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(extract from 'The Heart of London' by M. Dickens) In the staff room of Abbot's Road Secondary Modern School, Grace Peel ate her sandwiches while she corrected the essays of Form 1b. They were her despair, and suddenly her joy. She could be utterly defeated, exhausted by the impossible struggle to force knowledge into minds that were stockaded against learning. Then all at once the class was quiet, listening to what she read, and some shabby twelve-year-old who had not said a sensible word all week jumped up and asked a beautifully imaginative question. "You're too pretty to be so industrious", Mr Ferris, the senior assistant said. "You won't catch me correcting essays in the lunch hour. I flick through them in class while the flower of Commonwealth youth is copying down the dates of kings. Where should we be without the dates of kings? You're even reading those abominations, aren't you?" "But I really enjoy reading them. It's so exciting when they improve, even just a little bit, or when they suddenly put in something, with the grammar and spelling all wrong, but some really original twist of imagination. Listen to this." She turned back to the mutilated exercise book on the table in front of her. Terry. He lives in one of those awful streets behind the Baths and he thinks Hampstead Heath is the country, but he's written here: "I am looking forward to the spring because the leaves curl out of the buds like a hand opening". Grace took another sandwich, gave Terry an A mark, and took the next open book from the pile. There were only two lines on the page, cramped up at the top underneath a heading. "Wy I lik Spring. It is a season after Winter. Not so Cold". The next composition was longer. It covered three pages. It may have contained some startling thoughts, but it was completely illegible. The class which had been Grace's for the year since she had finished her probation at Abbot's Road and moved on to the staff as a qualified teacher, was in some respects the most difficult group in the school. They were first-year children who had moved on from the primary school two streets away, not in the excitement of progress, but in the dullness of disappointment. These were boys and girls who had failed their eleven-plus examination and could not go to Grammar School. They had given up, and it was Grace's gargantuan task to get them going again. Before they took the examination, the more literate among them had known ambition. Since they failed they had lost interest and in most cases their parents had lost whatever interest they had in their children's schooling. Some of the boys were "latchkey lids", whose mothers had jobs which kept them away longer than the school hours, so that the boys either went round to "my Nan's", or home to an empty flat, or out casting for trouble on the streets. Acting, which was not a lesson, was their favourite lesson, and Grace quite often let them perform impromptu sketches of bloodshed and torture as a means of keeping them eager. For some of them, it was the only piece of the school day, apart frpm dinner and recreation, in which they could take part. After five years at elementary school, they were almost completely illiterate. "You can help them", the headmaster had told her. "You can help the thick ones by making them feel secure at school and - what's the word I want? - necessary, I suppose. Wanted in a way that most of them aren't wanted at home.
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