‘Um-ah, Miss Rockliffe has asked me whether we can find some money for football shirts and netball strip,’ he announced to the tea cup he was holding. Then he looked up to find us all staring at him. Taff, Wilfred and I reacted to the trigger words money and football shirts, and the older women were surprised at the Boss actually addressing the assembled company. Miss Rees blinked rapidly. Rocky was the only who was ready for what was coming.
‘Of course, there’s no chance of our capitation money running to that sort of thing, but I feel that some parents might be willing to help us raise enough to purchase sets.’
‘That’s a great idea, Sir.’ Taff’s quick enthusiasm erupted. Miss Rees glared; she took her First Officer role very seriously.
‘You have Miss Rockliffe to thank for the notion, Mr Hughes. She mentioned the possibility to me at lunch time and I have been giving it some thought since. I believe I could ask certain parents to join with us. I am sure they could suggest various money raising projects.’
‘Who would you ask, Mr Brand? enquired Miss Rees.
‘Oh, Jeffrey Howard’s mother, perhaps, he’s such a good footballer, so he’s likely to stay in the team. Then Mrs Brown, Peter’s mother, and probably Mr and Mrs Ollerton. They’re a very sensible couple, I find. I’ve met them two or three times.’
‘Those sound alright. But there are some I wouldn’t want to be asked, don’t you agree?’ Miss Rees turned to her two senior colleagues for support. Miss Rees’s nature didn’t brook argumentative parents.
Parent-Teacher Associations were plants of very tender growth in those days, if they sprouted at all. But absence didn’t necessarily reveal stony ground. The propensity which many Dayton Road parents had for walking into the building to tell us young teachers our job could be turned to our advantage as was about to be demonstrated. In due course Mr Brand informed us that he had written to his selected group asking them to help in the raising of some ready cash for the shirts and strip and that he had received their replies.
‘There are two suggestions which have been put forward in each letter,’ he informed us. ‘These are organising a series of Whist Drives and a Grand Jumble Sale.’
I cannot think what else I imagined we might do, but my thoughts certainly were not enthused by these proposals. My only skill at cards lay in an ability not to finish too much out of pocket at Pontoon, a skill learnt in the traditional venue of the Sixth Form Common Room and perfected around numerous billet stoves in the RAF on cold winter nights. Whist I regarded as one of the pursuits of the card playing elite, like Poker, or even Bridge. I knew a few Whist players, of course. They played regularly, week in week out throughout the year and contrived to equip their kitchens and half furnish their houses with the prizes they brought home in triumph. Whist driving was a religion which demanded extraordinary skill on the part of its devotees and I knew I was not of their number.
But Jumble Sales were very different - quite at the opposite end of the social spectrum. A battered board with ‘Jumble Sale TO-DAY’ scrawled in chalk propped up outside the entrance to a sleazy looking hall in the more dilapidated areas of the city was a fairly common sight, but I had always hurried past. As a child the notion of wearing clothing bought in a Jumble Sale would have filled me with horror. The ultimate condemnation which Mother could heap upon me whenever I looked particularly dishevelled was, ‘You look as though you’ve been dressed at a Jumble Sale:’ As a result I grew up regarding such things as events that took place in dens of iniquity, rather like billiard halls. Certainly I should have classified them alongside brothels had I known what they were. I was an obnoxious child.
But now it seemed that not only was I expected to know all about such things but, much worse, I was to be swept up in the organisation of one. The subsequent discussion in the staffroom next day worried me intensely.
‘I shall duplicate letters to all parents informing them of the sale, asking them to send all their own jumble. Now you’ll have to send two children to me each day with it. I can’t have everyone bringing it to me direct or there’ll be chaos. I’ll clear extra space in the stockroom.- it’ll take plenty as it’s such a large room.’
Miss Rees had taken charge quickly. .I was surprised because I expected her to be opposed to the whole idea. But I hadn’t taken into account her position as Number One. It would be intolerable if we all worked liked slaves and organised a highly successful event without her. Her position and credibility would take a dive and that was something she wouldn’t endure. The only alternative was to lead and I soon found myself admiring her thoroughness.
Miss Shenton looked around the table. ‘We must all go through our cupboards and garages and clear out anything we don’t want. It will all be grist to the mill.’
‘Duw, yes,’ broke in Wilfred. ‘It’s amazing what gets sold at jumble sales in the Valleys. Looks the most broken down old junk you can imagine but someone finds use for most of it.’
‘Three weeks on Saturday,’ mused Miss Browning. ‘By then we must have the hall planned, you know, where we shall have the tables and, we’ll need a system for bringing out extra jumble as the first lots are bought. It’s not a good idea to have everything out from the beginning; makes the customers stay longer and they buy more.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll see plans are drawn up well in advance,’ said Miss Rees quickly. We’ll need to organise something to put the cash in as we take it. If my experience is anything to go by, we’ll need to keep a close watch on that. There are a few people around here who’ll come looking for that kind of thing. Probably one or two of the children as well, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘We had a sale at our Church recently.’ said Miss Shenton, ‘and all the helpers wore aprons with large deep front pockets. They put the money in those. It looked marvellous - it was easy to find change yet no one could possibly steal it when they weren’t looking.’
‘What an excellent idea, Miss Shenton.’
Praise indeed, coming from Miss Rees. I was fascinated by the change which I was seeing in her. I knew she was an exceptionally hard working teacher who drove the children, too much occasionally I was inclined to think in my naïvety. But I had not yet seen her involved with any extra curricular activity. I was to learn that when she did it was pursued with the same relentless drive which characterised her teaching.
But the whole conversation was a new dimension to me. Everyone, it seemed, knew all about jumble sales except me. Taff wasn’t present at the initial discussion because he was on duty but when he came up and changed with Miss Browning, he plunged into the conversation like an expert.
‘We’ll need plenty of time after school on the last few days to do the pricing. Takes a long time, that. I think the women are best at that, don’t you agree, Nigel?’
‘Oh, ah, yes, I’m sure they are.’
‘And what are you best at Nigel, apart from drinking?’ asked Rocky. She had been pulling my leg on that subject since Taff and Wilfred had regaled the staff with heavily embroidered accounts of my prowess at the football dinner. My protestations that I had never before tried out my capabilities in that direction had been laughed down by everyone, though Miss Rees hadn’t shared in the amusement. She reacted with prim disgust that I was like all men. But I wasn’t sure about Rocky. Was she secretly pleased that I had won the contest, or disappointed because it made me look a boozer? And now I couldn’t use this opportunity to show a lead in this money raising venture which was so near to her heart because I felt completely useless. It was galling.
‘I have to admit I don’t know anything about jumble sales.’ I decided the honest approach was best. ‘You’ll have to take me in hand and tell me what to do.’
‘Oh, we’ll find you plenty to do, Mr Flaxton, won’t we ladies?’ Miss Rees surveyed the table and naturally received three ready responses from the women.
‘Watch it, Nigel - petticoat g
overnment they call it. You’ll be run off your feet now,’ said Taff.
‘Don’t be so rude, Mr Hughes.’ Miss Rees attempted to crush him but he was made of sterner stuff and rarely suffered visibly under the verbal reprimands of the Chief Assistant. He certainly received quite a few because gently riling her amused him and she nearly always rose to his bait.
At this moment the bell monitor played his peal at the foot of the stairs. Unusually we had stayed throughout the entire lunch hour planning the Grand Jumble Sale.
‘Do you really mean you’ve never helped run one of these?’ Rocky asked me with an incredulous look on her face as walked across the playground.
‘Too true - what’s more I’ve never even been to one.’
‘My lad, you haven’t lived. This will certainly improve your education.’
Without elucidating further. she left me near my door and swept on to hers. I stood and watched her retreating figure, momentarily appreciating her attraction from both directions. As she turned towards her room she looked back fleetingly and inclined her head to the audience. My heart sang for the rest of the afternoon. But whilst cycling home afterwards I gave the matter deeper thought. I was sure now that Rocky didn’t actually despise me for my football dinner behaviour but I needed to find something at which I could excel in her eyes. Now this Jumble Sale was looming I was going to appear merely an experienced idiot once again. Gloomily I decided I would become typecast in the role. All I could offer so far was reasonable skill with a camera but I’d soon found she hated being photographed. Very odd for someone who looked so sportively attractive.
The day after the handbills were sent out to homes I began to see what I was facing. As I surveyed the two rows of children waiting to come into the classroom I noticed some were carrying large bundles of rags, mostly tied with string.
‘What on earth are you doing with this rubbish?’ I asked no one in particular. I received shocked looks in reply.
‘It’s jumble, Sir,’ said Leslie reverently.
‘Aaah....oh, I see. Yes, well, we must arrange for it all to be sent to Miss Rees. Right, girls, lead in.’
Whilst the children trooped in I took the chance to look more closely at the bundles. As far as I could see the contents were incredibly old and dirty. I called the register and then looked at the class. Some ten or twelve children were sitting expectantly with righteous expressions as they sat guarding their bundles on the desks in front of them.
‘Right, we need two monitors to take this jumble each morning to Miss Rees. I’m going to appoint two boys who haven’t yet got any particular job.’ At the beginning of term I had intended to organise many specific tasks but my inexperienced imagination ran out after a day or so and I was left with a high rate of unemployment. So now about twenty boys’ hands shot into the air.
‘Sir, Sir, me, please, oh, please, me Sir.’ The response wasn’t so much a noise as an imitation of a snake pit. But as on other such occasions I revelled in their enthusiasm.
‘Cyril, James, you’ll do.’ The snakes subsided with audible groans, leaving the two boys smiling happily but politely waiting further instructions. I had the sense to realise I should be in trouble if I sent anyone who would not meet Miss Rees’s approval.
When I gave the word they began their task of carrying the jumble to the stockroom at the foot of the staffroom stairs. In the days that followed they made a number of well laden journeys. At break I sought Rocky. ‘Ye gods, you should see the awful rubbish my class has brought so far: It’s incredible; none of it’ll sell, of course. I think it’ll have to be thrown away immediately. It seems parents have taken this as a chance to get rid of extra rubbish.’
‘Don’t you believe it, Nigel. It may look like rubbish at present, but when it’s sorted and priced, it’ll look different. You’ll be surprised at how much will sell. Don’t forget, most people will wash or clean whatever they buy - and even if it has to be dry cleaned that’s a lot cheaper than buying new clothes.’
Shortly afterwards I looked into the stock room. Miss Rees was in the middle of piles of clothing, some loose, some tied in bundles of varying sizes. Against a wall were other items - books, various ornaments, a rather elderly set of wooden steps heavily spattered with paint, some toys, two dolls forlornly propping up one another, and a large but very worn teddy bear. She was busily engaged in opening the bundles of clothing and sorting it into other piles of approximately similar garments. As soon as she saw me she pounced.
‘You can do some of this at lunch time, Mr Flaxton. No real skill needed at this stage. Men’s clothing on that side, women’s on this. Shirts, pullovers, ties there, coats, trousers there, over here, dresses, skirts, tops - you know, blouses, cardigans, that sort of thing. Anything else, leave for me. You might get some petticoats or even some unmentionables but you’d better leave those alone. Now do you think you can manage that?’
Glad of some direction at last, I readily agreed. As the days passed it became quite a routine. Whenever any one of us had spare time at midday, or at the end of the afternoon, we continued sorting the jumble which continued to flow in a very steady stream. The motley collections of objects, as distinct from clothes, grew as well and one day we awarded Taff a metaphorical prize when his class produced a bicycle. Old and battered it certainly was, but it worked and could be refurbished.
‘That’s going to be priced at ten shillings, not a penny less,’ he said. ‘Bobby Carter brought it in - said it’s his older brother’s, who’s been called up. Duw, I hope he doesn’t want it when he comes home.’
‘I should check with Mrs Carter, said Miss Browning, ‘but they’re a sensible family so I don’t think Bobby would bring it without permission.’
Bobby’s right to bring it was duly proved the next day and it became the star exhibit, as far as price was concerned. Everything else was much cheaper. The four women became the price fixing committee, with Taff and Wilfred being co-opted occasionally for tools, old wirelesses and such like. But what intrigued me most were the shoes. There were dozens of them, some in quite good repair. They ranged from reasonably fashionable through children’s sandals to wellington boots. I couldn’t imagine people would actually buy them: Shoe selection and fitting was a matter of care and skill, I thought. Surely, people wouldn’t give these a second look?
We stayed after school had finished on the Friday before the Sale and were joined by some of the mothers who had volunteered to help. The dinner tables were pressed into service to make a long counter. It was ranged down the length of the hall and across the top end, with plenty of space on either side for sellers and buyers alike. The larger items were brought in and propped against the walls or on the heating pipes, which is where the bicycle stood resplendent with large white ticket on which Taff had inscribed ‘10/-: A BARGAIN’. The women roamed up and down the room laying out clothing and pinning notes to the front of the tables displaying prices, or pinning tickets to individual garments. As for me I slipped easily into the only job I could possibly undertake, that of errand boy.
By six o’clock the hall had taken on something of the appearance of a town market. It seemed to me there was an incredible amount of jumble, most of which I was sure would be rejected out of hand by the would-be purchasers. In fact when I looked around as we gradually came to the end of the final preparations, I wondered if any would even turn up. I said so to Rocky, quietly so that the parent-helpers couldn’t hear.
‘I think you’re in for a surprise, Nigel. You see what it’s like at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
We agreed to be at School just after nine so that any necessary final checks could be made. Because the timing was not all that precise I was rather later than I intended, so it was about half past nine on Saturday morning when I cycled into Dayton Road. At the far end I was surprised to see a knot of people near the School. I sped onwards with some urgency, feeling there had b
een an accident. But when I reached the place I realised the main door was locked and there was quite a substantial crowd waiting good humouredly outside it-. I decided to cycle on and use another door.
‘There’s Mr Flaxton - he’s late.’
“ ‘Come on, young man - your pals have been here for ages.’
‘Go and tell them to let us in, its cold waitin’ out ‘ere?
I grimaced, embarrassed, and prayed that the upper door was open. I jumped off my bike, pulled it on to the pavement and up the step to the door. It was firmly locked. I hammered on it hard with my fist. I knew that if everyone was in the hall they wouldn’t hear me. After a lengthy pause it became obvious they couldn’t. I beat a tattoo on the door, well aware that by now I had an audience. Some of the women had detached themselves from the group and were watching me closely.
‘It’s no good, you’ll have to wait till they let us in,’ called one. I smiled weakly not relishing the thought of meeting Miss Rees on Monday if I failed to get in before the rush. Then I heard Wilf’s voice in the short corridor behind the door. I seized my chance and thumped the door wildly. A few seconds later I heard the bolts being pulled and it opened fractionally. As soon as he saw me he flung it wide, pulled me in and slammed the bolts home again.
‘Hey, I know I’m late, but....’ I began but was interrupted by more hammering on the door, punctuated by frustrated yells from outside.
;Come on, let us in, it’s time you know.’
‘You rotten lot, we wanna get in first.’
‘Go on, Mr Flaxton, be a sport, open up.’
Wilfred grinned. ‘Crowd of Amazons, that lot.’ Then he shouted through the door. ‘We won’t open till ten and the only entrance is the other door.’
General moans greeted his remark but they sounded fairy good natured. I began to realise what was about to burst upon us. Hurriedly I put my bicycle into the stockroom, its normal hideaway, and rushed into the hall.
Greetings Noble Sir Page 38