You Did Say Have Another Sausage Page 4

  Incidentally, a friend of mine, who was a municipal accountant for St Helens Council, laughed when I told him that I had got a job working in an Old People’s Home; it prompted him to tell me a funny tale. It was about a time when he visited ‘Moss Bank Senior Citizens’ Residence’, so-called because it was in the Moss Bank area of town. While he was conducting the annual audit, he came across some accounts which were headed ‘Mass Bonk Residential Home’. Not surprisingly, there was a long waiting-list, and he half-expected the proprietor to be called Dr Spooner!

  I thoroughly enjoyed my time there (Nutgrove that is, not Mass Bonk) as a general assistant: cleaning, washing dishes, setting tables, serving meals and making beds (I am proud of my ‘hospital corners’ to this day). In fact, it was the perfect training for a prospective student, and it should be made compulsory! I also helped to run bingo sessions, and generally mixed-in and chatted. I met some interesting characters, and I appreciated having a ready-made audience for my jokes and stories, but I never mentioned Myrtle Byrtle. The last thing they would need is a Memento Mori. Occasionally, I would take in my guitar. I became accomplished at playing ‘Happy Birthday to you’. I would play some simple three-chord Bob Dylan (old) folk songs, but the residents wouldn’t believe me when I told them that his real name was Robert Zimmerframe. I decided not to sing Dylan’s ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’, or Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stannah Stairway to Heaven’ to a room full of octogenarians.

  I rang Mr. Ball as requested. He invited me to visit St Aidan’s Church of England Primary School in Clock Face, an area of St Helens famous at the time for ‘Clock Face Potato Crisps’; the type that contained a little blue packet of salt to sprinkle into the bag. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. The school was a small redbrick, traditional 1930s building, enclosed by a fence of dark green metal poles and surrounded by extensive playing fields, which seemed to be shared with the local community. A receptionist was typing in the front office, which was about the size of a broom cupboard. She greeted me with a pleasant smile and directed me along the main corridor. Lessons were underway and, apart from the occasional child taking a message or going to the toilet, all was quiet along the main corridor. The walls were tiled in an unmistakably school-type style: green up to shoulder height with a moulded cornice, and then speckled, textured, sprayed-on light-blue paint up to the ceiling. As I followed the signs leading me to the headmaster’s office, my footsteps seemed to echo. I wondered why primary schools always seem to smell of a strange combination of daffodils, crocus, shepherd’s pie and carrots, with a faint hint of Dettol. I felt strangely nervous as I approached the headmaster’s office, again a throwback to my schooldays, and knocked lightly on the door.

  I was greeted with a friendly smile and a firm handshake by Mr. Ball as he said, “Mr Meadows I presume.”

  “Yes,” I replied hesitantly, not yet used to the novelty of being called Mister.

  I surmised that the headmaster must have been in his mid-fifties. He was about five feet nine inches tall and bespectacled, with a bookish air about him. He had a luxuriant grey moustache with matching eyebrows, and his side-parted greyish hair looked as though it had a mind of its own. He was wearing an ill-fitting dark-blue suit, and his slightly askew diagonally-striped blue tie was competing for attention with the check pattern of his white shirt. It created a mild optical illusion which reminded me of the Op Art paintings of Victor Vasarely and Brigit Riley.

  During the course of our conversation, Mr Ball explained that he had an urgent staffing problem due to the fact that one teacher had left quite suddenly and another had broken her leg and would be unavailable for most of the summer term. It was the last week of term before Easter, and he asked me if I would be available for the beginning of the Summer Term. I told him that I only needed to give a week’s notice at the Old Folks’ Home; so I would be available. So that was it, as simple as that. I had enclosed a couple of character references with my initial letter and that seemed to suffice. He told me the date and time of the beginning of the summer term, and, with a vigorous handshake, he escorted me off the premises. He explained that I would be receiving a letter of confirmation from the Director of Education outlining terms and conditions. When I got home my mum and dad asked me how I had got on.

  “I’ve been offered a job,” I replied, slightly bemused by the suddenness of it.

  “Great! What are your wages?” asked dad, straight to the point.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said hesitatingly, realizing that I had almost been stampeded through the process.

  His slightly incredulous expression was hardly surprising from someone of a generation of large families brought up in the 1930s.

  I added nonchalantly, “It will be on the standard salary-scale, and they will be sending me a letter outlining everything.”

  “Oh, sorry,” replied Dad sarcastically, “When I said wages I should have said salary.”

  “So are you going to be a teacher?” asked Mum, proudly.

  “No, of course not, I will just be assisting in the classroom, but the experience should hold me in good stead for the future.”

  “What were the teachers like?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t see any of them.”

  “What are the kids like?”

  “Er...?”

  “Make sure you don’t pack your job in ‘til you’ve got the letter,” Dad advised sternly.

  “Of course I won’t. Do you think I’m daft?”

  He didn’t reply.

  I must admit that I did begin to feel as though I had been hurried in and out of the school without being given the chance to speak to anyone. Perhaps that was because Mr. Ball seemed very busy, as he did have a slightly harassed air about him.

  In at the Deep End

  The first day of term quickly came round, and I was able to borrow my dad’s car, because he was on his ‘48 off’. So I turned up in style, as I drove the maroon Austin A40 (this time without any lions or skeletons as passengers) onto the car park. There were just three cars already parked. I picked up my brown leather briefcase from the passenger seat, because I thought that it would help me to look the part. After all, I did need something to carry my sandwiches in.

  As I locked the car, two little girls approached me and said in unison, “Mr Meadows?”

  “Oh, yes,” I replied hesitantly, still not quite used to being called ‘Mister’.

  “We have been sent to meet you and take you to the staffroom,” they said, again in unison, as if they had been practising.

  As we approached the main entrance, the cacophony of noise from the school playground reached a crescendo. Children played a variety of games, all seemingly oblivious to everyone else except their own particular group. I did sense lots of eyes tracking me. As we walked along the corridor, I started to loosen my collar as I tried to remember the last time I had worn a tie.

  The staffroom was at the top of a narrow flight of stairs, and, as I knocked and entered, I was surprised to find that there were only four members of staff in the room. Three ladies, who all seemed to be in their late 40s or early 50s, were sitting around a table in the middle of the room; while a gentleman of similar age was making a cup of coffee at the Belfast-style sink.

  “Good morning Mr Meadows,” came the friendly, welcoming greeting. I was just about now getting used to my full-title. My first impression of the staffroom was that it reminded me of a gloomy theatre stage-set of a 1960s ‘kitchen sink’ drama, such as ‘Look Back in Anger’ or ‘Entertaining Mr Sloane’. The room was about the size of a lounge in a large Victorian house, and had an old cup-stained square wooden table in the centre, with a selection of non-matching chairs. There were piles of exercise and text books everywhere. In the corner was a sink with a 1930s style kitchenette unit, containing mugs, cutlery and plates. There were some easy chairs, again with no two matching.

&nb
sp; I had no sooner said “Good morning” to everyone, when the headmaster appeared in the doorway. He was carrying an old- fashioned hand bell; the kind you only see these days to signal the final lap at an athletic event. As he looked up at the huge wall-clock, he said that it was time for him to bring in the children and suggested that I should accompany him. So, after the briefest of handshakes with my new colleagues, I seemed to be whisked away. Mr. Ball stood at the front entrance and rang the bell firmly. I was very impressed when I saw how well-drilled the children were. After about five seconds, they all ran to their various designated lines and started to file into school in an orderly manner, some turning to wave to parents who were starting to disperse following a school-gate chat. The pupils gathered in the hall and sat cross-legged in rows on the polished wooden parquet floor, while the staff sat on chairs around the edge.

  The headmaster conducted the opening assembly of the summer term including prayers and hymns sung to the accompaniment of a battered upright piano, played by one of the ladies I had met briefly in the staffroom. How can I describe her style of playing? Not so much a ‘tinkling of the ivories,’ more a cross between Thunderclap Newman and Les Dawson. To borrow the immortal line by Eric Morecambe: she was playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order. No one seemed to notice. At the end of the assembly, Mr. Ball pointed towards me and welcomed me to the school. I was pleased to be greeted by row upon row of smiling faces.

  Assembly cleared as orderly as the playground had done earlier, and the pupils moved to their classrooms, which were situated directly off the assembly hall. Not knowing where I was supposed to go, I just stood and waited for the headmaster to finish dealing with one or two matters with individual children. He then came over and told me he would now take me to my class. He opened the classroom door, and we both entered together. The children were sitting at their desks, and all immediately stood up as we entered.

  “Sit down please,” instructed Mr. Ball. “I am sure you would all like to welcome Mr. Meadows, your new teacher.”

  “Good morning Mr. Meadows,” they all chanted in unison, with a hint of Dalek and St Helens dialects.

  “It seems rather a large class,” I whispered to the headmaster.

  “Ah, yes,” he blustered, “We have had to combine some classes and age groups. These are seven and eight year olds.” A quick calculation indicated about forty children in front of me.

  “Oh, I understand, hence the need for me as a classroom assistant. Where is the teacher, by the way?” I asked, looking around.

  By this time Mr. Ball was looking at his watch in a rather exaggerated manner, while edging backwards towards the door.

  “Well,” he replied, “You are the teacher.”

  He continued walking backwards, with me following him. He was now outside the door, standing in the assembly hall. I just stood there in the doorway, with a look of astonishment on my face.

  After another quick look at his watch, he said, “Come to my office at morning break, and we will have a chat.” With that, he was gone.

  I had a couple of seconds to gather my thoughts, and I slowly turned around to go back into my classroom. All eyes were on me. I felt as alone as a boxer just before the opening bell, when all the trainers, announcers and seconds have left the ring. I slowly closed the classroom door and walked to the teacher’s desk, thinking on my feet. I sat down and started to open and close drawers, waiting for some sort of divine intervention.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the silence was finally broken when a bright-eyed blonde little girl at the front desk said, “It’s in this drawer, Mr. Meadows,” pointing around the desk.

  “What is?”

  “The class register. That’s what you’re looking for isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is,” I bluffed, with a hint of relief in my voice.

  I took out the large green registration book and opened it on a brand new page to start the summer term. A quick flip of previous pages showed me that it was the traditional herringbone marks, with a red circle for absences. I then proceeded to mark the register. I took the opportunity to ask each child to stand up so that I could put a face to a name and, more importantly, to give me a little more breathing space. My first impression was of how young these seven and eight year old children seemed to be. After all in my previous job, which I had only left on Friday, I had been dealing with septuagenarians and octogenarians, and some even older. I must have set some sort of record for the longest registration in the history of education. As I reluctantly marked the final name, the same little girl, Jenny, on the front row stood up and came to my desk. She closed the register and went to the classroom door.

  Noticing my slightly puzzled look, she looked back to me as she was opening the door and announced proudly, “I’m the register monitor.”

  As I looked towards the class, contemplating my next move, a little boy at the back stood up and walked over to a bookshelf. He picked up a large, hard-back book, which seemed almost as big as him, and brought it to the front desk and placed it in front of me. It was an illustrated book of stories from the Bible. He then opened it for me and pointed to a paragraph and said, “We’re up to here, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said, more gratefully than he realized.

  “I’m the Bible monitor,” he told me with equal pride.

  ‘Thank God for class monitors,’ I thought.

  His name was Craig, and he told me that the previous teacher had begun each day with Religious Education by reading a story to the class, followed by questions. By now there were only about fifteen minutes to go to break, or playtime as it was called in primary school, so I was able to make a start on the first story. The hand-bell was rung in the hall, no doubt by a monitor, and I dismissed my class. I made my way to the staffroom for an eagerly anticipated cup of coffee.

  “How did your first lesson go?” inquired the ladies as they exchanged knowing glances.

  At that moment, everything came into focus in my mind: my very brief interview before Easter with no contact with either staff or pupils; my arrival on my first morning, when the headmaster had spirited me away from the staffroom before I had chance to speak to anyone; now it all made sense. ‘Thrown in’ and ‘Deep end’ were phrases which sprung to mind, as I knocked on Mr. Ball’s door. I had more or less recovered from my initial shock and baptism of fire as he invited me into his office. I told him that I was surprised to find that I was going to be rather more than a classroom assistant. He apologised and said that he thought that he had mentioned it during the interview. We both knew that wasn’t the case, but I thought I may as well get on with it because, after all, what was my alternative? I had given up my previous job. He gave me a timetable which covered Religious Education, Maths, Geography, History, Games, English and Science, all to be taught by... me. Looking back, I realise that this was a fantastic training ground for my future. I don’t mean my career as a teacher; I mean as a member of a pub-quiz team.

  Before we finished our coffee-break, Mr. Ball asked me if I was able to do him a favour. My first impressions of the headmaster were favourable, but I was beginning to wonder if there was a touch of Machiavelli about him. Of course, I didn’t have any alternative but to say yes, so he showed me a letter which he had received just before the end of term. It was from the local Schools’ Football Association and it concerned a 5-a-side football tournament for seven-year-olds. St Aidan’s was entered, and the school was invited to send a representative to a meeting later that day. Mr. Ball explained that he was unable to attend, but, perhaps, I would like to go instead, since the team would be selected from my class. Another instant string to my bow, I was now a football coach! The meeting was to be held at a school in Prescott, the other side of town.

  “No problem,” I said co-operatively, “I am in a car today.” But, of course, he already knew that.

 
I returned to my class clutching my timetable, geography was next. Good, at least it was a subject that I had passed at O and A levels, so I was confident that I would be able to keep a few steps ahead of a bunch of seven and eight year olds. As I arrived at the classroom door, the kids were arriving and getting themselves organised. Again I was impressed, and I remember thinking how well their previous teacher had trained them. The geography monitor had already sprang into action, and, with the help of the ubiquitous primary school globe and a large plastic-covered map of the world, I was able to pick up the threads of the curriculum.

  “How many footballers have we got in the class?” I inquired at the end of the lesson, while waiting for the dinner bell (in the North of England it is invariably dinner time, and tea time is in the evening). Nearly every hand went up, and when I told them that I was going to a meeting about the tournament, I could feel a sense of excitement spread through the classroom. I realized that it was very important to them.

  “Will you be taking the team, sir?”

  “Of course,” I answered with a smile. “That’s one of the reasons I am here.”

  They told me that Mr. Ball had occasionally taken them for football during games lessons, but more often than not it was the lady whom I had replaced who had supervised them. I had never played in an organised game of football. For me it was either rugby union at Cowley School or rugby league at Blackbrook Club. At least, I thought, with a rugby background I could teach them to tackle!

  I spent lunchtime in the staffroom, chatting to my new colleagues, all four of them; each of whom had been teaching at the school for over twenty years. One of the ladies told me, proudly, that she had once been a pupil at St Aidan’s many years ago. I felt as though I had stumbled through some sort of time-warp.

  The afternoon lessons passed without incident, thanks again to the subject monitors, and before long the bell rang to mark the end of school day. I felt as though I had been there for weeks. I felt tired, but in a slightly distant way, not unlike jet lag. Previously, I had worked in factories, including 12-hour night shifts, but when working as a primary school teacher with a doubled-up-class, the onus was on me all the time with no hiding place, and no such thing as a free period. It seemed on another level. And, still, the day wasn’t over; I had the meeting to go to.