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Amazon
S.C.U.M.S.
Category:
Humor
Publisher: Lulu
Type: Fiction
Pages: 265
Copyright: Feb 2013
ISBN-13: 9781291339253
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Growing up in the late sixties in a deprived area has its high and lows. This book follows the exploits of a newly qualified teacher and a group of pupils who aim to make their mark in society.
Based partially on fact and growing up in the back o back environment of the late 1960s' it is a fascinating recollection of the hardships and a mend and make do society.
Set in 1969/70, Ian Brewin is in his first year as a newly qualified teacher and has been given a form who are not the most academic...
For every action there is a reaction and in the case of 3E the outcomes of every task results in some hilarious and memorable conclusions as their approach to problem solving often leaves staff speechless but smiling.
St Christopher’s United Modern School exposes the daily problems of living and learning in a working class, deprived environment with limited resources.
Sometimes very moving and sensitive, it highlights the fine balance between an education and an existence.
It is funny from the first day to the last with its
Excerpt
Chapter One
The General Assembly
My name is Ian Brewin. I am now 66 years old and retired, yet still healthy and sane, enjoying the twilight years, which is rather surprising considering my past life.
I started my career as a teacher and my first post was in St Christopher’s United Modern School, in a depressed area of the UK. We didn’t have laptops, ipads, the internet and many of the things we take for granted today. But what we did have was tenacity, ingenuity and a great sense of humour.
After much encouragement I have decided to put my life into print, so now I’m sitting in an arm chair with a cup of coffee, pen in hand. So where do I start?
It was September 6th 1969 and my first day as a fully qualified teacher. I had just completed my probationary period. God knows, there were some days when I felt I was on probation, or rather day release for all of my sins, and my punishment was to educate and prepare this special brood for the world of work.
Every child when they first entered the school was assigned to a form teacher and placed in a class according to their ability. Pupils who did not fit the conventional guidelines were filed in a ‘special’ group category. Looking at those, ‘little cherub’s in front of me that morning, I felt a category hadn’t actually been invented for them yet. After having spent the whole weekend repairing the garden fence, weeding, going backwards and forwards to the garage, trying to get a good deal on replacing my front tyre, I felt slightly lacking in the educational ‘sparkle to teach department’ myself, so maybe we were a good match.
I had already removed three drawing pins from my chair, before I had sat down. Didn’t they realise that I was a child once and these were very old tricks, I’m sure one day they would win, since there was always something new. So I just had to stay alert, but sadly that day was not really my most alert day. It was also my first day as a form teacher with this group, although I had taught them during my probationary period, so the coming year was going to prove testing if the start was anything to go by.
From the window near my desk, I could see the multi coloured trees with their browns, golden oatmeal and caramel colours, displaying nature’s ability to paint a world of beauty, even in that drab working class environment. There were days when I envied the PE teachers, who were able to take their class out into those crisp and vibrant environments.
In an effort to motivate their pupils, they would tell them the cross country runs were good for their circulation, help them grow with strong limbs, and develop healthy lungs. It didn’t fool anybody, but it looked good when printed in the school prospectus. The fourth years were the most notorious for trying to avoid this activity. The runners usually divided themselves into three groups instinctively. The smokers, who coughed and wheezed their way around the circuit, saying that there was too much smog in the atmosphere, or they suffered from Asthma. These were always guaranteed to acquire sudden bouts of breathlessness and an inability to talk without coughing after 5 minutes of running. The second group would wait in the trees until the teacher had run past, and then they headed for the nearest bus stop. At a point near to the school, just out of sight of the main buildings, they would get off. They then sprinted the final last few yards back to the changing rooms, after wiping the moisture that had accumulated on the leaves of a nearby bush, across their brows in an effort to represent the labours of their hard work.
Unfortunately, on one occasion, one boy had chosen leaves from a plant, to which he was allergic, so when he arrived at school his face was red and swollen. He was instantly plastered with calamine lotion, which gave him the appearance of a native from the Amazon Jungle, who was about to go through some form of puberty ritual. He was then made to sit in the first aid office for the rest of the morning, as pupils went past grinning at this strange powdery white adolescent... The last group, who sadly only consisted of two members, were the athletic ones who represented the school at every sporting event. The school record wasn’t exactly a glowing one, because at the last interschool football match it had finished in a fight between the mothers over who made the best orange squash at half time. Running through those magnificent avenues of colour, I would have found it easy to forget the confines of the classroom and just enjoyed what life had created naturally around me. But, I suppose, even the PE teachers must have had their ‘Wish I was in a warm classroom days!’ Maybe they envied me?
I lowered my head, then looking down at the desk, opened the crisp new register, and started the long process of the roll call of names, to ascertain who had bothered to turn up, and who had decided, that their nice warm bed was a better option on that cold autumnal day.
‘Good Morning Class 3E!’
‘Good morning Siiiiir!’ came back the reply from a sleepy, Monday morning set of disparate pupils.
’ Right let’s take the register. Abthorp?’
‘Yes Sir!’
‘Andrews?’
‘Sir it weren’t me! It were Barney!’ he said pointing to Barney.
‘No it weren’t! I was talkin' with Morry, want I Morry?’ replied Barney.
‘I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Mr Andrews; I was just asking if you were present!’
‘Yes ‘e is, but I were talking’ to Morry’ wern I?' Barney interrupted.
‘That’s right’ said Morry.
‘I wasn’t talking to you Barney’ I said.
‘I know Sir, cos I were talkin’ to Morry wern I?'
‘‘That’s right’ said Morry.
‘Morry I wasn’t asking you either.’
‘I know Sir, cos I were talking to Barney.’
Michael was just sitting back in his chair with his arms folded, listening to the conversation grinning about the confusion he had caused.
Jensen put his hand up.
‘Yes Jensen?' I asked.
‘Sir, I don’t unde’stand who was talking with who?'
‘Don’t worry; no one’s talking to you, at least not yet.’
‘That’s ok, cos I wernt listening’ he said.
I held my hand up and said in a forceful tone.
‘Can we just stop for a minute? Right, let me just continue without any interruption please. Michael Andrews are you here or not?’
By now everyone was totally puzzled about, who said what to whom, but they sat in silence.
‘Yes Sir’ he replied in staccato ‘Yeh can see I am. I’m talking to yeh ain’t I?’
‘Don’t be so precocious boy!’
‘I wouldn’t if I knew what it meant!’
‘Right Mr Andrews that’s tonight’s homework! Find out the meaning of precocious and hand it in during registration tomorrow… but see me after school for the correct spelling first.’
‘Bugger’ he whispered under his breath.
‘Sorry Mr Andrews! I didn’t quite catch that?’
‘Oh, I said to Lomax Is ‘e goin’ to Rugga?’
‘Hmmm…OK.’
‘Appleby A.’
‘Sir’
‘Appleby J.’
‘Yes Sir!’
‘And… Appleby M.’
‘Yep, we’re all here’ replied Morris looking around at his brothers and chuckling.
The Appleby’s were the triplets in my class. They were from a family of ten children. If their father had completed a job application form, which were given to him regularly by the dole office, and it asked for present occupation; I’m sure that he could have written ‘Procreation’ if he could have spelt it! The oldest was Morris, and then came Austin, and finally Jensen, who was the most vocal one of them. Their dad was a car fanatic, although I’m not sure whether he could have even ridden a bike, let alone driven a car! He certainly couldn’t afford one. They were known to be a close and supportive family group. The boys had often been known to stand back to back in the playground offering to fight anyone, especially if there was a chance of winning a tanner. They seemed to live entirely upon state hand-outs. Morris once asked me, why he should work in class to get a job, because his dad used to say’ ’e can get more on the ol’ jam role than ‘e can if ‘e work’d’. I supposed this was a sad reflection of our benefits system and which I really didn’t have an answer for, apart from, ‘It will increase your career choices!’ This tended to be greeted with shrugged shoulders and a look of ‘who needs a career?’
When I started teaching last year, because they were all identical, I used to give them all the same mark when they handed their homework in to make sure I rewarded the right one. It wasn’t ethical I know, but I couldn’t always work out which was which and I knew that they all copied each other’s work anyway.
I remember one day in particular. They were all set homework to discuss what would happen if Hitler had won the war? Morris Appleby wrote. ‘We would all be talking German and I wouldn’t understand this question cos it was in English!' Austin, his brother, wrote ‘I agree with Morry!’ Jensen just wrote ‘I ent German. I’m English.’ I think I was beginning to understand how their system worked.
‘Barnet?’
‘Sir!’
‘Barny?’
‘Yep mate!’
‘I’m not your mate. I’m your teacher! Either call me Mr Brewin, or Sir’
‘But Sir, you always ses to us last year to think of me as your friend. Someone who can ‘elp us and teach us things!’
‘True! But I’m still not your mate. I’ll leave that privilege to the rest of the class.’
Barney was the joker of the class. This seemed to be a family trait, which you will understand when I tell you he was christened Barney Barny! Sometimes he was nicknamed Barmy Barny by his peers.
‘Barratt’
‘Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir!’
‘Ok! Just a short yes or no will do. Don’t milk it! …Berry?’
‘Yes Mr Brewin.’
This remark created a series of coughs and a chorus of 'YEEES MR BREWIN!' from a small group of lads, sitting at the back of the classroom.
‘Right gentlemen calm down! Just because someone knows their manners…Err... Thank you Melanie.’
Melanie’s family were one of the more financially comfortable ones, if there were such a classification in this area. This usually meant that her dad was in continual work for longer than 6 months. Her father worked in the bank as a cashier, but was keen to try and progress his career so was very conscientious. This was an attribute that Melanie also portrayed.
‘Benns’
‘Sir’
‘Carlton?’
‘Sir’
‘Cook’
‘Here!’
‘Connor…Connor?’ I called out; now raising my voice, in case he was asleep on the desk, which I understand was not unusual for him. Thomas was a short, slight built pupil who had two newspaper rounds before school, and distributed a local magazine in the evening. It involved him having to get up at 5.00am every day and deliver newspapers to twenty streets, before coming to school. Often this was without breakfast, so he would try to coax the female pupils into giving him some of their pre packed lunch, when he arrived at school. This process was carefully choreographed. He would arrive looking a little red in the face and with big sad eyes, then waylaid the girls, usually Melanie and Gail, saying he hadn’t really eaten since yesterday teatime. His approach to Melanie was always based upon the same reasoning. Her parents had taught their daughter to be grateful for what she had, and be generous to others. The family regularly donated to the Biafra fund and World Wildlife to Save the Whale. Melanie’s interpretation of ‘generous to others,’ was that she should help her peers, especially those less fortunate than herself and he soon realised this. He had deep brown eyes, that could melt the hearts of most girls in his year, and coupled with his gaunt physique, these tended to be profitable attributes when seeking some sustenance. With Gail, his second target, he used a very simple and more direct approach.
‘We Irish ‘ave to stick together’ he would say, followed by ‘me mam gus down t’ bingo
wi’ your mam and she wouldn’t like it if we ain’t friends would she?’ This bribery technique also had the required effect. However, Gail usually had Marmite sandwiches, which meant that she was a last resort and only approached when Melanie was away.
‘Connor’ I shouted for the third time.
‘’E ain’t ‘ere Sir me mam says she didn’t get ‘er paper this morning, so she says she ‘as no idea whas ‘appening in the world. We might be at war again or there might be some sale on in tarn and she ain’t knowed abaht it!’ called out Paul Lomax.
Benny interrupted ‘me ma met ‘is mam and she said ‘es got a bad cold. It’s all this gettin’ up early on the dark mornin’s.’
‘OK thank you Benny, by the way Mr Lomax, ain’t, ain’t in the dictionary is it, and I assume your mother goes into town not taarn? Remember good diction will always help you in life!’
‘Yeh s’right, she ofen goes to tahrn shoppin', but she ain’t always got nuf money! She blames the gover’ment. She says she needs more dole money to live on!’
Oh I give up. I thought to myself. Some days I swear I’ve lost the will to live. ‘Right next…De Veel’
‘Yes Sir!’
This was a distortion of her family name. Catherine’s name was actually Devil. The family had always tried to protect their daughter from ridicule, so they changed the pronunciation to De Veel! At a Parents Evening once, her mother happily informed me, ‘As an edecated man’ she said ‘You’ll understand ‘ow ‘ard it is fer us when I say ahr Catherine was born at 6.00pm on 6th June.’
‘Donnavan’
‘Sir’
‘Freds?’
‘Yes Sir’
His reply always used to bring a smile to my face. Benny Freds was approximately fourteen stone, and spoke with a high pitched voice. I always imagined that one day, when his voice broke, he would appear on Opportunity Knocks singing ‘Nessun Dorma’ stunning all the crowds with his deep bass voice.
‘Freshwell’
‘Yes Sir. That is Miss Freshwell to you Sir’
‘Pardon?’
‘Miss Freshwell’
‘Since when?’
‘Since me mam told me last night that I was not married yet, so I was a Miss.’
‘Oh! Is that all she said?’
‘No. She also said I must stay a virgin ‘til I’m married and keep me knees together.’ This resulted in a mass look of disapproval from the boys in the class, who thought they had a chance of a date with Miss Freshwell.
‘Let’s not make things too difficult because we are all equal here aren’t we? So I’ll just say Freshwell like the others.’
‘Yes Sir.’ she said disapprovingly. I moved on quickly before I had any further feedback.
‘Gall, Gall?’ I looked up and scanned the room. ’Gall’ I called out for a third time. Sarah Abthorp put her hand up,
‘Sir, she was sick last night’
‘Per’aps she didn’t keep ‘er knees together’ joked Barney. This caused a great roar of laughter in the class and an embarrassing look from Miss Freshwell.
‘Thank you Barney!’ I quickly replied ‘Let’s Move on… Hills’
‘Sir’
‘Housey… Housey?’
‘’eyar!' Barney shouted out.
‘Pardon?’ I asked
‘You said Housey Housey Sir.’
‘And?’
‘That’s what me mam shouts, ‘Eyar’ when she’s won at bingo’ said Barney still keeping the class amused.
‘So does mine’ said Paul.
‘An’ mine’ said Gail looking around for any other confirmation.
‘Let’s move on shall we...? Housey?’
‘Yes Sir!’
‘Why didn’t you answer the first time? It would have stopped the great examination about who shouts what at Bingo. Anyway, what are you doing under the table?’ I enquired.
‘I dropp’d me pen an’ the inks gone all on me socks. Me mam’ll kill me ‘cos these are me dads. She ran aht of washin’ pahder, and it ain’t payday 'til Friday, so I ‘ad to lend me dads.’
‘Ok. We’ll see if we can send them to the Domestic Science Department after assembly and ask Mrs Vole nicely, if she will wash and dry them for you, and you borrowed them not leant them’, I corrected him.
‘Yeh I did. I just said that’ he replied. This group was becoming hard work. I figured that it would be better not to challenge every phrase or I would here until I retired ‘Oh. Ta Sir! That’ll be fab’ he added after taking a moment to realise what I had said.
‘Jacks?'
‘Here’
‘Linnley?’
‘Sir’
‘Lomax?’
‘You know I’m ‘ere Sir, you just spoke to me. I told yer Connor weren’t ‘ere!’
‘Alright: clever clogs.’
‘Man?’
‘Yes and No Sir’
‘What do you mean Yes and No Sir?’
‘Well, are we all really here or is it a marriage?’ he replied.
‘You mean Mirage?’ I couldn’t help myself correcting him, despite my doubts about doing this too often.
‘Yes Sir. We‘re all on a parallel planet so ya could be talkin’ to the other me couldn’t ya? Then that’ll mean I’m not ‘ere am I?’
‘Where did you get all this from?’ I asked shaking my head.
‘Dr Who last night!’ he replied.
‘Yeah that’s true’ said Michael turning around in his desk to face Hoi Man..'Did yer see the bit where the Daleks exterminated that monster? It were great!’
‘Yes’ said Hoi ‘an’ the bit where the slime come aht of ‘is mahth.’ Michael smiled and nodded in agreement.
‘Excuse me. I am trying to take the register, not open a debate about who shot who.’ I interjected.
‘No one shot Dr Who Sir. The Dalek shot the monsta. Exteeeerrrrminate’ growled Michael.
‘Yes, thank you Michael for that rendition. You can discuss that intellectual program in the playground later. If we don’t get the register done soon it will be time to go home. Anyway we’ll be late for assembly. ‘Jonathan?’
‘That’s not fair!’ complained Miss Freshwell ‘You said you would use our surnames only!’
‘Yes I’m sorry… Men’
‘Yes Sir… and I thought you liked me!’ said Jonathan giggling.
‘OK cut the sarcasm. Munns?’
‘Sir!’ as he stood up saluting. Joseph Munns, to use his full name, was an interesting pupil... His father was a sergeant in the Territorial Army and was keen for his son to join the armed forces after leaving school. On his first birthday, he bought Joe a poster from ‘Oh What a Lovely War,’ ever since then Joe had been exposed to images of the army and warfare. It’s a wonder he didn’t try to wear camouflage trousers to school.
‘There is no need to stand up or salute Mr Munns’
‘But Sir, me dad said you always ‘ave to salute authority’
‘Not me Munns. Not me… Pervis?’
‘She’s gone to set up the stage fer assembly’ called out Benny in his high pitched voice. He sat behind Wendy Pervis in class, and was always trying to look over her shoulder, especially during tests. One day Jensen saw him leaning forward, and exclaimed aloud that Benny was trying to look down Wendy’s top, to which he replied quickly. ‘No I ent! I’m trying to see the answers, idiot!’ Then realising what he had owned up to, went a bright shade of red. This resulted in a detention and writing out 50 times, I MUST NOT CHEAT IN TESTS.
‘Fine Thank you Benny’ I replied… 'Rothwell?’
‘Sir’
‘Stalin?’
‘Yes Sir’
‘Tredwell?’
‘Or tred not so well’ joked Barney. This caused another outburst of laughter in the class. I looked up and glared at him. He put his head down quickly trying to avoid my gaze.
‘Yes Mr Brewin’ she answered in a very clear voice.
‘Before anyone says anything…’ looking straight a Barney ‘Nora is also being polite… finally, Zandrandecki?'
‘Yeh Sir’
Manshara Zandrandecki was his full name. It took me quite a while to say and even longer to spell. He was of Russian origin and came to England with his family in 1959 as a toddler, when his father was seeking a ‘new life’ and better prospects for his family. Manshara’s English had been improved with the aid of a special teacher, who came to school once a week, on Thursday afternoons. Mr Uvilosheski was a native born Russian peripatetic teacher. I always wondered why they employed a Russian to teach English to another Russian. I finally realised that it was easier to translate the meanings of some of the English words. There were days I would see them sitting at the back of the hall, across a desk chatting in their native language. I’m sure Mr Uvilosheski was slowing Manshara’s progress down purposely, so he could be employed longer and try to maintain a steady income.
‘OK ladies and gentlemen, at last we have finally worked out who couldn’t be bothered to turn up, or got lost on the way to this wonderful seat of learning. Now, let’s form an orderly queue and go to assembly’ I said placing my now closed register to one side of my desk and putting my pens carefully back in my jacket pocket.
The hustle, bustle, sounds of chatter and stomping feet, on the well-trodden stone floors, could be heard as we neared the assembly hall. It sounded more like an underground station in the rush hour, than an orderly and organised school religious event.
‘Stop, Mr Munns’ I shouted from the back of the line ‘you can stop there.’
Joe, our mini ‘Action Man’, was always at the head of the class and led them like a general, in his inevitable formal marching style. I think, secretly he was pretending that he was leading an army into battle. When I looked around at some of the other ‘foot soldiers’ from the various classes, I must admit, a battle dressed army might be a better description of their attire, than a uniformly dressed group of scholars.
It was easy to notice when it was the start of a new school year. There were the usual pupils whose parents had bought them their ‘new’ uniforms, two sizes too big, saying that they will grow into them. This was normally followed by such comments as, ‘If you think I’m shelling out for school uniforms every week just because you’ve out grown it, you’ve got another think coming! Money doesn’t grow on trees you know.’ So based on that evidence; these little cherubs had to walk around looking like well-dressed refugees, whose clothes were chosen based upon three rules. Right colour; near fit and the best on the table, since many came from the local Jumble Sales. With the sleeves hanging over the hands, it made them look as though their arms had shrunk over the summer holidays, though some did have finger tips just visible. The cuffs would soon become an off white colour, caused by dragging them across the table tops when they were writing. How bad they would get as the year progressed can only be imagined. This was only day one and the cuffs were already starting their transformation.
Then there were the ‘Woolley Weave brigade’. These came in a wide variety of home knitted jumpers. Considering there was a school uniform colour code, I think most parents had selected wools which were as close as they could get, without buying from the appointed suppliers, or the best they could find when delving into the cheap cardboard boxes of wool on the market. Cable knit, Chunky knit and Fair Isle, were just some of the combinations of styles on view. The Chunky knits were most suited for this ‘battle ground’, because they resembled chain mail. There was even the odd balaclava to be seen amongst the bobbing heads, but these were being reluctantly removed as they filed into the hall. I saw Joes' head turning rapidly from side to side looking for the balaclava ‘troops’, because these seem to be the closest to the SAS style of look which he envied.
We waited patiently for our turn to file into the hall. I smiled at other members of staff and exchanged the obligatory ‘Good morning’ grunt, as they passed by, but I’m sure that everyone was being polite and really thinking the same, ‘Roll on half term’
Gradually row by row, the children sat down cross legged on the floor, in what might be described as near straight lines. Big raucous children were next to small demure specimens of the human race. Long un-brushed hair was next to crew cuts. Some girls had bobbles in their hair. The designs were representing a Pineapple or clustered Berries. Yet another product from the cheap market stalls. Others had an elastic band holding their hair in pig tails or in a ponytail. Often the boys would try and pinch these bands, so they could place them on their forefinger and catapult them at great speed across the room, towards their peers, much to the annoyance of both the owners of the bands and the targets of their missiles. Occasionally a minor commotion would break out in a line, as a large child sat down and others tried to move sideways rapidly, for fear of being crushed.
It was now 9.30am and the hall was full of pupils and staff waiting for assembly to start. Only half of the schools complement could fit in at any one time due to its size, therefore assemblies were alternated between upper and lower school pupils, attending on alternate days throughout the week, with Fridays as a ‘day off’ from this ritual. All the children were now seated. Those that could not cross their legs, sat with them to one side, which sometimes caused a slight problem, because it was easier for them to turn around to the row behind and chatter. I soon learnt that some experienced teachers would keep this group of ‘side sitters’ closer to the ends of the rows, where they were able to stop any disruption with just a sharp eyed stare. The doors, all six of them, were closed in sequence, the last being at the front of the hall. The staff took their places on the pre- positioned, plastic chairs around the perimeter. Looking around at the variety, I knew that we wouldn’t have won any awards for interior design, since they included hideous bright orange, slate grey and some peacock blue seats. They were all the same style, but some of the legs might have been more effective if all four touched the floor at the same time. Staff could be seen attempting to sit down and keep them level without sliding off one side. This resulted in some of the female staff sitting in a very un-lady like posture, with their legs astride to keep their balance. There was absolute silence as the front double, chestnut coloured doors opened, and in walked the Headmaster in his slightly dishevelled gown. It looked like his cat had had a good night’s sleep on it, and like Housey’s mother, was awaiting pay day before he could afford to clean it. He was closely followed by another equally slightly variegated group in gowns. These were the Heads of Departments, and of course Miss White the Music teacher.
Mr Hall, the headmaster and Miss White, were known by both staff and pupils to be more than just friends. Some years ago, Mr Hall and his wife had divorced, yet still lived together in the same house to minimise the scandal, although they led separate lives. In the July of 1969, his wife decided that moving in with the school caretaker might be more realistic, than continuing the pretence of living out of love with an academic. It was rumoured that they owned a B&B in Blackpool. I suppose he was putting his DIY skills to better use, than just janitorial duties around the school. I found him to be pretty good and cheap when he came to fix the washing machine in my house once. After that he made several repeat visits. He even repaired the freezer and put some shelves up, along with a few other jobs. In fact, if I really think about it, much of my house was beholden to his skills.
Mr Hall was in his sixties, so it was no surprise that he sought solace in Miss White, who was of a similar age. She was one of the ‘old school types’, with silvery grey and coarse hair. It was bunched upon her head and held in place by a wide, paisley patterned ribbon, which resembled a remnant from a settee cover. They entered the hall to the usual murmur and innuendos, which were exchanged among the adolescent males, as they looked first at the headmaster then to Miss White.
Mr Hall, and his ‘band of merry men’, ascended the stage and took their respective positions in seats that were arranged in an arc shape at the rear of the platform, with the head stepping up to the lectern. Miss White tottered across in front of the stage and towards a well- used, and slightly sad looking piano. It was donated to the school from the old folk’s home when they bought an electronic organ and drum set. I don’t know why they needed a drum set really, they probably didn't have the energy to use it.
Mr Hall cleared his throat, raised his hand for total silence, and proceeded to address the ‘New Year’s Army’ as though they were his disciples, and he was about to deliver his gospel according to Hall.
‘Welcome back to this wonderful seat of learning and a new adventure. A big welcome also goes to all the new ones that have chosen to study at our great school. I’m sure you will find the staff friendly and many exciting opportunities to explore your true potential’, he said in his slightly crackled, but well educated diction. ‘Around the room you can see the members of staff who will guide you through life’s highway of learning in the coming year' glancing at Miss White with a slight smile, to which he received a small beam in return. She peered over her little round glasses, balanced on the end of her highly powdered nose, which gave her the appearance of a dormouse from a children’s story book. Her nose was so round and chubby, that it looked like it was moulded and stuck on as an after-thought when she was born.
‘Whey hey’ came a deep husky voice from the middle of the audience, as someone spotted the affectionate glance. Suddenly, all eyes turned in the direction of the sound. Mr King, the Maths teacher, simply stood up, pointed a finger at a stocky figure, with his tie half undone and dragging on the floor, then turned it into a single beckoning digit. The pupil stood up sheepishly, realising that he had been recognised, and that this would result in some form of punishment, possibly the cane. He made his way towards the door that was being held half open by the accusing teacher, and disappeared into the corridor with him. The atmosphere was now filled with a multitude of voices, all chatting about what had happened. Mr Hall raised his hand again in order to halt the chatter. All staff started their ‘Shhh’ routine, and the room fell silent once more.
The headmaster then announced, that they would continue with a hymn ‘Fight the Good Fight’; which I thought, given the circumstances of trying to educate my new class that year, was well chosen.
Miss White opened with a flourish of notes, such that no one was quite sure when to start singing. She ran her fingers nimbly across the piano, as though she were in a concert at the Albert Hall, giving a recital, and then came the thump of the first opening note ready to start singing. Despite some confusion about when to begin, which resulted in a staggered start, eventually everyone arrived at the same note and sang together.
Mr Drew was the Shorthand and Typing teacher. A portly, and vertically challenged eccentric, who spent the entire time adjusting his glasses, cleaning them, blowing his nose, purposely losing his place in the hymn book, looking around the room, and generally repeating this process until the last word of the hymn was reached. He would then open his mouth and attempt to sing the closing note. This practice hadn’t gone unnoticed by the attending congregation, and caused the entire assembled body to raise their voices on the last note. Standing at the lectern, the head took this as a sign of great joy and enthusiasm from his disciples. Personally the staff all knew the pupils were just taking the piss!
‘Now we will hear from Sylvia Sykes’ he said ‘who will read ‘Psalm 23 ‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’
This was a new format for assemblies and I felt, at the time, was a good idea to have pupil participation. She climbed the steps to the stage to take her place behind the now vacated lectern. Sylvia Sykes had a pronounced lisp. As if it wasn’t bad enough for the poor girl with a name like Sylvia Sykes, now she was about to read Psalm 23.She paused looked at the audience, looked down and began to read
‘The Lord ith my thepherd, I lack nothing.
He maketh me lie down in green pathtuerth,
He leadeth me bethide quiet waterth,
He refrethheth my thoul.
He guideth me along the right path
for hith name’th thake….’
The silence turned to a murmur, then to a titter, then giggles and finally laughter as it spread rapidly across the room. Even the staff had great difficulty in retaining straight faces. Who on earth chose this for her I will never know, I thought? Despite all the hilarity, she continued to the end, with the staff and head teachers on the back of the stage frantically waving their arms around, trying to calm the audience down. It seemed Miss Sykes was either totally oblivious to the laughter, or she was so used to it, that she knew the best form of reaction, was to ignore it.
‘Thurely your goodneth and love will follow me
all the dayth of my life, and I will dwell in the houthe of the Lord Forever.’ she concluded. The whole assembly hall fell silent. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a spontaneous clapping and cheering as she left the stage, to the surprise of the open mouthed headmaster and his assemblage of head teachers. A wide smile spread across his face and everyone joined in the ovation with great delight.
The assembly continued without further disruption, and as the classes finally left the hall for the start of their ‘new year’s adventure into scholarly pursuits,’ it was made clear to me why the whole event was such as success.
‘Mr Brewin’ said Barney, ‘That was the best laugh we’ve had all year, and this is only the start of term!’ I said nothing, for I could not think of a suitable reply. I turned right towards my classroom as my group turned left to make their way to their first lesson. I felt a slight tug on my jacket. I twisted around and saw Alfred Housey
‘Sir’
‘Yes Mr Housey?’ I asked.
‘Can I tek me socks to the Domestic Science nah please?’
‘Yes Mr Housey’ I said with a slight smile.
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