More tales from Cholomendy

A few years after Roger arrived at Anfield, he was joined by Pete Wiseman, a Biology teacher he'd worked with. Pete's party piece was to greet people by shaking their hand saying, "please excuse my warts". He did it with men, women, inspectors - anybody.

Pete and Roger took parties of boys to Cholomendy and had many tales to recount of their times there. I will just relate two of them.

Pete and Roger had been to the Cholomendy Arms for a drink one night. When they got back to camp, they called in the dormitory to see that all was OK. As they stood leaning on one of the bunks, Pete and Roger became aware that it was moving in a rhythmic fashion. They quickly deduced that the boy on the top bunk was pleasuring himself. I'm sure I don't need to relate the content of the conversation that took place between the two teachers. The gist of it was that they decided a quick slap in the region of the offending part would put paid to problem. The boy looked suitably sheepish the next day but of course nothing was said.

On another occasion Pete and Roger had a bad snorer in the party who was keeping the others awake. They moved him to a bunk at the far end of the dorm but that didn't work. So the next night they waited until he was fast asleep and then carried him, complete with his bunk, outside. When the boy woke up in the morning he must have wondered where the dormitory and all his friends had disappeared to. I don't think he slept for the rest of the week for fear of what might happen to him. It certainly cured the snoring problem.

Actually Pete played a similar trick on me. Once I had settled a class down to work, occasionally (well once a day at most) I would visit Roger next door and we would go into his stock room for a smoke.

One time, when I'd been next door for a smoke, I returned to my room to find the whole class had gone. Their work was still out and their bags were still there but there wasn't a child in sight.

As I started to consider how I was going to explain to the Head that I'd lost my class whilst I was having a smoke next door, I heard a noise from my stockroom. I opened the door to find that Pete had managed to get all 30 members of the class into a room the size of a normal bathroom. Both he and the class thought it was hilarious.

I never did get my own back on him for that.

Cholomendy

Liverpool Education Authority had an outdoor centre at Cholomendy in North Wales. where you could take parties of children for a week at very little cost. In cases of hardship, the pupils would go free. The Authority even arranged a Cooperation bus to take you there for 60p per pupil return.

Roger, the new Head of Department, had taken parties of children to Cholomendy many times. At West Derby, where Roger came from, they had a policy of taking all the first years there for an induction week. Children, who had come from different Primary Schools got to know each other and make friendships  that would last through their time in Secondary School. 

Since we couldn't take children from Anfield in term time,  Roger decided we'd take them during the first week of the Summer holiday. We established this pattern for a number of years and ended up taking some of the boys several times.

The groups we took were carefully selected to include children who would benefit from a week's holiday rather than those who would traditionally have been taken away by their parents.

Roger already had extensive knowledge of the area and good relations with the staff at the camp. He was therefore able to put together a plan of activities for the week designed to  keep the children busy.

It was always difficult on the first night to encourage excited youngsters, who were not used to being in a dormitory of 30,  to get to sleep. So on the first full day, we'd take the boys on a long walk to tire them out in the hope they would sleep better the second night. It worked for me, I always arrived back at camp shattered. The boys, on the other hand, would complain of tiredness during the walk and then ask for a ball to play a game of soccer when they returned to camp.

One of our regular trips during the week was to the quarry at Cefn Mawr. We'd spend the morning briefing the children about Cefn Harry who Roger explained was a Welsh terrorist that frequented the quarry with a gun; determined to wipe out English visitors.  The boys  were instructed to follow Roger and watch carefully for a sign he would make if he spotted Harry. I was amazed that streetwise 15 year old Scousers fell for that story.  It was hilarious to watch 30 boys drop to the ground the instant Roger raised his arm. Years later one boy even asked me if Cefn Harry was real or whether we'd made him up. I didn't have the hear to tell him the truth.

Another activity which proved popular with the boys was dissecting owl pellets. I never really understood how Roger was able to find so many of them so quickly but he did. The boys would then spend hours carefully teasing out all the bones from the fur to find out what the owls had been eating which was always mice and shrews.

One year, the warden at Cholomendy knitted Roger and I knee length multi-coloured cardigans, which we wore whilst we were there. On Sundays the children's parents visited the camp to make sure their offspring were OK and to bring them food parcels in case they were hungry. Spotting the pair of us with long hair, beards, sunglasses and our multi-coloured coats, one parent asked, "who are those two hippies?" Once they'd been told we were the teachers, Roger and I  had a hard job convincing the parents to leave their children in our charge. 

Roger and I didn't get a lot of sleep during the weeks we'd spend at Cholomendy. The pair of us would stay up until 2am playing cards whilst we made sure the children were all asleep. Then we'd get up at 6am to go fishing on the River Alun which ran though the bottom of the camp. With a few trout in the bag, we'd return to the dormitory to wake the children up at 8am.

The routine first thing was to clean the place until it was spick and span ready for inspection by one of the wardens. Beds had to be made perfectly without a crease in the sheets, clothes had to be neatly folded in lockers, shoes cleaned and the floor swept so you you could eat off it. Each day they would be given a mark which would always start at 6 out of 10 and gradually get better as the week progressed. You would not believe how competitive those children could be. Anybody who let the side down was thoroughly admonished by the rest.

The times we spent at Cholomendy were good for both us and the boys in our charge. I don't think I could do it now though!

The arrival of Roger

During my first year, the Head of Art found another appointment leaving me in charge of the Department. The Acting Head took pity on my situation and gave me £300 to spend on materials to keep things going. At last I had some brushes and paint to work with.

A term later, the school had appointed a new Head of Department -Roger Taylor, from nearby West Derby Comprehensive. It didn't take me long to realise that things were going to be very different with Roger in charge.

With his straggly hair, long beard, crooked nose and stooped back he looked like Fagin from Dickens' Oliver Twist. Roger also shared some of Fagin's traits; he was good at begging. Thanks to Roger, we had materials coming out of our ears as he called in favours from his previous colleagues.

I learnt a lot from Roger. He was the best sort of mentor a rookie teacher could have.

It wasn't all work though; Roger played hard as well. We had some great times together over the years both in and out of school. There are lots of tales for me to tell about our partnership.

In the meantime, the last time I saw Roger was on the Royal Iris July 2004. We were at the leaving do for Chris Sproat, a PE teacher from the Anfield days and another great character.

Roger didn't look any different, still the same full head of straggly hair, the long beard and the stoop. Although he looked very well, Roger told me that he had been very ill with some rare disease that eluded the doctors for some time. At first I wasn't sure if he was telling me a tale but his wife made it clear this was no story on Roger's part.

I was glad that he had recovered so well. I hope that he continues with good health for a lot more years to come. The teaching profession needs more people like Roger - folks with their feet firmly on the ground rather than their heads up on some esoteric cloud.

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. 

The day I started

In my third year at college, I applied to Liverpool LEA for a teaching post but had no intention of taking it up because I intended to stay at college and study for  the new B.Ed degree. Once I'd completed my fourth year B.Ed course, I was ready and eager to accept the offer Liverpool had made of a job.

In those days, Liverpool placed  new teachers in what they called the "pool". When the Authority knew of the vacancies in their schools, they informed you as to which school you had been allocated.

In my case I, was allocated a post as Assistant Art teacher at Anfield Comprehensive School, Breckside Park. The Head Teacher, a Mr Prothero, sent me a letter confirming the appointment and added a note saying he looked forward to meeting me the day before term was due to start. Satisfied that my career as a teacher was about to begin, I got married and went on honeymoon.

When I returned to England, I found a letter waiting for me from Bert Holmes,  the Deputy Head at Anfield, informing  me that the Headteacher who'd written to me  had died. The letter went  on to say that he was now the Acting Head. It crossed my mind that seeing off a  Head Teacher was a not a good start to my career.

On the appointed day I went to see my school for the first time. After a bus journey through the demolished area along West Derby Road, I arrived at Anfield Comprehensive School to be greeted by Mr Holmes. Having just lost the Head Teacher, the school was in a little bit of a turmoil. Still, the Acting Head seemed pleasant enough and he dutifully showed me to the room where I was to teach.

On the way up to the fourth floor, where the Art rooms were placed it became clear that Mr Holmes didn't have a lot of regard for the department I was about to join. When I arrived at my room, it was obvious why.

The Art room at the school where I was taught brimmed with materials. There were all sort of different types of paint, brushes in every size and quality, papers in various weights and colours along with equipment for a whole range of crafts. The walls were covered with current work and there were cupboards filled with all manner of resources. It was a haven for any pupils interested in the visual art.

As pupils, we'd always  suspected that the Head Teacher at the school was having an affair with the Art teacher which is why we reckon the department was so well stocked.

My room at Anfield was completely different. The school was only four years old but you would have imagined that my room had come from an older building. It was obvious that the previous tenant had shown little respect for his new surroundings.

The work on the walls consisted of tiny pictures mounted onto fading sugar paper which looked as though they'd been produced by junior school pupils several years before.

The stock room was near empty. One rack of pencil stubs, a handful of badly worn squirrel hair brushes and some tubes of poster paint were all I could find of any use. Admittedly there were boxes full of coloured gummed paper and some assorted pastels but very little else that I could use for my ambitious lessons.

I sensed this was going to be an uphill battle.