Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill Page 6

  ‘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 L
ink. 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.

  I hate quizzes. When the family gather around the table on Christmas Day for the ritual game of Trivial Pursuit, I skulk away to my study. I hear them downstairs, discussing the questions and answers, and I am pleased to be away from it all.

  My aversion to quizzes stems from when I was a teacher and I represented my school house at the annual ‘Inter-House Quiz’. Four housemasters sat on the stage, in front of the entire school, to answer a series of general knowledge questions put to us by the Head of the Lower School. The ‘Inter-House Quiz’ afforded the quizmaster the perfect opportunity to get his revenge for a trick I had played upon him.

  Some weeks earlier, I had amused myself with what I thought was a harmless prank. Each Friday lunchtime, the Head of the Lower School and three male colleagues would ensconce themselves in the corner of the staff room to play bridge. The four teachers took the game extremely seriously and would discuss in detail, at various times during the following week, the strategies and outcomes. These post-mortems were extremely tedious to have to listen to, so, when the fire alarm sounded one Friday lunchtime and we all had to vacate the school, I remained behind in the empty staff room with just enough time for me to swap a few of the cards around. When the game was resumed, the arguments that arose very nearly ended in violence, so I had the good grace to own up to what I had done. The four players were not best pleased.

  The Head of the Lower School bided his time until he could get his own back. That time was when the ‘Inter-House Quiz’ took place. I sat under the bright lights on the stage, in front of the entire school, ready and confident to field the questions.

  ‘Question one, for the first housemaster,’ said the quizmaster, ‘is: “What is the national flower or plant of England?” ’

  ‘The rose,’ came the answer.

  There was thunderous applause from those pupils in his house.

  ‘Question one for the second housemaster,’ said the quizmaster, ‘is: “What is the national flower or plant of Scotland?” ’

  ‘The thistle,’ came the answer.

  This was followed by wild clapping from the pupils in his house.

  ‘Question one for the third housemaster,’ said the quizmaster, ‘is: “What is the national flower or plant of Wales?” ’

  ‘The leek.’

  Again, there was a lively response from those in his house.

  Then it came to my turn. I had the word ‘shamrock’ on the tip of my tongue.

  ‘Question one for the fourth housemaster,’ said the quizmaster, a strange little smile playing on his lips, ‘is: “What is the national flower or plant of South Africa?” ’

  ‘What?’ I spluttered.

  ‘Answer the question, Mr Phinn,’ the Head of the Lower School told me.

  ‘I’ve not the slightest idea,’ I replied.

  ‘It’s the Giant or King Protea,’ said the quizmaster before adding, ‘I thought everyone knew that.’

  There followed further humiliation as all the questions directed at the other contestants were pitifully easy and mine incredibly hard.

  Question one for the first housemaster: ‘Who wrote Treasure Island?’

  Question one for the second housemaster: ‘Who wrote Oliver Twist?’

  Question one for the third housemaster: ‘Who wrote Macbeth?’

  Question one for the fourth housemaster: ‘Who directed the film A Bridge Too Far?’

  Next day, I was teaching the very bottom form in the fifth year. As I approached one of my pupils he tut-tutted, and remarked, ‘I see now, sir, why you teach us.’

  ‘Why is that, John?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, you’re as thick as we are, aren’t you?’ the boy replied.

  A Bird of a Feather

  We have a brace of pheasants in our garden. They appeared last week and have commandeered the bird table, where they peck away, oblivious to everybody and everything, before pottering between the flowerbeds. They disappear at night but return the next day for breakfast, watched hungrily by a tree full of blackbirds and starlings.

  Each time I see a pheasant, I think of the ‘incident’ when I was in my first week as a school inspector in North Yorkshire. It was a glorious drive from Settle to York. The sun was shining and cloud shadows chased across the undulating green of the Dales. A magpie strutted along a silvered white stone wall and a pigeon flapped across the road, just in front of the car. A fox appeared, stepping delicately across the road ahead of me, his brush down and snout up, unafraid, unconcerned. In the fields, the sheep grazed lazily; lambs would start to arrive in a month or so. This, surely, was the best of seasons. Suddenly, a large hen pheasant shot straight out in front of the car, and I heard a thud as it hit the bumper. I quickly pulled over and jumped from the vehicle to see its prone body in the middle of the road, eyes closed and legs sticking skywards. All around me was silent and still. Not a person to be seen. I picked up the bird, popped it in the boot of my car and thought of the wonderful roast game I would be having for my Sunday lunch.

  At 4.30 that afternoon, I arrived at the York Teachers’ Centre, where I was to direct a creative course for teachers. I opened the boot of the car to take the books and equipment into the Centre – only to find everything a complete jumble. In the very middle of the mess crouched the pheasant I had run over, and had assumed was dead. It was, to my amazement, very much alive and kicking.

  The teachers began arriving for the course just in time to see something squawking and pecking and fluttering its wings madly. I had stunned the creature, not killed it; now fully recovered, it was not at all pleased to have been incarcerated in the cramped dark boot of a car for a couple of hours, bumping along, mile after mile.

  ‘Shoo!’ I cried, trying to encourage the bird to leave the boot, but every time my hand came within pecking range, it lunged at me. ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ I exclaimed again. Then, turning, I realised I had attracted a crowd of interested teachers, who stood in a half circle, watching proceedings.

  ‘Is it a visual aid?’ asked one teacher, mischievously.

  ‘No, it is not!’ I snapped.

  ‘Are we going to write bird poems,’ asked another teacher, chuckling, ‘from first-hand experience?’

  ‘No, we are not!’ came my angry reply.

  ‘You’d have been better off with a stuffed one,’ ventured another.

  ‘Well, I don’t want it in the Centre,’ said the caretaker, who had arrived on the scene, jangling his keys and shaking his head. ‘I’m not cleaning up after that.’

  ‘It’s not going in the Centre,’ I said, getting as flustered as the bird. It made another loud, plaintive squawk, and beat its wings and thrashed its tail.

  Eventually, the bird flapped forward and took off, landing on the enclosing wall. Then, with tail proudly stuck up in the air, it strutted off towards York Minster.

  Needless to say, the creative wrting course was a lively affair.

  The School Inspector Calls

  At the first secondary school I visited after becoming a school inspector with OFSTED, I met Bianca in the library before the start of school. She was fifteen, a tall, morose-looking girl with lank hair and a long, pale, unhealthy-looking face, and was dressed in an exceptionally tight blouse, very short skirt and huge platform shoes. She looked very different from the students on the front of the glossy folder which I held in my hand.

  ‘So whatcha gunna be doin’, then?’ s
he asked, in a weary, apathetic tone of voice, which she had clearly cultivated over the years for use when talking to adults in authority.

  ‘I am going to be joining you for all today’s lessons,’ I explained.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said, I am going to be joining you for all today’s lessons. I shall observe the teaching and also be talking to the students.’

  ‘Wha’ for?’

  ‘Because that’s my job.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘I’m a school inspector.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A school inspector,’ I repeated.

  ‘And you just watch teachers?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And sit in classrooms an’ that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you have a proper job then?’

  Following the inspection, I met with the governing body in the school library, to give my report. The serious-faced group sat before me, all eyes trained in my direction. The chair of governors, a florid-faced man with huge ginger eyebrows which curved into question marks, eyed me suspiciously with pale watery eyes.

  ‘We’re ’ere for the report from the school inspector,’ he announced. ‘This is Mr Flynn from OFFSET.’

  ‘Off what?’ enquired a plain-faced little woman with a pursed mouth and small black darting eyes.

  ‘No, no, that’s the water, Doris. Mr Flynn’s from OFFSET.’

  ‘OFSTED,’ I corrected him, ‘and it’s Mr Phinn.’

  ‘OFSTED?’ he repeated. ‘Is that what it is?’

  ‘OFFSET is, as I remember, a machine which prints paper,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Oh,’ said the chair of governors, addressing his colleagues. ‘Well, you get so confused these days don’t you, with “off this” and “off that”? Anyhow, Mr Flynn’s here to tell how we’ve done in the inspection.’ He turned his attention, and his eyebrows, back to me. ‘And I should say, Mr Flynn, that we like things plain in Yorkshire, straight to the point. We don’t put inspectors and the like on pedestals, for, as my sainted mother used to say, “they nobbut wants dustin”.’