The various groups began to disintegrate and reform on either side of this self-elected spokesman, and I was subjected to their bold, unabashed scrutiny. God, I thought, what a crowd! Suddenly they were talking all at once, as if a penny had finally dropped somewhere; the questions came thick and fast.
“Are you the new teacher?”
“Are you taking Old Hack’s place?”
“Is old Hackman really leaving?”
Taking my cue from the fat girl’s first remark I said: “I think I’ll look in at the staffroom,” and slipped quickly through the door. I felt shocked by the encounter. My vision of teaching in a school was one of straight rows of desks, and neat, well-mannered, obedient children. The room I had just left seemed like a menagerie. What kind of fellow could this Hackman be who would stand for that sort of behavior? Was it the accepted thing here? Would I have to accept it too?
With these disturbing thoughts I walked down the corridor towards some double doors which I guessed would lead in the general direction of the staffroom; as I approached them they were opened by the red-head, who swished imperiously past on her way back to her classroom. I turned to look at the retreating figure topped by long auburn hair caught up in a pony-tail which jerked in time to her vigorous, hip-swaying stride. Mr. Florian’s cryptic remarks were beginning to make a lot of sense; things were certainly different around here.
The staffroom lay up a short flight of stairs beyond the end of the corridor; the door was open. Reclining in an easy chair, fingers interlocked behind his head, was a large, hairy, cadaverous, young man, in baggy gray flannel slacks and a well-worn hacking jacket with leather patches at the elbows and wrists. A maroon shirt and yellow large-knotted tie did nothing to dispel the air of general untidiness which enveloped him. As I entered he looked up at me and remarked:
“Ah another lamb to the slaughter—or shall we say black sheep?”
In appreciation of his own witticism he smiled broadly, exposing some large, uneven, yellow teeth.
I have always been subject to quick explosive anger, but for years I have been making a determined attempt to exercise close control of my temper. So now I watched this fellow, ready, willing and, I hoped, able to take a joke about myself.
“My name’s Braithwaite. I’m from the Divisional Office.”
“So you’re the new teacher,” he replied. “Hope you have better luck with the bastards than Hackman did.”
“I thought you were Hackman, because some of the children said he was waiting here until one of them called him.”
“He was, for about ten seconds, then he girded up his loins and departed.” He grinned. “I expect that by now he is pouring out his woes to the Divisional Officer.”
“What happens to his class now?” I enquired.
At this he guffawed loudly. “Without being too prophetic, I’d say you’re for it.”
While I digested this little bit of frightening information he got up and left the room.
For some time after his departure I stood there watching the door; this was all very different from anything I had expected and far from reassuring. But I had no intention of being scared away so easily. This fellow with his air of studied carelessness and his chatter was evidently a poseur; perhaps he’d improve on acquaintance. No harm in hoping.
The door opened to admit a tall blonde woman, dressed in a close-fitting white overall which somehow succeeded in flattering her already attractive figure. Her face was saved from plainness by large clear gray eyes and shapely mouth which denied the severity of the tight bun at the nape of her neck. She smiled and moved towards me with outstretched hand.
“Oh, hello! I suppose you’re the new teacher from Divisional Office?”
“Yes, my name’s Braithwaite.”
“Mine’s Dale-Evans, Mrs. Grace Dale-Evans. The hyphen is very important, especially when I use it to impress my grocer in the middle of the month.” Her voice was low-pitched and pleasant. “Have you seen the Old Man?”
“Mr. Florian? Yes, I’ve seen him; he suggested I take a look around to sort of see what’s going on.”
“Have you seen any of the children yet?”
“Just a quick look. I popped into Mr. Hackman’s classroom on my way up here.”
“Oh, did you? A bit rough, don’t you think? I take them for Domestic Science, not very scientific but domestic enough for them.”
While talking she was busily collecting cups from the mantelpiece, floor and windowsill and placing them in the small sink which occupied one corner of the room. An Ascot heater supplied hot water over the sink, and soon she was washing up and talking over the clatter of crockery.
“Some teachers are as bad as the kids; leave their cups wherever they sit. Oh, sorry, please take a seat.”
I sat and watched her deft movements with the tiny dishmop and later the dishcloth.
“Been teaching long?”
“Not really. Actually this is my first appointment.”
“Ouch.” She grimaced. “Don’t go too highbrow on me; we call them jobs, not appointments,” and she laughed, a pleasant lazy sound, unexpectedly at variance with the staccato crispness of her speech.
“Ex-service?”
“Yes, R.A.F. aircrew. Why?”
“Oh, just something about you. Staying to dinner?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, but if it’s usual I’d like to.”
“Good, I’ll pop across and have a word with the school secretary. She’ll be able to fix it, I’m sure. Stay here if you like and meet the others at recess. Nearly time now. See you then.” She went out and closed the door quietly behind her.
I looked around the room. It was small and untidy with piles of books everywhere. One wall was occupied by a large open cupboard, cluttered up with a miscellany of sports goods—footballs, netballs, and table-tennis gear, plimsolls, boxing gloves and string-tied bundles of soiled denim P.T. trunks. In and around the cold fireplace was a litter of cigarette butts with and without lipstick. Coats, umbrellas and satchels festooned one wall. Seven or eight easy chairs, two straight-backed wooden chairs and a large centrally placed table completed the furniture. It was stuffy from stale cigarette smoke and a mixture of body smells, so I walked over and opened the two sash windows which overlooked the gutted remains of a bomb-wrecked church, squatting among a mixture of weed-choked gravestones and rubble. A rusty iron fence separated this peaceful chaos from a small well-ordered park, trim with neat flower beds, and restful with a variety of large trees now in heavy foliage; but that this little park had also once been part of the churchyard was proved by the rows of headstones arranged with military precision along one wall of the park, overlooking the tiny lawns and flower beds beneath which long-forgotten bones still lay in peace. A high brick wall separated the school from the churchyard.
I left the staffroom and followed the stairs down to the ground floor and passed through a doorway out into the macadam courtyard. It was littered with crumpled paper bags, apple cores, sweet wrappers and bits of newspaper; great blobs of mucus everywhere indicated that nearly every child was probably suffering from a heavy cold. This courtyard-cum-playground ran along three sides of the school and was about twenty or twenty-five feet wide. The high wall surrounding it met the churchyard wall at right angles and separated the school premises from a rag-merchant’s yard and a firm of contractors on either side, and also from the untidy backyards of a long row of dilapidated lodging houses which, except for two narrow alleyways, completely sealed off the front of the school from the busy street. Although it was a bright, sunny morning, the courtyard was partly in deep shadow, and the atmosphere of the whole place was depressing, like a prison. The school rose out of the courtyard, a solid, unpretentious, rather dirty structure, no taller than its neighbors. Its two entrance doors, one opposite each alleyway, were painted a dark, unfriendly green, as were the boys’ and girls’ lav
atories which squatted in separate corners of the courtyard, as if aware that, like the large, ash-filled dustbins, they were usurping precious playing space.
My depression deepened and I thought how very different all this was from my own childhood schooldays spent in warm, sunny Georgetown (British Guiana). There, in a large rambling wooden schoolhouse, light and cool within, surrounded by wide, tree-shaded lawns on which I had romped with my fellows in vigorous contentment, I spent rich, happy days, filled with the excitement of learning, each new little achievement a personal adventure and a source of satisfaction to my interested parents. How did these East London children feel about coming to this forbidding-looking place, day after day? Were they as eagerly excited about school as I had been when a boy?
The sound of a handbell interrupted my thoughts, and shortly afterwards there were the sounds of banging doors, hurrying feet, clattering of milk bottles, talk and laughter as the children erupted out of their classrooms for the morning recess. I hurried inside and up towards the staffroom, but halfway up the gloomy stairway I was forced to stand against one wall by the crush of children which spilled down the stairs towards the playground in a noisy, jostling tangle, pushing me aside with no more consideration than was shown to their fellows.
When I reached the staffroom Mrs. Dale-Evans was preparing tea. She looked up at my entry and remarked:
“Oh, hello! Tea will be ready in a moment; the rest of the staff will soon drift in and then I’ll introduce you.”
I walked over to a window and stood looking across at the ruined church and the innumerable pigeons which strutted in and out of its damaged cupola.
One by one the teachers turned up and were soon seated about the room, sipping their tea and exchanging chit-chat on the morning’s activities. On seeing me they murmured the usual sounds of greeting, and when they were all there I was introduced to each one in turn. As we moved from one to another Mrs. Dale-Evans both surprised and embarrassed me by commenting on each individual in a barely audible aside.
Miss Josy Dawes, short for Josephine, was the first to be introduced. She was a shortish strong-looking young woman, whose plain square face was unrelieved by make-up and fringed by dark hair cut very short, which added to her rather mannish appearance. She wore an open-necked short-sleeved man’s shirt, against which her prominent breasts clamored for attention, a severe skirt in heavy gray flannel, ankle-length socks and sturdy low-heeled brown brogue shoes. Her voice in greeting was deep, resonant and quite pleasing.
Next came Miss Euphemia Phillips, youngish and mousy. There was something of an immature schoolgirl about her round face, in which her large gray eyes held a mixture of helplessness and expectancy. Her rather gay woolen dress emphasized the immaturity of her slight figure.
“Good Lord,” I thought, “how does this one cope in a school like this?” Those girls I saw earlier on were much taller and out-weighed her by a wide margin.
As we approached Theo Weston, he smiled in what was meant to be a friendly manner, though it was hard to discern it behind the thicket of ginger-colored beard.
“Fancy being able to shave off your manhood whenever you like,” murmured Mrs. Dale-Evans in my ear.
“I had the pleasure of welcoming Mr. Braithwaite to our ménage,” said Weston. His voice was surprisingly thin and squeaky. “He mistook me for Hackman.”
“By the way,” someone asked, “where is the dear boy?”
“Escaped,” Weston replied. “Fled, quit. I don’t think he even tarried long enough to bid the Old Man a fond farewell.”
“When did all this happen?”
“I had a free period this morning,” Weston continued, “and soon after ten Hackman barged in here looking like all the Furies, collected his coat and the newspaper I was reading, and departed. I’ll wager we never see that colleague again.”
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Dale-Evans shrugged, “they come and they go. Let’s meet the others.”
She took me by the arm and led me up to Mrs. Drew, a white-haired matron, elegant from the tip of her softly permed head to her neat well-shod feet. She looked capable and as solid as Gibraltar.
“One of the best. She’s the Old Man’s deputy,” whispered Mrs. Dale-Evans.
We passed on to Miss Vivienne Clintridge, art and drama teacher, a chubby, well-formed thirtyish brunette who exuded a certain brash animal charm. As we shook hands I was amazed to see myself reflected in her large smiling brown eyes. Her voice in greeting was silvery with acceptance and immediate friendliness.
“Clinty’s an excellent artist, but teaching has to provide the bread and butter.” I wondered if anyone had overheard these comments from Mrs. Dale-Evans.
The last to be introduced was Miss Gillian Blanchard. Every man has his own idea of beauty. Many years ago I visited the Caribbean island of Martinique and there saw what I still believe to be the world’s most beautiful women; tall, willowy, graceful creatures with soft wavy raven hair and skin the color of honey. Gillian Blanchard was lovely in the same kind of way: tall, her hair cut in a black neat skull-cap, full-figured, elegant. Her skin had a rich olive tint which hinted at Jewish or Italian parentage. Dark eyes, nearly black in the depths of them. Lovely.
“She’s new here,” Mrs. Dale-Evans whispered, “came last Wednesday.”
When I had met them all I moved over to the window nearest the sink and stood listening to the rise and fall of talk, which was mainly concerned with classroom goings-on. Miss Clintridge leaned against the fireplace and held forth in a rather loud voice on the artistic endeavors of her morning class, with here and there an amusing Freudian interpretation. Miss Dawes and Miss Phillips sat in a corner, somewhat removed from the group around the fireplace, in earnest whispered conversation with each other. Presently Mrs. Drew came over to me, a cigarette held daintily in her long, manicured fingers.
“I hope you’re going to stay with us, Mr. Braithwaite.”
I looked at her kindly, earnest face and smiled without replying.
“We’ve had a succession of men teachers here in the past year, none staying longer than a term or two,” she continued. “It’s been hard on the boys, the bigger ones especially; they do need the firmer handling of men.” At this point Miss Clintridge left the group by the fireplace and came over to us.
“Did I hear someone say ‘Men’?” she inquired, grinning as she perched her behind on the edge of the sink.
“I was telling Mr. Braithwaite how really hard-up we are for some good men teachers. Now that Mr. Hackman’s left things would be rather difficult without a replacement.”
Miss Clintridge snorted. “I wouldn’t use the words good men teachers and Hackman in the same breath. Anyway, talking of being hard up, you speak for yourself, ducks! I’ll tell him my own hard luck story, if he’s interested.” Her laughter was sweet, friendly and guileless.
“Do be serious, Clinty.” Mrs. Drew was smiling in spite of herself. “The idea is to encourage him to stay, not frighten him away.”
“Gosh, why didn’t you tell me? I could be very encouraging if I tried,” and she suited action to words with puckered lips and arched eyebrows. The laughter bubbled out of me at these antics, in spite of my intentions to maintain my reserve.
“You will stay, won’t you?” Miss Clintridge continued in more serious vein.
“I think I’d like to,” I replied rather lamely, secretly amused at these inquiries, because actually I was so pleased to land this appointment that the likelihood of refusing it would hardly have occurred to me. But these people evidently expected some hesitation on my part, and I considered it more prudent to humor them.
“Good.” She jumped down from her perch on the sink as the bell sounded the end of recess. “Now the bigger girls will have something else to think about for a while; that should keep them out of our hair.” She winked at Mrs. Drew and rushed off to her duties, as did all the others except Miss
Blanchard, who was busy marking books from a pile on the floor beside her chair.
After the noisy chatter of a few moments ago the room was so quiet that the scratch of her pen and the rustle of turned pages sounded quite loud. After a while she turned and looked up at me.
“Won’t you sit down?”
I moved over and sat in the chair beside her.
“This your first appointment?” Her voice was low, well-modulated, a brown voice. She’d said “appointment.” As she spoke she closed the notebook she had marked, set it on the pile beside her, and leaned back in her chair with her hands lightly folded in her lap. Quiet, controlled hands.
“Yes. But why is everyone so doubtful and concerned about my remaining here?”
“I couldn’t answer that, I’m afraid. You see, I’ve only been here a short time myself—three days, to be exact.” Definitely a brown voice; molasses, corn-pone, sapodilla brown. A nice voice.
“They said the same thing to me,” she continued. “And now I’m beginning to understand why. There’s something rather odd about this school, something rather frightening and challenging at the same time.” I had the feeling that she was speaking more to herself than to me.
“There’s no corporal punishment here, or any other form of punishment for that matter, and the children are encouraged to speak up for themselves. Unfortunately, they’re not always particularly choosey about the things they say, and it can be rather alarming and embarrassing. Not every teacher’s cup of tea, I imagine, though Miss Clintridge and Mrs. Dale-Evans seem not to mind that sort of thing; I think they’re themselves both East Londoners, and are not too easily shocked.”
“Are the children difficult to manage?”
Even as I asked it I realized how trite the question was, but I wanted her to go on talking, less for the information I might acquire than for the sheer pleasure of listening to her.
“I find them difficult, but then, you see, I’ve no real experience of teaching. They’re so frightfully grown-up and sure of themselves, I think I’m a little bit afraid of them. The boys are not bad, but the girls have a way of looking at me, sort of pityingly, as if they’re so much older and wiser than I am. I think they’re more interested in my clothes and private life than anything I try to teach them.” Her voice quavered and she closed her eyes; the long lashes were a fringed pattern against her tanned skin.