by Mr S who, whilst in no way such a physically well-furnished specimen as his wife, was nevertheless wiry and tough. With much going for it their business flourished, and on the occasions when Mrs S was summoned to appear at the city’s courts for failing to send certain of her children to school with any kind of regularity, and was fined the regulation £5 with unfailing regularity, she always made great play of extracting a huge roll of notes from her handbag, peeling off five, plonking them firmly and without a trace of malice on the front of the dock.
‘Five quid it is, me luv. ‘Ere yar.’
The magistrate usually looked resigned at the inadequacy of his or her powers and the Attendance Officer, who reported these appearances to us, was furious and frustrated.
Mrs S was equally contemptuous of the authority of teachers. On this occasion Taff had kept Berny in for being disobedient and his release had brought his mother to the School in full cry five minutes later. She caught Taff coming down the stairs from the staffroom on his way home, barring his way with arms akimbo.
‘Whad yow mean, young ‘Ughes, keepin’ our Berny in? ‘E’s work to do when ‘e comes ‘ome. I doan’ want ‘im westin’ ‘is time ‘ere, so we’ll ‘ave no more o’ that.’
‘Well, now, Mrs S, I’m glad you’ve called.’ From the staffroom I heard Taff’s voice float upwards in tones of perfect reasonableness. ‘He just doesn’t like taking instructions, you see. All the class were told to be quiet whilst they were reading and Berny started to talk, I warned him once, but he carried on. So I had to do something. You see my problem.’
‘Yers, but yow doan’ ‘ave to keep ‘im in. Yow should jus’ ‘ollar at ‘im, an’ ‘e’ll shurrup.’
‘But he didn’t. Turned away, you see, very cheeky like, and two minutes later he was talking again.’
Mrs S snorted. ‘But ‘e din’t take no notice o’ yer because yow din’t sound as if yow meant it, I’ll bet. That’s the trouble with all yow young teachers, kids doan’ know where they are with yer. If I ‘ad my way, yow wouldn’ be let loose in the classroom afore yow was thirty.’
I remember being amused by this notion because Mrs S’s philosophy of teacher training begged the question of inexperience at whatever age one began. True, a thirty year old might look more mature than someone of twenty-two, so the honeymoon period might be slightly extended. But thirty, forty or fifty, if the children spot you are inexperienced and weak into the bargain, they’ll generally make your life hell. But Taff explained the situation beautifully.
‘I see your point,, but you have to learn in the classroom no matter at what age you start. Alright, so I’m young and I make some mistakes, I don’t mind admitting it. But I’ll get better as time goes by and by the time I’m thirty, I hope I’ll be a pretty experienced teacher.’ There was a pause, but Mrs S was softening a little, so she missed the chance of the next comment. ‘Put it like this,’ - Taff was quick to pursue his advantage - ‘when you had your first baby, I’ll bet you made mistakes, but you got better as time went by. Now look where you are.’
Upstairs I dissolved into silent laughter. Inwardly I envied Taff the ready wit which produced this unanswerable riposte. Downstairs there was also silence as Mrs S pondered her reaction. But she had no choice, really, and soon she and Taff were talking like bosom pals.
‘How’s business these days, Mrs S?’
‘Could be wuss, duck, could be wuss’.
Chapter 33
The immediate post-war years were ones of harsh austerity and schools as much as other institutions, or individual people, felt the full weight of the Country’s efforts to pull its economy back from the abyss of war debts. This meant that books were not renewed, materials were scarce and apparatus was old. We young teachers learnt to be both frugal and ingenious, as well as turning into first rate scroungers as we sought paper, paint, cardboard, wood and other materials for classroom models and displays. The rooms certainly needed enlivening. Their large size was an advantage, which many modern schools no longer possess, but they were drab. In Class Four’s room there were glazed brown tiles on three walls to a height of about four feet; these were surmounted by a section bordered by wooden laths for display work. Above the walls soared to the ceiling, some eighteen feet high, which once had been painted cream. The room was light because the large window spread reached almost as high. But the decor was thoroughly uninspiring.
Every penny from official sources was spent on the absolute necessities of the curriculum - English, Arithmetic, Reading, Nature Study, Geograpy, History, Physical Training and Music. The last mentioned was singing taken once a week by every class; the teacher was Miss Rees, and how those children sang - they didn’t dare do otherwise. But in each subject the amount of money available for new items each year was extremely small.
In September Miss Rees dispensed the requisite number of pencils, penholders and rubbers to each class with the admonition that in the following July she wanted the same number returned. Pencils, she accepted, would be stubs by then and rubbers (one between two children) would be worn down. Penholders, however, were not subject to wear and tear so the full number would be returned. In this she was acting no differently to her colleagues in schools throughout the city and the Country. Each class was allowed a gross box of pen nibs; three per child for the year with a few spares allowed magnanimously.
Most teachers resorted to having blocks of wood with holes drilled (we had to supply these ourselves) for the appropriate number of pens and pencils; a tin for the rubbers which we counted out at the beginning of a lesson and counted in at the end. Some enterprising teachers took twelve pencils, cut them into four pieces each, sharpened the stubs and kept them locked away to be able to return a full quota of stubs. The remaining thirty-six were cut in half, forty-
eight made available for lessons and twenty-four kept in reserve. Careful watch was kept on those heavy handed children inclined to break pencil points too often.
Most of us bought copies of magazines likely to be useful in providing pictures. Pictorial Education was popular because it offered large formats. Its pictures, of course, were ordinary black and whites as seen in newspapers. Colour in classrooms came largely from children’s art work. Powder paint was cheap and therefore available in reasonable amounts. Six inch squares of shiny coloured paper with gummed backs were also in common use; I remembered these from my own junior school.
Large coloured sheets of sugar paper were available, fairly soft and useful for backing children’s display work. Coloured manilla paper was altogether stronger and useful for model work. Various kinds of cardboard were also stocked for more enterprising model work and many other activities including scenery for plays. But the overriding consideration in using all such stock was to be as frugal as possible. Money was the greatest shortage; there was no extra to spend on anything remotely described as a luxury.
Football shirts and netball strip certainly came into that category. As I’ve mentioned the Dayton Road first teams had some very good players, often outstanding in skill. But as far as appearances went the teams comprised a motley crew. Financially pressed mothers put old shirts and blouses aside for matches and scrubbed them unmercifully afterwards to remove stains, then darned the tears and splits as best they could while the material precariously held together. When they looked too battered equally old pullovers of varying colours were pressed into service. The result was teams whose rough appearance hardly reflected credit upon themselves or their school. No one liked this and gradually everyone was saying that something ought to be done about it - teachers, Mr Brand, fathers (and some mothers) on the touchlines on Saturdays, and the boys and girls themselves.
But above all - Rocky. She released her pent-up feelings on the matter one day in the staffroom. We had just finished lunch and she was collecting the used dishes.
‘I’m sick of taking our teams out looking like a bunch of scarecr
ows: It’s so unfair. Some of them look really disreputable, as though they came from awful homes. Yet most of them are decent. Their parents just can’t afford the strip.’
The pile of dishes grew as she slammed plate upon plate. It wobbled precariously as she picked it up and turned to the door. I leapt up and turned the knob.
‘I’m going to see the Boss. We’ve just got to find the money from somewhere to dress them properly.’
I edged around her on the landing and held the kitchen door open. The pile of plates lived dangerously for a moment, then was deposited very firmly on the table to await collection. Rocky spun on her heels and made for the stairs.
‘You’re going to see the Boss now - this minute?’ I called to the top of her head from the bannister rail. But with a clatter she was down the stairs and through the door to the playground.
School staff usually employed the soubriquets Boss or Old Man for Headmasters but both were inappropriate for Mr Brand. We never met formally as a staff to discuss the School throughout my entire stay at Dayton Road, though he was usually with us in Miss Shenton’s room at morning and afternoon breaks for coffee and tea. In the staffroom Miss Rees reigned, whilst Mr Brand sat in solitary state in his eyrie at the other end of the building. The exceptions were the rare occasions when he used his long desk in the hall, but even there he presided over empty space.
Then again, his physical prowess at stair climbing, for which he retained the staff speed record throughout my stay, would have made the Old Man label equally ridiculous. I never found out his age. Those gangling, flying legs and his seraphic beam as he floated along the corridor without a trace of breathlessness the instant he reached the top remained a sharp memory. I cherished an ambition to copy him well into my mature years, but when I pounded upwards, puffing and creaking I knew I was fighting a losing battle. So, on balance, the staff were right to choose Boss as less inappropriate. But that same afternoon as we stood drinking our tea, he almost called us to order.
Greetings Noble Sir Page 37