CONTINUATION - ANTI-SEMITISM IN MODERN BRITAIN: A TEACHER’S STORY

CHAPTER FIVE     CONFESSION

 Wednesday. Two days after the shock assembly. I’m asked to fill in for an absent R.E. teacher during a free period. Kids left work to be getting on with. It’s the continuation of an Easter Project. Towards the end of the period I ask a throwaway question. “Who cooked the Last Supper?”

At first stunned silence in class then amusement. I say, “I bet you’ve never thought about that!” No reply. I continue, “well it must have been the women who did it but why weren’t they invited to attend the meal?” The kids ask, “how do you know they weren’t invited?” I reply that there’s no mention of any women being there in the Gospels and there should have been because in the Jewish tradition which Jesus upheld, women were always present at the Passover Ceremony.

The kids are curious. What’s the Passover Ceremony? I explain. Tell them that the Last Supper was in fact the Jewish Passover Ceremony to mark the Exodus of the Jews from Egypt which Jesus, being Jewish himself, would have taken part in and as a good Jew made sure the women who’d cooked the meal and were an integral part of the ceremony, participated. The kids listen fascinated. They are clearly interested but say nothing more. The R.E. period soon ends.

The following day. I’m summoned from the Staff Room to see the Deputy Head. Told by a Senior Master outside that he wanted “a quiet word” with me. Seated in his Study the Deputy Head tells me he has been informed about comments I made in an R.E. cover lesson. Some of the kids had mentioned them to their teacher during the next R.E. lesson who had in turn mentioned them to him. The Deputy Head tells me my remarks were unauthorised.

He just wants a ‘quiet word in my ear.’ The class already had work set. It was unnecessary for me to have said anything. Not good practice to involve myself in a separate sphere of learning. Regrettably my understanding of the ritual of The Last Supper was incorrect. It was important, particularly in matters of religious instruction not to talk about things for which I was not qualified. The Last Supper was something entirely different from the Jewish Passover.

I tell him that I do not concur. This was a subject about which I had substantial knowledge. That it is he who is in error. As an observant Jew, Jesus would have participated in the Passover Service held precisely by tradition at that time to which women would certainly have been invited. That the description of the Last Supper as told in the Gospels was wrong.

His reaction is of extreme irritation mixed with anger. I am firmly put down. My knowledge of the Scriptures was deficient as was my knowledge of religious matters in general. I lacked formal qualification and my views are held in ignorance. I am under no circumstances to make any further comments on religion to the children.

I feel badly upset. His comments in the Monday Assembly concur with his manner of the last few minutes. I respond firmly. If my knowledge of religious matters is deficient then so is his. Referring to the comments he made in the Monday assembly I point out that it was not the Jews who killed Jesus as he’d said but the Romans, and for him to imply to children who were young and impressionable that the Jews were murderers who hated Jesus was both irresponsible and anti-Semitic. It was an insult to all Jewish people as well as a lie. It was an insult to me personally. Besides, most of Jesus’ followers at the time were Jews and they didn’t hate him.

There’s a deadly silence over the table between us. I know that a line has been crossed. I’ve called him a liar without thinking of my very weak personal position.

“What do you mean, an insult to you personally?” he asked sharply. “Why personal to you?”

I try to sound flat. Unemotional. I know I don’t need to say or tell him anything.

“Well I’m a Jew myself,” I hear myself saying quietly. Looking straight at him.

There was a nervousness in his face. Almost a twitch. He said nothing. I can’t work out his expression. “You’re a Jew...” he said eventually, his voice entirely flat. I nodded. Said nothing. He nodded as well, more than once as though taking it in. Thinking. Turning the idea round in his head. He said nothing further then got up, looked directly at me then at the door as if to say, ‘discussion’s over, we both have work to be getting along with.’ I cut in on the silence, thanking him for seeing me without knowing why, as it was he who’d asked to see me! After leaving I immediately went to the library. My thoughts were racing. Full of a vague hope that that would be the end of it all but feeling extreme anxiety at the same time. No, wasn’t over. It could never be over, now that my ‘secret’ was out. A line had been crossed. There was  no going back.

My feelings were badly mixed for the rest of day. I knew it would soon be out all over the Staff Room. I have powerful regrets. Spend the lunch break marking homework in Library. Don’t go into the Staff Room all day. Leave school later, collect Larissa from nursery then return to our accommodation and wait for Louise. Acquaint her with the development at school when she arrives. Her manner is negative. Despondent. I shouldn’t have said anything. It will lead to big trouble. “You know what they’re like. It’s your first proper job. The start of your teaching career. We’ve just bought a house for god’s sake.”

I explain what occurred. What was said. “After last Monday it just came out.”

Her rejoinder is that it was inevitable. I should never have taken the job if I couldn’t keep quiet. She concurs with my judgement. A line has definitely been crossed. Maybe I’d forgotten I was a probationer. Someone on trial. And now I’d told them I was a Jew. A Jew on trial at a Church School. Didn’t I know anything?

“It just happened,” I keep saying. “It wasn’t my fault.” “Who else was it then,” she said harshly? “You shouldn’t have said anything. They didn’t need to know. It wasn’t their business.”

I didn’t know what I expected from her. She was sympathetic of course but what I was actually getting was a hard dose of reality. That evening there was a sense of despondency around us. I felt dejected. Knowing I’d let something bad out of a bottle that couldn’t go back. Part of me didn’t give a shit. The rest worried so bad that it hurt.

It was the end of the week. I walked into the Staff Room before morning assembly. Looked guardedly around to see if anyone was looking at me but there wasn’t. No stares, just jerky moments of silence. The Assembly itself dry as dust. I joined in, mouthing a few hymns. The immortal invisible stuff straight out of a sci-fi novella. My eye caught sight of some fourth year girls half way up the hall. They see me, smile and look away in a hurry. Back in the Staff Room a message awaits, brought to me loudly by the Senior Master. “The Head wants to see you in his Study. Cover’s been arranged for your lesson.”

It meant he wanted to see me right now! That it was too important to wait. I know that everyone else there knows it. I’ve been ‘summoned’. There are many eyes on me now that didn’t want to meet mine before. Turning to someone, anyone, I don’t know who because I’m not really looking, I say in a loud jovial voice, “what’s all this about I wonder?” and with the sunniest smile I can muster get up and follow him to the Head’s Study, kind of chaperoned all the way. Outside the door he knocks then disappears. I hear a voice saying ‘enter’. I do so. The Headmaster looks relaxed. Almost casual. Invites me to sit down. Immediately lights a cigarette. I pretend to be at ease. At least I know what’s coming. He’d like to get rid of me for being a Jew but he can’t. It wouldn’t look good. He knows there’d be too much of a fuss. That it would all be too smelly. I’ll get my wrists smacked. Get some kind of warning.

For some reason I didn’t feel quite so bad any more. I had another year there at least. Time enough to find a new job.

My confidence is badly misplaced. There’s nothing direct. Nothing along the lines that I thought. He begins with the fourth year R.E. lesson I’d covered. Deeply disturbed by my interpretation of the Scriptures. By the things I’d been saying. I’d known when I’d applied for the job that it was a Church School, with a strong adherence, he remembered telling me at my interview, to church teaching and traditional worship. However from the comments I’d made, both to the class and the Deputy Head, my views were clearly at variance with Christian teaching. With the Bible story, with the Gospels etc.

Here I wanted to cut in but he trumped me instead. His deep concern had nothing to do with the fact that I was Jewish. He wanted to assure me of that. In fact, he personally didn’t concur at all with the Deputy Head’s view about the Jews being responsible for the crucifixion! No, it wasn’t my religion that concerned him. More than anything else he thought I wasn’t in tune with the Christian teaching at the school where religious education was deemed by the parents to be of the essence. That’s why they sent their children there rather than other schools in the area. For a firm grounding in religious education. That’s what they wanted for their children and I, in that respect, was not suited to that particular tradition of the school. It wasn’t at all because of the fact that I was a Jew that he was suggesting that I should leave. First and foremost, it would be in my best interest as someone at the start of his career to find a post that was best suited for me. In that regard, a State Maintained Church of England school clearly wasn’t the right place.

He absolutely assured me. It had nothing whatsoever to do with my being Jewish or my argument with the Deputy Head. He wanted me to think about the situation very carefully. If I resigned he’d write me an excellent reference. One that would help me get a post elsewhere. There’d be no blemish on my record whatsoever so I shouldn’t even think that there might.

He smiled benignly at me and I smiled back. Now he seemed even more relaxed. His smile broadened. It was almost infectious. I couldn’t help responding pleasantly but underneath feel a serious resolve. He wanted me out. His excuses were hogwash and his reference a kiss off.

I thanked him for what he said. Appreciated his comments. Understood his concern that I might be better placed elsewhere. However, despite all of this, I was much enjoying my work at the school and was happy here. I could think of no good reason why I should want to swap my job here for somewhere else. I would indeed attend all the church services as well as the morning assemblies. Participate in them just the same as any other teacher. I didn’t need time to think about the situation. I had no intention of resigning from the school.

I said it looking at him full square over the desk. He stared straight back with iron in his eyes and nodded. He still wanted me to think things over. He’d talk with me again in a month.

I got up. Thanked him for seeing me. Letting him see from my face that I wasn’t going. That he wasn’t getting rid of me without a serious fight. His face soured. His thin lips stretched cold. Moments later I was outside the door shaking. Two months into my first permanent teaching job and I was already close to being kicked out. A real stroke of genius if ever there was one, changing my name!

That afternoon, driving back to our accommodation I felt sick to my stomach. What about the house I’d signed up to buy? What about my job? My career as a teacher? The nursery our daughter was in? What about Louise? What about all those things and a hundred things more?

Half six, with Larissa playing on some carpet we’d put down on the floor, Louise arrived from the Station. Wonderful news! She’d had a call at her job from the house agents. The place was fully vacated at last. They had the keys. We could move in tomorrow.

We hugged each other then I drew in a deep breath, telling her of the day’s developments at the school. She shrugged her shoulders. Tomorrow we were moving. Somehow we’d have to make do.

That afternoon she brought home a good wage. My second month’s salary cheque had also arrived in the bank. Our debts were mostly paid off. From tomorrow we’d be living in our own fine new house. She was right. One thing, one day at a time. Whatever we had hanging over us we’d cope. I’d tough it out. Whatever they threw at me I was firmly resolved. I was staying put at the school.

Our mood was entirely unexpected. We weren’t going to be the least bit downcast! The future certainly didn’t look good but whatever came my way we’d face it together. That night, after two hateful months, we knew we were leaving the hole we’d been staying in. Tomorrow we were moving to our very own place. Right now we felt on top of the world.

 

CHAPTER SIX     DEPUTIES FROM HELL

Early Saturday morning we locked up, left our temporary accommodation and drove to our house. The back garden was a tip. Left cluttered and filthy by the former owner. We began clearing it immediately. The following day the man turned up with a trailer and removed the rest of his rubbish. That afternoon we felt we could rest and went strawberry picking in nearby fields. In the evening we talked. Made plans for decorating and buying furniture. Turning the greenhouse attachment at the rear of the house into a conservatory.

Back at the school on Monday after a week of turmoil I found all my free periods were taken from me by the Deputy Head to cover for various duties. On Wednesday I was given new playground tasks by the Senior Mistress till the end of the term. My coffee breaks had gone along with most of my lunchtimes. Effectively it meant I’d lost all my precious free time for marking homework. The duties I was told were important for probationers. A useful way of acquiring responsibility. The other probationer, I noted, who’d started at the school exactly the same time as me, hadn’t been honored in such a manner!

That day after school we bought a superb second hand cooker for our kitchen. Now we make food in relative comfort. I also began work tiling the conservatory floor and cleaning the filth off its roof. The previous owner had been a real slouch.

Early the following week I was given extensive exam invigilation duties apart from my teaching. I brought some homework marking into the hall having seen other teachers do the same. My intention was immediately spotted by the Deputy Head. Sorry, it wasn’t allowed. I couldn’t divide my concentration and had to get up and walk round besides. Fair enough. I thanked him for his advice and kept my mouth shut. The upshot was that I was forced to take home a heavy schedule of marking making me lose part of my evenings.

Midweek a friendly conversation with some fifth form girls in the playground leads to trouble. They tell me about their career intentions and hopes. My manner is affable and encouraging. The conversation is observed by a lackey of the Senior Mistress and reported to her. In consequence I’m summoned out of the Staff Room. Told by her that I’d been observed in conversation with the girls. Grilled about its content. I’m advised, warned, to be guarded about my remarks. I perceive the danger of these being manipulated and agree to do as requested but point out that I’m very careful about anything I say. My manner is bland. It’s clear to me that everything I do, anything I say, could be reported by teachers seeking to ingratiate themselves with those more senior in the hierarchy. Am told that girls of that age are “very impressionable”. Liable to take things “the wrong way.” Later I have a bad feeling about her comments. They are an insidious, potentially dangerous method of attack. I’m resolved to chat less. Be guarded at all times. I feel upset. Worried by all the implications but in the Staff Room I always put on a happy face.

At the end of June I make my second blunder in the Staff Room. Sitting with a group of junior teachers taking tea prior to assembly I remark, apropos a discussion re the backgrounds of pupils, that there are very few coloured/mixed race kids at the school despite significant ethnic numbers in the catchment area. There’s an immediate stunned silence. I can hear myself talking dangerous stuff. Immediately realise that I’ve said the wrong thing. The group is joined by the senior female in the Social Studies Department who comments about social strata/ethnicity in the area and asks for my opinion. I reply that I’m new to the area and can only comment on what I’ve observed. I’m now very heavily put down. It’s very important to have “lengthy experience”… “be objective before making comments and judgements in order to be a good social scientist. University degrees have little real value.” This is a major public put down to remind me of my junior status in the teaching hierarchy. I’m about to answer but she gets up. Looks behind me. I see other faces in the group doing the same and turn to see the Deputy Head hovering in the background. Am left trying to hide the purposeful humiliation.

Early July I’m shocked to hear anti-Semitic remarks made by younger pupils shouting at each other in the corridor. They see me and are instantly silent. Maybe they’re aware I’m a Jew. During the same week I participate in the School Sports Day supervising activities and seem to be very popular with the kids. I hear there’s to be a Staff Garden Party at the school on Friday and wait for an invitation for Louise and I to attend but don’t get one. Louise explains it as an incentive to leave.

A week later I’m summoned from the Staff Room to see the Deputy Head who for some reason is keen to acquaint me with his attitude to education. He believes in “thrashings... knocking rebelliousness out... planting virtues in...” Describes educational psychologists as “trick cyclists”. I’m reminded of an old style Dickensian type sadist. He asks me for my opinions. I reply that I prefer to listen to his, wondering in my head what the point of it all is. The reason soon becomes clear. My ‘modern’ views do not fit in with the more traditional values instilled at the school. I say nothing, waiting for his suggestion that I should leave. This does not come. Instead I’m told what to say when writing up end of year reports for pupils in the subjects I teach. “The school does not want to convey any negative impression,” he mutters. This should have come from my Head of Department if anyone, not him. I nod. Accept the insult and say nothing. Leave when he makes it clear I can go.

Two days before term ends I’m called in to see the Head. Had I reconsidered his suggestion about leaving? I tell him that I’ve enjoyed my first term. Think that my progress is fair. That I’m determined to stay on and see out my Probation. Having just overheard in the Staff Room that my fellow probationer is to be given his own form next year I ask if I’m going to get one likewise? Am told that I’ve not been deemed to have made satisfactory progress. I make no response. Recognise it as part of a trend. Show no disappointment. He purposefully looks at the door. I get up, thank him and leave.

Final Day of Term. The Head of my Department takes me aside first thing. Asks me if I’ve decided to leave. I reply that I’m happy at the school. He questions “the wisdom of your decision.” Tells me he’ll write me an excellent reference. That the end of the term is a good time to leave. “You’ll have the whole summer to find a new post.” I thank him but decline. Congratulate him on his promotion to Senior Master.

The day ends with sherry in the Staff Room and for once the free mingling of staff. I observe contrived displays of democracy with interest. Some senior teachers talk to me for the first time. Ask me how things have gone. I convey standard acceptable replies. Have enjoyed the experience etc. I notice that few teachers if any are talking to an Asian teacher with a PhD in nuclear physics. The ‘word’ among juniors in the Staff Room is that he’s ‘under a cloud’. Personally I’ve never seen him smile. He’s not a probationer. Has been there three years. With his PhD I’d often thought he was crazy to be there at all and make a point of going over to talk to him as he’s standing on his own. My gesture is noted. Out of the blue he tells me he has a large family to feed. That he can’t get a job anywhere else. In the meantime he has to stay as a junior in his Department. To my surprise I learn he’s a Lebanese Christian. I ask him if he’s writing any academic papers. He shakes his head. What, as a schoolteacher? I tell him that I’m due to have a new paper published in the USA during the summer. He’s pleased for me. Shakes my hand. This is also noted. I wish him and his family a good vacation. Do the same with other teachers likewise then slip out of the room and drive home. Bonus time. Six weeks of paid holiday ahead. 

Almost immediately I begin scanning education journals for college lectureships. There’s nothing doing. In a way I already dread the prospect of returning but I’ll try to make the best of it if I have to. Our finances are again desperately low. Even with Louise working we have no choice but to take lodgers to help pay the mortgage. I’ll definitely have to find work during the vacation. The future’s neither solid nor bright. The school gives me the creeps but I’m determined to hold onto the job till something better turns up. Meantime I’m out of there for a while. Free from the Staff Room. Free from the Headmaster’s lackeys from hell.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN     DIRTY TRICKS INCORPORATED

Paying the mortgage and keeping our house. From the moment we took on Mustapha, a short, dapper Asian with a PhD in chemistry, we began getting visits from neighbours on our up-market lower middle class housing estate asking us to get rid of him. They don’t want the area “swamped by Pakis.” We refuse and are warned and threatened. Soon bricks come through our living room window. Mustapha works at a factory nearby and can’t find accommodation elsewhere. We refuse to back down and I stay up nights watching for trouble. The bricks and threats cease. Our second lodger, a bright young chap of Polish origin wants independence from his family in order to become his own man.

The income from both helps. They occupy two bedrooms, our daughter the third. We sleep downstairs in the living room on a sofa bed. During the summer we work at temporary employment in London. Our combined income helps clear our debts and pays the bills in running two homes. We also put money by for a rainy day.

During this time I apply for college lectureships using my excellent academic references, publications and university degrees in support. There is limited scope. Neither Greek and German philosophy nor Sociology are in high demand and my efforts meet with no success. Meanwhile over the six week break we use any free time we have in the evenings to tile the conservatory and kitchen. On weekends I begin painting again, working on landscapes of local woods and fields, also writing academic papers and planting flowers in the garden. Occasionally we go to Bath. Time runs by. Soon I’ll be returning to the school. I feel nervous about what may lie ahead.

Early September. My first day back. I walk into the Staff Room and wait my turn for coffee after the seniors. Am given my timetable for the term by my Head of Department and immediately notice that I am no longer teaching Sociology at advanced lever to the Upper Sixth. My work now centres on teaching History to difficult classes in the Junior and Middle school along with Sociology to the Lower Sixth. This is a real blow. I request reasons for the change. He tells me that I’m am better suited to these classes. That the work is more ‘challenging.’ I know the change has been effected between him and the Head. The clergyman who runs my Department could easily suggest that I leave if I complain so I say nothing and accept the new schedule.

To relieve my upset I begin working on a new painting project. A copy of a Gauguin as a gift for my sister. I also feel low because Louise will soon be leaving to begin her degree course in Bristol taking Larissa with her so I’ll no longer have their emotional support.

I attend morning assembly throughout the week feeling increasingly drenched by the blood of Christ. On Friday the Deputy Head walks unannounced into one of my History lessons, sits at the back of the class and makes notes. His presence is felt by my pupils who become silent and inhibited. He makes it very obvious that he is, in the words of the kids, “checking me out.” I discuss this with the Teachers Union rep the following week. This is a mistake. She’s a senior staff appointee. I contact the National Union of Teachers head office. Describe the incident and am told that the Deputy Head’s conduct is irregular. A teacher must always be notified prior to any such visits whether for inspection purposes or otherwise. I ask the Deputy Head whether his visit was for ‘inspection’. Told that it wasn’t. Ask him why he came into my class. He says he wanted to check on my progress That he is entitled to do so and that his visits will continue.

Before leaving that afternoon I’m informed that the Head wants to see me first thing in the morning. I spend an anxious evening pondering the connection between this and his Deputy’s visit. Am summoned in to see him soon after I arrive. Told that a parent has complained that I taught ‘disbelief’ in one of my classes. He refuses to enlarge or tell me which class, or what I am supposed to have said. I deny the allegation. Say that I’ll respond further when I’m given more detail. Returning to the Staff Room I’m taken aside by three of the senior staff including Head of Upper School and warned about my ‘conduct.’ The Head of Upper School threatens me with instant dismissal. I reply loudly so that everyone can hear. I won’t be spoken to in such a manner. Here is one Jew they are not running a concentration camp for. The words cause shock effect in Staff Room. Huge embarrassment. I turn to face the other teachers – stare at them one to the other then walk out. Spend rest of day in fear of dismissal. Nobody speaks to me at all before I leave.

On the following day, a Saturday, a family visit from my mother, stepfather and grandmother. A really happy occasion. On Sunday I complete the charcoal sketch for the Gauguin and walk with my girls in the Essex countryside.

Returning to school Monday I discover that all my free periods for the week are taken due to projected cover duties along with my morning coffee breaks. I am given playground supervision again, actually a task I enjoy! I now go from class to class without a break except for lunch. This is presently free. However a ‘word in my ear’ from a ‘sympathetic’ senior staff member who advises me to sit in the Staff Room rather than mark homework. Unless I do so colleagues will think I’m ignoring them. I smile sardonically at his use of the word ‘colleagues’ but nonetheless sit in Staff Room, mainly on my own, working on a draft for a new academic paper. Am asked by various senior staff what I’m writing. After telling them it’s suggested that I should sit with my group of juniors instead.

At the end of the third week I attend another parent’s evening. Give standard assessment of children’s progress as I’ve been told knowing that any truthful negatives might be dangerous. In effect it’s all pretty meaningless.

I now spend weekends working in London to buy Larissa new clothes. Early evenings I am busy improving the state of our garden. It all helps me take my mind off the school. The busier I am the more able I am to forget.

Early October. We visit Bath on first weekend. Louise remains behind to begin her studies at Bristol. A sad farewell. This marks a watershed in our family life. For the next three years, holidays and weekends apart, we will be separated. A real emotional blow. My general state of health is not good. I feel run down. Debilitated. I suffer badly with boils. Continual anxiety. Feel a strong need to escape from the school environment during lunch breaks. Soon I discover some fine walking along a public footpath through fields across the road from the school. This proves invaluable and helps restore me.

Mid October my lessons are again sat in on by the Deputy Head and soon after by the Head himself. These visits are again without warning. They just walk in and sit at the back of my classes. After complaining to my Head of Department the matter is passed on and I’m called in to see the Headmaster. Told I have no justification for complaint. That my absence from the Staff Room and school at lunch time has been noted. Such behavior is ‘anti-social’. Not conducive to creating good feeling among staff. I reply that I’m entitled to leave the school premises during lunch breaks if I wish, as long as it does not interfere with my duties. That I’m not a prisoner at the school. The man informs me that my manner and conduct are unprofessional. Unbecoming a teacher at his school. I’m given a warning. Told that a formal reprimand will be placed on my record. I request that the reprimand be put to me in writing stating reasons. This is refused. I reply that I will contact National Union of Teachers Head Office requesting any reprimand be examined. He begins shouting at me. I sit there taking it all saying nothing. Leave when he asks me to do so.

The following day I’m put on lunchtime playground duty. With this and the continual loss of my free periods I’m becoming increasingly tired and dispirited. I do my best in class but find the process of teaching increasingly difficult. My only relief now is when I leave school to collect Larissa from nursery, return home and work on academic papers or house decorating early evenings, apart from being with her. The situation is made difficult because Louise now has the car so we can only go down there on weekends by coach. We do not see her regularly because of her field trips and when we do meet up our Sunday evening partings are extremely hard on us as a family. Larissa misses her Mum.

I also have to cope with our steadily worsening finances. Louise’s grant, my wage and the rent from our lodgers is not sufficient to pay all our bills and buy food. It’s therefore all the more important that despite the provocation I experience at the school I hang on to my job until I find another. At least until Louise’s studies are over.

The months before Christmas are relatively trouble free. While the round of dirty tricks still continues with additional cover duties loaded onto me on a regular basis there is a suspension of the verbal dressings down I’ve been getting in private. More important perhaps is my increasing popularity among the kids. I enjoy a Guy Fawkes night at the school to which I take Larissa and find myself befriended by kids from all the classes I teach along with those from the Upper School. Much affability is shown towards us. It seems I’ve become known for always being in trouble with the authorities and standing up for myself. Soon after I’m ‘adopted’ by the school chess club as their patron after they learn I’d been a past champion at the game. This popularity makes my teaching easier and more pleasurable. The rapport I have with my pupils becomes a real compensation for everything else.

End November various kids tell me they are being asked by the Deputy Head and Senior Mistress about what I’m saying in class. Whether I mention subjects of religion or politics, or whether in my Lower Sixth Sociology class I ever mention Marxism. Many of the kids seem to be aware of my position at the school and are strangely supportive. At this time I’m given a minor privilege. Am allowed to accompany a History Group to the Science Museum with the Head of my Department who, I discover, is only a year older than me and resents my University background. He is thirty-six, a Senior Master and ordained minister who believes that education has to do with storing facts and using them if, when and where. My view is that education should help kids to think critically about things. Help them think for themselves. I repeatedly tell my pupils that if they really want to learn then they have to think. Think about everything. I find that kids at all levels are excited by this notion. They talk with their parents about it they tell me. I am naively unaware of the consequences. It emerges that parents feel challenged by this. My views are communicated back into the school through various teachers to the authorities i.e. that one of the new teachers is giving the children radical ideas. Result – more informal inspection and listening in on my classes early December.

Towards end of term am told by the Deputy Head that unfavorable reports have been made regarding my teaching and conduct at the school. That I get my facts wrong and misinform the pupils. I reply that all my lessons are taken from the given text books and their content is transferred by pupils into their exercise books. He says that my work contains too much “interpretation,” that it diverges too much from the texts. I am not supposed to do this. Also, I have failed to integrate within the staff framework. The Report will form part of my Teaching Record. I ask to see the various Reports but this is refused.

In the week before term end I’m summoned from Staff Room by Deputy Head. Taken to Headmaster’s Study. The Head of my Department is present along with the Headmaster and Head of Upper School. I am instantly attacked and criticized by them in turn. All my so called “past failings, errors, lapses, omissions” are elevated to the status of professional misconduct and an anti-social demeanor. This done I’m strongly urged to leave. Told I’ve got no chance of passing Probation or qualifying as a teacher. It is strongly suggested that it would be best for me if I resigned before end of term. I refuse. Strongly rebut criticisms as manufactured and false. State that I am much enjoying my time at the school. That under current legislation I am already deemed qualified to teach at a Secondary School. That my relationship with my pupils is good as it is with not a few of the staff. My defence infuriates the Deputy Head and Head of the Upper School, particularly when I say that I’ve been told by various teachers - who have sat in on my classes on my request to observe my teaching - that my professional standard is good. This causes a furor. They demand that I reveal names. I refuse. I will do so only to the Department of Education and Science if necessary. The Headmaster calls end to meeting. I am asked to leave his office. The others remain.

That evening I form the realistic view that I have until the end of Spring Term next year at best at the school. They’ll call in the local authority inspector, organize a negative report on my teaching and so fail my probation. My main concern is whether they can use this to get rid of me lawfully and when? Precisely how much time have I got left? I note the sheer hostility of those at the meeting. Their response when I defended myself bordered on rage and their demeanor was openly threatening when I refused to resign. This day my worst so far. 

The following day was my 35th birthday. Mercifully it was trouble free. I’m kept busy marking exam papers. I received many cards from the kids. A really pleasant surprise. Am happy with my popularity. It means so much to me. Some of the kids seem to know that I’m Jewish. “Is it true sir?” they ask. I reply that it is. Receive no negative comments.

Last day: Receive many Christmas cards from kids and some from staff. Both very pleasing. Term ends. I’ve survived the last ten weeks of false reports, losing nearly all my free time, having my life made hell on a regular basis by criticism, provocation and dirty tricks on the part of the managerial hierarchy at the school. How on earth did I do it with no Louise for regular comfort?

ANTI-SEMITISM IN MODERN BRITAIN: A TEACHER’S STORY

PREFACE

        

This is a true story of anti-Semitism in modern Britain as told to me at the time by its victim, a young Jew who applied for his first teaching job at a state funded Church of England School. I have used the extensive notes I took at the time to convey the full reality of his experience. Nothing has been added by me and nothing omitted. This is how it was for the man and his family.

What you are about to read is a weekly serialization of his story. One chapter after another detailing the sequence of events. My aim throughout has been to tell it straight. There’s been no glossing up or dumbing down here for the sake of literary finesse. My notes, carefully, meticulously transcribed, tell a real shocker. Today some might call it racism but therein lies a problem. Today the word only officially applies to the experiences of black people, Asians or Muslims. It excludes Jews. Jews, officially, do not experience racism, only anti-Semitism which is not really racist but something different. Something of a lower order. Officially Jews do not experience racism!

In way it’s convenient. The word itself is something the Jewish Establishment in Britain do not like. It’s troublesome. Rather like allegations of anti-Semitism which in the last fifty years it has sought to downplay yet still remains in the hearts and minds of so many Jews who have experienced it. A whole history of unwritten, untold experiences buried deep but never forgotten.

The history of anti-Semitism in modern Britain is a history waiting to be written. The official line of the Jewish Establishment, particularly the Board of Deputies of British Jews and its media mouthpiece the Jewish Chronicle is that anti-Semitism is not an important issue for the Jewish Community and never has been. Their point of view is that although there may be incidents of anti-Semitism, they are irregular and taken together don't add up to much. There is nothing 'official' behind them. They are the acts of unpleasant people or those opposed to the policies of the Israeli Government. There is nothing institutional in their character and none of it is really worth getting upset about anyway.

This Jewish Establishment has always had the same soothing words of advice to give to Jews in Britain who have had to bear insult, hostility and contempt to say nothing of outright prejudice.

Don't complain… Don't make a fuss… Don't rock the boat… But above all, don't make trouble! At the same time, in recent years, it has devoted much energy and commitment to what may best be described as Interfaith Issues. This has involved cuddling up with Muslim organizations who refuse to condemn fundamentalist terror attacks on Jews, Jewish property and the Jewish State of Israel and similarly the broad swathe of the Christian Church that still believes the Jews murdered Jesus! In practice this has meant open collaboration with such groups as the wretched Council for Christians and Jews while turning a blind eye to church anti-Semitism. Elements of this Jewish Establishment, furthermore, have not been shy in getting into bed with sections of the British media whose reports and editorials are endlessly hostile to the Jewish State and whose vicious one-sidedness has done more than anything in recent years to create a fast rising tide of venomous hostility towards British Jews current throughout the entire British Labour movement.

It has downplayed and minimalized the complaints of so many. Marginalizing those offended or humiliated into non persons or people said to be making too much of nothing. In this story, the victim of a long horrific experience got no help whatsoever from them and had to fight his long fight on his own. When help eventually came it was from some surprising sources.

There are many surprises in this story which is what makes it a tale of optimism and hope. A very British story in its very best sense.

 

CHAPTER ONE     WHAT A DIFFERENCE A NAME MAKES

The central character of this story, a short, stocky man of thirty-two is sitting at a Victorian roll top desk in his living room busily writing application letters for jobs. Outside, early Spring rain lashes against the windows. Inside all is warm and comfortable. The home he and his family occupy is richly furnished with antique oriental carpets and furniture. The living room contains broad shelves of books, cases of tropical butterflies and his copies of Gauguin, Monet and Van Gogh paintings mounted on walls. These sumptuous surroundings, put together down years of dreary employment before he became a university student belie the state of their finances. Since leaving Oxford with a postgraduate degree and sporting distinction he has been mostly unemployed. Having tried to find a permanent job as a teacher for almost a year without success he is seriously worried though tries to hide his anxiety from the wife he adores. Apart from an occasional week’s work filling temporary vacancies for teachers off sick, he has earned little money to feed his family, pay the rent and other bills. What savings they had are almost gone.

The bright, happy disposition he displays is an attempt to encourage his wife who studies hard during the day to gain a long sought after place at university to read Geology. Despite their circumstances he is resolved to do everything he can to help her achieve her ambition. Driven by his determination he has become increasingly dispirited by his lack of success in finding work and has come to believe that the cause of the problem lies in his name. He is a Jew of Russian descent and his name sounds like it. After all when he shortened it before as an experiment to get casual work he didn’t have any problem so why not do it for real? Change it once and for all. Make it more acceptably English.

He communicates his thoughts to his wife. Though not Jewish herself she finds the idea upsetting. There are difficult exchanges between them. She doesn’t see why he should have to do it. She likes the name of the man she married. He should be who he is.

He remonstrates. It doesn’t matter who he is. What matters is what he wants to be and right now he wants to be someone who can keep a roof over their heads, pay the bills and give them a holiday once in a while. The arguments between them reach no conclusion but beneath it all his mind is made up. His wife worked to support him during his time at college. He will do whatever it takes for her now.

A week later, telling her nothing, he consults a solicitor and uses the last of their savings to get what he wants. Now sounding altogether more English he begins the process of applying for teaching jobs anew. His first letter, responding to an ad in a journal, brings immediate results. A Church of England Secondary School in Essex invites him to attend for an interview. They are looking for a teacher of Sociology and History and he seems eminently qualified.

Happy with his first good break for months he tells his wife what he did. The result it seems justified his decision. Her reaction is surprisingly muted. Changing his name might be one thing, telling them he’s a Jew quite another. What would he do if they asked? He shrugs his shoulders. There’s no reason they should. Not anymore.

That afternoon he phones the school to confirm the appointment and a few days later gets up early to drive 130 miles to the venue outside London. Alone with his thoughts he approaches his destination with his heart in his mouth. Does he tell them or wait till he’s asked? Practical considerations take over. He was never really much of a Jew anyway so what does it matter if he says nothing. Deny it he won’t, but he won’t volunteer anything either.

 

CHAPTER TWO     INTERVIEW  

A cold dry day late February. A long wide road somewhere in Essex. Fields of bare earth on one side with cottages and a large red brick farmhouse. Directly opposite a series of modern but run down looking glass and concrete blocks of light and dark blue adjacent to which are grassy playing fields. A large sign in the driveway announces the school.

The story continues in his own words…

Finding a place in the car park I got out and walked to the sign announcing Reception at the main building. Having found it I tapped on the glass, told them who I was and what I was there for. After a brief wait a tall woman appeared and introduced herself as the Senior Mistress. I can’t help noticing how ugly she is. Her long face filled with big teeth under a top of seriously artificial curled hair is enough to terrify the most recalcitrant pupil. I accompanied her along a series of corridors to the Headmaster’s Study. Apart from an occasional child coming into view there’s nothing but silence. After a quick firm knock on the door she opened it onto a small room.

My first sight as I entered was of many shelves lining the walls then filing cabinets and a large desk. The man sitting behind it got up and introduced himself as the Headmaster. My immediate impression was of a short wiry looking fellow with a pointed face, a bit like a whippet. I judged him to be somewhere in his early sixties. The briefest of smiles flits across his face as though it’s an effort before it just as suddenly vanished. Having shaken his hand I was invited to sit down after which he nodded at the Senior Mistress who hurried out. He conveys a sense of crustiness. Old world Edwardian authority.

The atmosphere brightens. “Did you have a good journey?” he asked pleasantly, broadening the introduction. I told him I did after which he instantly continued, “I see you are well educated. A first class honours degree then a Masters from Oxford and a Blue to go with it!” I smiled modestly, waiting for him to comment on my lack of teaching experience. He didn’t but went on instead to talk about the school. A church institution. State maintained.

“We give a good Christian education here,” he said firmly. “Religion plays an important part in the life of the school.” I nodded positively. “Yes of course. After all it is a church school.” He seemed to like that. “Then you’d have no objection to attending our morning religious assemblies?”  “None whatsoever,” I quickly replied, thinking of the routine I’d known from previous experiences. A few hymns for starters. All Things Bright and Beautiful or Rock of Ages, followed by the Lord’s Prayer before they got down to calling out the kids names for good or diabolical reasons. After all, it was a Church School!

The man’s demeanor still seemed cautious. The school was attached to the church at the centre of town.   Its vicar was the Chairman of Governors. “You’ll be expected to attend church services at times with the school,” he said, looking at me fixedly. “Just occasionally mind you. Easter, Christmas and Lent. All the High Holy days.”

“Of course,” I said quickly, very matter of fact.

My easy acquiescence seemed to assure him. There was a distinctly positive look about him now. Nothing else about religion. No questions about my personal beliefs, like whether I did or I didn’t. I wasn’t averse to religious practice, that was the key. It was therefore accepted. I was a god fearing Christian soul. A member of the faith and therefore no need to ask. And no problems on my side. Jesus was after all a god fearing Yiddisher boy. Time now for more mundane matters. He gave me a brief history of the school. Subjects taught, staff numbers, class sizes, backgrounds of the children, reputation. Then more positively as far as I was concerned, details of the Social Studies Department where I’d be working. My ears pricked up. There were three others teachers in the Department and I’d be the fourth. “You’ll be teaching History to the Lower School, Sociology to the Lower and Upper Sixth. Up to GCE ‘A’ level standard.”

It sounded very interesting I said brightly. “A real challenge.”

“You’ll be a probationer of course,” he added, ignoring my enthusiasm. “Your first year will be on probation during which your teaching will be inspected.” I nodded but stayed silent. He clearly wanted to say more. He knew my undergraduate degree qualified me to teach. That was Government regulation. However teaching was a profession that had to be learned. Something that required great skill. I agreed, saying that I knew he was right. He liked that and went on to tell me about the Social Studies team. I’d be the junior in the Department. I said “of course,” thinking it was all looking good. I was half way there I told myself. Half way and more. Twenty minutes gone and everything okay so far. Much better than I’d expected. Above all, nothing about my lack of experience.

“You’ll be employed by the Board of Governors,” he said out of the blue, “but paid by the local authority.” I’m thrown a fraction. Is he letting me know I’ve got the job or is he going to tell me there are other applicants? That he’ll be writing to me in due course. He hasn’t mentioned anyone else yet!

The question in my head was quickly answered. “I see you’re a family man. From Bath. You’ll be looking for accommodation I take it.”

“We’d be planning to buy a house in the area,” I replied.

He smiled a fraction. I sensed it was a good sign but he still hadn’t told me anything definite. My doubt was answered with him getting up. “You’ll be starting on Monday 26th of April. You’ll get a letter from the Governors making it official. In the meantime maybe you should give the Borough a call. Ask for the Housing Department. They provide temporary accommodation for teachers coming into the area. It’s a special arrangement. You can tell them you’ll be employed at the school.”

I rose promptly to shake his hand. I was delighted. Thanked him for giving me the job. Said how grateful I was for his suggestion. I’d contact the Housing Department straight away.

He didn’t leave his office to show me out but called up Reception. The Senior Mistress reappeared and I left with her but not before thanking him again. He showed no pleasure or emotion, only a hurried formality. I sensed no genuine warmth.

I walked out the building to the car park feeling elated. It seemed to have happened so quickly. No searching questions or exploration of my views or attitudes to education. The only things that seemed important to him were my academic qualifications and willingness to participate in the formal aspects of religious school ritual. No problem for me there. He’d never asked whether I was a believer. Whether I went to church. Whether I was even a Christian.

I got into my car with a clear conscience as well as a job. I hadn’t told him a lie nor would I have done. When I got home that night Louise had a spaghetti supper ready and waiting. I’d phoned her earlier with the news and she’d gone out and bought wine. We were both over the moon. I’d got my first permanent job as a teacher. The future looked bright. Soon we’d have our own house. It was just as I’d thought. See what a difference a name makes!    

 

 

CHAPTER THREE     CHANGING FORTUNES

 Immediately after the interview we began contacting estate agents. Everything at a rush. I was taking the job. I’d already made up my mind. No point looking elsewhere. Not even locally. I felt elated. Forgot most of everything else. Louise’s plan to study in Bristol could wait. We’d work something out when the time came. It was early March now and I was starting in April. Full of a mad sense of urgency I telephoned the local authority Housing Department, explained the situation and requested temporary accommodation. Soon as possible please. 

A week later I was contacted again by the school. Invited to spend a day there 12th March. Meeting people. Getting the feel of the place. It was fine with Louise. We’d go together. Begin looking at houses soon as the visit was over. Everything went fine. I got together with the Headmaster right at the start who gave me the itinerary along with my salary details. Much better than I’d expected with a whopping big bonus of four months a year paid holiday. I was inwardly delighted but didn’t show it. I conveyed an affable but quiet, modest disposition and spent the next six hours meeting staff and pupils including two periods sitting in lessons. I was introduced to my departmental colleagues in the Staff Room after which came a decent midday lunch. The aim of the day was getting the feel of the place. Making contact with people. Sniffing things out. I appeared to impress the Headmaster and teachers with my ‘learning’ and ‘modesty’ though I made no effort with the former. The Head told me so when I left using those very words. It kind of made my toes curl!

We began house hunting in earnest the following day with our daughter staying with my mother in London. We saw many places and met many strange people, all telling us one tale or another and showing us the delectable ‘beauty’ of their little semi-detached castles in Essex. There were only two that we fancied. One sold before we arrived, the other still available on a lower middle class housing estate in Upminster close to some fields. We looked round and liked it. Decided it had the right feel and the right price.

I went to Paris the following week for my grandmother’s funeral. Met many members of my father’s family I’d not seen for years. They were rich and I wasn’t. Because of my parent’s divorce I’d been cut out of the will. I still went, for the sake of old memories. Louise stayed in London with her mother. On my return I found she’d been busy organising finance for the house. Spent a sunny Sunday afternoon walking happily arm in arm with her in Regent’s Park in excellent mood and returned to Bath that evening after visiting Granny, my mother’s mother of whom we were very fond. Louise stayed in London with our daughter, intent on sorting out the house purchase once and for all.

Back in Bath I found myself being contacted by schools urgently requiring temporary teachers. Now there was a thing. It never rains so they say! I spent the next three weeks working in Bristol, teaching subjects as varied as the schools themselves. Sometimes the kids were great, other times hell. Sometimes they were bright but more often remedial. The work was enjoyable though occasionally depressing. In one class the kids only wanted to play ‘jacks’. In another I told them about Einstein. The worst was a class of 15 year old boys. Some of them were threatening and violent, others clearly drunk. Once I had to call for assistance. At another all-girls school, there was real success. Lessons rewarding and the feedback a dream. One child offered me sweets from her precious supply. A wonderful gesture. I was much moved.

End of March I heard from the Housing Department. They could give us temporary accommodation. The news heartened Louise, still in London trying to sort out what was now becoming a tricky house purchase. Soon after I drove down and we went together to look over the offer having obtained keys to the premises. Our hearts sank. An unfurnished dump on an underclass housing estate. On the bright side it had to be cheaper than a hotel. Set against that there was no way I could leave my car there at night without finding it vandalized next morning. The important thing however was that it meant we’d all be together again. No more separation. The task now was to find a place for our daughter in a suitable local nursery.

More part time teaching early April. The money invaluable, helping pay some of our bills. Middle of the month I came to London to search for Larissa’s nursery. On the day that we found one Louise heard she’d gained a place at Bristol to read Geology. Great news, everything she’d hoped for, then suddenly it hit us. If she accepted it meant we’d really be separated. Split up all over again from October. Together only on weekends. The thought hung over me like a dagger. Louise silent. Confused. We’d been overtaken by events. Our close knit loving little family faced being broken up. Why couldn’t she have got a place somewhere in London?

A few days later the nursery came through. Good news for now but maybe only a stop gap. First things first. Move into the temporary accommodation and start the job at the school. We drove to the housing estate at Rush Green. All three of us. Mattresses in the car boot. Unloaded and bedded down for the night. Apart from anything else the place stank. At least the cooker provided was working. The plan was to be there just a few weeks. Louise could always be relied upon to work miracles in the kitchen.

That night we lay close, staring up at the ceiling of a damp empty flat in the dark. The situation was unsettling in more ways than one. With my academic background of degrees and publications I should have been teaching at a university not a church secondary school. It was all a pig’s ear. Changing my name I took the first thing that came up. Maybe I should have waited. Seen if there was anything better closer to home. Home was Bath after all. Strange the way things had worked out. The situation moving along almost out of control.

Three days before I was due to start at the school we finally tied up the house purchase. The die was cast. Everything seemed definite. I had a job. We had a house. Three months back it was everything I’d wanted. Thinking about it now I wasn’t so sure, not with the breakup of my family looming. Would it really be worth it or would our close knit lives run to dust?

The night before the big day. My head ached so bad I felt it would bust. Another night in the hole but at least those who loved me were there. How would it be on my own? I’d so much wanted things to change for the better and now this. Soon I’d be riding a tiger.

If only I’d known. That night before my first day.

 

CHAPTER FOUR     MURDERING JEWS

With the end of April approaching I drove to the school. It was a really big day for me. I was starting my career as teacher. It began with assembly, prayers and hymns. I participated, watching my colleagues do likewise, most of them vigorously but not all. I was introduced to pupils by the Head as a new teacher. Saw hundreds of faces staring my way and couldn’t help smiling. Assembly dismissed, followed by tea in the Staff Room. I went over the time-table with my Head of Department then walked into my first class. The lesson went well. I thought the kids learned from it. After that I continued teaching a mixture of classes, mainly English medieval history, making the lessons lively. I asked questions, got discussions going, wrote summaries on the blackboard and felt full of enthusiasm. The kids were keen and attentive. The day went well as did others in the first week.

On the other side there was the Staff Room. There I discovered distinct rituals along with a well-defined pecking order among my fellow teachers. There was a marked difference between seniors and juniors which determined many things, like when to take tea, where one sat and with whom. Everything bound up with status. Seniors sat with seniors, juniors with juniors. Occasionally a senior would come and sit with a group of juniors. Occasionally a favored junior was allowed to join a seniors group. It struck me as antiquated. I soon learned the importance of knowing my ‘place’ and the necessity of sitting with a group, most definitely not on my own reading a paper. Such little ‘mistakes’ were corrected by a ‘word in my ear’ from a ‘concerned’ senior helpfully giving me advice. Failing to sit with a group is seen as ignoring them. I quickly showed my desire to be part of junior groupings, noting that seniors require deferential conduct from juniors. I found the set up extraordinary but sat in the junior groupings staying as quiet as possible. This is deemed positive. I became known as a good listener!

I also discovered that the traditionalistic, conservative values of the staff extend into their views on education. This is confirmed by the views of the Remedial teacher who told me as a ‘helpful gesture’ that the learning abilities of the children are fixed by genetic factors and that education could do little to overcome inherent disadvantage. I said nothing. Her view seems to be common among the staff towards pupils in general. Each child had their natural level and could not be educated beyond it. I found myself amazed. It was straight out of the Middle Ages!

In the following weeks I maintained my ‘enthusiasm’. Volunteering for various additional duties. This was heavily taken advantage of causing me to lose many free periods when I should have been resting, marking homework etc. As a result I was always very tired when I returned to our depressing temporary accommodation. We were still waiting to move into our new home. To overcome the frustration of delay and the sheer awfulness of our evening surroundings we went home to Bath every weekend just to cheer ourselves up.

At the end of the first month I made what seemed to be my first serious mistake. Having been drawn into a discussion by my Head of Department, a practicing priest, on the subject of education I criticized his philosophy that school could at best only provide an enthusiastic environment and teachers should not have a concern to help develop a child’s attitude to learning. He regarded my view as over-intellectual, impractical and above all showing a lack of experience. This is communicated as a clear put down. I’m made to understand that I have overstepped my junior status. I tried to compromise but wouldn’t give way on my view and noted that with this disagreement his manner towards me became guarded from now on. Later, Louise helped me appreciate my situation. The school was just a job. Don’t get involved in any serious discussion!

After a month I attended my first parents-teachers evening, first being instructed by the Deputy Head what I should wear and what I should say. Above all I couldn’t be critical of pupils in any way. I must not make any comment except praise.

Looking back at my first month at the school it struck me that my status there was deleterious to my self-esteem. This contrasted strongly with external reality. I’d just received a letter from a prestigious academic journal in the USA telling me they’d publish a paper I’d sent them.

Five weeks have gone by and still no sign of us moving into our house. We still slept on the floor using our mattresses. The delay seemed to run on and on. Louise feeling mighty fed up. At school I’m kept continually busy marking homework. I made the decision not to take any home but would use any free time I had there to do it. My lunch break was crucial in this regard. I found a quiet spot in the library where I could work. My frequent absence from the Staff Room was noted. Enquiries about my lack of presence was made by senior staff through junior acolytes. For my personal amusement I broke the taboo and sat in the senior staff area joining discussions with random comments. This was met by stony silence. Experience not repeated!

A school holiday at the end of this period. We returned to Bath then immediately went on to Cornwall for a superb camping and touring vacation. Swimming, walking in wilderness areas, visiting picturesque seaside towns, famous smugglers’ inns and villages in warm sunny weather. The sheer awfulness of our temporary accommodation and the atmosphere pervading the Staff Room was quickly forgotten. We all felt very relaxed. The money received for my first month’s salary was more than welcome. We enjoyed a final day, returning from Cornwall to our beautiful home in Bath then leaving reluctantly late evening to go back to the unfurnished dump we lived at on the council housing estate.

The following day school began with morning assembly. Prayers led by the Deputy Head who begins with a reminder of the Easter festival and message of Jesus. “One of love as opposed to the message of hate by the Jews who killed him.” My ears pricked up. Had I heard right? I looked round but saw no reaction on the faces of my fellow teachers.

The Deputy Head was now talking about the followers of Jesus “who loved him,” contrasting these with, “the murderers who hated our Lord.” His words etch deep in my mind. I felt stunned. I’ve never heard this said before. Jews by implication hated and murdered Jesus. I felt deeply offended. Was struck in particular by the tone of voice with which the remarks were made. The context was highly disturbing, given they’d been said to young impressionable children. The teaching staff around me were entirely unresponsive. I was left feeling angry. His comments were a clear attack on Jews. An attack on the whole Jewish people. My anger was mixed with a dulling of my senses. I felt shocked.

The Deputy Head brought the service to a close. The overall Christian message was one of love…

Hymns were now sung after which the Headmaster himself took over. Recent achievements were mentioned. Sports fixtures etc. The assembly ended. Pupils and teachers file out. I didn’t go to Staff Room for tea but sat in my quiet place in library then walked to school greenhouse area for a smoke. It helped calm my nerves but all the same I felt sick to the pit of my stomach.

That evening I told Louise. Her manner was fatalistic. “Well what else did you expect, it’s a Church school!”

I said nothing but felt a deep seated unease. There might be trouble ahead.  Jews don’t normally hide who they are.

A MARKET TRADER’S PROBLEM: CAN YOU KEEP AN EYE ON THE STALL, I NEED TO HAVE A PISS. THE DANGERS OF PUTTING YOUR TRUST IN OTHERS

So what has this post got to do with crystals or crystal healing you are entitled to ask. Short answer, nothing immediately obvious. That said you don’t have to read it. There’s nothing compelling you. If you prefer watching Ed Milliband jump up and down like a petulant monkey during Prime Minister’s Questions or read about your favourite celebrity bimbo curling her pubes with a tuning fork in some gutter press tart sheet then go ahead. Please. Be my guest. I can’t compete with that sort of thing. If on the other hand you’re in any way curious about the title and want to learn a bit more about the perils of being a trader on a London street market then maybe you’ll spare me a minute.

Okay, if you’re still with me I want you to imagine what it’s like being out on the street seven-thirty a.m. till six at night, five sometimes six days a week throughout the months October till April. It’s dark early mornings and pretty cold too all the way through the day so you need to keep warm. Clothing helps but there’s nothing like tea and a cigarette, and later a coffee or two. The caffeine gives anyone working a bit of a boost. Consider this though. Most men working the markets aren’t exactly what you’d call kids. They’re at the higher end of the thirty to fifty age bracket, many of them with the same nasty problem.

It’s what happens to them when they get older. Enlarged prostate! Drink a tea or a coffee and two minutes later the urine’s all ready to flow, only the control they once had just isn’t there anymore. I don’t want to get personal but you can either piss in your pants or head for the café where you’re well known because in nine out of ten street markets there’s nothing official in the way of a toilet. As for pubs you’ll always be sure of a welcome, just as long as you’re buying and that means more pissing. Like you’re on some kind of treadmill.

Tea or coffee keeps traders warm and gives them a lift on a real cold and frosty but it comes with a price for a man with a problem. When you’ve got to go then you’ve just got to go. Holding it in is simply too painful so you ask your mate on the next stall, third line of the title. It’s okay, he’s heard it before. You say it to him and he says it to you, like you’re in some kind of street opera. The pair of you desperately dancing from one leg to another singing can you keep an eye on the stall… and after a while when they’ve all had their tea a whole bloody encore of traders hopping around wanting a piss singing the same line like it’s a scene straight out of Puccini, the only thing missing being a dagger, a jealous husband and some heroine or other but preferably not the one in the café who does you a bacon roll regular cos she’s one of those typical up for a shag grannies of seventy.

It all sounds straightforward enough. You ask the guys each side of you or the fruit moll over the street and they’ll keep a reasonable lookout. Most of everything’s on the same level. Straight out the pound shop only three times the price. Then there’s me and my crystals. Something totally different. On street markets like these most traders are reasonable types. If they say they’ll keep an eye while you’re emptying then they’ll give it a glance. Maybe even wander over on occasion. What they won’t do is keep an eye if they know you’re pissing it up in the pub. If you’re straight with them they’ll be with you. They’ve got sharp eyes and a promise is always a promise.

It’s not the same though if you’re on some private market. Traders who work markets like Covent Garden are quite something else. Most sell craft of one kind or another, others jewellery, ornaments and collectables. There are days when everything’s mixed or just one of a kind. What you never get are fruit and veg men, canned or jarred foods, cooking utensils or cheap cosmetics. What the craft crowd call the shit end. Those who trade in private markets are also one of a kind. Affable on the surface but full of bile underneath. They’re in deadly competition with each other. Resenting every penny anyone else takes because it should have been them, and piling up yellow resentment by the bucket load when they see you doing serious business! You all work together but make no mistake, they’re not really your friends. That said, when you urgently need a piss on one of these markets and you ask the guy working the stall next to you if he’ll keep an eye you know he’ll say yes. But you also know that he won’t, and furthermore wouldn’t give a jonny jack rabbit if a gang of Romanian women showed up carrying holdalls!

So when you ask that favour and get a positive response you know it means just about nothing. It’s the word of someone who’d frankly prefer to see you piss in your pants and in your heart of hearts you know it. And in his heart of hearts he knows it too but it’s not something you’re likely to bring up in some ruddy confessional. You asking for a promise you know he won’t keep and him making a promise he knows he won’t either. Mutually assured lying! So you rush off close to bursting, pretending to yourself that if fifty Albanians came from all parts of London in a co-ordinated attempt to clean out your stall he’d be there to fight them off, even though knowing the truth while you’re pissing your tea out he’s keeping watch on their behalf and helping them piss all your profits away. But then it’s not East Europeans you need to be worried about but the French kids who’ve gone over your green gem trees like locusts and left not a wrack behind!

So even your pissing was fearful and painful and while you’re doing it you hate the trader next to you selling those hateful little models of Swiss chalets and cuckoo clocks and you’d really like to piss all over them and promise yourself that one day you will! And when you’re back at your stall you see that nothing has gone at all and that you’re okay, only you’re not because two of your willows aren’t there anymore and what you resent more than anything else is not that the bastard on the stall next to you let you down which was on the cards anyway, but that you’d been happy thinking nothing was nicked then plunged into despair when you realised you’d got it wrong and having thanked him prematurely you can’t turn round and say something filthy. And what is the really bad thing in all this? Well I’ll tell you. You want to get your own back, so when he next needs to go for a piss you tell him, sure, don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye out and naturally you don’t. Trouble is he doesn’t get any thieves coming to his stall because nobody wants any of the shit that he’s selling!

So much for putting your trust in others! The people you spend time with day after day. Talking the endless rubbish that traders incessantly talk about. Everyone competing against one another in a mutually assured urination fest! Okay, you need to go for a wee. He promises to keep an eye on your stall. In return you get him a tea as a thank you. He drinks up and needs a wee likewise so you promise to keep an eye in return for which he returns the favour. No sugar mate I’m part diabetic! Now imagine this going on all over the market. Two to three hundred traders all running across to the gents in a hurry then scurrying back holding more cups of tea. And so it goes on like some perverted version of La Traviata.

The fact is that anywhere you are and whatever market you’re working, if you’re on your own you can trust no-one. Everyone’s liable to let anyone down. Not because they’re intrinsically bad but because looking after anyone else’s stall isn’t rightly their business. Their stall is their business, not yours. Why should any trader have to act as anyone else’s unpaid security? What for? Surely not the cup of tea you’re bringing back for them! No, they’ve got their own stuff to look after and sell thank you very much. You and your gear come way down the list, besides which, they don’t like you or your lousy stuff anyway. Fuck you and your talk about crystals and healing, and all the crazies who give you money for bits of rock you dug up in some fucking back garden. And there they are, trying to make an honest living selling designer teapots or zip up penis warmers for dogs, and then there’s you and the shit that’s taking the food out of the mouths of their kids!

Look after your stall while you’re having a wee? No worries!

Okay, now you’ve got some idea of what it’s like working on a market are you still willing to give it a try? If so I need to tell you that you’ve first got to take the compulsory Street Traders Test as required by law. It’s quite simple really. You go to the Snake House at the London Zoo and ask the Head Keeper if you can put your hand into a cage of rattlesnakes. If he’s agreeable and you come out alive then you are certified as fit for the job and may I wish you all the best in your chosen career.

Alternatively of course there’s always bound to be something waiting for you in banking should you change your mind. It’s an occupation that has many compensations, one being an intimate acquaintance with a certain celebrity starlet’s tuning fork.

CRYSTAL PRINCESSES FROM ESSEX

My eyes picked her up in seconds. She was outsize. Big in body with massive thighs, shapely legs in black fishnet stockings, thrusting tits held in place by an extra-small bra under a tight white tee-shirt and to cap it all off a seriously fat arse bursting out of a tiny denim mini-skirt. She looked ridiculous as she pranced towards the stall in her four inch stilettos, but it wasn’t her ruby red lipstick that caught my attention. A fine amethyst crystal dangled neatly on a leather thong between her wondrous appendages.

My mind raced. A real sauce box. She had to be from Essex I speculated. Correctly as it turned out from the minute she opened her mouth!

She wasn’t alone. Hurrying along behind her was a skinny, sharp faced blonde also wearing a mini but this one ultra-short in leather with slightly ripped white fishnets encasing her long shapely legs. Neat little arse, the thought crossed my mind and then the fact both were eyeing me up with a well-controlled satisfaction.

They knew what they were about all right. I was under a pheromone attack and desperately needed assistance. My eyes fastened onto a large piece of Rose Quartz at the front of the table and I tried drinking in its calm, peaceful vibes. Relax, think love and peace… Let the calm flow in and around you…

It helped but only marginally. The blonde was also wearing a crystal. A fine clear quartz double termination also on leather. Clearly they both knew their stuff. With the first flush of their arrival over they began taking in the stall, glancing over the Gem Trees and the various crystals I had out on display along with my semi-precious pendants and mineral specimens. As for myself I’d taken in the Rose tattooed just above the fat girl’s preposterous bum. A really sweet smelling place I thought before letting my mind wander. Christ, if ever I was stuck with her on a desert island without food or any hope of rescue I could live off those thighs for over a year. I immediately banished the thought. A creature like that could easily do for me while I was sleeping.

The idea dissipated when the blonde began talking. Did I have any Moldovite, she asked matter of fact?         

I immediately played my friendly market trader’s gambit. “You girls from Hornchurch,” I enquired affably. This was a market in Central London. Lunchtime on a warm autumn day. Both were from Essex. No doubt about it. They could have come up for the day from Southend or Chelmsford but unlikely. Too far out from London. They had to be from somewhere nearer at hand.

I got a warm smiley rejoinder. How did I know then? Not far from Hornchurch at that.

Surely not Upminster I chuckled?

Their knowing looks said it all. “You some healing wizard?” the skinny blonde asked, tartly arching an eyebrow.

“I’m into crystal healing,” I purred, taking due cognizance, “but I wouldn’t call myself a wizard.”

Her eyes gave me the once over. That special kind of look that every market trader knows. Full of promise but dangerous. Essex all over and predatory with it.

“We’re from the estate down the end of Hall Lane. Know it?”

I knew exactly. “Used to live there myself,” I confirmed, “before I moved out of London.”

The one with the black fishnets smiled at her friend. “We don’t exactly live there any more either. Got ourselves a flat in Romford.”

My eyes widened. Romford! The biggest shit-hole in the Galaxy!

“We’re just out on our lunch-break,” she went on, common as a second hand tampax from that part of the world. “Someone told us there was a stall here selling crystals.”

Essex or not I liked the fact that they were interested. I could see them admiring the trees under the light and much else besides. I made most of the stuff myself I said pleasantly, wanting to convey that I was some sort of craftsman though somehow forgetting my wife and then feeling stupid. Get off with those two? I had to be out of my head. Early twenties and straight out of Romford. Probably shagged their way through the whole Klingon Empire. Five minutes with either and I’d have chlamydia growing out of my eyeballs. That said why be prejudiced? I was there to make a living and they were both wearing crystals. It had to say something. I mean, Essex girls or not they were also believers. Why else were they wearing them?

“That’s a nice double termination you’re wearing,” I said encouragingly. “It’ll give you plenty of energy.”

“Pointed at both ends,” she nodded. “Nice and transparent. Not like the rubbish most people sell.”

“Sounds like you know more than I do,” I breezed, taking in the points bursting out of her top like a promise. Even so, she was nothing compared to her friend. The size of her arse in that tiny mini-skirt was so very Essex. What was uncommon however was her amethyst crystal. Very dark. The very best quality that came only from Uruguay and perfectly formed. What the hell? It was the size of her that was overwhelming my senses, not the crystal. Strange that. As a rule I can’t abide fat women but this one was different. Not so much a tub of lard as a great big bubbly sauce box with something engaging about those legs of hers.

She knew I was looking her over. What the hell indeed? It had to be the fishnet stockings. A woman really needed to have class to look special in them. Classy rather than cheap. There are many men, market traders among them I know of, who are turned on by cheap looking girls. Cheap can mean many things but one of them’s ‘available’ and available means doing something you’d never ever imagined you’d do and winding up in a semi in Romford eating kebabs twenty-four seven and lying on a beach in Benidorm two weeks of the year with three awful kids wanting cod and chips every night… and the ‘ladies’ looking over my crystals conveyed that kind of promise. Or did they? Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe that really wasn’t their style and they were planning to study philosophy at Oxford.

It was a consideration I had to put into abeyance. Having asked permission the big girl picked up my biggest single quartz crystal. A superb piece from Brazil, Not quite transparent but clear enough and well-rounded with a perfect point at one end. Around seven inches long, it didn’t come cheap. Good energy but nothing compared to Moldovite or Sugilite. Seconds later I did a serious double-take, wondering whether I was seeing right. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, working it with her hands and testing its energy, and yet I couldn’t help thinking there was something else going on. Something that wasn’t entirely spiritual. Indeed the more I thought about it there seemed to be a psycho-physical connection between her and the crystal! If I didn’t know better I’d have said she was getting off on it.

My thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. Incredible! I’d never considered that kind of relationship before! Was this something that only happened to women or could men get it too?

She knew what I was thinking. It had powerful energies she confirmed then gave me a real knowing look… Nothing compared to Moldovite, or best of all…

We both said the magical name together. Sugilite!

By this time I’d gone round to the front of the stall hoping I might make a sale. For a moment I thought she would ask if I had any of the wonder mineral but was glad that she didn’t because none was available and the waiting list already long. It really did have a special place in the hearts and minds of the fraternity but then how had she known about it? I was curious and wanted to ask but didn’t. So far that day my sales weren’t up to much. I needed to concentrate on taking some money and the situation seemed opportune. Could I interest her in a nice piece of Rose Quartz I ventured? That piece I had there near the front of the table was special. Just in from Madagascar. A beautiful rose colour and lovely to touch.

“Perfect for calm and tranquillity,” I enthused. “A really loving stone.”

“You mean shagging…” she said matter of fact. “I’m not looking for healing. “I’m more into something that’s activating and enervating.”  

I followed her eyes as they ran over the stall. “Something like Moldovite!”

I saw where she was looking. There was a beautiful pendant lying near one of the trees. A deep rich forest green in colour. From Moravia in the Czech Republic where all the best Moldovite came from. The mineral was rare and it didn’t come cheap. It was certainly an activating stone and she knew it.

“How much?” she said picking it up. “It hasn’t got a chain or anything.”

The chain was incidental. A freebee chucked in for the kind of money I wanted.

I thought quickly. She certainly wouldn’t have it.

“A really fine piece I said lightly “and at a very good price. A hundred and sixty, nothing less. It’s one of the best pieces I’ve had.”

She looked at me disdainfully. “You’re a cheeky bastard,” she said warmly. “I know your kind all right! Dirty as the night is long.”

Somehow I liked her for that. “That’s pleasure,” I said sweetly. “You know what you’re holding is special.”

“Give you one-forty,” she shot back. “Can’t do any more.”

I considered, then shook hands at one-forty-five. A good deal for both of us I thought till she pulled out a wallet bulging with twenties.

“And a nice silver chain she insisted,” asking me to fasten it round her neck.

I did so graciously and with no small degree of affection. It looked good on her and it pleased me.

It wasn’t the money I reflected, just that she had her own kind of class and had it in spades, only it wasn’t my kind of class. I wished her well silently, hoping that the man she met and fell for wouldn’t hurt her too much. Where she’d got that kind of money I wouldn’t ask but she certainly had a real eye for quality.

The sale wasn’t over. Her friend, a blonde piece of work if ever there was one, grabbed the Rose Quartz. I could tell that she liked it. For twenty-five it was a steal and she knew it.

There was something about both of them as they pranced away out of sight They’d both bought qualitied things which is more than I can say about some of the purchases made by women from Chelsea or Kensington. Only these two weren’t Chelsea or Kensington and never would be. They were different kinds of lighthouses that a man can’t take his eyes off. Indeed, the history of the British aristocracy is littered with doxies like these. Raunchy slags who knew how to press all the right buttons.