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Anne Clarke

Mind Your Aitches

This week Anne reflects on adapting to teaching life at Faughan Valley High School in the early 1980s 


I finally talked my principal down from ‘Equus’ for the school play, even though there could have been a ready supply of horses from many farming parents.  Russell McKay believed in stretching his pupils – and staff – but even elastic has a snapping point.  After many tussles, we compromised by putting on ‘She Stoops to Conquer’.  It soon became clear that even this was proving to be a bit of a challenge, so I ended up rewriting and shortening swathes of it to make it manageable.  Probably offended against every copyright law in existence, but there you have it.  Incarcerate me now.  The important thing was that the pupils involved loved strutting their stuff and Russell was pleased with the school’s first ever production.  And I had no problem rolling back and forth across the road to rehearsals.


If I’d depended on walking to and from work to put much of a dent in my 10,000 steps a day, I’d have been on a hiding to nothing.  Faughan Valley Secondary was a minute away from home as the crow flies, a wee bit more if you had no super powers.  There was only one downside to living so near.  I was scared that, if I had call to bring a troublemaker to heel, I might be in line for the odd stone through the window.  Maybe worse if it were known that I kicked with the wrong foot.  Anne Gray was a pretty neutral name, so that gave nothing away.  Still, I soon learned to add the extra bit onto the Our Father and say aitch instead of haitch, the litmus test for determining footery I think.


Not that this subterfuge would have pleased Russell, a committed educator and a liberal to boot.  He practiced positive discrimination before it became fashionable and was determined to get more Taigs into the staffroom.  In my day and in my sometimes imperfect memory, he only managed three of us – Anne McAuley, Geraldine Garvin and myself.  All women, all in our thirties and none of us would have scared you if you’d bumped into us on a dark night.  Coincidental I’m sure.


My head of department was Stella, a fearsome, super-organised English woman.  She was the only one who had her own seat in the staffroom – an armchair to the left of the wall-mounted electric heater.  God help any new teacher who dared to sit there.  Stella ran a strict ship.  Her classes were always beautifully behaved and their exercise books were a joy to behold.  My room was next door to hers, so I was always on my mettle.  Stella was married to a big shot in Dupont, or so she would have had us believe.  The most interesting thing about her was that she had a brother who was a falconer.


Stella and her husband, Richard, invited Bryan and I to dinner one night and, although everything about the meal was exquisite, my main memory of the evening is of Richard showing us Stella’s household folder.  It was hard not to match his enthusiasm for the laminated sheets detailing kitchen cupboard contents, bed linens for respective rooms, grocery shopping checklists etc., but we managed it. When we had them to our house – much to Bryan’s dismay - I ran myself ragged trying to impress.  I gave them a choice of starter, main course and dessert.  They were perfectly nice, maybe just a wee tad supercilious.  Bryan had only one culinary duty – to provide coffee at the end of the meal.  By that stage, he was so bored and far past himself, he plonked ignorant big mugs, the sugar bag and the milk bottle on the table and left us to it.  It took me years to forgive him.  Now I salute his nerve.


And then there were my debating teams and meeting Anita Robinson.  But that’s another story…

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