School memories
The play's the thing
Rhodes Boyson
Every schoolmaster worth his salt is' totally exhausted at the end of the Christmas term. A long term, examinations, reports, plays, concerts and parties and then suddenly the school is dead like a decommissioning ship. Yet pity the poor schoolmaster then returned to the bosom of his family with his wife firmly informing him that he is in charge of his own children for two weeks!
My first term of schoolmastering at Ramsbottom (Peel Brow) Secondary Modern School, Lancashire, will always live in my memory. It seemed thirty years long — one year for each of the pupils in 4C, so labelled because there was no 4Z. It was the first year of the raising of the school leaving age to fifteen and this 'reform' didn't seem to have been gratefully received by 4C who met me for some ten lessons a week. I counted the week from Thursday lunch since I had 4C for four lessons that morning and they did not come back again to me until Monday. The first day of the week was thus Friday.
As the term advanced 4C and I came to a form of detente whereby I didn't push them too hard and they occasionally gave the impression of a class actually learning something. I
mastered 'the art of movement' — how to get them in and out of the classroom quietly without losing anyone. Peace could always be bought by letting them 'do' their play. Completely unwritten yet never altered it consisted of them killing all but one and he then committed suicide. This gave two minutes' peace as the corpses lay around until the attack of one body on another gave promise of life after death. The play was like some ancient legend passed down by word of mouth before the invention of writing. They never tired of it and would always perform it for visitors, especially Inspectors who were always invited to take part. Needless to say no visitor ever felt up to it for fear that the killings might be real. 4C had a macabre sense of humour.
As Christmas approached it was decided we would have a Christmas concert and I would produce Christmas Carol with my form class 2A and not 4C so as not to frighten the horses. We rehearsed every evening and gathered props and costumes. It was obvious that the professional producer had little to fear from me. The risk was that the audience would be put off drama for life but amateur dramatics, thank goodness, is not an art but a state of mind going With choirs and coffee evenings and mild never consummated romances.
The great day arrived. The Head's shack in the Central Hall was dismounted and the 1880 stage erected amidst such noise that no-one could teach for a week. Tickets were sold to friends, parents and local worthies. The Governors sat on the third row back in the best hard-backed chairs. The curtains were opened to the astonishment of grandmas and loud discussion as to who was who in a real piece of audience participation. 4C who were the stage hands bellowed silence, and got it, to find that no one seemed to remember their lines and the prompts obliged with the voices.of thunder for hadn't they been unjustly rejected for major parts? There were more promptsthan actors so that it seemed the real actors were in the wings on the window sills while the actors could have at least tried a bit of mime. The curtains were then closed to great cheers and we started again after I had lectured the actors and removed twelve of the prompts. All went well until the rattle of Marley's
chains were required. For weeks he'd dragged them round the school and lunches were eaten to the accompaniment of horse chain rattles, for weren't many of 4C farmers' sons and wasn't 4C responsible for props? Lines were repeated and still no chains and we reallY couldn't close the curtains again. Then the crY of the exasperated producer rang out through the hall in ultimate despair, "Rattle those perishing chains!" That did it. 4C weren't letting down Sir and chains (horse not bicycle) were dragged out everywhere and the sound was of a ship letting down anchor. one Governor commented he was almost sea-sick, one grandma called out that the building was falling down and the lights must be put on. 4C' ever ready to oblige, put them on and most grandmas decided the play was over for that year. Only the threat -of 4C doing its murder play settled the audience again but the next fivef years I was in that school the real password o belonging remained, "Rattle those perishing chains." For months ' I could hardly pass a horsde without a guilty feeling. I never produce t another play — I thought I had better aim f.a with tle . becoming a headmaster and sitting Governors while I controlled the light switch! So is worthy ambition born in the minds 0f some of us.
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