Professor Pook

ONE

Untie that girl at once, Porkbush, I order loudly, entering the classroom for registration. One of the things you don’t bargain for in teaching is to find your prettiest pupil trussed hand and foot to her chair with rope as though we are filming a cliffhanger serial.

Lola’s great brown eyes swivel on to me pleadingly, half frightened by my arrival, half proud to be placed in such a predicament by the boys. She has assumed conventional cheesecake posture to reveal plenty of nylons, and the rope happily comes over one shoulder to run between her breasts like a river separating two peaks.

At this point you may well ask how I became a teacher. Note how I put the question into your mouth. I have to do this because English people are brought up not to ask questions even if their neighbour’s house is on fire. Consequently foreigners brand them as reserved but they are not really reserved—just that they don’t like to pry into your affairs, and regard the chaffed remains of your house as a personal secret between you and the fire-brigade.

I became a teacher because even a successful novelist like myself has to eat, and one soon discovers in the book business that all the smart boys are engaged in every facet of literature bar writing it. This is my first week as a teacher and if I live to see a second I shall know there is a Providence above. You may think this is an exaggeration but you don’t realize what happens to your offspring when you get rid of them every morning at 8.30.

The boys practise tribal warfare until the 8.50 whistle, when they release each others’ throats and totter towards the school buildings. Here they assemble in fifteen weary ranks of boy-life, hardly capable of undergoing such an arduous task as education.

The girls don’t fight. They line up in whispering bunches. To them school is merely an interruption in a continuous conversation which begins the day they are born. There is much turning of heads, pointing with the eyes, and concealing lips behind hands. They have achieved the ultimate in communication by being able to talk incessantly on only two topics—boys and clothes.

One thousand mixed boys and girls of both sexes (to quote Porkbush’s essay on Cudford Secondary Modern School) file into the Great Hall for their daily intake of spiritual uplift, like demons being ushered into Heaven for fifteen minutes’ conditioning. Here a surprising change comes over them. In a weak angelic treble they sing a hymn all about brotherly love and helping each other through the day ahead. Several of the more vicious thugs look around the hall as though in search of brothers who need assistance during the next break.

The prayer, apparently in Russian, again emphasizes the need for affection and help to each other. Finally the whole company explodes unexpectedly into a violent rendering of Fight the Good Fight, sung with the unnatural gusto of an army on the eve of battle.

At the conclusion the headmaster, Dr. Collins, makes a short speech about the casualty rate during the holidays caused by home-made bombs. He requests the boys to raise their hands if they are in any way connected with bomb-making, whereupon they assume expressions denoting that the word bomb is foreign to them.

Very well, Dr. Collins says grimly. Although sheds are regularly blowing up in the vicinity and boys are being taken to hospital as though the countryside has lately been mined, I see that nobody in this school has anything to do with it except to provide the unfortunate victims. However, be warned.

During my stay at Cudford Secondary Modern School, Dr. Collins often seeks information during Assembly about every crime in the book from common theft to vandalism without the slightest response.

Before dismissal he tells us that a certain young lady in the fifth form will not be returning to resume her studies with us this term.

The big-nosed cow is pregnant, says a voice at my elbow. It is Sally Balfour explaining the situation to her friend, Vera Ashley.

Who done it? Vera inquires, thrilled.

Why, Charlie most likely—but it could have been the others.

She’s boy mad, that’s her trouble. . . .

Silence, girls. Prepare to move off.

Hearing my reprimand, the girls giggle and look at me like scaled-down coquettes. They are attractive and far more mature than the lads. Already make-up and ear-rings have made their appearance, together with stiletto heels, nylons and tight skirts. They regard me as just another man to be vamped—which they do with instinctive skill.

Oddly enough, although my class contains 22 girls and 18 boys, they never mix together. The boys are not yet ready to pair off; the girls prefer older lads anyway. Hence I am a little surprised to find Lola tied to her chair by Harold Porkbush.

Who trussed you up, Lola?

I don’t know, sir. I mean, the boys, sir.

I done it, sir. Me and Smith, Porkbush admits cheerfully.

Why?

Dunno, sir. Just for a lark, I suppose.

The three of you see me at four o’clock.

So ends another useless conversation. I dare not spend more time on the matter because the other thirty-seven kids are getting out of hand. After demanding silence and eventually obtaining a temporary lull I tell the class, "You will require your exercise books and English is Fun. . . . "

A groan greets this remark because the novelty of English is Fun has long worn off. I notice that Porkbush has carefully inked over the title of the text-book so it now reads English is Hell. However, two boys suddenly burst into the room bearing a milk crate.

Morning milk, sir. Straws are in the cupboard, Sally Balfour tells me secretively. Sally tells me everything secretively. She always stands by my side, pressing her left breast either in my waist or my ear, according to whether I am standing or sitting, then whispering the information so that I am obliged to bow my head down to hers if I am to hear anything at all. With Sally even the location of the straws is confidential.

I’m secretly in love with Porkbush, sir, she adds sadly. That Lola Mills knows it, so the little bitch let him tie her up just to make me jealous.

It is far too early in the day to become involved in Sally’s personal life but even at this hour it strikes me as incredible that anyone could love Porkbush. His singularly plain face is worsened by a fringe and freckles. On the other hand, Sally is not so much plain as ugly, especially when her features are in repose. This tends to make her chin disappear and her nose to elevate like a gun being laid for a long shot.

Why don’t the girls drink their milk, Sally? I inquire during the ensuing picnic atmosphere. Anything rather than love.

Well, sir, most of the girls is slimming—especially me. Then Vera don’t like milk and Sandra won’t drink it because it ain’t cold from the fridge. Most of the boys drink theirs—look, sir, Nicholas Webb has upset his bottle over everything.

Me and Nick’ll fetch the cloth, sir, Porkbush informs me helpfully, treading in the milk to test for viscosity. Hardly a day passes without recourse to the cloth for mopping up milk, ink, blood and less pleasant liquids. I shall never learn where it is kept but apparently it requires two boys to find it and is extremely far away.

As the bottles are being collected Sally comes to stand next to me as though she is listening to my heart. Don’t forget to collect the dinner money, sir, she whispers enigmatically. Five shillings from everybody who stops to dinner. You enter it in the dinner register and balance it at the end of each week.

Thank you for reminding me, Sally. Although I am polite if nothing, I am beginning to dread this girl who reveals an endless succession of chores one by one to me, none of which has anything to do with English is Fun. When I have collected nineteen five shillings in a cocoa tin provided for the purpose Sally glides out from her desk to whisper the top secret news that I have to appoint dinner waiters to serve during the school meals, but this job is interrupted by the arrival of the headmaster, Dr. Collins. The whole class stands up in unaccustomed silence.

Ah, Mr. Pook, all is well, I observe. Had their milk— good. Called the register—good. Collected the dinner money—good. Don’t forget, any questions or complaints and you know where to find me—in my office. Now I must fly.

Directly Dr. Collins closes the door the noise starts again. Vera is doing Sally’s hair; Smith and Porkbush are having a trial of strength across a desk; there is a strong smell of nail varnish in the air. Opening English is Fun I discover that today’s game is to be a composition entitled My Holiday.

Now, boys and girls, I want you to write an essay telling me all the things you did during the holidays.

Nobody takes a blind bit of notice, except Lola Mills. She blushes and protests that she dare not reveal her holiday secrets. Her immediate neighbours cheer this statement but the rest of the class are making so much noise that they don’t even hear it. I try brute force to get a hearing by shouting as if I am drowning a long way from the beach.

Write . . . write a composition about your vacation, I bawl at the top of my voice. "Entitle it My Holiday. Shut up the lot of you. English is Fun, page 2, tells you how to do it."

Confidentially, this is my first lesson ever and the way I feel right now, it could be my last. English is Fun has a whole page devoted to the lay-out, style and content of this essay which the teacher is supposed to explain to the class during the first twenty minutes of the period—and here’s me yelling my head off just to get the title across. Porkbush’s hand is up.

What did you say, sir?

What was that, Porkbush?

Porkbush solves the impasse by coming out to me. There’s such a din going on, sir, that I couldn’t hear what you said.

I was merely inquiring what you asked me, lad.

Oh. All I said was what do you want us to do, sir.

"First, shut up. Then write a composition entitled My Holiday."

Why not chalk it on the board, sir, so the others will know.

Relieved at this suggestion I write the instructions on the board but nobody looks at it. In desperation I bang the board with the wooden rubber and point to the message, crying out above the hubbub, Write essay about holiday.

I discover that a continuous banging on the board eventually draws the attention of the more inquisitive pupils to the message. By the opening and closing of their mouths I guess they are asking me questions. School noise quickly builds up in a vicious circle as kids shout louder and louder in order to be heard above the din—and I’m not helping any by roaring for silence as though in the grip of a fit.

This has no effect whatsoever, nor does my next scheme of writing on the board Please Keep Quiet. All it does is to bring out a dwarf boy named Anderson who wishes to ask me a question. I bend nearly double to line up my ear opposite his lips but either I am going deaf or else he is speaking in a foreign tongue, for all I catch of the message. Eventually he chalks it on the board for my benefit. It reads Please, sir, can I clean the board?

It seems that the supreme ambition in every child’s mind is to clean the board all day long, even when there is nothing on it—in which case they delight in polishing it. Unfortunately I vent my anger on poor little Anderson by jerking him off the floor and holding him up bodily before the class.

I go to the trouble of putting the instructions on the board and what happens?—this kid decides he’d like to rub it off, I shout belligerently, shaking Anderson like a duster. But suddenly it occurs to me that I am raving and waving this child about in an otherwise silent classroom. The boys and girls stare fascinatedly at the spectacle. Embarrassed, I put Anderson down and take advantage of the lull by imparting the essay instructions verbally. Thereupon forty pupils desert their desks and converge on me in a manner not unlike mutiny.

It is not a pleasant feeling to be hemmed in by such a mob, especially as several have their hands raised threateningly. In the forefront is Porkbush. Can we have the pens, please, sir?

Can we have the rulers, please, sir?

Can we have some ink, please, sir?

Can I have a new exercise book, sir?

Can we have some blotting-paper, please, sir?

Can I have a rubber, sir?

Can I be excused, please, sir?

Apparently the cupboard containing these things is behind my desk, so I unlock it and give the last boy permission to leave the room. It is noticeable that he departs with an escort of three friends. Then Sally begs to be excused, together with Vera. I don’t know what Sally does by the hour in the toilets but she is incapable of doing it without Vera’s presence. Sally and Vera depart, accompanied by all the girls in her row.

We now have half the class in the toilets and the other half in the cupboards, so I select one boy and one girl to go in search of the weak bladder brigade while I squeeze behind the cupboard lovers and push them back to their desks in a solid block. Porkbush enters the room at the head of the brigade. Anderson is missing, sir, presumed drowned, he informs me cheerfully. Slipped and fell down the pan, sir. Dangerous place for a titch like him.

Very grimly I remind the class about the essay, whereupon Webb asks, What shall we write about, sir?

Your holidays, laddie.

But I didn’t go on holiday, sir. I stayed at home.

Then write about what you did at home. Anything, so long as you put something on paper for me to read.

But I didn’t do anything, sir.

Then write about your hobby. You’ve got a hobby, I presume?

No, sir—only girls.

Rather than delve deeper into Webb’s narrow sphere of interests I go over to another section of the class where I notice several boys staring into space, obviously in deep thought about the plan, style and content of their essay.

Following their gaze out of the windows my eyes alight on a class of shapely lovelies in briefs, playing netball in the courts adjoining our wing.

Girls, sir, Porkbush explains, in case I am too old to recognize the sex. I return his smile.

All right, lads, the excitement is over so let’s get on with our work, eh? Time you were well into the composition.

But the boys are now leaning out of the window to a man, cheering, whistling and calling individual girls by name. The players giggle but carry on with the game. There is one player who is not giggling, nor is she wearing briefs. Instead she