In this article, PATRICK STEWART (click link to read) which Patrick Stewart wrote for the Guardian in 2021, he recalls how his life was changed forever when as a young teenager he met Cecil Dormand, an English teacher at the tough Secondary Modern school that Stewart attended. And as I read the article I thought back to my own school days and of the teachers who I was fortunate enough to come across and who in ways they might never have imagined changed my life. Each of them made me what I am and made possible the life that I have lived; I’m sure that Patrick Stewart felt the same way about Mr Dormand. But, there is more. They didn’t just teach me a bit of maths or English, or a few dates of great battles or some clever scientific formula to get me through the next exam, they taught me what was worth valuing in both life and education. And, just like Patrick Stewart’s English teacher, each of them saw something inside me that perhaps I didn’t even realise was there. Unlike Patrick Stewart’s teacher they didn’t pass on something that would make me known across the world; a celebrity. But they did, I believe, pass on skills, ideals and values that that they felt were important and of value and perhaps hoped that in passing them on it might make me a worthwhile and fully contributing member of society; and I can never thank them enough for that. In short, they were giving me things that were precious to them - and that, I find, both wonderful and humbling.
First, there was Mrs Bargh who took each class for a handwriting and spelling lesson at my Junior School when I was about 8 years old. As I sit here now writing this post I can, in my mind’s eye, see and hear Mrs Bargh giving us firm, never to be broken rules for writing of all kinds -especially when writing something like a letter that someone else is going to read. I can hear her now saying “When you write a letter you are sending a piece of yourself to someone, you are telling them what is in your mind so it must make sense. You are also sending something to them which you want them to read so you must be polite so that they will want to read it. It must be neat so that they can read it easily and so that they can see that you have taken care. If it’s untidy or poorly spelled or badly composed then it shows that you haven't really taken care and the person reading it will think that as you don’t care and then they won’t bother to reply……” and so she went on. And I have never forgotten her words. They made abundant sense to me then and they still do today and throughout my life I have thanked her for it!
Then there was Mr Morris who was my teacher when I was about nine. Quiet, gentle, tall and thin he looked like a professor and was very strict in a gentle sort of way, rarely raising his voice. Mr Morris made no secret of his desire to encourage reading and I can well remember spending time wading through the upper end of the "Wide Range Readers" in his class. Some of the stories, such as one about ancient cave men making fire and the deeds of mediaeval knights as they prepared for battle I can still remember and picture today. I can also remember every Thursday morning at 11 o’clock we all sat and chanted multiplication tables, imperial measures tables and money tables. Sitting erect in our desks as Mr Morris “conducted” us rather like an orchestra. No-one questioned his emphasis upon reading or reciting multiplication tables; no-one sneered or complained that it was “boring”, no-one created classroom chaos through bad behaviour because they didn’t like what was on offer; everyone understood that these things were important to the man and he was passing on the things he valued to us scruffy kids from the back streets of Preston. We were kids, who for the most part, came from very poor homes, the sons and daughters of weavers, labourers and the like and living in times and conditions that most of today’s youngsters could never imagine. And we knew then, that what he was giving us was precious to him and even more precious for us – it was a passport to a better future.
At my secondary school – a tough Secondary Modern because I had failed 11+ exam – I also benefitted from some superb, caring teachers. Mr Seed, the art teacher, who perhaps saw something worthwhile in my artistic efforts took me under his wing. Under him I blossomed, not just in becoming a better “artist” but in gaining a wider interest in all things artistic. He loaned me books on art which was the beginning for me of a lifelong interest on the world of art, ensured that I helped out in making and painting the scenery for school dramatic productions, and gave me the opportunity to try out things that I might never have experienced. And, like all good teachers, he could spot strengths and weaknesses. He once wrote on my school report that I would never make a good potter – because “Tony doesn’t like getting his hands dirty”. How right he was; it was true then and is still true today! Even after I had left school he kept in contact, providing references for me to apply for teacher training college, supporting my application for my first passport, and always being there if I needed advice.
Then there was Mr Calderbank, the Technical Drawing teacher and Careers’ Master. It was Mr Calderbank who lit the fire in my mind that took me to my first job on leaving Fishwick – a trainee design draughtsman in a local company. His technical drawing lessons opened up a world previously unknown to me, that of engineering. I knew that being a mechanic was not for me – as Mr Seed had reminded me, I didn’t like getting my hands dirty! – but designing things in a drawing office was a job made in heaven! Mr Calderbank encouraged and coached me and by the time I left Fishwick I had all the skills and qualifications to apply for a job at Thermic Engineering in Salmon Street, Preston. Mr Calderbank provided a reference, helped me with tips for the interview, and made phone calls on my behalf. He wasn’t just my teacher but my mentor. He put me on the road to work and so it was no surprise that when I got the letter offering me the job my Uncle Joe said “Tha’s gonna be alright now Tony. A white collar job, nine till five. Tha’ll soon be a bloated capitalist……!” He wasn’t wrong and even at my young age I understood where he was coming from – Joe, like the rest of my family, had worked on the shop floor, grubby oily work, overalled, hard graft, starting work at 7 and not finishing till half past five, no sick pay; to them I had broken into another world – and Mr Calderbank had provided the key to that world.
Fishwick Secondary Modern was a tough place in those far off days but kids like me from a working class background just accepted our lot. Schools like Fishwick had one purpose – producing “factory fodder” for the cotton mills and heavy industry of northern England. It was what they did and did very successfully. But whilst it is true that there were many short comings my time there was a happy and productive 5 years . The hard working staff and excellent leadership of Dr McEwan provided us rough and ready kids with opportunities that in those days many secondary moderns did not offer. Dr McEwan was a quiet and gentle man who arrived as Headteacher shortly after I began my life at Fishwick. He quickly set about reversing many of the "discipline policies" of the previous head, the tyrannical Dr Pickard, who ruled with a fearsome cane. Under Dr McEwan the school began to change rapidly - and for the better. The most important change was that he introduced the opportunity for kids like me to sit O levels – something quite new in most secondary moderns. In the end I came out with my four "O" levels and a positive view of education that gave me not only a good start in my career but a desire to "learn for life". Although he was strict, Dr McEwan was both approachable and understanding and whenever one spoke to him he had a genuine interest in what you were saying. He opened up vast new horizons for kids like me, opportunities that had previously been unthinkable. And, as someone who has spent most of my working life in senior roles within schools, I know that was no mean feat: change comes very slowly in schools and Dr Mc Ewan’s shifting of Fishwick’s priorities and raison d'être was a monumental achievement. There is absolutely no doubt that had Dr McEwan not been appointed then I (and many others) would certainly not have achieved what we did and had the life we have had.
And there was something that Dr McEwan did on becoming Fishwick’s Headteacher. He appointed a new English teacher and Deputy Head – a man named Gavin Bolton. I was lucky enough to be taught by Mr Bolton; he lit a flame giving me a life-long love of the spoken and written word which now, in my ninth decade, burns even brighter. He exposed us to great literature and wonderful writing opportunities; I sat enthralled as we read long extracts from Great Expectations by Dickens - the fearsome Magwich and the mysterious Miss Havisham and the rest of the great Dickensian characters of that novel leaping off the page at me. I was thrilled, inspired and the seeds of social awareness and justice planted within me when Mr Bolton indulged us with Hardy's Jude the Obscure - still today, in my view, the greatest English language novel. Brilliant images and high excitement flashed through my young mind as we ploughed through Buchan's Prester John and John Meade Falkner's tale of smuggling and derring do Moonfleet; years later I relived those classroom hours with Gavin Bolton by using Falkner's great work in my own classroom. A year or two ago I reread, for the first time since leaving Fishwick, Herman Melville's Moby Dick and as I turned its 600 pages I could still hear Mr Bolton’s voice; my pulse again racing - as it had all those years ago when as a teenager I read of the mighty struggles with the great white whale and the maniacal Captain Ahab.
Mr Bolton's real love was the teaching of drama and he became internationally known for his work in drama education; and as a young teacher, my own path crossed Mr Bolton's again in later years. I attended summer holiday residential courses run by His Majesty's School Inspectorate and on two of those courses a guest speaker was Gavin Bolton. The times that I spent during those courses sipping a cup of coffee or a pre-dinner glass of sherry chatting to this charismatic and brilliant man about our shared time at Fishwick are still treasured memories; he didn’t know it but not only did he influence my teaching through his lectures during these in-service courses but the visions that he planted, the doors and interests that he opened for me as scruffy 15 year old have stayed with me and made me what I am to this very day. In short, Gavin Bolton was and is my hero; under his influence I learned what a powerful tool spoken and written language is; it can and must open up new horizons, excite minds, unlock one’s intellect and emotions, speak to one’s very humanity; it is our greatest attribute and the very essence of being human.
One December afternoon in 1960 a young woman geography teacher, Miss Barton, kept me and one of the girls - Ann Pilborough – back after the lesson. At first we thought we were in trouble but no! She asked would we like to go to a concert that night at Preston Grammar School – we should be smart, wear school uniform and not be late. We were going to see the Messiah. I had no idea what the Messiah was. I didn’t even really know what a concert was but the prospect of going out with a teacher was overwhelming. I never knew why Miss Barton chose us – presumably, she thought that we might benefit – but, whatever, I am eternally grateful to that young woman. Little did I know that it would become one of the defining events of my life. So we met the teacher and were shepherded into the Grammar School. It was so very grand, not like the bleak hall at Fishwick; polished gold lettered boards filled the walls and were covered with the names of past pupils of distinction; masters scurried around in gowns and mortar boards, the Hall was already filled with very well off looking people. It was a different world.
We sat waiting, me completely unknowing of what I would see and hear. But from the opening bars I was transfixed, open mouthed. I sat totally engrossed – mesmerised by the music and the glorious sounds coming from the choir. I quickly learned how to behave at a concert but most of all I loved sitting in this atmosphere listening to something quite unknown to me but which I instinctively knew was worthy and something to be part of. At the end I ran home through the dark streets breathless and overwhelmed at where I had been and, more importantly, what I had witnessed. For days afterwards I could hear the ringing sound of 'For Unto Us A Child is Born' , ‘And the Glory of the Lord’ and the 'Amen' – works that I still regard as some of the greatest musical compositions. It was the beginning of my love affair with classical music. In a few week’s time, on the first day of Advent, Messiah will ring through my house as it does every year and I will remember that long gone night when a new world opened its doors to me. Now as an 81 year old I still wonder, why did that young teacher choose Ann and me, what did she see that gave her the idea? But, mostly I wonder, did she ever think that her actions that day would completely change the life of one of her pupils?
Alan Parkin, as well as teaching A level history was in charge of A level studies at Blackpool Technical College. He was a quietly spoken, brisk, middle aged man; and not a man one would argue with. He interviewed me for a place on the A level course in order to gain the necessary qualifications to enter teacher training college. I was to study geography, history and economics and he warned me that I would find it hard – most of the other students were coming straight from school and had studied these to O level but I had been working as a draughtsman so out of the academic climate. He gave me a reading list and advised that I work over the summer to prepare for the course. That hot summer I read voraciously, making notes on all the books on Alan Parkin's list; it gave me a focus, a determination to ensure I made the most of what I was being offered. At the end of that long summer as I prepared to start my studies at Blackpool Tech. I was not only well prepared but had developed study skills and habits that have served me for life. It was also the first of many good bits of advice that Alan Parkin gave – and I will be forever thankful for it.
For the next two years Alan Parkin, or as we called him, “the Colonel”, was our guide, mentor and assessor. I can still see him today standing in front of our motley group of would be teenage historians in his tweed jacket and grey trousers with knife edge creases – his demeanour unapologetically professional and very correct. His blue striped regimental tie, shining brown leather shoes, quiet voice and precise spoken English gave him an old fashioned authority and marked him out as someone to respect. Each lunchtime, as we brash teenagers sipped our coffee in sea front coffee bars, the juke box blasting out the Beatles or the Stones, it wasn’t long before the Colonel featured in our conversations. It was Les Levett who had first coined the nickname “the Colonel” and it stuck; it made complete sense. Mr Parkin’s clipped speech, upright stance, short cropped hair, dead straight parting and grey pencil moustache gave him a military bearing and encouraged us all in the belief that he was an ex-officer - a conclusion that proved correct when he told us of his war time experiences in Germany when we studied the rise of Hitler.
The Colonel had “presence”. He did not praise often or easily but praised well when it was merited. We quietly mocked his clipped speech and his formality but we respected him hugely both for what he gave us and how he gave it. He didn’t set out to impress but even to us rebellious sixties teenagers he did. He had high expectations of himself and the way he presented to the world and made it clear that he had high expectations of us – never talking down to us but treating us like adults with all the responsibility that goes with it - referring to us always as “ladies and gentlemen”, as Mr Beale, Miss Hudson, Mr Levett or Miss Williams. Above all he was ever aware of individual students – and like all good teachers he made you feel good and the best, even when you knew that you weren’t. Ask a question and he could make it sound as if you had asked the most important question in the world when really you were just showing your own dismal ignorance.
When the time came for me to apply for teacher training college he supplied me with prospectuses and suggested that I apply to Nottingham as my first choice. He was not wrong and the rest, as they say, is history – my history. Without his support and guidance I would not have left Blackpool Tech two years later clutching my three scraped through A levels. Without them and the Colonel I would not be sitting here in Nottinghamshire today having made a successful career in the world of education; I am where I am, geographically, professionally and personally because of Alan Parkin.
Sir Patrick Stewart’s life was changed when he met Cecil Dormand. My life was changed and made what it has become by these teachers from my past. I don’t expect that any of them felt they were doing anything special or great or wonderful but the impact of what they did upon me certainly was – and for that I will be forever grateful. When I think of them I am reminded of the words of Thurgood Marshall, the first African-American Supreme Court Justice. Marshall was closely involved with the American civil rights movement and was appointed to the Supreme Court by President Lyndon Johnson in 1967. Marshall was clear about what it takes to succeed. He famously said: “None of us got where we are solely by pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps. We got here because somebody – a teacher, a parent, or a good friend bent down and helped us pick up our boots.” My teachers, like Patrick Stewart’s English teacher, were the people who bent down and helped me pick up my boots and in doing so made me and what I am - I could never begin to repay them and am forever in their debt.
