30 in 30 days: The Teacher : pixeldiva

She hated me, at first.

Miss MacKinley, English Teacher and Head of Department.

Unknown to me, my competition winning short story (which I wrote about in The Firsts) was used by my teacher, who was Assistant Head of the English Department, as a bragging tool, in a rather unfortunate "see how good my pupil is" kind of way.

Unfortunately, this fuelled an existing rivalry between the Assistant Head and the Head of Department, and when my teacher started bragging, it pissed off the Head and for whatever reason, she was set against me from that point.

In the Scottish system, we were the first year sitting the Standard Grade exams. The whole year was streamed into three broad bands - Credit, General and Foundation. Everyone sat two papers - the General paper, the top grade for which was a 3. Those who were thought likely to do better sat the Credit paper which meant you could up your grade to a 1 or a 2, otherwise you sat the Foundation paper so if you failed the General Paper, you could get a 5 or a 6. It was designed to ensure everyone, as much as possible, left school with a qualification (however worthless it was).

There were enough pupils in my year for there to be six English classes, which were broadly arranged in terms of who was expected to get what result, based on the papers submitted as part of the portfolio containing the best of our work from the first two years of school.

Based on my work, I was expected to go into the top English class, so it was a nasty surprise to get back to school for Third Year and find myself in the third class - the General class. When I asked what had happened, I found out that my folio had gone missing over the summer, and as a result, I'd been placed in the General class, because there was no proof that I deserved to be placed any higher. I also found out that the Head of Department had made the decision, and that she had not been prepared to listen to any appeal from either of my first two English teachers - especially not my first year teacher.

Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been an issue, but for the whole banding issue. Only those in the top two classes were being put forward for the Credit exam, which would mean that the highest grade that I could get would be a 3, which would potentially have an impact on my future.

No amount of appealing was helping my case, and I was left with a "well, prove that you can do better, and we'll see" hanging over my head. Again, this wouldn't ordinarily have been a problem, but for the fact that the class I was in was taught by the oldest, most doddery teacher in the department, who couldn't control the class, set rubbish essays and was generally just useless. Despite doing the best I could and getting some of the best grades in his class, when I submitted my folio to back up my request to be moved into a Credit class for Fourth year and the second year of the exam course, I was told that it wasn't good enough (it was, more than) and that I still wasn't going to get to sit the Credit exam.

Looking back, it was actually the best thing that could have happened. The teacher I had for Fourth year was excellent. She was new, and didn't stick to the more obvious books in the curriculum. Her style was fresh and engaging and her classes inspirational. Instead of doing the more turgid classics and Shakespeare, we did The Woman In Black and helped produce a script for a play, which was then produced and performed at the end of the school year. She, being new, didn't know the background and the politics, and when she asked why I was in her class when the stuff I was producing was of sufficient quality for me to sit the Credit exam, and why I wasn't being allowed to sit the Credit prelim, which I had to sit, if I was to be allowed to sit the final exam, because it contributed to the final grade, decided that it was unfair, and set about putting it right.

She worked with me so that I could write papers that she could submit on my behalf to the senior staff in the school and the exam board and eventually got agreement for me to sit the Credit prelim, which I passed, enabling me to sit the Credit exam at the end of the year, which I also passed, with a pretty good grade.

At the time, I wanted to be a teacher (don't laugh), and to be a teacher, I needed to have Highers, so I went back to school for Fifth year and Higher English, and was somewhat alarmed to find myself in the top Higher class - taught by none other than the Head of Department herself.

I don't remember exactly why now, but for some reason, I got a summons to go talk to her one afternoon, and frankly, I was terrified. She was well known for being something of a battleaxe, and I wasn't in a huge hurry to get yet more hassle from her.

When I got there, however, I was surprised. She told me that she had been wrong about me, and that she wanted to apologise for that, and for being excessively harsh on me in previous years. She told me that she thought that I was talented and that she was looking forward to having me in her class, and that she was expecting good things from me.

I went from being terrified to being relieved to being pleased to being shit-scared, all in the space of a few minutes.

When I actually got into her class though, it was excellent, and I could see why she was Head of Department. She was an excellent teacher, and I really started to enjoy myself, feeling stretched and inspired by the work I was doing. Soon it came time to decide on the book we would be required to do our RPR (Review of Personal Reading) on, which would form something like a third of our final grade. There was a list of books, and a cupbard next ot the class, and we were sent to go pick a book.

I was quite pleased to find 1984 in the listing, went to the cupboard, grabbed myself a copy and headed back into the class with the others, so she could review our choices. When she got to me, she took the copy of 1984 off my desk and told me that I shouldn't do it, and in fact, I shouldn't do anything that was on the list, as each and every book on the list had been done to death, and there was very little chance of getting a really good grade because the examiners had read so many essays on it that they were fed up with it. She told me that I should try something different - completely different - and that it was possible to choose a book not on the list if she approved it, and she would.

I wasn't sure what to choose, and truth be told, I wanted to do 1984 cos I really enjoyed the book, but she suggested I try something else - a book called Paradise News by David Lodge - something she'd read recently and thought I'd not only enjoy, but be able to write about well. She even brought her copy from home and let me borrow it.

Not long after that, I got the migraine of doom - and by doom, I mean that it lasted for four months, and decimated the rest of my Higher year. In the early days of it, I struggled to try and have a normal life, and when it was clear that I was ill and struggling, she held me back after class, offering support and aomeone to talk to, saying she understood because she was a migraine sufferer herself. She offered to send work home so I could keep up with class if I felt up to it, and for a while, I did that. I really appreciated her help and support, and confided in her some of the frustration I was feeling at being ill, and some of the stuff that was going on at home at the time. The battleaxe became more human and less scary, and I really appreciated her taking the extra time to push me to fulfil the potential she saw in me.

Eventually, things got so bad I was signed off school for a few weeks, and so I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when news broke that she'd been brutally murdered.

Instead of being part of the hastily called assembly, where the news was broken gently, and counsellors were standing by, I found out by turning on the news, where it was the leading story of the day, cos, well, there are not many places where a school teacher being stabbed multiple times won't hit the headlines.

Over the next few hours and days, the story emerged, although certain details weren't broadcast, presumably to shield those of us who were her pupils from the gory details.

It turned out that she'd never married, and that she lived alone in a tower block, and that her life was the school and her church. She'd been stabbed in her home, and there was no sign of forced entry, indicating that she possibly knew her attacker.

What they didn't broadcast were the details of just how brutal her murder was. I wouldn't know them, but for the fact that my mum sat on the train every day next to two Scene of Crime Officers (think CSI) - one a forensic specialist, the other, a police photographer, and that as the main SOCOs for the area, they'd been called to the crime scene.

It had been an especially brutal killing - multiple stab wounds and lots of blood, and they were pretty sure they knew who did it - the son of a friend who lived a few floors below her in the tower block. He'd had a history of mental illness and violent behaviour, and while osme evidence pointed in his direction, there wasn't enough to secure a prosecution, so they had to let him go.

I never got a chance to give her back her book.

I still have it, somewhere.

She might well be gone, but at least by me, she's not been forgotten.

30 in 30 days: The Teacher

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