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Froggy French Fluency
by Ian Mathieson
I did return to the school for the 50th and 60th anniversaries of the departure of my Senior class.
A wonderful set of memories cluster around Froggy French, who, paradoxically, was my English teacher. He was my French teacher as well; perhaps not unsurprisingly. His real name, I found out years later, was Emile du Pret. He was known as Mr French but his nom de plume (see, my lessons weren’t entirely wasted), known even by the other teachers, as Frenchy.
His French lessons were terrific. He smoked a pipe during class — didn’t everyone then? In the occasional happy coincidence of his running low on pipe tobacco and my putting in a decent attempt at an assignment, I’d be issued with a ten-shilling note and allowed to enjoy the class by meandering into town to buy him a new plug. None of this would be today: a teacher smoking in class, and of course, a tobacconist selling pipe tobacco to a fifteen-year-old kid.
His English lessons were even better than his French. For a Froggie — a term he’d use “ironically”, with reference to himself — he had a massive knowledge of English literature.
Appleby, like many of his cohort — country lads with no expectations other than going back to run the farm or property, and for whom high school was a necessary evil — had difficulty paying attention. Froggy loved alliteration; he’d smile with quiet satisfaction in chiding “Turnover” Appleby, ‘Adrian, the apex of aprosexia in this awful agrarian backwater.’ We all knew he’d have loved to have said “arsehole” rather than “backwater”; this made it even more delicious.
Similarly, Froggy once sent one to the keeper, straight past the batsman, when he sent Stephen Shawshank to see Sister in the Sickbay (aka Infirmary). The memorable command, ‘Shawshank, scuttle your scabrous skeleton to Sister on account of constant and irreparable slacking — you’re the most insalubrious scrimshanker in this school.’ Shawshank slunk off. By the way, he was also sniffling and coughing rather profusely.
To my mind, Froggy reached a pinnacle when Andrew Lichtenstein submitted an assignment — at the time we called them “essays” — that blatantly played to Froggy’s preferences. He’d thought about Froggy’s likes and dislikes and composed the worst suck-up I’ve ever read. It was completely shameless; it lacked even a smidgeon of subtlety. ‘Andy Lichtenstein, you’ve submitted the most appalling and lacklustre, antediluvian, lickspittle, artless suck-up I’ve ever read. You go to the top of the class … for mediocrity.’
The bell for end of class tolled through the School. ‘Hark, is that the tintinnabulation of the bells, bells, bells that I hear? Well, some of us have done something to advance mankind today — only a few, I might add — so we might as well Edgar Allan Poe off.’
On my final Speech Day, Froggie caught up with me. ‘Oh, and Mathieson. When you go to Paris, as I’d imagine you shall, of course, you’ll visit Notre Dame and the rest of the interesting things about the city, but you will not see beauty and feel the depths of its spirit until you sit quietly in Sainte-Chapelle. And I trust that, when you do, you will remember me kindly.’
I did visit Paris, I did visit Notre Dame, and I did sit quietly in Sainte-Chapelle. And, well over sixty years later, I certainly do remember him with great affection.