Settling in

I didn't meet the other members of the Art Department until the first day of term. There were four of us in total; Pete Davies, the Head of Department, Ken Houghton, Chris Mandry and myself.

Ken was a saxophone player in a trad jazz band. He taught pottery part time for a bit of money. Pete , who was from New Brighton, painted fairground rides as a hobby. Chris was a probationer like myself.

In those days probationary teachers taught a three quarter timetable but had a mixture of the good, bad and ugly classes. My first class were 1st years, as new to the school as I was. They were bright and eager; easy to teach. I enjoyed my lessons with that group.

Then came the fourth year lags. Raising of the school leaving age to 16 meant that these pupils would have to suffer an extra year at school. They resented it and let me know in no uncertain terms that cooperation was something I would have to earn.

Neither group prepared me for the next though. The school was streamed into four bands. The top band were intelligent, bright and cooperative, The second band were amiable and friendly. The bottom band was small in number. They weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer but at least they were pleasant in nature. Problems came with the third band where all the disaffected pupils lurked.

The set I had most difficulty with came from a third year group in third band. For some reason they were timetabled for two lessons of art a week; including one last thing on Thursday afternoons.

One pupil in particular stood out from the rest. As soon as he walked through the door I knew I'd have problems with him. Terry Holt was one of a pair of twins. Fortunately his brother, Tommy was in a different set. Terry was totally unpredictable; some lessons he would be almost normal and then, out of the blue, he'd become wild and almost uncontrollable. I met quite a few students like him in the following years. As a newcomer though I wasn't prepared for the likes of Terry.

I still remember a  lesson when the class had made such a poor job of clearing up that I locked the door and refused to let them go until the place was tidy. Terry, desperate for a smoke, started climbing out of one of the windows. Bear in mind that my room was on the fourth floor. He was half way out when I spotted him. I had to make an instant decision; do I bluff it out or give in to him and loose control for the rest of the year. Fortunately his response to my, "go on then if you are so desperate" worked.

I needed a good stiff drink when I got home that night.