Before that first term ended, Billy had a piece of good news and a piece of bad.
The bad news was that, in the terminal examination, he came twentieth out of twenty-five. This was a blow for a boy who had been accustomed to being first in class.
‘Could do better. Must try harder ,’ said his report.
‘There was never a truer word spoken,’ Billy said, as he handed his card to Mam.
The good news was that Puddephatt had been called up into the army.
‘I shall be taking the King’s Commission,’ he announced one morning towards the end of term, ‘in the Royal Artillery.’
Not even Puddephatt could stop the cheer that went up.
‘I take it,’ he continued, ‘that the cheer is because you appreciate that my contribution to the war effort will help bring hostilities to a speedier conclusion. And not because you are pleased to see me go.’
At the break, the boys agreed to take a collection for a parting gift. A set of bound copies of the works of George Bernard Shaw was decided on.
‘But what can he do in the Royal Artillery?’ asked Tony Wilde.
‘I heard on good authority/ said Oily, ‘that fat men in the army are put in the Pioneer Corps and employed on clerical duties.’
‘They could fire him as a human cannon-ball on to Berlin,’ said Robin. ‘He’d wipe out the whole city.’
‘Or they could tie a rope to him,’ said Billy, ‘and float him high in the sky as a barrage balloon - after they’d filled him with gas, of course.’
‘No need for the gas, Hoppy,’ said Titch. ‘He’s full o’ hot air as it is.’
After Christmas, the study and hard work began in earnest and the procession of subject specialists stowed, stacked and stuffed their esoteric knowledge into the heads of their reluctant recipients. In Latin, the boys learned about the nominative, the vocative - O Chair! O Table! - the dative and the ablative; in physics about batteries, bunsens and Boyle’s Law; in maths about powers, percentages and Pythagoras; in art about painting and perspective; in history about Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel; in geography about cotton, coal and anthracite.
War or no war, the endless, relentless cramming process went on.
Not all was gloom in the classroom, however. French was taught by a bad-tempered brother called Placid. One day, Billy had to translate: ‘ Jean et Paul marchent sur le plancher; ils ne marchent pas sur le plafond; ils ne marchent pas sur les murs; ils ne marchent pas sur les fenetres .’
‘John and Paul walk on the floor; they do not walk on the ceiling; they do not walk on the walls; they do not walk on the windows. But sir,’ said Billy. ‘Flies do.’
Which seemed to amuse all and sundry except Brother
OUR KID
Placid, who blew his top. But such was schoolboy humour. And then there was the case of the Rodney Potts translation.
‘Translate the following sentence,’ said Placid.
He wrote up on the blackboard: ‘ Non , merci, ma cherie. Je ne vais pas acheter un appareil cinematographique .’
Poor Rodney did his best to make sense of this incomprehensible language, and read out his English version:
‘No sherry for me, thank you. I’m appearing at the cinema.’
They played the ‘Knock-knock. Who’s there?’ game in French.
‘ Toc-toc. Qui frappe la porte?’
‘Henri?
‘Henri qui?’
‘Henri soit qui mal y pense .’
Music was taken by a bumbling, absent-minded, slightly deaf middle-aged man. Brother Maurice, a brilliant musician. The boys loved him. He introduced them to his favourite traditional English folk-songs, with a few Irish, Scottish and Welsh thrown in. How Billy loved singing the various descants and rounds which the brother taught with great verve and enthusiasm.
It was in early 1940 that Tony Wilde revealed his talent for making up unauthorised versions of some of the songs. These compositions had to be quite subtle, in that they had to avoid arousing Brother Maurice’s suspicions. The result was that the brother was never altogether sure that he’d heard aright. One of the most popular songs with the boys was ‘Come Lasses and Lads’. The third verse was where Oscar had done his work, changing it from:
‘ You're out!’ says Dick; ‘Not I,’ says Nick ,
‘ ’Twas the fiddler played it wrong ’
‘’Tis true,’ says Hugh. And so says Sue ,
And so says everyone.
to
%
‘Take out your dick!’ c Not If says Nick ,
( The fiddler’ll play with my dong.’
‘ ’Tis true / says Hugh.
And so says Sue,
And so says everyone.
No doubt the adults, had they discovered this ribaldry, would have found it disgusting. But Billy and his twelve- year-old companions thought that it was the funniest thing they had ever heard and considered their Oscar to be something of a genius.
The most momentous event in the school that year was the appointment of a middle-aged lady, a Miss Sybil Barrymore, to Puddephatt’s English post. She was a gushing, bubbling bundle of energy and enthused about everything in sight.
‘What a beautiful day it is today,’ she rhapsodised at lunch to the brothers seated round their refectory table. ‘I am so uplifted that I feel as if I’m floating on a little cloud. And how particularly crisp, green and lettucy the lettuce looks today!’
In her first English lesson with 3 Alpha, she gave out
copies of Treasure Island and prattled on about Robert Louis Stevenson whilst the form sat spellbound by this female phenomenon.
‘What a great writer he was!’ she babbled. ‘And do you know, boys, he was ill with tuberculosis for most of his life? He wrote Treasure Island simply to amuse his stepson, and the book became a best-seller in the 1880s. Let us now read it aloud around the class. Each of you will take turns so that I can see how well you enunciate and articulate.’
The lesson went smoothly - each boy giving of his best in order to impress this elegant lady of letters.
When the last boy had read, she said:
‘Excellent, boys. Really excellent. I can see many of you will get jobs with the BBC. Class dismissed. But would the following boys kindly remain behind: William Hopkins, Norbert Nodder, Richard Smalley.’
‘We’re in trouble again,’ said Titch.
‘I’d like to talk to you three about your English,’ she said. ‘Can you meet me here in the form room during the lunch break at, say, one o’clock?’
‘But we alius play footer at dinner-time,’ said Nobby.
‘Then you must forgo your footer for once,’ she snapped.
Just before the appointed time, the three boys waited for her in the form room.
‘I wonder what she can want,’ said Billy.
He didn’t have long to wait, for at that moment Miss Barrymore sailed into the room.
‘I shan’t beat about the bush,’ she said. ‘I am concerned about your powerful Manchester dialects.’
‘What’s wrong with ’em?’ asked Nobby.
‘Oh, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them. All three of you speak the dialect perfectly. That’s the trouble.
But I want to help you to do something about it. You, William, show a distinct talent for language. What a pity it isn’t English.’
‘I can’t see nowt wrong with the way we talk,’ said Titch.
‘Eeh, I don’t want to learn to talk posh,’ said Billy. ‘Me mam and dad wouldn’t like it.’
‘I’m not going to try to teach you to talk posh. On the contrary, I can teach you to speak not posh but properly, if you will give me the chance. In six months I can teach you RP.’
‘You mean the language of the dead?’ asked Billy.
‘No, not RIP, but simply RP - Received Pronunciation
- the accepted way of talking.’
‘I can’t see any point in it,’ said Nobby. ‘The way you talk doesn’t matter.’
‘That is where you are so wrong,’ she said. ‘The way you speak can affect your whole life, the kind of job you will get, the kinds of friends you will make, even the kind of wife you will eventually marry. The way you talk does matter, believe me.’
‘ ’Ow d’you make that out?’ asked Billy.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you an example. How would you like it if you went to the doctor and he said: “Hey up
- chuck th’cap in, and coom in and get sat down. ’Ow’ve you bin, luv? Eeh bah gum, you do look proper poorly.” ’
The boys laughed at her mimicry.
‘Doctors don’t talk like that, miss,’ said Titch.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘I want to try a little experiment. Here’s a list of occupations. I want you to tick the job you think best fits the way I read this extract from Treasure Island. In other words, what’s the job of the person reading it. Ready?’
‘Right, miss,’ they said, enjoying the game.
‘Number one: “Ah remember ’im as if it was yisterday, as ’e coom ploddin’ to th’inn door, ’is sea-chest followin’ be’ind ’im in an ’and barrer; a tall, strong, ’eavy, nut- brown man; ’is tarry pigtail failin’ over t’shoulders of ’is soiled blue coat; ’is ’ands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails; and t’sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white.” ’ Her first reading was in a powerful Manchester dialect.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Which occupation have you picked?’
‘Comedian,’ said Billy.
‘Street sweeper,’ said Nobby.
‘Coalman,’ saidTitch.
‘Now I’ll read it again.’
This time, she did so in an exaggerated upper-class accent.
‘Which occupations this time?’ she asked.
‘Prime Minister, but it sounded a bit like Cash and all,’ said Billy.
‘Duke of Windsor,’ said Nobby.
‘A butler,’ said Titch.
Laughingly, she said:
‘Now listen to the same passage read with Received Pronunciation.’ And she read it in a clear voice.
‘Teacher,’ said Billy.
‘Lawyer,’ said Nobby.
‘News reader on the wireless,’ said Titch.
‘So you see,’ she said, ‘how we associate certain occupations with accent and dialect. We’ll finish this little session by reading a very short play I have written for you. William, you take the part of Herbert; Norbert the part of Henry; and Richard the part of Howard.’
The boys began to read her script.
Billy: ’Elio, ’Enery. ’Elio, ’Oward. ’Ow are you?
Nobby : ’Elio, ’Erbert. ’Elio, ’Oward. ’Ave you ’eard
’Arry ’Opkins ’as gone on ’oliday?
Titch : ’Ow ’appy for ’im. ’As ’e gone to ’Arrow
again?
Billy: Honestly, I ’aven’t ’eard.
Nobby : I ’ope ’e ’asn’t gone ’untin’ on ’is ’orse again.
Titch : I ’ope not. Last year ’e ’ad an ’orrible
accident.
Billy : Yes, ’e ’ad it when ’is ’orse refused to jump a
’igh ’edge.
Nobby : ’E ’ad to go to ’ospital, ’adn’t ’e?
Titch : ’Ow ’orrible!
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Barrymore. ‘I rather think I ’ave taken on an ’ard up’ill task!’
The boys agreed to meet Miss Barrymore for half an hour every lunch-time, and gradually they began to slough off their unwanted dialects. She was a hard taskmistress and she believed in repetition - over and over again.
Moses supposes his toeses are roses But Moses supposes erroneously.
Round and round the rugged rock ,
The ragged rascal ran.
After countless sessions of reciting selected tongue- twisters, Billy learned how to aspirate.
‘Say them ten times a day,’ she said, ‘until it’s second nature to pronounce the ‘aitch’. Push a lot of air out and do not let your tongue touch the roof of your mouth.’
But Billy had a further problem. He had to be very careful not to speak this new language at home.
‘That little bugger’s getting above himself,’ said Dad. ‘He’ll be thinking he’s better than us soon. You mark my words.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mam. ‘Anyroad, he’s got to learn to talk proper if he’s going to make summat of himself.’
As the nights became colder, Billy found he could no longer do his homework in the bedroom but had to tackle his geometry and his Latin and the myriad other subjects in the living room, where he had to compete with the wireless, constant chatter, and the numerous visits of friends, neighbours, relatives and customers for gloves and Cossack hats.
‘Why can’t we have a fire in the front room, Mam?’
‘Because. That’s why. You know very well we only have a fire in there at Christmas. D’you think we’re made of money?’
Then there was Henry Sykes. He called one night in October.
‘D’you fancy coming out for a game o’ footer, Billy?’ he asked. ‘Me and the other lads are trying to get a bit of a team together to play Derby Street.’
‘Sorry, Henery. I’ve got piles and piles of homework.’
‘OK, Billy,’ said Henry sadly. ‘Be seeing you then.’
‘Sometimes,’ Billy said to his mam, ‘I wonder whether all this learning’s worth it.’
‘It’s worth it,’ she said simply.