"I learned something new"

It was my first real failure. Oh, it was not my first failure: there were too many of those. But it was the first failure that really mattered to me, one I could not simply shrug off and ignore.

It had to do, firstly, with poor Danny Shields.

‘Look, Tom, stop worrying so much about the lad and learn to accept that some kids are slow and don’t find learning easy.’

Stan leant against the classroom door waiting for me to pile a set of exercise books into my bag. We were headed for cricket practice, both of us being in the District First XI. We’d been at College together, though he was a class ahead of me, and somehow we’d both ended up at the same school in Sydney’s South West. Actually my posting there had resulted from an appeal against being sent to a boarding school in the south of the state. I cited a crippled father for whom I was medically responsible, but I had no desire to be at a boarding school — I’d seen too many of them. So I had been given this ‘undesirable appointment’ in a deep blue-collar zone. Additionally I had scored a Fifth Grade class of such huge numbers that, had every one turned up on any one day, someone would have to be promoted to the teacher’s desk. Ten year olds’ ailments ensured that happened only once that year.

Stan had Fourth Grade and had already been at the school a year when I arrived. So it was that I inherited Danny from him. He had ‘filled me in’ about Danny and the others he had taught the year previous, though he used the word ‘taught’ in a highly ironical fashion. “They’re a good, simple bunch, Tom,” he had declared, ‘but some of them weren’t the Lord’s repository of brains, especially young Danny Shields, and some of them have very ordinary family backgrounds.” That, I was to discover, was a monstrous under-statement. “Treat ‘em as kindly as you can, do your best for ‘em, and with any luck, you’ll see the year out. Try not to bother the Principal and he’ll probably not bother you.”

Poor Danny Shields. He could barely read, he could add up, he could multiply with the aid of the tables on the back cover of his exercise book, but subtraction was an altogether extra-planetary experience. Come ‘arithmetic’ time I’d wage war against the general ignorance and, having somewhat subdued that, bring Danny up to my desk. I would use sweets, oranges, pencils, whatever, to try to establish in his mind what 2 from 6 or 3 from 8 would leave. His puppy-dog eyes would light up and he’d successfully make a count, take those away, and then count the remainder. But get him to function without these props or try to implant the idea of ‘borrowing 10’ and Danny would be almost reduced to tears. One could only pat him gently on the head and say: “That’s OK for today, Danny. We’ll get more done tomorrow.” Danny would smile with relief and, like the dog with a biscuit reward, return to his place.

Stan would sometimes glance through the glass door between our rooms and shake his head sympathetically. Occasionally he would comment at lunch time or when we shared playground duty. “He needs the attention, Tom, probably more than the knowledge. God knows, he’s no problem otherwise. He can look after himself pretty well in a scrap and the other kids don’t pick on him. His father owns a big plumbing business and doesn’t give him much time; favours his older, much brighter brother. Mum’s a mouse of a woman, and it’s probably a male role-model Danny needs. From what I see, you’re it. Just don’t expect too much of him and don’t stress yourself out over him. Danny will make more money than ever we will. His older brother’s a good lad, and he does look out for Danny. Danny will manage!”

Danny will manage? And he’s going into the plumbing business? I had no doubt he’d be a great labourer, but manage measurements, quotes, complex plumbing shapes? Hell, Danny would always be at a loss. I’d do my best for him, but there were the ninety-nine other sheep too. There was bright Garry West, who brought me a couple of exercise books full of his first novel, a ten year old with the joy of an imagination and a way of getting it into words, who definitely needed encouragement and much more time and skill than I could afford him. There was the little red-headed spark who proudly told Stan and me one lunch-time that he was number 13 child in the family, only to be topped by his friend, a lanky, not so bright, but good-hearted scarecrow who claimed to be number 21 in his family. There were many others too who needed our time and care: young Boyle, who brought me my first encounter with epilepsy. He’d come as a new boy into my class, so Stan could tell me nothing about him. The Principal had merely said to me at the class room door, the first day Boyle appeared at the school: “Here’s another one, Tom, I’m afraid. Make sure he sits on an aisle. He’s got epilepsy and it’s best if he topples over in the aisle- less chance of hurting himself. Don’t panic, just put him on his side, make sure this tongue is forward in his mouth, loosen his collar and just let him lie. He’s a bit of a lump of a lad and would be hard to move anyway. Just let him lie and recover. He’ll be all right!”

Hell, as if I didn’t have enough problems.

It was two months later, a Thursday sports afternoon. Right in the middle of the very busy main road bordering the sports fields, where I was acting as traffic cop and herding half the school across, Boyle came level with me, gave me a strange look and had a fit, crumpling to the road.

What a pickle! I grabbed a handful of students, shooed the others across, and told the other teacher to go ahead with them. We formed a small circle around Boyle. I checked him and tried to make him comfortable, then waved the traffic around us. After several minutes Boyle came slowly out of his fit, we helped him to his feet, stopped the traffic again and escorted him across. None of us lowly teachers had a car back then, so we sat him in the shade and appointed a couple of sensible lads to watch over him.

I’d certainly learned a thing or two that day.

But there was still Danny, my math epileptic. At the end of the year I agonised over recommending his promotion. Stan decided it for me: “Look, Tom, the little beggars will all learn in spite of us. Have a word with his mum, she’ll agree with whatever you say, but I think it will do Danny more harm than good to keep him back.”

I was appointed elsewhere next year, far from my original sins.

Some forty years on I was tracked down and invited to a re-union. Though I lived in the country, I decided to go. It was a pleasant event and well attended. A well dressed, prosperous-looking chap tapped me on the shoulder. “I don’t think you’ll remember me, sir. I’m Danny Shields.”

“Why, of course, Danny,” I managed to say after a moment or two. “The name’s Tom, Danny, and you look great.”

“Thanks, sir, but you’ll always be “Sir” to me. I owe a lot to you and to old Stan Enright. You’ll be pleased to know my three kids are all doing well, two at university and one in the final year at school. The family takes the learning pretty serious, sir!”

I thought of Stan and his comment: “Look, Tom, the little beggars will all learn in spite of us!”

Well that was another thing I’d learned: my shortcomings as a teacher, and the sheer tenacity of “the little beggars who learned in spite of us.”