Children of the Revolution

Fordham All Saints College Suffolk England September 1976 09.15 The bell for assembly rang…. and the teachers armed with hymnbooks sat on the stage behind heavy solid desks and looked sternly on in a row of solidarity. Stoic, self satisfied. The Head, Mr Coates, stood up, notebook in one hand and the other in his pocket jingling loose change with which he constantly fiddled. A mannerism that earned him the ditty “Mr Coates has a habit..he's always scratching like a rabbit.” The teachers, nine in all, were unmoved at what was an obvious source of amusement to some of the children. Be-numbed and flanked by two scribbling women in twinsets. These were Phoebe Wallace the Bursar and her admin assistant Miss Clarissa Jellicoe. They were the eyes and the ears of the school. Not much got past them without their keen eye and a knee in your chest. They were in charge of trust funds and bursaries. Rumours were rife amongst the students and teaching staff of their rather curious relationship. Nicknamed Snitch and Snatch’ they lived and worked together and seemed almost robotic, like starchy facsimiles of each other. They were aloof and alienated themselves from their peers. Sitting, as they would, each school day, taking lunch in their shared VW beetle making synchronized dainty bites out of manicured cucumber sandwiches from within silk napkins perched on their bony laps. After each meal they would brush any crumbs off their bottle green serge pencil skirts and check their makeup before strutting across the playground to their office. The platoon of teachers looking over the gargantuan desks, and under their noses at the rabble of children bunching through the doors of the large school theatre, studied each as if they were lambs to the slaughter. The sun cast its beams like spectral ladders upon the bustling boys and girls who rummaged for the best seats in the house under the watchful eye of the prefect ushers. Giggles and whispers reached a climax to a muffled white noise until Mr Chubb the rugby coach blew his sports whistle to signal to all to quieten down. A few exuberamt noisemakers were homed in on. These were extricated and summoned to the front to sit cross-legged on the floor where they could be kept and eye on. With a thankful nod from the Head the chatter reduced even as the hall filled to capacity. Mr Coates tapped the Tannoy microphone that protested with a squawk of whistling feedback and the man looked at his waistcoat watch and flinched at being a minute over the assembly starting time of 9.15am. Punctuality was a must. Lack of it would mean a chain of events that would have a devastating knock on effect for the rest of the day. Time stopped for no man. And this man would stop at nothing to keep good time. A sparrow had somehow infiltrated the hall and was fluttering from side to side of the ceiling distracting onlookers. It's wings brushing against the flaking grey paint with the odd peeling fluttering in acrobatic style to the floor. Kids looked up, billing and cooing with wonder willing the bird to find escape. A tall youth was beckoned to grab the wooden pole with its brass hook to pull open the top swing windows of the hall. Not just a gesture to free a small garden bird. It was already hot. The iron framed lime streaked windows were tall and wide but fixed shut save the small windows at the top. The air was thick and dank. The morning sun set for climbing temperatures of 90 degrees upwards. Poor ventilation was the curse of this 120 year old faculty and made worse by a freak heat wave that had parched the whole country for a month. The lack of through draft meant blazers were dropped by the score on the back of chairs that sometimes scraped along the parquet to further annoyance of the teaching staff.. The Head wrestled with his tight collar and an army of beady sweat gathered on his forehead. He cleared his throat. "Welcome back children. I hope you had a rewarding break and are ready for the challenges of a new term's fulltime education and the many benefits of hard study. A few groans were heard. He frowned disapprovingly and carried on with more volume than before, “On behalf of Fenham All Saints it is my objective, as it is yours, I’m sure, to focus on the treasures of jewels of learned wisdom laid out before you in the coming three terms. The search is on for us to help you reach the full potential of your academic prowess with the commitment and precision of your highly skilled teachers.” A small voice from a small corner of the horde shouted, “Where are they, then?” Jeers and sniggers rippled across from where the remark was made. Chloe Butcher ducked from view snorting with triumph. Unruffled the man flipped over a page in his notebook, “I gather you are armed with your class books and agendas, not forgetting your timetable, and your class venue as per the letter sent to you and your parents.” He stopped again to look at the notebook and proceeded to reel off several events and staff changes of little interest to those he was addressing. New names for House Captains were announced. This was of some significance. These elite were selected usually for their bullying qualities and brownnosing. The previous three years had spawned a few monsters for the role. These would stand on hearing their name called and in turn and glowered across the hall with little to greet them but stuck out tongues and the middle index finger to replace applause. Except for one girl. Chloe Butcher. She rose to a rapturous accolade. She had earned support for great academia and crusaded for the underdog. Standing up for others and had won some fans who now cheered her on. She bowed and curtseyed with a twirl of the skirt and a flash of her eye and flush to her cheek. She sat down appreciatively only to be made to accept more of the same clamour. An oncore, no less. She chuckled with embarrassment and was dismissive of this great honour bestowed upon her. The other recipient house captains sneered and looked on enviously. Mr Coates highlighted his speech with his pride in the tapestry scrolls bearing the crests of each 'house’ that draped from the walls. They hung like Swastikas at a Third Reich Rally. Proud reminders of achievement of those who had reached the pinnacle of success. These were a Coat of arms for winners. Crushed velvet emblems, named after famous explorers. Armstrong, Scott, Hillary, Shackleton. Legendary superheroes, that showed leadership, human endurance and personal sacrifice. No room for slackers on Everest or truancy on the moon. That is, if you ever were lucky to get a chance to do either. The most you could hope for when you left school was a chance to ride a butchers bike or do some apprenticeship where you would spend four years being treated like a dogsbody. The Head looked up and panned the fidgeting maze of faces. This was the moment he was waiting for. We are introducing a special short film competition sponsored by various kind organizations locally. There will be a five names taken from Mr Hickmott's raffle drum and the lucky winners will get a chance to film all facets of Fordham All Saints Upper school with the schools very own brand new video camera, which if I might hastily add, is state of the art and if damaged will disqualify the whole team and the parents accountable for any damage. Accidental or otherwise. He paused again for dramatic effect. Nonetheless, the teams will be given 6 rules of criteria to abide by to act as a guide as to proper filming standards and content.” The children were aghast and looked at each other with utter amazement. “Yes I thought that might get your attention. If you wish to compete for this technology challenge, the prize is to get five tickets to New York and tour America’s Big Apple not before receiving live on the BBC television the coveted prize of ‘The 1976 young filmmakers of the Year Award.” Gasps were heard and a tide of excited approval swept across the young throng. “Alright, calm down.” He boomed. The hall shushed. He continued. “The filming will commence every free period only and any lack of punctuality will incur detention and various other modes of punishment appropriate of pupils who think school is a just a pretend weekend in Beverly Hills. It’s not. If we wanted Blake Edwards or Oliver Stone, we would have called them first.” He paused, smiled wryly, looking back and forth along the teachers over his shoulder searching a face who enjoyed his sense of humour.” Half smiles and smug agreement greeted his glance. Suddenly, Miss Cadwell, one of the student teachers at the back of the hall, sprung up from her chair at the back of the hall and clapped her hands and chirped, “Oh, here, here and bravo Mr Coates.” Mr Coates looked a trifle awkward and smiled nervously. The woman sat down with the same awkwardness and nervous smile. Composure regained he went on, “Yes well, thank you for that. Right. Listen very carefully, All competitors who wish to be a part of this class challenge may write your name on the blank ticket from the cardboard box featured, stage right, that is, your right. Keep it on your person, until tomorrow . Sleep on it, and notify your wishes to your parents. Tomorrows assembly at this time the drawn names will be taken at random.” “We shall now sing , “All things Bright and Beautiful” Hymn number 83. Please leave quietly after the Lord’s prayer. Backstage the janitor sucked on his pipe and played the record with a crackly start. Miss Wallace coughed as a swirl of Old Holborn crept from behind the curtain and seemed to catch her unaware. She fanned her hymnbook and coughed, grimacing at Mr Schneider who just smirked mischievously. He had survived Auschwitz. Not much bothered him. Apart from his bad knee and his racist landlord. The song concluded. At the very end of the vinyl record the stylus got stuck on “All creatures great and small” for a third time, at which point the sparrow made its last bid for freedom and hit a window in full flight where it instantly broke its neck and fell, landing right in the middle of in Miss Cadwell's song book. She let out a loud scream and promptly fainted. Mr Chubb jumped from the stage and ran to her aid. She had dropped the hymn book and slid down the wall like honey on the outside of a jar. Chloe was first on the scene and ignoring the unconscious woman stepped over her and picked up the dead bird, stroking its crest. Its tiny head flopped from side to side in her palm. It made a faint sound and its little eyes closed. She slipped it into her pocket and ran out of the hall past the ogling kids and confusion. Chloe knew it was a sign.