On Twitter someone posted an extract from a Times article, describing how respected Times journalist Philip Howard had once misspelt ‘misspelt’ in one of his columns. At once the years fell away, and I was an NQT in my first teaching appointment, in Hammersmith. I am omitting names, as I believe at least one of those involved may still be with us. This story will reveal its insights just as well, anonymously.
Someone's been sitting in my chair
As with all staff rooms, there were factions amongst the teaching staff. One faction, the liberals, was led by a much-respected Head of English, approaching retirement, with a brilliant mind and anarchic tendencies. I made the mistake, on one of my first days, of unknowingly sitting in HIS chair in the Staffroom. He glared at me, I didn’t know what was going on, then he just laughed and introduced himself, as I hurried leaped across to the next seat to permit him to regain his throne. He was one of the most loved and respected of teachers, and idolised by the sixth-form who admired both his brain and his anarchic nature. I remember that Mel Smith, preparing to go up to Oxford and already an impressive comedian, was a particular fan.
Another faction I would loosely classify as the bureaucrats. Those people, essential in every school, who organised things, carrying clipboards and folders at all times as spreadsheets hadn’t yet been invented. Who posted notices, popped missives in pigeon-holes, and generally made sure that the school ran efficiently.
Now just before I arrived at the school, one such bureaucrat, possessed of a particularly smooth and oily manner, had been appointed as Deputy Head. As he had only been Second in Geography, and was significantly younger than many of the better-known Heads of Department, this had apparently caused a certain kerfuffle in the staff room. He had already upset many of the senior staff, and this promotion, against their unwritten rules of seniority and popularity, was the last straw.
The Head of English, with his crumpled tweed sports jacket and flannels, and mop of unruly white hair, was the natural adversary of the new Deputy Head, with Brylcreemed hair (Google it, kids) who invariably wore dark suit and tie, and an impeccably-ironed white shirt. However, each was polite with the other, and there were no open hostilities, though a fair amount of ‘behind the back’ comments allowed me to grasp the situation. Then came the day of the Great Notice-Board Humiliation.
A loud report
Each term we had to produce hand-written reports on each pupil that we taught. None of the ‘Could do better’ one-liners at this school… each child got half a page of A4 (or, in those days, more probably its Imperial equivalent) from each teacher. No technology was involved, and the constant rows about the location of folders, and anger with colleagues who took a particular form’s folder out of the ‘marking room’ had me terrified as a beginner of getting the ritual wrong. And woe-betide anyone making a spelling mistake, as that meant you had to find all the other teachers for that pupil and persuade them to write their report again.
The Deputy Head loved to pop up his little hand-written notices daily, in the section of the staff room notice-board reserved for this purpose. Usually reminders of various expectations and deadlines to remind the staff of expectations and commitments. Always in a style guaranteed to irritate as much as inform.
Then, one day, he put up the notice about the exam folders. It had a distinctly hectoring tone, and rebuked staff about various aspects of the process, but in particular chastised them for the the number of mis-spellings that required correction. As I was reading the notice, early at the start of coffee-break, the Head of English joined me at the notice-board, and read the latest offering. He smiled, reached into his pocket, and produced a red pen. Circling, then crossing through, the misspelt ‘mispelt’, he added a ‘See me’ above, and chuckling went to his usual seat.
Teacher after teacher came into the staff room, got their coffee, and went to the notice-board to join the giggling staff enjoying the modified notice. Then one of the bureaucrats arrived, saw the amendments, and scuttled out of the room towards the Deputy Head’s office. Minutes later the Deputy Head burst into the staff-room, red-faced and absolutely fuming, marched over to the notice-board, tore down the offending item and bore it back out of the staff room, without saying a word, or even looking anyone in the eye. Nothing was said. Ever. But for me it was a master class in school politics, and a lesson in the essential importance of mavericks in educational establishments. The Head of English retired a few years later, and had a wonderful and most moving leaving do.
Uneasy lies the (Deputy) Head…
I myself had a rather strained relationship with the deputy over the next few years, never open hostilities, but I was always viewed with deep suspicion, as somewhat of a maverick. So, many years after I had left the school, I was most surprised to receive an invitation to the Deputy Head’s retirement. I hadn’t really kept in touch with the school, the young staff I had mixed with had all left, and the older ones had all retired too, so I was unsure why he would have invited me back for this event.
However I went along to a rather small-scale event, and had a civilised chat with him, and one or two of the other teachers that I recognised, who all now seemed to be at other schools. It gradually became clear that hardly any of the current staff were at this retirement party. This explained my invite – they had raided the school archives for ex-colleagues to invite. We were there to make the numbers up, and reduce the embarrassment, as it seemed almost the entire current staff had agreed to boycott the event. Which actually really saddened me. But apparently he had grown increasingly officious, and even more unpopular, as he grew older.
Lesson re-inforced. Bureaucrats may be essential to the running of a school, but if they adopt an officious manner they will not make themselves popular with their colleagues, and will have a crap retirement party. Thanks to this lesson, I eventually had several wonderful retirement celebrations when it was my time to leave my final place of work. Including a wonderful one up north organised by a fellow CampEder! At least mavericks tend to reap such rich, if probably undeserved, rewards.
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