Oliver, my boss, a handsome mustached man of about forty, was the owner of the Euphony International Summer Schools in Folkestone. He had developed a network of schools across England and he hopped from one to another trying to keep them all under control. In some schools, groups of fifty to a hundred students from abroad would attend a two to six week session to improve their English. These schools had new students coming in all summer. In my school, where I was appointed director, I worked with a group of one hundred Spanish students for six weeks. On the day that the Spanish students arrived, Oliver also showed up to give them an introduction to England.
The group of Spanish teenagers gathered in the recreation room looking like frightened immigrants. Oliver addressed them in perfect English.
There is, he said no smoking in the rooms. He held an invisible cigarette to his lips and pretended to smoke. Do you understand? he continued. There is no smoking in th e rooms. You must also be in your rooms by ten oclock. That means no television after ten oclock.
The students looked puzzled.
I dont think they understand you, Oliver, I offered.
But he continued, only this time in a louder voice, almost shouting at them.
When you have finished eating you must take your plates to the dishwasher. And, please, dont hang any of your laundry in the windows. The laundry will be taken care of by Mrs. McIvor.
Standing beside us was a stocky woman who was in charge of the schools laundry and meals. This was also her regular job during the winter when the school we were borrowing for the summer was an all girls school for wealthy English girls.
One of the Spanish leaders, a girl of nineteen who spoke a little English asked, We would like to know why the food is not clean?
The food is clean. It is your plates you must clean after eating, replied Oliver.
Oliver turned to me.
I think theyve got the idea, Jim. If you have any problems give me a call.
And that was the last I saw of Oliver.
I turned to Mrs. McIvor, a displaced Scot, and said Come, lets show them their rooms.
Okay, called Mrs. McIvor to the students. Girls on the third floor, boys on the second. She turned to me speaking in a whisper. That way we wont have any of those passionate Spanish lads passing through the girls rooms accidentally.
As the days passed, and dirty laundry began to collect in the hallways, Mrs. McIvor informed me that she refused to dry blue jeans in the schools dryers. I asked her why, and she explained that the jeans were too heavy and would wear out the dryer. She said she would wash them, but that the boys would have to dry them at the laundry in town. I nodded, and told her we would need some canvas bags to put the dirty laundry in that was collecting in the hallways.
Bags, she said. You want bags for the laundry?
Yes, I explained, the boys are th rowing their laundry in the hallway and the place is starting to look terrible.
Ill have to ask Mr. Watts, she replied.
Mr. Watts was the headmaster of the school during the winter months.
Ask him about what, I asked.
About getting some laundry bags.
Three days later amidst heaps of dirty laundry in the hallways I asked Mrs. McIvor about the bags.
You see, I said, here are the stands the bags go in, I said pointing to the metal racks used in the winter.
Yes, I know, Mr. Muckle.
So you must have the bags in stock? I queried.
Oh, yes, indeed we do, she replied matter-of-factly without a hint of hostility.
Well, then couldnt you let us have a couple?
Theres a note on Mr. Watts desk about the subject now.
Two or three days later Mrs. McIvor pulled me aside during lunch.
Yes, well then Mr. Muckle, I spoke with Mr. Watts about the bags, and he wants to talk with you directly.
The following day afte r dinner I met with Mr. Watts in the presence of Mrs. McIvor. Mrs. McIvor explained to Mr. Watts that I, Mr. Muckle, was in charge of the summer school program for the Spanish, and that the boys were tossing their clothes in the hallway. Mr. Watts, a tall man with a red bulbous nose and glassy eyes that floated in their sockets listened intently, swaying a little as he did so.
Well, he said after she laid out the situation, it appears as if you need some bags to put the laundry in.
Thats what Mr. Muckle would like, sir, is some bags.
I think that can be arranged, Mr. Muckle. Mrs. McIvor would you be so kind as to supply Mr. Muckle with some bags on a weekly basis as long as the students are with us?
Yes, of course, Mr. Watts.
And so it went. The students had lessons in the morning and excursions to castles, exhibits, the zoo, London, and the sea in the afternoons. They smoked in their rooms, hung their wet laundry in the windows, and covertly vi sited the opposite sex, despite repeated warnings that if the behavior continued they would be sent back to Spain. They hated the bland English food which consisted of meat, peas and potatoes. They loved the puddings, but would go up town to the local Wimpies, a fast food hamburger place, to eat. They complained to me repeatedly about the terrible English food, and I passed on this complaint to Mrs. McIvor who continued to have her cooks prepare the same meals.
I was forced to dismiss one female British teacher because she had her boyfriend spend the night with her in her room on the third floor. I looked the other way for a while, but the fellow started using the girls restrooms. The Spanish girls were horrified to find this pale Englishman in their bathroom each morning. Later, the students in her classes brought me a petition that they had all signed saying she was not a good teacher, and that she belittled and yelled at them. There was considerable resentment from this teacher when I recommended to Oliver that she be transferred or let go, for she couldnt understand how an American could teach English to begin with. And then to be fired by this alien was just too much for her. She complained bitterly to Oliver who transferred her to Canterbury where she was put in charge of chaperoning dances.
Once, very late at night, I was returning to the school, when a motorcycle gang started pouring out of a pub. There must have been twenty leather-jacketed, brutish looking fellows, drunk and yelling only a hundred feet in front of me.I was tempted to cross the street, but I had learned from an old merchant seaman when I was sixteen that this might be the worst thing to do when confronted by a gang on the street. Better to cut right through the middle of them. Dont let em know youre afraid. he had advised. Theyll chase you like a dog that smells your fear. Heeding this advice, and knowing that the bikers had noticed me coming alone down the street, I put on a tough face and cut a straight line through them. As I was dodging through the crowd, a large bearded fellow burst through the pub door and crashed into me. My adrenalin surged, and I prepared myself for fight or flight.
Sorry, he said in a tenor voice in the most proper English. And though some of the fellows were throwing up in the gutter, they all made a point of giving me plenty of room to walk through them.
It was on an excursion with the students to Brighton that I saw a man openly strike a woman on a public street. Two young couples were walking along when suddenly one of the couples began arguing. It is difficult for me to understand the accents of the English people from the north, so I dont know what the dispute was about, but all of a sudden the woman hit the man across the face. The man didnt take it like a gentleman. He slugged her hard, square in the face and would have knocked her down if the other woman hadnt caught her and pull ed her away. The fight abruptly stopped. The women went off together, and the men took off in the opposite direction.
A few weeks later, near the school, I jumped a hedge and cut across a neatly mowed lawn to get to the walkway near the beach. Normally, I would have followed the path around the hedge and made my way to the leas, but on this occasion I was in a hurry to get to the students picnicking on the beach, and I jumped the hedge where others had worn it down a bit. After I reached the pathway on the leas a well dressed elderly couple stopped me.
Wonderful day for a walk, the man said to me.
Yes, it is, I replied, hurrying past them.
Do you come here often? he continued.
Something in the tone of his voice arrested my attention.
Im staying for the summer, I replied slowing my pace and studying them carefully. The older woman looked indignant. The man was hesitant, yet persistent.
Was that you we saw jump the hedge back there? he asked pointing with his folded umbrella to the spot that had been worn away by hedge jumpers.
I admitted it was.
Youre American, arent you?
Yes.
Well, perhaps you dont know. We are members of the Society to Protect Hedges. We replant hedges, and we encourage people not to destroy them. We couldnt help but notice you jumping over that one back there.
I apologized for jumping the hedge and explained that it wasnt something I normally did.
Yes, he replied. I believe you. You seem like a decent sort of chap.
He explained to me his love of hedges, and we parted on good terms with my promising never to jump a hedge again.
And I havent.
The summer session rapidly neared an end, and I was forced to start thinking of a new place to find employment for the winter. After six weeks of hearing the lyrical Spanish language and being in love from afar with one of the alluring female Spanish leaders, I had begun to think of Spain as my next destination. Many of the English teachers said that there were jobs in Spain, and that the best way to get them was to be there. So it was with new hope in my heart that I traveled to Spain.
Jim Muckle is the author of How to Find Jobs Teaching Overseas, Teaching in Japan, Teaching in Saudi Arabia, The Property Manager, The Class Act Reading Game and The Stay At Home Dad. The contents of these booklets can be viewed at his website at Booklets From Jim Muckle @ http://hometown.aol.com/jimmuckle/myhomepage/business.html
Author:: Jim Muckle
Keywords:: Teaching in England, Teaching overseas, Teaching abroad, Teaching, an American Teaching in England
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