Special Teachers

It seems a little disloyal to my parents to highlight the weaknesses of an education which asked of them so much self-sacrifice and self-denial, but during my time at prep school, only one teacher stands out: John Gibson. The pastoral side of the school was second to none but there was no real intellectual excitement or tension. I felt an unspoken bond with JG who was as big standing up as he was lying down, always wore black and a severe man. As a result of which, the bond remained largely unspoken, but a teacher—especially one so into sport—being seen to be sharply critical, funny with an intellectual life of his own made a big impression on me. He taught Maths (and to this day I cannot help but feel it was the wrong subject), ran the tuck shop (a significant figure for any prep school boy) and coached sport, but he nurtured us as if his life depended on it. At the age of 10 I wasn’t really sure what was going on but knew that something was and I liked the smell of uncompromising contempt: he was often very cutting and brought a personal edge and combative partisanship into school with him every day (indeed, I seem to remember that he refused to take his half day which every other teacher took in order to open the tuck shop and coach sport). Heady stuff for an unresolved and uncouth boy from Yorkshire; sadly, JG died far too young, giving weight to the line, ‘only the good die young’. More importantly for my future as a teacher, I was taught History by an extraordinary man, an infamously bearded man. Still a dear friend and guru, he had a first-class degree from Oxford, partnered one of the Housemistresses of the girls’ boarding houses and is rumoured to have played semi-professional football between school and going to Jesus (how we loved the gossip). In his manner and his method, he zapped me with the real stuff: he made me THINK. I watched his every move. Here was a teacher and Housemaster, a model teacher of a kind, who played up to his caricature (beard, glasses, grunts, gestures, word choice, cackles). When he performed in House concerts we often mimicked him—not in open mockery; rather, in supporting affection for his dedication and commitment. For him that was an acceptable part of the game. What was unacceptable was not taking things seriously. Slacked and he savaged you. I approved of his expectation. He had an intellectual life of his own and it was plain for all to see. He talked not only History, but Literature (a huge Hardy fan), politics, current affairs, sport; he was a true renaissance man. He made us feel like we could be intellectuals, indeed, that we were already. His main purpose was to fascinate you in any number of pursuits, to capture your interest. If you took things seriously it bred confidence and thus fun in the process. If you became absorbed, as I did, you loved it—and very often this meant cerebral things. From him I developed the enduring belief that perception, the art of reading people, lies at the heart of a good historian, and indeed, a good teacher. Though he vigorously used to claim otherwise, he knew women too: brainless beauties were overrated! He was of course right. Intellectual compatibility was everything then I would always have something in my head and the beginnings of an interior life. His love of the vocation still burns in me and makes me want to be a Housemaster. BY the time I left school (in 2003) I was well on my way to becoming a teacher—not that I would have dreamt of admitting it to my friends.