Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill (8 page)

‘Right lads,' I said, lowering my voice a couple of octaves, ‘get changed quickly and quietly, quickly and quietly.'

I disappeared into the teacher's office, emerging a moment later with my whistle around my neck.

‘Keep it down, lads, keep it down,' I told the boys, and the hubbub immediately subsided.

Out on the field, we jogged around the perimeter, with no problems whatsoever.

‘Get the poles!' I ordered, and four boys disappeared to get the white poles. I pointed to a piece of grass a distance from the football pitches. ‘Stick the poles in over there,' I told them.

‘There, sir?' questioned a bear of a boy with a round red face, legs like tree trunks and hands like spades.

Here we go, I thought – a confrontation. Keep calm. Look confident. Don't show your fear. ‘Yes, over there!' I raised my voice.

‘Are you sure, sir?' he asked.

‘Yes, I am sure! Do as you are told and be quick about it!'

The boy shrugged and did as he was told.

When Gus arrived, the boys were dribbling and weaving around the poles. He surveyed the scene.

‘That, Mr Phinn,' he said, ‘is masterful.' I ballooned with pride. ‘Masterful.' Then, after a deep in-drawing of breath, he added, ‘They've stuck the poles in the middle of the bloody cricket square!'

The Nun's Story

I visited the Bar Convent in York recently. Situated just outside the city walls at Micklegate Bar, the original 17th century house was purchased by Francis Bedingfield in 1686 and was replaced in the 18th century by the spectacular Georgian building now listed as Grade 1 by English Heritage. The building remains the home of the York Community of the Congregation of Jesus and is open daily for interest, education and enjoyment. This is one of the county's hidden gems and houses the most fascinating collection of artefacts, paintings, religious relics and historical documents, a stunning Maw tiled floor, a Winter Garden, a priest hole and a superb and beautifully preserved neo-classical Chapel, hidden from view.

The museum tells the story of how the sisters of the Community lived and worked in secrecy during the reign of Elizabeth I, to preserve their way of life in a time of terrible persecution and lack of recognition of the value of education for girls and women and the contribution they could make to society.

I had visited the Bar Convent before, in rather different circumstances. It was a good forty years ago, when I was training to be a teacher. My flatmate was on teaching practice at the convent, which then housed a girls' school, and he was intending to accompany the teachers and students to Stratford-Upon-Avon to see a production of
King Lear
, but he was ill. Sister Margaret Mary suggested I might like to take his place.

After a couple of hours on the coach to Stratford, I became increasingly uncomfortable. I had drunk a few cups of coffee that morning and now wanted to go to the toilet. I kept crossing and uncrossing my legs to try and ease the pain in my complaining bladder.

‘All you all right, Mr Phinn?' asked the nun sitting next to me.

I pulled a pained expression. ‘I'm fine,' I lied.

The discomfort got worse and worse. I just had to go to the lavatory or I would burst.

‘I suppose we'll be stopping for lunch soon,' I said casually to my companion.

‘Oh no,' she replied. ‘We shan't be stopping now until we get to Stratford.'

The pain in my bladder was becoming unbearable. I just had to go to the lavatory.
Then I thought of the most horrendous scenario: me, standing by the side of the road, doing what I had to do, with thirty girls and four nuns staring out of the coach window in amazement. The embarrassment, the indignity, the shame! No, I would have to think of something.

I eased myself down the aisle of the coach to speak to the driver.

‘I have to go to the toilet,' I whispered in his ear.

‘Toilet!' he exclaimed loudly.

‘I have to go,' I said. ‘I'm desperate.' There was a pathetic pleading in my voice. ‘Please.'

‘Well, I'll tell you what I can do. I'll get off and go via Coventry. There's a car park and toilets in t'cathedral precincts.'

‘Oh, thank you, thank you,' I said.

‘But you'll have to clear it with the teachers back there.'

I tiptoed down the aisle and returned to my seat. ‘I was just talking to the driver, Sister,' I said casually, ‘and he says we are in very good time. I think it might be a good idea to break our journey at Coventry and see the wonderful cathedral.'

‘What an excellent idea,' she said. I said a silent prayer of thanks.

Ten minutes later, the longest ten minutes of my life, we pulled into the car park by the cathedral. I nearly cried when I saw the GENTS sign. As soon as the coach came to a halt, I leapt down the steps and shot off, like a man pursued by a charging rhinoceros. To my dismay, I heard the nun's voice behind me.

‘Follow Mr Phinn, girls. Follow Mr Phinn. He's heading for the cathedral.' I turned and to my horror saw thirty girls running across the car park in my direction.

That Will Teach You!

I was presenting the certificates to newly qualified teachers. Each new member of the teaching profession attending was accompanied by their mentor, an experienced and senior member of staff, who had monitored progress and advised them during their first induction year. It was good to hear that they had received such support and encouragement.

At a conference, some weeks earlier, I had learnt that there was a haemorrhaging of teachers; after spending only a few years in the job, as many as one in seven newly qualified teachers decided to leave and do something else. The mountains of paperwork they had to deal with, the constant changes, new government initiatives, disruptive children and awkward parents were all cited as causes for them to leave the profession, but one other reason was that some felt they received little help and support from colleagues. There was the young woman who sought the advice of her head of department after a particularly difficult lesson with a group of disruptive pupils. ‘Well, they were all right when I taught them last year,' he told her haughtily. Another mentioned the head teacher who, commenting on the display that she had spent hours mounting on the wall down the corridor, said that she had used too many staples. Then there was the primary teacher who shared an amusing anecdote with her older colleague in the staff room, only to be told that she was too enthusiastic and that she would soon learn that teaching wasn't a bed of roses. The cynic continued to tell her that she wouldn't teach if she had the chance again, and certainly wouldn't encourage any of her own children to become teachers.

‘Good teachers,' said Bishop Samuel Wilberforce, ‘take on the most important role in society for they change lives', and Seneca, who possibly had the most challenging job of all as the tutor of Nero, said that ‘part of my joy in learning is that it puts me in a position to teach and nothing is of any value to me unless I have someone to share it with.'

I was fortunate, growing up, to have the very best teachers: the great majority were keen, enthusiastic and dedicated, and possessed of a sense of humour, indeed, a sense of fun. I was also immensely fortunate, in my first year as a teacher in a large comprehensive in Rotherham (it was called ‘the probationary year' in those days), to work for a visionary and compassionate head teacher, Dennis Morgan, and a deputy head teacher, Roy Happs, both of whom gave such valuable advice, support and encouragement, and who never missed an opportunity to show recognition for what I did. One of Mr Morgan's maxims was that teachers new to the profession should have the option to fail and power to succeed.

I have to admit that in my first year, I failed a fair bit. I was reminded of one of my
faux pas
recently by a former pupil of mine. I, a green probationary teacher, took a group of students to the swimming baths for the weekly lesson. In those days, it was obligatory for girls and boys with long hair to wear bathing caps. One small, nervous little girl, having forgotten her cap, was told off by the swimming teacher and told to sit on the side. Next to her sat another girl, who was laughing at the distressed child.

‘And what do you find so funny?' I asked.

‘Nothing sir,' she replied.

‘I don't think it's very nice to laugh at somebody else,' I told her. ‘Anyway, why aren't you in the water?'

‘You know, sir,' she said.

‘No, I don't know,' I replied. ‘I'm not psychic.'

‘You know, sir,' she repeated.

‘No, I do not know!' I snapped. ‘Why are you not in the water with the others?'

‘Time of the month, sir,' she said.

‘Oh,' I said, colouring up. Then I used the teacher's stock-in-trade response. ‘Well, don't do it again,' I said, walking quickly away.

Silence in the Library

I have always been a passionate supporter of school libraries. I suppose, as a former President of the School Library Association, I would be expected to say as much. When I was inspecting secondary schools, the first port of call was always the school library. I always hoped that I would find a cheerful, optimistic, bright facility, stocked with glossy paperbacks, contemporary and classic novels, poetry and picture books, up-to-date non-fiction material, quality hardback reference books and dictionaries, and magazines and journals that appealed to the young and helped them in their learning. I also hoped to see the tables fully occupied by quiet and dedicated students.

Sadly, this was not always the case. In one old, established grammar school, I was shown into a bare, cold, featureless room with a few ancient tomes and dog-eared textbooks scattered along the high wooden bookcases. The atmosphere carried a warm, pervasive smell of dust, and the grey walls did not help. This was the supposed central learning resource, the foundation of the curriculum and the place of academic study, reading and research. The books on the shelves bore witness to the fact that there had not been a full audit or clear-out of the old and inappropriate material for some time. There were books entitled
Wireless Studies for Beginners
,
Life in the Belgian Congo
,
Harmless Scientific Experiments for Girls
and
Our King: George VI.

As a young teacher, I was given charge of the school library. Mr Morgan, the head teacher of the secondary school where I taught, stopped me in the corridor at the conclusion of my probationary year and asked me if I ‘wanted the school library'. There would be an allowance to go with it. Of course, in those bygone days in education, any teacher who was warm and breathing after his or her first year expected to be given a scale salary point. I readily agreed to become ‘teacher in charge of the school library' and, after a week's course, and fully equipped with new ideas and lots of enthusiasm, I set about transforming the place. I prevailed upon the head teacher to invest in new tables, easy chairs and attractive wooden shelving. I covered the empty walls with colourful paintings and prints, and arranged pot plants on the windowsills. Not for me the staff room at breaks and lunchtimes; I manned the library, surveying my domain from the small office with great pride and making sure anyone entering this hallowed place did so silently, and that they returned any borrowed books to the prescribed shelves. I chased up overdue books with the zeal of Torquemada and issued directives banning any student who had infringed the rules, which were displayed prominently on the door.

Then Her Majesty's Inspector arrived. Mr Dickinson complimented me on the state of the library. Particularly impressive, he said, were the unblemished carpet, pristine polished tables, immaculately tidy shelves and the fact that there were very few books for which I could not account.

‘This is,' he told me, ‘without doubt the most attractive school library I have visited in a long time – so clean, comfortable and ordered.'

I swelled with pride.

‘There is just one small thing,' he continued, ‘which you may feel somewhat trivial but I feel I do need to ask.'

I looked at him expectantly. ‘Yes, of course.'

‘Where are the students?' he enquired, smiling.

Bridge Over Troubled Waters

I do feel sorry watching the poor contestants facing the sour-faced, sneering Anne Robinson on
The Weakest Link
. Is it any surprise that they fluff the answers?

Anne Robinson: ‘In English literary relationships, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, who wrote
Frankenstein
, married the poet, Percy who?'

Contestant: ‘Thrower.'

Anne Robinson: ‘The film starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers was called
Flying Down to . . .
Where?'

Contestant: ‘Halifax.'

Anne Robinson: ‘What “X” is the fear of foreigners?'

Contestant: ‘The X-Factor.'

I would hate to be up there in the glare of the lights, facing that virago with thousands watching me.