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Authors: Jack Higgins
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staffroom was unbelievable, a small cubbyhole with a window at one end, at floor level so that it was necessary to bend down to look out of it. There was a gas ring on a table in one corner and a cubicle of hardboard in the other which I discovered, to my astonishment, contained a lavatory.
Carter stood by the window drinking tea with two other men, a cigarette dangling from the centre of his lips. There was something close to relief on his face when I entered. Perhaps he had imagined I might cry off at the last moment. In fact this was very probably the right interpretation for, as I soon discovered, there was a high staff turnover at Khyber Street. Few people with anything about them stayed longer than a year.
He introduced me to my two colleagues. Mr Johnson was a tall, cadaverous man in a shabby brown suit, the cuffs of which had been bound with leather. Slater was a younger man who, rather incongruously for the surroundings, wore a kind of purple blazer and striped tie, relics of his college days, to which he hung on desperately, as a drowning man clutches at a lifejacket.
‘You’ve met the deputy, have you?’ Carter asked me.
‘The deputy?’ I asked, bewildered.
The deputy headmaster. Our Mr Oldroyd.’
I nodded, gaining further insight into the redoubtable Willy’s character, for most teachers I ever met would have brandished their status like a headsman’s axe above my head at the earliest opportunity.
Someone broke wind inside the cubicle, there was a certain amount of movement, the purpose of which one could only guess at, and then the chain was pulled. The unpleasant aroma which became apparent after that was all-pervading. The door opened outwards, which meant that because of the confined space we had to perform a certain amount of jockeying for position.
‘Hurry up, Schwarz, for goodness sake!’ Mr Carter said impatiently.
Poor Schwarz, who had been bullied by someone or other for most of his life. First the Nazis, now Carter. He was small and rather plump, his shoulders permanently hunched, the dark eyes peering anxiously from behind an ancient pair of gold-rimmed spectacles as he emerged from the cubicle.
He wore a neat dark coat, grey waistcoat with watch chain and striped trousers. I wondered wildly whether he was perhaps attending a wedding later in the day, but discovered that these were the only clothes in which he had ever been seen.
This, then, was the staff. Six of us, including the headmaster, to control two hundred and forty-one boys. As Mr Carter never taught it gave us a ratio of forty-eight boys to each teacher, but luckily the incredibly high absenteeism kept this down to more manageable figures.
I was to pass the first week gaining experience by spending my time with the other members of the staff in rotation, which seemed a sensible enough idea for it was reasonable to assume that I could actually learn from them, although time was to prove otherwise.
Morning assembly was an interesting experience. The boys were marched in, class by class, and occupied one side of the hall. Only when they were in position were the girls allowed in from the other side, shepherded by five assorted ladies who, even at that distance, seemed no more prepossessing than my own colleagues.
There was noise and laughter to an extent which astonished me, and I got the distinct impression that the older boys were actually calling out to the older girls, many of whom seemed disconcertingly mature for their age.
Mr Carter walked in briskly, got up on a wooden box behind the lectern and hammered on it with a ruler. ‘I will not tolerate this disgusting noise!’ he screamed.
There was immediate silence and they all waited, presumably as fascinated by his performance as I. ‘Hymn two hundred and thirty-three,’ he went on.
Mr Schwarz, who had been waiting at the piano, struck out boldly and everyone launched into All Things Bright and Beautiful .
There was nothing beautiful about it and when it was
Carter stood by the window drinking tea with two other men, a cigarette dangling from the centre of his lips. There was something close to relief on his face when I entered. Perhaps he had imagined I might cry off at the last moment. In fact this was very probably the right interpretation for, as I soon discovered, there was a high staff turnover at Khyber Street. Few people with anything about them stayed longer than a year.
He introduced me to my two colleagues. Mr Johnson was a tall, cadaverous man in a shabby brown suit, the cuffs of which had been bound with leather. Slater was a younger man who, rather incongruously for the surroundings, wore a kind of purple blazer and striped tie, relics of his college days, to which he hung on desperately, as a drowning man clutches at a lifejacket.
‘You’ve met the deputy, have you?’ Carter asked me.
‘The deputy?’ I asked, bewildered.
The deputy headmaster. Our Mr Oldroyd.’
I nodded, gaining further insight into the redoubtable Willy’s character, for most teachers I ever met would have brandished their status like a headsman’s axe above my head at the earliest opportunity.
Someone broke wind inside the cubicle, there was a certain amount of movement, the purpose of which one could only guess at, and then the chain was pulled. The unpleasant aroma which became apparent after that was all-pervading. The door opened outwards, which meant that because of the confined space we had to perform a certain amount of jockeying for position.
‘Hurry up, Schwarz, for goodness sake!’ Mr Carter said impatiently.
Poor Schwarz, who had been bullied by someone or other for most of his life. First the Nazis, now Carter. He was small and rather plump, his shoulders permanently hunched, the dark eyes peering anxiously from behind an ancient pair of gold-rimmed spectacles as he emerged from the cubicle.
He wore a neat dark coat, grey waistcoat with watch chain and striped trousers. I wondered wildly whether he was perhaps attending a wedding later in the day, but discovered that these were the only clothes in which he had ever been seen.
This, then, was the staff. Six of us, including the headmaster, to control two hundred and forty-one boys. As Mr Carter never taught it gave us a ratio of forty-eight boys to each teacher, but luckily the incredibly high absenteeism kept this down to more manageable figures.
I was to pass the first week gaining experience by spending my time with the other members of the staff in rotation, which seemed a sensible enough idea for it was reasonable to assume that I could actually learn from them, although time was to prove otherwise.
Morning assembly was an interesting experience. The boys were marched in, class by class, and occupied one side of the hall. Only when they were in position were the girls allowed in from the other side, shepherded by five assorted ladies who, even at that distance, seemed no more prepossessing than my own colleagues.
There was noise and laughter to an extent which astonished me, and I got the distinct impression that the older boys were actually calling out to the older girls, many of whom seemed disconcertingly mature for their age.
Mr Carter walked in briskly, got up on a wooden box behind the lectern and hammered on it with a ruler. ‘I will not tolerate this disgusting noise!’ he screamed.
There was immediate silence and they all waited, presumably as fascinated by his performance as I. ‘Hymn two hundred and thirty-three,’ he went on.
Mr Schwarz, who had been waiting at the piano, struck out boldly and everyone launched into All Things Bright and Beautiful .
There was nothing beautiful about it and when it was
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