I learned this week that my prep-school French master died recently. In my memory, he could turn fierce in a heartbeat, and seemed to be no friend to those who chose an alternative path, even at an early age. But by God, the man could teach.
He seemed completely engaged with the joy of learning, pointing out tiny details that might increase our understanding of the world. He was never patronising; one morning he told our room of twelve-year-olds that while listening to French radio he had been drawn to the way a speaker had hesitated and used the words “ben, bon...” as a precursor to making a point. He encouraged us to find a way of pausing similarly in our oral exams, to demonstrate our own ear for the language. He taught us to observe, to listen.
20 years later, I was sitting in a meeting in a Paris advertising agency, having a typically French discussion about the particular form of ‘lightness’ embodied by a brand (of sugar-free sweetener...), and a line from Paul Valery tumbled out of my mouth: “il faut etre leger comme l’oiseau, non comme la plume”. The female ad-planner opposite looked me in the eye and said, “Could I have your business card?”
Without the love of language that man fed in me, I’d have been just another arrogant Englishman, boarding the Eurostar that evening without her phone number.
If only I could have impressed him so easily. But I was a terrible potty-mouth at a resolutely Catholic school, and too many times he overheard me choking the air with lavatorial invective, which did not endear me to him. The final straw was finding a filthy limerick left by Tim Hutchins in my leaving book; even now, it is too obscene to repeat. He tore out the page, and gave me a ten-minute talking-to while I hung my head and clasped my hands behind my back.
On the last day of school, he addressed each of us individually, with his best wishes for the future. As he shook my hand, these were his final words to me:
“Watch your step.”
Michael Baker, RIP.
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