Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

After that the remainder of the evening went very well indeed. The tension evaporated and everyone treated the occasion much more as a bit of fun. Taff and I were humoured; I was even given some tips during play by opponents as well as partners. Everyone became very pleasant indeed....that is, everyone except Melvin’s Gran who could be heard muttering to herself whenever there was lull in conversation.

  ‘Can’t see a bloody ace in front of his nose....’

  When the evening reached its conclusion I found myself almost sorry, and was surprised to see we had been playing for two hours. Mr Ollerton quickly dealt with the prizes, calling out possible high numbers, so identifying the winner and the runner up.

  ‘Finally, there is the booby prize”, he said. ‘I suppose someone might suggest that Mr Hughes ought to be awarded this outright.’

  There was tremendous laughter at this in which Taff joined as cheerfully as anyone.

  ‘No, no, I mustn’t cheat the rightful winner,’ he called out.

  ‘It’s probably you in any case,’ called Miss Rees.

  But she was wrong. It didn’t surprise me at all to find that I had the lowest score and, amid further laughter, I was duly presented with a toilet roll.

  We bought the football and netball strips and had money to spare to be put into the School fund for other activities. Soon I was able to photograph the first team looking resplendent in green shirts with white sleeves and collars, each with a number on the back, and wearing immaculate white shorts with green and white socks. The netball team looked positively angelic in their blouses and skirts and regulation position aprons. In fact there was a moment when we wondered whether they would be so concerned about their new appearance that their play might become low key.

  We needn’t have worried. If anything their play became even better. Now they were good and looked good, too.

  Chapter 35

  It was freezing cold in my bedroom. There was no heat in it at all and as usual I had my window open, a procedure insisted upon throughout my boyhood as absolutely necessary to the development of a truly healthy physique. My father was adamant upon this point. He had assimilated this from personal experience. Called up in 1916 he opted for the Royal Navy following an uncle, tales of whose exploits had coloured his childhood and after whom he was named. As a Petty Officer the uncle had led his battleship gun battery to winning feats in an annual big ships competition, on one occasion being the first to score eight hits in eight rounds. He won a number of medals, of which my father had one. Alas, the uncle didn’t feature in the First World War, having died of cholera and been buried in a suitably commissioned tomb in Hong Kong.

  My father’s exploits were rather different. A few days after beginning training as a Signals Rating at the Crystal Palace he reported sick and was diagnosed with cerebrospinal meningitis. A doctor saw him on a Friday and pronounced he would be dead by Sunday. My brother and I were grateful for the diagnostic error. That my father finally recovered he ascribed to convalescence in a Navy institution where fresh air was regarded as the sine qua non. It worked for him. I remember him having nothing worse than the occasional cold throughout most of his subsequent life which lasted into his eighties.

  I suppose the rigours of an icy bedroom had prepared me for interminable nights in freezing wooden billets in the RAF. These could give tolerable imitations of Siberia in winter when the stoves went out, just like our house which in those days did not have an all-night fire, let alone central heating, nor, of course, double glazing. It was also dark, though I knew it was time to get up.

  I could hear my father shaving in the bathroom next to my room. I snuggled further down into the cylinder of warmth which my body had created during the night. I could never get the same experience when I got into bed at night because it always felt cold. As soon as it warmed up, I fell asleep. But it was different in the morning, so warm in its caressing embrace. I was loath to break out of its clasp on winter mornings.

  Not that I minded getting up. Work held no worries for me. I lay there thinking about my bicycle ride to School which I so enjoyed; a quick steep slope up the hill to the top of our road, then a straight flat section between older houses, past the Church Orphanage. Here I would often see lines of rather quiet blue uniformed little girls walking crocodile-fashion to the Church School at the bottom of the hill, near the park, which was in the opposite direction to my journey. Then I had a long downward glide, joining a busier road than ours, through some traffic lights and past another church which in years gone by had been set amidst open fields. It was still surrounded by yew trees and gravestones, but these were huddled behind a lych gate which had been moved too close to the church itself. Then there was another long free-wheel run past big houses on either side of the road, hidden by large and very mature trees set in long front gardens. In Victorian days this road had been the height of elegance. Now it was just a busy thoroughfare.

  At the next traffic lights I turned left and dodged the tram lines alongside the popular terraces of the Rovers’ ground. Then I had to negotiate a cobbled section of road especially treacherous to cyclists on wet or icy days. Here I turned across the wide convergence of five roads, then into the narrow streets which led to the School. I enjoyed that ride, usually with a rucksack on my back full of books, or bits and pieces for models to be made in craft lessons, or sometimes my camera.

  ‘Nigel, you’ll be late. Do get up, it’s foggy again and you’ll have to cycle slowly.’ Mother broke my reverie. She sounded impatient. I slipped my arms out of the bed and under the eiderdown, from whence I extracted my underclothes and socks, which were beautifully warm. Then I half sat up, quickly slipped off my pyjama jacket and slipped on my vest, exposing as little of me as possible to the biting air. Then, with an almighty fling, I was out of ,bed and dressing with demoniac speed to keep as warm as I could until I was dressed. Then I went into the bathroom, where there was an electric fire on the ceiling. Off came my shirt and vest, and I began to wash.

  My father said it was ridiculous and why didn’t I go straight into the bathroom, but it was a habit I’d got into in the RAF, where the ablutions were always miles from the billet. I had to admit the distance at home between bed and bathroom was much less, about fifteen feet I suppose.

  ‘I don’t know what you young men are coming to,’ he would grumble. ‘Can’t face a bit of cold for a second.’

  I always agreed. But I enjoyed the mornings once I was up. School was something to look forward to. Today the weather was indeed miserable with a wet glaze over the road surface that had me slithering dangerously round corners. I was relieved when I reached Dayton Road in one piece. I opened the outside door and pushed my bike inside. I unwound my scarf, slipped off my rucksack and stooped to take off my trouser clips. Then I went into the classroom and shut the door.

  From outside came the usual sounds of the playground. Shrill voices called cheerfully or angrily according to the seriousness of the game being played. There was the steady thump of a tennis ball being thrown against the classroom wall and caught - this would be a girl, usually. Occasionally there was a bang when a slip sent the projectile against a window pane. Whenever this happened I knew when I went outside no one would have seen anyone do such a thing.

  The smell of the room was unmistakable but, for me, inviting. It was always beautifully warm; the coke boilers beneath were stoked up at five o’clock by Mr Trenchard. The age of the building contributed to the aroma and there was a faint whiff of the disinfectant impregnated sawdust spread daily by Mr and Mrs Trenchard as they swept out each classroom. It was strong but not unpleasant and its use over the years had left its mark in the atmosphere.

  I looked round the room. It was getting near to the end of term and Christmas was approaching. There had been much talk of decorating rooms for the festive season and I knew I had to do something about mine. But I felt a little glow of pride as I surveyed it now. There was pl
enty of the children’s work on display which had improved during the term. I had two sections devoted to handwriting, labelled ‘THEN’ and ‘NOW’. The first contained an example from each child at the beginning of term. From half term onwards I had been adding to the ‘NOW’ section and giving marks for improvement. Most were distinctly better, which was rewarding to them and me.

  There were plenty of pictures gleaned from magazines, with many examples of the children’s paintings. At the side of the room was a model of a tournament ground with a host of decorated tents lining both sides each with a shield outside emblazoned with a coat of arms. Together they looked very realistic, though the individual designs would have shocked the College of Heralds. Two miniature knights on gaily caparizoned horses, borrowed from a friend’s collection, charged each other in the lists.

  I sat at my desk and looked at the empty room. Soon it would be full once again with those varied but engaging characters which comprised my class. Leslie would be in the front desk, second row, of course. Precocious and cheeky, he was forever looking for a chance to raise a laugh in the class. He thrived on an audience and I could imagine him in the future being the life and soul of whatever bar he chose to frequent. If I stood near his desk whilst taking a lesson, and he knew the answer to a question, he would hurl his hand upwards time and time again like a warrior shaking a spear.

  ‘Sir....Sir....SIR’ he would yell and I would pretend not to notice.’ I remember the lesson when words beginning with b-i had cropped up. The class gave me many examples to denote twosomes. Then I took them a stage further with t-r-i.

  ‘That means three. Now, who can suggest words beginning with tri which show three parts?’ I soon had triangle and tricycle, then James B suggested, ‘What about that thing you fix your camera to, Sir?’

  ‘Good - that’s a tripod. That means it has three feet, although to look at it three legs would seem better. Anymore....anymore words beginning with t-r-i you can think of....?’

  For some minutes Leslie had been going crazy under my nose. He had accepted my instruction to remain sitting in his desk, but though he contrived to keep his bottom in contact with the seat he managed to gyrate every other part of his torso in a frenzied dance in his agonized appeal to add to the class’s knowledge. All other hands became still as everyone gave their attention to his considerable performance. I gave in.

  ‘Alright Leslie, what’s your word?

  He sat back triumphantly. ‘Please Sir, TRIPE.’ He was well satisfied with the audience reaction.

  I looked at the open space at the front of the room. It was a useful facility provided by the old classroom for although the desks could seat forty-eight children there was still plenty of room for movement. Better still, by pushing the front three desks of each row back into the gangways between the others, the space could be doubled and a spacious arena produced which the class used each week on Friday afternoons for Drama.

  This was always thoroughly enjoyed. Though I did organise some formal acting with simple plays, even writing one or two myself, the children loved doing ‘free drama’. This gave them opportunities to display their creative abilities, which often they did very well indeed for eight to nine year olds. I would depute someone to select a group, which, after a brief huddled conversation, would develop a ‘play’. Completely unselfconsciously they would act parts, living them entirely, making up conversation as they went along. Naturally they couldn’t sustain a particular theme for very long, but fertile imaginations did well, even if the girls dwelt too much on the lives of Princesses and the boys lived permanently in the Wild West and always finished rolling on the floor in mock fights.

  These ‘plays’ produced revealing insights which taught me so much about the characters of the children. They also produced lovely touches of unconscious humour, like the occasion when Angela, as the inevitable Princess, was discussing with Barry, her none-too-willing suitor, the fact that she wanted a baby. I had given Angela the job of cast selection so naturally she had taken the lead and Barry had been directed to become the Prince. Their respective social roles would have been very different had I appointed Barry as selector.

  ‘My father, the King, says I must have a baby. He says he wants a grandson. The problem is....’ she looked round the room and gave an exaggerated sigh, ‘how will I get one?’ The class gave Angela their undivided attention and there was no doubt she captured mine as well.

  Barry shifted on his stool at the side of the stage and began to look uncomfortable. ‘I dunno,’ he ventured. Angela stamped her foot of authority.

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ she said shrilly. ‘You men are all the same, never any use when you’re needed. Come here at once.’ I wondered which adult in her life she was revealing.

  Barry rose slowly and approached her, mid-stage. When he reached her she faced him, put both hands on his shoulders with careful deliberation and whispered conspiratorially.

  ‘I’ll show you how you can give me a baby.’

  There was a dramatic pause which went on far too long for my composure but I refrained from interrupting. In the end Barry was forced to reply. ‘Oh, ar, ‘ow then?’ He couldn’t have sounded less enthusiastic, which niggled Angela.

  ‘Not by just standin’ there thinkin’ about it anyway,’ she snapped and pushed him away with such force that he nearly fell over. Then it transpired, to my relief, that her suitor was to travel the length and breadth of the kingdom enquiring for anyone to make a gift of a baby to the Princess. In those pre-TV days eight year olds were delightfully ingenuous.

  As I sat at my own desk looking at those of the children I could feel the different personal links which were developing between me and their occupants, now waiting outside in the chill air to bring the room to life. I realised how vital those relationships were becoming to my success in teaching them. I knew I was going to be most successful with those who really liked and trusted me. It is a fact which became so much clearer during the ensuing years. Much is said and written about schools today, what they should do and do not, and what they do achieve. Teachers learn about organisational theory, management theory, curriculum theory and much else besides, all of which have places in understanding the complexities of education in its widest sense as well as in research into what it actually accomplishes for the society it serves. But to achieve anything in teaching youngsters there is no substitute for the trusting, personal relationship. If anyone causes a child to disparage a teacher, whether parent, another child, TV programme, reporter, online blog or indeed the teacher him or herself, then he or she is bound to be less than adequate because the bond vital to success will be strained. The teacher needs much else besides, of course, but no matter who he or she is or at what level the teaching takes place, a trusting relationship has to be the beginning.

  Hesitatingly, and with many mistakes, I was stumbling the first few steps along the path to this goal with Class Four. What was more, I was enjoying the experience hugely. You cannot ask for more in a job than that. This was what I had groped for when I struggled to answer the Principal’s question at my College interview.

  ‘Mr Flaxton, you’re here: I thought you were absent. You haven’t been to the staffroom to sign the attendance book and your class has been waiting outside for nearly five minutes. The bell rang ages ago, didn’t you hear it?’

  Miss Rees looked very cross. I hadn’t even heard her open the door, having chosen a highly inopportune time to day dream. I apologised profusely and dashed outside to my class. But I don’t believe she understood at all why I couldn’t help smiling.

  Chapter 36

  ‘Nigel, just what are you up to?’

  Rocky’s voice accosted me from the door of the classroom which was open because the children had just gone home and I was clearing the table beside my desk. It was covered with papers, paint, glue and various oddments used during the last lesson, Art. The room was always in
a mess after my Art lessons. Somehow my organisation of practical lessons went astray at the end and I finished up with a good imitation of an American tickertape procession after the crowds have left.

  ‘I’m clearing up. We’ve just had Art....’

  ‘I don’t mean now. I want to know why half your class keep coming into my room at playtime asking me how I am going to decorate the room for Christmas, and what my frieze will be like. I get the message you’ve sent them to find out.’ Rocky looked her best when she was on the attack. Not that she was really angry, just flushed at what she rightly assumed was my cheek.

  ‘Oh, they weren’t very subtle then. Pity.’

  ‘I see....you want to fight to see who can produce the best classroom decorations. Right, you’re on.’

  I realised my tactical error at once. Putting Rocky on her mettle was bound to produce a result which would put my efforts so much in the shade they’d be invisible. I decided to throw myself on her mercy.

  ‘To be honest, I’m no good at producing ideas. I can plan displays once I get a design, but I just can’t seem to think them up. It sounds as though decorating the room for Christmas is part of religion here and I’d hate mine to look awful. So, can you help me with an idea?’

  ‘You’ve got an almighty cheek.’ She waggled her head in a show of annoyance as she stood hands on hips facing me. But there was the flicker of a smile about her mouth and her eyes were almost laughing.

  ‘Worth an evening at the pictures, and meal afterwards?’

  ‘Oh, I see, bribery as well. No morals, is it.’ There was always a Welsh lilt to her voice when something aroused her.

  ‘Frankly, yes, if you’ll help.’

  ‘Right. To-night, in town. There’s a good film at the Odeon and we can go to the ‘Cherry Tree’ afterwards.’

  ‘The Cherry Tree? Where on earth is that?’