Money matters

A TEACHER'S DAY-4

DAVID ROGERS

Mickey was late coming into class on Monday. 'He had to go an' see the 'ead,' explained McNeil. 'He was cheeky. 'E suddenly woke up in one of ol' Jones's lessons, an' says, "Hey, I've got a blank piece of paper in front of me. Has ol' Jones been giving us some work to do?" Then he yells out, "What I got to put on this paper?" So 'e gets sent to the head.'

'Only he goes home instead,' elaborated Gentleman John. `So Jones was waiting for 'im and took Mickey in when he arrived at school today.'

When Mickey came in he was boastful and upset. 'I said to the head, what's the point of me doing any writing for ol' Jones on the causes of the Industrial Revolution? It's no bleedin' use to me. I'm leaving in a few weeks' time. It's not as though it's for an exam or anything.'

'You just don't like work,' said Slicker.

`Bleedin' get knotted. I work up the Lane every Sunday, don't I? It's jus' that I don't see any point in doing things I don't want to.'

'That's what my Dad says,' put in McNeil. 'He's just got hold of 20,000 lavatory lids, and he reckons he can unload them on the market, gradual like, over the next few years, an' never have to work again.'

'But,' insisted Gentleman John, 'he can't enjoy flogging lavatory seats.'

'No. But 'e enjoys all the bleedin' money.'

'Yeah, that's it, isn't it? It's money what matters. People only work to get money. Look at all those pop stars an' all. If they didn't get thousands for what they did they'd never do it. Not drive all over the country through the night, an' all those one-night stands, if it was only ten pounds a week.'

'You see,' said Mickey, now more composed, 'that's what the head couldn't see. I told 'im the work I was doing was no help to working up the Lane. It didn't help me get any more money. An' then he said that not everyone wants to make money, so I said OK, if people don't want to make money, OK, there's enough people that do, if some softies don't want to— well leave 'em alone, let them do what they like.'

`So then he started talking about teachers an' how they didn't work for much money, but they did it because they thought it was worth while.'

'Well!' gasped Slicker.

'Cobblers,' said McNeil.

'Not interested in money, an' yet they're going on bleedin' strike!' added Gentleman John.

'So,' continued Mickey, 'I said if they wasn't interested in making money, let 'em do what they want, but not to get in the way of people like me who do want money.'

'But it's difficult,' said Gentleman John. 'Suppose what you want to do doesn't make money?'

'Then you do a bit of something else to make money, don't you? Like me up the Lane. An' ol' Scottish nigger, he's up Petticoat Lane an' all on Sundays.'

'I jus' been promoted, Mickey,' said McNeil. 'I got me own stall. We sell plastic bags. Say they're fibreglass, made special by Kr.'

'Scottish nigger's got a lovely line in patter, sir. There was some bastard cop hanging round last week. So he yells out, "Bags—very cheap, three-and-six each, cost four pounds up west," and gets a good crowd, an' then he yells out, "You know why we can sell 'em so cheap, not 'cos they've come straight from the ware- house, not 'cos they've fallen off the back of a

lorry, but because they've been bleedin' pinched! Ain't that right, officer?"

'An' he says to all the girls, "Come on, darlings, the nearer you are to me the nearer you are to love."'

'If he runs a stall, what do you do, Mickey?' asked Gentleman John.

`Ah well, fm a pick. See, when they yell out, they always have a bit of really good stuff to sell cheap to get the crowd. But you couldn't afford to do that every week. So each stall 'as a few picks, who buy the good stuff first an' then hand it back to the bloke in charge.'

'And is that what you're going to work at all your life?' asked Gentleman John.

'There's money in it. I know a bloke, started with ten ties two years ago, got four stalls now. Reckons 'e makes four hundred pounds each Sunday.'

'It's all right for you,' said Slicker. You got that kind of knack, know what I mean? I mean, you're no bleedin' good at school or anything like, but you got the patter for -the Lane. An' it's all right for Gentleman John, 'cos 'e's got some "0" levels.'

'But it'll take Gentleman John years to make what I might make up the Lane.'

'At least,' said Gentleman John, TII be doing what I like. I'm going to technical college an' into local government an' might end up town clerk. Don't tell me 'you and Mickey really enjoy Petticoat Lane and want to be there when you're forty?'

'By the time I'm forty,' said McNeil, 'I'll 'ave retired.'

'See what I mean?' insisted Slicker. 'Gentle- man John is more interested in his job than in making money, so 'e's OK, and Mickey and McNeil want to make money an' ave got all the right go for that. What about me? I want to make money and I want to do a job I like. An' I've spent four bleedin' years in this school writing essays on the causes of the Industrial Revolution, an' all that trash, an' where am I? Everyone what leaves school is better qualified than I am. Gentleman John got some "0" levels at a decent school before he came, and 'ere there are only a few Mickeys who get on 'cos they're tough. What chance 'ave I got?'

They all thought. Then Mickey slowly closed one eye at the rest of the class, and said to Slicker, 'What chance you got, Slicker? None at all. You're one of the weakest that will have to go to the wall.'

At the end of the lesson he didn't light up a fag and dash off, as he usually did. Instead he lingered at the door and said, 'Poor old Slicker, he's really dead keen, but he's not bright an' e's got no push—so what's four years at school done to help him when 'e's gotta start work?'