Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

  ‘Don’t you know your native heath? I’m surprised at you, Nigel. Well, you’ll have to wait and see. I’ll meet you outside the Odeon at half past seven. Bye.’

  And she was gone. A delightful feeling of elation burst somewhere deep inside my chest and I whooped my excitement to the empty room. The door suddenly opened again.

  ‘Did you call, Mr Flaxton?’ Mrs Trenchard, mop in hand, wore a strange expression of surprise.

  ‘Er, no....no, thanks, Mrs Trenchard. I was just, er, singing.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s alright then, isn’t it?’

  She gave me a further strange look and withdrew. I leapt to a cupboard, opened it, ran back to the table, seized an armful of paper and stuffed it on the shelves. Paint pots, brushes, and glue followed indiscriminately. Then I slammed the door shut and locked it. Seconds later I was pedalling furiously, breaking all my previous records for cycling up the long incline home.

  I came down to earth momentarily a couple of hours later upstairs on a bus travelling into the city. I was looking happily out of the window at the passing factories feeling so glad that my place of work was not alongside the impersonal assembly lines within them. Suddenly a hooter sounded its loud and mournful blast and shift workers poured out of the gates and sprinted towards bus stops.

  ‘Damn,’ I thought. ‘I didn’t sign out when I left.’ But. I consoled myself that the evening would make up for the wigging I should have to endure from Miss Rees the next day.

  I was early and Rocky was late. I carved a rut in the pavement walking up and down in front of the imposing sweep of steps which befitted the Odeon’s style of architecture. I was beginning to feel that the equally imposing commissionaire in his bright blue uniform with gold epaulettes and peaked cap peering down at me from the top was going to tell me to move on. Then she arrived. Of course I dared not mention she was late and she knew it. But apart from that she made no further attempt to rub in the bargain nature of the evening.

  I forgot it within the first five minutes of the film. Not that I remember anything about that either. The evening was one of those delightfully exciting times when you are fully aware that the occasion could be a turning point in your life. No, we didn’t spend it necking in the back row and nothing particular was said. But we both knew a relationship had been growing between us during the term which seemed likely to develop further. I felt a contented and warm glow inside. I confess I had schemed to contrive meetings with previous girlfriends, but suddenly I knew what writers meant when they described a new relationship as different. It was, but in a most undramatic way.

  The only vague worry which nagged me slightly during the film was that perhaps this Cherry Tree place was an ultra swish restaurant which would set me back a month’s salary for a meal. But I tried to brush it from my mind with the thought that Rocky had never given any hint of being that hard. I believe she guessed I was considering the possibility because she played up to my suspicions by walking as past a couple of sumptuous hotels after we left the cinema, saying, ‘It’s just a little way along this road’, and pointing at their imposing façades.

  But the ‘Cherry Tree’ was an intimate little basement restaurant which I found absolutely delightful. To be truthful I was astounded at its existence because, not long after the War, my dear old home city had the reputation of having no night life whatsoever. So the Cherry Tree blossomed in the gloom unnoticed by a high proportion of the population....and on that night I was truly grateful it did so.

  As we tucked into an excellent meal, Rocky gave me a gentle lecture on Art in the classroom.

  ‘Save old Christmas cards, look at wrapping paper, watch shop windows - anything can give you an idea. Find a motif, make a template, get the kids to make one each, then paste them up on suitable backing which will give a contrast; the effect can be really striking. Or choose a scene where the kids can each make their own item from a group of similar things, say trees, or houses, or animals, then put them all up in groups, You can mix the good with the bad, but again the whole effect can be made to look super. What’s more, each child makes something which is really his or her own this way. They love to be creative; you know that from your Drama.’

  I began to get the message. ‘Yes, I see. The trouble is, because I know I’m no good at Art myself, I feel at a loss to lead the kids.’

  ‘So your classroom often looks lifeless. Oh, yes, I know you get plenty of stuff on the walls, but sometimes you need to make the whole room an experience of one particular thing. Occasions like Christmas, or Easter, or a special national event can be turned to very good use this way.’

  ‘You ought to be a college lecturer. Why didn’t they teach us this at St. Andrews? Our junior craftwork course comprised mainly bookbinding.’

  Rocky burst into laughter. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Honestly - we did little else the first year. Wood, metal and plastics came in the second, the senior course.’

  ‘Well, if they’re still teaching that for juniors they need to come into the twentieth century. Anyway, I’ll bring some old Christmas cards for you tomorrow. You can see if anything catches your eye amongst them.’

  But from that moment all thought of the morrow drifted quite out of my consciousness. We finished the meal and made our way leisurely and very contentedly through the almost empty central streets to an all-night bus stop. When it came the bus was almost empty as well and we talked in subdued tones throughout the journey, oblivious of everyone and everything else.

  After we left the vehicle there was a short distance to walk to Rocky’s digs, past the athletics track which occasionally housed large noisy crowds, especially on speedway nights, but which tonight was as private as we were. I slipped my arm round her waist; she responded a second later with hers round mine. I looked at her; she turned her face upwards and smiled. We walked on slowly in complete silence.

  We reached the entrance to her digs, an old house, one of a row which in Victorian days had been for the reasonably well-to-do. The gates had long disappeared and her landlord, a lorry driver, had parked his vehicle just inside where it occupied most of the short drive. A large green tarpaulin was tied neatly over the entire load, for the lorry was an open one.

  Rocky stopped and leant back on the tarpaulin. I faced her, still saying nothing. Seconds later we were locked in a long and very satisfying kiss.

  ‘It’s been a super evening, Nigel. Thanks for taking me,’ Rocky said eventually.

  ‘Thanks for coming. I really have enjoyed myself; and thanks for being so helpful.’

  We stood there, holding one another close, and kissing again. Then we stood side by side, arms around each other’s waists, loath to part. Ahead of us, lights twinkled along the main road, as did hundreds of others away beyond us on the opposite side where a large industrial concern had factory buildings scattered across many acres of land. During the War they had made munitions there, a regular target in the blitz.

  Suddenly Rocky sniffed, rather loudly.

  ‘I say Nigel, your mac’ smells a bit. I’ve just noticed.’

  I was wearing a rubberised, light coloured trench coat with a bright red lining. I was very fond of it and it certainly didn’t smell. I said so.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t that, something does pong around here. Can it be the factory?’

  A suspicion crossed my mind and I tugged at the edge of the tarpaulin against which we had been leaning. I could just make out some letters stamped on the side of a box, one of hundreds stacked there.

  The lorry was packed with kippers.

  Chapter 37

  Amongst Rocky’s old Christmas cards I found one depicting a very cheerful snowman. He was chunky and wore a black top hat with snow on the brim and a red scarf round his neck. His eyes, nose and mouth were made from shaped pieces of coal, as were his buttons. He had round hands and feet and he appe
ared to be running, as much as a fat, cheerful snowman could be capable of such athletic activity.

  I drew a large copy of his outline on a piece of card and made four templates. These were passed round the class and each child drew the outline on white paper. Then they added in their own ideas to complete his personality. The result was forty-eight individual snowmen with characters which would have kept a snowchiatrist at work until the following Christmas.

  I surrounded the entire room including the door, the cupboards and the lower part of the windows with a belt of black paper, drew a wavy line near the bottom and commissioned an army of decorators to paint the frieze white up to this. Then I let one or two loose with some light blue paint to give it some shadows. We pasted up the snowmen, who then chased each other up little hills and down mini-dales in an unending line completely around the room. For good measure we interspersed some green Christmas trees and dabbed green holly leaves and red berries here and there. After school one day I kept a few faithful workers behind who handed up paper decorations whilst I balanced precariously on Mr Trenchard’s huge step ladders. I cascaded these from above the large white globes which hung at the end of enormous chains which were the classroom lights.

  Class Four were pleased with the whole effect. It was reasonably dramatic and the snowmen characters were a great hit. All the staff came to see them, as well as many children from other classes which did wonders for my ego. Since then I used the snowman template a few hundred times (why pass up a winner when you’ve got one?) and ,he was borrowed and redrawn interminably.

  But my room didn’t match Rocky’s. Her frieze depicted a really lovely scene of Bethlehem, where individual houses with yellow windows were scattered along a plain and up a hill, canopied with a lovely dark blue night sky with hundreds of stars. One beauty stood directly above a cave. Occupying pride of place on another wall was a beautifully painted crib scene with the figures in glorious colours, especially the Wise Men, whose robes brushed the straw so vividly you could almost see them moving.

  I slipped in alone to look at the room when I knew Rocky and her class had finished their preparations. It was lunchtime at the beginning of the last week of term. Suddenly I realised what she meant by making the room look alive. What an experience for the children, whose lives were passed in very uninspiring and drab surroundings: But that picture....

  ‘Yes, Miss Rockliffe is very skilled with her paintbrush isn’t she, Mr Flaxton?’ As usual I hadn’t heard Mr Brand come in. I spun round.

  ‘You mean she painted those....?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’re her second. She did different ones last year equally as good. It’s a wonderful gift but it must be very time consuming to paint such large scenes as well. What about you, are you going to try your hand at one next year?’

  ‘Me, paint like that? No, I’m afraid not, never in a thousand years.’

  ‘Well, never mind. Your room looks very lively as well, though quite different, of course.’

  I was only too well aware of what he meant, now I’d seen Rocky’s classroom. Yet another lesson.

  The final one came home to me at the end of the week. I had a wonderfully rewarding time during those five days. There were the children’s parties, games in the hall, and the staff had drinks in the staffroom one day after school. The children positively glowed and were on their best behaviour throughout the week. Many gave me Christmas cards and in every way they could showed me they appreciated the time I spent preparing lessons, helping them to learn, encouraging them at sport and trying to make their classroom bright and cheerful.

  I have since seen hundreds of teachers in their first year and many seem at their lowest ebb emotionally when they reach their first Christmas. Even Rocky told me she felt like packing the job in at that time the year before, a fact I found hard to believe seeing her as I did then. But I was on top of the world. True, Rocky herself had much to do with that....

  On the last day of term, stupidly being too proud of my own room, I decided not to strip the decorations until the afternoon. I was about to start when the class implored me to leave the work until after playtime.

  ‘Go on, Sir,’ said Berny. ‘It won’t take us long to get it all down.’

  I fell into the trap. I organised a quiz, which they loved. Then, after the break I found them rather sluggish in doing the necessary jobs and, worse still, I realised I hadn’t planned who should do what. Children may be naturally creative but clearing up seems positively unnatural as a few million parents will agree. I have never seen a neat, tidy, orderly room dissolve into utter chaos so quickly. Desks and floor became littered with torn paper, small bodies were mummified with large strips of frieze, arguments developed as to which snowman belonged to who because they all wanted to take one home. As I let the decorations down from the lights, perched on top of the step ladder, hands grabbed for the streamers and ridiculously early May Day dances began. When Mr Brand came in he was greeted by a scene from St. Trinian’s.

  ‘Er, we let the children go early on the last day, Mr Flaxton. You can send yours home as soon as you like.’

  His voice just reached me above the din. The second the door closed my turret was besieged by a horde of dervishes.

  ‘Can we go now, Sir? Please, please, please....go on Sir, you know it’s Christmas.’ They began to edge away towards the door. I knew the situation demanded great firmness but I hesitated....and was lost. The room emptied within ten seconds. Anyone outside the door at that moment would not have been a pretty sight. A few moments later I descended from my perch and continued the clearing up in complete silence and splendid isolation. Then Miss Browning came in.

  ‘Just popped in to wish you a very happy Christmas. Have a really good holiday - you’ve worked very hard this term.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. I hope you have a wonderful holiday as well. Thanks also for all the advice you’ve given me at various times.’

  She looked round and pursed her lips. ‘Well, here’s the last piece. Next year start clearing up at nine o’clock in the morning!

  To-day the whole question of classroom displays would be dealt with by classroom assistants, which is why most primary school walls look so attractive. I wonder sometimes whether subconsciously this fact influences the choice of advertising as a career. Certainly modern primary classrooms provide excellent environments for children in marked contrast to the unadorned walls of my own experience, or those of many teachers I encountered early in my career. Rocky and her College partners were in a minority.

  I was to see the phenomenon of a group taking charge of its behaviour on another, quite unexpected occasion. It was during an Annual Outing. Such events were long-standing features of life in the city’s schools. In the thirties I had anticipated, and enjoyed, one each year from the age of seven until 1939. One in particular comes to mind - a visit to Hampton Court, inevitably getting lost in the maze, and a boat trip on the Thames, the most memorable event of which was seeing a dead dog floating gently past. Years later I read that J, George and Harris had had the same vision in “Three Men In A Boat”, though they didn’t mention whether Montmorency was party to it. I hope not.

  Children paid a weekly amount towards the cost of these visits, so one of the chores on Monday mornings was to collect and record each payment. Each participant (not everyone could afford the cost, and not everyone could cope with long coach journeys) had a class-made card and each teacher had a master record which was completed so the payee could see the figure and date being entered.

  We organised a visit to Liverpool docks and across the Mersey to New Brighton. We travelled on the now long gone overhead railway which enabled us to point clearly to the way ships entered, were unloaded, reloaded, and dispatched to sail the oceans of the world. Hopefully the avid interest shown by the children supplemented our classroom explanations and drawings of that part of the nation’s maritime activity. A Signif
icant Experience? I think it was.

  Another year saw us at Conway Castle and Deganwy, with a return via some lovely Welsh countryside. Normally each visit included part of the time on a beach because living in central England sight of the sea was still a rare experience for many. But one year we visited London.

  We went shortly after the Queen’s Coronation to see the decorations in the Mall and to have a river boat trip along the Thames to view the famous buildings the children had seen in pictures, often taken by their teachers from magazines such as Picture Post or from Pictorial Education. The latter unfolded to a reasonable size for classroom display, but it had drawbacks. One was the frequent problem that you wanted two pictures which were back to back. It was only printed in black and white. It was also fairly expensive and was not supplied by the School. So it ate into my salary which to begin with was £300 pa. By the time of the Coronation I had earned three annual increments - only twelve more to go before I reached the full Assistant Teacher’s salary.

  On the Thames the Captain of our boat explained that it was likely our journey would be interrupted because someone else was travelling the same path - the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh. Their particular activities that day had revealed that the straightest line between two events was virtually along the river. If their timetable coincided with ours, we were told, the River Police would move us to the bank for an unspecified period.

  We had not travelled far on the waterway when an officious looking boat aimed straight for us in a cloud of spray, turned neatly at the last moment and informed us via a loud hailer that we were to anchor near the bank immediately. Our boat duly chugged resignedly to obey. All teachers and children craned necks to see any likely flotilla coming past but there was nothing. We decided we were in for a lengthy wait.

  But we were wrong. Suddenly a very neat craft appeared with a rear awning under which patently stood the Queen and the Duke. We were not the only other boat around with groups aboard, of course, but unfortunately we had been shooed to a point of some isolation, whilst the opposite bank was host to a small collection of parties who now cheered in the expected manner. The Queen, of course, responded by waving graciously to the nearby audience.