Tuesday, April 12th this year was a significant date for me. It was fifty years ago on April 12th, 1972, that I began teaching at Creighton School, a comprehensive school in Muswell Hill, North London. For the two and a half years before then, I had taught in a secondary modern school in Lowestoft. The students in the two schools were quite different.
I like to think that although I may have changed physically only slightly over those fifty years, I am still pretty much the same person that I was then. Sadly, something happened today that proves I am not.
After a shower this morning, I ironed the collar of the clean shirt I intended to wear - a good thing about winter and early spring is that when wearing a pullover, it is only the collar of a shirt that needs ironing.
Then, I took the three pills I must have every morning and that was followed by a fiddly five minutes, popping pills from their sachets to refill the empty, partitioned pill container with another week’s supply. Whatever happened to pills in bottles?
I realised that today is Tuesday and that means that the rubbish must be got ready for the refuse collectors tomorrow. I went back to the bathroom to collect the bag from the small bin there.
The doorbell rang. I heard Caroline unlock the door and then the voice of a neighbour greeting her. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I was aware that Caroline had invited her into the house.
I put the contents of the two-bedroom waste bins as well as the bathroom bag into a larger bag. Then, I set off downstairs carrying all the rubbish and an empty cup with the sound of a conversation becoming clearer with every step.
I was about to go into the living room to say hello to our neighbour when I realised that I had forgotten something:
I wasn't dressed. I was stark naked!
The first class I taught at Creighton was a fifth-year (Year 11 in today’s parlance) geography class. In 1972, children could leave school at the end of the school year after they had become 15. Consequently, in theory, those who stayed on to the fifth year were keen to study for either a CSE or an ‘O’ level exam. I quickly discovered that some were less keen than others.
The lesson was going entirely as it should until after about 15 minutes, the classroom door burst open and a really scruffy youth holding a guitar stood in the doorway facing me. With a theatrical flourish, he struck a loud chord and roared,
“Hi…I’m Steve.”
Things were calm after that but with about 10 minutes of the lesson left, I noticed that a girl sitting at the back of the room was engaged in something that was nothing to do with agriculture in East Anglia.
She was sitting with her neck resting on the back of her chair, staring at the ceiling. While sitting like that, she appeared to be gently massaging her scalp. As I approached, I could see an empty paper packet that had been torn open and traces of white powder on the desk.
“What are you doing?” I asked. She ignored me.
“Sit up please and tell me what you’re doing.”
Eventually, and with a huge sigh, she dropped her hands, lifted her head, and scowled at me.
“What d’yer think I’m doing with dry shampoo? I’m washing me bleedin ’air.” *
At lunchtime, I went into the staffroom intending to ask someone the whereabouts of the canteen. Keith, a young science teacher, realising that I was somewhat uncertain, asked if I’d brought any lunch. I told him I hadn’t.
“Let’s go to the pub?” he suggested.
We walked the short distance to The Alexandra on Fortis Green where I had shepherd’s pie costing 27½p. It was just a year after decimalisation, and it must have previously been five and six.
A couple of months ago I rang Keith, whom I still see fairly often and asked him if he knew of the significance of April 12th. Of course, he didn’t. After I had reminded him, he agreed it was worth a celebration. Unfortunately, The Alex was knocked down some years ago and so it (and the blue plaque marking its place in the history of Muswell Hill), has gone.
Instead, we went to Searcy’s at the top of the Gherkin building in London. I had shepherd’s pie again, but it was £30 this time and nothing like as nice as the Alex’s. Much too salty.
This is Keith and me in a staff photo in September 1972:
And this in 2022:
The bugger’s hardly changed!
*****
* Washing hair during a lesson is pretty bad but something much worse happened in the classroom adjacent to mine two or three years later. It’s a difficult thing to write about.
The bell had rung for lunch and as I walked past that room, the teacher saw me and beckoned me in. He asked me about something or other, but my attention was fixed on a girl who was still there at the back of the room. She appeared to be fast asleep with her head on the desk.
“She’s been like that for 20 minutes,” he told me. “It’s been great. No interruptions. I suppose I’d better wake her up now.”
He called her name and shook her by the shoulder but there was no response. Then, we saw several opened packets strewn around the floor under her desk.
She was unconscious, not asleep.
The teacher rushed down six flights of stairs to the general office to telephone for an ambulance.
Twenty minutes later, she was driven away to hospital where she was treated and survived. For years I resisted the temptation to inform the teacher that I had taught some pretty poor lessons too but never one that drove someone to attempt suicide.
We never were told what had driven her to such an awful act and as far as I remember, she never returned to school but three or four years later I was told that she appeared as the centrespread of Mayfair magazine.
