1949
St. Paul’s Junior
School
My
new school, St. Paul’s Junior School, was close to Alverton Road, next to the
Methodist Chapel. I wondered whose class I would be in. Mr. Miller’s? Crikey, I hoped not. The kids in Gwavas,
Penlee and St. Michael’s Streets said he shouted and hit kids. Would it be Mr.
Jones’s class? Every boy in the
neighborhood I asked about school told me about Mr. Jones and his tall, green,
glass fronted bookcase that stood next to the brass fireplace in the corner of
his classroom. Every boy I spoke to told me that all kinds of rocks and
seashells, fossils, bones, birds’ eggs and colorful feathers were crammed in
the top three shelves.
Sometimes,
I was told, he would take out a fossil or a shell, show it to the kids, and
then tell them everything he knew about it. I so wanted to be in his class! I
kept my fingers crossed. I was excited and very relieved when Mum told me that
she had met Mr. Curnow, the headmaster, yes, it was to be Mr. Jones’ class.
Perhaps, perhaps, I could show Mr. Jones my amber. Would he like it? Would he
like it as much as Miss Harvey did?
I
soon learned the daily class routine and soon learned to be patient. The day
would come when he would see my amber.
After
assembly each morning, at twenty past nine precisely, Mr. Jones would adjust
his tie, fiddle with the middle button of his green sports jacket, and then he select
an unused piece of white chalk from the cardboard box sitting on the rim of the
blackboard. He’d then look up at the top left of the board and slowly,
squeakily, write out the day and the date, followed by the work of the day on
the blackboard - sums, writing and reading. This was the drill, getting us
ready for the important, life-changing examination at in our last year of
junior school – the dreaded scholarship. With extravagant hand gesture, he’d wipe
the powdery chalk from his fingers. Then, he’d smile and sit on his polished
high chair, watch us dip our pens into the black inkwells and carefully copy
his words in our books, reminding us as we did about the need to ‘do things
right’.
Every morning and afternoon,
sitting in rows, one behind another, we followed the same routine. But, we
knew, that sometime during the week, when we had added, subtracted, multiplied
and divided, recited the alphabet and written sentences with capital letters,
all to his satisfaction, and sat up straight and behaved ourselves, he would
read a section from The Secret Seven, or The Famous Five, both
written by Enid Blyton. Or, more interestingly, he’d open his cupboard door,
look inside, choose something that took his fancy and place it, with great
care, on his desk, just to the side of the chipped ceramic pot of Stephenson’s
ink.
When
every eye in the room was fixed on his, Mr. Jones would set fire to our
imaginations. Using magical, enchanting words, he’d tell us what the object
was, where he found it, and how long he’d had it. His voice was soft and his
stories were spell binding.
It
was then that the classroom came alive.
We
knew this was the time he’d let us put our daily workbooks to one side and
share our private treasures. Mr. Jones knew that most of the kids had
pockets full of bits - a small stone or two, a snail shell, a conker, or even a
spider or worm kept safe in a matchbox. He knew that we shared our treasures
during the morning playtime out in the yard. Sometimes he’d let us empty our
pockets on top of our desks so that everyone could see what we had. Sometimes
we could move our desks and sit in groups and talk with each other about the
things we had in our pockets. It was the only time in the week when he was
prepared for the unforeseen, for the lovely things that happened when the boys
shared the treasures in their pockets. Once a week, if we’d been good, for an
hour or so, Mr. Jones’ teaching came alive. In that short space of time, we
counted and measured, weighed and recorded, drew and wrote, talked and asked
questions. In that short space of time, the boys enjoyed each other’s company
as they shared their personal treasures with each other.
The
impact was magical: shifting from the day to day drudgery of rote learning, the
classroom throbbed with energy and excitement – and rich learning.
On
the third Wednesday of the third week, I knew it was the right time to bring
and show Mr. Jones my treasure. Over the boiled egg and bread soldiers’
breakfast, I told my mum I was going to show Mr. Jones my amber that I’d found
on the beach on my fifth birthday. She smiled. “He’ll like it,” she
said. She knew how special my amber was, and that I kept telling her that I was
going to follow Miss Harvey’s advice and keep it forever.
Sure
enough, during the afternoon, when everything was quiet and the work of the day
completed to Mr. Jones’ satisfaction, he went to his cupboard. As he opened the
door, the boys looked and at each other and winked. Mr. Jones looked inside and
chose one of his treasures.
He
held it up and told us where he’d found it. He asked if anyone in class knew
what it was. No one said a word.
They
hadn’t seen anything like it before. My heart missed a beat. My moment had
arrived. THIS was the time! “That’s amber, sir, amber! I know ‘cos I found
some amber!” I took out my amber and put it out on the desk. When Mr. Jones
walked towards me and saw it, his eyes lit up.
’WOW!!
Wherever did you find that amber, Paull?”
He
held it in his hand in the same way that Miss Harvey did. Mr. Jones held it and
he admired it.
He
knew.
He
smiled.
My
day was made.
No comments:
Post a Comment