Free Memoirs of a Dance Hall Romeo by Jack Higgins

registers.
    When this task was accomplished, he opened his briefcase, produced a sheet of sums, turned his back on the class and, completely disregarding the din, proceeded to copy them onto the blackboard in the same neat copperplate. When he had finished, he dusted his hands, sat down behind the desk and took out a newspaper.
    No one appeared to take any notice. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’ I asked loudly because of the din.
    He made no reply. I touched him on the arm. He glanced around enquiringly, then took a hearing aid on its wire from his breast pocket and shoved it into his ear. ‘Anything I can do for you, old man?’ he asked.
    But there was nothing. Nothing anyone could do, or so I was beginning to imagine.
    Varley was in the top class and was supposed to be leaving school the following Easter. The class teacher was Slater, the young man of the purple blazer and striped tie.
    The morning I joined him he put on an impressive display of shouting that would not have disgraced Mr Carter at his worst. On no less than three occasions before break, he caned boys soundly, two strokes on each hand. I was puzzled, for in each case the punishment followed general insolence from Varley and his cronies, yet the individuals chosen seemed to me to be the smallest or least offensive in the class.
    He did a considerable amount of reading to them, mostly cheap thrillers or adventure stories, and allowed them at least an hour’s private study each day, during which they could read what they wanted and usually did.
    All this time was noted on his syllabus as being devoted to ‘A general introduction to English literature, in which the child is enabled to enlarge his world by exploring for himself interesting themes in contemporary fiction.’
    This, and similar twaddle concerning other lessons, was neatly typed out and ready for inspection at any time. I never once saw him actually teach anybody anything or even try to.
    During the time I was with him, he left me on my own for considerable periods. At first this wasn’t too bad. I was treated with a sort of gruff respect that was vaguely flattering. Varley and Hatch had seen me in uniform on the first day. It was known I had been in the Army and I was asked to recount my experiences. I was surprised at what an interesting time I’d had when I went over my two years of serving King and Country.
    The only trouble was that whenever I actually tried to teach, I was in immediate trouble. I had prepared several lessons. Some English and History particularly, trying to link them together. No one took the slightest notice, and one day, I discovered a card school in one corner and dominoes in the other. A humiliating echo of Johnson’s situation.
    When I spoke to Slater about this he shrugged. ‘They’re leaving at Easter, old man. Couldn’t care less and you can’t really blame ’em.’
    All right, so I had already discovered beyond any shadow of a doubt that I didn’t have any vocation, but at least I did have some sort of compulsion to earn my money.
    I raised the problem with Wally next time we had tea together, for I had taken him up on his original offer, his workshop being infinitely preferable to the staffroom with its cubicle toilet. I put the matter as delicately as possible, for Wally was, after all, deputy headmaster. He let me talk, filling his pipe as he listened.
    ‘Am I expecting too much?’ I asked him finally.
    ‘You are as far as this place is concerned,’ he said. ‘Forget all that fancy talk, lad. In a school like this we’re keeping them off the streets and out of everybody’s way, and in large numbers. That’s what society pays us for. We’re a custodial institution.’
    ‘But surely we can do better than that?’
    ‘You have to do the best with what you’ve got, Oliver. Carter doesn’t want any trouble, so don’t start any because he won’t back you up. That’s the main reason discipline stinks here. Trying to teach the way