Chapter Thirteen
A Week of Slow Breakthroughs
A week of slow breakthroughs, subtle changes, and confusion.
“Richard, Richard, I’ve got something for you.” Dean’s slow, loud and hesitant voice greets me on Tuesday morning as I walk through the student common room. My mind wonders what he has for me. I expect little, maybe some joke, or am I being too dismissive? Something in his voice is urgent, imploring me to stop and take notice. No, I convince myself, he can’t surprise me.
“Right, mister, let’s take my coat off and put my bag in the staff room. I’ll only be a minute Dean.”
“Yes, yes, that’s no problem Richard.”
The students are gathering in the base room when I walk in. The computer is on, pinging sounds and shimmering screens of print images and games. Dean approaches me and from his pocket pulls out a scrap of paper. “Here you are Richard, homework. I did it last night.” I open the paper, standard letter size in blue, and read what he’s written in black biro, details of radio and television programmes copied from the Radio Times. “I did it last night, I had nothing to do.”
“Did you show your parents?”
“No I did not!”, he says adamantly, “I went upstairs to my bedroom and did it there. Do you think it’s good?”
“I’m really impressed Dean, it’s first class.” I’m somewhere over the moon. Dean’s actually produced work and handed it to me without asking.
“Richard, show the others what I’ve done.” So I did. This small young man, having his nightly shot of growth hormone, the student most likely not to work, is beaming with unalloyed pride. I tell staff who teach Dean and they, too, are pleasantly surprised. The question now is how to maintain his interest, how to maintain momentum, how to encourage him to produce more and better, work. He’s achieved and I’m elated. For the rest of the week he stops me asking if the work’s good.
Computers were a surprise to me too. Dean on the keyboard doing a word building task where he has to key in missing letters to create words. I ask him to say the word he’s spelt, but he refuses, insisting that he knows the word and therefore doesn’t have to say it.
“Go, on Dean, say it for me.”
“I’ve forgotten. Look, I’m on the next word now.”
I leave it having taken the hint, though I won’t let it ride.
Tricia sitting pensively is suddenly blooming, deep red lipstick, subtle if a little, as yet, amateurish, and eye make up, all adding to her natural beauty. “I don’t know why you don’t do this Sarah. It would make you feel better to have pride in your appearance” Tricia says, then continues, “people would sit up and take notice of you.” Sarah, standing at the back of the room simply shrugs her shoulders then adds bitingly, “You’re terrible, I don’t want to. Thanks.”
I want more from Tricia than flashing eyes and sarcastic comments. She’s well able to complete the tasks I give her. I want her, though, to move faster, to be on a hill where she can build up her own momentum and coast along without my assistance. Maybe Buddha will help me, a long forgotten world where peace bells rang and self sacrificing monks immolated themselves against invaders violations. Tricia’s sitting next to me, separated by distance from Chung, the bin overfull with empty drink cans
and the inevitable Chandra graffiti on the white board: Tongs, Triads and Mafia. I ask her to get out the work she did on Buddhism last week. She scoots towards her bag dumped on the floor, bends over and pulls a file from within it. She shoots back to me, “There you are Richard.”
True to her promise a finely word processed piece of work, copied, more or less, from the library book she borrowed last week. I want more. We talked about Buddhism both admitting our ignorance, me probing, wanting to know if anything she’s read has effected her thoughts, begun to influence her. I want to know her feeling and thoughts on what she’s read. I write a couple of questions for her to research.
2
During his tutorial I tell Dean how he’s maturing and improving, how pleasant and agreeable he’s becoming. Many times Dean’s said he’d produce written work for “next week” but never has and tomorrow never comes. However, he’s given me the perfect reason to stretch him now his self esteem is developing. I tell him I’ll talk to his literacy teacher and give him a list of tasks including word building and perfect copying passages from a book he must complete for next week. I make an official profile note of his Christmas film list and tell him how pleased I am with his progress.
Chung shows me his ‘Dream of Emrhys’, very short and like Chung himself, very much to the point with no waffle. Paddy’s as elusive as ever even when’s he sitting in front of me blank eyed and expressionless. He’s forgotten his material on the Beatles though he did, as I discover later, answer the research questions I’d set him. He sits vacant, staring out, full of naiveté, his pale and piercing eyes set close together, “Oh, I forgot Richard.” I want to pin him down, to respond, to show passion but most of all to give his own opinions. “Paddy, for Friday I want you to do more work on the Beatles. Do you know why you like them?”
“Yes, their music.”
“What does their music do to you?”
“What do you mean Richard?”
“Does it make you feel happy, does it make you sad?”
“It makes me feel happy.”
“I wonder what other people feel about their music, the same as you perhaps?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it before.”
“Do you know what they did to fashion?”
“Hair.” Precisely and much else besides. He’s not expressing himself. His movements a bundle of nerves, fearful, on the lookout for something to happen, a predator, perhaps, to devour him and does nothing to avoid his fate. Always an “excuse me, I need the toilet”, hiding in the loo and skipping college, though I have no proof.
Annabel my mentor on my teacher training course, comes to see me in action in my computer class. Dean’s the first to see her, “Cor! She’s nice, isn’t she Richard, I don’t half fancy her.” Moments before Annabel arrived there was a near meltdown as Chung flared up almost creaming Sunil over a remark he’d made to Tricia. A little comment, some dirt tipped needle I wasn’t party to. Comments lost to my ears and Sunil slinking off to his work station. Chung’s setting the agenda once more, though it only gradually dawns on me as the week develops. Annabel goes around the students in turn, looking at their work and asking what they’re doing. Paul shows her the press headlines he’s working on, the Cup Final of 1923. “Paul, look at the price on the entrance gates, look at the police, look at those men gate crashing and climbing over the barriers to avoid paying.”
I try to establish rapport with Sunil, but Lazarus is of the mythical variety today, and fail. I repeat, but there’s resistance and Annabel looks on, her thoughts private as she professionally reflects on what’s happening. I need to think a great deal more on what work he’s capable of. He’s far from dumb but has never been stretched. Later, during our tutorial, he expresses an interest in weight lifting so I ask him to get a book from the library, which he does without question. When he returns I ask him to answer the following question, ‘Why I need to do weightlifting and keep myself fit’. When I see him later in the week I ask him to do something more demanding and personal, ‘My religion’.
I discuss Chrissie’s stories with her, emphasising the importance of collecting and re-writing her stories to get them printed in the college magazine. Likewise with Sarah who hasn’t completed her ‘My Home’ yet.
3
Thursday begins with confusion, I’ve prepared nothing in advance, as Julie was to arrive at nine, whilst the students, of course, hadn’t prepared any written work to discuss. It’s an absolute mess and the eager first years are becoming restless at the non-appearance of Julie with her assertion training. I tell them she’ll be along shortly but they keep insisting, “when can we start Richard?” Nine thirty clocks along, Mike pops his head around the door and assures us she’ll arrive by ten. The group are beginning to break up, wondering around the room shouting and alehouse talking each other - and education civilises? I’m frustrated, it’s getting closer to ten past ten and no sign of her. Mike rings Julie at home, but no answer, “Maybe she’s on her way”, he suggests limply.
Ticking to quarter past ten I apologise to the group for Julie’s non-appearance - what can I do? - accepting the inevitable. Thinking of power a vague idea comes to me to split the group in two with each writing down what they think government does, but they’re vague and uninterested, and so am I, it’s too general. I need to start from the smaller, the specific, the familiar, before attempting large statements. “Do you know how college works?”
“You mean who’s boss?” replies Dean immediately.
“Yes, that type of thing.”
“Is that horrible man Emrhys the boss?”, ventures Tricia.
I laugh.
“Is it Tim?”
“Richard, are you a boss?”
I laugh again, only much, much louder. “Paddy, can you get me a large sheet of paper and dark felt tips. Thanks.”
On the bottom of the sheet I write ‘students’. “That’s you horrible lot in the gutter”, faking haughty disgust, “now, above you, only just with fingers clutching onto the pavement, is me and most of the staff.”
“Where’s Mike?”
“Where’s Hamish?”
“Is Graham with you?”
They identify staff they know.
“Well, is Emrhys like you then?”
“Yes, he’s just a lecturer as well. Does that surprise you? Shall I tell you the big boss is?”
“Yes”, the reply in unison.
I write up the names of the senior lecturers. They’re surprised to learn that Kevin is Tim’s boss and dark mutterings take place, though I don’t know why this should be.
“Where’s Bev?”
“She’s here”, drawing a parallel line next to the lecturers names, adding, “she’s in a different union and doesn’t get the same holidays as teaching staff.”
“Well, tell us where Alan is.”
“You mean the counsellor?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a senior lecturer.”
“Oh, higher than you then?”
“Yep”, I nonchalantly reply knowing full well I’ll never achieve promotion - it’s simply not my karma.
We proceed through the hierarchy. Each level bossing the level beneath it, right up to faculty director level, to vice principal and then finally to the principal, she of the smart power suits and doggy affections. I decide to shift the discussion to them as they seem to be comprehending the whole concept of power and bossness very clearly even asking how much pay each level receives. “Is that all you get paid Richard?”, says Chung who’s family own clothing factories in Malaysia, “it’s not much.”
“Right”, I ask, lets take the bird by its beak, “who’s the boss in this group?” .
Silence, pensive, uncertain of what to say until Tricia raises her eyes and smiles, “Sarah is. Well, she likes to think she is”.
“Is she the person who everyone listens to, that people do things for?”
“No, Chung’s the other boss.”
He sits there, narrow smile, full of satisfaction.
“Is there anybody else?”
“No”.
“Why is Chung the boss together with Sarah?”
Silence.
I go around the group.
“Lee, do you do what Chung says?”
“Sometimes. Yes, I do.”
They all answer the same, and the same for Sarah too, though with back answers pregnant with factitiousness.
“She interferes.”
“Sometimes we laugh at her.”
Sarah smiles with the same expression of silent satisfaction as Chung.
“At home who dominates, who controls the house?”
Paul the odd one out, says, “Me!”, whilst others shout, “My dad!” apart from Sarah who affirmatively answers, “My mum”. The mum she calls “cow” in her, ‘My Family’ assignment. Chung asserts “My uncle”.
“So Sarah and Chung are top of the pecking order are they?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they rule the roost, you know the meaning of that, don’t you?”
They laugh when I tell them.
It’s past eleven and an hour and twenty minutes to prepare for the science lesson on Aids. Still no sign of Julie, “not like her” says Mike, “she’s always so reliable. Maybe she’s forgotten”
4
“Are you coming Richard?”, Dean bellows through the door.
“Yes”, I echo back, “let me get my papers.”
I split the group in two, four students in each, though Sarah sits on a lone desk between the two groupings unsure who to give her allegiance. When it’s time to read out their written material she wants to interfere with the groups and is told, in no uncertain terms not to poke her nose in. Such is the price paid of a leader standing aloof from the masses. Each has a piece of paper, “Write down”, I tell them, “what you think Aids is. You must have some ideas about it, from the press, television, whatever, and remember we had that video before Christmas.”
I move between the two groups. There’s much tittering from Sunil, but the rest are serious and working well. Dean surprises once again, taking the felt tips to write for his table. I talk to them.
“Doctor,” he tells me.
“What do you mean Dean?”
“Well, you see a doctor first if you’ve got Aids.”
“Is there anything you can do about Aids?”
“Yes”, shouts Doc Sarah, “you can get cured.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes you can”, reaffirms the goodly Doc.
“What do others think?”
“No you can’t”, several voice cry out.
“Do you know what terminal means?”
“No.”
I explain.
Dean continues adding comments to his table’s paper.
“Men and women can get it.”
“No one’s safe from it.”
“You can get it from sharing needles.”
“Babies can get it too.”
Sarah, joining the other table, have their thoughts scribed by Tricia. She’s a good level of literacy and the first statement on their paper is, “you can catch Aids from sexual intercourse”, then other points similar to Dean’s table.
“Can you get Aids from touching?”
“Yes”, shouts Sunil.
“What about from drinking glasses?”
“Yes, I think so” says Paul.
“Can you get it from kissing?”
“No”, the group answers.
“Is there a cure?”
“No!”
I write their points on the whiteboard.
We focus on blood and the immune system because they don’t know. We also go further discussing immunisation, the jabs they received as children and how they assisted the immune system to defend itself. I repeat and ask each in turn to review what we’ve discussed, I also ask why sharing needles is dangerous.
“What gets passed on if you share needles?”
“What do you mean?”, asks Paddy.
“If you don’t clean needles something may be left on them. What do needles do?”
“Inject you.”
“Yes, but what does it stick into?
“Your skin.”
“True, what happens when you cut yourself?”
“You bleed.”
“And if you share needles you pass on small blobs of blood which may contain the Aids virus.”
“Babies can be born with Aids, can’t they Richard?”
“Yes, remember the video we watched, ‘The Miracle of Life’, the umbilical cord, what does it do?”
“It’s stuck on the baby inside the mum.
“But what does it do?”
“Oh, Richard,” utters Sarah in desperation, strangely quiet until this outburst, then sinks into silence.
“What does it do?”
“It passes things into the baby from its mum.”
“And that’s how the virus can get into the baby.”
“Besides blood, what other fluids are there?”
“Brain fluid”, says Lee without embarrassment.
“What else?”
“Blood!”
“Yes, that’s right Dean, but we’ve mentioned that”.
Silence.
“The video mentioned seminal fluid.”
“It’s sticky!”, shouts Sunil.
“Well, at least we know you’re normal”.
The group laughs, Paddy smiles his silly smirk and begs leave to the loo.
“What about vaginal fluid?”
“Yes, I know all about that”, says Chung.
“Chung”, shouts Tricia very obviously.
“Yes, semen, vaginal fluid and blood are the major means the Aids virus is passed on.”
One final exercise before we break for lunch.
“Can you go to student services and get some leaflets on Aids and other sexually transmitted diseases.”
They scarper, arriving back in dribs and drabs ten minutes later with a wadge of information that we strew across the tables now pushed together so we sit facing each other. I select a leaflet published by the Health Council on, ‘What is Aids?’ and ask each student to read out a paragraph to reinforce what we’ve learnt. They do, though it’s not easy for some of them, Dean and Sunil especially who miss out large chunks of paragraphs.
It’s Sarah’s birthday on Friday so Lee and Dean are organising a party for her. It’s meant to be secret but the two can’t refrain from threatening her with a “surprise”, which induces her to wallow in paranoia giving her another reason to search me out. “Richard, I’m not coming in on Friday. I can’t take it. Something’s happening behind my back”
“Tough”, I tell her, “it’s a full time course and I’m not giving you time off. Simple as that.”
They bought her a lovely card, white and feminine, flowery verse and scrolled, ‘Happy Birthday’ - I wonder whether she had such sentiments for her own child I saw her pushing years later - though it became a mad panic to get it signed by all the group. Preparing the surprise food, chocolate rolls, crisps and coke, was no less easy to accomplish. Sarah’s sent away whilst the spread’s prepared for her. She seeks me in the canteen where I’m eating and wants to know when she can use the base room again. “Soon”, I tell her. “It’s twelve thirty now. I’ll join you in ten minutes”
5
The Second Years are getting ready for their photo expedition. I get the Pentax and camcorder from Geoff, though in the event we didn’t use it. I picked up the wide angle zoom and spread the equipment out before the group including my old trusty Nikon with an array of lenses. The numbers are down to the usual stalwart dependable, Nish, Harry, Chrissy, who has her own automatic. Jools who’s suddenly attending and Chandra, who’ll surprise me before the day’s out, arrive late. They appear uncertain, intimidated by the equipment lying in front of them, yet fascinated by its shiny complexities. I take them through the basic functions, explain the difference between the lenses and focal lengths, then let them handle the equipment.
“Look over there by the building site. Try this standard lens, now use the zoom and see the difference.”
“Wow”.
“Jools, look through this, practise winding the film on and pressing the shutter.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah, that’s great, ok.”
Chandra holds back, he doesn’t want to be part of the group, I ask him what’s wrong.
“Nothing, I’m alright Richard, honest I am”, in his wheedling tone which says, “I’m lying, but prove it.” I leave it.
We have thirty minutes to practice using the equipment. Nish is very keen and even Harry has a camera slung around his neck, though he resolutely refuses to move it to his eyes. Jools is showing interest, “Look at me”, she says as the long lens of the Nikon hangs over her small frame.
“Shall we go then?”, I ask. Now we have to decide where.
“I fancy the estate.”
“What, with all this expensive equipment, it’ll get nicked.”
“Mill Hill!”
After a rapid round robin we follow our feet to the fifteen minute walk to the suppurating affluence of Mill Hill High Street.
We leave the college sliding over mud churned by contractor’s vehicles servicing its new extension. Chandra sees a train high on the embankment and asks if we can take a photo of it, he’s fast becoming his usual fussy and domineering self. A Pentax around his neck, his stooped walk and suspicious shuffling along the pavement add to his image of a sleazy ‘glamour’ snapper on his way to another suburban assignment. We’re confronted by a sign post proclaiming it’s the footpath to Mill Hill. I ask them if they know where the sign’s pointing to, “Of course we do”, they tell me. We walk beneath the subway, up the steel steps over the walkway and peer down over the motorised tarmac of the A1. God, it’s busy, and the wind, I have to foghorn my voice to get heard. In the distance cowers Harry unwilling to join us, shaking his head with his funny little twisted expression of disdain. I can’t hear a word he says.
Nish’s feeling the strain. One hand holds the camera ready to photograph the traffic and the other hand clings to the metal rail from grim death’s awesome power. “Nish, you alright?”, I holler.
“Yeah”, comes his reply.
“You look a little nervous. Look I’ll support you.”
He’s so nervous he thinks the bridge will collapse onto the road with bits of Nish splashed every ungainly place. As I hold him he’s able to use his hand and snaps away.
“Phew, let’s go Richard.”
We return across the bridge and follow closely Harry who’s now a small huddled blob shape all bent over, his blue nylon parka, with its strip of mock fur, keeping him warm. We collectively breath a sigh of relief as we reach pavement leading to our destination, the sign pointing the wrong way for as long as I taught at Hendon. Now together and survived, we idly chatter as the assignment looms.
“Can we go out next week as well to take photographs?”
“Richard, can Paul McCartney open the exhibition we’re going to do?”
“Why don’t you write him a letter, I’ve his address somewhere.”
“Richard, I’ve got an idea.”
“What is it Chandra?”
“Could we do a cardboard city?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking”, and here comes Chandra at his best, “we could make a cardboard city like in London and invite people to see it, then give money to the homeless. Could you invite somebody really famous to open it?”
“You mean Paul McCartney?”, shouts Harry.
“No dummy, someone really famous!”
“Who?”
“Richard, I don’t know. Help me someone!”
“Chandra, can I give you a task?”
“Oh gawd, go on, what is it?”
“Go and see the vice principal, he’s got loads of contacts in theatre and film. Can you do that?”
“I will Richard, I promise.”
We arrive at the Broadway, suburban genteelness, dissected by the bus terminus, a motorway flyover, an enormous traffic island and low flying Thames Link trains. Despite modern intrusions it still retains Edwardian charm. Reminding the group to keep their college identity cards handy they’re unleashed, and totally surprise me with their panache and gusto. Not content to take nice pleasant snaps they push into banks and shops, barging in front of shoppers thrusting lenses up their noses. “Thank you”, they mutter pressing the shutter amidst a few refusals but more yeses. One dancing and singing man waltzes out of the florist to pose even more bizarrely for Chandra who’s totally fazed by his antics.
Nish’s discovered the advantages of the wide angle Nikon and decides he wants to use it all the time. It’s the easiest and most spontaneous of lenses and doesn’t require focussing beyond two metres. I keep checking they’re are using the equipment correctly, everyone appears to be. Chrissy’s been using the Pentax permanently and in her own quiet manner thoroughly enjoying being out, snapping people unawares. If they behave as they are now on the homeless assignment it could be a great term’s work and achievement for them. I have some spare cash with me, “Fancy going into the café for a cup of tea?” Chorused approval, so we stroll in. I remember last year’s trip to Golders Hill Park café and the ensuing mayhem. Good job I’m a regular customer there and knew the staff, I kept thinking as ice cream and cappuccino, Chandra’s loud voice and Jools hysterical laughter, kept things bubbling to madness. It’s refreshingly different this time. This café’s salubrious, mainly elderly and Jewish patrons, all very quite, sedate and agreeable. The waitress takes our orders, “If you want anymore boiling water please let me know” And we do, three times in total.
Wasn’t Jools the darling of the piece. “Here”, she spoke, “let me be mum, I’ll pour”, each cup topped with milk added in such a caring and methodical manner. I’m too impressed for words. Nish talks business, laying out ideas for our elderly project and continuing discussions as Jools replenishes our cups. We could interview the elderly and photograph them we decide whilst sipping.
“There are a number of day centres for elderly Caribbean and Jewish people in Brent and Barnet, we could travel around to them.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Remember the café we went to last year, a lot of old people from Europe fleeing Hitler, go there. They must have interesting stories to tell, if they’re willing to share them.”
“Yeah, maybe we could that.”
An old friend from my prison days has invited me to one of the project’s he’s managing - a home for recovering alcoholics in Surrey’s stock broker belt. He’s also gave me an idea for fund raising: a homeless meal, soup and rolls, inviting as many people as possible to donate. The group’s idea for a cardboard city, replete with musty sleeping bags, could be a great promotional idea, all capped by a photo exhibition. We’ll see - it’s early days. I tell the group of my friend’s offer, they in turn remind me of my promise amidst the clinking of cups and slurping of tea, to contact the Peel Centre about the sponsored pool game. I saw one of the police tutors on my teaching course and gave the details to him. I await his response.
“Nish, you have Danny for catering, can you sound him out about the soup kitchen idea? Tell him what it’s for and let me know.”
“Will do Richard.”
We return just before midday and a note on my desk reminds me to contact the National Association of Voluntary Hostels.
Chung’s gone angry - again - and during break in the bakery class threw an ash tray at Dean hitting him on the head. Dean’s shocked, though not seriously hurt. I find him in the coffee bar, head slumped forward on a table being comforted by Tricia. Dean’s also calmed by one of the counsellors who, opportunely was in the coffee bar.
I take over.
“I’m still shaking Richard, I’m upset.”
“I’ll bet you are mister. Dean, come to the staff room for a few minutes and tell me what happened.”
“I did nothing, honest. I wanted to talk to Tricia and he told me to go away, so I did. Then he threw it at me.”
I feel his head for bruises, luckily Dean’s got a thick skull.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am, Richard. I’m shaken and upset, but I’ll be ok soon.”
“OK, sit down for a while and rest, I’ll go and tell Mike.”
Mike and I chat about the seriousness of the violence and after the break decide to talk to Hamish and find out if he can shed light on the fracas. On the way there I see Tricia. “Yes, Chung was really annoyed. Sarah’s trying to split us apart.”
“How?”
“She just comes over and makes comments.”
“So, what happened this time?”
“Dean came in at the wrong moment. Chung didn’t throw the ash tray at Dean, he threw it in his direction.”
Subtle difference, though it’s lost on me. Mike sees Dean and Chung and tells me Chung’s apologised. Later, as I’m ready to go, Chung looked into my eyes, smiled and said, “No I didn’t!” I know what he means. I’ll see him next week in tutorial.
