ghosts
When we were in the old building people would often ask me if I thought that the place was haunted, here in the new place nobody has yet been curious about the bogey population. I guess that it’s assumed that phantoms don’t do new builds.
There are only a few of you left who were at the old school — you arrived in August and we moved here in February. So, before being a pupil in the old building passes from the living memory of this building, I will share my memories. (Although Mr Munro and Mr Beard were pupils there once too.)
I think that the things that you would notice about the old place were how cramped it felt, that there were areas where daylight never fell, the tiles that were everywhere, and the patina of time. Generations of pupils and staff had added their mark by smoothing everything to a soft-glow. The building, once spanking-new, was showing its age.
The classrooms, in their final form, you would recognize as classrooms; somewhat smaller and taller with windows too high to see out of, but recognizable classrooms. Their original wooden steps had been removed from everywhere except for Ms MacIntosh’s very long, very cold room. The classrooms on the top floor were huge and tall, you could look up and see the riveted metal beams that held up the roof. Mr Dempster’s classroom was here, painted, at my suggestion, a garish turquoise and yellow. I don’t think that he’s ever forgiven me for that, he had to become headteacher to escape the horror of that room.
The atrium was, I suppose, a bit like our atrium in that it was large, open to the sky and people ate their pack lunches there. It was used for assemblies, drama, parents’ evenings, and anything we needed a large space for. The banners we have in our stairwells were originally hung there. The only furniture was two hundred odd chairs and a grand piano. The chairs were blue, the floor was blue, it all seemed very blue.
The dining hall was low-roofed, pink and silver-gray, glum; it let out onto an overgrown courtyard. In summer we opened the doors to the courtyard and Squirrels and Blackbirds came in when lunch was over to forage amongst the leavings of lunch.
Then the were the parts which few people ever got to see: the cellar, crazy-piled with the lumber of years; the service tunnels, a maze of pipes, cobwebbed, where far-off noises sounded near; the bell towers, giant water tanks topped by a square of sky.
The War Memorial came with us and I have one keepsake — an old wooden school desk that I made the staff scratch their names on graffiti style. I keep that under our new stairs so that someone from the future will find it and wonder.
Did I think that it was haunted? The old place? No. This place? Now that’s a rather stranger tale…
I wrote this for the school magazine. They also used some of my other stuff.
remembrance service
In the old school preparations for the remembrance service started at the back of ten. People bustled and scurried, music stands and microphones would appear, cables would be laid out and taped down, the IT technician would do some last-minute pfaffing to the flat-screen presentation (poppy fields, grave stones and pictures of our dead). Us jannies would wheel the ancient wonky-wheeled upright piano from the music department into place and bring the lectern from wherever it had been. Meanwhile the guests would start to arrive, to be ushered into the head’s office, for a small sherry perhaps?
Once break was over and the last few stragglers had been chivvied on their way the front doors would be closed. The sixth years would arrive, in drabs and dribs, arranging themselves on the stairs and stairwell, talking softly; the musicians took their places, the poor sod who was to play the last post trying not to look as nervous as they felt. Finally the quality appeared out of the head’s office, single filed, heads bowed, black and slow as treacle. Silence fell. We could begin. We jannies went to stand guard in the nearby corridors to ensure that there were no interruptions.
There was music, speeches, the wreaths were laid, there was the minute’ silence, the last post was played and we made our act of resolve. The quality trooped off for another sherry, the doors were opened, the wreaths were hung on the nails that had been put there for that purpose some time before living memory, all was put away. Soon everything seemed as it had been; few people left there unchanged.
There are several school events solely for the sixth years — the prom, the leaving breakfast… But the remembrance service is the most important. Aside from the essential solemnity of the occasion itself, it gives them a sense of the continuity of the school — that our pupils and staff have gone off to war and died, that other sixth years have made the resolve that they have just made, that they are part of a tradition that will outlast their time on this earth.
The memorial has hidden ties to the past. One summer we sent the bronzes off to be cleaned, I suspected that they had been cleaned before, and half expected… I was right. Behind one plaque the jannies of the time had written — Taken to be cleaned…
with a date and, in beautiful copperplate, signed their names. Daz, Danny and I, in a far less attractive hand, did the same. I suspect that when the memorial was moved down to the new school the joiners added something too. And in the future, when the bronzes are cleaned again, or when the memorial is moved to our next building others will do likewise.
Our school is like The Ship of Theseus — a living entity, smeared in time; its parts ever changing, its soul abiding. Its past flows into our now and shapes our futures. We should remember this, our past, the children we sent off to wars, and try to live up to their sacrifices. It is good and fit that, for at least one day a year, together we pause, and stand, and think.
I wrote this for the former pupils association newsletter.
pranks
A leaving sixth year are expected to play pranks. It's traditional. And we wouldn’t want to mess with tradition, would we? The problem is that one person’s jolly jape is another’s act of moral degeneracy. One year St. Thomas’s sixth released a swarm of locusts into the building. (Apparently you can not only buy live Locusts online but also have them delivered alive through the post.) Mention of this event will cause the average headteacher to shake the napper and chew the wasp. Such things are not forgotten.
When I was a janny I made it my business to offer the sixth years access for them to do their dark business. I think that they thought that this was me being very sporting; of course my real reason was to ensure that I knew what the little rascals were up to. All in all this worked out fairly well for both parties.
There was one occasion where I missed a trick. I gave them access to Ms. Boag’s room and left them to it. There I made my floater, as Bertie Wooster might say. They’d bought a load of plastic cups from the web and covered every surface with these, filled to the brim with water. And I mean every surface — they’d even managed to attach them to the windows using the vacuum principle. It was impressive I suppose but can’t say I felt happy as I cleared it away. Ms Boag claimed to me that she’d never mentioned anything about hydration. I have my suspicions, it seemed a very targeted act and Ms. Boag is the sporty type, one prone to wittering about the dubious benefits of water.
Internet shopping introduced a new wrinkle, the ability to purchase crap en masse (Locusts for instance). The young adults must have been believers in Stalin’s dictum, “quantity has a quality all of it’s own”. Many things were purchased to strew around the building — rubber ducks, little plastic figures (which I was still finding in crannies five years later), and alarm clocks. The alarm clocks were a pain I must admit. Balloons were, of course, perennially popular, many a room was filled to the brim with these; or if Helium was involved, filled to the floor.
I think my favourite ever prank was when they wrapped up everything in Mr. D’s room in, well, wrapping paper. Desk, chair, computer, stapler, pictures … anything that could be wrapped was wrapped. I did wonder a wee bit if I should allow it; what finally swung it for me was that, for once, I wouldn’t be the one who had to restore the status quo. It was just after we’d moved into the new building and we had a few extra janitors kicking about who I could dedicate that task to. Mr D. took it in very good part, I’ll bet he still has the photographs.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t include the Prank, the legendary prank, the acmé of practical jokes. This took place at a time when bubble cars were a thing and a teacher owned one, which he parked outside the school. In an example to modern youth of collective action, the sixth years, acting as a team, hauled this car up the main stair of the old building and deposited it on the top landing. Now, when I first heard this tale I suspected that it wasn’t true; but my head janny had it from his head janny, who had it from his head janny… And, as in the Scottish regiments — what the head janny (Sergeant major) deems to be true, is true. Who were these enterprising sixth years? The first fifteen was mentioned but I expect that the entire year was involved somewhere. I expect that we will never know. Well at least we wouldn’t look amongst the committee members of the organization responsible for this newsletter. Maybe you wouldn’t, I might.
I wrote this for the former pupils association newsletter.
christmas at boroughmuir
When I worked at Boroughmuir it was well known that I wasn’t fond of Christmas. I was called, ‘The Grinch’, a term of affection I presume. So in October, when the email arranging the staff Christmas party came round, I would type-off a stern all-staff all-caps polemic against the creeping nature of the festive season. Yes, I know that these things have to be arranged early, but I wasn’t going to pass up that chance.
Things would then be quiet until the end of November when something called a ‘secret santa’ was organized. A ghastly concept I felt — an anonymous gift from some randomly chosen colleague? What could possibly go wrong with that? Lots I should think. Employment tribunals must waste a lot of time dealing with the fallout from these ill thought through ventures.
In early December the Christmas trees would arrive. Two. A big one and a small one. It was the jannies job to place these in situ. The small ones were easy — in the old building it went on top of the trophy cabinet, in the new building it was plonked in front of reception. The large ones were more tricky. Big Christmas trees are heavy, long, everywhere spiky and don’t fit in lifts. (To say nothing of their propensity to drop their needles by the ton at the merest touch.) We’d have to carry these upstairs; to the atrium in the old school, to the dining hall in the new one. There we would fit it into a base, stand back to admire our work, and watch as it toppled slowly onto the floor. Trees really are a complete pest. Eventually the school bought a big plastic tree that came in bits and could be plugged in to provide a menu of various lighting effects. I pretended to hate this, ‘monstrous excretion’, but secretly loved it. It was easy to set-up, easy to store and looked quite elegant without any other decoration.
The sixth years were responsible for decorating the trees. They did their best, bless them, but a lack of talent combined with the handicap of having some very poor materials to work with rarely produced a splendid result. The collection of lights, baubles and ornaments available to them was decidedly sub-par, Leonardo Da Vinci himself would have struggled. Every year a few more cheap boxes of ugliness were bought, adding to the mismatched hodgepodge of horror that ended up on the trees. Someone, me, once described the finished product as looking like, “an elf had thrown up on it”. I was being kind.
As the evil day approached excitement would mount. Nothing like the rising hysteria you get in a primary school of course, where you have the annual bloodletting over who-gets-what-part in the nativity play. The politicking, hostility, back-stabbing and rancor involved there would have caused your average Borgia to back away sharpish. There was nothing like that at Boroughmuir.
There were events of course, sing-songs, parties etc. and something called, “Christmas Jumper Day” which, strangely, was much, much worse than it sounds. Finally it would be the last day. Year groups would celebrate together in own special ways. Mr. Cifelli’s comedy karaoke being especially popular with the young adults, who lack even the most basic discernment.
Come noon the happy throngs would be released, clutching the cards and presents that they’d swapped with one another, to the sound of carols over the tannoy. The staff would don their glad rags and meet up for a quick drink in the staffroom before heading off to their party, carrying their presents in multiple plastic bags. Once upon a time this was the cue for the jannies and cleaners to have a few sandwiches and drinks in this same, now empty, staffroom. Under our enlightened new management such wanton excesses are now strictly verboten. But even in the old days the jannies had an urgent task to attend to first — we had to arrange for the Christmas trees to be stolen.
The Council have now got their act together a wee bit when it comes to getting rid of old Christmas trees. Back in the day if you weren’t careful, or didn’t chop the things up yourself, you might find your tree still outside your house in June. If we didn’t get our trees stolen we’d have had to chop them up to fit into the bins. A horrid and potentially painful task. So the decorations were quickly packed away and the trees were put outside and dragged as close as possible to the street. There was no carrying this time, once we dumped the big one straight out of a classroom window. It still wasn’t Christmas Day, might someone fancy a free tree?
When we were in the old building we had a surprising amount of success, we rarely had to chop up a tree. I put this down to Viewforth being a major thoroughfare for late-night festive drunks on their way home. I can almost follow the thought process in these mens’ heads. (I’m not being sexist here, I’m just certain that these tree-nappers were all of the male ilk. No woman would be so stupid.) —
——I’m a wee bit drunk, she’ll no be happy, wait a mo’ here’s a tree, we’ve no got one, ah’ll bring that home. She’ll be over the moon…
I can clearly imagine the scene when the tree did arrive home. I’m not ashamed to say that I feel utterly no guilt about this. I often wondered if, by some yuletide miracle, an over-muscled edjit actually did manage to get one of the big ones home — these were over twelve feet tall and a better fit for the Sistine Chapel than your average Scottish living room.
And so the school would be locked up and I’d head home for my Christmas. Which, when I was asked about in the New Year I would describe as, “quiet, very quiet”.
A very merry Christmas to you all!
When I was growing up super-villains appeared in comics dressed in leotards, or stroked kittens on films while expecting Mr. Bond. Now they’re in charge of companies the algorithms