Another of my favourite things to do as a child was to play computer games. I spent many hours doing this, first with our Atari Consul and then my Commodore 64 computer.
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| Mr Cannon and his lovely wife, Wendy |
Mr Cannon was my school headmaster from St 7 year (1984) to the end of school. He was a wonderful, charismatic, and most of all, warm man who I felt far more connected to than the rather dour and strict Mr Dods who preceded him.
Most of all, Mr Canon was an unbelievable teacher and I was privileged to be taught history by him in the year he arrived. He devoted half the year to an alternative syllabus where we had to glean history for ourselves using clues from archaeological finds and alternative viewpoints and witnessed accounts, rather like a detective does.
The most memorable lesson I've ever had was him facilitating a session one day when Mr Hart, the deputy head, came into the class. Mr Hart was very angry and said something along the lines of, "I saw you eyeing up my wife the other day, how dare you!!" Or something to that effect (I'm not sure Mr Hart was actually married!)
Anyway, Mr Cannon and Mr Hart proceeded to get into a mini scuffle in the classroom with Mr Hart pushing Mr Cannon up against the blackboard and more angry words were said. Then Mr Hart exclaimed "You haven't heard the end of this!" and stormed out of the classroom.
We were all shocked of course! In a state of disbelief. Wow, what had just happened?
Mr Canon straightened his tie and turned to us. Then he smiled and said, "Right class, what did just happen here?"
We realised that the little drama we had just witnessed had been put on for our benefit. There was much laughter and a fair bit of relief.
Mr Cannon then asked us a series of questions as to what had been said, what Mr Hart had been wearing, what we had insinuated from the whole encounter.
There were many variations in our accounts. We all remembered things differently and had made different conclusions according to what he had seen and heard.
Mr Cannon then grinned with great satisfaction and said, "Well class, if you can't all agree on something you all witnessed first-hand just 10 minutes ago, how in the hell can you believe in historical accounts? How can you believe in history?
It's a lesson that has stayed with me all my life since then. It happened nearly 40 years ago, yet I still remember it and reflect on it. If that's not powerful teaching, what is?
Precious childhood letters to Gran and Gramps thanking them for Xmas and birthday gifts.
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I cannot remember exactly when our family got a VHS player but I think it was in the late 70's or early 80's. It became a big part of our lives. I have vivid memories of Gran and Gramps coming over for movies, some of which I was allowed to watch.
The old man shook his head and smiled, and the smile, as it crept over furrow and wrinkle, seemed as sunshine stealing gently over the sands of the sea. Such, indeed, was the thought of the young girl as she sat there watching him from the shadowy corner of the room. He did not often smile, that old man, and a life's story was written on his wrinkled and time-scarred face, and from the lines of suffering visible there and the look of dreamy, far-off sadness in his eyes, it was easy to discern that sorrow had not always passed his door.
He was poor, very, very poor, but proud too, in a beautiful, noble way, and invariably, when they implored him to forsake the loneliness and cheerlessness of his tumble-down cottage for the warmth and comfort of the Poorhouse, he would jump to his feet with grey head held erect, his face would darken and those kindly blue-grey eyes flash with that cold, bright glitter as of steel in the sun. “Nay,” he would cry, hoarsely, determinedly, piteously, “I conno’, I conno’.”
Such was the girl's errand today; an errand of love; the old man knew it, and she was aware of his knowledge, so that words were unnecessary. But yet the old man smiled; but the smile was not for her, and neither was it because of her that those two great tears trickled unheeded down his cheeks. The girl knew that too, instinctively, and because of the sweetness of her nature and the greatness of love in her young heart, burning tears blinded her eyes, and she felt a compassion for the old man which her tongue could not speak. Almost fearfully she gazed again upon his face, wondering what memory could so illumine him, apparently taking his thoughts so far away from things earthly. Rising softly she walked and looked around the small, bare room, unnoticed by the old man, and what she saw upon the snaky, paintless, mantelpiece made her catch her breath, in reverential awe.
Yet it was merely a vase of blue and white violets placed as near as possible to the photograph of a woman.
It was a cracked, very inartistic vase; the frame, of the commonest, and the face was obviously that of a simple country woman, which, like that of the old man, bore the superscriptions of time and toil and trouble, though through it all the girl could catch a glimpse of a one-time comeliness. Musingly she returned to her chair within the shadows as the old man rose, placed the violets carefully in the buttonhole of his old velveteen coat, and gently taking up the photograph resumed his seat, the while wiping the frame and glass with his great red kerchief and looking down upon the face with eyes that shone with a light ineffable. His whole feeble frame seemed to shake with an ecstasy of emotion and those eyes to be looking away into a world of consummated dreams as he turned to the girl, saying:
“Nay, dearie, nay; I know yo’re kind an’ good – main good an’ well meanin’ – but I’d rather stay on an’ die here than in th’ House. As I’m sayin’, Miss, the sight o’ you do cheer me an’ do me good. But see this Photy here? Well, it is my lassie as was, an’ what is now, as God do know. We was allus ones for bein’ kind o’ free-like, ner an’ me, an’ allus hated the name o’ Workuss. After work, which was in th’ evenin’ time o’ course, we useter walk around the lanes where the viluts an’ primroses do grow. We most-an’-generally allus went the same road, we did, an’ the sweetest o’ th’ viluts I allus picked an’ give to th’ lassie arter I kissed ’em. P’raps you thinks that silly Miss, but we didn’t, th’ lass an’ me. Then, when she had ner nands full up, we’d sit on th’ stile an’ listen to the crickets a-chirpin’ an’ the birds singin’, an’ we’d smell the flowers I picked an’ watch th’ sun a-settin’ away beyon’ th’ hills.
“She was rare fond o’ viluts, was Mary, an’ when she died”, here he turned away his grizzled old head, “I put a heap on ’em in her coffrin, an’ a bunch in them pore white hands which did look so smooth an’ pure, an’ as yo’ see Miss, I allus keeps a bunch near her photy in mem’ry like. Ay, we was allus ones for bein’ what th’ pa’son calls in-de-pendent, Missie, ’speciall’ me, an’ afore I’d enter th’ House yon I’d make a bed o’ hay under th’ stars an’ leave the rest to th’ good God. Many calls me a fool — a right down fool Miss — as p’raps you may do — only couldna say it, but as long as I knows th’ lass is waitin’, an’ as long as I can see th’ blue skies glowin’ an’ the viluts an’ primroses bloomin’, th’ ‘house’ll never see me.
D’ye see lass? Mary is waitin’ for me; I can seem to see her smilin’, an’ th’ good Lord havin’ kep’ me ’till now’ll keep me on to th’ end, I do think. Mary died in this room, Miss, an’ please God I’ll die here too. Ay, she died in this very room did my lass. Faithful an’ true she wur for nigh on fifty year Miss. My Mary lass! My Mary lass! An well, little lassie goodnight to yo’ if yo’ must be goin’. I’ll keep yo’ kindness in mind lass, an’ th’ mem’ry o’ yo’ sweet face, but I conno’ go theer, Missie; nay, surely I conno’”...
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But he had gone in the morning, though to a far different home, to the one he had so dreaded and shunned in life, and when they found him he was holding a fading bunch of violets in one white hand and the shabby frame in the other. But his face was smooth, all lines of sorrow and suffering having vanished, leaving in their stead the light of a peace eternal.
’Twas evening in the quiet, beautiful village of Sallipoli – that small Turkish Village, so quaintly but picturesquely built, looking down smilingly upon the scintillating Bosphorous, which stretches right out towards the Dardanelles. A somewhat premature Spring enhanced the beauty of the hills, and the wondrous tints of the evening sky lit up the surrounding country with an exquisite indescribable charm. The fragrance of the heavy-laden flowers lay sweet and refreshing upon the merest suspicion of a faintly whispering breeze, and there was but little to disturb the harmony of this idyllic scene. Occasionally, however, the clear tenor voice of a never-wearying boatman, as he sang one of the well-loved plaintive melodies, was softly wafted up to the listing hills, only to die wistfully away into the almost oppressive silence. The pathetically lugubrious beauty of this apparently joyless village seemed to tell of love – love at least but burning, passionate and all-o’erwhelming, but yet to be consummated. The very sadness of the boatman’s song might have been a pitiful wailing for love that would never come, for something which the singer well knew he could never attain, and even the harsh, intermittent cries of the sea-birds, as they skimmed the waters below, seemed to ring with a dejected, well-nigh forlorn appeal in strange congruity with the entrancing environment. But in the garden yonder, ’midst the bloom of the jasmine and the passion-flower, a love scene was being enacted, which, for passion and zeal, must not be decried. What wonder, when the heavy fragrance of the many flowers, and the incense of every breath of nature mingled and confused the senses of the man sitting there, without his thinking or looking upon the intoxicating beauty of the maiden at his side.
But here I must unfold a secret. She was unveiled! Her religion forbade the unveiling of her charms before man, but who could wonder that the man loved to gaze into those soft, shining eyes, and press those sweet, curved lips, red as ripe luscious fruit?
The young Turk at her side was a fit mate for such as she. Tall and graceful as a young sapling, with a perfect symmetry of form, and poise of the head, and with a beauty of face which resembled that of the girl at his side, save for its strength, he appeared as one whom one might well expect to captivate the heart of this beautiful maiden. As they sat there the smell of the almond and cherry blossom was borne to them, and in the ecstasy of their love they were great and wonderfully happy. The man threw his arms around the maiden, and pressed his burning face to her’s, the while drawing her closer, as he murmured “Life of my heart, sun of my soul, Allah has made you beautiful beyond words – Your soul is as the dew-kissed rose – the sweetness of the flowers has been strewn over your lips – the glories of a world of love shine from your heaven-lit eyes, O essence of my life, and yet you love such as I.” He spoke in a voice low and musical, and the maiden trembled with joy as does the fluttering dove when her mate is near, for she loved him as ardently as he loved her. “Illumined Erene, whose breath is the lilies’ fragrance, and whose voice as the song of the trickling brooklet, though we may never wed, we will love each other through life – till death, and onward even after then – Is it not so? Allah has created you for me, my soul, and to take you from me would be as the loss of life.” A pearl is trembling on your eyelash Erene, and a luminous light of love is shining in your eyes. O, sun of my life, I love you, I love you.” The maiden turned her glowing eyes up to his; a wealth of divine love and pride shone in them as she gazed upon him, and a look of ineffable sweetness lightened her face as she answered, “O Hissau, king of my heart, your words are to me as life. Your love, food to my hungry soul. As the gentle breeze creeps slowly over the sleeping lakes awakening the tiny ripples, so did your love, my Hissau, steal over my sleeping soul. Your kisses are to me as the source of summer rain to the thirsty earth, and as the clear shining moon to the traveller by night. But as you say, my soul, we may never wed; my illustrious father has promised my hand to Kassim-Pacho, whom I hate with a hatred as real and abiding as my love for you. Him I must wed, my Hissau, and through my life will ring my soul’s lament for that which could not be – the holy joy of my body’s "life lived with you – the happy communion of our two souls.
"The sweetness and purity of the morning shall I not see – the fragrance of the dew-laden flowers will not delight me – the songs of the happy birds, as they fly in the dazzling sunshine, will not reach my ears, and the divine glory of nature around will be lost to me. The nodding, smiling flowerlet will miss my answering smile, and the birds my song, but how may I say what your absence will mean to me, my king?” He answered her with an embrace hungry and passionate, and as he saw now great was this maiden’s love for him, and how hopeless his great love for her, his soul grew sad, and his eyes assumed a look of far-off melancholy. For some minutes there was an absolute silence – everything around seemed to be listening with hushed and expectant wonder. Then the young Turk turned to his trembling love, and in a voice of pitiful sadness exclaimed “What Allah has decreed, my soul, we know He will fulfil. Your illustrious father has stricken your soul near to death, my beautiful Erene, by giving you to Kassim- Pachè, and Kassim-Pachè has earned my life-long hatred in accepting you – a maiden whom he does not love – You, my own, were made for love – your eyes to shine forth love and not loathing – your lips to receive and bestow maddening kisses of love, and not to curl in scorn. Your body for the embraces of your soul’s mate, not those of a man of sensuality. Allah gave you that smile, O my heart, to lighten and beautify, not to be hidden away and darken the earth”. Here the maiden checked his words with her tiny hand, and rising to her feet exclaimed “Hissau, O my love, though your words are music to my ears, to whom I would fain sit and hearken for many hours, I must return to my father’s house, but will hasten back with something which I know you will wear as a symbol of our wondrous love – our love which must not be – It is but a ring which I treasure highly, and my soul will be happy in the thought that you, my Hissau, wear it – Wait but a little while, dear heart, when I will return”. With a loving wave of the hand the maiden departed, and her lover’s head sank …dejectedly upon his breast, and he stared, with unseeing eyes, at the sweetly-blooming flowers growing in great profusion at his feet. So intent were his thoughts that he did not hear the heavily laden jasmine branches part, nor see the form of a man creep up behind him, as he sat so deep wrapt in reverie.
The man was Kassin-Pachè, and his face wore a look of indescribable hatred and fury as he looked down upon the unsuspecting lover. Quickly he raised his arm, and something flashed in the pallid evening light, and as quickly it descended with a dull thud, and the murdered man gave scarcely a start as his soul sped into the great unknown. The murderer turned up the rapidly whitening face of his unfortunate victim, and, smiling diabolically, hissed out the words “Now Hissan, beloved lover of beautiful Erene; whose kisses were once to her as rain to the thirsty earth, go to your eternal damnation. Little did you think I heard your sweet words of love, or saw your kisses. May your mate be pluck this dagger from your silent heart, and read of your love in those already dimming eyes.” With a look of hate he turned and vanished from whence he had come, as with a cry of love the maiden returned, holding in the air, between her fingers, the ring which glittered as she hastened along.
As she neared the seat, the smile of love on her fair young face turned to one of childish amusement, as she laughingly cried “Waken, waken O my Hissan – indeed the very flowers do blush for your inability to wait, even for me, for so short a while without sleeping – Waken, wearied Hissan, ’tis I, Erene, who calls to you.” Stooping she pressed a kiss upon his brow, and gave a cry of heart-rending horror as her lips touched his icy forehead. With trembling hands she lifted his cold fallen head from his breast, and who may describe her anguish of heart, as she read in those glassy, sightless eyes, that which ever drives away doubt and freezes the heart. She fell at his feet, moaning in bitter pain, the while stroking his cold white hands. As she did so her fearful eyes rested upon the dagger which pierced him, and with resolute hands she plucked it from her lover’s heart, and the flowers were stained with his blood.
She looked long and almost wonderingly at the weapon, and then at the silent inexpressive face of her lover, when, throwing it to the ground, she placed her arms around his neck, and gazing with a look of wonderful strangeness into his face, cried in a voice of ineffable grief, “Hissan, beloved of my soul, even in death, Allah has decreed that you shall be taken from me by the hand of some foul assassin, whom my heart knows well. But even death shall not divide us, my love, but bring us the closer together. In life, in death, we are inseparable, and as the ivy grows and clings around the rose-tree, so shall my soul cling to your’s. As the parched camel, in the desert, hastens to the life-giving waters, so does my soul hasten after your’s, my king. And what, O my heart, does it mean? A step from a once so beautiful life into far more beautiful death, with you; to be near you for an unending, serene eternity. Behind me I leave your poor murdered body, beautiful even in death, and join your released and happy soul in that boundless realm above. O Hissan, Hissan, sweet love of mine, I come to you.” Even as she spoke she tore the covering from her heaving bosom, and placing the dagger at her heart, with a smile of heavenly resolve, thrust in the gleaming, blood-stained weapon, crying out “Hissan, heart of my heart, I come,” as she fell dead across the body of her lover.
Away, across the hills, the sun had set; the nodding flowers had long since hidden their beauty, only to awaken, more beautiful than ever, on the morrow, with the nowly-risen sun; the evening air was still heavily laden with the fragrance of the jasmine flower and almond blossom, and the voice of one of the boatmen below was still heard, singing one of those plaintive melodies in minor key, as he turned his face to his lowly home. The sea-birds’ harsh cries seemed now to ring with an ever increasing lament for a great and boundless love which had come & gone, and the waters below still scintillated merrily, as the reunited souls of the lovers flew on and on, into the vast territories of the wonderland beyond.
They had known one another precisely one week. One solitary fleeting week, seven extraordinarily brief days; a very breath of one’s lifetime surely? But what mattered that! What mattered Time or the duration of Time! What mattered the relativeness of Time and the progress, or degrees of withering when love was near!
As the girl paddled so quietly, so smoothly down that quiet, deserted Thames backwater, this summer day, the man, lying back on his cushions, gazed long and fixedly into her eyes, and at the sight of his face, so set, so determined yet soft-willed, she smiled half wonderingly, half fearfully, but with a sweetness and guiltlessness beyond words.
“Oh girl, girl,” the man’s inner voice whispered, “dear sunshine of Heaven, how can I help but love?”
He, too, looked to the face so young and fair and soft in its warmings. As fair as a morning such as this, when the sun shone high in an apparently interminable canopy of delightfully blue; when the air, which seemed to caress and kiss with its warm and clinging pithy breath, too full of the overtures of all sweet things. Full of the music of the birds’ song; that inexplicable but bewilderingly seductive suggestiveness of love; the rapture of a perfect peacefulness and the ever lovable smell of the mignonette, borne to them from the lawn yonder by the merest suspicion of a faint, ever-fanning breeze.
Yes, they were both instinctively sweet, the girl AND the morning; in Nature, posture, but only one of which called for the adoration of the other: two of the same great God’s creation, through the joy of the one was lost in the worship of the other. He had loved her from the moment he had first looked on her, when the freshness and loveliness of love had caused his hands to tremble and the veins to throb at his temples.
But he had only recently returned from the fighting in Africa, an unwounded, helpless young soldier; a babe, scarce able to move, but safe in the hands of many loving nurses, and who wrathfully denounced things in general as, with careful step, they daily carried him to the punt at the river-side.
“Oh, hang it! hang it!” he would cry. “Hang it all! A curse on my helplessness and on a universe and the Boers and their half-languid, dirty, inane surprises.” But at the touch of the girl’s hand and the gentle rebuke of her eyes he would mumble an incoherent apology, but his soul within him cried, “Girl, oh girl, but for you, and the joy of you, what’s there in life for me—a wreck—a useless thing!”
They had known pluckers of love, these two. Words of the lips were unnecessary. They understood, but the man in his but slight knowledge of the byways of woman’s love, saw in his helplessness an unscalable gulf separating her life from his. But how little he knew how very little! How soon he was to know the great answer to all the past gently falling silences—she loved and liked him, and that in his true weakness her little heart bled and bled with an unutterable yearning to share his life and comfort him!
Today as he lay there so helpless, and watched the perfect dip and recover of the paddle and the sky-thriven bend and sway of her shoulders, again his soul cried out—“Oh Angela girl, you’re the one I’ve wanted these many years; the one I’ve dreamed of—I prayed for—Oh, you’re mine; that’s all, mine!”
The girl just smiled as if hearing and understanding his unspoken cry, and smiled yet again. But to hear his voice said, “Angela, dear, kind, faithful friend, how can I ever repay you for your unwavering kindness and help to me? How can I? I’m on short time as they say—mean to live three days at a time, they little girl, little Angela, it’s only during these days that the sunshine has lit up the world and reached my heart! These hours only truly, any worthiness, any good, any hope, and it’s out, since you first smiled on me that it is I’ve thought the world has a place for a—a wreck like me. Oh little Angela, dear, dear little heart, how can I find the words to tell you what you are to me? They jumble in my throat, and I cannot say what you mean in my life, little girl, by my faith.”
“Don’t try, Jimmy dear,” the girl whispered, Heaven glowing in her eyes, and a great joy quavering in her voice, “I know dear, I know.”
“But you girl, you, you, what of you?” the man made answer, straining forward, “Tell me, Angela, that after all, Jimmy dear History, dear helpless old body and all, you know, surely? You care—that’s it! I care, too, so that I cannot tell how—there seem no words.”
“But—but—look at me Angela girl, look, look!” he said in a voice scarce believing, “Look at me—a wreck—a ship with its engines busted—sort of—helpless, quite—quite helpless. God only knows how.”
“Hush, Jimmy dear, hush oh hush.” Earnest were the eyes of the girl, full of an infinite appeal as she crawled to his side and took his own feeble hands in her own soft white ones. “Don’t speak like that, don’t, don’t, don’t!” she said. And in that sweet look of Heaven-whispers she bent her head and laid her sweet young lips on his, and an awe sweeter, better than that of the heavens, affected his eyes.
And after, with her fair face to his, and with a charming shyness, she told him too she had yearned for him to speak, how she longed to find and comfort him—and the man, closing his eyes to the joy of it, just murmured “Thank God, oh thank God,” right out loud in his heart.
How long they lay thus who knows, but the faint evening shadows were drawing around before the girl again took up the paddle. They had many things to speak of—of dreams, hopes, fairies and castles in the air. He told her of his experiences in Africa—of the never-ending rays of an African sun as they would beat down upon them as they waited, crouching behind boulder and rock, with forefinger unconsciously stroking around trigger, mad, mad, mad to fight and forget the horrible "Think" which assailed them. He spoke of the haze of heat which danced and dawdled weirdly, over sand and scrub, and of the unceas’n’ unvoluminous drone of the myriads of tormenting insects. He described with vivid reality, the whirr of the shells as they flew overhead, and the Bang and Crash as they came to earth and burst.
But when he would have told her of the havoc of those death-dealing monsters, she covered her eyes and bade him stop, for such a one had caused his injury.
Then they spoke of happier things, and once again, as he so earnestly, infeatured her, she smilingly stole a kiss from him when catching her foot in the bottom of the punt, she stumbled—the man’s heart leapt and he clutched at her dress—but it was too late—she fell sideways into the dark, darkly waters.
“Oh God of Heaven! The water is deep and the girl wants to swim! The man helpless! ‘Angela! Angela!’” he cried in a terrible scream as he struggled in vain to raise his poor body. “Guide the punt, dear girl,” he shouted the side, “for the love of Heaven!” He could hear the sounds of the struggling—then the gasp! – gasp! – gasp! “Oh God!” Great beads of perspiration started down his face; he elevated his hands until his nails drew blood – “Girl, Girl oh girl! hold, hold the punt!” he shrieked.
But there was silence, and the man screamed and clattered as he lay, tortured by his helplessness, until the world went dim, and a terrible blackness, and then red – red – and burst into swinging cruel sparks, and undying red eyes.
There were no sounds to him but gasps – the sound of that fair, sweet, pure voice, lips he had so lovingly kissed gasping for breath, where words not come. Oh cruel! cruel!
In fancy he saw those eyes, beautiful, oh God, as of even a life; staring, staring wild, and gradually dimming in death. He could see those limp hands clutching – clutching – clutching – nothing but water which slipped through—through her fingers. He struggled madly – oh it was cruel! “God; I will save her – I must!” Was she wondering why he didn’t help her? Surely, she knew – SURELY she remembered! “Angela! Angela!” he screamed again. “I can’t move! Oh girl, girl! I can’t move! Angela! Where are you? Help! Angela! Where are you? Help, oh help!”
But there was no sound, and the man shrieked and screamed, using horrible blasphemies, and turning his eyes to the sweet blue of the evening sky, so like to the blue of those other eyes, cursed the God who had made him, and who had left him here in his cruel helplessness.
Then struggling madly, oh so madly, with eyes glowing and teeth chattering, by some great wonderful effort he raised his almost dead head to the front of the punt, and looking into the shadowy waters, saw — nothing.
“Oh God! Poor, poor Jimmy!”
He gazed and gazed at the cruel water with eyes that looked, looked and looked; two sightless white lips babbled terrible, meaningless, and blasphemous things, and bits arms mad, beating the water.
The stars of the summer night looked down on the sad picture with blinking eyes—On the body of the man whose head fell over the side of the punt, whose arms dangled in the scintillating river, and from whose mouth something dark drifted grim, down, staining, flooding the still, lapping water.
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| As an Angel |
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| As Joseph |
One of my favourite and most influential teachers at St Georges was beautiful Jenny Mallett.
Jenny was a veritable force of nature. A large woman with a booming, strident voice, she always carried a big wooden ruler that she would rap against the wall to make a loud noise if she was angry or wanted everyone to be quiet. But she never once hit anyone with it. I was scared of her to start, but soon I began to realise that under the tough exterior, there was an extremely caring, affirming and wonderful person. As someone else once said, "We all got to experience that growl at times, but inside Jenny was the biggest marshmallow filled with love." She was the kind of person you felt you could confide in and you could always rely on her to give you gentle words of encouragement and honest feedback. But woe and betide if you misbehaved or made her lose her temper. She had a very low tolerance for laziness or bullying or serial misbehaving.
When I was 9, I had Jenny as my class teacher and I loved being in her class except for Fridays when we would conduct one of her dreaded mental tests. Jenny would shout out "times table questions" in rapid succession and we would have to write the answers as quickly as we could in to keep up. And you certainly didn't want to get more than a few wrong or you would be in big trouble.
Jenny taught swimming too and her strident voice would boom out across the pool as she stood, bouncing on the diving board, giving instructions to the swimmers. The more excited or upset Jenny got, the more she would bounce and we often anticipated her bounces becoming sufficient to launch her large frame into the pool. But it never happened while I was there. However it was rumoured that a few years previously, Jenny had got so upset with a student who would not follow instructions that she had leapt off her perch into the water below with a mighty splash and dunked the poor chap. This was a school legend and I very much doubt it ever actually happened.
