3. Dikkerby Goes Teaching

3.                          Dikkerby Goes Teaching

The classroom was buzzing with the noise of happy children. Dikkerby stood in the corridor with the Headmistress.

“This is your classroom, Mr Dikkerby. This is Year 9,......”

            “Is that Third Form?” asked Dikkerby. He looked anxious. His palms were damp and even the soles of his feet felt wet. His light-grey suit looked smart. This was his first teaching practice.

            “Er . . yes. We call it Year 9 in the state sector. They are 13 years of age, “ she smiled wanly, ”an awkward age I always feel. Still the boys and girls are eager to learn. French Revolution I believe. Are you ready? Well prepared, Mr Dikkerby?”

            He patted his briefcase as if to indicate that all his preparations were contained within.

            “Very well, let’s go!” She swept to the front of the classroom. There was immediate silence. The children all stood. Dikkerby shuffled nervously next to the Headmistress.

            “Good morning, 9D”

“Good morning, Mrs Johnstone.”

“You may be seated.”

            There was some shuffling and scraping of chairs as the class settled. All sixty four eyes were fixed on the two adults at the front. “There’s so many of them,” thought Dikkerby in fear.

“This is Mr Dikkerby, your History teacher for the next few weeks. Say good morning, 9D.” She waited.

“Good morning, Mr Dikkerby!” They chorused happily.

            “Err....um... good morning  9D” muttered Dikkerby.

            “You’ll have to be louder than that, Mr Dikkerby,” whispered the Headmistress.

            “Right, well, I’ll see you all later. Ta ta.” And with a cheery wave of one hand she swept from the room, closing the door. There was a dreadful finality to the clunk of the door in its frame. Dikkerby detached his gaze from the door and faced the thirty two pupils in his charge.

He placed his briefcase on the teacher’s table and opened the clasp with only a little fumbling. He extracted his copious notes which he laid before him. Then he opened the table drawer and scrabbled around for a piece of chalk. On the blackboard behind he wrote in his best hand – “The French Revolution”. Something bounced off the board. He spun round, chalk in hand.

                “What was that?” He demanded. Silence.

“Sir. Sir. Sir” screeched a pupil near the back as he waved his hand energetically in the air.

“Yes?”

                “Do you wear boxer shorts or jockeys?” There was a very brief silence and then the thirty two pupils exploded in laughter. Dikkerby couldn’t help it. He felt the redness of embarrassment flush upwards from his toes to the roots of his hair.

                “I......I .....I hardly think that concerns you, young lady.” He stammered.

                “I’m a boy, Sir.” Once again there was an explosion of raucous laughter accompanied with jeers and calls.

                “Our topic for the next three weeks is “The French Revolution”,” began Dikkerby, reading from his copious handwritten notes. “France in 1760 was a turbulent place both politically and . . . “

“Sir?” asked a boy in the front row who looked very uncomfortable.

                “Yes, what is it?” snapped Dikkerby.

                “Can I go to the toilet, please, sir?”

                “May I?” corrected Dikkerby. “No. Now the King . . “

                “You’d better let him go, Sir” a voice called out.

                “Who shouted out?” growled Dikkerby, feeling that the situation was rapidly slipping away from his control.

“I did, Sir.” The voice belonged to a confident young man with long floppy hair.

                “Are you allowed to wear your hair that length? It’s a disgrace” said Dikkerby.

                The young man fluttered his eyes in a blatantly flirtatious manner. “Do you fancy me? Sir?”

                “Get out! Get out of my classroom now!” Dikkerby, red with rage, pointed firmly to the door.

                “Sir?” said the child who had wanted the toilet.

                Dikkerby was surprised to find that the screech of insane rage had come from his own mouth.

                “What is it?”

                “I think I’ve wet myself!” There was a telltale puddle on the floor near the culprit.

                The class erupted. Laughter, screams, jeers and yells filled the air. Things were thrown. Students left their places and danced. The culprit wept. Dikkerby gathered his papers, stuffed them into his briefcase and stumbled and tripped his way to the door and safety with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn’t a lot. From the safety of the corridor he could hear the riot continuing. He looked down and found a damp patch on the trousers of his suit. Fear had caused him a mishap.

               

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