The Money Makers
Jeremy Taylor
Copyright 2011 by Jeremy Taylor
Smashwords Edition
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CHAPTER 1
“Come on now fourth years, settle down.” After no detectable change in volume, Mr Drayton protested again. “I said settle down! David, have you finished the map yet?”
“What map sir?” came David’s disheartening reply.
“The one on page forty three!”
“Not yet sir,” said David as he thumbed through the dog-eared geography book to the appropriate ink-stained page.
Mr Drayton noticed an untidy scuffle at the back of the classroom. “Girls at the back, what are you doing?”
‘The girls at the back’ ran giggling away from the scene of the crime, leaving Alan Williams to pick himself up off the floor. As he stood up the nature of the crime became apparent. Alan’s large, dark eyes were brightly embellished with wide, untidy rings of blue eyeshadow. When he blinked, a sprinkling of mascara fell from his eyelashes and stuck to the smear of lipstick that had strayed from the gaudy ring of scarlet around his mouth. Alan stood, feebly holding onto the back of his chair, for moral, rather than physical, support.
“Right, I’ll see you girls at the end of the lesson.” This, he had been told at Teacher Training College, was a ‘veiled threat’, forcing the unfortunate pupils to quake in their shoes until the end of the lesson, when a suitable punishment could be given. This, however, was not Teacher Training College. It was the frightening reality of Greenbrook Comprehensive School.
“But we ain’t done nuffin’ sir,” said Sharon Smith, with almost believable innocence.
“That’s not true, Sharon,” said Mr Drayton. “Alan, go to the toilets and clean yourself up.”
A snigger of laughter rippled across 4B as Alan’s dishevelled figure shuffled awkwardly towards the door.
“Aw sir, we was only havin’ a bit o’ fun,” said Melissa Jenkins, once Alan had left the room.
“I doubt very much if Alan considered it ‘a bit o’ fun’,” said Mr Drayton, imitating Melissa. “Now come on, all of you. I want you to finish the map on page forty three and answer the questions. What you don’t finish now, you’ll do for homework.”
This rallying speech seemed to have some effect on 4B, who, rather like a lawn mower with the clutch depressed, had calmed to a low buzz of noise. Mr Drayton sank wearily into his chair. When he looked up he saw a tall figure, wearing a long blue cardigan, as he looked further up he saw a long, thin face, topped by a neat wave of blonde hair. This was Anthea Pringleton.
“Yes Anthea?” said Mr Drayton.
“Please sir,” she said, almost apologetically, “I’ve finished.”
“Let me have a look then Anthea,” said Mr Drayton, reaching across his desk for the book. Then, peering anxiously over the top of the exercise book, he glanced quickly at the neatly shaded map of Wales showing the principle sheep farming areas.
“This is very good Anthea,” he said to his prize pupil. “Fourth years, I’d like you to stop what you’re doing and look at Anthea’s book.”
Mr Drayton held the book up and twenty eight faces stared at the meticulous handwriting and detailed diagrams. Anthea, meanwhile, stood nervously at the side of the desk, pulling her socks up, which didn’t need pulling up and scratching an ear, which didn’t really need scratching. She smiled uncomfortably at the rest of the class, her wide metal brace gleaming at them in the sunlight.
“Creep!” said a voice from the back.
“She is not a creep Melissa,” said Mr Drayton, who was ready for some remark from the ‘girls at the back’. “She is merely a good geographer who is interested in doing well in her exams.”
“But geography’s borin’ sir,” retorted Melissa.
“No it’s not Melissa,” said Mr Drayton, defending a point of view that he did not really hold. “You can learn all about foreign countries; America, Japan, Australia...”
“But we don’t sir.”
“Don’t what Melissa?”
“We don’t learn about America and that. All we do is bloody sheep farming in Wales.”
Mr Drayton halted the wave of applause and laughter by shouting “Melissa Jenkins! One hundred lines, I must not swear in class.”
“Aw sir,” said Melissa.
She’s right though, thought Mr Drayton to himself, It is bloody boring.
Suddenly, the bell rang and there was a rush to collect things together and get out of the door. “Don’t forget your homework!” called Mr Drayton to the mass of bodies squeezing through the door. “The map on page forty three AND the questions.” He then sighed as he remembered his veiled threat to ‘the girls at the back’. Still, he would get them next lesson. Mr Drayton turned to clean his blackboard and noticed a picture of two excessively woolly sheep being excessively friendly with each other in the corner of the blackboard. He smiled at the passionate sheep before rubbing them into a cloud of chalk dust.
“She’s right, isn’t she sir?”
On hearing Duncan Bradley’s voice behind him, Mr Drayton turned quickly around, surprised that he was not alone. “What do you mean Duncan?”
“About geography being boring,” said Duncan, adjusting his glasses, which didn’t really need adjusting.
Mr Drayton was quite tempted to confess his own distaste for geography to Duncan. “Well, I admit there are some areas of the syllabus which could be a little more exciting.”
“I think it’s all boring sir.”
“But Duncan,” said Mr Drayton, surprised at this mutinous behaviour by one of his best pupils. “You’re a good geographer. You’re going to do well in your exams.”
“That doesn’t stop it being boring sir,” replied Duncan with annoying logic.
“No, no, I suppose it doesn’t,” said Mr Drayton stalling for time. “Oh damn! I’m on duty today.” For once he was thankful for this odious task from the headmistress to get him out of this awkward conversation. “Run along now Duncan.”
“All right sir,” said Duncan, “but I still say that Melissa was right.”
Mr Drayton watched Duncan Bradley leave the room. He stood for a moment, thinking of their conversation, before suddenly remembering the conversation the headmistress would have with him if he missed his duty. He picked up his briefcase, scanned the classroom, turned out the lights and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 2
“And then she said, ‘all we do is bloody sheep farming in Wales!’” Helen laughed and reached for some more Brussels sprouts.
“What did you say?”
“I gave her a hundred lines.”
“Oh Graham, you cruel thing!” said Helen, who was always willing to take the side of his pupils against her hard-hearted husband.
“I had to, school rules,” said Graham, defending his position as he scraped the last of the French beans onto his plate.
“There must be something interesting in the syllabus,” said Helen, who now appeared to be trying to defend the examination boards.
Two minutes later, Graham and Helen Drayton were sitting together by the fire, scanning a copy of the geography syllabus for anything that could remotely be called interesting. Climatology, meteorology, soils and vegetation soon bit the dust. Other topics quickly followed; tin mining in Cornwall, wheat cultivation in East Anglia and of course, the by now infamous, sheep farming in Wales.
By half past eleven they had massacred the syllabus, leaving just two parts which could possibly be called interesting; volcanoes and something vaguely termed ‘economic geography’.
“What’s that?” asked Helen.
“It’s where we get the kids to learn the Gross National Product of loads of countries and the reason why it varies.”
“Gross National what?”
“Gross National Product, how much people earn.”
“I thought economics was to do with business,” said Helen.
“Well it is, sort of,” replied her husband, who had never liked _definitions, particularly of rather complicated subjects like economics.
_”Business could be fun,” said Helen. “I remember you once told me about a business you had at school. Selling beer, wasn’t it?”
“Lager,” said Graham with a smile on his face. It was true. As a sixth former he had brewed and sold many bottles of foul tasting lager to other sixth formers. They had bought it, not because of its taste, which some likened to dish water, but simply because it was against school rules. It had been a successful little venture with which he had actually made some money. “But I’m not going to tell them about that!” said Graham, who was keen to make a good impression, not only with the pupils, but also on Mr Grimes, his head of department.
“Well change the product,” said Helen, now getting quite interested in the subject. “Teach them about how a business works and then, at the end of the lesson, tell them about your business.”
“With a different product,” said Graham, who liked the idea of an interesting lesson.
“Exactly!”
“Like what?” asked Graham optimistically.
“That’s your problem,” said Helen, satisfied that her role as advisor was now complete. “but make it something that they can relate to, something they could do themselves.”
It was two o’ clock in the morning when Graham Drayton finally crawled into bed. He had dug out his old University text books and had planned, what he considered to be, an interesting lesson: An introduction to economic geography. A look at the Stock Exchange, something about big businesses, raising of capital, factory location, government intervention and the Laissez-Faire policy. (Madame Blot, the French teacher, would be pleased if he threw in a bit of French.) At the end of the lesson, he would tell them about his own business at School, discreetly changed to the picking and selling of mushrooms.
At a quarter to four the following day, Mr Drayton had nearly completed his lesson on economic geography. It had not been the burning success that he had hoped for. 4B came from chemistry so they were quite subdued at the start of the lesson. They cheered when he mentioned that they would not be studying sheep farming in Wales, but unfortunately they booed when he said that they were going to look at economic geography instead.
They yawned through his introduction of the subject and many noses were cleaned during his talk about factory location. After he gave out the booklets on the internal workings of the Stock Exchange (borrowed from Mr Webb, economics) there was an encouraging flutter of excitement. However, this was only due to an argument between Shelley White and Sharon Smith over which stockbroker, on the floor of the Stock Exchange, was the best looking.
They laughed at his pronunciation of Laissez-Faire and Brian Jones said that he wished the Government would have a Laissez-Faire policy towards education. The others cheered this, whilst they weren’t too sure exactly what a Laissez-Faire policy was, Brian was a rebel, and anything a rebel said, was worth cheering.
“Now fourth years,” said Mr Drayton, “Today, one of the things we’ve been looking at is big businesses. But where do big businesses come from? They don’t grow on trees.”
“Please sir,” said Anthea Pringleton, raising her hand. “Do they develop from small businesses?”
“That’s right Anthea,” said Mr Drayton, pleased that at least one member of the class was following him. “But where do small businesses come from?”
“Gooseberry bushes!” shouted Brian Jones, elbowing Terry Ford in the ribs to encourage him to join in his own raucous laughter.
“No Brian, that wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” said Mr Drayton wearily, “Anybody?”
4B looked blankly back at him.
“Good ideas,” said Mr Drayton, tapping the side of his head. “Someone has a good idea that they think will work, so they set up a small business. If they work hard and if their idea is good, it could become a big business.”
The idea of working hard, simply to form a big business out of a small business, did not appeal to 4B, who demonstrated their lack of interest by gazing out of the window and passing rude notes to each other.
“Now fourth years,” began Mr Drayton, about to embark on the final part of the lesson. “It might interest you to know...”
“I bet it won’t!” squealed Sharon Smith and started laughing like an excited piglet.
“It might interest you to know,” began Mr Drayton again, this time glaring at Sharon Smith, “that I set up my own small business whilst I was at school. I picked and sold mushrooms.”
The effect was less than devastating. Mr Drayton surveyed his class to see their reaction to his bold statement. As he did so he saw a wide uncontrolled yawn from Tracey Longworth, David Johnson was playing with his calculator and Brian Jones was admiring the piece of chicken on the end of his finger which he had just succeeded in prising out from between his front incisors. “‘ow much did you make then sir?” asked Brian, now happily chewing on the strand of chicken.
“Oh, about five pounds a day.”
While 4B were not the most intelligent group in the school and had not been enthralled with factory location and the internal workings of the Stock Exchange, they were interested in five pounds a day and an excited buzz began in the classroom.
“Where did you get’em from?”
“How long did it take you to pick’em?”
“Who did you sell’em to?”
“What did you do with the money?”
The questions came in like bullets. Not being prepared for this barrage of questions, particularly as his business was fictitious, meant that some of his answers were rather vague. This did not deter the now excited 4B.
“Of course you can’t all become mushroom pickers,” said Mr Drayton, seeing their enthusiasm.
“Why not sir?” asked Tracey Longworth, who had calculated that she would make thirty five pounds a week, more than her sister on the dole.
“Because the market would become saturated,” explained Mr Drayton.
“You mean like wet, sir?” asked Brian Jones, who had swallowed his piece of chicken.
“No, no,” said Mr Drayton, “I mean that if you all went out picking mushrooms, you would have so many, you wouldn’t be able to find enough customers.”
“Oh,” said Brian, who already had ideas of which motorbike he was going to buy with the money he would make from selling mushrooms.
“Sir,” came Melissa Jenkins’ whine from the back. “It’s a good idea sir, this mushroom picking, so why did you stop? I mean, why did you give up your business and become a teacher?”
This intelligent side of Melissa Jenkins was something new to Mr Drayton and he was not sure how to handle it. Luckily, his limited knowledge of biology came to the rescue. “The mushroom season ended in November, just before my A’ level mocks, so I had to stop my small business then,” he said, relieved to have found a convincing answer to Melissa’s question, particularly as the whole class was listening to him, a rare occurrence for 4B.
When the bell went, there was not the usual mad dash for the door, but the gradual disappearance of small groups of excited pupils, all discussing where the best mushroom fields could be, whose auntie would buy the most mushrooms and other vital questions.
“Good lesson sir.” Duncan Bradley had stayed behind again.
“Thank you Duncan,” said Mr Drayton, “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Yes sir, it was interesting. Can you teach us some more about business next lesson?”
“I’m afraid not Duncan,” replied Mr Drayton. “We’ve got a syllabus to follow you know.”
“I know that sir,” said Duncan, lifting his rucksack onto his shoulder and pushing his glasses up. “I just wish the rest of the syllabus was as interesting as today sir.”
So do I, Duncan,” said Mr Drayton, “so do I.”
After Duncan Bradley had left the room, Mr Drayton hit his forehead with his palm. Damn! he thought to himself, he had forgotten to see the girls at the back. Still, he would get them next lesson.
CHAPTER 3
“Well, how did it go?” asked Helen Drayton as her husband came in.
“Not too bad,” he said, stealing a stick of asparagus from the serving dish.
“What did you teach them about then?” asked Helen as she had been fast asleep at two o’clock the previous night and had slept considerably longer than her husband’s seven o’clock alarm bell.
Helen’s face became more and more aghast as Graham went through the details of the lesson. “But I think they liked the bit about the mushrooms,” said Graham.
“ Mushrooms? What mushrooms?”
“I changed my lager selling business into a mushroom picking and selling business.”
“Not bad,” said Helen. “Not bad at all.” For once she was quite impressed with one of her husband’s ideas. “So what was their reaction?”
“Well, they asked a lot of questions,” said Graham, thinking back over the lesson, “and they were quiet.”
“Graham that’s fantastic!” said Helen, giving him a parsley sauce flavoured kiss. “I told you those kids were only human. Give them something that interests them and they’ll work like crazy. You are going to follow it up next lesson - aren’t you?” she added as she saw the look on his face.
“Actually, I thought I’d better get on with volcanoes, you see...”
“ VOLCANOES!” bawled Helen, doing quite a good impression of a volcano herself. “For the first time in six months you’ve got 4B interested in something and you’re going to drop it?”
“Yes, but Mr Grimes...”
“To Hell with Mr Grimes, you owe it to yourself Graham.” The eruptions from the volcano continued.
“I couldn’t do it during lesson time though.”
“Well do it out of lesson time then; break time, lunch time, after school, weekends, holidays, just make sure you encourage those kids rather than dragging them through a syllabus which bores both them, and you, to tears.”
“But what if they’re not interested?” protested Graham, who was still not sure of the capabilities of 4B in the small business world.
“Hold a meeting then. If no one is interested then no one will turn up and you’ve lost nothing,” said Helen, beginning to calm down.
“Mmm. I suppose you’re right,” said Graham. “I’ll give it a go.”
At break time the following day, Mr Drayton was having a cup of coffee with the other geography teachers.
“I say, Drayton,” said Mr Grimes, the head of the geography department, “I hear from Mr Webb that you were using his Stock Exchange booklets with 4B. Is that right?”
“It is,” replied Mr Drayton, wondering what Mr Grimes was getting at.
“Well, Drayton, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think that the Stock Exchange is on the fourth year syllabus.”
Mr Drayton felt that his conversation with Mr Grimes was the only one that could be heard in the staff room. “Well, not directly, Mr Grimes.”
“Not directly, what exactly do you mean by that, Mr Drayton?”
Mr Drayton did not like being called ‘Drayton’ by Mr Grimes, but when he changed to ‘Mr Drayton’, he knew things would get worse. “I slipped it in with economic geography.”
“You ‘slipped it in’, did you?” said Mr Grimes, emphasising the words, almost as though Mr Drayton was in court, and Mr Grimes was relishing his task on he side of the prosecution, showing the jury the idiot that stood in the dock.
“They found it interesting,” said Mr Drayton in his defence.
“I happen to find page three of The Sun interesting, but I wouldn’t put it into a geography lesson, old boy.”
This, thought Mr Drayton, was not the best time to ask Mr Grimes about a business club. “I’m sorry, Mr Grimes,” he said, “it won’t happen again.”
“Glad to hear it, Drayton,” said Mr Grimes as he slapped Mr Drayton on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it.”
Now that he was being called ‘Drayton’ again, meant that he had got through the worst and could now expect his punishment. However, on this particular day, Mr Grimes was feeling in a generous mood and, with only the embarrassment of having had his character assassinated in front of his fellow teachers, Mr Grimes left Mr Drayton in search of another victim.
“Not the friendliest of men, old Mr Grimes.” Mr Shaw, the head of the fourth year, had taken Mr Grimes’ seat.
“That’s true,” said Mr Drayton, his hands still shaking after his conversation with Mr Grimes, causing him to spill his coffee. “He is rather difficult at times.”
At thirty two Mr Shaw was quite young to be a head of year. However, his size, almost two metres, and his academic achievements, a PhD in biology from the University of Durham, meant that he was a popular person with the headmistress and made an excellent head of year. Being the only black member of staff at Greenbrook meant that he had initially had a few problems, mainly with ‘concerned’ parents. But it was not long before he was accepted for what he was, one of the best teachers in the school. The girls swooned over him and he was idolised by many of the boys. Even Mr Drayton admired the ease with which Mr Shaw controlled classes. His ability to pick up boys by the scruff of the neck with one hand was a skill that Mr Drayton would have loved to have possessed.
“So how are things then, Graham?” asked Mr Shaw, who had been asked by the Headmistress to spread a protective wing over the new teachers.
“Oh, not too bad,” said Mr Drayton in the typical resigned manner of a new teacher who knows the first couple of years would not be easy.
“I hear you had a good lesson with 4B yesterday,” said Mr Shaw encouragingly.
“You did?” said Mr Drayton, quite amazed, “How?”
“From Melissa Jenkins, this morning.”
“Melissa! Good grief!” Mr Drayton had never appreciated that Melissa Jenkins’ memory could remember anything for longer than five minutes. “What did she say?”
“Something about selling mushrooms I think. That’s right, she said you told 4B that they could all get rich by picking and selling mushrooms.”
While the facts were not exact, it was an encouraging sign for Mr Drayton. “Actually it was my wife’s idea. She said that I should teach them things that could be of use to them in the real world. When I was at school I ... picked and sold mushrooms, so I told 4B something about the business world and then finished the lesson by telling them about my own small business.”
“That’s good,” said Mr Shaw. “It’s quite rare to see someone like Melissa actually getting excited about something at school. How are you going to continue?”
“Well, that’s my problem,” said Mr Drayton. “Mr Grimes insists that I stick strictly to the syllabus, so I can’t continue in lesson time. My wife suggested some sort of club, if anyone was interested.”
“You mean a mushroom picking club?”
“No, no, a small business club. Any ideas the kids have of how to make a bit of money. I could discuss it with them and help them get started.”
“I like the idea,” said Mr Shaw. “Is it just for 4B or is it open to the rest of the school?”
“To the whole school I suppose.”
“Great, when do you want to begin?”
“Well, my wife suggested a preliminary meeting, to see if anyone is interested. If anyone turns up, then we could perhaps meet once a week.”
“It sounds like you’ve got a pretty useful wife,” said Mr Shaw.
“Pretty and useful!” said Mr Drayton, who had now completely relaxed in the company of Mr Shaw.
“I’ll have a word with the Head about it and if there are no complaints, I’ll spread the word around tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Mr Drayton, thankful to Mr Shaw, not only for his help regarding the meeting, but also for restoring his self-confidence after Mr Grimes had done his best to demolish it.
Later that day, Mr Drayton found a note in his pigeon hole from Mr Shaw saying that he had seen the Headmistress and she liked the idea. She particularly hoped that some pupils would stay on to study economics in the sixth form as a result. A little optimistic thought Mr Drayton. Still, he was glad that he had got the all clear from the Head, though he still doubted that anyone would turn up to the meeting.
CHAPTER 4
The following morning a message was read out to each assembly, to the effect that anyone interested in learning more about small businesses should go to Mr Drayton’s geography room at lunch time. Mr Drayton noticed a few heads turn in his direction after the note had been read, and he blushed. However, this note was only one of many and would no doubt have gone in one ear and out the other, as did most things these children were told.
At half past twelve, having eaten his sandwiches in the staff room, Mr Drayton made his way up to his room. As he approached it, all appeared quiet, just as he had expected. Still, he would hang around in case someone turned up. He had quite a bit of marking to do and he could avoid Mr Grimes by doing it in his classroom.
As he opened the door, his eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets. Before him stood, sat, knelt and sprawled upwards of seventy Greenbrook pupils, who were now all looking at him with no more than a buzz of noise coming from them. Mr Drayton squeezed his way gradually to the front of the room from where he could see the whole group.
He had not dreamed that so many would turn up. Consequently, he had not prepared any notes and he only had a vague idea of what he wanted to say. He looked over the sea of faces, some of which were familiar, but many of which were new to him. They sat on chairs, on desks, on each other. They stood packed between the desks and all along the window. The whole age range of the school was represented, from the timid first years with their neat hair cuts and their bright green blazers, many of whom sat cross-legged on the floor, to the upper sixth years, whose efforts at growing beards and moustaches made them men in the eyes of younger pupils.
“I’d... ah... like to thank you all for turning up to this meeting,” said Mr Drayton, as he had heard the headmistress say at the beginning of every staff meeting. “When I was at school, many of my friends had paper rounds, as I’m sure many of you do today. Now, if you work for a newsagent, he doesn’t employ you because he likes you. He employs you because he can make even more money by employing you. There’s nothing wrong with working for someone else, it’s very easy. The work is given to you, you do it, and you’re paid at the end of the week.”
His audience, despite the cramped conditions were surprisingly quiet, much quieter than when only the thirty seats in the room were occupied.
“But when I was at school,” continued Mr Drayton, “I liked the idea of working for myself. So when the mushroom season came along, I went out and picked as many mushrooms as I could, before school. Having picked them, I took them home and divided them into one pound bags. I took some of them to school and sold them to the teachers, other bags I sold to friends of my parents.” His fictitious business became almost a reality to him as he discussed it for the second time. “The business lasted from early August until mid-November. At its peak I was making about five pounds a day, which, allowing for inflation, is probably closer to ten pounds a day.”
Having given this group the talk that he had planned to give to 4B, his fairly fluent speech dried up. “Any questions?” he asked, to give himself time to think. Once he had answered many of the same questions that 4B had asked him two days earlier, there was a lull in the tide of questions.
“Sir,” came a voice from the back, which Mr Drayton recognised as that of Brian Jones.
“Yes Brian?”
“My dad reckons that there ain’t no mushroom fields ‘round here. So ‘ow are we supposed to pick’em?”
“You’re father may well be right on that point Brian,” said Mr Drayton, now realising that many of 4B saw mushroom picking as the only small business possible. “But you don’t all have to become mushroom pickers. I only used mushroom picking as an example.”
“You mean you didn’t actually do it, sir?” asked Sharon Smith.
“Yes, yes, of course, this was my small business,” lied Mr Drayton, “I mean there are many other types of small businesses. Now what I want you to do, all of you, is to set up your own small businesses, using your own ideas.”
There was a murmur of excitement from the group, but when Mr Drayton cleared his throat the murmuring fizzled out. (Something which never worked in his normal lessons.) “Now I’d like to meet you all again next week, but before that, I’d like you to do some thinking. Now I appreciate that may be difficult for some of you, (Laughter) so I’d like to give you some advice.”
Mr Drayton took a piece of chalk and wrote in large letters on the blackboard: CHOOSE SOMETHING SIMPLE. He then turned to face the class, many of whom failed to understand the relevance of the words on the board.
“When you are thinking about what sort of small business you want to set up, please, (he indicated the words on the board) choose something simple. It is no good starting a business which repairs televisions, if none of you know how to repair a television. Make sure, that whatever you choose, it is within your capabilities.”
Mr Drayton turned again to the blackboard and wrote : IS THERE A DEMAND? beneath his first statement. “This is one of the most important factors in deciding what your business should be. You’re unlikely to succeed if you try to sell ice cream in winter, or hot soup in summer, no one will be interested, there will be no demand. So make sure your product or service is actually in demand before you start.”
At the end of this second point, Mr Drayton paused and let those taking notes catch up with him. He was surprised that quite a few of the pupils had actually bothered to take down what he was saying. When all were ready, Mr Drayton turned to the blackboard for the third time and wrote: STUDY YOUR MARKET.
“Now by that I don’t mean I want you to go and study the cattle market over at Shepperton. I want you to think about your customers. Your business, whether it’s a service, or if you are selling a product, needs customers. If you don’t have many customers, you won’t make a lot of money. Now, if your company produces printed tee-shirts, it would be no good trying to sell them to your grandmother.” (Laughter) “So make sure you know who your customers are.”
The last thing that Mr Drayton wrote on the board was : FIX YOUR PRICE. “Now that doesn’t mean you can choose any price you like. Too high, and you won’t be competitive. Too low, and your business will never make any profit. So, before next week, try to think about what you’d like to do, talk to your friends, of course you can work with whoever you like, but please, bear in mind what I’ve said today. I look forward to seeing you all next Thursday, and once again, thank you all for coming.”
At the end of his talk, the cramped pupils gradually filtered out of the room, all talking excitedly about the possibilities for small businesses. Mr Drayton had deliberately not given them many examples so that they could use their own brains. He felt excited that he had inspired so many Greenbrook pupils, given them something that they could do themselves, something productive, something of which the whole school could be proud.
CHAPTER 5
“I’d like a word with you in my office, Mr Drayton,” said Mr Grimes as Mr Drayton entered the staff room the following morning.
“Now?” asked Mr Drayton, hoping that whatever he had done wrong could be dealt with as soon as possible.
“After assembly will do,” said Mr Grimes, using the ‘veiled threat’ considerably more effectively than Mr Drayton had done with ‘the girls at the back’.
Once assembly had finished, the pupils filed out of the back of the hall. One or two of them nodded or smiled at Mr Drayton but were quickly scowled at by Mr Grimes which sent them on their way. So the time had come. Once again Mr Drayton was unaware of his mistake, but he was sure that Mr Grimes had something up his sleeve. He waited outside Mr Grimes’ office, as he had seen innumerable pupils wait for the dreaded head of geography. Finally Mr Grimes came striding along the corridor and, totally ignoring Mr Drayton, marched straight into his office and sat behind his desk. Mr Drayton followed sheepishly and stood by the desk while Mr Grimes arranged sheets of paper.
“Sit down, Mr Drayton,” he ordered, finally squaring up the last sheets. Mr Drayton’s legs were jelly as he sat down on the hard wooden chair in front of the desk. “Tell me, Mr Drayton,” began Mr Grimes, sitting back in his office chair, “how long have you been at Greenbrook?”
“Six months.”
“Mmm,” continued Mr Grimes, who seemed determined to drag this mistake out as long as possible. “And tell me, Mr Drayton, how important do you consider cooperation between teachers?”
“Very,” replied Mr Drayton, sure that this was what Mr Grimes wanted to hear. “It’s absolutely vital in a school the size of Greenbrook.”
“Mmm, and what about the pupils, how important are they?”
“Very,” replied Mr Drayton, unsure of how to continue. “I...”
“Do you consider our pupils more important than cooperation between teachers?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure, it depends on the situation.”
Mr Grimes smiled as Mr Drayton stumbled into confusion. He leant back, his elbows resting on the arms and put the fingertips of each hand together, as though he was in deep thought.
Mr Drayton still had no idea why Mr Grimes had a bee in his bonnet, though from the length of time he was spending, it was probably quite a big bee.
“Tell me Mr Drayton,” began Mr Grimes again. “What are your views on my geography club?”
“I think it’s a good idea,” said Mr Drayton, whose brain was frantically trying to work out the connection between this meeting and Mr Grimes’ geography club.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr Grimes, still treating Mr Drayton like a three year old. “And do you know when geography club is, Mr Drayton?”
Mr Drayton thought for a while, then he remembered. ‘Oh shit!’ he thought to himself - so that was it. “Thursday,” he replied. “Thursday lunch time.”
“That’s right,” said Mr Grimes. “And do you know how many people usually come to geography club?”
“Um, about ten?” suggested Mr Drayton.
“Sixteen!” replied Mr Grimes, with beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. “And do you know how many turned up yesterday?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t, I was...”
“Two!” bawled Mr Grimes, standing up with his clenched fists on his desk as he glared at Mr Drayton. “Two lousy first year pupils - and they were only there because they didn’t hear about your business meeting! I see that meeting as a blatant attempt to undermine my geography club and to win favour with the pupils of this school.” The beads of sweat that had appeared on Mr Grimes’ forehead were now running down the sides of his face and he was breathing like he had just run a marathon. At last he sat down.
“I didn’t mean to...”
“I won’t have it. I will not have it!” interrupted Mr Grimes. “I’ve had a geography club in this school for fourteen years and I don’t intend to stop now!”
The various items on the desk leapt into the air as Mr Grimes brought a hairy, clenched fist down onto the desk top.
“I don’t care what you do with your stupid business club but you’re not having it on Thursday lunch times. Do you understand me, Mr Drayton?”
“Yes, Mr Grimes.”
Mr Grimes took a dirty handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his forehead. “Now kindly get out of my office.”
“Yes, Mr Grimes,” said Mr Drayton before standing up and walking as calmly as he could towards the door.
As he walked along the corridor, Mr Drayton thought about how much he hated Mr Grimes. A feeling that was no doubt shared by many of the pupils that left Mr Grimes’ office. He would have to show the head of geography how to run a club. He would make it a success. His only worry was that the pupils of Greenbrook Comprehensive School may lose interest in business. Would they be able to think of some sound business ideas? Did they possess the brains to put their ideas into action? He would just have to wait and see.
CHAPTER 6
“Are you sure your brother’ll buy it?” asked Terry.
“Course he will,” replied Brian. “He’s a painter. Course he’ll buy paint from us. He uses tons of it every day.”
“Litres,” corrected Terry. “But what if we get caught?”
“We won’t get caught, don’t worry!” said Brian confidently. “I’ve been in that room loads of times. They’ve got so many tins of paint in there they’ll never notice if we take a few.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Terry, still not happy with Brian’s business idea.
“Course I’m right. Aren’t I always? Trust me Terry!” said Brian, slapping his friend on the back. “Come on, let’s go and have a smoke.”
The two boys got up and left the youth club. “But what do we tell Drayton?” asked Terry as they walked across the car park.
“Nuffin’,” replied Brian, jumping into the driving seat of the burnt out car in the corner of the car park.
“But what if he asks?”
“Say nuffin’ Terry! Are you gonna say, ‘Oh yes Mr Drayton, Brian and I are going to steal tins of paint from the art department and sell them to his brother’?”
“Course I’m not,” said Terry as he lit up.
“Just say we haven’t thought of nuffin’ yet. He’s stupid enough to believe us.”
Meanwhile, in the girls’ toilets of the youth club, Shelley White and Melissa Jenkins were finalising the details of their business.
“We’ll need a lot of felt!” said Shelley, giggling.
“What are we going to tell Drayton?” asked Melissa.
“We could say they’re toys for kids,” said Shelley, which made both girls fall around laughing.
“We’re going to be rich!” said Melissa, hugging Shelley.
They were so interested in their business that they hadn’t smoked a cigarette all evening.
After what had seemed like eternity, which in fact had only been six days, the time for Mr Drayton’s second business meeting was fast approaching. A notice had been read out in assembly stating that, due to unforeseen circumstances, the meeting would have to be held on Wednesday lunch time. This was bad news for many Greenbrook pupils, who had to go to games club at lunch time on Wednesday as this was compulsory for school team players. Many disappointed pupils asked Mr Drayton for an explanation and he would love to have given them the real reason, rather than mumbling something about extra duties. They had had good ideas too; a computer dating agency for the school. A lemonade company for the summer which turned into a beef burger company during cold weather and a shopping delivery service for old people in the town. All good ideas which were now unlikely to ever go further than the drawing board.
At half past twelve, Mr Drayton walked along the corridor towards his room. When he opened the door he was not surprised by the reduction in numbers. However, there were enough. Eighteen students sat in little groups, in pairs, or on their own. When Mr Drayton came in, their conversations stopped and they turned to face the front.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming again,” began Mr Drayton. “And I hope you’ve brought some ideas along with you.”
There was a murmur of consent from the group.
“So let’s start with...” Mr Drayton scanned the room for someone who looked prepared. “...David, would you like to tell us your ideas for a business?”
David Johnson lifted his rucksack onto the desk and took out a plastic bag. He then reached into the bag and brought out a wooden cube that had some holes drilled in the top. “This is my product,” announced David to Mr Drayton and the rest of the group, which had gathered around his desk.
“So you’re a manufacturer!” said Mr Drayton, impressed that someone had already made a prototype of their product. However he was a little anxious as he was not sure exactly what David’s product was.
“What is it?” asked Sharon Smith.
“This,” said David seriously, “is a sapper pot.”
“A what?” asked Shelley White.
“A sapper pot,” answered David.
“Yes, I heard you the first time,” said Shelley, “I want to know what a sapper pot is.”
“Well, when you have your dinner, you always put some salt on it, then you put some pepper on. With a sapper pot, you can put both on at the same time.”
“I see,” said Mr Drayton, “so you’ve got both salt and pepper inside your sapper pot.”
“That’s right, sir,” said David, who proceeded to shake a mixture of salt and pepper over the desk.
“It’s a novelty product,” said Mr Drayton, once David had finished covering most of the desk with the contents of his sapper pot. “You could sell quite a few if you market it well. How were you thinking of marketing it?”
“I’m thinking of sending it to Woolworth’s and see how many they want.”
Mr Drayton looked at the sapper pot that David Johnson had made. Two nails were protruding from one corner and glue had oozed liberally out of the joints before drying. Somehow, Mr Woolworth was not going to be too impressed.
“Mmm, yes, David,” said Mr Drayton. “This is a prototype, isn’t it?”
“No sir, it’s a sapper pot.”
“I mean, is it the first one you’ve made, a trial one?”
“No sir.”
“So how many have you made?”
David Johnson again delved into his rucksack and brought out sapper pot after sapper pot until a row of seven pots stood on the table, reminding Mr Drayton of a row of very battle-weary soldiers.
“Have you studied your market David?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“Before I try Woolworth’s, I’m going to sell them to my aunties.”
“And how many aunties have you got?”
“Seven,” replied David calmly.
“And they’re all going to buy a sapper pot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you fixed a price yet?”
“Yes, sir, five pounds.”
“Five pounds for a sapper pot?”
“Yes, sir,” replied David. “They said they’d be happy to pay whatever I asked.”
This was not the cut-throat atmosphere of the real business world, but at least it was a start. “Good David,” said Mr Drayton. “Now, are there any other ideas?”
There certainly were. In the next half an hour, Mr Drayton and his Business Club members heard of a car washing business planned by three first years. A fashion show that Sharon Smith was planning with some of her friends. Alan Williams had ideas of being a magician and giving shows to various groups and organisations around the town. Four second years planned to sell hot dogs and Shelley White and Melissa Jenkins described how they were going to get rich by selling pet worms made of felt.
“What about you Terry?” asked Mr Drayton.
Terry Ford looked at Brian Jones.
“We’re thinkin’ of a cleanin’ service, sir - called Greenclean,” said Brian, to the total amazement of Terry.
“That sounds interesting,” said Mr Drayton. “I like the idea of incorporating the name of the school into the name of your company. So how will Greenclean operate?”
“We’re not sure yet sir,” said Brian, “but we’re thinkin’ of stickin’ leaflets through the doors of them posh ‘ouses ‘round the park. Then they can contact us if they want our services.”
“I like it,” said Mr Drayton, particularly happy that one of Greenbrook’s most difficult pupils had thought of what could be a successful little business.
“What about you, Duncan?” asked Mr Drayton, “Have you got any ideas?”