by Meredith Stephens

“Today we would like you to take the German class,” announced the deputy, handing me the day’s schedule. “The German teacher is unwell.”

I forced a smile and nodded, inwardly panicking. The only German I knew were the numbers one to twenty, ‘Guten Morgen’, and ‘Guten Abend’. I wondered how I would get through the lesson. In the UK it was generally assumed that language teachers would be able to teach both French and German. I was on a working holiday from Australia, where I had been trained to teach Japanese. Of course, Japanese was not offered in this historic school in Bethnal Green, but I only ever wanted to teach languages, so I put myself forward as a teacher of French. In French at least, I was able to keep one step ahead of the students.

I entered the unfamiliar classroom on the opposite side of the corridor from my French classroom. The children were busy talking to each other and hardly noticed that I had entered the room. What was I going to teach them today? At least if it had been French I would have been able to give them a dictation. Dictations usually worked. All I had to do was read the passage to the class, and most children listened attentively as they wrote down what I was saying. I picked up the textbook from the teacher’s desk and opened it to the page that they were up to. I spotted a list of German vocabulary with their English translation equivalents. Having them copy a list from the board was not my preferred pedagogical activity, but at least it would keep them busy, and I would not have to speak an unknown language to them. I started copying the vocabulary onto the blackboard.

“Please copy these words into your exercise books,” I instructed.

As I was copying the words onto the board I had a sense that the children were not listening to me. I turned to face the class.

“Quiet! Open your exercise books and copy the vocabulary!” 

I have never been able to summon attention by shouting. No-one was listening other than two girls sitting at their desks in front of the teacher’s desk. I am ashamed to say I frowned at them too as I upbraided the class, despite these girls being the only ones to follow my instructions. Somehow the forty-minute lesson passed, fruitlessly. This happened to be the last day I would teach in London. The next day, just before Easter, I was due to fly home to Australia with a stopover in San Francisco. This was not how I wished to spend my last day on the job. I looked at the two girls sitting in front of me. I recognised them from my French class across the corridor. They were the most diligent girls in the class. They loved the study of French, and often asked me questions about Australia. At the end of the lesson they stood up and passed me a package in wrapping paper tied with a ribbon.

“Merci, Madame. We really appreciated having you as our French teacher this year. We are sorry that you are going back to Australia. Thank you for all that you have done for us.”

Suddenly the distraction of the inattentive students faded into the background. My attention was seized by these two earnest students, smiling at me.

“Merci! C’est très gentil,” I thanked them.

They hugged me in turn. I had to stand completely still without returning the hug. Even in those days, I knew that you must never make physical contact with a student.

“This means a lot to me. You have worked so hard at your French! I have really enjoyed teaching you. I wish you well with your studies!”

I took the parcel with both hands while beaming at them. I chose to remember my last day in this London school with the memory of these two girls, rather than the unruly German class.

The next day I headed to Heathrow Airport ready for the flight to San Francisco. The parcel remained unopened in my hand luggage. When I arrived at my hotel I couldn’t resist the temptation of opening the present. It was too beautifully wrapped to open, but I was curious. I untied the ribbon and carefully prised the wrapping paper apart. Inside was a giant Easter egg on which ‘Bon Voyage’ had been written in icing. The East End was the poor end of town, and I realised what a gesture this gift was. 

Of all the lessons I taught over those years in the East End, this is the one that stands out in my memory, over thirty-five years later. In my long teaching career that followed, I always resolved not to let my attention be dominated by the disruptive students, but to attend to the undemanding quiet ones as well, as much as for my sake as for theirs.