Sadly, as with the recorder I tried when a music teacher at Smithfield was teaching my class, I found the chanter a thing of mystery. I never got beyond a painfully slow display of the scale on both these instruments.
When my first book was published, I was asked by Yours, a magazine for the elderly, to give a telephone interview, and after some expected questions, there came one, which I certainly had not expected. We had established that I had written the book straight on to a word processor; I had written three others, unpublished, by hand before typing them out . . . several times each.
The question was: ‘If someone were to come to you and say you could have two hours off from your word processor, how would you occupy the time?’
I answered, off the cuff, ‘I’d probably go and play the piano’, but when I had time to think about it, I knew that I wouldn’t want two hours off. I love writing and it’s what I would honestly prefer to do. In fact, I have scarcely touched my piano for a long time now. Just sometimes, if I hear a tune on television, an old favourite or a new one that has taken my fancy, I sit down for a few minutes to see if I can still pick out a tune by myself.
To return to the ‘tramlines’. I was quite pleased at being ‘promoted’ to a higher class. At least I knew that I’d mostly have well-behaved pupils for the next two years. There were the odd little hiccoughs, of course, but nothing bad enough to relate, and the time passed quite quickly. The kids were accustomed to my style of working, and I knew exactly what to expect of each of them. Even better, I didn’t have to worry about having to go back to Primary Three again. I was to be with Fours and Fives permanently. I said goodbye to this class sadly in the summer of 1972 – it may have been 1971, I’m not too clear on this – after having taught them for three whole years, and sure that I’d never have such a biddable, hardworking crew again.
At this time, the style of education was undergoing many changes, and a new team-teaching in Primary Seven had started; I’ll explain this shortly. The Primary Four class I was given now was perhaps not quite as good as my last, but not far off it. They, too, were a lively bunch but they soon got to know how I wanted things done and I quite looked forward to having them for another year.
One of the team teachers, however, had applied for promotion and was to start at her new school as deputy head in the autumn term, but I could scarcely believe it when Mr Robb asked me if I would like to take her place. This new style of teaching was still in its infancy, although some of the rough edges had been rubbed off during that first year, so I was somewhat apprehensive. Still . . . it was a challenge, and challenges should not be ignored.
Now comes the explanation I promised. The team teaching took place in the hall, and the Primary Sevens had been divided into three groups for the three teachers, placed round the large room, but still leaving the stage free. It wasn’t a case of one teacher, one class, however. The pupils were shared in three-week cycles, thus for the first lap:
Teacher One took Seven A for English, B for Maths, C for Environmental Studies. (History, Geography, Biology and anything that isn’t included in the other two.)
Teacher Two took B for English, C for Maths, A for Environmental Studies. Teacher Three took C for English, A for Maths, B for Environmental Studies.
After three weeks, it was a case of ‘All Change’, so that, over the entire nine weeks’ cycle, each teacher had a spell with each class for each subject. Clear as mud? It worked!
The good side of it, of course, was that if there was a disruptive pupil who didn’t like Maths, for instance, you only had him (or her, for they came in all shapes and sexes), for three weeks and not again for another six weeks for that subject. Of course, you had him/her every day for something, but it wasn’t such a grind. Not only that, as far as the pupils were concerned, they had three different teachers explaining things to them, which gave them a far better chance of understanding. It sounds complicated, but it ran quite smoothly.
Astute readers may have spotted that one of these classes consisted of the same children I had taken through Primaries Three, Four and Five, although in Primary Seven I only had them for a third of each day. I have never been able to make up my mind if this was a good thing or not. Having the same pupils for four years means that you get too familiar with them and they with you. Not that any of them ever took advantage, but, apparently, it was noticeable to others.
A student I had once said that she could pick out the pupils I’d had before because they spoke respectfully to me and never argued. We had been on a coach trip to Craigievar Castle, and she added that ‘my’ kids spoke ‘properly’ to me . . . in other words, in proper English. Trying to stop children using their ‘Smithfield’ dialect was quite a stiff job sometimes, but that lot had been well schooled.
To give you an example of what we had to cope with, I had drummed home to one class that people outside Aberdeen wouldn’t understand what they were saying unless they spoke in decent English, and I was delighted (not the most appropriate word, but you’ll understand what I mean) to see an article in a newspaper about an Aberdeen seaman who’d been having an argument on board a trawler in Hull with a local man. When he started shouting, strange words that seemed as if he were swearing in a foreign language, his adversary gave him a punch that sent him over the side of the boat. Tragically, they did not recover the body for some time. Even that story, however, did not get through to the children, who came up with all sorts of reasons for the attack.
‘The other mannie was deef.’ ‘Maybe he was sweiring.’ . . . and so on.
What did get through to them came about accidentally. I happened, at one point, to have a student who came from Stornoway. She had great difficulty making herself understood as well as understanding what they were saying to her. One of the stock excuses for not doing homework was, ‘I didna hiv a pinnel.’ Or, ‘I left my pinnel in my desk.’ This word flummoxed me at first, too, but it turned out to be just a slovenly version of pencil.
With the poor student having to ask them constantly what they meant, and vice versa, it eventually dawned on them that I had been right. Other people couldn’t understand them.
I might also mention here something that I should have spoken of before. A trip to London was arranged in 1971, to see the Tutankhamun Exhibition. I was still teaching younger children at the time, but when the headmaster asked for volunteers to accompany the group of Primary Sevens, I was one of the six who said we’d like to go. With only twenty-six children booked, this would have meant each of us having only four or five pupils to look after.
We were expecting the headmaster to pick three or four, but, as he pointed out, it was the first time away from home for most of the children and six teachers wouldn’t be too many. As when I went to London as a pupil myself, the rule was that one person was allowed free for every ten paying pupils, so only two teachers would qualify for this and four would have to pay the full amount of travel and hotel charges. To make things fair, however, Mr Robb divided the cost of four between the six of us so that we all paid the same.
We had a most enjoyable week in London, but having to queue from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. to see the Exhibition did take the gilt off the gingerbread. The amazing thing was that not one child complained at the wait, but they were really too tired to take in what they had come to see. When we came to the souvenir shop, they all wanted to buy something for ‘my ma’.
Everything, naturally, was very expensive, but one of the boys was studying the paper carrier bags emblazoned with the young king’s head and various ancient Egyptian symbols, costing one shilling each. Very politely, he said to the elegant assistant behind the counter, ‘Twa o’ them bugs, please.’
She looked at me in bewilderment. ‘What does he want?’
‘Two of the carrier bags, please.’
Those pupils also learned by experience.
I thoroughly enjoyed the team teaching, and it was into the New Year before I had the fright that made me apply for a transfer. I did mention earlier
that it took ten minutes by car to get from Hazlehead to Smithfield, and over an hour to go by buses, so I tried to avoid taking public transport for as long as I could in the winter. There always came a time, of course, when the roads weren’t safe, when the council advised people to leave their cars at home. On one such day, I thought I would try walking to school. It was across town, but not too far, I thought. The trouble was that the shortest route I could go – through the grounds of Woodend Hospital then wading through drifts on side streets the snowploughs hadn’t cleared – took me exactly one hour and ten minutes. Not only had it taken longer than going by bus, but I was covered in icy snow and absolutely worn out by the time I reached the school.
On the following morning, therefore, I decided to go by public transport and save myself the hassle. Unfortunately, the storm hadn’t stopped, and as the outlying districts of Aberdeen are all very much higher than the centre of the town, dozens of buses had got stuck on the hills in various routes, including the bus I took. I had still a good bit to go, so I’d no choice but to get off and walk – in a blinding blizzard – and arrived for the second day running cold, bedraggled and exhausted.
By the next morning, the skies were clearer, the storm had abated but the roads were still packed with ice. Telling myself that it would be OK, I took the car and drove very, very slowly, turning into any skids and correcting the car’s direction, and was congratulating myself on my dexterity as I reached the highest point on Anderson Drive, with the school in sight and just a short run down to get there.
Then I saw that three cars and a small van were sitting broadside across the road, and panic made me hit the brake hard so that I wouldn’t crash into them. A big mistake! This skid took the car to within a hairsbreadth of the van, and as I sat thanking my lucky stars I’d missed it, trying to steady my racing heart and praying that I’d be able to get myself out of the pile of snow I’d landed in, I noticed that the janitor had arrived, complete with a large bucket of sand. One of the children on his way to school had seen the original four vehicles stuck there, so he hadn’t come for my sole benefit, but at least I did get out eventually.
I had such a fright that I applied for a transfer, explaining the circumstances and asking for a school nearer my home. I didn’t hold out too much hope of having my request answered, so you can imagine my delight at being told that I would be starting at Hazlehead Primary – practically on my doorstop – at the beginning of the next school year (mid August 1975.)
Before I end the Smithfield saga, I must tell you another little story. One of the girls amongst the ‘team-taught’ classes was called Amanda Wallace. Yes, you’ve guessed. She was John Wallace’s sister, a quiet, well-behaved girl who was quite like him facially, but she, at least, upheld their angelic looks. Only a week or so before the summer holidays, when I would be leaving Smithfield for good, Mandy waited behind one afternoon when all the others had gone out.
‘Did you want to ask me something, Mandy?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, Mrs Davidson, and I hope you won’t be angry.’
Wondering what she was going to say, I assured her that I wouldn’t be angry, so she gave a nervous sigh. ‘John wants to see you.’
This did take me aback, but it wasn’t the poor girl’s fault. Knowing her brother, I guessed that he had threatened to do something to her if she didn’t do as he told her. ‘All right, Mandy. Tell him to come tomorrow afternoon. Will he manage that?’
‘Yes, he gets taken home in a Rolls, so he’s always home before me.’
Coward that I was, I dreaded seeing him again. His sister had likely told her family that I was going to another school, but what could he have to say to me? Had he been harbouring resentment at me for ripping his jumper? But that was a few years ago. Surely he wouldn’t even remember it?
He came through the glass doors smiling benevolently, but monsters could do that, couldn’t they? Smile one minute, pounce the next, ‘Hello, John,’ I said, as normally as I could, ‘it’s nice to see you. How are you getting on at Cordyce?’
His smile widened to a grin. ‘It’s great, Mrs Davidson. I get to draw as often as I like, and I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.’
‘But, John, if you don’t listen to the lessons and don’t do what you’re told, how will you ever learn?’ I had to say it, whatever the consequences.
The grin faded, but just a little. ‘I came to say I was sorry for what I did to you when I was in your class, Mrs Davidson. I didna hate you, you ken.’
‘Well, I’m glad of that.’
I don’t know what became of him, but I must just say here that although another two of my ex-pupils are now serving time for murder, he is the one I’d have backed as a killer. I have to admit that one of the other two was a little hooligan sometimes, but he was a likeable rogue, really. The other one, I just can’t understand. He was never any bother, in fact, just the opposite. If anyone in the class wet the floor (in Primary Three) or was sick, it was this lad who offered to clean it up. He was a poor scholar, but very anxious to please. As I write, it is only a matter of weeks since he was tried and sentenced for killing an older man and I haven’t got over it yet. His photograph was in the newspaper, and although he must be over forty, he hadn’t changed much. I still recognised him.
I had been told to report to the Hazlehead headmaster before the schools broke up, so I was allowed off half an hour early one afternoon to make myself known.
I was later to learn that Mr Robb had learned much from Mr Robertson when he was an assistant under him, and their methods were very similar, but their natures were completely different. I sat down when I was told to sit, and watched my new boss reading the information he’d been sent about me.
‘Oh, my God!’ he exclaimed, suddenly. ‘Not another Davidson?’
‘Yes,’ I trembled. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not really, but we’ve a Mrs Davidson in Room 10,’ (I might be well out in this), ‘the sewing teacher’s a Mrs Davidson and the janitor’s Jimmy Davidson.’
‘My husband’s called Jimmy,’ I volunteered, then wished I’d held my tongue.
‘Oh, well, it’ll maybe be all right. We’re putting on a concert tonight, so if you like to come along, you’ll meet the rest of the staff.’
With that he picked up another piece of paper and I knew that the meeting was over. I did go to the concert that night, and was glad that it was every bit as good as the concerts we had staged at Smithfield. I had seen other school concerts that were pretty poor, and I’d heard of some that were awful, but both these schools were fortunate in having teachers who were very musical.
After the concert, of course, there was a cheese and wine party, a time for the teachers to relax after weeks and weeks of rehearsals and one evening of utter bedlam although it usually kept to the saying, ‘It’ll be all right on the night’. I was made very welcome by all, and went home in a very ‘merry’ mood. To put it succinctly, I’d to make more than one attempt before I managed to get through the school gates on my way home . . . and I was on my feet not in a car!
Then it was time to say goodbye to Smithfield. By this time, Mr Robb had been transferred to what was classed a ‘better’ school (it was in a less rundown area) and the deputy head had been promoted to fill the post. I was sorry to leave such a friendly staff, and just as sorry to leave the children. Hazlehead’s pupils were an unknown quantity to me, although I lived a mere five minutes away from the school, and there were three who actually lived in the same building as I did.
I had been eight years in Smithfield, happy years on the whole, and goodness knows what was to come.
21
My first class at Hazlehead School was as bad as my first at Smithfield; worse, in a way, because it was a Primary Five and the children were two years older. Both sets could be very likeable if they wanted to be, but very hard to control if they didn’t. There was one big difference – I didn’t have to slave at trying to get the Hazlehead pupils to speak proper English.
They already did.
I hadn’t been there long when I came across another difference. I was marking the homework jotters while they were doing an exercise from a textbook, when one of the girls – let’s call her Annette – said, ‘Mrs Davidson, Malcolm’s swearing.’
Bearing in mind the kind of bad language that had been exchanged at Smithfield, I thought it best not to ask what he had said. Instead, I assumed my sternest face as I looked at the boy. ‘Surely not, Malcolm.’
There was five minutes’ silence, then, ‘Mrs Davidson, he swore again.’
After the third announcement, I said, ‘Malcolm, stay behind after the bell. I want you to take a letter home to your mother.’
The threat was enough to nip it in the bud, but, remembering what had happened once before when I didn’t carry out a threat, I wrote the letter, telling his mother that I’d had to reprimand him several times for swearing, and that perhaps a few words from her would stop it.
When Malcolm went home, sulkily clutching the envelope, Annette came sneaking back into the classroom, ‘He did swear, Mrs Davidson.’
That’s when I made another mistake. ‘Can you tell me what he said?’
She drew her mouth in for a moment, as if debating whether or not to sully her lips by repeating the word, but then she muttered, ‘Hell!’
My heart sank. That wasn’t really what I’d have called a swear word, but the letter was probably being handed over right now, because he lived only a stone’s throw from the school. Sure enough, Annette had just gone out when the Head walked in. ‘There’s a lady on the phone asking for you, Mrs Davidson.’
It was Malcolm’s mother, in a filthy mood because I had addressed the letter to her, when she and her husband brought up their son together. ‘Most mothers prefer not to let their husbands know about this sort of thing,’ I excused myself.
Gift from the Gallowgate Page 25
