David Thomas looked at his watch. 2:00 pm, he couldn't keep them outside any longer He got up walked to the door and opened it.
"Take your seats, QUIETLY." He told the class as they filed through the door. He'd already had enough of this but at fifty five he had to hang on that bit longer before he retired. Education had changed, and not for the better in his opinion. When he'd been at school the teachers were like gods. The children respected them, and those that didn't, knew enough to be afraid. It was not the same any more. Ever since the war things had been changing and now in 1962 the children felt able to assert themselves. They seemed naturally rebellious. It was no longer good enough to say "because I said so" you needed to justify everything.
He watched the boy come in and walk to his place. At fourteen years old, he was five feet ten, already four inches taller than David. His hair was all over the place, his jacket, though clean, was just thrown on. His shoes scuffed. This boy took no interest in his appearance. 'It's a pity' thought David 'that his work was just as untidy.' The head of maths described him as "Promising". The Science teacher described him as "Potential university material." The lad had some talent, but he'd never realise his true potential unless he improved his presentation. He'd tried to change the lad, but it turned into a battle of wills with the boy soaking up everything, and still refusing to change. Nevertheless, David knew he would triumph. He was the teacher, the one in charge.
The boy took his seat. 'Double English, ' he thought, 'another hour and a half to get through.' It wasn't that he didn't like English; he quite enjoyed some of it. No, it was this teacher, Mr Thomas, who made the lesson something to be endured. This lesson just like every other would be filled with jibes and sharp comments about his writing and his presentation. He couldn't understand why, surely it is the content that is important. In art lessons things had to look good but surely in English what you wrote that was more important than what it looked like.
He'd tried, just like his mum told him, to improve.
"If he sees that you are making an effort he'll back off," she'd said.
She didn't know Mr Thomas. He'd pulled out an exercise book of the type children used when first moving from print to joined up writing.
"Since you seem to be incapable of forming even the simplest of letters correctly, you will do all future work in this book." He bellowed. He showed the whole class the book and most of them sniggered. "When you've learned to write neatly and correctly you can use the same books as everyone else."
The boy tried to prepare himself while wondering what form the torture would take this time. He answered his name when the teacher called the register, and waited for the inevitable.
"Have you marked our essays sir?" Asked a girl at the front of the class.
"Indeed I have. Am I to take it that you'd like to see the results?"
"Yes please sir."
David Thomas got up from his desk. He picked up the pile of books and started walking up and down the aisles, calling out the name of the pupil whose book was on top of the pile. As he identified each pupil he would flick to the end of the work and read his comment.
"Good work Jennifer. –Johnson I despair of you.—Hillary you need to work on that grammar."
And so he went on, each pupil got their work back and a little comment from the teacher. When he reached the bottom of the pile he went back and sat at his desk.
"On the whole maybe a little better than I expected," he said. Looking up, he saw the boy with his hand raised.
"Yes boy what do you want?"
"I haven't got my work back sir."
"You haven't got your work back." He sighed. "Name?" he asked though he knew full well the boy's name.
"Kevin Hodges sir."
"Hodges? Hodges" he said as he looked through the few remaining books on the desk. "Ah Yes".
He picked up the book and gave it to a girl in the front row.
"Pass that back to Hodges"
The girl turned and row by row the boy's book came back to him. Opening the book he turned to his last entry. He searched for the grade or any comments but found nothing.
"It's not marked, sir."
"Not marked? What do you mean not marked? Stand up when you are talking to me boy."
The boy stood and David Thomas got out of his chair and moved towards him. Another boy was playing with a wooden ruler trying to make a twanging noise over the edge of the desk. Mr Thomas immediately snatched it from him as he marched up the aisle. He reached out his hand, and the boy gave him the book. He took a quick glance at it.
.... There is more of this story ...