ChihuahuaAddict
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OK, some people might be interested, some might find this morbid, but please be honest.
My Father was an English teacher, and died shortly after retiring.
After the funeral etc., we found copies of a manuscript he had written.
He'd sent copies to various publishers, and gotten letters of rejection.
It's a book based partially on his childhood as he grew up in Aberdeen/Scotland during the Second World War, and on our family and his work as a teacher.
It's called 'The Holm'
If anyones interested, I could post it chapter by chapter in the 'Fiction' Section of the magazizine?
I made myself a promise I would get it published somehow when I found it, and this may be the only way it will happen.
Apologies to non Scottish people, as it's largely written using Scottish dialect.
Here's a bit from the start;
The Holm. R.G.I.C. Murray
"CHAPTER 1
Entwined in the railings by the gate, Jimmy watched him. Another student, a shiny wee case wi' naethin' in't. Gie the wee man a welcome.
Stephen Murdoch was frozen by the face knotting itself behind the bars; shocked at the simian mouth, the tongue protruding - one of Jimmy's finest tricks - to lick the salt from a nose flaring as wide as the madly crossed hazel eyes above. Then he remembered a veteran's advice; be unpredict able. He constructed an expression of amused interest, took leisurely note of the fiery hair, the brown jersey with leather-patched elbows, jeans, grubby trackshoes, no school bag. Slowly, the features relaxed into sullenness. Looked an intelligent lad, all the same.
"Ah, good morning. I look forward to seeing you later."
Jimmy glowered as the wee man marched away. He was in trouble. So what, he didn't care. He didn't care about anything, much. Well, maybe wan thing. He hailed a class mate as he slouched towards the boys' entrance.
"Gie's the len' o' a pencil."
"Naw, ye still owe's wan."
"Ach, come on, Jessie, Ah'll gie ye a kiss."
"Goad! Ah'll lend ye wan if ye dinna."
"Oh, a' richt then."
"Dinna' chaw the end, and Ah want it back."
They went their separate ways to the same destination. In Room 8, Jimmy slumped in his usual posture, head cradled in his hand, staring out of the window. When the door opened he knew who it was. What would he say? He'd start by shouting. As if he cared. The atmosphere in the room seemed to tingle as the class jarred to attention, sat straight to meet their fate. Jimmy didn't move.
There was a wry amusement in Stephen's face when the oppressive silence at last pulled the boy round to face him, the eyes now direct, cold, defying confrontation, punish ment. Surprise him.
"Good morning again. What is your name?"
"James - Sir. James Boyd."
"Ah. Thank you."
And that was all. The new teacher sat at the tall desk and surveyed the class, the room. They followed his eyes, seeing afresh the dull brown wainscoting and porridge- coloured emulsion, yellowing artwork of past years curling away from the walls, the ancient scarred beech and steel of their desks.
It was as if ants in a suddenly-opened nest were lifting their heads to assess danger. The girls sat upright, most boys sat nearly erect, but all waited for one boy, so intent on the plane tree outside the window. Aware of the tension, Jimmy managed to ignore them all till Jessie's snigger betrayed him. He flushed red and sat up to fold his arms, seething the more at the teacher's smile. No. Not a smile, a grin. Better watch this wan.
"Well, now that we have all settled down - " A large girl made her bid for notoriety but the class silence fell on her. She giggled weakly and sank into red-faced confusion. He waited a full ten seconds. "-we must introduce ourselves. I am Mr. Murdoch. First I have to take your attendance. When I call out your name I want you to tell me a little about yourself. For example, if I were to begin, I would tell you that my name is Stephen Murdoch, I come from Aberdeen, my hobbies are motorcycling and computers, and this is my first school.
As one by one they stumbled through their introductions, he recalled the head teacher in his drab, cluttered office.
"Your name in full, Mr Murdoch?" He reached for the heavy school log, fumbled and dropped it to send a sheaf of photographs slithering across the desk. He smiled at Stephen's stare. "Yes, pupils' photographs. That's a use ful tip for you at the beginning of your career, Mr Murdoch. Keep a list, even photographs of each class, of fellow teachers. I can assure you that the years will find all the weaknesses in your mind and memory.
"7A is a spirited class, and it has had a very bad year. Their first teacher left on maternity leave, her place taken by two others in succession - nothing to do with the class behaviour, I assure you. When Mrs Graham returned, her husband was promoted and she left again. So you are their fifth teacher. They aren't a bad lot, though as usual there are some worth watching. Keep an eye on James Boyd, whose family has been feuding with Jessie Anderson's for a couple of generations. A pity, I like the child. You may also have to watch some of the girls. Two of them are on the verge of discovering boys. You can form your own judgements.
"I think that you should find some alternative to the normal curriculum. Why don't you begin what we used to call a project? I have a little money and various resources, I'll even offer you another room if you like. See what you can do, but I do not want this class to leave us feeling betrayed. You can call on me for any support you need, disciplinary or otherwise. Now off you go and show them who's boss. You will find the register and dinner money forms in the deskIf you have any problems, come back and we'll have a word."
"Thank you, Mr Chalmers."
The Headmaster filled in the school log, then his own, personal record. A good College report, but a motorcycle accident just after graduation denied him a permanent appointment, he had done supply work since. A little too sure of himself for a "Temp" in a new school. Still, he could do no worse than his predecessors. He sighed. He hated impermanence. He felt too old for the modern obsession with change.
Allan Chalmers had been born here, in Stoorford, had gone to school in a grim little building, long since demol ished, that had left no memory he wanted to recall. The Old Holm was of the same vintage, but had been enlarged and refurbished to take all the town's children. It was large, roomy, lots of playground space, with grass and mature trees, though the decor was Neglected Victorian.
As a young teacher, he had dreamed of a post in administration, but ambition's fire was replaced by a delight in the human species. When he returned at last place as head teacher, it was like settling into a familiar saddle.
Early on, he had decided there were very few really bad children, many misguided adults. Some of those were teachers, others parents. He would use his skills and power to remedy the ills of his small world, and ignore the greater one. There had been minor triumphs; many troubled parents and children over the years had cause to bless him and others had good cause to curse the mild man with the encyclopaedic knowledge. Few children passed from his gates without some achievement, however meagre.
Parents took him for granted, kids expected to be greeted by name, to be asked about their families, even their pets. They knew him to be kind, consistent, reliable. Ruefully, he thought he was like a fencepost; there for life, serving a steadfast purpose that was its own reward, defining constant bounds, only noticed when he failed. So, the school was a happy one; the staff were encouraged or driven as needed, he had a network of grateful parents and former pupils. This was success. This was his school, his town
Yes, the class should be all right now; he'd keep an eye on them, and on Murdoch.
Stephen sat at the old desk as the last child stumbled through his introduction. How would he begin? Should he bother? He might never see them again, he could just soldier on till the end of the term, take his money and go.
Thirty pairs of eyes were locked on his, waiting for some variety of boredom to be offered. Let them wait. They flushed under the scrutiny. The girls had studied him and his dress with particular interest, pleased to have a man in the room. But he merely sat there and studied them. It was the most formidable of all his options. All through their acquaintance, they feared the return of the thoughtful stare that seemed to penetrate their inmost thoughts. The boys slowly drew into positions of attention, the girls locked their knees, tugged their skirts down, hugged themselves for comfort.
Ach, they were only kids; rough material. In a few years, they could be anything; bankers, bank robbers, house-wives, artists. He might make no difference at all to their lives, or one child in the whole class would reach for his ceiling. But he could just take the money and go. He studied the feet below the desks. Most wore sturdy, well- cleaned shoes. One plump boy wore Adidas, gleaming new. Below Jimmy's desk there were trainers too - a dirty greyish brown, with the soles scuffed smooth and the worn grey laces repaired with complex knots. The socks were none too clean, and he knew the feet inside would not bear close inspection. The legs were skinny, scabbed, but he knew that at football or in flight these would be capable of a surprising turn of speed.
He held Jimmy's furious gaze. What home life did such a lad have? He must find out. Who were their leaders? What could they do? There was almost a shiver of pleasure as he realised they were his. There was no choice at all. He was theirs.
"Right, boys and girls, we've been here for nearly an hour, and have done little except talk. Before we begin work, I would like you to tell me what your teachers have said in their first days here. Oh, just one thing. There's an Army saying, 'No names, no pack-drill'. In other words, don't use real names and don't try to be cheeky. Come on, who'll be first?"
The tall, blond girl had regained her confidence.
"Please, Sir, Miss - Sorry, Sir. One teacher said that we had better behave ourselves or we would be in trouble. But she never got us into trouble, whatever some folk did." The long blonde pigtail swung as she looked meaningfully at the other side of the room.
"Thank you, Elaine Guthrie, isn't it?. Jessica Anderson?"
There was an outburst of giggling, but the girl waited for silence. "Jessie, Sir. Another one told us that the heidmaister had said we were a good class." Her tone was dry.
Then a slow, clear insolence rang round the classroom like a bell. "Anither wan said that teachers aye kent better than us - Sir - because they were bigger, aulder, and cleverer."
A direct challenge; Jimmy had not bothered to lift his head, or look at him, had spoken without permission, above all, the voice carried enough cold contempt to give one pronoun and three adjectives the force of profanity. And there he was, waiting for the thunderbolt. Remember, Stephen. Lose your temper, lose the game.
"Well done, Jimmy. Very clever. Although your precise words were inoffensive, your tone and demeanour were very conveyed exactly the opposite to what you appeared to say. That is a device called irony." He broke off to write on the blackboard. "Words, you see, class, can be weapons.
"Jimmy, I enjoy your conversation so much that I must have a little more of it. Please wait behind at the end of the day. " Jimmy scowled. "Sur."
"There is something else you ought to remember. Not only do we know better than you, we are bigger, older and more clever, and we know nearly everything, and what is more important we can be nastier than you can ever hope to be. Who's next?"
They told a sorry tale. Conventional work begun, interrupted, carried on perfunctorily by temporary staff or by regular teachers attempting to babysit them. A trip to the theatre had been promised but abandoned, as had a visit to the library. Poor little devils. Thirty pairs of eyes - bright, clear children's eyes were waiting. Time to begin your life's work. Make a dramatic gesture. Burn your boats.
"Right, enough. Here is my message to you. I don't care about all that. I think I shall treat you like the secondary pupils you will become after the summer holidays. I want to make up a history of the place. First, let me have your jotters."
The sorry documents were collected, neatly tapped into a bundle, squared off, Sellotaped securely as they watched. There was an incredulous gasp as they thudded into the bin, unread. "Now we will shift the furniture."
Shift the furniture! The massive steel desk-seats might well have been bolted to the floor on delivery, aeons ago. Now they were dragged over the splintered floor into groups of four. Cupboards were emptied and wiped clean. Jimmy laboured frantically to abolish their past.
Soon, a bookshelf was almost filled with the tattered rejects of the school library; several atlases, a few thick dictionaries, miscellaneous reference texts. An ancient drawing-board was set up, and enormous sheets of cartridge paper arrived, rolls of lining paper, pens, crayons, pencils. At the intervalbell they could look round at a room transformed.
"Well, boys and girls, we seem to have thrown away all the things that we would need to do real work, don't we?"
"Yes, Sir.
"So, we can't do very much of the usual kind of work now, can we?"
An enthusiastic chorus of "No, Sir!"
“I can't hear you!"
"NO, SIR!"
"During interval, you can wonder what we will do for the rest of the term here. No, you can't play football all the time, nor can you watch telly, or fall asleep. For the next few weeks you are going to work really hard and I think you might even enjoy it. If it's any consolation to you, I shall be quite busy too. Now, leave the building quietly, and at the end of playtime, wait outside till I call you in."
They filed out, puzzled and excited. Could he maintain that? Chalmers swept him along to the staffroom - a largeish, dingy room littered with teaching detritus. A large urn steamed gently beside coffee and tea pots. Two large ladies of indeterminate ages sat on sagging armchairs opposite it, in close conversation. He was handed over to the queue. "Liz. Allardyce, Primary Six A." She was a slim, pleasant girl with a firm handclasp. There was a dryness in Chalmers' tone as a flat-chested female undulated up. She wore rimless glasses on curiously opaque brown eyes and her fingers felt like whiting fillets. She stood too close. He squirmed as her eyes slid over him. "Anne Ritchie, Primary 5A." He nodded, hastily took a cup of strong tea to a seat beside two veterans. He glanced out as he passed the window. A familiar figure was entwined in the railings by the gate."
My Father was an English teacher, and died shortly after retiring.
After the funeral etc., we found copies of a manuscript he had written.
He'd sent copies to various publishers, and gotten letters of rejection.
It's a book based partially on his childhood as he grew up in Aberdeen/Scotland during the Second World War, and on our family and his work as a teacher.
It's called 'The Holm'
If anyones interested, I could post it chapter by chapter in the 'Fiction' Section of the magazizine?
I made myself a promise I would get it published somehow when I found it, and this may be the only way it will happen.
Apologies to non Scottish people, as it's largely written using Scottish dialect.
Here's a bit from the start;
The Holm. R.G.I.C. Murray
"CHAPTER 1
Entwined in the railings by the gate, Jimmy watched him. Another student, a shiny wee case wi' naethin' in't. Gie the wee man a welcome.
Stephen Murdoch was frozen by the face knotting itself behind the bars; shocked at the simian mouth, the tongue protruding - one of Jimmy's finest tricks - to lick the salt from a nose flaring as wide as the madly crossed hazel eyes above. Then he remembered a veteran's advice; be unpredict able. He constructed an expression of amused interest, took leisurely note of the fiery hair, the brown jersey with leather-patched elbows, jeans, grubby trackshoes, no school bag. Slowly, the features relaxed into sullenness. Looked an intelligent lad, all the same.
"Ah, good morning. I look forward to seeing you later."
Jimmy glowered as the wee man marched away. He was in trouble. So what, he didn't care. He didn't care about anything, much. Well, maybe wan thing. He hailed a class mate as he slouched towards the boys' entrance.
"Gie's the len' o' a pencil."
"Naw, ye still owe's wan."
"Ach, come on, Jessie, Ah'll gie ye a kiss."
"Goad! Ah'll lend ye wan if ye dinna."
"Oh, a' richt then."
"Dinna' chaw the end, and Ah want it back."
They went their separate ways to the same destination. In Room 8, Jimmy slumped in his usual posture, head cradled in his hand, staring out of the window. When the door opened he knew who it was. What would he say? He'd start by shouting. As if he cared. The atmosphere in the room seemed to tingle as the class jarred to attention, sat straight to meet their fate. Jimmy didn't move.
There was a wry amusement in Stephen's face when the oppressive silence at last pulled the boy round to face him, the eyes now direct, cold, defying confrontation, punish ment. Surprise him.
"Good morning again. What is your name?"
"James - Sir. James Boyd."
"Ah. Thank you."
And that was all. The new teacher sat at the tall desk and surveyed the class, the room. They followed his eyes, seeing afresh the dull brown wainscoting and porridge- coloured emulsion, yellowing artwork of past years curling away from the walls, the ancient scarred beech and steel of their desks.
It was as if ants in a suddenly-opened nest were lifting their heads to assess danger. The girls sat upright, most boys sat nearly erect, but all waited for one boy, so intent on the plane tree outside the window. Aware of the tension, Jimmy managed to ignore them all till Jessie's snigger betrayed him. He flushed red and sat up to fold his arms, seething the more at the teacher's smile. No. Not a smile, a grin. Better watch this wan.
"Well, now that we have all settled down - " A large girl made her bid for notoriety but the class silence fell on her. She giggled weakly and sank into red-faced confusion. He waited a full ten seconds. "-we must introduce ourselves. I am Mr. Murdoch. First I have to take your attendance. When I call out your name I want you to tell me a little about yourself. For example, if I were to begin, I would tell you that my name is Stephen Murdoch, I come from Aberdeen, my hobbies are motorcycling and computers, and this is my first school.
As one by one they stumbled through their introductions, he recalled the head teacher in his drab, cluttered office.
"Your name in full, Mr Murdoch?" He reached for the heavy school log, fumbled and dropped it to send a sheaf of photographs slithering across the desk. He smiled at Stephen's stare. "Yes, pupils' photographs. That's a use ful tip for you at the beginning of your career, Mr Murdoch. Keep a list, even photographs of each class, of fellow teachers. I can assure you that the years will find all the weaknesses in your mind and memory.
"7A is a spirited class, and it has had a very bad year. Their first teacher left on maternity leave, her place taken by two others in succession - nothing to do with the class behaviour, I assure you. When Mrs Graham returned, her husband was promoted and she left again. So you are their fifth teacher. They aren't a bad lot, though as usual there are some worth watching. Keep an eye on James Boyd, whose family has been feuding with Jessie Anderson's for a couple of generations. A pity, I like the child. You may also have to watch some of the girls. Two of them are on the verge of discovering boys. You can form your own judgements.
"I think that you should find some alternative to the normal curriculum. Why don't you begin what we used to call a project? I have a little money and various resources, I'll even offer you another room if you like. See what you can do, but I do not want this class to leave us feeling betrayed. You can call on me for any support you need, disciplinary or otherwise. Now off you go and show them who's boss. You will find the register and dinner money forms in the deskIf you have any problems, come back and we'll have a word."
"Thank you, Mr Chalmers."
The Headmaster filled in the school log, then his own, personal record. A good College report, but a motorcycle accident just after graduation denied him a permanent appointment, he had done supply work since. A little too sure of himself for a "Temp" in a new school. Still, he could do no worse than his predecessors. He sighed. He hated impermanence. He felt too old for the modern obsession with change.
Allan Chalmers had been born here, in Stoorford, had gone to school in a grim little building, long since demol ished, that had left no memory he wanted to recall. The Old Holm was of the same vintage, but had been enlarged and refurbished to take all the town's children. It was large, roomy, lots of playground space, with grass and mature trees, though the decor was Neglected Victorian.
As a young teacher, he had dreamed of a post in administration, but ambition's fire was replaced by a delight in the human species. When he returned at last place as head teacher, it was like settling into a familiar saddle.
Early on, he had decided there were very few really bad children, many misguided adults. Some of those were teachers, others parents. He would use his skills and power to remedy the ills of his small world, and ignore the greater one. There had been minor triumphs; many troubled parents and children over the years had cause to bless him and others had good cause to curse the mild man with the encyclopaedic knowledge. Few children passed from his gates without some achievement, however meagre.
Parents took him for granted, kids expected to be greeted by name, to be asked about their families, even their pets. They knew him to be kind, consistent, reliable. Ruefully, he thought he was like a fencepost; there for life, serving a steadfast purpose that was its own reward, defining constant bounds, only noticed when he failed. So, the school was a happy one; the staff were encouraged or driven as needed, he had a network of grateful parents and former pupils. This was success. This was his school, his town
Yes, the class should be all right now; he'd keep an eye on them, and on Murdoch.
Stephen sat at the old desk as the last child stumbled through his introduction. How would he begin? Should he bother? He might never see them again, he could just soldier on till the end of the term, take his money and go.
Thirty pairs of eyes were locked on his, waiting for some variety of boredom to be offered. Let them wait. They flushed under the scrutiny. The girls had studied him and his dress with particular interest, pleased to have a man in the room. But he merely sat there and studied them. It was the most formidable of all his options. All through their acquaintance, they feared the return of the thoughtful stare that seemed to penetrate their inmost thoughts. The boys slowly drew into positions of attention, the girls locked their knees, tugged their skirts down, hugged themselves for comfort.
Ach, they were only kids; rough material. In a few years, they could be anything; bankers, bank robbers, house-wives, artists. He might make no difference at all to their lives, or one child in the whole class would reach for his ceiling. But he could just take the money and go. He studied the feet below the desks. Most wore sturdy, well- cleaned shoes. One plump boy wore Adidas, gleaming new. Below Jimmy's desk there were trainers too - a dirty greyish brown, with the soles scuffed smooth and the worn grey laces repaired with complex knots. The socks were none too clean, and he knew the feet inside would not bear close inspection. The legs were skinny, scabbed, but he knew that at football or in flight these would be capable of a surprising turn of speed.
He held Jimmy's furious gaze. What home life did such a lad have? He must find out. Who were their leaders? What could they do? There was almost a shiver of pleasure as he realised they were his. There was no choice at all. He was theirs.
"Right, boys and girls, we've been here for nearly an hour, and have done little except talk. Before we begin work, I would like you to tell me what your teachers have said in their first days here. Oh, just one thing. There's an Army saying, 'No names, no pack-drill'. In other words, don't use real names and don't try to be cheeky. Come on, who'll be first?"
The tall, blond girl had regained her confidence.
"Please, Sir, Miss - Sorry, Sir. One teacher said that we had better behave ourselves or we would be in trouble. But she never got us into trouble, whatever some folk did." The long blonde pigtail swung as she looked meaningfully at the other side of the room.
"Thank you, Elaine Guthrie, isn't it?. Jessica Anderson?"
There was an outburst of giggling, but the girl waited for silence. "Jessie, Sir. Another one told us that the heidmaister had said we were a good class." Her tone was dry.
Then a slow, clear insolence rang round the classroom like a bell. "Anither wan said that teachers aye kent better than us - Sir - because they were bigger, aulder, and cleverer."
A direct challenge; Jimmy had not bothered to lift his head, or look at him, had spoken without permission, above all, the voice carried enough cold contempt to give one pronoun and three adjectives the force of profanity. And there he was, waiting for the thunderbolt. Remember, Stephen. Lose your temper, lose the game.
"Well done, Jimmy. Very clever. Although your precise words were inoffensive, your tone and demeanour were very conveyed exactly the opposite to what you appeared to say. That is a device called irony." He broke off to write on the blackboard. "Words, you see, class, can be weapons.
"Jimmy, I enjoy your conversation so much that I must have a little more of it. Please wait behind at the end of the day. " Jimmy scowled. "Sur."
"There is something else you ought to remember. Not only do we know better than you, we are bigger, older and more clever, and we know nearly everything, and what is more important we can be nastier than you can ever hope to be. Who's next?"
They told a sorry tale. Conventional work begun, interrupted, carried on perfunctorily by temporary staff or by regular teachers attempting to babysit them. A trip to the theatre had been promised but abandoned, as had a visit to the library. Poor little devils. Thirty pairs of eyes - bright, clear children's eyes were waiting. Time to begin your life's work. Make a dramatic gesture. Burn your boats.
"Right, enough. Here is my message to you. I don't care about all that. I think I shall treat you like the secondary pupils you will become after the summer holidays. I want to make up a history of the place. First, let me have your jotters."
The sorry documents were collected, neatly tapped into a bundle, squared off, Sellotaped securely as they watched. There was an incredulous gasp as they thudded into the bin, unread. "Now we will shift the furniture."
Shift the furniture! The massive steel desk-seats might well have been bolted to the floor on delivery, aeons ago. Now they were dragged over the splintered floor into groups of four. Cupboards were emptied and wiped clean. Jimmy laboured frantically to abolish their past.
Soon, a bookshelf was almost filled with the tattered rejects of the school library; several atlases, a few thick dictionaries, miscellaneous reference texts. An ancient drawing-board was set up, and enormous sheets of cartridge paper arrived, rolls of lining paper, pens, crayons, pencils. At the intervalbell they could look round at a room transformed.
"Well, boys and girls, we seem to have thrown away all the things that we would need to do real work, don't we?"
"Yes, Sir.
"So, we can't do very much of the usual kind of work now, can we?"
An enthusiastic chorus of "No, Sir!"
“I can't hear you!"
"NO, SIR!"
"During interval, you can wonder what we will do for the rest of the term here. No, you can't play football all the time, nor can you watch telly, or fall asleep. For the next few weeks you are going to work really hard and I think you might even enjoy it. If it's any consolation to you, I shall be quite busy too. Now, leave the building quietly, and at the end of playtime, wait outside till I call you in."
They filed out, puzzled and excited. Could he maintain that? Chalmers swept him along to the staffroom - a largeish, dingy room littered with teaching detritus. A large urn steamed gently beside coffee and tea pots. Two large ladies of indeterminate ages sat on sagging armchairs opposite it, in close conversation. He was handed over to the queue. "Liz. Allardyce, Primary Six A." She was a slim, pleasant girl with a firm handclasp. There was a dryness in Chalmers' tone as a flat-chested female undulated up. She wore rimless glasses on curiously opaque brown eyes and her fingers felt like whiting fillets. She stood too close. He squirmed as her eyes slid over him. "Anne Ritchie, Primary 5A." He nodded, hastily took a cup of strong tea to a seat beside two veterans. He glanced out as he passed the window. A familiar figure was entwined in the railings by the gate."