A Probationary Tale by Jackie McGregor, flat white

‘Of course nothing gets shared with us,’ Debbie stage-whispered, ‘We’re just meant to get on with it, minding our own business. Don’t you think we should be told if there’s anything to be concerned about?’

The hubbub spread round every area of our cramped staffroom, a collective buzz to rival any busy hive, though we paused for a few moments till we could be sure the Head Teacher would have made it back downstairs.

We all looked to Catriona.

     ‘Did you know he would be taking over your class?’ I asked, being the eldest, momentarily appointing myself as head inquisitor.

Catriona paused for a moment, just long enough to make me think she was choosing her words carefully.

     ‘Helen phoned me at home a couple of days ago. She asked me not to say anything. I don’t know why he didn’t complete his probation year, either. I was just told he would be taking charge of my class from tomorrow for the first term. He’s using today to get paperwork sorted at the Council since it’s just an INSET day.’

     ‘Jammy bugger,’ sighed Mike, ‘So what will you be doing this term?’

Starting to redden, Catriona glanced round the room.

     ‘I’m going to be implementing a whole-school curriculum for using the new iPads and will be updating the policy on transitions throughout the school.’

     ‘What room will you be working in?’ Mike continued, ‘I thought we were running out of space with the business manager taking over the medical room.’

Catriona now looked decidedly uncomfortable, glancing at her watch and began to rise from her chair. Knowing she was a complete gossip, Helen had no doubt reminded her about personal circumstances being confidential.

     ‘I’ll be working from the back of the classroom’ and with that, she walked to the door, ‘I’d better get on. See you later.’

The door slowly closed, the remaining eight of us tight lipped, our curiosity only obvious by a fair few raised eyebrows.

 

Between us we have over 100 years of teaching experience at our small school, though I can take credit for bringing up the numbers, having contributed to over 40 of these myself and I’ve seen a lot of comings and goings in that time. These young pups don’t have the same life experience to smell a rat. I’ve never heard of a probationer having another teacher in their classroom full-time. Different when you’re a student and you need to work alongside an experienced classroom teacher, such as myself, to observe good practice. But probationers -  no - never.

     In my forty years teaching I’ve heard the infamous words ‘gardening leave’ enough to know it isn’t the idyll you hope to end your career by. No-one wants to shuffle out of school, head down, with all their belongings in a couple of cardboard boxes to stay home and tend their gardens, metaphorical or actual. Although it doesn’t happen often, this wee school alone has seen its fair share of teachers who take their handbags into the toilets. If you use the next cubicle and listen closely enough you can hear the faint metal-on-metal scrape as a bottle is surreptitiously opened. And don’t get me started on the stationery cupboard. That tiny space has seen more action than our gym hall – whether pilfering, extra-marital affairs or worse. Let’s just say, if pupils are to accompany any of us to get supplies we must take them in twos or threes. We need a bigger cupboard.

    

Before the first school day had even started most of the staff were round the newbie like flies round the proverbial. They’d already tried to do their usual sleuthing on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. So far Cameron, Cam and Cammy Doyle had got them nowhere, so I suspect their visits to the P7 classroom were partly them doing a Columbo. We all hoped of course that Catriona would soon come through with the goods.

     Mr Doyle didn’t join us at break or lunch that day, eating his lunch in the classroom with a flask of, I hope, tea or coffee. Catriona informed us he seemed nice but nervous and had come very well prepared for the day with PowerPoint presentations for all his lessons.

     ‘Is he married? Kids? Where does he live? Where did he do the rest of his probationary year?’

The questions flowed thick and fast but Catriona shrugged her shoulders.

     ‘Sorry guys, you’re gonna need to get another spy. So far we’ve only been talking classroom stuff. He seems really nice but very eager to get things right so he’s got loads of questions. I don’t get time to ask any back at all. Plus, Helen will kill me if I’m caught blabbing, especially after her comment about my ‘unprofessional’ behaviour at the karaoke bar last term.’

Hooray for Helen.

     I glanced into his classroom as I walked down the corridor to my own but didn’t get a proper look. I’d been assigned P4 or P5 for many years now, despite repeatedly requesting a move to infants. Many of these young teachers spend so much time letting the children run wild, playing with toys for most of the day, that they are barely able to read or write by the time they get to me. One barely qualified newbie had the temerity to lecture me, ‘Margaret, we must begin to develop integrated pedagogical approaches to play throughout the school if we want to instil comprehensive problem solving skills.’ Apparently we only have to look to Norway. Or Japan. Japan!

     Management obviously keep me in middle school knowing I’ll be able to sort out the earlier transgressions. Even if they come to me as virtual illiterates I’ll soon have them using decent punctuation and grammar and as they leave me they should be able to recite at least their 2,3,4,5 and 10 times tables. God help me, these youngsters talk to their pupils in terms of ‘sharing sweeties’ or ‘pizza slices’ when trying to explain maths. I once asked a child what one divided by four was and they answered, ‘a slice of pizza!’

     If I’m clearly being used as a ‘fixer,’ why don’t they give me P7 so I can help them get on track before they get to high school? I wouldn’t be doing any of this Camp nonsense though. High Wires, GORGE WALKING – when on earth in life will they ever need this, while we’re situated, for free, next to some of the most beautiful hills and rivers in the country.  And, Jesus wept, the P7 prom. Americanism gone bloody mad. Their parents can’t afford a pencil or a piece of fruit but they can buy a hideous ballgown and club together for limousine.

 

Mr Doyle had been in place for three days before I popped in to see him. He still hadn’t shown face in the staffroom – very suspicious – so I thought it was time I checked him out. I was hoping, having spotted him through his door this week, that being slightly older than most of the newbies he’d be less of a lefty liberal and could be the educator this class particularly needed.

     ‘Hello, Mr Doyle, I’m Mrs Fletcher, Margaret, p4,’ I said extending my hand. ‘I wanted to give you a few days before I bombarded you with another new face. I’ve brought you a piece of banana loaf from the staffroom. Rest assured, no snotty children’s hands have been involved in the process - I baked it myself last night. Always nice to have a Friday treat. How’s your first week been?’

He walked towards me, extending his hand.

     ‘Oh hello, Mrs Fletcher, pleased to meet you. Please call me Cameron, or my friends call me Cammo,’ he said, smiling.

He had a nice manner and was obviously brought up well enough to know our introduction merited a handshake, but if it were down to me I’d have given him the advice to make sure his shirt and trousers were freshly pressed each morning and to take a couple of inches off his hair, which was straggling over his shirt collar.

     ‘I’ll stick to Mr Doyle or Cameron if you don’t mind. I find it best to stay with proper names for professionalism,’ but gave him a smile to show I meant no offense.  Cameron didn’t seem flustered in the slightest. He took off his glasses, wiping them with his untucked shirt and rubbed his eyes. This looked like a habit as his eyes looked slightly red, the dark circles underneath, rimmed by the indent of his glasses.

     ‘Thanks Margaret, I really appreciate the cake. I’m using my breaks to catch up as much as I can in school.’

     ‘Well, I’m here every day from around 8 till 6 when they lock the building. Saves me taking work home – separation of church and state and all that. So, if you need any advice just pop along to p4.’ I started towards the door, ‘Make sure you don’t overdo it. I hope you live local?’

     ‘Yes, I’ve just moved into the new estate beside the park.’

     ‘Nice houses. Lovely to have a little garden. You must have a family?’

Cameron replied, ‘em, yes. I’d better get on now Margaret or I’ll never get home tonight.’ He sat back down at his keyboard and started tapping away without so much as a backward glance. The message to stop prying could not have been any clearer.

I could hardly wait for Monday to get back to the staff room with all the juicy titbits. This was going to be a long weekend.

 

At last Monday came and I delivered my haul of information at break-time. Karen had apparently seen Chloe, a P7 pupil alone in the classroom with him last week at lunchtime, crying as he sat beside her. Another 2 pupils had tried to come in at break, telling the playground staff Mr Doyle had told them they could come and talk to him if they needed. Now we were getting somewhere.

     I imagine we all expected the mystery of his unexpected post to continue to build over the forthcoming weeks, but it all amounted to very little really. Catriona said he struggled a bit with behaviour management but to be fair, every supply teacher who had that class were glad to get out alive at the end of the day.  As we broke for the October holidays we found a large tub of Celebrations chocolates in the staff room with a card.

     He had written, ‘Sorry for leaving without properly saying goodbye. I wasn’t quite sure I’d manage without becoming emotional. It’s been a pleasure teaching amongst you all and I can’t thank you enough for your support and kindness. I had no idea if I’d manage to complete my probationary period, having had a bit of a breakdown following the death of my beautiful wife, Meg, in April, but being in such a lovely environment with the added bonus of the delicious home baking has made me feel like one of your family. With gratitude, Cameron (Cammo) x.’

     I don’t think I can have been the only one who hung my head just a little.

About the author 

Jackie McGregor is a teacher who never stops learning. She needs to live till at least 105 to be able to conquer the unread book piles scattered throughout her house.

 

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