In Remembrance of Teachers Past

The gravedigger wiped the sweat from his brow and planted his shovel in the heap of fresh soil by his side. The pale sun hung over the yew trees at the far edge of the churchyard and the headstones cast long shadows across the gravel pathway.

“Afternoon, Annie,” he said to a hunched figure intersecting the shadows on the gravel. “Off to pick up the young ‘un?”

“Yes,” the figure replied with a smile and a perfunctory nod, before continuing along the pathway toward the primary school. Her eyes scanned the names engraved on the final row of headstones as she approached the side gate. She had passed this way and those names some 60 years earlier as a pigtailed schoolgirl, her arms clasped about a leather satchel. This had also been her route during her forty years as school secretary, punctuated by the time at home with the children.

Annie gave the side gate a shove, more of an effort in the years since retirement. The pathway was paved from here, the flagstones framed with clumps of moss, proliferating in the damp shade beneath a leaking gutter. Weeds were creeping up the brick wall of the outbuilding to the window ledge, itself speckled with dried flakes of orange paint, peeling from the wooden window frames. Between the misted-up panes and the padlocked door to the right, Annie made out the familiar plaque bolted to the wall which read in faded gold lettering, The Sheila and Dennis Fairhurst Building, Opened 1989.

With some minutes to fill before her grandson Daniel finished school, Annie lingered by the outbuilding, slipping woollen gloves over her fingers as the sun crept behind the yew trees. She recalled a photograph she took at the unveiling in ’89. The Fairhursts were the centrepiece of the picture of course. Sheila Fairhurst had been headmistress for less than a year, but her tilted-up chin and rehearsed smile already cut the figure of authority. The signature handbag she clutched was courtesy of Mr Fairhurst, the businessman with a crooked smile who made his money in construction. The teachers from the infant and junior schools formed a line on either side of the Fairhursts and a smattering of infants grinned through gapped teeth at the front of the ensemble. The red brick building with its bright orange window frames and the plaque with gold lettering formed the backdrop. There was something uncompromisingly modern about it compared to the grey buildings which formed the main part of the school.

Annie then recalled another face in the photo. On the far left stood Miss Kelly, the longest-serving teacher at the school and in her late fifties at the time of the photo. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon and the elegant green dress she wore contrasted with the woolly cardigans and flowery dresses of her colleagues. The lustre of her youth had gone, however, and the green dress hung loosely over her gaunt figure. Miss Kelly had joined the school sometime in the mid-fifties and remained until her abrupt retirement in 1989.

Though Annie began school in 1961, she had to wait three years before she moved up to the juniors and for the privilege of being one of Miss Kelly’s pupils. The talk on the playground was that Miss Kelly’s class was about going places and doing things. There was rambling in the forest, a trip to a farm, and at the end of term you got to go to Liverpool on the bus, a place many of the children in the village had never been. As the August heat waned and the school gates of September beckoned, the “back to school” signs were hung in shop windows, mocking children as they passed by. But this had little effect on Annie that summer. She had a year with Miss Kelly to look forward to.

The first Monday of the Autumn term 1964 was introductions and Miss Kelly had committed Annie’s name along with 32 others to memory by lunchtime. It had taken old Mrs Higgins most of the previous year to distinguish Annie from Helen Maddox, a straight-A girl from a well-to-do family in the village. Later in the week, Miss Kelly led a troop of 33 pupils on foot into the woods a mile from the school to collect insects using pooters. She gave a brief demonstration of how to suck on one tube of the pooter, which then drew the insect into a collecting chamber through another tube. The children spent that damp September morning under a canopy of beech trees hoovering the undergrowth like anteaters in search of the ultimate prize, an insect no other child had found yet.

Back in the warmth of the classroom, they passed the afternoon drawing their insects on foolscap before writing out a simple anatomical description underneath. Miss Kelly, assisted by a copy of the Observer's Book of Common British Insects, identified as best she could the 33 specimens her pupils had discovered. These were to be compiled into The Year 3 Compendium of British Insects to be displayed at the back of class for the remainder of the year. Annie wasn’t quite sure what a compendium was, but it certainly sounded important and she was proud to have contributed to one. Her own discovery had been a green shield bug and she proudly wrote the name out in felt-tip pen above her pencil drawing along with its Latin name, Palomena prasina printed underneath. “Goodbye Palomena,” said Annie as she and her classmates carefully released the insects into the school garden before home time.

Aside from the trips, there was much that went on in the classroom that year too. There were stories every day, many of which Miss Kelly seemed to make up on the spot. There were class debates which the boys revelled in, and theatrical performances for which the children prepared costumes made from the Christmas jumble sale leftovers. Silent reading was also used to quell the giddiness that sometimes set in late in the day, particularly as the temperatures rose during the early spring. Annie enjoyed burying her head in a book and recalled how Miss Kelly would reach over her with a long pole to hook the latch on the clerestory windows, pulling them open with a clunk, followed by a waft of warm air from outside. Miss Kelly’s delicate perfume tickled Annie’s nostrils and seemed to bring freshness and vitality to those drowsy afternoons. She wore dresses that Annie liked the colour of – there was a green, an orange, and a red one – and they seemed to fit Miss Kelly so well. Annie noticed that old Jack the caretaker also liked Miss Kelly’s dresses and would admire them with a dreamy smile, though only when her back was turned.

In the final weeks of the summer term came the much-anticipated trip to Liverpool. Each child contributed twopence toward the museum tickets and the hired bus there and back. The headmaster, Mr Sheridan, was always delighted by how cost-effective Miss Kelly’s outings were. He attributed this to her feminine wiles as he put it, but years later in her role as school secretary, Annie noticed certain irregularities in Miss Kelly’s expenses. She was subsidising the trips from her own pocket. The class paid a visit to the Walker Art Gallery in the morning and took a walk up the hill in the afternoon to see the new Cathedral under construction. Later in the day, the children were let loose for half an hour in the city’s largest toy shop.

The bus headed out of Liverpool late in the afternoon carrying 33 children with aching feet and drooping eyelids. There was one final surprise, however, as Miss Kelly whispered into the ear of the driver and he pulled over in a residential area north of the city. The children filed off the bus and stood before a hulking mass of brick and steel, three times the height of a house and as wide as a street. At regular intervals along the brick wall which ran along the pavement were what looked like turnstiles painted in a familiar shade of red.

“It’s Anfield!” shouted one of the boys. “It bloody is!” shouted another. Soon, several boys had broken into a chorus of “Liverpool! Liverpool! Liverpool!” and danced in small circles celebrating imaginary goals. Though Annie and the earnest Helen Maddox were somewhat underwhelmed by being brought to the home of Liverpool Football Club, the boy’s high jinks were infectious and soon all the children wore smiles on their faces. Annie had often observed with pangs of jealousy the special attention Miss Kelly reserved for the boys, including the naughtiest and most boisterous ones. In later years, she reflected that with relatively few male teachers at the school, the silly boys, as Mrs Higgins dubbed them, often to their faces, were likely starved of attention. Miss Kelly sought to it they were not to be forgotten.

Annie glanced at her watch and realised it was time for her grandson. She crossed the car park to the main school as children streamed into the playground. Noticing Daniel was not among them, she ventured inside to find him standing with Miss Kaye, a newly appointed teacher in her early 30s. She turned to Annie and said smiling:

“He’s just looking for his gloves.”

Miss Kaye searched the pupils’ trays while Annie waited patiently at the back of class. A small booklet tied together with string then caught her eye. It had been placed conspicuously on the table beside the door and its title read The Year 3 Compendium of British Birds. Leafing through the book, she found drawings of birds coloured with felt-tip pen with short descriptions beneath.

“Ah, here they are!” said Miss Kaye, dangling the gloves before Daniel’s eyes. “You must have put them in Claire’s tray by mistake.”

Daniel nodded sheepishly as he stretched the gloves over his fingers.

“I see the class have been drawing birds,” said Annie to Miss Kaye. “Where did you get the idea to do that?”

“It’s something we did in teacher training,” replied Miss Kaye. “In Liverpool.”

“Only there was a teacher who worked here who did something like that,” said Annie.

“Nope,” replied Miss Kaye sharply. “It was definitely in teacher training.”

Leaving Miss Kaye to tidy the classroom, Annie and Daniel crossed the carpark to the outbuilding. Pausing for a moment, they both peered through the misted-up window.

“Miss Kaye says it smells in there,” said Daniel.

After completing her A-levels in the mid-seventies, Annie was taken on as one of the school secretaries. It was around this time that the newly married Mrs Fairhurst joined the staff to replace old Mrs Higgins. The high hem of her skirts and her enigmatic smoking at the rear of the canteen soon made her the apple of the caretaker’s eye who seemed to have lost his passion for Miss Kelly’s long dresses. She wore her perfume rather too heavily which lingered in her classroom, especially since she rarely opened the clerestory windows which were such a pain to reach. She tended snap at her pupils, especially the silly boys when they failed to answer simple enough questions. She was a competent teacher, however, and scored well on inspections, though tended to be rated higher by the male inspectors than the female.

By the eighties, Mrs Fairhurst had risen through the ranks to deputy head, a role without classroom duties. Her management training and university degree in sociology made her more qualified than the older Miss Kelly, who had left school back when just 3% got to attend university. Mrs Fairhurst delighted in this elevation and proclaimed her commitment to “foster an inspiring environment for every child to thrive”. While lighting her cigarettes, she was occasionally said to mutter, “Thank Christ I don’t teach those bloody kids anymore”.

There were still those at the school, however, who recognised Miss Kelly’s contribution. Sometime in 1987, the old headmaster, Mr Sheridan, called Miss Kelly into his office to relay some important news while Annie, now the lead secretary, typed out a letter in the corner of the office.

“As you know,” Mr Sheridan began with a smile, “we’re all very fond of you and everything you’ve done for the school over the years.”

He went on to describe plans for a new building to be erected on the school premises. It was to be a multi-purpose space for learning, though he was vague on the details.

“In acknowledgement of your achievements, the governors and I have decided that the new building shall be called The Jennifer Kelly Building.”

He paused for a moment before adding, “It is Jennifer, isn’t it Miss Kelly?”

“Well, yes, it is, but...”

“Well, that’s settled then, Miss Kelly,” he said, his knees creaking as he heaved himself to his feet. Sensing the reticence in her voice, he brought the meeting to an end and closure to the matter.

Construction was delayed for two years after much wrangling with the contractor, which turned out to be Mrs Fairhurst’s husband, Dennis. In the intervening time, old Mr Sheridan retired and the ambitious Mrs Fairhurst was proclaimed his successor. Nothing more was said about the naming of the building until a week before the grand opening. Annie was again on typing duty as Miss Kelly was summoned to the new headmistress’s office.

“So, you see,” Mrs Fairhurst explained, leaning in a little, “it would be lovely to name the building after you, after someone who is just a teacher, but...”

She paused, before fixing her eyes on Miss Kelly as her bright red lips formed themselves into an ingratiating smile.

“But we need to think about what’s right for the community. We need to give them a name they can all recognise. I’m sure you understand, dear.”

Miss Kelly paused as if to process Mrs Fairhurst's words and their devious logic, before quietly leaving the room. An unfazed Mrs Fairhurst turned her attention to a report she had been reading, that ingratiating smile still fixed on her lips. It was not until the opening ceremony the following week that the full extent of Mrs Fairhurst's machinations became clear. The new building would be The Sheila and Dennis Fairhurst Building in honour of the headmistress and her contractor husband.

Through the misted-up window, Annie and her grandson could only make out a few old shelves and a box of obsolete videotapes. In the years after the grand opening ceremony of '89 there had been a few attempts to make use of the building, first as a music room then as a library, but nothing quite worked. In the early 2000s, construction began on the new school buildings. The giant structures of glass and metal cladding soon overshadowed the Fairhurst building and damp began to set in. It was eventually commandeered by the caretakers and repurposed as a store room.

Was Miss Kelly bitter over this last-minute renaming? Her abrupt retirement in November of the same year was not on account of this petty act, but because a cancer had spread which would take her life in early 1990, shortly before her 60th birthday. Had she already known her fate as Mrs Fairhurst sat her down in the office that day to explain it was because she was just a teacher? Annie occasionally pondered this morbid question, but knew the answer was beyond her reach, at least in this life.

"Excuse me," a woman's voice called out from behind, as the gate to the churchyard opened with a shove. Miss Kaye, now in a black mackintosh, stood in the open gate, a little flushed in the cheeks.

"You mentioned a teacher just now who used to work here. Was it a Miss Kelly by any chance?" she said breathlessly.

"It was actually. You didn't know her, did you? You'd be too young I mean."

"No, no, but I heard so much about her. I didn't make the connection before, but my lecturer on teacher training, Dr Helen Maddox, went on and on about her. More about her than the theorists even! I thought it was this school she worked at, but I wasn't sure."

Miss Kaye briefly recounted a tale of trekking in the woods and the bus to Liverpool. And yes, the compendium of birds was an adaptation right from Miss Kelly's book of insects. Miss Kaye had to rush off to her boyfriend who was waiting by the car, leaving Annie and Daniel alone once more.

As Annie again scanned the names engraved on the headstones, she pondered what it meant to be remembered. They could put your name up in gold letters, but did it count for much in the end? If you influenced a life, however, that life in turn could influence others. Soon more would be influenced and a trace of you might live on. Annie longed to share this thought with young Daniel as a kind of life lesson, but couldn't quite straighten her words out. She needn't have worried since years later as a history undergraduate, he would encounter the following sentence once spoken by a Greek.

What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.

Pericles