52. The Headmaster
...being further reminiscences of schooldays in the bygone era that was my youth
Even at Sir Henry Cooper Senior High School, the beige bricked Comprehensive that I attended after leaving Wilberforce Juniors, there remained some of the ritual of olden times. The main one of these was the beginning of the school assembly. We would all be herded into the hall by our form teachers, and expected to settle down in silence. When the time was appropriate, the Headmaster would emerge from a door behind us at the back of the room, and stride slowly and purposefully down the central aisle flanked by his deputy and other senior staff members. They would take the short flight of steps to mount the high stage at the front, the Head taking his place at a small lectern, the others seated on comfortable chairs behind him. There was no entrance music, but it was very impressive. Yes, occasionally a boy might have attempted to inject humour into the situation by singing a version of the Batman TV theme under his breath, but woe betide him if he did it loud enough to be overheard by anyone in authority.
These days I am a regular visitor to a really impressive school building. The Mexborough Grammar School, an impressive red brick Georgian Style building, erected in 1910. Today it hosts the Fox Gallery, which I have been fortunate to be able to use for launches of the sixty Odd Poets collections.
At the heart of the building is the hall. A hall that any of my old headmasters would have loved to stride through. Wide and spacious, with a large stage at the front it is surrounded on three sides above by high balconies commanding a view of proceedings below. These days it contains a sculpture of its most famous pupil, Ted Hughes, poet Laureate from 1984 to 1998. He is seated up on one of those balconies facing the window and reading a copy of Tarka the Otter. If he looked up from the book, he would be able to see beyond the river Dearne to the fields and farmland surrounding Old Denaby, countryside that he loved, and knew well from his newspaper delivery round. Behind him, above the stage downstairs is a large wall painting of his creation, the Iron Man from the book which I and many of the kids of my generation remember reading at school.
A few years ago I was fortunate enough to be the compere at a poetry gathering in Mexborough. It was a festival celebrating Ted Hughes. I really wanted to take the opportunity to use that hall to its full advantage. I wanted to enjoy it as a headmaster would. I managed to borrow a headmaster’s cap and gown from a friend, and when it was time for me to take the stage, I strode from the back, intoning a poem in the strong, booming, confident male voice like the ones that I had been so much in awe of in my childhood. I know that I did it effectively, because after I practicing it at the run through, I was told that one of those present, on hearing me, intone “Ahh yes, I don’t think that it will be necessary for me to use any electronic amplification” as I swaggered down the central aisle, decided that I was probably a horrible person who they would not be looking forward to seeing.
I tried to stay in character as I introduced the other poets. They were an illustrious bunch. Vahni Capildeo, is a much lauded and excellent poet who hails from Trinidad. As the headmaster I commented that it is always good to see someone from one of our former colonies doing well for themselves. It was a patronising thing to say, but exactly what a seventies headmaster with his sense of entitlement and British exceptionalism would have said. I didn’t manage to speak to her afterwards, but I think that she saw my intention and wasn’t too offended. It drew a bit of a gasp from one or two audience members though.
A poet that I did manage to have a chat with was Simon Armitage, who was at that point yet to become the Poet Laureate. He is a similar age to me and would have enjoyed a similar education at Colne Valley High School in West Yorkshire. I asked him if he had experienced a headmaster or teacher similar to the one that I was portraying. He told me of a Mr Drinkwater (or some such name) who had used that voice along with the swagger and authority. When the time came to introduce him, I had my headmaster tell the audience that I had spoken to my colleague Mr Drinkwater about him, and that I would be watching him closely and not taking any nonsense. Unfortunately, the only photograph of me and Armitage together, shows me grinning like the fanboy that I am, despite being attired in the Head’s clothing1.
I wrote the Headmaster poem especially for the occasion of that Ted Hughes Festival. Apart from depicting a headmaster of old, it says something of the sense of entitlement that such figures exude. Modern versions of the head master are now found in many of the most powerful positions in society. We have been trained to respect them, to hang on to their every word without challenge. To elect them to govern us, to hand them our money, to allow them to do what they will, because they exude confidence and somehow that is all it takes to earn our trust. They are the characters who pour scorn on the woke and imply that we should too. They laugh at the efforts of little people perhaps from former colonies, or northern Towns, offering them crumbs of encouragement to placate them. I hope that in the fullness of time they will be entirely replaced by gentler more compassionate and inclusive people who are currently being educated in schools led by gentler, more compassionate heads. Its a slow process, but the heads of old would never believe how far we have come. And many of them would be enraged. Well, let their heirs write letters to the Mail and the Telegraph. I like to think that the meek are in fact gradually inheriting the Earth.
The Headmaster
The headmaster strode from the back of the hall with a most authoritative air The pupils were still Not a whisper or sniff Not a cough nor a scrape of a chair For good children must learn how to take up the place they'll assume in the world beyond school Either confident leaders who posture and stride or weaklings who do not as a rule It is said that the meek Shall inherit the Earth. I assure you that is not the case It's just words that we confident ones tell them Just a white lie to keep them In their place
I made this recording before the festival, to help me learn to speak it without reference to a script.
Here it is
Wonderfully evocative piece. Can smell the sawdust, hear the scrape of chairs and smell the fear...
I hope you’re right about the meek - we seriously need more compassion in all areas of public life.