Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill (6 page)

In my experience, such non-conformist teachers as Mr Firth frequently have a greater impact than the more conventional teachers and are often remembered years later, when the ‘ordinary' teachers have been long forgotten. Mr Firth was strict but he was scrupulously fair, totally committed but rather unpredictable and, provided you worked hard and were well behaved, he posed no problem. He insisted on every pupil's undivided attention, neat and accurate writing, and work completed on time. In answer to his questions, he expected the right hand of the pupil to be raised straight as a die and for the pupil to answer clearly and confidently. Like all great teachers, Mr Firth believed that all children mattered, whatever background or ability, and he built up his pupils' self-esteem and expectation. He was a bit of a showman, with unflinching opinions about the events of history, and above all a performer, always master of his audience and in command of the stage.

A Joyful Learning

I was massively fortunate in my schooling to have, for ‘A' levels, two outstanding teachers: Miss Mary Wainwright and J Alan Taylor. Much of what I hold dear was first shown to me by teachers such as these – sensitive, supportive, patient and good-humoured – they inspired me, encouraged me, took an interest in me and convinced me that, despite my humble background and my average abilities, I could achieve anything.

I was in Thomas Hardy country recently, speaking at an education conference and staying overnight at The Casterbridge Hotel on the High Street in Dorchester. In the evening, I wandered around this delightful Dorset town, with its greystone churches and museums, and came upon the statue of its greatest writer. I stared up at the imposing figure and remembered fondly Miss Wainwright, who introduced me to the world of Thomas Hardy.

English Literature ‘A' level was not offered in the boys' high school in Rotherham so I, along with several other large gangly adolescents, studied the subject in the adjacent Oakwood Girls' High.

Miss Mary Wainwright, head of the English department, was a diminutive, softly spoken woman dressed in a pristine white blouse with lace collar, which was buttoned up at the neck with small pearl buttons. She was swathed in a long, pleated tweed skirt, dark brown stockings and small leather brogues. The delicate embroidered handkerchief that she secreted up her sleeve would be occasionally plucked out to dab the corners of her mouth. Save for the large cameo brooch placed at her throat, she wore no jewellery and there was no vestige of make-up. She lined up her new students, a motley group of spotty, lanky boys, and peered up at us. ‘I've never taught boys,' she said, and then, after a long pause and with a twinkle in her dark eyes, she added, ‘but I've heard of them.'

As soon as Miss Wainwright opened the set text,
The Mayor of Casterbridge
, and started to read, I was in a world I came to love. Occasionally she would stop, make a comment, and smile with a curious wistfulness, as if there was something she recalled fondly from a distant past.

The first essay I handed in to Miss Wainwright concerned our initial impressions of Henchard, the main character in the novel, and I spent long hours in the central library in town, writing, rewriting and referring to various reference books. When the essays were handed back my heart leapt. Following a long and detailed assessment of my effort, written at the bottom of the page in small neat handwriting, I had been awarded a B+.

Miss Wainwright took me aside after the lesson. ‘That was extremely promising,' she told me, smiling. ‘It's a very good start. I am sure you will do well.' From then onwards, I gained in confidence, contributed in the lessons and achieved good marks.

What incredible good fortune it was for me to have had this remarkable woman for my teacher. Miss Wainwright, a woman of great learning and infinite patience, was passionate about her subject and had the ability to bring the works of any writer to life.

These days, teachers are having to adjust to yet more additions to the curriculum and, with such changes, will come the attendant paperwork. There will be new guidelines and planning documents, detailed policies and ceaseless evaluations with which teachers will have to deal. Sadly, more teachers will leave the profession, weary with the constant changes, the snowstorm of paperwork and the increasing pressures. I pray that one day the Government will understand that education is not about process and paperwork but about the quality of the teaching. At the very centre of the process of education are the teachers like Miss Wainwright, who infect their charges with a love of learning; enthusiastic, committed, good-humoured people, who enjoy the company of the young and give them the best they can give.

In writing about the highly successful teacher who commands the greatest respect and affection from his or her pupils, Edward Thring, the Victorian scholar, educationalist and former headmaster at Uppingham School, describes better than I the sort of teachers I was privileged to have:

 

The teacher makes the taught do the work and occupies himself in showing them how to do it and taking care that they do it. His work is to direct, suggest, question, enspirit; he adapts himself in every possible way to the individual minds, never resting until he had made them master of the skill required and seen them become capable of working on their own account. Teaching takes any shape whatsoever, is fragmentary changing as the difficulties of the pupils minds change and disregards all precise plan, provided that a close, laborious and exact exercise of mind is the result. The teacher makes the pupils work and stands and falls by what they do.

Creatures Great and Small

When I was six, my father arrived home with a kitten. It was a scrawny little scrap of a creature of indeterminate colour, with great glassy eyes and half an ear. He had discovered the cat in the finishing shop at the steelworks where he worked. Christine, my sister, was given the job of looking after it, a task she soon abandoned after she was scratched when trying to stroke it. Whiskey, as the cat was to be called, was the first of many pets which we adopted. He grew alarmingly over the weeks, into a sleek, jade-eyed feline, the strange-shaped ear giving him a raffish look. Rather than showing any gratitude for being rescued from certain death, this feral creature scratched and bit and disliked being stroked. If he was approached, his back would arch and he spat and hissed. Many was the time he padded into the kitchen with a bird or a mouse in his jaws and, try as we might, he would not release his victim. He enjoyed playing with his prey until the final
coup de grace
. At night, he would claw at the back door until let out and not return until the next morning, when he would whine for his breakfast. During the night, when he was on his amorous adventures, we knew it was Whiskey who made the terrible noise in the garden to attract any passing female.

When the cat sharpened his claws on the back of the chair, my father exclaimed, ‘That cat has to go!' But of course it didn't, and it continued to be tolerated and indulged and approached with caution. Then, one day, Whiskey never returned. We found a dead rat on the doorstep. Perhaps it was his farewell present. If he could have left a message it would no doubt have been: ‘This life is a bit too tame for me so I must be off. In this heart of mine, you see, there burns the spirit of a savage blood.'

After our experience with Whiskey it might be thought that my parents would be disinclined to adopt another creature, but they did. When my brother Alec arrived home one day with a liver and white puppy, with doleful eyes and floppy ears, they merely took it in their stride, telling him that Dan, (the name given to the dog) was his responsibility. Neighbours had dogs – little snappy terriers, fat slobbering Labradors, fearsome Alsatians and frisky mongrels – but Dan was different. He grew to be an elegant, gentle-natured creature, a pure-bred German pointer. There were no threatening rumbles or sharp yapping, no growls or show of sharp teeth. He was such an amiable beast that we all grew to love him. At the park, few dogs could keep up with him. He would bound off into the distance but return immediately at the call of his name. He would snuffle in bushes and then, on scenting game, he would freeze. His tail would shoot up, his nose dip to the floor and he would raise one paw and ‘point'.

Once, on a trip to Bridlington in my sister's VW Beetle car, we stopped in a lay-by for Dan to stretch his legs. The man in the car parked behind enquired what breed he was.

‘He's a German Pointer,' I told him.

‘And you're in the Volkswagen?'

‘Yes.'

‘Bloody patriotic, aren't you?' he said.

When I bought Lizzie, my daughter of seven, a hamster, my father gave her a little lecture on how to look after it, and warned her to make sure its cage was secure ‘for these little rodents', he said, ‘are expert escapologists'. He reminded me of the time when I was Lizzie's age and I volunteered to look after the hamster from school during the half-term break. It was a fat, pale brown, affectionate little creature called Oscar, but, one morning, I found his cage empty. He had somehow managed to escape. All day we searched the house, but to no avail. When Alec thought he heard a scratching under the floorboards, my father reluctantly pulled up a corner of carpet, levered up one of the planks and shone a torch into the darkness, but there was no sign of the hamster. All week we searched and, as the holiday came to an end, I became distraught. What would I say to Miss Greenwood, my teacher? I would never be trusted to look after one of the school's pets ever again. And how would I face the other children? On the Saturday before the start of school, my father arrived home with another hamster but it was smaller, thinner and a different colour.

‘But it's different!' I cried. ‘Everyone will know.'

‘It was the only one in the shop,' my father told me, and then added, reassuringly, ‘And anyway, the children will have forgotten what it looked like.'

I was not convinced.

The following Monday morning, I sat at my desk, glancing over at the cage in the corner. The new hamster had not emerged from its warm little den, but it chose playtime to make an appearance. When the children gathered around the cage and peered through the bars they were puzzled. ‘Miss!' they cried, ‘Oscar looks different.'

Miss Greenwood's eyes met mine. I must have looked close to tears. ‘You know, sometimes children,' she said, ‘hamsters do change colour with the seasons, and lose weight as well.'

‘And shrink?' asked Margaret Johnson.

‘And shrink,' repeated the teacher.

Of course, I knew that she knew and I could have kissed her.

The new hamster lasted a week. One of the children fed a piece of orange peel though the bars of the cage which finished the poor creature off.

As a child, I learnt a few of life's lessons from these dealings with animals. First, one should not expect that a kindness will necessarily be reciprocated or even appreciated. Second, one should never judge by appearances. Third, it is sometimes kinder to tell a lie, than to tell the truth and get someone into trouble. Finally, it is not a good idea to eat orange peel.

Opening Doors

There was a metaphor about life that my former headmaster, Mr T W ‘Taffy' Williams, was fond of using. At the leavers' assembly, at South Grove Secondary Modern School for Boys, he asked us to think for a moment before we left the school for the last time.

‘Whoever you are and whatever you do,' he said, ‘as you walk down that corridor and out into the wide world, I want you to pause for a moment and remember one thing: life is like that corridor, lined with many different doors. Some few will be bolted and barred to you and, however hard you push and pull, strike and shout, they will remain forever closed. Some will be wide open and you can walk through with little effort and no hindrance. Some will be ajar and, with a little exertion and curiosity, you will be able to see what lies behind. Most doors, however, will be closed, but they will be seldom locked. These are the doors of opportunity, boys. The doors of opportunity. It is up to you which of those closed doors you choose to try and to discover what is behind, waiting for you –' he paused for effect – ‘and which to pass on by.'

I guess, for many of the pupils in the school hall that heady July morning, the headmaster's metaphor was lost upon them, but for me, an ambitious, rather studious, idealistic sixteen-year-old, those words have remained a vivid memory. The closed doors in my own life have been rarely, if ever, locked, and I have been immensely fortunate that I have had caring, supportive, encouraging people all along the way who have helped me through them.

Throughout my life, I have been encouraged to open doors by my parents, my grandmother and my teachers, but many a time they have opened them for me and urged me through, building up my confidence to do so.

My grandmother's dictum was that life is short, and to make the most of it. She encouraged me to believe that every opportunity which comes my way should be taken; I should read books, take an interest in people and events, not be afraid of asking questions and expressing opinions. A favourite expression of hers was: ‘Never be afraid of chancing your arm.' Then she would add: ‘And don't take life too seriously – after all, nobody comes out of it alive.'

 

A Father's ABC of Life

Always remember my son to: