“Your tutor is a funny looking man though.”
“Oh I do like Mr Ronaldson!” chimed Mum. “He’s got such a nice way with you all. And he really does care.”
“Yes, Mum, I suppose he does.”
“Oh definitely, Jack. You are lucky to have him.”
I asked her quietly the meaning of ‘asset’ and she didn’t hear.
“No, Martin, we’ll walk thank you.”
“I came across a stall trying to sell the Business Studies department, Jack,” said Dad as he unlocked the car. “Very enthusiastic teacher actually. You might like to find out some more about that…”
“Jack seems to be doing the business anyway, don’t you think, Martin?” Mum hugged me and laughed. Suddenly I wished I were alone with Dad again, eating caviar and hearing about how he really thought I was doing on the survival front.
He drove home, and Mum and I meandered back past the familiar premises of Nobbi, our neighbourhood greengrocer, who was just throwing down his metal casements.
“How’s it going, with big school?” he called.
“Fine thanks, Nob.”
“One to be proud of, eh, Mrs C?”
Mum laughed and patted my head.
“I really am proud of you,” she said as we walked on. “You’ve settled in so brilliantly. Even Dad has to admit it.”
“Do you think he does? Thanks. Did you like Miss Price?”
“Well she certainly seems to like you.”
“Do you think so?”
“Nice girl. Horrid perfume though.”
It sometimes seemed to me that the school tried to lay on events to distract us from our work. How else can you interpret the arrival of student teachers? Certainly it is open season if you’re lucky enough to get one. Which we were – in place of the History teacher. Clean-cut and youthful, Mr Carew was very friendly. So we took the piss immediately.
“How long are you with us, Mr Caroooo?” I felt obliged to open the hostilities.
“Oh, for a good long while. You must think of me as your permanent teacher now, Jake.”
“It’s Jack actually.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right, Mr Caroooo, but don’t you return to the institute soon – for feedback? Stress counselling?”
“What? Look, why don’t you just get on with the task?”
“Only if you tell us your Aims for the lesson.”
“My aims?”
“And afterwards your Objectives. They should be written in your lesson plan.”
“You cheeky little—”
“In fact, Mr Caroooo, I wouldn’t half mind seeing your entire Scheme of Work. Michael’s Uncle Denny takes a lively interest in modern approaches to the subject, when he’s not pumping iron down at the gym…”
This got reported to Bumcheeks, who gave me a two-hour though he could hardly deny I’d been concentrating my energies in the classroom – and specifically on the teacher.
The next few History lessons went better – from Carew’s point of view – largely because the Head himself was ‘observing’. Nevertheless, Razza couldn’t resist again asking our trainee when he was going to let our ‘proper’ teacher back in and soon there was a general chorus of “How do you do, Mr Caroooo?” going down.
In the photocopy room one lunchtime Miss Price said Mr Carew was having a tough time with some of his classes.
“Does he teach you, Jack?”
“Er…”
“Well, if you do come across him just be helpful – as I know you can be.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s a bit of a jungle, as we know. And his supervisor’s in next week.”
“Leave it with me, miss,” I said, flattered to have her go so unprofessional on me. “We’ll get Mr Carew through.”
Just for yoooou.
But here I made two fatal underestimations: of my classmates’ malice and of Carew’s teaching skills. For the lesson in question, with the geezer from the institute stroking his clipboard at the back of the room, Carew made a pig of a choice. Of course he had worked it down to the last minute. I could see the spindly writing of his lesson plan had dedicated the eleventh and the twelfth minute after ten to ‘greeting pupils and settling them’. He did the first and I just about managed the second though Michael, it so happened, was out for blood today.
“Fuck off, Jack,” he said, as I tried to hush him. When I gestured to the back of the class he elaborately turned in his chair and whistled salaciously at the grey-haired suit already scribbling on to his clipboard. We wet ourselves. Had to.
“Right, everyone,” Mr Carew started, “today we’ve got a lot to get through so I just want to explain a few things and then we’ll, er, get right into the fun stuff. OK?”
“We know you, Mr Caroooo!” had started up, though it mutated around Michael’s area into, “We’ll have you, Mr Caroooo!”
I had to break the destructive cycle – for Miss Price’s sake.
“Sir?”
“Yes, what is it, Jack?” He was wary.
“Can I just say something before the, er, fun stuff?”
“As long as it’s relevant. And quick.” He looked at his watch and I realised I was eating into his three minutes’ introduction so I just blurted it out.
“Can I just say I’ve never really seen the point of History…”
“What?”
“Up till now, I mean. Until you started taking us. You make it come alive. I think a lot of us feel the same way…”
I was just trying to help. But this was not the way to do it. Mr Carew smiled with gratitude for about a second but then the peers started burrowing noses into imaginary holes and making powerful sucking noises which darkened his brow.
“Let’s talk about your love for the subject after the lesson, shall we?” He then revealed his absurd plans for cutting out statements about Napoleon’s life, discarding the false ones and ordering the trues chronologically. On sugar paper, if you please. With scissors. And glue.
I tried to cheat the historical inevitability of Mr Carew turning to another profession. I still ask for forgiveness from time to time. Mr Caroooo, I did try but you were one of my failures, a campaign too far.
He was everywhere – and nowhere – that lesson. I still like Napoleon and firmly believe we should have buried him as he fancied in Westminster Abbey. He taught us a thing or two. Mr Carew, however, didn’t. And when, towards the end of that deciding battle he set about retrieving the weapons, seven pairs of scissors and seven glue sticks, he only got six scissors – and no glues.
“Come on, can we have the rest of the gear in? Quickly, shall we?”
Nothing more came forth. So Mr Carew panicked and shouted at us more desperately.
“Right! Open your bags! Come on! Everyone! Now! Open them!”
He moved through the desks, abusing our privacy with the bag search. Caroooo, Caroooo, now nothing can