Sophia Waugh's pupils' post-school lives have raised her eyebrows on more than one occasion
Sometimes being like a teacher feels like being a mother. The children may no longer be under your roof, but they have never really gone.
There is something really heart-warming about an ex-pupil seeking you out to tell you how their life is panning out. But it is never the ones you expect who ‘reach out’ to you.
A boy who had been in my last but one tutor group emailed the school to say he wanted to meet me. He had been a sweet boy – but famous for crying at the drop of a hat. We used to sit in the English office at lunchtime and see him walking around the courtyard with big fat tears plopping down his face.
Sometimes I would go out and find out the reason; at other times, I just didn’t. There are only so many pointless tears one can take in a five-lesson day. So I was a little alarmed at the prospect of his visit.
It all went well, though. He had not become any less shy, but his smile was just as sweet. We sat in the same awkward silence we had kept through all the years he had sobbed.
He was 20 now, had been a gardener, had given up … had left home, had moved back home…
I thought maybe he was looking for work and asked if he wanted to come and help me out for a few hours. But he’d sold the tools of his trade, and didn’t have a car. He smiled sweetly and said little.
Even more surprising was a visit from the top naughty boy of my last tutor group. Honestly, he had spent his last three years of school hating it, desperate to leave; raging against the system, against us, against the world. And yet here he was, a few short weeks after gaining his freedom, back for conversation, biscuits and, perhaps, reassurance.
This boy has started A levels, but is already raging against the teachers at his sixth-form college. They, like us, do not ‘respect’ him enough, or take him seriously enough. He’s clever. He’ll learn.
A young man at the train station greeted me, apologising for not having worked hard enough at my classes.
‘But look, miss – I’ve done well for myself,’ he said, with pride in his GWR uniform. He opened the barriers for me with a flourish, and made a big performance of helping my pregnant daughter and her children onto the train.
It’s not just in my home town that I bump into ex-pupils. In a corner shop in Chelsea (if that’s not contradictory), two young men greeted me warmly, hugging me and laughing at coincidence. I don’t always know who these ex-pupils are, but I never admit it. How can you turn away such warmth?
The best encounter ever happened the other day. I was at Giffords Circus with my daughter and her family, queuing to get into the Big Top. I am a total baby about the circus. Trapeze artists and flying acrobats can bring me to tears of joy – although I must admit a goose walking round the ring seems faintly pointless.
So I was as overexcited as (if not more so than) my grandchildren as I stood in the queue, straining at the leash for the smell of the greasepaint and sawdust, the roar of the crowd. And then one of these visions of glory, dressed in gold braid and red velvet, long legs in those weird, thick tights dancers and acrobats wear, a jaunty, feathered hat tipped over one eye, addressed me directly.
‘Didn’t you teach at ***?’ she asked.
‘English.’ I nodded.
‘You won’t remember me, Miss – it was years ago,’ she said. ‘But I remember you. I used to love your lessons.’
‘And you ran away to the circus?’
She nodded, and seemed about to apologise – but I interrupted her.
‘I cannot tell you how happy that makes me. My life’s work is done and I can hang up my mortarboard with pride,’ I assured her.
And I meant every word.
