Posts Tagged ‘Charing Cross Road’

As we trundle inevitably towards our new school year next week amid threats of redundancy, more cut backs and an ever shrinking national curriculum, here’s a reminder of why we do what we do.

Queuing up in our corner shop the other day, I recognised the young man in front of me as one of our ex students. He bought a couple of cans of coke and a pack of cigarettes.

“Still smoking then Danny, I see,” I said smiling, but trying to force a look of disapproval.

He turned and grinned at me. “Orright, Miss? Hey, do you remember when….?”

We reminisced a little before he left the shop. I watched him drive away in smart little car.

Do I remember? How could I forget? Eight years ago Danny (not his real name) was a student in a class of sixteen listless, under-achieving kids with bad attitude. I supported their English GCSE lessons alongside a young teacher who has since become a firm friend. I shall refer to her throughout as TF (Teacher Friend). She was patient, innovative and determined to get the best from this rabble who were not overjoyed to be in school at all, let alone have to struggle with Shakespeare or, heaven forbid, visit the library and select a book. I admired her enthusiasm but worried that she was being overly idealistic.

Nevertheless, we took them on for two years from the age of fourteen and from the outset they were a challenge. Their target levels were understandably rock bottom. They never produced homework. A detention was not a deterrent – they never turned up for one anyway. Their reading wasn’t fluent; none of them could spell or at least, didn’t bother. They would arrive in the classroom without their exercise books or even a pen. Because they were such a small class and they had most of all their other lessons together as well, they formed a tight bond: they worked and moved as a pack. TF wasn’t having any of this – she set about finding the pack leader and working on him. She wisely reckoned that with him on side, the others might eventually follow.

(I ought to point out now that it was not Danny who was leader; if anything, he presented as slightly anxious. He was content to follow the crowd, take the path of least resistance).

And follow the others did. Amid much groaning and sprawling on desks, we started studying “Much Ado About Nothing.”  Instead of making them write reams and unpick unintelligible quotes, TF got the students acting the play out. Pack Leader was Benedict; our feistiest female played Beatrice. The others took turns in having a go at the other parts; they began to understand the play and, dare I say, enjoy it.

When we finished with that, we moved to a modern text by Willy Russell called “Our Day Out” – chosen because it is a short play about a load of dysfunctional kids going on a school outing. The irony did not pass over their heads: they thought it was hilarious. We began to love these kids: as hard as they found this subject, they had a sense of fun: they began to work for TF and produce essays of sorts. It was more than we had hoped for.

During one lesson, one of the pupils mentioned that she had never been on a school outing. Most of the others agreed. I was appalled. TF and I exchanged glances and before I knew what I was doing I had suggested that we take them to the theatre to see Willy Russell’s musical play, “Blood Brothers” – at that time showing in London.

Well, what can I say – we had opened the floodgates – the kids were thrilled with the prospect. A few of them had never even visited our capital city. They were nervous. To them, London represented a terrorist target.

Of course, we hit massive resistance as well as disbelief in the staff room.

“Take that lot out – you must be mad!”

“You’ll never get the risk assessment passed,”

“Of course you can’t take them by train – far too dangerous!”

“Imagine them in a theatre -they’ll disrupt the performance! You’ll get the school a bad name …”

 And so on…

TF dug her heels in. Management suggested she team up with the Drama department who were running the trip later in the year but she politely refused. She didn’t want our little band of oddballs mixed in with a lot of high achieving students who regarded a theatre trip an everyday occurrence. She wanted this to be an occasion for them.

I dug my heels in. I don’t like being told I can’t do something either, surprisingly. I filled in a lengthy risk assessment form, got it begrudgingly signed and then I set about ordering subsidised tickets, checking out the school minibus schedule and acquiring a driver. My heart sank when I saw the state of the minibus. Used virtually exclusively by the PE department, it was filthy and smelled of unwashed bodies and football boots. Not suitable for a theatre trip to London. I called in a favour from an old ex-colleague who had started running her own hire company. She provided us with a vehicle and driver at minimal cost. Our trip was on – hurrah!

The kids were uncharacteristically enthusiastic. They all paid their fees within a couple of days. We finished “Our Day Out” and started on the poetry, expecting some opposition. There was none. The class continued to work well.

A couple of days before our outing, Danny dropped a bombshell. We were rounding up a lesson when he stood up, said he hated English and wouldn’t be coming on the trip. He stormed out. We were mystified. Nothing appeared to have provoked this outburst.

Pack Leader took me aside and explained conspiratorially that Danny couldn’t come because he wouldn’t be able to smoke. I almost laughed, but not quite. Pack Leader went on to explain knowingly that Danny was addicted to nicotine and “got the shakes” if he didn’t have a cigarette. When I realised that PL wasn’t winding me up, I was horrified. Apparently Danny had been smoking regularly since about the age of ten – with his parents. I thanked PL for his honesty and told him to leave it with me.

I managed to get Danny on his own for a quiet word. I asked him to explain his reason for the outburst. With a little coercing, his reason bore out what PL had told me. I asked Danny if he ever managed to go to the cinema and sit through a film. He had, many times. I told him that a theatre performance was just about the same length as anything at the cinema. It wasn’t the theatre he was worried about, however. We had suggested to the kids that because we would have to leave school in the late afternoon and they’d probably be hungry, we’d go for a burger before the show. Danny told me that after food especially, he needed a ‘fag,’ otherwise he got the shakes and started sweating. I told him that no way was he missing this trip and I’d sort something.

I mulled it over and discussed it with TF. I hatched a plan of which she wanted no part as it might compromise her professional position but she agreed to turn a blind eye.

Can you guess what my plan was? And what would you have done given the circumstance?

Here’s what happened.

At last our much anticipated evening arrived. The students met us back at school having gone home to change into their ‘smart-casual’ clothes. The girls teetered on impossible heels, looked a few shades of deeper orange and carried huge handbags filled with goodness knows what. The boys wore nicely pressed shirts and jeans. Because it was coming up to Easter, TF put little bags of chocolate eggs on each minibus seat which were scoffed down as we drove the forty odd miles to London’s West End. Any affectation of being ‘cool’ dissipated within the confines of that bus. As we crossed the river their excitement grew as they spotted Big Ben and then Nelson’s Column.

Our driver dropped us at Leicester Square and arranged a rendez-vous point for later on. We trooped off to Burger King where the kids were at home ordering their meals. TF and I withdrew a little with a bag of fries and a coffee. I kept a surreptitious eye on Danny, who was having a whale of a time with the others but who was, I noticed, unusually fidgety. When they’d finished, he was definitely looking sickly; I wasn’t imagining it. I nudged TF who, in her teacherly fashion, grouped the kids together and suggested we move across the street to Frankie and Benny’s for ice cream. This was our pre-arranged cue. I stayed behind to make sure the rubbish had been cleared by our party, and Danny stayed to ‘help.’ Then he and I sauntered off in the opposite direction, into the Square, and he (self-consciously, I have to say) lit up. I stood by the gate while he wandered up and down dragging on his horrible cigarette.

Eventually I was joined by PL who had cottoned onto what was happening and didn’t want to miss out, so he had a quick couple of drags too. Understandably, we received a few disapproving stares. I turned a blind eye to that one and, as we walked back to meet the others, while I impressed on them that I thought smoking was a disgusting habit and that it would affect their health this occasion was not to be discussed or mentioned back at school. They promised me that the incident would go no further – and it never has.

Having met up with the others again we walked crocodile fashion along Charing Cross Road to the theatre, our students keeping to a tight, nervous formation. It was interesting to see a bunch of supposed streetwise kids so far out of their comfort zone.

Their amazement and appreciation of the old theatre was gratifying. They gazed about them in wonderment at the old Victorian building. They were awestruck. We had fantastic seats along the front row of the dress circle. TF had grilled into them the need for excellent behaviour as the other theatre-goers had paid top dollar for their seats. We told them there’d be time for sweets in the interval. They were as good as gold, and as the music began, they leaned forward in their seats and became absorbed.

As the play came to its final heart-wrenching scenes, the sound of muffled sobbing came from along our row. Feisty Girl left the theatre with black mascara tracks coursing through her powdered orange face. Our party was buzzing. Danny gave me the thumbs up as we waited for the bus – he looked calm and chatted to the others about the performance. When our driver saw how much the kids had enjoyed themselves he suggested taking them on a short tour of the sites before we left the capital. So they took in Piccadilly Circus, Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament to round off their evening. We arrived back at school after midnight and we dared any of them to bunk off the next day. None of them did. It was business as usual and back to poetry in the classroom.

On my desk I found a scribbled note which said simply ‘thanks for last night.’ It wasn’t signed, but I recognised the writing.

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After reading my last post, about never having a suitable retort at the right time, Mum sent me a message in which was a story about my Dad. Although in lots of ways I have been told I am a chip off the old block, never in a million years could I hope to come up with something as brilliant as this.

My parents spent many happy holidays touring the British Isles, but Dad hated staying more than a couple of nights anywhere because of having to make polite conversation with other hotel guests where the inevitable question would come up:

“What do you do for a living?”

Apparently Dad’s stock reply was:

“I mind my own business.”

This of course can be taken one of two ways and used to embarrass Mum no end. Nowadays she thinks it was quite a clever response, and I tend to agree with her.

Dad at Pearl Cross

Dad, standing outside the shop where he minded his own business

The photo above was taken in 1993 when I took Son to visit Grandpa’s shop.

Pearl Cross Ltd was in the heart of London’s west end, just off Charing Cross Road.

Dad commuted there, by driving himself from his North Downs village, until he was seventy-eight.

I wrote about the shop in a blog post  which you can read here:

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Last week my nephew sent my mother a link that he’d found on the internet when he googled his grandfather’s name (my father) and the name of his shop, Pearl Cross. It led him to this site for ancient coin collectors(, and a delightful piece by a man called John Hooker, who had been an apprentice at Pearl Cross in the sixties. It reminded me of a piece of memoir writing I did last term when we were challenged to remember when we were thirteen.  This is what I wrote.

Stock Books

Money, or my lack of it, became a source of concern at around the age of thirteen. My best friend Laura had secured a position in the village collecting bottles for Dick-the-Milk and I was desperate to start earning.  Mum came to my rescue by suggesting that I took over from her, write up Dad’s stock books for the year and he’d pay me half a crown per book.  I had neat handwriting then and thought this would be a breeze.  He brought the first two books home the following weekend and I sat for the best part of my Saturday at the dining room table, transferring remaining stock from last year into brand new, leather bound speckled paged ledgers. It was hard, time consuming work, particularly as Dad’s writing was indecipherable and many of his crossings out looped into the line below. I didn’t understand what much of the stock was – I’d never heard of Cabochon; Pearl Drops sounded like sweets and a Half Albert made me think of a small kindly Uncle. Dad was pleased with my efforts and I was thrilled at my first wage packet: five shillings delivered to me in a little brown envelope.

     With the Easter holidays approaching and Dad needing the books complete, I was able to continue my employment, not at the dining room table, to my delight, but at his shop, just off Charing Cross Road. We’d leave our village, perched high on the chalk ridged North Downs, early to avoid the traffic – Dad would  never use public transport – and drive to King Street in Covent Garden. He would park his Mini Traveller in the space between two orange boxes, left there for him by a contact in the fruit trade.  A five minute walk down New Row and across St Martin’s Lane would bring us to Pearl Cross, sandwiched between a second hand book shop and a fish restaurant.  A complicated unlocking process would ensue involving a circle of keys attached by leather fob to a chain worn by my father which seemed to disappear down one trouser leg.  Wooden shutters were lifted off the windows, the burglar alarm secured.

      Our first job of the morning was to unload the wardrobe-sized safe of its contents – velvet trays and leather boxes teeming with jewellery and curios to display in the windows.  I especially loved lining up the little ring cases and dangling necklaces on satin covered dowel rods. I would then go down the steep half spiral stair to the dusty basement where I’d resume my work with the stock books. I sat at an old desk underneath the mottled glass pavement bricks, listening to pedestrian feet, pleased when they stopped, knowing they were peeking at my window above.

     When it was time for lunch, we’d  share a sandwich from the Salisbury on the corner.  Dad never usually took a lunch break as such but on the days I was there, he’d walk me to places like the National Gallery, Foyles or the new Chinese supermarket in Long Acre, and leave me to find my own way back. So my world started to widen and my love affair with the west end, with art and books began.  Thanks, Dad.

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