Recently, I was browsing the Web and came across the site for an arts organisation in Essex. As I looked through the various posts and articles I was intrigued to notice that they were running a project at the school where my father was Headmaster when I was a child. The school holds many happy memories for me, partly because I loved my Dad and partly because when I went to work with him I was always spoilt by all the pupils.
In those days the school was set in a great big Victorian Mansion. In the late 60s this was demolished in favour of a flat-roofed structure which was supposed to have all the latest mod cons but it was never the same because it lacked any character. The old house had a huge staircase that descended into the main hall and all the classrooms had once been grand living rooms or bedrooms and had huge doors with big brass handles. The entrance had a lovely door with stained glass and coloured tiles on the floor. As soon as you walked in the whole place smelt of polish and paper and lovely cooking coming from the kitchens. The old caretaker's dog, Rusty, would come to greet you; the only dog I wasn't afraid of as a child.
Outside, the old stables had been turned into more classrooms and there was a diminutive and intimidating old spinster teacher who had somehow managed to persuade the LEA to let her continue to teach past her retirement age. She was very eccentric and lived with her father who was very, very old. At dinner time she would be in the kitchens asking if the leftovers were needed -- which of course they weren't. Quick as a flash, she'd produce a carrier bag and sweep anything she thought looked tasty straight into the bag.
'That'll do for Pa's tea.....'
The school, a Special school for children with moderate learning disabilities, was in a very poor and deprived part of Essex. Many of the children and their families were well known to Social Services and many would come to school in winter with worn out shoes and no coat. There weren't many opportunities for them at home though there was often good deal of love.
My father always thought that all children, but especially children with learning disabilities, learnt best through experience rather than just through books and pictures. There were lots of trips to places of interest: galleries, factories, the nearby docks, London, an annual week at the seaside in Dovercourt and lots of opportunities for acquiring practical skills at school. There were vegetable patches and rabbits and chickens in the grounds and an old car that the boys (only the boys....this was the early 60s !) could take apart and put together again. There was a meadow in the grounds and they'd tear round, learning to drive. There was a lovely old walled garden with the fig trees. One summer holiday staff and builders dug away and installed a swimming pool for the children and every time I hear Helen Shapiro singing 'Walking Back to Happiness' I'm transported to my 4 year old self sitting on the edge of things, watching and munching on sponge cake, gazing at the bumble bees and hanging round Rusty the dog's neck.
In the 1960s there were generally far more opportunities for work and most pupils were able to get a job: working in a factory, driving a van, working in a shop, hairdressers, manual work. None of these 'career options' may sound very exciting but they were bona fide jobs with some prospects, rather than some form of activity created as part of a scheme. The pupils had the possibility of being accepted as part of the work force and part of society.
Nowadays there seems to be a kind of tokenesque feel to the opportunities available to similar young people. They can go on to a Resource Centre or go to College and then to work experience but, in the end, many of these 'jobs' are just part of some scheme that only lasts for a finite period and never leads to a lifetime of work. The world has moved on and the sorts of jobs that those pupils could do either don't exist or are more technical and need greater expertise. Standards for even the simplest tasks can be ridiculously high and so the sort of folk who attend Special schools don't have an opportunity to take their place in real society --- their days consisting of Centres, sessions, projects, collecting trolleys round Asda's car park to make Walmart feel better about itself and show it's caring, socially aware face. Many of my father's pupils just went on to be part of the crowd --earning a crust like anyone else.
In later years, it was not unheard of for us to be walking together as a family and a cry to be heard from behind us
' Mr D !!!!.............'
and there would be an ex-pupil, gaggle of children and spouse wanting to chat to my Dad about the 'good old days'. We never lived anywhere near the school --about 15 miles away -- but these impromptu meeting could happen anywhere from Essex to Wales and even, once, on a day trip to France in the middle of Boulogne.
...'Mr. D.!!!!!!'
As often happens, life turns in strange ways. Our first child was born with an array of disabilities and has moderate learning disabilities himself. Happily, he's doing well and attends a Special School not unlike my father's. Whenever we attend my son's Xmas concert there's always a lump in my throat as I remember the Xmas concerts at my Dad's school with all the littlest children dressed as angels; tinsel halos, holding candles and standing on those grand stairs in the Hall with my Dad playing the piano.
In my eyes, and in those of many pupils who knew him, my Dad was a funny, kind and concerned man. He died nearly 9 years ago and I still miss him dearly. He had Alzheimer's and one of the last proper conversations we were ever able to have was 4 weeks after my son was born. The irony of our son having disabilities didn't escape us and I looked forward to having Dad's advice as we raised our first child. It was not to be as he rapidly sank into decline. Eventually he was more disabled than my son.
Now my son is nearly a teenager and strong and healthy; doing all the things that other boys his age do. He has a disability and he goes to a good school but I know that his upbringing at home has also been touched by everything I learnt through my father; watching and taking in all the concern and warmth with which he tended those children so long ago
