by John Metcalf
“Yes, thanks. You won’t have any trouble finding a place, you know. If you moved out towards Merrymount you’d have to pay more than sharing a place but rents are cheaper out there.”
Jim sat on the arm of his chair and opened the letter again.
“Yes, I suppose they would be,” said David.
“What?”
“Rents.”
Jim went into his bedroom and came back knotting a tie.
“Think I’ll go up to McGill,” he said. “Potter about in the stacks. I’ll have to read all Bellheimer’s bloody books now.”
“I suppose I’ll have to call you ‘Dr. Wilson’ in a couple of years,” said David.
“I shall insist on it,” said Jim. “Tie straight?”
“Yes.”
“I saw that friend of yours at the library last week,” he said, putting on his jacket. “The fair-haired guy at Merrymount.”
“Garry?”
“Yes, he’s doing the introductory statistics course with Noddy.”
“What for?”
“Starting an M.Ed.”
“I didn’t know Garry was doing that.”
“He’s going into guidance. It’s what you’d do if you had any sense. Another degree of some sort, anyway.”
“Are you sure? He’s going to get the Head of the History Department when Follet retires. Grierson more or less promised him.”
“What’s a department head make?” demanded Jim.
“I don’t know.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Seven-fifty over scale. Peanuts.”
“Well, why’s guidance any better?”
“Don’t you ever notice the way things operate?” said Jim irritably. “You’ve worked for the Board for two years now. You get into guidance – and you do some administration in that, right? Kardex Cards, time-tabling, organizing photographs for bus-passes – right? And if you’re efficient, the Board uses that as a selection process for its vice-principals. Jesus Christ, you irritate me sometimes!”
“Hadn’t thought about it,” said David.
“I’m off,” said Jim. “I’ll buy you lunch at Carmen’s if you like.”
“No. No, I can’t, Jim. I’ve got to get these bloody papers finished for tomorrow.”
“See you, then.”
When the front door had closed and Jim’s footsteps had sounded away down the stairs, David sat in the silent apartment looking at the letter on the arm of Jim’s chair.
Sunlight on the strewn sheets of the Gazette.
Jim’s empty cup.
Gothic candles surmounted by strawberry Bakelite shades.
He traced the ballpoint round and round the islands of fabric on the grease-smoothed arm of the old chair.
The street was suddenly loud with children.
He picked up the papers and sat the pile on his knee again.
Run-on sentence.
SP.
Logic?
Punc.
Oh, Constantimides, Constantimides, teacher of Physics and Office Practice!
How the heart ached for you at the year’s beginning.
Lapels festooned with badges, thirty ballpoints bristling, Ronnie Biggin was marking the register when David walked into the classroom eight minutes late.
“As you were late, sir . . .”
“Yes, thank you.”
David dumped the envelopes of exam papers on the desk. He had managed three hours sleep.
“Shall I carry on, sir?”
Officious little prick. An embryo clipboard man.
While Ronnie officiated, David muffled the intercom apparatus with his jacket, turned the picture of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh to face the wall, and, taking down the Canadian flag which hung to the side of the blackboard, stowed it in the bottom drawer of his desk.
Williams, Henry?
Zazlowski, Charmaine?
Who had taken advantage of first-day confusion to appear in a knit dress; she smiled at him. Breasts like . . . what fruit could compare? He gave her a jolly smile.
Satyriasis?
“A note for you, Mr. Appleby, sir,” said Ronnie Biggin.
Chairs are to place on desks. Windows are to close and lock by gold thing on top. Floor dirty.
George Dimakopoulos Janitor.
“Thank you,” said David.
Just before the holiday, he had bought two copies of The Family of Man and mounted most of the photographs on the pieces of cardboard that came back from the cleaner’s with his shirts. He’d hoped that some of the pictures might spark memories or feelings which he could fashion in his composition lessons. It was not for a couple of minutes that he noticed the gaps in the rows.
He walked round noting what was missing.
Missing were photographs of:
a boy and girl lying in the grass kissing
a sailor with two girls
a pregnant woman lying on a bed
a pregnant woman looking out of a window
a baby being delivered
a woman breast-feeding
a bare-bum African boy hurling a spear
a family group of Australian aborigines.
Enquiry would be merely ritual. He felt irritated but too tired to bother. The bloody kid who took them must have been in a really bad way. Why couldn’t he have stolen Nightstand books from a cigar store or peered at underwear ads in Cosmopolitan? Even the Ed Sullivan Show was raunchier than a group of shrivelled, dughanging aborigines.
While Ronnie Biggin distributed the exam papers, David slumped in his chair staring towards the window remembering suddenly Ossie Prosser. Ossie, thirteen or so then, masturbated countless times a day, storing the proceeds in a Brylcreem jar which he flashed to the class whenever the master was writing on the board. They’d watched him carefully for the legendary signs of divine retribution, but Ossie, though pale, had not succumbed.
Young boys were grubby. Poor sods.
Still, it was irritating that the sequences, the comparisons and contrasts of the photographs had been spoiled.
“Right!” said David. “Settle down. Your exam. I was not pleased by your performance on the essay question. And I am being polite.”
But by the last period in the morning David was in a savage mood. His stomach was eating itself; he felt sick and dizzy with coffee; hot grit grated behind his eyes.
He had been harassed by Miss Burgeon; a wad of forms he distinctly remembered having thrown in the garbage before the holiday. He had promised them for the afternoon.
He had been pressured again by Visual Aid to hand in outstanding monies for the Year Book, monies he had spent. He would have to approach Jim for a loan.
He had been pestered by the Secretary about the mathematics of his last monthly register-total.
His free period, the one following recess, had been taken away by Grierson who had commanded him to muster two hundred kids to form an audience for a visit from the McGill Chamber Orchestra. Grierson, forced by Board policy to suffer these cultural intrusions from time to time, had instructed him not to disturb regular classes but to press only Practical Classes and the basement inhabitants of the Wood, Metal, and Auto Shops. These retardees had then been regaled with a programme of Bach and Vivaldi while he and three of the basement men walked the floor trying to prevent whistles, groping, match ignition, and loud speculations on the sexual habits of the lady cellist.
The bell had released him to teach his third class of the day.
“You have no occasion to talk while reading a poem,” he said. “And I would be obliged, Alan, if you could chew with your mouth closed.”
He decided to cut the lesson five minutes short so that he could get down to the cafeteria and secure an egg or cheese sandwich; although he needed food, he could not face a May West or bologna.
He glanced down at Anthem for Doomed Youth and wished he didn’t have to talk about it.
“And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.”
He’d always been moved by that.
&nb
sp; “What’s ‘orisons,’ sir?” said Brian Inglis.
David pointed to the pile of dictionaries on his desk.
Udashkin was studying the Gazette’s sports section.
West was completing what looked like geometry homework.
“Is that it?” said David.
“What?”
“Do you intend looking it up?”
“Oh,” said Inglis. “Yeah.”
The knock and the opening of the door were simultaneous. In the doorway stood McPhee.
“The class need not stand,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. McPhee?” said David.
McPhee did not answer. In the chill silence, his eyes searched for signs of mutiny.
“Inglis,” he said. “When I came in, were you out of your seat?”
“Yes, sir. I was getting a book from Mr. . . .”
“We’ve met before, haven’t we, Inglis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” repeated McPhee.
There was a long silence.
“Are you chewing, Goldberg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get down to my office.”
McPhee picked up the poetry text, On Wings of Song, from the nearest desk and looked at the name written in the front. He stared at the girl. The girl blushed. Suddenly, he wheeled on the boy behind him and said,
“You! What class is this?”
“11E, sir.”
McPhee nodded slowly as if something had been confirmed for him. He stared round the frozen room again and his gaze came to rest on David’s jacket which was hanging over the intercom apparatus.
After long moments, he said,
“Can I have a word with you, Mr. Appleby?”
“Carry on with the poem,” said David.
They went out into the corridor and McPhee closed the door after them.
“I waited for you in my office during recess, Mr. Appleby.”
“Waited for me?”
“Are you in the habit of ignoring your mail?”
“Oh,” said David. “I was rather rushed this morning. I haven’t checked it yet.”
“I had asked you to see me in my office as I thought the privacy would be more appropriate. However. I’d like to . . .”
He opened the folder he was carrying, squared a sheet of paper with his fingertips.
“Look into a couple of matters. Brought to my attention.”
Sparrow cockings of his head.
“Did you set a composition assignment in grade ten to be completed over the holiday – an assignment called The Medical Examination or The Dentist?”
“Yes,” said David.
“Those were the actual essay titles?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And is it true that when discussing this assignment in the last week of last term you mentioned being naked and the production of urine samples?”
“Probably,” shrugged David. “I don’t really remember. Why? What’s this about?”
“You don’t wish to deny this?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you consider it normal to ask students of fifteen to write about undergoing a medical examination?”
“Certainly. Much more normal than asking them their views on capital punishment or the future of the United Nations or something.”
“So this particular assignment, as far as you were concerned, was a normal and typical part of your composition programme?”
“Well, ‘programme’ suggests rather more organization than . . .”
“But you would consider it typical of your . . .”
“Well, in that it’s aiming at the same general sort of purpose.”
“I see,” said McPhee.
“Why?” said David. “What’s the problem?”
“I see,” repeated McPhee. “The problem, Mr. Appleby, is this.”
He opened the folder and turned the corners of the four pieces of paper.
“Letters of complaint from three parents.”
“Why?”
“You’re asking me why, Mr. Appleby?”
“Yes. What can they possibly . . .”
“Over and above that,” said McPhee, “we have also received a call about the unsuitable photographs exhibited in your room.”
“Oh, no!” said David. “You’re joking!”
“As I was bound to do,” said McPhee, “I investigated the matter. During the holiday I removed some of the photographs – those I considered unwise or in poor taste.”
“Poor taste!”
“What, exactly, do you think you’re trying to do, Mr. Appleby?”
Light from the window in the classroom door caught both his lenses turning him into a mad scientist in a horror comic.
“Are you aware, Mr. McPhee,” said David, “that those photographs are an internationally famous collection? That they were sponsored by one of the biggest New York museums?”
“Merrymount High School is not New York, Mr. Appleby.”
“What’s that mean?” said David.
“Let’s return to the matter of this assignment . . .” said McPhee.
“Yes,” said David. “Let’s return to that.”
“Mr. Appleby. I don’t like your tone.”
“I’m not enchanted by yours,” said David.
McPhee was silent for a moment. He looked down at the folder. He opened the folder and closed it. He studied the combination lock on the nearest locker with a display of obvious patience.
“I am trying,” he said, “to deal with this matter on an unofficial level. Grave though it is. If you are insolent to me, we will proceed differently.”
David stared at him.
“You don’t seem to realize,” said McPhee, “that I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t even understand what you’re complaining about,” said David.
“Urine samples,” said McPhee. “Fifteen year old girls . . .”
“Look!” said David. “I’m merely trying to force my kids into writing about real things and real feelings in a real world. They all have medicals. Here, in school. I don’t see what on earth . . .”
“You haven’t yet been granted your Permanent Certificate, have you, Mr. Appleby?”
“No.”
“No, I thought not.”
There was a silence. The noise from the classroom was rising.
“Anyway,” said David, “I don’t know why you should place so much importance on letters and crank phone calls.”
“Crank?” repeated McPhee.
“Yes. Cranks and semi-literates. Good God! I mean, The Family of Man, it’s one of the . . .”
“We exist,” said McPhee, “to serve the community.”
“So if some anti-evolution loony phoned you . . .”
“Don’t bandy words with me!” snapped McPhee. “The area of sex is a sensitive one.”
“Sex?”
“Photographs. Urine samples. Nakedness. This is a school.”
“Those photographs aren’t exactly from Port Said.”
“I refuse to bicker with you, Mr. Appleby. My time is limited.”
He tapped on the folder with his pen.
“I don’t doubt your sincerity,” he said. “Nor your concern for your subject. I’m making allowances for the fact that you are a young teacher from a different system – from a different country.”
Where, in Montreal, David wondered, could one buy tartan ties?
“But I am forced to describe your attitude as misguided.”
David waited.
“I feel that you’re in need of some mature guidance at this point in your career and it’s for this reason that I’ve asked Mr. Bunceford to visit your grade ten class to teach a demonstration lesson in composition.”
“Bunceford!”
“Mr. Bunceford is your Head of Department.”
“And what if our ideas of good writing clash?”
“Mr. Bunceford is older than you. He has been teaching for many yea
rs. The Senior Consultant in English and the Board have a high opinion of his capabilities.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t,” said David.
“Your opinion is more valuable than that of the Consultant and the Board?”
David shrugged.
“Your personal opinion outweighs the Guidelines for Composition laid down in the Handbook?”
David did not reply.
A small blue and gold badge in McPhee’s lapel.
“Everyone but you is out of step, Mr. Appleby? Is that it?”
Again David said nothing.
“Good,” said McPhee.
He opened the folder again and checked a note on one of the pieces of paper.
“I have arranged for Mr. Bunceford to visit your grade ten class the last period this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry,” said David. “I don’t find the proposition acceptable.”
“It is not, Mr. Appleby, a proposition.”
They looked at each other.
“Do I make myself clear?”
McPhee turned and started down the corridor. Metal edges on his heels rang. At the end of the corridor, light flashed on the opening glass door.
“. . . for what is life worth,” said Howie, “if we have no time to stand and stare? What is life worth if, as the poet puts it, we have,
‘No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance’?”
David, sitting on a desk at the back of the room, stared down at his shoes.
Fifteen more minutes.
Hands loosely clasped, looking like a minister inviting a congregation to prayer, Howie said,
“. . . and so I’d like to share with you, then, a beautiful descriptive passage written by the famous British author Sir Compton Mackenzie. Perhaps we can’t all write so beautifully ourselves but we can all aspire to lofty goals, can’t we?”
He smiled.
He opened the Oxford Book of English Prose.
“Quite, quite silent now,” he said.
Eyes lifted to the sunlight at the tall window, he waited.
In unctuous voice he began to read.
“Some four and twenty miles from Curtain Wells on the Great West Road is a tangle of briers among whose blossoms an old damask rose is sometimes visible. If the curious traveller should pause and examine this fragrant wilderness, he will plainly perceive the remains of an ancient garden, and if he be of an imaginative character of mind will readily recall the legend of the Sleeping Beauty in her mouldering palace; for some enchantment still enthralls the spot, so that he who bravely dares the thorns is well rewarded with pensive dreams, and, as he lingers a while gathering the flowers or watching their petals flutter to the green shadows beneath, will haply see elusive Beauty hurry past . . .