Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘And do you remember, Miss Greenwood,’ I asked her, ‘what you said to me when I came off the stage?’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Well, I guess some teachers would have stabbed the air angrily with a finger and told that little boy what a silly child he was, and demanded to know why he hadn’t gone to the toilet before going on stage.’

  ‘And what did I say?’ she asked.

  ‘You put your arm around me and you said, “Don’t worry, love, I used to wet my knickers when I was your age.” ’

  There was a short silence. Then a small smile came to my former teacher’s lips. ‘Well Gervase,’ she said, chuckling, ‘it’s funny how things come full circle.’

  The Good Teacher

  The child is initiated into what Kafta called ‘The Lie’: ‘Education is but two things: first the parrying of the ignorant children’s impetuous assault on the truth, and, second, the gentle, imperceptible, step-by-step initiation of the humiliated children into the Lie.’ School, for him, was not a happy time. Indeed, many writers, describing their schooldays, dwell on their unhappiness at the hands of bullies and the cruelty at the hands of teachers. They speak of board rubbers thrown across the classroom, trouser bottoms smoking after a vicious caning, sarcastic, incompetent and sometimes sadistic teachers.

  Andy Smith is a case in point. He undertook some building work at my house recently and I found him to be one of the most entertaining, imaginative and skilful people I have ever met. His schooling can at best be described as ‘indifferent’. He was clearly a boy with a talent but one which was not recognised or encouraged by his teachers. On one occasion, after spending many weeks making a chair in the woodwork room, carefully fitting the joints, sanding and varnishing, the teacher, angry with him about something trivial, and in a mighty fury, smashed the chair to pieces before the boy’s eyes. Andy was heart-broken. It was something he has never forgotten. He did, however, have the satisfaction of getting his revenge. He bided his time until he had the opportunity, some weeks later, of being alone and unobserved in the woodwork room. Carefully, he sawed two legs off the teacher’s prized table, the one he used to demonstrate his own craftsmanship. Balancing the table top on the legs, young Andy scurried away. The following day, the teacher entered the room and threw a pile of books and his case onto the table, which immediately collapsed before him. He had an idea, of course, who the culprit was, but he had no proof so was helpless to take any action.

  Sadly, schooldays for Andy and many more children were not ‘the best years of their lives’. Well, my schooldays were. I was very fortunate to have, on the whole, dedicated and hard-working teachers with an enthusiasm for learning and possessing a desire to help their students appreciate and explore the subjects they taught more profoundly. I was never caned or slippered, called an idiot or made to write out lines.

  When I recall my schooldays, there were several teachers who stood out as exceptional practitioners. Ken Pike, who later went on to become a distinguished head teacher, taught me for my ‘O’ levels in English Language and English Literature. He was an inspirational teacher who infected me with a love of language and an appreciation of poetry and prose. He spoke with wonderful conviction and developed in me a passion for literature. As a school inspector, I often thought that if the material is appropriate to the age and maturity of the students, if the teacher manages to interest and challenge the students, and if they possess some sensitivity, understanding and have a sense of humour, then there would be far fewer discipline problems in schools. It is often when the lessons are dull, and the teacher lacklustre, that poor discipline emerges. Mr Pike had a great sense of humour. It is of inestimable importance that teachers do have a sense of humour – indeed, a sense of fun.

  Alan Schofield taught me Geography for ‘O’ level. He was a sensitive, tolerant man, always willing to listen, but not a soft touch. He was never too preoccupied to talk informally to the pupils at break times, or too impatient to go over an explanation again if we were unsure. His classroom, decorated with great coloured maps, posters, newspaper cuttings, postcards and photographs was kept neat and tidy. We would line up outside in silence, file in, stand behind our desks, wish him a ‘Good morning, sir,’ and then be told to sit. Trained as a primary teacher, I guess he never possessed the letters after his name, but he was a natural teacher who enjoyed teaching, handled dissenting voices with humour and always made us feel valued. Those of us who have been teachers know only too well how daunting it can be to stand in front of a group of large, volatile adolescents not accustomed to sitting still and listening, and attempt to engage their attention and get them to do as they are told. It is important to appear strong and fearless, even if it is an act.

  Many years later, Mr Schofield, then in his eighties, came to hear me when I appeared on stage at the Strode Theatre in Street. I sat in the bar after my performance with his wife and family, and we reminisced. Eventually, the manager of the theatre had to ask us to leave. Before he left, I held my former teacher in my arms and acknowledged him as the great teacher he was. I wanted to repay that fondness and respect that he had showered on me. Sadly, Alan Schofield died the following year.

  Some would say that there is no room in education for the eccentric teacher. I would disagree. Mr Firth (‘Theo’) taught me history at ‘O’ level and was one of those individuals who are out of the ordinary, idiosyncratic and do not always follow the various directives, but he had a profound impact upon me in my schooldays; he brought history to life for me. Eccentrics, in my experience, are less inhibited, more imaginative and often more childlike in their approach to life than we ‘ordinary’ folk, and they do not care what other people think of them. As I walked into the playground on my first day at secondary school, there, standing like a great Eastern statue in the middle of the yard, was this barrel-bodied, balding man with little fluffy outcrops around his ears. He was wearing old black plimsolls and, instead of a belt, he had a piece of string fastened around the top of his baggy corduroy trousers. He looked like a character from Dickens. This was the much-feared Mr Theodore Firth.

  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 su
bject 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.